Operation do over, p.4
Operation Do-Over, page 4
Dad tosses it on top of the pile at the curb.
Ava! It was all such a blur that I’m not even sure I can trust my own memory of what happened under the Tilt-A-Whirl last night. What if the falling sign landed on my head and I dreamed the whole thing? No, it was real. It had to be. Nothing so huge, so important could be a figment of my imagination. I kissed her and she kissed me back.
I can feel a smile forming on my face, and I quickly chase it away. I kind of suspected before, but you never know till you know.
Now I know. She likes me.
Our big moment only lasted a few seconds. When the fire department arrived and evacuated the fairgrounds, we were caught up in the stampede of people running for safety. The parking lot was a madhouse of worried parents looking to rescue their kids, blaring horns and phone flashlights deafening and blinding everyone. Before we had a second to talk about anything, Mr. Petrakis dragged his daughter off to their SUV, and home. I haven’t been able to reach her since. My calls won’t go through, and my texts are all marked not sent. The local cell towers were damaged in the storm, so phone service has been spotty. That might even be a good thing. What would I say to her that wouldn’t sound goofy?
I’m actually kind of grateful for the confusion of last night and the fact that the whole town is upside down this morning. It gives me the smokescreen I need to keep from admitting to Ty that I broke the non-Ava treaty. Oh, man, I didn’t just break it. I smashed it, blasted it down to its component atoms. How could I do such a thing? I understood the rules; I helped make them up!
My one consolation is that Ty doesn’t know anything about this. Not that Ava and I can keep it a secret forever. But maybe there’s a way to hold off on telling Ty until it doesn’t upset him quite so much anymore. I can’t imagine exactly how or when that would be, but surely there’s some situation where Ty will be in such a good mood that he won’t care. Like what if we give him the news on the day his mom gets elected president, his dad wins the lottery, and geologists strike oil in the Ehrlich backyard?
Nope. Not good enough.
Well, how about the day that Ty gets a girlfriend?
Oh, sure. Ty’s prized possession is a paperweight containing volcanic ash from the eruption of Mount Saint Helens. I’m sure the ladies are lining up.
Or maybe the two of us have been such good friends for so long that Ty will forgive me. It’s such a happy thought I can almost make myself believe it—until I imagine a reverse scenario, where it’s Ty who broke the treaty.
No, that’s not going to work either.
“Mason”—Dad sounds exasperated—“go rescue your dog before he skewers himself like a shish kebab on one of these branches.”
I snap out of my reverie in time to see Rufus, poised on a fallen limb like a high-wire artist, his ample belly dangling mere inches above a razor-sharp spike. I race across the front yard, clamp both arms around the sheepdog, and tackle him away from danger. The two of us end up muddy and breathless in the flowerbed.
Rufus hops free, shakes himself, spraying dirt in all directions, and bounds away in search of more trouble.
Spitting soil down the front of my sweatshirt, I sit up and find myself staring at a pair of denim-clad knees. Ty reaches down and hauls me to my feet.
“How’s it going?” I’m determined to sound natural in spite of my nervousness. “Did you guys get a lot of damage at your place?”
Ty shrugs. “Couple of broken fence posts. My mom’s garden gnome is MIA. Where were you when the storm hit?”
“In my room,” I lie. “I thought the roof was going to come off. The wind sounded like a freight train.”
“Really?” Ty’s tone is flat. “So what you’re saying is you weren’t at Harvest Festival?”
I gulp. He knows. But how can he know? Ava and I were alone at the Tilt-A-Whirl! No one was there. The people were all running for the exits.
My mind races. Ty can’t know about the kiss. It’s impossible. But maybe—just maybe—somebody caught a glimpse of me in the crowd and mentioned it to Ty.
Ty’s eyes narrow. “What’s it going to be, man? Were you at the fair or not?”
I’m sweating now, which is turning the earth on my cheeks to mud. “Well, yeah, I was—before the bad stuff. But it was boring, so I went home. That’s where I was when the storm hit.”
