Friday, January 14, 2011

Amy

In shock, I sit on my bed and I read the note quite to my dismay after Ricky has left with John for the night. The words are still not registering in my head, either because I'm in denial or can not feel the actuality of the situation. I take a deep breath to calm myself, and I try once again to read the note.

Amy, it says, I was the one who took your car. Sorry about that. I didn't mean to scare you. I didn't want to bother you so I quickly drove to your house and I'm writing you a note. I need you to call a number. Unfortunately, I can't remember the number. Look up Dr. Emerson. He's a geneticist, our doctor, who you are supposed to meet.

Convince him to meet you there in Los Angeles. He used to work in California, so he will know how to get there. Go to his doctor's office, there in LA, and meet him there. You will later show up at 7:00, for whatever reason, so make sure you are there before then.

I sometimes worry that he's insane, but he is our doctor and the only person that's going to believe the story. Meet him in two days before seven.

I drag my thumb down to the bottom of the paper and deliberately scrutinize his signature, which was obviously written in a hurry. He wrote this, I keep telling myself. He brought this here, and he 'stole' my car. He was in my room tonight. Twice.

Heaving a sigh, I let the note fall in feather-like movement to the floor before I plop down in the wooden chair at my computer desk. I finally manage to convince myself that there is nothing I can do about this, because it's bound to happen, anyway. Just like everything else in my life.

Into the search bar I type Dr. Emerson. Although my internet is fairly quick, I anxiously drum my fingers on the desk while the computer loads for only a few seconds. The page brings up 17,000,100 results for Dr. Emerson. I add geneticist to the end of it, and upon letting it load, I click on the first reliable website.

At the top it says his name with a picture of a man, presumably in his mid-forties, and underneath is an address: 1420 Madison Avenue. New York, New York. After finding the phone number, I punch it into my cell phone and after five rings, a deep voice comes onto the phone. "Hello?" He clears his throat.

I take a deep breath, trying not to let my anxiety get the best of me. My nerves seem to be rocketing tonight, which I decide is normal, taken under consideration that I have to meet a strange man, who I only know I can trust because my future husband went into my room and left me a note telling me to meet him. It sounds ridiculous, right?

"Um, hi," I finally say, allowing a few second interval so I can phrase my words appropriately. "This is Amy. I have a serious problem and I really need help. But I live in Los Angeles--that's the only problem."

"Doesn't matter," he grumbles.

I pause for another moment, not really sure what to say since Ricky didn't tell me. "Uh, okay. Well, I don't really want to tell you about my disorder over the phone. I'm about one hundred percent sure you've never heard of it. I'd need to meet you in person and show you somehow, or you'd never believe me. I just really want someone to help me."

"Well, can you come down here to New York?"

I think about the idea of me somehow coming up with the money and then secretly getting on a plane, but I know that wouldn't be possible. "I don't think so. A lot of questions would come up. Wouldn't be able to answer them."

"What's your name again?"

"Amy. Amy Juergens."

There's a brief pause. "How old are you, Amy?"

"I'm seventeen."

"This started–?"

"When I was sixteen."

He pauses again, and I wonder if he's writing this down. "I can meet you in Los Angeles, I guess. I used to work down there. But I'm going to need some kind of record that shows your medical history."

"I . . . I don't even really have a doctor. I have a pediatrician."

"Anything you have from your pediatrician?"

"I don't think so. I haven't really been there in forever."

He pauses again. "Nothing?"

"Well, I guess I sort of have a doctor. Well, a nurse. When I was pregnant . . ." I trail off. "But I don't even know the number or anything."

"Well, if you can find something, okay. If you can't, that's fine, too. You sound official, Amy. I'll try to meet you in Los Angeles." He tells me the address of his office and for me to meet him there this coming Monday.

"Okay. Bye." I hang up and write down a reminder to myself to meet him there.

Monday, January 17, 2011

Amy

To my surprise, the day didn't turn out as bad as I thought it would. I sit on my bed right now, reflecting the events of earlier today. I managed to easily convince my parents that I was going over to Lauren's house, which wasn't hard since my parents didn't watch me as carefully as they had before, and what I told them was a lie, of course, because Lauren and I are barely friends anymore.

