Time's Edge

“If a stable point has been set, then yes, I could. There are stable points going back to early civilizations and going forward to just before CHRONOS was established in the late 2100s. But I’m not sure I want to know that much about the future—I’d like to live a normal life when this is all over—and when I go back in time, there’s always the risk of changing something that affects the present.”

He laughs. “ ‘I wish, I wish I hadn’t killed that fish.’ ”

I give him a blank look.

“Homer with the toaster? The dinosaurs? Ned Flanders as Big Brother? You’ve got to be kidding me—you’ve never seen that one?”

“Not ringing any bells, so I must have missed it.”

“Oh, wow, we will most definitely have to fix that right now. You do watch The Simpsons, don’t you?”

“Yes. Mostly the old ones that come on around di

Trey lets out an exaggerated sigh of relief. “Thank God. You had me worried that my alternate self had fallen for someone who wouldn’t get a lot of my jokes.”

“So unfair. I miss one little episode and you doubt me. Tsk, tsk.”

“Hey, it’s not just any episode. It’s a Treehouse of Horror. Must fix.”

He pulls out his phone and types something in. “Just a sec. Trying to find the right one.” Another pause and then a muted curse. “They only have clips online . . .”

After a few seconds, he says, “Okay, this is it. It’s not the whole thing but may be enough to patch that gaping hole in your cultural education.”

I dig my elbow into his ribs, and he laughs, putting his arm around me. We watch the video, laughing at the same bits, and I realize that it’s this kind of thing, just being together, doing little or nothing, that I’ve missed the most. The earlier chats on the phone and our date at the movies and even di

The video is almost finished when his phone rings.

“It’s my dad,” Trey says, a bit u

“Yeah, Dad. What’s up? . . . Yes. Estella told me. I’ll stop by the drugstore on the way back . . . Yeah, Dad. Five minutes . . . Yes.” His voice is a bit sharp. “Everything’s ready . . . I said I would, didn’t I?”

He listens for a moment and then says, “Fine,” and hangs up, shaking his head.

Something’s wrong with this picture. Trey’s dad was so relaxed when I met him, and I didn’t get the feeling he was the type to set many boundaries. I think back to all of the nights—many of them school nights for Trey—when we were on the computer for an hour or more, often well after he should have been in bed.

“Everything okay?” I ask.

“Yeah,” he says, but he doesn’t really sound like it’s true. “Dad’s just jumping my case about everything lately. But, he’s right—I probably do need to get going.”

He trusts my judgment. I remember Trey saying that about his dad on more than one occasion, and I can’t help but wonder what happened.

We walk around to the front of the house where his car is parked.

“Is there a stable point on that key of yours for Punta Cana?”

I laugh. “Unless some historical battle or something happened nearby, I seriously doubt it.”

“Too bad,” he says. “I’ll try to give you a call in a couple of days. Maybe we can do something when I get back?”

I nod. “I’d like that.”

He gives Daphne a quick pat on the head and me an equally quick peck on the cheek and then takes off down the sidewalk.

As he gets into the car, I have the strange sensation that we’re being watched. I glance around and realize it’s probably because I’m standing almost exactly where I was when Simon tried to snatch my medallion. I’m outside the protective zone, inches away from the spot where Trey whacked Simon over the head with a tire iron. Inches away from the spot where Katherine disappeared.

I quickly retreat four or five steps toward the front porch and give Trey a final wave as he flips on his headlights and pulls away from the curb. And then a second set of headlights flips on about half a block down the road, and a dark blue van drives off after him.

Just the neighbors going out for a gallon of milk or something.

Probably.

Except I don’t really remember seeing that van around before. And the feeling that I’m being watched disappears along with the van.

∞4∞

I spend the entire next day with Dear Diary, and the only real accomplishment is that I manage to pinpoint Other-Kate’s location—Chicago. That seems weird, because I’ve never been to modern Chicago, just the one in 1893. It’s hard to imagine that the skyline I see outside her window is the same place I visited a few months back.

Eventually, the diary becomes more interesting, probably because Other-Kate began to skip a day, then several days, and sometimes even a week between entries. So instead of page after page about her training and other daily minutiae, she occasionally had something to say when she finally sat down to log a report.

I’m just about to click on the next entry when my phone rings. There are only four possibilities in my newly truncated social life: Mom, Dad, Trey, or Sorry, Wrong Number. I’m really hoping for Option Number Three.

It’s Option Number One. “Hi, Mom. What’s up?”

“Why does anything have to be up? Isn’t it possible that I just want to talk to my darling daughter?”

“It’s possible, but what’s up?”

She laughs. “Okay, I confess. It’s both. Are you free for di

I start to say no, that it’s been a long day, and I’m tired, but it’s only a few minutes after four. Since Mom knows nothing about my time traveling second life, she’ll be hurt if I say no. And O’Malley’s means onion rings. Big, fat, juicy, really, really bad for you onion rings, with just the right amount of spice.

I can tell I’ve hesitated too long, because she says in a flat voice, “But if you already have plans . . .”

“Actually, O’Malley’s sounds great, Mom. Should I meet you there or at the townhouse?”

“No, no. I’ll pick you up.”

“On what, your bicycle? It’s going to be a long ride to O’Malley’s with me on the back.”

“I’m outside that Zipcar place across from campus, and that cute little blue Mini Cooper convertible is there. Do you remember the one?”

“Yes . . .”

“Well, it’s taunting me again. I think I’m going to have to rent it for a few hours.”

“Ohhh-kay,” I say, letting just a hint of suspicion creep into my voice. This isn’t Mom behavior. Not only is she renting a car, something she’s done maybe five times since we moved to DC, but she is driving here, to Katherine’s house. That’s her personal equivalent of waltzing into the lion’s den. Now I know something is up.

“Let me guess. You’ve met the man of your dreams, and you’re ru

She laughs again. “Yes. I also won the lottery. Does five thirty work for you?”

My Cobb salad is finished, and there are two onion rings left in the basket next to my plate. I raise my fork and stab it down onto the red-and-white-checked paper lining, a fraction of an inch from my mother’s pinky finger.