Yesterday Is History Read online

  “Is that what you boys in the future say? Science would beg to differ.”

  “Gayness being a disease isn’t a scientific law, it’s a theory,” I remind him. “And theories can be proven wrong. I promise you, it gets better.”

  “Oh, I know it gets better. Just not here.” He gestures around him. “Somewhere else… Somewhere like…”

  “San Francisco?”

  He laughs. “You think I’d want to go there? Why? Because I’m gay?”

  “Is that such a bad reason? To go someplace where you’d be accepted?”

  The history of society’s treatment of gay people isn’t something obscure. It sucked—that’s how it can be summarized. My time, the twenty-first century, is the best time to be gay so far. But Michael doesn’t know that because what he’s living is all he knows.

  A pang of guilt ripples through me. Is suggesting that he move breaking a rule? Am I using personal knowledge, knowledge that I’ve learned thanks to the hindsight of historians in my time period, in a way that violates one of the time travelers’ creeds?

  But, on the flip side, I’m doing it to help someone. That has to factor in, right?

  I hold on to that and focus back on Michael.

  “Plus, California is warmer.”

  “I don’t want warmer,” he objects. “I like Boston. I like that I know this city, that I know the people. The good, the bad, the ugly. It’s all part of me.”

  “Well, how about New York? They say it’s like Boston, just…”

  “Dirtier?” he asks. “More expensive?”

  “New York is more than that, and you wouldn’t know if you didn’t try. Staying somewhere just because you think it’s what you’re supposed to do or—”

  “My parents kicked me out of the house, Dre.”

  Michael’s interruption cuts deep, like a heated knife passing through flesh. It’s a story as old as time, the gay kid kicked out of his house because his parents can’t handle him being who he is.

  Michael isn’t ashamed; or at least, he doesn’t show it. He holds his head up high. He leads us toward the Franklin Park Zoo, which isn’t far. Signs cheerfully guide us toward our fauna adventure.

  “That seems to me like even more of a reason for you to leave.”

  He shakes his head. “And let them win? No. Not a chance. I’ve built a life here; I’ve found a passion here, I have a family—a found family—here. I’m not leaving. And besides…”

  But he doesn’t finish, and even after I give him twenty seconds to continue, he still stays quiet.

  “Besides what, Michael?”

  “It’s dumb.”

  “I should be the one to determine if it’s dumb or not,” I tease. “Come on, humor me. I traveled through time and space to see you.”

  “I didn’t ask for that, you know.”

  “Yeah, but you’d miss me if I didn’t.”

  “I know, I would,” he says without hesitation. “Which is why I’m not sure I can leave. Or should leave. Because, if I do, who’s to say you’ll be able to find me again?”

  The richness in Michael’s words makes my own chest feel tight. There’s no subtext, no lies, no misdirection. Just pure, simple honesty. This isn’t some AP exam or SAT practice test. He really thinks that.

  “You mean it, don’t you?” I ask, though it’s more of a statement.

  Michael shrugs. “I don’t want to break this connection that we have. I feel like we must have been meant to find each other. I don’t want to throw away what the universe gave us. Is that so hard to believe?”

  “No, not at all. It’s just…”

  Michael stops me, grabs my shoulders again, and forces me to look at him. His cheeks are rosy, and his breath is coming out in heavy white puffs. His nose is redder than the rest of his face, and his blue eyes look watery.

  “Then let me be clear, Andre. I like you. I like you a lot, and I would rather stay here and spend two hours with you, wandering around a city, than a whole lifetime doing normal things that people expect of me. Normal is overrated, anyway.”

  This is it, I think. This is what people talk about in movies, in TV shows, in songs and books. That pit in your stomach that feels like a never-ending drop. That weightlessness that makes you dizzy but also makes you feel complete.

  Hearing Michael say those words makes me feel all of those things at once.

  Hearing Michael say those words confirms for me what I’ve been feeling this whole time.

  That I feel the same.

  “I…”

  The air leaves my lungs. The earth swirls and rushes around me. Cold becomes warm. City streets become cherry wood floors. Outside becomes inside.

  I hear music. Not the symphony of the city, but an Arctic Monkeys song playing in the room.

  My head spins. Did I jump back on my own, or did something pull me back?

  I steady myself by grabbing the couch, and Blake barely looks up. He’s sitting on the couch, casually, both legs propped up on the table in front of him, holding a copy of Sports Illustrated—that damn smug smile on his face.

  I feel a rush of emotions. Most of all, I’m upset that I left Michael at that moment, right when we were getting somewhere—although it scares me that I could have so much influence on his life.

  But I also feel anger. Anger at how Blake forced me to jump. Anger because he doesn’t seem to care what he just did.

  “Okay,” he says. “I can see you’re mad.”

  “Oh, you picked up on that?” I growl, taking a step forward.

  He stands up and takes a step back. “I should remind you, though, that I did what I did to prove a point.”

  “And what point is that?”

  “Where did you go?” he asks.

  “Does that matter? You forced me to jump, Blake!”

  “I knew where you’d end up!”

  “You knew or you hoped you knew?”