I was a little nervous at first, but when I met the guy I realized I was safe, although something about him scared me. Just like Ricky had told me, I went into the office at six o' clock in the evening, and I found him sitting at his desk. Once I told him my condition, he thought I was joking, which was expected.

But then, as promised, a future form of myself showed up from the near future, and Doctor Emerson cursed but then surprised me by treating me like he would any other patient. He calmly asked me questions to understand what was going on with me, but in the end he was just stunned.

He took some of my DNA and said he was going to look for the mutation in my genes. He guessed and said that whatever caused my disorder must have been already forming in my genes for a while, and then something suddenly triggered it.

When I was about to leave, he gave me his cell phone number. At first I didn't understand what Ricky meant in the note, but then I kind of saw how the doctor was insane. He started talking about how this could be amazing progress in the world and could be a good change for the future, but I said nothing. I don't want people to know about this.

A knock at the front door brings me back into the present, and I briefly look up from where I'm sitting on the couch in the living room and say, "I'm coming." I'm waiting for my mom to get home; she and my dad have been fighting a lot recently, and I'm waiting for her to return from wherever she is to ask her about Dad.

My dad has left angry two times already this week, and although the fighting has been going on for a while, I'm afraid it's getting worse and he's going to leave us for good.

I open the door and stammer in surprise at whom is there. It's Ben, and he's wearing a sheepish grin, dressed in blue jeans and a loose white collar shirt under his sweater. Once I catch his eye, his grin fades and he keeps a straight face, his eyes widening with surprise, as if he has anything to be surprised about.

I remember how Ben always did that when he was shocked or hesitant about something: His eyes would get wide and fear would practically be radiating from them. I straighten my purple shirt and half smile. "Hey, Ben. What are you doing here?"

"Uh, do you have a minute or two? Could I come in?"

"Yeah, I guess," I say, taking a good look at him. He watches me carefully, and maybe even a little tentatively. Although he and I go to the same school, I feel like I haven't seen him in months. We don't have any classes together, and since we aren't even friends I have no desire to scope the hallway for him.

He looks exactly like I would expect him to look: the same, of course. Maybe, though, he's a little skinnier than he was last time I saw him, if that's even possible. His hair is still short, and he's wearing a sweater that reminds me of Bob Saget. I smile to myself but quickly cover it up when Ben gives me a look. "Um," I say, the smile returning to my face again, "I was just waiting for my mom to get home, but I have a minute, I suppose."

He nods before I turn around. "Where's your dad?" he asks, following behind me. I don't answer immediately because I know he really doesn't care; evidently he only asked just to have something to say.

"That's a good question," I answer, walking around the coffee table and standing up beside the couch for a few seconds. "I don't know where he, Ashley, or my mom is, but my dad hasn't exactly been in the best mood lately." I take a seat on the couch, and Ben sits a good five or six inches from me, as if he's cautioning himself around me.

"Why? Is everything okay?"

I sigh. "He and my mom have just been arguing a lot, which isn't really anything new. They never get along. He just left a few days ago and stayed at a hotel overnight; that's how bad it got. But he did come back, though the fighting hasn't stopped." I pause, not going any further, wondering why I'm even telling him this in the first place. I wrinkle my eyebrows. "Not to be rude, but what did you come over here for?"

"I just haven't seen you in so long, Amy. I just thought maybe I'd come by to see how you and John were, and maybe your parents and Ashley, but seeing as they aren't home–"

I clear my throat to cut him off. "Well, like I said, my mom should be home soon. And my dad will probably be home as well. Who knows? You can stay around if you want to see them . . ." I trailed off. "But somehow I have a feeling you came here to talk to me about something in particular?"

He sighs. "Not really. I mean, not exactly. But did you hear?"

"Did I hear what?"

"You know."

I shake my head, confused. "No, I really don't, Ben."

He turns his head to flash me an incredulous stare, but when I meet his eyes he quickly looks away. I have the strangest urge to slap him from getting so embarrassed around me. "Don't you pay attention to the gossip at school?" he finally asks, looking right past me.

