TIme After Time

“Did what?”

“That,” I say, pointing lamely at the TV.

He turns and looks at it. “Oh? Really? I didn’t know that. I always thought that looked a bit dangerous.”

The newscast has moved on to a story about this Friday’s Critical Mass bike ride through downtown. “No. Not that,” I say, and Dad looks back at me quizzically.

I’d better talk quickly. If everything goes roughly the same way it did last time, I have about three more minutes before Brooke arrives. I want Dad to be the first to know what happened. I want to tell him while we’re alone.

I keep my voice low and strong. “Dad, listen to me. I did that over. The fire in the Tenderloin.” I gesture to the TV again, but he doesn’t look away from me this time. His eyes are locked on mine, hanging on every word. “We’ve been here before, and that story was different then. Those kids didn’t make it out of the fire. They died.”

My heart was already racing, but now that I’ve said the word “died,” it kicks into a whole new gear. My legs are shaking, so I rest a hand on the counter to steady myself. Dad looks at the TV, then back at me, then back at the TV. “What?” he asks.

“Those kids died. But I went back and changed what happened.”

Dad’s staring at me like I told a joke and he doesn’t get the punch line.

I give the kitchen a paranoid glance to be sure we’re still alone before I blurt it all out. “I came downstairs—just like I did ten minutes ago—and when I walked into the kitchen there was a news story about a fire in the Tenderloin that killed two kids. You didn’t say anything, but I knew you wanted to. And you probably thought I didn’t care, but I did.”

Dad pulls his glasses low on his nose and watches me over the top of them. “Later, we went sailing, and the next day we drove Brooke to the airport, and then I started school on Monday and, frankly, it was kind of a shitty day and I couldn’t stop thinking about those kids anyway so I thought…why not try it? I wanted to see if I could fix it. I wanted to know if I could stop it from happening the way it did.”

Dad opens his mouth to speak, but he stops. He looks at me for a full minute, his face contorting into new expressions the whole time. I’m waiting, watching him, holding my breath and trying to figure out what he’s thinking. Finally, his whole face relaxes. His eyes shine. I can tell he’s proud of me.

“Hey! You’re home!” I startle as Brooke wraps her arms around my neck and whispers, “God, it sucks here without you.” She takes two steps back and looks from me to Dad. “What’s up? You okay?” She rises to her tiptoes and pecks him on the cheek.

“Yeah, I’m okay.” Dad gives her a small smile, but he doesn’t look at me at all.

Brooke bounces over to the refrigerator and opens the door. She stands in the chill while she tries to decide what to eat.

Dad looks a little unstable. “We should get going soon. I’m just…” He trails off as he looks around the kitchen. “I’ll go see if your mom needs help.”

Brooke pours herself a bowl of cereal and lifts herself up to sit on the kitchen counter. “Okay, we only have a few minutes. Tell me everything.”

Exactly like last time, I speak in hushed tones, telling her all about Maggie and the reason there’s a photo of the three of us at the zoo, Emma and Justin’s breakup, and how the Greenes let me crash on their couch the first night. She sips her coffee, hanging on every word, and after I’ve given her a play-by-play of practically the entire trip, I lower my head and say, “There’s more.”

I tell her about two kids who were killed in a fire in the Tenderloin.

And then I tell her how they weren’t.

13

My second first day of school starts off differently. I don’t sit in the car, listening as the bell rings in the distance and wishing I could close my eyes and open them at Westlake. Instead, my car is one of the first ones in the student lot, and I’m one the first people in the building.

I head straight to my locker, drag the recycling can over and park it underneath the door, and scoop all the papers and granola bar wrappers into the bin. I give my locker one more sweep with my hand and I look inside. With the exception of the VANS sticker I put on the inside of the door freshman year, it’s as empty at my locker at Westlake was.

When the first bell rings, I’m already more than halfway across the quad. I open the door to my World Civilizations classroom and discover that it’s still empty, so I take a seat in the row closest to the window about halfway down the aisle, nowhere near McGibney’s desk.

I grab my notebook and a pencil from my backpack, and as I’m doodling, she walks through the door. She crosses the room and sets her briefcase down next to her chair. “Punctual,” McGibney says, and I look up at her.

“Excuse me?”

“You’re punctual,” she says plainly. “What’s your name?”

“Bennett Cooper.” I hold my hand up and she nods.

“Ah,” she says, and I can practically see the wheels turning, my mom’s ridiculous story clicking into place in her mind. “Welcome back, Mr. Cooper. I hear you have some catching up to do.” She says the words plainly and without a trace of the sympathetic stare I know I’ll be getting from the rest of the teachers today.

“Yeah,” I say. “I do.”

“Well let me know how I can help, okay?”

People come into the room, look around for a desk, and settle in. Cameron spots me, and as he walks down the aisle, we give each other a fist bump. He takes the seat behind me, just as Megan steps in and looks around. I turn to talk with Cameron and I can’t say I’m surprised when I see her take the seat on my left.

“Hey, Bennett,” she says.

“Hi,” I say. I’m feeling good. Chatty. Full of adrenaline, like I could run a marathon and still have energy left to burn. “How was your summer?”

“It was good. Thanks. How was yours?”

“Good,” I say, and Megan nods, like she’s encouraging me to continue. And I would, but the bell rings and McGibney immediately launches into detail about the year’s syllabus.

She goes over the rules of class, putting extensive emphasis on the importance of being on time and in one’s seat at least a full minute before the bell rings. After she looks around the room and declares that everyone’s present, she gestures toward the whiteboard in one big, dramatic movement.

“Now. Let’s get right into it. We’ll be talking about early civilizations for the next two weeks.” She writes the words “First civilizations” and draws a line underneath, then begins adding bullet points. I remember this part, and now I start to predict what she’s going to write next. “Significant cities,” I guess accurately. Next, “writing systems”… She ends with the words “formal states.”

She turns around and addresses the class. “Does anyone know the term we use to describe the transition from hunting and gathering to more formal agricultural systems?”

My hand shoots up and so does Megan’s. McGibney calls on her, but I’m a little puffed up because this time, I knew the answer. Even though I cheated.

* * *

It takes more effort than I anticipated, but for the next three weeks, I “live in the present” as the bumper sticker wisdom says. I try not to think about my past with Anna, or even speculate about what my next visit with her will bring. I go to school during the day, make small talk with my parents at night, and do my best to fill my time on the weekends. I stay fixed in place on the timeline, avoiding concerts and news, and extinguishing any thoughts that creep in about do-overs.

I try to live like I’m normal. I force myself not to think about Anna every time I meet my friends for coffee, or skate at the park overlooking the bay, or pass a gift shop that sells San Francisco souvenirs and postcards. As hard as it is, I try not to think about the fact that she can’t come here and meet my family and friends. I ignore the