  He opens his mouth, but no words come out. Quickly, he shuts his lips and his angled jaw makes them form a thin line.

  “I was testing the tether theory,” he argues, like that makes it better.

  “What if I hadn’t ended up next to Michael? There are plenty of places I could have gone that would have been very not cool for me. The nineteenth century! The early twentieth century! ANYTIME in the past for Black people!”

  “You would have found your way back.”

  Anger turns white hot inside of me. I’ve never really understood what seeing red means. I’m not fully sure I do now. Because right now? I’m seeing white spots in front of my eyes.

  “And what if I didn’t? You’re assuming that I would have, but it’s pretty obvious that I don’t know how to control it! I jumped because I was startled, and I jumped back because I was surprised!”

  Was that even the right emotion? Doesn’t matter.

  “The point is,” I continue, my voice shaking. “You…you…just assumed that you know what’s best! And you know what? Maybe I have the wrong brother teaching me!”

  The words come out of my mouth like venom, and I know, once I say them, that they were the wrong words. Not only because of the way Blake’s eyes widen and then sharpen but also because of the bitterness they leave in my mouth, like I imagine cyanide would taste.

  Some words are poison, and when you speak them, they might kill your target—and you along with it. Bringing up his dead brother like that, when I have his organ? That was a low blow.

  “Get. Out,” he says, punctuating each word like a sentence. “I mean it. Get out.”

  Part of me wants to apologize. I should apologize; that would be the right thing to do. But the stubborn part of me doesn’t want to let him off the hook that easily. He doesn’t get a pass. If he hadn’t shoved me…

  “I said get the hell out!”

  I don’t say anything.
The rapid pulsing of my heart is enough to kick my body into high gear. I turn, walk out quickly, and slam the door behind me.

  Thirteen

  8:15 a.m.

  ONE MISSED CALL: BLAKE MCINTYRE

  9:15 a.m.

  ONE MISSED CALL: BLAKE MCINTYRE

  11:56 a.m.

  ONE MISSED CALL: BLAKE MCINTYRE

  It’s been four days since my blowup with Blake, and in the past ninety-six hours, I’ve gotten nine calls and two voicemails from him. I’m not sure if that’s something I should be proud of.

  “You totally should be proud of it,” Isobel had said during my self-imposed lunch break at the library. She drove halfway across town to meet me and bring me my favorite—a Philly cheesesteak.

  Who said platonic love isn’t as valuable as romantic love?

  “I mean, come on,” she scolded. “You have a boy from one of the most powerful families in Boston calling you. That means something.”

  After our first interaction with Mrs. McIntyre, Isobel did her research. The McIntyres are a big philanthropic family, giving money to the symphony, education reform, mayoral campaigns, plenty of other political campaigns, and of course, medical research.

  Mrs. McIntyre, at least on paper, is the one who has the money. She’s from one of those old-money Boston families who came over on the Mayflower or something. Professionally, she’s no slouch. She’s a partner at McIntyre, Weston, and Grant, the best law firm in Massachusetts, one of the top three law firms on the East Coast, and one of the top five in the country.

  Mr. McIntyre is no slouch either. Though not a power lawyer like his wife, he holds two PhDs, one in physics and one in biology. Rumor has it he was long-listed for a Noble Prize three years ago for his research regarding how time affects living organisms. Which, honestly, fits.

  “You sure you don’t want to know about the boys?” she asked. “I found some good dirt that you can use to your advantage. Knowledge is power, you know.”

  “I already put my foot in my mouth once. I don’t need to do it again,” I said and hugged her, promising to call her after my classes so we could hang out.

  But instead of calling Isobel at four o’clock, all I can think about are the missed calls and voicemails from Blake. They’re staring at me—taunting me—begging me to react.

  “I should just delete them,” I mutter, getting in my car and putting my book bag in the passenger seat. I have three classes worth of homework to do. I’m taking three yearlong classes crammed into six weeks. I don’t have time to focus on anything else. Not Blake. Not time travel. Not Michael.

  If I want to have any hope of graduating on time, of continuing my life and being me, this needs to be my priority.

  Isn’t that why I did all this? Why I fought so hard to survive? So I could have a normal life, or at least the chance at one.

  Being a time traveler isn’t normal.

  Being associated with the richest, most powerful family in Boston isn’t normal.

  Traveling into the past to date someone isn’t normal.

  And yet, with all that truth staring me in the face, I still press Call Back on my phone.

  Ring.

  Maybe I should hang up.

  Ring. Ring.

  The truth is, our argument? It wasn’t completely his fault. Ignoring him is passive-aggressive, and I know this. But that doesn’t stop me from feeling—white-hot rage. It’s the way he turned the tables on me; he pushed me into the past, and then, somehow, he makes it about him and how I was wrong?

  Ring. Ring. Ring.

  I should hang up. I shouldn’t give him a second chance. I should tell Claire that I want her to teach me how—

  “Andre?”

  Blake’s deep voice catches me off guard. There’s a hint of discomfort in it, too, an upward inflection that makes him seem softer, less in control than usual.

  “You there?” he asks.

  “Yeah. Hey,” I say, after a beat.

  “Hey.”