I shake my head and laugh quietly. "No. I've been way to busy to even care about the gossip at school. I really just don't care about it anymore. I've realized that it's all pointless and none of it really matters."

He nods. "That's a good way to look at it, but you really didn't hear?"

I roll my eyes. Didn't he hear me the first time? "No, I haven't heard anything. Is it something about me? If it is, don't tell me, because I don't want to know."

"It isn't about you," he says quickly. " I mean, people have been saying things, as they do with anything, because high school kids do talk, but there aren't any rumors pursue."

I have a flashback of all the times with Ben when I was fifteen and barely sixteen, and I realize that I wouldn't change anything to have him back, especially if this is what he's turned into: a shy, nervous loner who can't stand to look at me. However, I really don't know much about him anymore, so that's just a guess based on his behavior around me.

"What have people been saying about me?" I ask calmly, slightly shifting my body to face Ben, internally laughing at the look on his face. He looks like he wants to shy away or put up a large barrier between us so he won't have to look at me.

"It isn't important what people say," he declares.

"Then why did you bring it up?"

"I was just kind of hoping you didn't find out."

I nod to myself, and though I am a little curious, I don't think I want to know. "Well, don't worry. I didn't."

He stifles a sigh, obviously not happy with where the conversation is going. "Just forget about it. It's nothing. I was just hoping maybe we could catch up. I feel like I haven't spoke with you in so long."

"Yeah, I know," I say, trying to sound friendly, but my voice sounds almost lifeless, and I wonder whether or not Ben can detect it. "I'm sorry."

"Well, what have you been up to?"

"Oh, nothing out-of-the-ordinary for me, Ben," I say. "Going to school, working, taking care of John, and a few things in between then." A few things such as me somehow unwillingly time traveling.

He nods, but his eyes are full with omission and I can tell that he's not even remotely interested in anything I have to say to him, like he only came over here to ask me something specific. Instead of asking what he really wants, he says, "How is work going? You're still working at the nursery, aren't you?"

"Yeah. It's okay. I mean, it's work, so it's not great. I figure that I might as well be working with something that I like to do, so that's good. Even if I didn't really have much of a choice as to what job I have . . . it all worked out okay."

"You mean . . ." He trailed off expectedly.

I nod. "Yeah, Ben. John."

He turns his head as if that wasn't what he meant, and I can tell what he's thinking, but I don't say anything about it. I figure if he wants to know so badly he can just find the courage to ask me himself. "Still working at the butcher shop?" I urge on the conversation, hoping he'll ask me.

"Yeah. Not sure how long I'm going to keep that up for. It's a good job, but I don't think I'd like to work there forever."

"Well, that's understandable. I don't want to work at the nursery forever, if even more than another year. I hardly get enough money from it."

He meets my eyes, and as if something went off inside him, he finds his courage; I can see it in his eyes. He smiles. "You seem to be managing quite well, Amy."

Not knowing what to say to that, I stare into his eyes, seeing that he's finally got up the courage to look at me for the first time in a while. I was beginning to think he's grown scared of me, but somehow something about him is more assertive, almost, as if he's grown in a way.

I note to myself that it's probably because of Maria, his Italian girlfriend or ex-girlfriend, but I drop the thought immediately because it's none of my concern.

He continues to look at me, and I mumble, "What?"

He shakes his head quickly and cowardly moves back a little. "Nothing. You've just changed a lot, Amy. You look older." He pauses. "I mean that in a good way."

I smile, thinking the same about him–not necessarily in a good way, but not bad, either. The doorbell suddenly rings, and I straighten up and stand in a hurry. I race to the kitchen door, seeing Ricky and John through the glass. I open the door for them and give him a look. "Ben's here, in the living room. I don't really know why?"

He shuts the door behind him and I stare at him as he is turned away from me. He's here, I think to myself. He's here, but is he really the same guy I've seen in the future? I wonder whether Ricky has any feelings for me, because I know I do. Embellish in the moment now because one day you're going to get to forever, I tell myself, and I'm comforted by that.

One day.

As he turns around, he furrows his eyebrows and I take John from him. "I just saw him," Ricky says, purposely avoiding saying Ben's name for whatever reason.

