Yesterday Is History Page 13

  “I was not,” she says. Hurt clouds her face. “I’m not that kind of person.”

  “I believe you.” Or, at the very least, I believe that she doesn’t think she’s that kind of person. But somehow, that truth rings false. Like when someone says they’re not racist, but their actions prove differently. “Then why did you do it? Give me the liver?”

  “Because you needed it.”

  “And also because you were hoping, like Blake said, to pass on the time-traveling gene.”

  “Those two things are not exclusive, nor do they need to be!”

  I sigh and stand. I pace, walking back and forth in front of the bookshelves, filled with memories and histories that Claire has probably lived firsthand.

  “You’re upset.”

  “I’m not.” At least, I don’t think I am.

  “Then betrayed? Hurt? Abused?”

  Do I feel betrayed? No. That’s not the word I’m looking for. Neither are the other ones. I don’t know this family well enough to feel those things. The emotional hooks of friendliness and found family haven’t sunk into my flesh yet. If anything, I feel…validated.

  Isobel was right. The lives of the rich are so far removed from our own that it’s like we don’t exist—or even coexist. We’re two parallel existences.

  I should just walk out the door, I think. It’s my liver. I don’t owe them anything. I don’t need to be here. Time travel or not; it’s my choice.

  Instinctively, I put my hand over my organ and feel the faint scar. It healed nicely, barely leaving a bump.

  See, Dad had said, examining it. That’s the type of surgeon you can be. You’ve experienced firsthand how important it is to be good—no, great—at what you do. You’ll never forget this, champ. Maybe, if there’s one good thing that came out of this cancer, it’s showing you how much good you can do as a doctor.

  Now those words make me sick to my stomach, like they’re rotten eggs just sitting in the pit of my bowels.

  I don’t want to be a doctor.

  I don’t want to be a surgeon.

  Right now, I don’t know what I want to be. But I do know that I just want to be Andre, and now, for the first time in a year, I feel like I have the chance to decide what and who I want to be. And I’m certainly not going to let this weird family have any say in it.

  My phone rings—loudly. The sound makes me and Claire jump. The ring is particular: shrill, loud, and unforgiving.

  “That’s my VIP ringtone,” I mutter, fishing out my phone. It can only be one of three people: Isobel, Dad, or…

  “My mom.”

  I stare at the picture, my mom’s angular face, dark brown skin, and Afro on display, her broad face smiling contagiously back at me. She has me pulled in close, though I’m half out of the frame. She loves this picture. It’s her contact photo for me too, with her face cropped out and mine in the center.

  “I need to take this.”

  I don’t wait for permission because I don’t need it. Slipping out and into the kitchen, I take a breath, mentally counting how many rings I have left before it goes to voice mail, and then I pick up.

  “Hey, Mom. I—”

  “Get home. Now.”

  What time is it? I pull my phone back to check—only 7:54. And it’s summer.

  “Is everything cool? I’m just out with—”

  “Andre Forrest Cobb, if you are about to lie to me right now about where you are, I swear to God I’m going to…”

  She pauses, and my breath hitches. Not out of fear, but because my parents have never had to punish me. Before cancer, I wasn’t a liar; I wasn’t a problem kid or someone who snuck off. The “Black people need to be ten times as good” talk was given to me early, and it rooted itself, like a watermelon seed in someone’s stomach, and grew. Work hard now, play hard later. I embodied that.

  This is new for both of us.

  “Just get home,” she says. “I know you’re not at Isobel’s. I called her.”

  “You’re checking up on me?”

  “Really?” I can hear the eyebrow raise in her voice. “You’re the one who lied, and you’re going to try to accuse me?”

  Her voice is begging me to challenge her if I dare, but I keep my mouth shut.

  “Be home in twenty minutes,” she orders.

  “It takes closer to thirty-five to get home from here.”

  “Then you better leave now.”

  And then the line goes dead, leaving me to stew in the vague dread of what will follow when I get home.

  Twenty

  According to my parents, a punishment worthy of lying to them is being grounded for two weeks.

  “Library and home, that’s it,” Mom had said the next morning. “You can leave your phone on the kitchen island while you’re working. The laptop must be used in the living room. If your father and I aren’t home? Then I guess you’ll need to get up early the following morning.”

  The tension in the house is palpable. We don’t know how to exist among one another. It’s like we’re three different planets, in three different orbits, trying to avoid colliding with one another.

  Being grounded is an awkward place to be. Mom and Dad try to keep things as usual. And I do my best to remember that this is my own doing.

  I lied.

  I broke their trust.

  I deserve this.

  But that doesn’t keep the disdain from growing like cancer deep within me. If they knew the whole story, maybe they’d understand. If they knew I could time travel, if they knew I had used that ability to meet a boy—a really awesome, smart, kind, funny boy—then maybe they’d get it. Because it’s not like I’m going to talk to the McIntyres anymore. This is just adding insult to injury.

  I’d only risk making my parents angrier for someone like Michael.

  But they can’t know that.

  It’s six o’clock in the evening, about eight days after my initial grounding, when there’s a knock at the door. Mom, Dad, and I are at the dinner table eating Chipotle, the takeout choice of the night, thanks to both of them working late and coming home not in the best of moods.