  The clouds are turning a darker gray more quickly than I expected. Soft droplets of rain pat against my windshield. It’s going to get humid quickly. And my car doesn’t have AC. Great.

  Who should speak first? Should it be me?

  He did reach out first. He made the first move by calling. The ball’s technically in my court.

  Screw it.

  “Look, I’m—”

  “I’m—”

  We both speak at the same time, then we both fall quiet at the same time too.

  “You go first,” he says.

  “No, you,” I suggest. “When I lead a conversation, it tends to go off the rails.”

  A soft chuckle comes out of Blake’s mouth. Finally, after seconds passing, he speaks.

  “Can you come over? Just for a little bit? I want to apologize.”

  I pull my phone away from my face to check the time—4:15. Mom and Dad will be home around 6:00. It’ll take twenty minutes to get to Blake’s. I can stay for an hour, and then head home. Make up some excuse about how I was studying or hanging out with Isobel, who’ll cover for—

  Shit. Isobel.

  I promised I’d hang with her today. We’ve barely hung out at all since I got back from the hospital, except for the time we went to visit Blake’s house, and that could barely be classified as a hangout session. I promised her, and knowing Izzy, she probably has a whole evening planned.

  But this is more important. I’d be a fool to think, even for a moment, that I could just let the world of time travel and all its possibilities slip through my fingers.

  “Andre?” Blake asks again.

  “Heading your way now.”

  I hang up without another word and send a quick text to Izzy, then throw my phone onto the seat next to me. As I drive, it vibrates, and I know exactly what her reply is going to say.

  Fourteen

  When I arrive at Blake’s house and let him know I’m there, he sends a text back before I can get out of the car.

  Door’s open. Come on up the stairs. First door on the right.

  “Not ominous at all,” I mutter. Sure enough, the door is unlocked, and the house looks exactly how it did four days ago. Everything perfectly in its place. Devoid of any sort of real warmth. More like a mausoleum than a house.

  I take the steps two at a time and follow Blake’s instructions. Sure enough, he’s sitting there in his room, and music is playing from his stereo.

  “Cardinal Planes?” I ask, pointing to the system.

  He nods, looking down at a photo that he’s holding in his hand. I can’t make out what’s inside the wooden frame, but I can guess.

  “Dave took me to see them when I was fifteen. Mom and Dad were more focused on me passing algebra, but Dave argued that it was important to have fun and let loose every once in a while. He drove down from Harvard at eight o’clock one night when Mom and Dad were working late, picked me up, and took me to the concert.”

  “Their first Boston concert? I heard it was a once-in-a-lifetime show.”

  The corner of his cheek rises in a grin. “Yeah, it was.” Blake gently puts the photograph down and stands, dressed in a pair of joggers and a well-fitted T-shirt. He rocks back and forth on his heels, hands shoved into his pockets. He looks smaller than me, even though that’s not the case. Blake’s easily three inches taller.

  He breathes out, speaking his whole sentence like one word. “I shouldn’t have pushed you like I did, just to test you. Especially before you were ready.”

  “And?”

  “And that was…a shitty thing to do?”

  I want to reply with something sarcastic. No shit, perhaps. But I bite my tongue.

  “You suck at saying sorry, you know,” I say, keeping my voice light so he won’t take it too personally. “Didn’t your parents ever teach you the components of a
good apology?”

  Before he can answer, I bridge the space between us and push him back so that his knees buckle and he sits back down in his chair.

  “An apology has three parts—” I begin.

  “You’re serious?” Blake asks. “Oh my God, you are serious.”

  “The first: I’m sorry. The second: what you are sorry for. And finally: how you are going to do better next time. So let’s try that again.”

  Blake narrows his eyes, studying me for any cracks that he can exploit. But he won’t find any.

  “I’m serious,” I urge. “This will help you in the long run. Help you be a better person. You’re teaching me time travel; I’m teaching you basic life manners. Call it payment in kind.”

  “You still want to work with me?”

  “Should I not?” Now I’m thinking I shouldn’t.

  But before either of us can speak, the front door opens.

  “Blake?” Claire calls. “I know you’re here! I saw your car. Is that Andre’s I saw too?”

  Blake and I look at each other, his surprised expression mirroring my own. He gestures silently to me— Talk.

  “Yeah,” I choke out. “Mrs. McIntyre, it’s me.”

  “Good! Are you free to stay for dinner? I insist! Come down and help me, will you?”

  She doesn’t ask again or wait for me to confirm. Instead, I hear the soft sounds of jazz music flow through the speakers in the house.

  “Who is this?” I ask. “Playing?”

  “Juju by Wayne Shorter, I think,” Blake answers. “One of my dad’s favorite composers. Why, you into jazz?”

  A smile creeps onto my face that I do my best to hide. I shake my head and leave, heading down the stairs two at a time.

  * * *

  I hurry down the stairs and follow the sound of running water, the sweet smell of burning butter, and the heat that breaks through the blanket of chill that the AC provides. In the kitchen, Claire is leaning over the counter and reading a recipe, her brow furrowed.

  “How are you with cooking?” she asks without looking up.

  “Decent. I can make a mean set of waffles and eggs.”