"Really? Where?"

"He came over to my apartment," he explains, "and actually, he asked about you."

I raise my eyebrows, wondering what Ben would possibly say about me. Does he want to get back together with me? Does he want to know if I'm seeing anyone, which is the question I've been seeing in his eyes all night? No, couldn't be. "What'd he ask about me?"

He shakes his head as he speaks. "He basically asked, in some sense, if you had said anything about him recently. I told him you hadn't, and he droned on and on about his past mistakes, but I didn't listen too much. If I did, I'd probably have to hit him." He pauses. "Nothing interesting, really. Although . . . I don't know how he found my new apartment."

"Adrian?"

"No," he says, "Adrian doesn't know."

I hesitate. "Ricky, what's the reason you and Adrian broke up? I don't mean to be inquisitive, but I kind of wonder . . ."

He doesn't pause. "She cheated on me, with Ben. Around the time I started coming over to your house and she suspected I was coming over to see you. When I told her that we were friends, that set her off. Then you spent the night with me. She somehow found out and well, you know Adrian." He shakes his head.

"We didn't even do anything," I insist.

"I know, but it's okay. I don't really care."

I sigh."Well, I better get in there with him before he thinks something's going on."

"Yeah. You want to talk to him alone?"

"Definitely not."

He nods and we make our way down the hall and into the living room. As we walk into the room, Ben turns to look behind the couch and stares at us in disbelief. I look at him innocently, and we both sit down on the couch. Ben moves as far to the left as he can.

"Hey, Ben," Ricky says, flashing a crooked smile.

He nods and says in a low, disapproving voice, "I see how it is. Not that that's any of my business."

"What are you mumbling about?" Ricky interjects.

Offended, Ben gives him a cool glance and claims, "I wasn't mumbling."

Sitting in between the guys, I look over at Ricky where Ben cannot see the look on my face. I wink at him and then look back to the both of them. "Ben, Ricky is my friend. We're all friends here, right?"

"I don't know. Are we? I was kind of under the impression that we weren't."

Hearing two pounds on the door, I look away with a forced smile, ignoring his comment. Leaving Ben and Ricky to talk or argue, whichever, amongst themselves, I saunter into the kitchen to get the door, wondering why no one can use the front door.

Ricky

"I knew you would do that," Ben says once Amy leaves the room to get the door.

Feeling out of place, I stare blankly ahead at the black TV screen, thinking how Ben must feel even more out of place. "I don't know what you're talking about," I mutter back at him.

"As soon as I came over to ask you about Amy, you have to come over here and tell her about it."

"That wasn't my intention, Ben," I say coldly. "I was just bringing her John. She asked me to keep him until later tonight."

"So you just normally come over here this late?"

Yes, I want to say to him. Amy and I spend a lot of time together. Ben continues. "Why couldn't Amy have John over here earlier?"

"I don't know," I say, and it's true. Amy didn't tell me why. "What does it matter to you anyway? You and Amy are over. You haven't been with her in over a year."

Ben starts to say something, but Amy walks back into the room and sits in the chair across from the couch. She crosses her arms, and I want to ask her what's wrong, but my question is already answered when I hear the kitchen door slam shut, followed by Anne and George yelling at each other.

Ben looks at me and I shrug my shoulders, and we all sit awkwardly in silence as Amy's parents quarrel in the kitchen. Suddenly, Ben stands up from the couch. "I should probably go," he says. "I didn't realize this was such a bad time . . ."

"Sorry," Amy says, and I can tell by the way she says it that she really isn't. Ben nods and leaves through the front door, leaving Amy and me here alone. She sighs and says to me, "I'm sorry."

"It's all right."

She shakes her head. "No, it isn't. I think my dad's gonna leave again or something. Or maybe even my mom will leave this time. My dad's left us twice already, and I know he came back, but still . . .

"Why are they fighting?"

She yawns and shrugs her shoulders. "I don't know. You know how they are. They always fight. Even though we're all living together, I really don't see any chance of them ever getting re-married."

"Do you want them to get re-married?"