“Yeah,” Ty agrees. “You look real bored.” He holds out his phone.
The picture on the screen nearly stops my heart. I recognize the Tilt-A-Whirl first, even in the low light. And the two figures standing there, locked in an embrace that’s been looping through my brain, triple-speed, ever since—
My voice is papery. “Where did you get that picture?”
“Everybody has it,” Ty replies accusingly. “It’s on the seventh-grade chat.”
“Impossible! The cell service is down!” To prove my point, I pull out my own phone, knowing that the gesture is pointless. Even if every cell tower in the state has been vaporized, there’s no denying the image Ty is holding right in front of my face.
When I look at my own screen, my heart sinks. Service has obviously been restored. I have twenty-eight new messages, eleven of them from Ava. “I can explain—”
“We had a treaty!” Ty cuts me off. “The Romulans and the Klingons, remember?”
“The sign blew down!” I’m babbling now. “We both could have gotten killed—”
“You can’t break treaties!” Ty rages. “The safety of the whole galaxy depends on them! I held up my end of the bargain! And what did you do? The total opposite of that!”
“It was the circumstances! The storm!”
“It was a non-Ava treaty! What could be simpler than that? You only had to do one thing!”
“I—I—I—” There’s nothing to be said. I’m a million percent in the wrong, and we both know it. Plus, I tried to lie my way out of it, making everything that much worse. I look him squarely in the eye. “I screwed up. I’m sorry.”
Ty’s face flames bright red. “I don’t care how sorry you are. You and I are not friends. Not now. Not ever.”
I stare. Not friends. I’m shocked to hear the words, but on another level, I understand I shouldn’t be. We’ve both always known that this could be the only result of a treaty violation. That’s why we needed the treaty in the first place. We were both so smitten with Ava that the idea of her with one of us would throw our friendship completely out of balance. If the tables were turned, I’d feel exactly the same way.
This isn’t just a disagreement or even a fight. It’s a tear in the fabric of the universe.
“I’ll make this right,” I plead hoarsely. “I promise.”
“Nothing can make this right” is his response.
I’m devastated. Not friends. For Ty and me, even the idea is ridiculous. Unthinkable! And yet, I can’t even argue with him. We practically share a single mind. I understand perfectly how final Ty’s pronouncement is. How strange is that—to know someone so well that you can see that your friendship is doomed?
“Hi, Ty!” Dad waves from across the yard. “Come on inside. There’s hot chocolate brewing.”
“No, thanks, Mr. Rolle. I’ve got to get home.” He adds in a lower voice, “I’m done here.”
8
Seventeen Years Old
Question: What’s harder than getting your science-fair project into the car?
Answer: Getting it out again.
My foot presses down on the forward-folded driver’s seat as I try to wrestle the bulky project out of the back of my nine-year-old Volkswagen Beetle. The corrugated cardboard of the display bends against the doorframe as I inch it along, grunting and sweating.
“Need help, Mason?”
I know that voice. Even without turning around, I’d know it out of a thousand voices. Ava.
In an awkward motion that’s designed to seem natural but probably looks like a muscle spasm, I throw an arm in front of the title plate of my display box—actually three boxes joined together. No way can I let her see that this project is called Possibilities of Time Travel. It’s exactly the same project that she, Ty, and I were working on back in seventh grade.
That project—the seventh-grade one—was never finished because it happened. The thing. What would you even call it? There has to be a word for what happened between Ty and me. A falling-out? Not strong enough. A fight? Keep going. Less than murder, but not by much.
Possibilities of Time Travel—the original version—was the first casualty. People can’t work together if they won’t even look in each other’s direction. The astronomy club went next. Poor Ms. Alexander—now Mrs. Nekomis. It almost broke her heart. And the greatest friendship in history, obviously.
It wasn’t Ava’s fault, but she was caught in the middle of it. She had no way of knowing there was a treaty that bore her name, or that she was helping me violate it. But when Ty and I went from best friends to mortal enemies overnight—over that night—she was smart enough to put two and two together.
