The Fifty-Seven Lives of Alex Wayfare (23 page)

The ghost filled my tank, replaced the gas cap, then patted the trunk. “You're all set.”

I finally managed a weak smile. “Thanks. Who knows how long I'd be here if you hadn't come along?”

He hoisted the gas tank over his tailgate and set it in the bed of his truck. “You headed to the Mitchell place?”

I nodded. “Jim and I are going out. I mean, going steady.” I didn't know why I told him that, I guess I just wanted to see how the words sounded on my tongue. I still couldn't get over the fact that I would have chosen someone like Jim as my boyfriend. And maybe I wanted to see a reaction. Something to tell me Blue was in there somewhere. Inside that Jack Baker shell.

Jack's chin tipped up. “Ah. Jim.” It was a loaded ah.

“You know him?”

“Eeyup.”

“He's a piece of work, isn't he?”

Jack laughed. “I wasn't going to say anything.”

I shook my head, looking down at my shoes. “I don't know what I see in him.”

“No? Well, I can come up with about a million guesses. Just off the top of my head.” He grinned, teasing me. Did he mean I was with Jim because he was rich? If that was true, it made me dislike my 1961 self even more.

Jack clapped a hand on his driver's door handle. “I best be off. Maybe I'll see you around, Sousa.”

My heart jumped when he said that. He sounded just like Blue. He gave me a smile – Blue's smile, a stolen smile – then climbed into his truck.

The thief.

I watched him drive off, my heart a tangle of confusion, until he was a speck of mint-green rust on the horizon. My skin felt cold and foreign. My limbs were hollow. My chest was thick. Knotted.

I had to get out of this body.

I drove to Jim's driveway and parked right after I pulled off the road. I didn't care that I wasn't leaving my host body where I landed. She'd just have to get by from here. Hopefully she'd chalk her memory loss up to all the Tequila she drank. Hopefully Jim would too.

There was no way I was coming back to this life again for a do-over.

Me and the Sixties? We were over.

 

 

Now it's my turn to be furious. When I ascend to my garden, I march right up to Porter and punch a finger in his chest. “What the hell aren't you telling me?”

His welcome-back smile fades. My outburst takes him completely by surprise. “What do you mean?”

“I saw Nick.”

“What?”

“I saw him. I broke down on the side of the road, and he stopped to help me. Nick, the boy from 1927, was there in 1961.”

“Alex–”

“Are you behind this? Are you messing with my head?”

Porter lifts his weathered and age-spotted hands. He looks utterly confused. “I didn't do anything. I stayed away from your soulmark this time. I let you do it all by yourself.”

“Then how could he be there? He died.”

“Alex,” he says again in his calm, paternal voice. “Sometimes grief can make us see things that aren't really there. Things we long for. Things we've lost.”

I glare at him. The last person who said I was seeing things couldn't have been more wrong.

“It's my fault,” he says. “I shouldn't have sent you on a mission so soon. I should have given you time to grieve.”

I rub my forehead and shake my head. “He looked just like him. He was the same age. His voice, his ears, his hands.” My voice reduces to a pained whisper. I didn't realize how much I missed Blue until I saw him again. I'd felt guilty for what happened to him, yes, but I meant it when I made my wish at the fountain. I'd wanted to see him again, even though I knew it was impossible. Just a stupid wish made in the flurry of the moment.

Now? I'm not sure how I feel. All I know is Porter isn't telling me the whole truth. And he'd said he wasn't a liar.

Porter rubs his pinky knuckle. “I'm sorry you had to go through that.”

“Are you saying it's impossible? There's no way it could've been the same Nick?”

“How could it have been? You said he was the same age. How could he be the same age in 1961 as he was in 1927?”

I throw my hands in the air. “I don't know! I thought maybe it could be some sort of paradox thing. I mean, I did mess with his past.”

“If you caused a shift in his history, you did it without my knowledge. There's no precedent we can use to compare. But I can look into it for you if you like.”