"I wouldn't mind," she says, "but that's up to them. I'm tired of getting into other people's business. I'm just going to focus on me from now on."

I nod and gingerly watch her, contemplating how I'm going to say this. Amy stares blankly down at the floor, like she might fall asleep.

"I'm sorry," I say sympathetically, not bothering to say 'It'll be okay.' I always hate when people say that, especially when they don't even understand the situation. "But don't you think that after everything you've been through, they won't split up now just because of a fight?"

She forces a smile. "You're probably right." We sit in silence for a moment, only listening to the arguing in the other room.

Suddenly, Anne and George bolt into the living room, bickering about something. Anne looks at Amy and me and turns to go back into the kitchen, but she stops when George walks behind the couch, stopping dead in his tracks to glare at me. "What are you doing here?"

"He's here to see me," Amy answers bluntly.

I give her a look, but she doesn't do anything. George looks from me to Amy and back to me. "What?"

"George, stop!" Anne yells at him.

"I don't know what's going on," he says angrily.

Amy grimaces. "I could say the same thing about you."

George arches his eyebrows and says scornfully, "I'm getting tired of your behavior, Amy." I glance at Amy for half a second and then stare down at the carpet, not wanting to get into this.

From the corner of my eye I see Amy tilt her head up and sneer at her dad. "I'm not doing anything! I'm tired of you and mom always fighting!"

"Ames–"

"No, Dad," she says coldly.

"Would you like to tell me what Ricky is doing here at twelve o' clock?"

"Stop, George," Anne repeats.

I know George well enough to assume that he scowls at Anne now but then looks back at me. "I was beginning to trust you."

"Dad, stop! He didn't do anything," Amy yells, and I want to say something, but I can't make the words come out. Although I've been over here basically every day the last couple of weeks, I hadn't known until now that the fighting in Amy's family is actually this serious.

"Now you're taking up for Ricky?" he snaps at her, stamping down the hall. About ten seconds later the door slams shut, followed by a lot of muttering and yelling. I hear Ashley come out of her room and she yells at something to George, although he's outside and she's inside. As if he answers her, she yells something back again.

"I'm sorry," Anne says to Amy and me. I lean my head up, but only to look at Amy, concerned about the blank look on her face. "He isn't really mad at you–"

Anne stops mid-sentence when the kitchen door opens again, George obviously walking back inside, and he slams it, arguing with Ashley. Anne angrily parades into the kitchen after him, and then the whole house is filled with the loud, bitter fighting and shouting in the kitchen.

As I look at Amy, I know that today I won't have a chance to ask her. She's staring blankly ahead, her eyes dark and her face as white as a sheet.

Amy

My head is spinning, and everything is happening blurrily and dream-like as my parents holler at each other like two people ready to kill each other. I can hear Ashley trying to stop them from fighting, and she cries out loud to my dad, and although I can't understand their words, I know my dad is about to leave us.

The pressure beats in my head, the ticking on the clock above me suddenly sounding a lot more loud and significant. My heart pounds two hundred beats per minute, slamming into my chest and banging in my head.

A cold sweat breaks out onto my forehead, and I see Ricky standing over me, but my body has gone numb. "Are you okay, Amy?" I hear him ask me, but his voice sounds miles away. He grabs my arm and I disappear.


Tuesday, December 17, 1996

I'm standing on a black, empty street. To the right of me there is a store that looks like a drugstore or gas station, but other than that it's empty and desolate. I run up to the store and crouch down in one of the bushes beside it.

The sky is black, the stars twinkling brightly and the moon above me. It's nearly thirty degrees, but my forehead is sweating, and I have an awful feeling in the pit of my stomach. There is a car parked on the street beside the building, and inside there's a boy and a woman, and recognizing immediately, all I can do is tell myself not to cry.

Is this real? I don't know. Every time it feels as if it's a dream. And every time I have to tell myself that I'll get by, because that's all I can do. The world feels like it's crashing down suddenly, because a series of events occur simultaneously.

I look up at a man standing over me, in his late fifties or early sixties. He's holding a large piece of iron, and although I know at any moment he can crash it down on top of me and I'll be dead, I'm not afraid.

