“Okay, fine!” I say. “I wasn’t thinking. I just knew that I had to stop the senator from getting to the Capitol, and I did the first thing that popped into my head. But it worked, I’d like to point out.”
Zeta takes a slow breath. “Indeed it did,” he admits. “You successfully completed your mission, and my report will reflect that.” Yes! Finally. I’ve finally done something right. “However, I told you before that whatever happens on a mission stays a permanent part of history. Had you died, it would have been nice knowing you. So I will also make sure your reckless behavior is included in the report. Now are we ready to go back?”
I get that uneasy feeling my stomach has come to know and love. And now we have to go back. My body will be put through hell again. The voice in my head cries out in protest. Throws itself on the floor, kicking and screaming like a toddler who’s been told to do something she doesn’t want to do. But I whip out my watch and punch the top knob like it’s as easy as climbing a flight of stairs. Never show weakness.
“I’m ready, sir,” I say as I march myself toward the senator’s backyard.
Zeta lifts an eyebrow and looks over to check that my watch is set correctly. “All right. Then go.”
I snap the watch face lid shut before I have time to reconsider. My body is shot up so fast that my arms are plastered to my side. It’s as if I’ve been stuffed into a cannon. A real one, not a circus one. All the pressure is on my shoulders. They’re pulling down and away from my body. They’re going to be ripped off. My head is pulled up, as if someone is trying to twist it off. Pressure. So much pressure. My neck muscles strain and scream, and the pain travels down to my arms, already bruised and black from the cab. It feels as if someone is taking a rubber mallet and swinging away at the bruises. I would scream if I could.
And then I land, back in present-day Washington. I hear two pops as Indigo and Zeta appear. I’m still on the ground, the wet morning grass staining my dress. Never show weakness, I remind myself. But I can’t get up. I can’t move.
Indigo drops to my side, and I lower my chin. Everything hurts, and I want to cry. I can’t believe that this is how they used to travel all the time. That this was routine. It’s no wonder nearly all of them are dead or disfigured. Time travel—projecting—is hell.
Indigo reaches out a hand and gently guides my chin up. I should push him away. I should fight him off. But I don’t. I stare into his eyes, unable to hide what I’m feeling. His hand is still on my chin, and he lifts a finger to tap my nose.
“It’s okay,” he whispers, and I choke. Because that’s something Abe would have done.
I jerk my head to the side and push up. I wobble, and Indigo hops up to help me. I try to shake him off, but he puts an arm around my shoulder. I miss Abe. He’s going to be here next year, almost right where I’m standing. Georgetown. And I’m not going to be with him. Ever again.
I lean into Indigo. It hurts so much. More than that time I broke my arm when I was eight, and it took four tries to reset the bone. More than when I took a roundhouse kick to the groin during combat training at Peel. Physical pain subsides. Emotional pain never will. I know that all too well.
Zeta has already called for the car, and it pulls up only a few minutes later. Zeta gets in front, and Indigo and I climb into the back. We sit on opposite sides of the seat, not even remotely close to touching, and I stare out the window at the yellow and orange trees the whole ride.
I just projected back in time. I have the ability to time travel. Chronometric Augmentation, my mind says in a superserious government voice. I’m one of only a handful of people in the world who can do it.
So why aren’t I happier?
Zeta hands us first-class tickets again. The plane takes off, and I recline my seat and shut my eyes.
“Can I get you something to drink?” I hear the flight attendant ask.
I shake my head without opening my eyes, but then I hear Zeta say across the aisle, “Three glasses of champagne,” and my eyes pop open. Champagne? I’ve never had it before. I don’t drink. Ever. When you grow up with a mom who counts alcoholism among her many problems, you don’t really have a desire to drink.
The flight attendant gives Indigo and me the once-over. “I’m sorry; I’m going to have to ask for some identification.”
“It’s okay,” I say. “I don’t want—” But then Indigo elbows me in the rib. My right rib, which is so sore and tender that I cringe.
“I’m so sorry,” he gasps.
“It’s fine.” I reach into my pocket and pull out the ID Zeta gave me that morning. I glance at it and, holy crap. It says I’m twenty-one. My boss got me a fake ID. I hand it to the flight attendant, who examines it and hands it back.
“Three glasses of champagne, coming right up.”
She brings them, and Zeta tips his glass to me across the aisle. “All in all, a very successful day.” My head whips over to look at him. Did he just use the words very and successful in the same sentence, directed at me? “You still have to work on your impulse control, but I would be honored to teach you further.” He takes a sip while my hands shake.
Then Indigo practically shoves his glass in my face. “Cheers.” He taps his glass into my mine. It makes a soft clink!
“Cheers,” I tell him before taking the smallest sip. The champagne is sweet and bubbly and goes down way too easily, so I set it back on the tray.
“Not thirsty?” Indigo downs his glass.
“Not really.”
He smiles. “You fascinate me, you know.”
“I . . . what do you mean?”
“I mean—” Indigo reaches for my glass. “You gonna drink that?” I shake my head, so Indigo picks it up. “That I can’t quite figure you out.”
“Who says I want you to figure me out?”
Indigo chuckles and empties the other glass. “That’s part of what fascinates me.” He sets the glass on the tray, leans his seat back, and closes his eyes. I can’t help but stare at him for a little while. I try not to think at all.
CHAPTER 11
Throwing myself in front of a cab turns out to be the way to Zeta’s heart. The very next day, he takes me on another mission. And then another after that. And three more the following week. I experience Harlem in the 1920s and Philadelphia in the 1790s. October blinks into November, and I turn seventeen without a hint of celebration. Before I know it, Thanksgiving is looming over me like a dark cloud.
Thanksgiving. Abe and I were supposed to spend it with my mom. I always go back to her for the holidays. It was never the same between us, not after I’d chosen a school I’d never heard of over her; I would put on a brave face anyway. Having Abe with me always helped. Abe can talk to anyone, anywhere, anytime—about anything. His warmth and humor is contagious. One time he was even able to get my mom to crack the smallest smile during one of her lows. That was the moment I realized I loved him.
But now I’m not going to see either of them. Ever again.
I’m in the library poring over a book on early-twentieth-century American politics, something Zeta has assigned me in preparation for a mission that may or may not happen. Who knows?
I don’t have the room to myself today. Indigo is sitting at the desk next to me, and Blue has plopped himself in one of the armchairs in front of the fireplace. Violet sits in the other, her nose in an ancient-looking book with a peeling cherry-red leather cover.
I’m reading a section on Teddy Roosevelt’s early presidency when a note flies on top of my desk. I set down the book and look at Indigo. He jerks his head toward the note, as if it’s not completely obvious who threw it. I pick it up.