I stand there, frowning at him. Adults are always taking time to “look into things.” In my opinion, it's just another trick to keep teenagers in the dark. They probably hope we'll just forget about whatever the “thing” is and let them off the hook. But what else can I do? If Porter doesn't have any immediate answers, all I can do is wait. Finally I nod, and Porter smiles like he's fixed everything.

“Good. Now tell me.” He clasps his hands together. “How did your first mission go?”

“You mean besides seeing Nick and landing naked in a freezing river with a bunch of other naked people? Just swell.”

“Did you find the painting?”

“Yeah, yeah,” I say, waving an annoyed hand at him. “It was right where you said it would be.”

“Alex! This is excellent news. Is it in the vault?”

“Yes.”

“I knew you could do it. My little ace in the hole.” He claps me on the back. “I better be off, but we'll celebrate when I get back, all right?”

I feel his soul begin to depart, to dissolve into the black, but I reach out a hand and say, “Wait. Why are you in such a hurry?”

His soul comes back into view. “There isn't time to waste. These are critical hours.”

“Tell me why.”

“Because we have the Raphael in our possession. I have to fly to Cincinnati and collect it, then make sure it's discovered by the right people right away. The news has to spread; there has to be a media frenzy. Everyone has to know it's been found, otherwise Gesh can go back and erase everything you did. He could send a Descender back a day before you and steal the painting for himself. No one would be the wiser.”

“Who's going to discover it? Who are the ‘right people'?”

Porter pauses, then smiles. “Well, that's up to us, I suppose. Who do you think should get the glory?”

I feel the weight of one hundred million dollars in my hands. That kind of money could change the world. Well, a good chunk of it at least. “Could we make it so a philanthropist finds it and gives some of the money to Audrey's foundation? She's been reading a lot of Robert Burns lately, and…” I pause, thinking of her favorite poem, Sweet Afton. “I'd love for her to go to Scotland. I want her to see the River Afton before she dies.”

I look up at Porter, hoping to see agreement on his face, but he's giving me the same sympathetic look Jack Baker did. “I'm sorry, Alex, but that's too risky. Too close to home. Gesh will try to track the money down, no matter what we do with it. He'll find it went to your sister. Your mom. It'll lead him right to you. I can't risk that.”

I turn away from him, unable to bear the disappointment. I stroll between my soulmarks, hanging my head. “I just thought…” I squeeze my eyes shut. It doesn't matter. Porter is right. We can't chance leaving a trail.

He's silent for a while. I feel his presence fade into the black, and I think he's leaving. Just like that. But then his soul reappears right in front of me.

“I'll see what I can do. There might be a way to cover the money trail.” He takes me by the arms. He smiles at me with pride. “Be happy, Alex. You did well. This is what our powers were meant for. We don't change the past, we change the future.” He gives my arms a reassuring squeeze. “Go home. Get some rest. I'll be in touch soon.”

And then he's gone.

CHAPTER 18

 

 

The jack-o'-lanterns are still flickering when I return home to the porch swing. I'm still holding the Polygon stone. The front door opens, and Audrey pads out in her bare feet to share the swing with me. She has no idea I've been gone for almost an entire day. For her, only mere seconds have passed.

“You're up late,” I say, tucking the stone in my pocket and wrapping my arms around her. She pulls her knees to her chest. I push the thought of her never getting to see the River Afton out of my mind.

“I've been saving up energy,” she says.

“You have?”

She snuggles into me and shivers. “For a non-rainy day.”

My cheek rests against her black wig and felt cat ears. Her skin smells like cloves and Smarties candy. Her wig smells like must. I rock the swing with my toes.

After a few minutes, her head snaps up. “Look. A kitten.”

The gleaming eyes of a small, black cat blink at us from the front yard. Audrey unfolds herself from the swing and creeps down the porch steps, her hand held out. The cat is shy at first, but eventually makes his way into her arms. He rubs his head against her chin with sweet determination. I can hear him purring from where I sit. Audrey brings him up the porch steps and into the light. Two black cats stare back at me. Both delicate. Both wide-eyed, innocent, trusting. Beautiful.