The hobo jingles a container in his other hand that isn't holding the iron, asking for money, but I shake my head. He holds the iron high above his head, and all I can do is stare at it. Then I rise to my feet, not because I know he's about to kill me, but because of what I see in the car and in the store.

The woman in the car just finished yelling at the boy, and he was crying, but then she looked concerned or almost sympathetic and gently said something to him. Now she's walking across the lot to the door in the drugstore. There's a man in there, and he's standing there motionless.

When she walks past me, closer to the store now, I can't clearly make out her figures, because she passes by in a ghost-like form, but all I can see is blackness from where I am. She's close enough that I can tell she has dark hair and isn't wearing that much, but she's so far that the darkness of the night swallows her.

And then the door makes a ding noise as she goes in. I wonder why it does that, because I can see that all the lights are turned off, meaning that obviously the store has been closed for a while, which means it's probably at least eleven o' clock.

I quickly flinch back when I realize what she's doing. She's going in there for money, by having sex, because she can't provide for her son any other way. And they're running away, I assume, because of the boy's father. And she took him with her and doesn't have any other way to provide for him.

It comes to me immediately, and I remember how she looked at her son. She was on the verge of tears but she was yelling. She wasn't yelling because she was mean; she was yelling because she was afraid. She didn't only do this because she's messed up; she did it because she had to.

Horrified and distracted, the guy doesn't hit me with the iron because he sees that I'm not even afraid. He just looks at me with the most confused look on his face. I see little Ricky, four or five years old, come out of the car, and he squeezes his eyes shut and folds his arms above his head.

I run off and walk into the middle of the street where the car is parked. Ricky is pacing near it, walking up and down the street. When he hears me approach, he stops about six or seven feet away from me and opens his eyes slowly, and I see that his eyes are blotched red with tears, as if he has been crying for a while.

He still holds his face and he rubs his eyes. I walk only an inch closer, and then I ask carefully, "What's wrong?

He furrows his eyebrows, wondering why I'm talking to him, but then he shrugs it off and decides that he can trust me. His voice is raspy and child-like. "You h-have to help me. I can't feel."

"You can't feel what?" I ask.

"Anything." He holds his face again and marches up and down the street, crying and squeezing his eyes shut. I already know what's happening. I run up to him and crouch down on my knees so I can reach his height.

"Listen to me," I say, gently shaking him. He opens his eyes, and the tears rapidly fall down his cheeks. "You can't stop it. There's nothing you can do. You're going to be fine, though. I can promise you that."

"How do you know?"

"Because. I'm from the future, Ricky. You are going to be okay."

"H-how do you know my name?"

"I told you. I know you in the future."

He doesn't listen to me. He falls to his knees and still cries, and then he disappears, and I disappear only a minute later.

Tuesday, January 18, 2011

(4 a.m.)

I appear in my room, and I hurry to my desk and pick up the note to look at it, underlining key words.

Amy, you were asleep so I didn't want to wake you. I won't stay long enough so I've just left you a note. I need you to call a number. I can't remember the number, but look it up. Look up Dr. Emerson. He's a geneticist, our doctor.

Convince him to meet you there in Los Angeles. He used to work in California so he will know how to get there. Go to his doctor's office, here in LA, and meet him there. You will later show up at 7:00.

Ricky said 'there' for Los Angeles, so he must not live here in the future. I, in the future, couldn't have come here and set the note on the table, because he said, "I won't stay here long enough," and, "I didn't want to wake you."

I think about it for a while, and I've come to a conclusion. Ricky started time traveling before me at four years old. Since I'm almost certain he wouldn't lie about it, I figure that he just forgot about it since it was so long ago. He was young and didn't know what was going on.

And for some reason, it happened to me just a year ago.

It happened to him and then me, which still doesn't make any sense to me. But I think about it for a while, considering every possible alternative, but I've finally decided on the only reasonable conclusion: Ricky is the time traveler.

A/N: I hope you liked it! Sorry if there were any mistakes; I haven't gotten much of a chance to look over it. Also, the ending probably doesn't make sense to you. It's not supposed to. :) Anyway, review!