She blamed herself. Worse, whatever connection might have been blossoming between her and me died instantly and was never allowed to be reborn. Ava pulled away from both of us. Dominic, Miggy, and the popular kids were more than happy to welcome her into their crowd.
So how can I let her see that I’ve completed that project from another lifetime, five years after the fact? She’ll think I’m pathetic. Worse, she’ll think I’m still mooning over what happened behind the Tilt-A-Whirl when we were both twelve. What a loser! Still stuck in seventh grade.
“I’m good, thanks.” The effort to keep my arm in front of the title threatens to dislocate at least one shoulder.
She pauses, peering into the car. “Science-fair project?”
“Still the science dweeb,” I acknowledge with a forced smile.
She grins. “I remember those days. Good luck.” And she moves off, breaking into a run to catch up with some friends. She has lots of those. After she split away from Ty and me, Ava turned into the popular girl she was always meant to be.
Don’t get me wrong: It’s not like I’m a hermit. I can find kids to hang out with if I want. But the kind of friendship Ty and I had—that was a lightning strike, a one-in-a-million shot. Who could understand a freak of probability better than two champion mathletes?
I slick back my tuft of hair and make another try at getting the giant project out of the Volkswagen. This time it pops free suddenly and I almost go flying. I shut the door with a hip check and begin the long struggle across the parking lot, stepping carefully, since I can’t see the pavement over the display carton.
Once in the school, I get a lot of dirty looks trying to maneuver the oversize project through the crowded halls. I have to kick at the stairwell door before someone opens it and lets me squeeze through. Turning sideways, I start up the steps. Kids coming down from the second floor stream around me, some of them jostling the display box.
And then the door to the second-floor hallway opens, and out walks none other than Ty. He’s struggling with his own science-fair project, contained in a corrugated cardboard display even bigger than mine. Figures. It’s like the whole universe is configured to remind me of what we lost.
Stepping carefully, because he can’t see the floor either, Ty starts down as I continue up. We meet in the middle and grind to a halt with the two projects pressing against each other. There’s no way that the bulky displays can pass in the narrow stairway.
“Back up,” we chorus in perfect unison. Even after five years of un-friendship, we still speak with one mind and one mouth.
“No, you back up.” Also in unison.
I sigh, exasperated. “Listen, we’re both good at science. This is a math problem, nothing more. If you lift that end, and I swing this end around here . . .”
I give him credit. He goes with it at first. We both shuffle, shift, and adjust until Ty’s project is squashed against the wall and mine is balanced precariously over the banister. There’s still not enough room. If this really is a math problem, the universe of solutions is the empty set.
“Hey, Spaceman,” comes a voice from below. Dominic. “You want to shove off?”
“Some of us have classes to get to,” adds his loyal sidekick, Miggy.
Like those guys would ever cry their eyes out over missed school.
Ty and I are jammed dead center in the stairwell, trying to shuffle-step past each other without crushing Ty’s display or dropping mine down to the basement.
Bad enough to have a worst enemy without having to be plastered up against the guy, practically cheek to cheek.
That’s when I notice the title plastered along the top of Ty’s display box: Time Travel: The Possibilities.
“Wait a minute!” I practically choke. “What’s that supposed to be?”
“My project!” Ty replies belligerently.
“No, it isn’t! It’s my project!” With great effort, I turn my project on its perch on the banister, revealing where it says: Possibilities of Time Travel.
Ty’s eyes bulge. “You stole my idea!”
“You stole my idea!” My eyes focus on a silver-clad action figure of an astronaut on the left side of Ty’s display. “Is that my Buck Rogers?”
“No, it’s my Buck Rogers,” Ty retorts. “You gave it to me for my eleventh birthday.”
“That’s a collectible! You never should have taken it out of the box!”
“It’s none of your business what I do with my stuff!”
At this point, we’re yelling to be heard over the ruckus around us. There’s a full-fledged traffic jam in the stairwell as students trying to get up or down become trapped behind the two unmoving projects.
Tempers flare and angry voices ring out.
