Future Imperfect

Fact is, Dr. Gore: When I get knocked out, I can see the future.

Maybe my last letter wasn’t clear but, really, the seeing the future thing is simple. Just a matter of complicated physics. It’s changing what I see that’s the tough one. I’m wondering (again) if you have any ideas on how I can change the future after I’ve seen it.

Like I mentioned in my last letter, I’ve tried it before. Maybe it’s better if I get specific: Last year I saw a guy I knew get killed in a car accident. I did everything I could to stop it from happening. I knew the rules, but this was life and death and I wasn’t just going to sit there and let it happen. I told this dude, told him everything I saw. He didn’t believe me. For like three days I hounded him, practically begging him. I mapped it out for him, gave him a description of the car, of the people at the scene. Still, he wouldn’t listen. Eventually, he showed up at my house, said he was going to get a restraining order if I didn’t leave him alone, told me he had some friends who would kick my ass. Still, I begged him. He ran out of my house, flicking me off. I heard the bang three and a half minutes later. Ran out to find him in the middle of the road a block away, run down by a red car. Vision came true and I made it happen.

See, me trying to stop it made it happen.

I’m haunted by it. And if I ever see something like that again, someone being hurt or worse, I’m not sure what I can do. But I want to do something. I need to do something.

Dr. Gore, you’re a medical physicist, an expert. I read your paper on “temporal disturbances” and chronic migraines and even though I didn’t really get anything beyond the first page (just being honest), I figure if anyone can give me some good advice it’ll be you. Here’s to hoping!

Sincerely,

Ade (not Abe) Patience

TWO

Vauxhall’s sitting a few rows over.

She is stunning in the dry fluorescence of McKellar’s Art Room. I’m staring at her so hard that I’m worried I’m drooling on my shirt. I’m worried that if she turns around and sees me, she’ll just freak out. God, she is so incredibly beautiful!

Mr. McKellar is going on about the history of perspective.

It’s the driest stuff I’ve heard in years and already half the class is nodding off. I can’t imagine why Vauxhall would want to transfer to this class, this teacher.

Vauxhall does not appear bored by the perspective talk.

Head on her hands, she looks enraptured.

I decide to give it a go and actually pay attention. Mostly this is an act for Vauxhall. But I can feel my brain rotting away and only five minutes in I’m eyeing the edges of a stool in the corner of the room.

I’m thinking: If I take a running leap from here, I can nail my forehead on that stool and be out in seconds.

Buzz.

I’m actually tensing up, getting ready to leap, when something spins onto my desk. White cray paper, folded over four times.

It’s from Vauxhall.

Try not to fall asleep, the note says.

I look at her and smile. I write back, Gonna be hard.

My heart is exploding. Her handwriting is exquisite.

Vauxhall writes back, her head close to the paper, hands tight on her pen. She writes, He’s actually pretty famous.

The way she writes her a’s-this dollop of ink-is so freaking sexy.

I respond, For boring students to death? Where’s the art?

She writes, Ha Ha.

Have I seen anything he’s done?

Vauxhall writes, Probably not. His stuff is pretty arty.

I write her that I dig arty. I’m really into arty.

Like what?

I list the films Paige and I have seen at the Esquire. Mostly they’re midnight movies. Stuff like El Topo and The Rocky Horror Picture Show and Showgirls. I write Vauxhall that I realize it might not be as arty as I thought at the time.

In her note back she laughs. No, really. It’s a drawing of her, a little kind of thumbnail sketch of her face with her hair and eyes, and she’s laughing her head off. That’s her response. The drawing, it’s honestly pretty good. Actually, I want to frame it on my wall.

Mr. McKellar decides its time for questions and he looks over at me, so I fold the note up and put it in my pocket.

McKellar asks, “What would art without perspective look like? Would it be primitive or would it be abstract? Has art improved with its invention?”

I stare back blank, my mind not even turning.

Vauxhall answers for me. She tells McKellar, this apparently brilliant instructor worth transferring for, that the answer depends on where you’re coming from and what you’re looking for. She tells him it’s all in the eye of the beholder. She says, “Perspective is just another tool. If you’re making something realistic or that’s supposed to seem realistic, then it’s a great tool. If not, then you can freely leave it behind. It’s a relatively new thing, perspective. Medieval times it wasn’t distance that was important but weight. The bigger something was, the more central it was, the bigger it was on canvas. They say it revolutionized art when perspective appeared, sometime in Italy, but really, I don’t think it was such a great thing. Art might look more realistic, it’s certainly easier to get, but it’s lost that imaginative view. That childlike view of things that just opens everything all up. There’s real beauty in seeing something the way it isn’t meant to be seen.”

The way Vauxhall speaks is jaw-dropping.

When we’re packing up before the bell, and Mr. McKellar has drifted off to his desk, I turn to the brilliant and beautiful mind next to me and I say, “That was amazing.”

My veins are drumming overtime as I’m speaking.

Vauxhall stands and bows. She says, “That was bullshit.”

Before she leaves she asks me if I’m going to Oscar’s party tonight.

“Sure,” I say. I’m hoping it’s not apparent I wasn’t invited. Oscar’s this really loud almost-frat guy who seems to have a party every other weekend. Both his parents travel, he drinks Red Bull and Jagermeister, and his liver is probably the size of Montana.

“Great.” And she smiles.

That smile has me floating all the way to Paige’s locker. And Paige can read it on me the way a dog can read the cheeseburger off your lips. She says, “You know, I’ve been meaning to mention that I don’t think… Look, call it woman’s intuition, but I think she’s got something going on with Jimi.”

“What? That’s ridiculous. Since when do you have woman’s intuition?”

“Eat a dick, Ade. I’m being serious.”

“Nah, I’ve seen this.”

I don’t let on that I’ve got stress about Jimi.

I say, “We, you and me, are going to Oscar’s party tonight. Vauxhall’s hoping I’ll be there.”

Paige crosses herself. She says, “You been on airplane mode this whole time?”

“What the hell are you talking about, Paige?”

Hands on her hips, Paige says, “Just think it’s funny how much you miss. It’s like you’re only half awake most of the time.”