“No collar,” Audrey says, setting him on the swing between us. “And he's so thin. Do you think he has cancer? I heard cats can get leukemia too.”

I frown at the little thing, his skin stretched over his ribs. He does look frail, but he has an energy about him just like Audrey. He climbs over our laps, back and forth, unable to decide on which to settle.

Audrey scratches him under his chin. His purr is so loud, you can hardly believe it could come from such a tiny package. “Can we keep him?” she asks. “Just until he's stronger? He could keep me company while you guys are gone during the day.”

I bite my lip, watching the cat turn circles on Audrey's lap. “I don't know…”

“Are you still afraid?”

“No,” I say. “Not anymore.” And it's the truth. Now that I know what my visions are, there's no reason to be scared of déjà vu.

“Can you ask Daddy, then? If he thinks you're OK with it, then he might say yes.”

I reach across and scratch the cat's ear. He licks my thumb. “I suppose. But what are we going to call him? Nothing spooky just because it's Halloween. And nothing stupid like Blacky or Binky.”

Audrey snuggles him to her chest. “Of course not. We'll name him Afton.”

For me, that seals the deal.

Keeping Afton doesn't take much persuasion. The whole family is thrilled when they meet him. Dad gives me a nudge and says he's glad I finally “came around.” Pops winks at me and tells me to watch out – long-tails can be “tricksy.” Gran sets to work making a temporary litter box, and says she'll pick up all the necessities tomorrow at the store.

They're all so genuinely happy about it. It makes me feel good to mark one thing off my Normality Check List. I leave them alone to cuddle Afton and head to bed.

Before I turn out the lights, I do an Internet search for Jack Baker on my laptop. I get a list of over a hundred Jack Bakers currently residing in Ohio. There's a chance one of them is the guy from 1961. He could still be alive. But what good would it do to track him down?

Whoever he was, he wasn't Blue.

And I've seen enough ghosts to last me until next Halloween.

 

 

The next day after school, I ask Dad if I can practice parallel parking the Mustang. He gives me a look that says, “Remember last time?” But I tell him I've gotten better and promise not to peel the rubber off the sides of his tires again.

He must feel sorry for me because he agrees. Being the only junior in my Driver's Ed class and not having my license yet does wonders for my pariah street cred. Like Claire said, most people think I'm not allowed to drive because of my seizures. But the truth is worse. I was a hopeless driver.

Key word being was.

The Mustang is a 1969 Mach 1 coupe, black with a red stripe down the side. She's a beauty. Always has been, even when she was rusting on a pedestal of cement blocks in Dad's parents' garage. She was Dad's first car. He bailed hay and shingled roofs for two summers to afford her. Then, after only one month of four-speed bliss, some drunk guy plowed into the front end while she was parked at a bowling alley. Dad was crushed. By that time school had started again, and his dad, Grandpa Wayfare, was strict about not letting his kids work during the school year.

Then came graduation, then college, and the old Mustang sat in the garage, rusting away, but not forgotten. Dad always planned to get her running again. Maybe he daydreamed about working on it with a future son, but if so he never said. He seemed just as happy to work on it with me.

We spent three summers rebuilding the engine and transmission, traveling around to junkyards to hunt for fenders and bumpers, and researching new performance parts that would make it safer to drive and pass inspections. He wasn't worried about restoring it to perfection. He just wanted to drive it. To feel it grip the pavement and roar into the corners.

Those three summers were some of the best of my life. I had an endless supply of oil and grime beneath my fingernails, a perpetual sunburn on the back of my neck, and skinned knuckles that turned to tiny, spiderweb scars, but I wouldn't have traded it for anything. Especially when Audrey helped out. She would skip around the car and play hopscotch, ready at a moment's notice to hand us whatever tool we needed. She sang us all the songs she learned in Sunday School and music class, and practiced her ballet routines.