  Dad looks up first. “You expecting anyone?” he asks, posing the question to both of us but only looking at Mom. Ever since I lied, he’s been unable to hold eye contact with me. It’s like the break in trust is so great, so profound, that the wound will never heal, and he can’t look at me the same.

  It’s ridiculous. Dramatic. And not nearly as important a concern in my life as it used to be. It’s funny how things like being able to time travel will change your priorities.

  Mom shakes her head, halfway through a bite of her burrito. But no one moves. The knock repeats itself, this time harder, louder.

  “Don’t everyone rush at once. I’ll get it,” I muse, standing up.

  Mom mutters something under her breath; I’m sure it’s a shot across the bow. She’s been doing that ever since the argument. At least I’m smart enough to know that taking the bait will only end badly for me—probably a longer sentence of house arrest.

  And, frankly, I’m going stir-crazy.

  Clyde trots behind me, like the security guard that he is. The smell of whoever is at the door must be unfamiliar to him, which means it’s not Isobel. She’s already stopped by once, only to get rebuked at the door by Mom, the gatekeeper preventing entry.

  But at this point, any break of my mundane routine interests me, even if it’s just some salesman at the door or someone campaigning for the mayor.

  At least, that’s who I expect.

  But when I open the door, that’s not who’s there.

  “Hey,” Blake says.

  There’s no emotion behind it; it’s like a cold stone hitting me in the side of the head.

  But when Blake says it, in his deep baritone voice, it sends shivers down my spine, and
I swear my heart skips a beat, even if just for a fraction of a moment. Blake McIntyre is standing here, in a pair of jogging sweats and a light-colored T-shirt. In front of my house.

  “Hey. How did you…”

  He arches his brow.

  “Of course. Did your mom travel back in time or something?”

  He holds up his phone. “Not hard to find where someone lives if you are clever enough. Can we talk?”

  I want to reply with some quip, like how clever and Blake McIntyre aren’t two words that I would put together. But that feels like a shot below the belt, and considering that the last conversation we had wasn’t…great, I swallow those words down.

  “Sure. Move, Clyde.”

  Clyde nudges his way between my legs, sniffing the air. He stares at Blake, judging him, sizing him up, deciding whether to give him his seal of approval and whether he’s worthy of being in my presence.

  Blake glances down apprehensively. “Should I be worried?”

  “Clyde’s a big fluff ball, the definition of all bark and no bite,” I promise, patting his head. Clyde sniffs the air, moving half a foot closer to Blake and tentatively licking his leg. “See?”

  Slowly, Blake extends his hand to Clyde, who returns the act of trust with another lick.

  “I didn’t know you had a dog.”

  “You never asked,” I say truthfully.

  Blake opens his mouth and then closes it before opening it again, obviously picking other words to say. “That’s part of the reason that I’m here, actually,” he admits. “Can I come in?”

  My pulse quickens again. Even though I’m pissed at my parents, I’m not ashamed of them. Never have been and never will be. I’m not ashamed of anything about my life. But something about having Blake inside of my home? It feels wrong—feels…dirty. And I can’t fully explain why.

  “I’ll be quick, I promise.”

  “That’s not what’s…” I sigh. “I’m grounded.” I say it like it’s some dirty word, something I should be ashamed of admitting. Teens get grounded all the time. Isobel has been grounded at least a dozen times since I’ve known her. But being a “good kid” was a badge of honor for me. And now it’s gone. It’s something I’ll never get back. Maybe my parents’ validation means more to me than I thought.

  “Seriously?”

  I nod. “Two weeks.”

  “No friends? What’s the name of that girl I saw before?”

  “Isobel.”

  “Yeah, her. She’s not here?”

  I shake my head. “Only home and the library and back again.”

  “Well, then that’s perfect, since, as we’ve established, we’re not friends.”

  Before I can let him know that those semantics won’t matter to my parents, Blake pushes himself inside, walking quickly in his sneakered feet toward the sound of idle chitchat between my parents.

  “Hey! You…wait!”

  If there was any time for my pulse to race, now is the time. I close the door quickly behind me and gently tap Clyde’s rear, ushering him into the living room. “Stay.”

  “Blake,” I hiss, walking quickly behind him. My heart rate increases with each step. The space between the dining room and the hallway decreases with each second that passes.

  I have no idea what’s going to happen when Blake and my parents meet, but I know one thing: no good comes from two worlds colliding.

  “Mr. and Mrs. Cobb,” Blake says in a voice that sounds like silk. “Hi there, I don’t know if your son told you about me. I’m in his class at school. Advanced Trig.”

  “Calculus,” I say quickly, correcting him. “Blake was in Trig and switched to Calculus.”

  “That’s right,” he says, without missing a beat. “Calculus.”

  The slipup doesn’t faze Mom and Dad; they’re both already thrown off-balance thanks to Blake’s charm. Who just enters someone’s home? Who just barges in unannounced?

  A white male, that’s who.

  But Blake also carries himself with a certain charm, a charm that I guess no one is immune to. I wonder if he’s always had it. Does it come naturally to him? Did he have to learn it? Can you even learn charm? It seems like something you’re just born with.

