Timeless (16 page)

Michele sighed. “It’s okay,” she said, relenting. “You know, this whole upper class thing is completely new to me. I’m used to living in a small bungalow with my mom and never having enough money.…” Michele’s voice trailed off as the memories of her old life brought a lump to her throat.

Caissie bit her lip. “I’m really sorry I misjudged you. And I’m so sorry about your mom.”

“Thanks. I guess I can understand why you would feel the way you did. I’ve only been at Berkshire a week, and I’ve already got a complex.”

Caissie laughed, and Michele held out her hand. “Truce?”

“Truce,” Caissie agreed, shaking her hand.

“And … now that you know I’m not who you thought I was, any chance you can believe me about the time traveling?” Michele
asked hopefully. “I mean, how else do you explain how I got into your apartment and Philip’s jacket and everything else?”

Caissie shook her head slowly. “Look, I study science. That’s how I got into our school, and that’s what I believe in—scientific facts, not magic and time travel.” She gave Michele a sideways look. “But it’s weird. At the same time, I
don’t
think you’re crazy anymore. So maybe I should just hold off on believing or not believing until you can get me more facts.”

“Fair enough,” Michele said. Her gaze fell on Caissie’s alarm clock, which read 10:30 p.m. “Oh yikes, I’ve got to get home. I just missed my curfew. Cross your fingers my grandparents are still out!”

“Will do,” Caissie said with a grin. She walked Michele to the door.

Before leaving, Michele asked, “Can we keep this whole thing just between us? You won’t tell Aaron or anyone?”

“Girl, if I tell anyone, they’ll think I’m as crazy as you,” Caissie said matter-of-factly. “So you can bet I’ll be keeping it a secret.”

“Yeah, I guess you’re right,” Michele agreed. “Well, see you at school tomorrow.”

“See you tomorrow.” Caissie started inside but then stopped and turned back to Michele. “Hey, have lunch with me and Aaron tomorrow, ’K?”

Michele grinned. “That sounds great.”

The next morning, Michele woke up early, unable to sleep with thoughts of Philip in her head. There was a part of her that still believed he was a dream, like he existed only in a
fantasy parallel universe. But now that they had touched, held each other, kissed, he felt more tangible than anyone or anything else in her life, even though he was a hundred years away.

Suddenly, inspiration struck. Michele hurried to her desk and grabbed the first pen and notepad she saw. For a moment, she hesitated. She hadn’t been able to write since her mom had died.… What made her think she could now? But a second later, she had her title: “Bring the Colors Back.” And then she had the chorus.

Why, when you’re gone
The world’s gray on my own
You bring the colors back
You bring the colors back
.
Why, I feel numb
I’m a sky without a sun
Just take away the lack
And bring the colors back
.

The words flew onto the page as she came up with a verse.

Feels like so long been only seeing my life in blues
There comes a time when even strong ones need rescue
Then I’m with you in a whole other place and time
The world has light
I come to life …

Michele wrote and wrote, until Annaleigh interrupted to tell her to come down for breakfast. Before leaving the room, Michele read over her work and smiled. It didn’t matter to her whether she’d written anything brilliant. It just felt good to be able to write again.

L
ater that day, in English lit class, the teacher divided the students into two groups to fill out study questions about the book they were reading,
The Great Gatsby
. Michele, Caissie, and Ben Archer were placed in the same group, along with two guys from the school’s tennis team and an overly tanned bodacious bombshell who looked like she’d be more at home on an MTV reality show.

“Fakin’ Jamaicans,” Caissie whispered to Michele, nodding at the two jocks as they approached their group.

“Huh?” Michele gave her a quizzical look.

“You’ll see,” Caissie said with a laugh.

Once their study group was situated around a table, Michele had to bite her lip to keep from snickering. The tennis players sat on either side of Bodacious Bombshell, their eyes not-so-subtly drifting to her chest while she giggled and made a big show of pretending not to notice. Meanwhile, Caissie kept gazing longingly at the door, clearly fantasizing about escape. The only person acting normal was Ben—although for some reason, Michele kept feeling his eyes on her.

“So, uh …” Ben looked around. “Should we do this thing?”

“Yeah, mon,” Jock Number One said, then began reading the first of the study questions in a full Rastafarian accent. “How do Gatsby represent da American Dream? What be da condition of American Dream in da 1920s?”

Michele stared at him.
Is this guy for real?
But Caissie seemed to be the only one in their group who found anything bizarre about their blond, blue-eyed classmate talking Rasta. Her shoulders shook with silent laughter as she watched Michele’s bewildered expression.