“What’s going on up there?”
“Get out of the way! I’m late for class!”
“It’s Spaceman,” Dominic chimes in. “He and his spacey friend are having a supernova about something.”
The late bell rings, adding an air of urgency to the general confusion. Now the crowd is pushing from both upstairs and downstairs, with Ty and me trapped in the middle. The noise level rises by at least twenty decibels.
Part of Ty’s display board tears in the middle and is smashed flat against the wall. The Buck Rogers action figure drops out and bounces down the stairs, disappearing under dozens of feet.
“Look what you did!” Ty rages. “This is your fault!”
“My fault?” I echo. “You’re the one who wouldn’t get out of the way!”
“What’s going on here?” Mrs. Nekomis bursts onto the scene from the first-floor hall and gawks in dismay at the chaos in the stairwell.
“It’s Mason and Ty!” Miggy tattles. “They’re blocking the steps!”
“Everybody off the stairs!”
Mrs. Nekomis starts up, moving students bodily out of her path.
Face flaming red, Ty drops his ruined project and shoves me into the banister. There’s a crunch as the corrugated cardboard display is crushed between my weight and the wrought-iron rail. Model pieces and papers sail out of the open box and all the way down to the basement. Horrified, I drop to the stair in a desperate attempt to keep my hard work from disappearing forever. It’s too late. The box is broken, the papers still fluttering.
“Cut it out, you two!” Mrs. Nekomis demands shrilly. “You used to be—”
I don’t want to hear it. I see red. All I can think of is my project is wrecked and someone has to pay. In a blind fury, I leap to my feet, swinging what’s left of the display box at Ty.
It strikes a glancing blow on Ty’s shoulder. The impact tears my model of the International Space Station free of the project. It hits Mrs. Nekomis full in the face, shattering into a million pieces. It’s not a heavy blow, but it’s enough to startle her and throw off her balance.
With a cry of shock, she tumbles backward down the stairs and comes to rest near the bottom step.
The stairwell, which resounded with shouts not two seconds before, is suddenly as silent as a tomb.
Mrs. Nekomis stares up at me in shock and anger. A narrow trickle of blood makes its way along a face that’s a thundercloud.
9
Seventeen Years Old
Dear Mrs. Nekomis,
How are you? . . .
I slam the pen down and tear up the paper in disgust. What kind of question is that? I know exactly how she is—all beat up and bruised from her trip down the stairs, thanks to me.
According to my mother, the good old-fashioned handwritten letter is a lost art form. Good riddance to it is my opinion. It would be so much easier to send a text or an email to say the same thing, but Mom insists that a “real letter” will mean more. So here I am.
Dear Mrs. Nekomis,
Let me explain what happened on the stairs that day. Funny thing—it was actually Ty’s fault . . .
I rip that one up too. She doesn’t need to hear my excuses, even if they’re one thousand percent true.
Dear Mrs. Nekomis,
I’m so, so, so, so sorry . . .
I examine my work critically. Okay, maybe cut out a few of the sos. But that’s the message I’m shooting for. I feel absolutely horrible about what happened. And not just because I got suspended. Because I hurt the best teacher I’ve ever had.
Suspension is the kind of thing that happens to the Dominics and Miggys of the world—kids who are always getting in trouble. Not to me, with my towering grade point average and my applications to colleges like Stanford and MIT. I can only hope all this is straightened out before it lands on my permanent record—potentially screwing up everything I’ve been working toward all these years. My stomach tightens at the thought of it.
I’m anxious about that, but mostly, I feel awful for Mrs. Nekomis.
I experience a stab of anger at the thought of Ty. He isn’t suspended. Talk about unfair! Ty isn’t being blamed for any of this, when he was fifty percent of the standoff that led to Mrs. Nekomis’s accident. A week of detentions—that’s all he got. A slap on the wrist! True, I was the one who swung Possibilities of Time Travel, launching my space station model into the teacher’s face. But he forced me to do it by ruining my project. How come he’s not sitting at home while senior year passes him by?