  “Nice to see that Andre is making good friends,” Mom says. That’s a dig, but I let it go. “Not that I don’t like Andre making friends, but why…?”

  “Am I here? Good question,” Blake says, turning to me. “I’m surprised you didn’t tell them.”

  This is when I’m supposed to ad-lib and riff off him. I’ve seen it done dozens of times in TV shows.

  “I didn’t think I was allowed to have guests over,” I say slowly, still parsing through the words. “I’m grounded.”

  “Well, I think your parents would make an exception for a school project, right?” Blake asks, turning to them. “Am I right, Mr. and Mrs. Cobb? Education is more important than punitive action?”

  The air in the room is still, and I can’t breathe. I’m ready for them to kick him out right then and there, and for me to be in more trouble than I was before.

  “A project for an online class?” Mom asks. “An online math class?”

  Blake glances at me, his eyes saying so much more than his mouth ever could. I sigh. What’s one more lie going to hurt?

  “Yeah, we talked in the class chat and saw that we were in the same area, so we decided to work together. Blake here isn’t that great at math and…”

  “And considering that calculus is such an important skill for a doctor, you thought you’d help him?” she finishes for me.

  My stomach tightens along with my jaw and I nod. “Yeah. That.”

  Mom glances at both of us for a moment, searching for any scrap of a lie on our faces. She’s good at that, finding something to latch on to and exploiting it, making people cave and give her what she wants. Mom’s the type of person most people end up owing favors to.

  But, after almost five seconds, she relents.

  “I’ve never heard of a calculus project, but then again, schools are getting more and more competitive every day. Door open, but yes, you can work.”

  I hear the words leave her mouth, I even feel Blake walking up the stairs and pulling me along to follow, like he knows where my room is, but I can’t believe it. Even as my body takes the lead and closes the door behind him, I’m silent. Dumbfounded might be the right word, but I can’t form the right word.

  Until Blake speaks.

  “I know I shouldn’t be here, considering that we aren’t friends and all. But I wanted to say something, so just hear me out?”

  He doesn’t give me a chance to respond before he continues speaking. If he had, he’d have heard me say, Sure. Blake’s not the only one in the wrong here.

  “I was wrong.”

  “Again,” I add firmly.

  He nods. “Yeah, I was wrong again. To, you know, lash out at you. You were brought into this world without asking for it. It’s not your fault that my mom didn’t give you all the information. And I know my brother. He’d be happy that someone like you got his liver. He’d be happy that you have his liver. He’d like you. Hell, he’d probably be your friend.”

  I listen intently, picking up on every word. Individually, they make sense, but together? Is Blake McIntyre apologizing?

  I could reply with some quippy attack. But instead, I pull it back. No I told you so or anything similar. Instead, I opt for something else entirely: common ground.

  “I really appreciate that,” I say, which is honest. “Your brother would be proud of you too.”

  Blake laughs a throaty laugh that doesn’t sound entirely honest and sits on the edge of my bed. “Don’t flatter me, Andre. I don’t do well with flattery; I get cocky and brazen.”

  “I’m serious,” I say, sitting next to him. “Think about it. You’ve taught me, or a
re teaching me, how to time travel.”

  “I’m pretty sure you’re learning that on your own,” he notes. “You’re a natural, Andre. I’ve really only given you, what, one lesson?”

  “One and a half.”

  “See.” He nudges me. “I rest my case.”

  “Hey.” I squeeze his shoulder and let my hand linger a moment too long. “Even those one and a half lessons were important. In hindsight, maybe shoving me into the past—literally—wasn’t a horrible idea.”

  Blake’s green eyes settle on my hand, then slowly move up to my face. There’s something almost innocent in his eyes, like when a parent tells a child they are proud of them.

  “Point is,” I continue, “I wouldn’t be as good as I am without you taking the initiative to push me in the right direction. No pun intended.”

  “No one has ever said that to me before,” he mutters.

  “I find that hard to believe.”

  “No, seriously. It was always Dave who got the praise. Not that I’m complaining. He was better.”

  “And I find that even harder to believe.” Finally, I take my hand away, setting it awkwardly in my lap, the warmth of his shoulder burned like a birthmark on my palm. “Well, I didn’t know Dave, I only know you, and if I’m being honest, you’re pretty awesome, Blake.”

  No words leave his mouth, only a condescending snort.

  “I’m serious. The way your parents treated you was wrong. You were in the right to stand up to them. You’re the captain of your lacrosse team. You’re smart. I think you’re doing pretty well for yourself.”

  He sighs, pinching his nose, and looks up at the ceiling. His gaze lingers on the ceiling, and I see his mouth silently making words before he pulls his head back.

  He’s cute when he’s thinking, I think. Focused and driven in a way that makes his brows furrow and valleys appear on his forehead. It’s adorable, really.

  It’s comforting to see someone else do something that you do. It makes my shoulders relax; it focuses me. It makes me see him in a more human way. In this moment, he’s not Blake, the son of time travelers and one of the wealthiest families in Boston. He’s just Blake McIntyre, a teen like me who’s stumbling over his words.