Pivot Point (Pivot Point #1)(5)

I shrugged my shoulders. “A month maybe. Six weeks?”

“How long will that take?”

“Five minutes. I don’t know.” The energies I focused on just seamlessly blended into my mind. It was sort of like a stream joining a river—instant “memories” of the two paths I could take. When it was over, it felt like I had already taken both paths. That’s why I didn’t like to do it too often, because it felt so real that it was hard to separate the would-have from the would.

“Do you think six weeks is enough?” My parents’ surprise announcement was making me second-guess everything. I usually knew exactly what needed to happen and exactly what I would do to make it happen. Not because I Searched everything—I didn’t—but because I liked to have a plan. Plans were good. But now I didn’t know. I was confused and frustrated. I pressed my palms to my eyes.

“It should be plenty.”

I let my shoulders rise and fall with a deep sigh.

Laila, always ready and willing to do just about anything, said, “Well, what are you waiting for?”

“You want me to do it now?”

“I think it would make you feel better.”

I grabbed a pillow, pulled it against my chest, and lay down. On the ceiling above me, in black scrolling print, was the Aristophanes quote I had painted there: “By words the mind is winged.” For some reason it stood out among all the other quotes that loomed above me. “I don’t know. Six weeks is a long time. I’d hate to have so many detailed memories floating around up there.”

“Why? That week leading up to homecoming was pretty awesome. I liked knowing that the heel of my red shoes was going to break on Wednesday after third period and that there would be a pop quiz on Friday.”

“Since I live to serve you, why don’t I just Search every day from now to death?”

“Seriously, why don’t you?” She smacked my leg. “Are you waiting for me to offer, or are you just being ridiculous? You know I can Erase whichever path you don’t choose, so you don’t have to fake it. Sometimes I wonder if you just picked me as your best friend because of my awesome ability.”

“Whatever. Your ability didn’t even Present until the seventh grade.” I paused, then tilted my head. “So wait, are you saying I use your ability a lot?”

“I’m not telling,” she sang. “And it’s true. You didn’t pick me for my ability. You picked me because I shoved Timothy after he stole your virtual pet.”

I smiled, then took a deep breath. I was avoiding the choice, still not sure if I wanted to know, if I was ready to know what my new life would look like. My parents admitted that the only reason they had left the decision up to me was because of my ability. And why wouldn’t I want to know for sure which choice would turn out better?

“Are you ready?” she asked.

I nodded. I had to know.

“So what do I do? Just sit here? Do you need something?”

I laughed. “No, I’m fine. It might take awhile. Are you sure you want to wait?”

“Please, that’s like asking someone if they want to leave the room while Picasso paints a masterpiece.”

“You’re comparing me to Picasso?”

“You know what I’m saying. Now start.”

I settled deeper into the pillow and tried to relax. It was hard when I knew I was about to be flooded with memories of a life I hadn’t lived yet. Really, two lives I hadn’t lived yet. It would only seem like five minutes to Laila, but to me it would feel like a month. I concentrated on the energies around me, and everything went hazy.





CHAPTER 3


PAR?A?digm: n. something that serves as a pattern or model





“Aren’t kids of divorced parents supposed to get whatever they want due to the extreme guilt of both parties?” I ask at breakfast a week after my dad left. The house feels different without him … empty.

“You’re not getting a new car,” my mom says from where she sits at the kitchen table behind her laptop. A pen holds her blond curls in a loose bun at the nape of her neck, and she grabs it to jot something on the notepad beside her. The action sends her hair down over her shoulders and reminds me of how similar it is to mine. Just when I think she’s forgotten we were talking, like she often does, she adds, “Your car runs just fine.”

“I’m not asking for a new car. Just a different one. Mine barely runs. Have you heard the latest noise? It’s kind of like a knock-clank-knock sound.”

“Talk to your father about it.”

I scoop a spoonful of milk-engorged bran flakes and then watch them slide slowly off my spoon. “Oh good, at least we’re not going to skip the pass-the-problems-to-the-other-parent part of divorce. I knew you wouldn’t let me miss out on at least some fun.” I know I’m being a brat, but I can’t help it. Like a bad cold, every negative feeling or complaint I’ve ever had about my mom has decided to accumulate in my chest.

For the first time since the conversation started, she looks at me. “Addie, knock it off. I just meant that your father is better at knowing what weird car noises mean.”

I stand, stick my bowl in the sink, and swipe my backpack from off the floor. “Well, I would ask Dad, but I don’t think my car would make it the five hours to his house.”