No one was making a move to answer the question, so Ben spoke up again. “Um, I think Gatsby represents the dark side of it. Like, how money and power was made to be so important that people would ruin their lives to attain it.”

“Yeah, I agree,” Michele said. Caissie nodded.

“I don’t know,” the bombshell interjected. “Gatsby only wanted money and power to get Daisy. And I think that’s
so
romantic. It’s not like
we
would complain if a guy ruined his life to win us over. Am I right, ladies?” She gave Michele and Caissie a conspiratorial smile.

“Uh, no—”

“Gatsby be a bad bwai,” Jock Number Two said admiringly, in the same Rasta accent as his comrade.

“All right, then. Since we all seem to have different points of view here, maybe we should just fill this out on our own,” Caissie hastily suggested.

“Irie,” the Fakin’ Jamaicans replied in unison.

“Boys,”
Caissie sighed in Michele’s ear, rolling her eyes.

Michele thought of Philip—how opposite he was from this crew, and how different he was from her lame ex-boyfriend, Jason, back in L.A. Even a nice enough guy like Ben seemed miles away from Philip. Was it
possible
for someone like Philip Walker to exist in her generation?

During the car ride home from school, Michele was lost in thought. She needed to know, before she fell any further for him, if Philip was destined to marry Violet after all. And as much as Michele was trying to stay away from her grandparents those days, she knew that they were the ones to ask.

Once she arrived at the mansion, Michele headed to the library, where her grandparents could usually be found playing cards at that hour.

“Hi,” she greeted them, standing awkwardly in the doorway.

Walter and Dorothy looked up in surprise.

“Hi, dear,” Dorothy greeted her.

“How was school?” Walter asked. Michele could tell from
their expressions that they were pleased she had come to see them.

“Oh, it was fine. Actually, that’s what I wanted to talk to you about. I’m doing a … a history project on the Windsor family,” Michele fibbed.

Walter brightened. “That’s wonderful! There are many incredible stories and people from our family, so you’ll have a lot to write about.”

Michele sat down in one of the leather armchairs. “Well, I actually wanted to ask you about something in particular. I heard a rumor that a Windsor and a Walker were married—Violet Windsor and Philip Walker, in the 1910s. Is that true?” Michele held her breath, waiting for the answer.

Walter and Dorothy looked at each other, clearly bewildered.

“I’ve never heard anything of that sort in my life,” Walter answered. “Violet married a French lord and moved to Europe. She most certainly didn’t marry a Walker.”

As the words registered, Michele felt faint.
He didn’t marry her! … Was it because of me?
She felt her legs trembling.

“I’ve never even heard of a Philip Walker,” Dorothy commented. “Have you, Walter?”

Walter shook his head. “No. I don’t think there ever
was
a Philip Walker.”

Michele shrank back at those words.

“What’s wrong, dear?” Dorothy asked, looking at her worriedly.

Michele swallowed hard. “I’m fine. I just … thought I saw
something. It’s nothing.”
They’re wrong
, Michele assured herself.
Philip is every bit as real as I am
.

“Since you’re studying Windsor history, you should do some research up in the attic,” Dorothy suggested. “All the old family photos and documents are up there in boxes labeled by year.”

Michele felt her spirits rise. That sounded promising. Maybe she would find something there … some answers about Philip.

“That sounds perfect,” Michele said. “I’m going to go up there right now.”

The Windsor attic was organized and tidily lined with boxes—hardly the spooky, dank place Michele had imagined. The first row of boxes were labeled with names of unfamiliar Windsors, but lying on top of those boxes, oddly out of place, was a music composition book. Michele picked it up curiously. The front cover read
Songs by Lily Windsor, 1925
. Michele grinned. Lily must have been Michele’s age when she’d written these songs; how incredible it was to find handwritten lyrics from when she’d been an aspiring songwriter like Michele! She held on to the composition book while she continued to look around.

As she made her way to the back of the attic, she saw a name that she recognized on one of the boxes: George Windsor, 1859–1922. Was that Clara’s dad? Michele felt a stab of guilt as she remembered her promise to help Clara. She had all but forgotten her in the whirlwind of Philip.

Michele quickly opened the box. She found a number of
odds and ends inside: business documents, letters, and photos. Then one of the faded old black-and-white photos caught her eye. It was a photo of the woman in the picture Clara had shown her—Clara’s mother! The photo was crumbling with age at the edges, but the words scribbled at the bottom of the picture were unmistakable:
I love you always. Alanna
.