K Breese - Future Imperfect

“Okay,” I say.

Vauxhall jumps. Giggles so sweetly I can’t help but break out grinning.

“We’ll leave tomorrow, after school,” Jimi says.

And I think it’s funny that these two actually care about going to school.

“What do you have in mind?” I ask.

Jimi says, “Really, I only have two modes: vengeance and party. And, in a twisted way, I think one just leads to the other. It’s party time.”

Professor Susan Graham

Department of Experimental Physics

University of Colorado, Boulder

Professor Graham,

A family friend of mine, Dr. Reginald Borgo, suggested I get in touch with you about a certain school project I’m working on. I’m a junior at Mantlo in Denver, so it’s nothing major. Not a dissertation or anything! (I’ll admit it’s an attempt to salvage my grade, but it’s a long, ugly story.)

Anyway, this thing I’m doing (a “thought experiment”) is about seeing the future. I realize that’s such an old sci-fi movie deal, and probably a standard for Physics 101, but I’m really trying to add a few new wrinkles to the idea and wonder if you might be able to help me flesh some of them out better.

Dr. Borgo suggested I just lay out the hypothetical, so here’s the gist: I’ve got this “subject” who can see the future, only he/she can only see it when he/she is unconscious. The future the subject sees can be way off in the future or very near-this depends on a kind of focusing, but is not really important. Let’s say that our subject, when he/she looks out into the distant future, sees only good stuff. I mean, he/she sees himself/herself living a very normal, enjoyable life totally devoid of brain damage (from repeated concussions (the whole knocking-out thing) and having succeeded in his/her work despite not being a very good student (getting kicked out of school three times, suspended on a monthly basis, etc). Oh, and the future can’t be changed. What he sees happens. Always. So, that’s the “thought experiment.”

I’ve got three guesses on how the future winds up so cheery:

1. He/she isn’t really seeing the future (though this is frequently contradicted by those times when he/she sees the near future and it comes true, down to the letter).

2. He/she is really seeing the future and everything just worked out right for the subject-e.g., the whole “concussions are really terrible for you over the long run” thing was exaggerated. Also, that school-at least high school-isn’t as necessary as everyone seems to think. College too.

3. He/she is really seeing the future only something big happened to change it. Like divine intervention.

What do you think? Am I missing some variables here?

Sorry for the long letter and thanks again, in advance, for you help.

Sincerely,

Ade Patience

What I am is dead tired.

Dead. Tired.

The good thing about having a mom who only thinks about the future you, the one she knows will be successful, is that the you right now isn’t nearly as important. The me right now is almost extraneous. According to the future I’ve seen, not getting good grades isn’t such a big thing. Not having perfect attendance is par for the course.

I’m literally lying on a desk when Paige finds me.

Not lying there with my head on the desk. My head cradled in my arms. No, I’m lying on my back, my eyes shut, and I’m pretty sure I’m snoring something gnarly when Paige shakes me awake.

I sit up groggy and first thing I notice is everyone else is gone. Fourth period, speech, and the classroom is now empty. I missed the whole thing. Whatever it was we were discussing.

“Time is it?” I ask, trying to get a crick out of my neck.

Paige just shakes her head at me.

“Seriously, though. Is school over or…?”

“You only missed lunch.”

I swing my feet over the edge of the table, stretch. “What’s funny,” I say, “is that I don’t think I’ve been this delirious after a concussion. This is like, it’s like being the most wasted ever.”

My best friend, head still shaking, she tells me I’m pathetic. She tells me that if I was a true friend I would consider limiting myself to just the concussion. She says, “Real friends, they don’t keep adding on damage. Real friends know where to quit.”

“Did I mention the thing about Vauxhall and… you know?”

“Yes. Several times already. Makes perfect sense.”

“Of course it does.”

“Both of you’re junkies.”

To this I just give her a hug and ask her to help me to the bathroom.

Why I’m so dead tired is because I haven’t slept in days.

That’s actually not quite accurate, I did get about three hours of sleep on Sunday but that was post-concussion, so I’m not actually sure it counts as sleep. It was more like just plain unconsciousness. And a good ten hours or so was spent in a daze. Not sure if a daze counts as sleeping.

My arm over Paige’s shoulder, my feet scuffing, dragging, I tell Paige that she can think of this as an experiment. I tell her that, really, it’s one of those experiments where everyone involved is blinded to what’s actually happening. I say, “And I think I’m close to a breakthrough here.”

“Breakthrough, huh?”

“Yeah. You see it’s like that game Mouse Trap.”

“The one with the little plastic mice?”

“Right. And the whole trick of it is to set up this complicated trap and catch the little plastic mice… no, wait, maybe the trick is to not get caught…”

“Anyway…”

“Well, whatever it is, this is like it. Except the mice are me and Vauxhall and Jimi and you are somewhere in there too. No, I’m the trap and Vauxhall is that… What the hell am I talking about?”

Pretty much, it’s been the Me, Vauxhall, and Jimi Show. The past three days have seen us doing just about everything together from eating to sleeping and I’d be lying if I didn’t say it was incredible. The parts I can remember, well, they were incredible for sure.

It began last Friday, after school, when Jimi ambushed me in the parking lot. He drove up beside me in his neighbor’s car, the way you see it happening in movies, me walking quickly, the wheels of his tires turning slowly, and he rolled his window down and waved me over. I went. Vauxhall was sitting in the backseat reading a paperback book. Jimi told me to get in. He told me to get in fast and not to think about it. He said, “Thinking about things kills them.”

I got in. He sped up and out of the lot and we were off.

Halfway to Boulder, on 36, I asked him where we were headed. I’m not sure why I waited so long to ask. He smiled and said, “We’ve got many things planned for you, grasshopper.”

We didn’t actually make it to Boulder but stopped in Louisville at a guy named Roger’s house. Really it was his parents’ house and it was massive. One of those McMansions that spring up outside of the city, the kind that look so new and sterile you can’t imagine anyone really living in them. They’re like big, empty waiting rooms. Waiting rooms in fields, in cul-de-sacs, below mountains. At Roger’s there was a party. Enough booze for a cruise ship full of people but less than a hundred of us there. We ate hot links and greasy chips. There was a keg. There was pot. I woke up on the couch in Roger’s basement to find the moon nearly down and stumbled upstairs to find the house empty. Everyone was on the lawn shooting off fireworks and I pulled myself over to a lawn chair, slumped down into it, and watched Vauxhall move, talk, laugh, drink, in the kaleidoscope carnival light. Someone walked over to me and punched me in the shoulder, said, “You dog, you. What’s her name?”