M. Buehrlen - The 57 Lives of Alex Wayfare

THE DISCLAIMER

This is the way my story begins. Not with a bang but a whimper. Nothing more than a calm voice, a careful smile, and a pair of spectacles perched on the tip of a thin nose.

But don’t let that deter you. You’ll be happy to know a bang comes in the end.

Literally.

Along with a kiss, a promise, a death, a broken heart, and an end to life as you and I would have known it.

Because that’s the point everything changes. That’s the point I mess everything up and send this world spinning down an entirely new path. It’s the moment I look back and realize all the signs were there, lined up shoulder-to-shoulder from the very beginning, unblinking. It makes me wonder what might’ve been if I’d sought the truth about my visions earlier. If I hadn’t been so afraid of what they meant. If I hadn’t let my selfish anger get in the way. Maybe things would be better off now, in that alternate timeline. The one we’ll never get a chance to experience. The one I erased.

Porter doesn’t think so. At least he says he doesn’t, but something’s changed in his eyes. He looks at me differently now. He says I did nothing wrong. He says it over and over. That it was “meant to be.” I know what he really means is this: what’s done is done. You can’t change a Variant in time.

Which is true. You can’t. Not once you’ve created one. But Variants can change the future.

And trust me, sometimes that’s much worse.

THE INQUISITION

Dr Farrow sits across from me in a gray business suit. Her posture is impeccable. Her brassy hair is wrapped in a tight bun. A psychiatrist-issue notepad rests on her knees. The sun slants through the blinds of her huge corner office windows and draws lines of gold across the carpet. It traces shadows over my beat-up sneakers.

I expect Dr Farrow thinks I’m like all the other troubled teens who walk through her door. She probably assumes my “acting out” stems from problems at home or school. And if I wanted to, I could tell her what she wanted to hear. Make it easy for her. Blame it all on Mom and Dad, on being unpopular at school, on depression, whatever. Take your pick. But I promised myself I’d tell the truth this time, no matter what. There was a chance, however minuscule, that Dr Farrow could help me. Maybe she’d finally give me the answers I’ve been looking for. Maybe today, I’d find out what the visions meant.

So when she asks why I played a prank on my history teacher that ended up getting both of us suspended, I tell the truth.

It was supposed to be a joke. Something to embarrass him the way he embarrassed me in class all semester long. A little payback for the F on my recent essay. Only it got way out of hand. Before I knew it I was suspended for a week, Mr Lipscomb decided to take off the rest of the semester (the coward), and my parents made me an appointment with a shrink. And not just any shrink – a psychiatrist straight from one of the best AIDA clinics in Washington DC.

It was all so humiliating.

I tell Dr Farrow that my suspension never really sank in. It still feels like it didn’t happen.

She straightens her thin-rimmed spectacles and blots her coral lips together. “How did your teacher’s cell phone come into your possession in the first place?” She speaks slowly and calmly with no hint of judgment in her tone.

I shift on the oversized couch. The soft maroon leather squawks beneath my cords. AIDA’s founder, Durham Gesh, stares down at me from his portrait on the wall. “I’m the AV assistant at school. Mr Lipscomb scheduled to have a TV and DVD player set up for his next class, so I went to hook it up for him. It was his free period, so he wasn’t in the classroom. And his phone was just… sitting on his desk.”

“So you used your authority as AV assistant to tamper with a faculty member’s personal property?”

Putting it like that makes me feel even worse than I already do. I fight with my body to sit up straight, but all it wants to do is shrink down, turn to liquid, and seep into the couch cushions.

Dr Farrow exhales through her nose with a slight whistle. “Do you mind telling me how you did it?”

I prop my ankle on my knee and finger a loose flap of rubber on the heel of my battered sneaker. “I swapped the phone’s vibrator motor with a more powerful one. One that would sting if he had it in his pocket. Then I wired it so once it started vibrating, it wouldn’t stop.”

“And the explicit rap song ringtone?”

I don’t mean to, I truly don’t, but the corner of my mouth twitches as I try to suppress a grin. Dr Farrow notices right away.

“Do you still find what you did amusing?”

“No.” The urge to grin vanishes. I push my glasses up the bridge of my nose – the black-framed nerdy ones I’ve worn since I was six. “I just find it ironic. That song was already on his phone. I just set it to the ringtone. I wanted everyone to see the kind of person he really is.”

“So that’s why you chose to call his phone during an assembly, while he was at the podium addressing the entire school?”

The scene plays out in my head, as fast as a camera flash.

THE PRANK

I’m in the gym, watching from the top of the bleachers under a string of blue and gold school pennants as Mr Lipscomb steps up to the podium at the center of the basketball court. He’s so short he has to stand on a box to reach the microphone. He adjusts his shirt collar – not because it’s uneven, but because he always does that when he’s about to say something superior – and begins talking about how the mock trial team (his mock trial team) won state last year, and they plan on doing it again this year.

His lips are spread wide. His teeth glisten. His words are coated with supremacy. I crush my cell phone in my hand, remembering how he’d humiliated me the day before.

He’d held up my essay on early American colonies in front of the whole class. The red F in the top corner glared down at me. Several kids laughed. “Been reading too many sparkly vampire novels, Miss Wayfare?”

I honestly had no idea what he meant by that. I never read fiction, and I was too incensed by the F to try to decipher his insult. It was the fourth F he’d given me already that year, and it was only October.

“Watching too many werewolf and zombie movies?” he added.

I shook my head, totally confused.

“No? So you decided to make up something as absurd as cannibalism in Jamestown just to see if I was paying attention?”

Half the class turned in their seats to laugh and stare at me. Tabitha, the girl who’s hated me since kindergarten (for reasons unknown, I swear), made a cough into her hand that sounded remarkably like, “Freak.”

I don’t think I’d ever gone so red in the face. I was livid. “I didn’t make it up,” I told Mr Lipscomb. “There are eyewitness accounts. I can show you.”

He walked down the aisle and dropped my essay on my desk. “Fiction.” He said it like it was a dirty word. “Next time, stick to the textbook.”

“The textbook is wrong,” I mumbled, gripping the edges of my paper in both fists. Just because he’d never heard of the cannibalism cases in Jamestown didn’t mean they weren’t true.

He made his way back to the front of the class and directed everyone to form groups for midterm projects. Everyone except me. With a smirk he said, “Alex, you can work on your own this time. You can jeopardize your grades all you want, but I won’t have you bringing the others down with you. Unlike you, they aspire to graduate.”