Future Flash Read online

  Copyright © 2014 by Kita Helmetag Murdock

  All Rights Reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any manner without the express written consent of the publisher, except in the case of brief excerpts in critical reviews or articles. All inquiries should be addressed to Sky Pony Press, 307 West 36th Street, 11th Floor, New York, NY 10018.

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  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Murdock, Kita Helmetag.

  Future flash / Kita Helmetag Murdock.

  pages cm

  Summary: “Laney can see people’s futures when she touches them and has vowed to try to save a new classmate from a fire that is sure to claim his life—and hers”— Provided by publisher.

  ISBN 978-1-62873-822-3 (hardback)

  [1. Identity—Fiction. 2. Single-parent families—Fiction. 3. Friendship—Fiction. 4. Clairvoyance—Fiction. 5. Bullies—Fiction. 6. Schools—Fiction.] I. Title.

  PZ7.H94197Fut 2014

  [Fic]—dc23

  2013043263

  ISBN: 978-1-62873-822-3

  Ebook ISBN: 978-1-62873-953-4

  Printed in the United States of America

  Cover design by Danielle Ceccolini

  For Toby

  Chapter One

  MY FIRST MEMORY IS OF THE COLD. I WAS strapped into my car seat, but whatever car I’d arrived in had long since taken off. I don’t remember the car or who was in it, just the car seat, rocking back and forth on the stoop. The sky was dark, the road empty, and the concrete front stoop was cracked and icy. I was barely a year old and alone in the world.

  Walt doesn’t know that I can remember that far back. But I do remember. I remember the scratchy pink blanket and how it hadn’t kept me warm even before I kicked it off and out of reach. And I remember Walt, only I didn’t know his name yet, walking up the sidewalk and standing in front of me, his breath making puffy white clouds in the air.

  “What on earth?” he asked. He looked around but saw that same empty road I’d seen. He stared at me for a minute, shaking his head. Then he picked up a yellow envelope from the stoop and tore it open with his thumb. He pulled out a matching yellow sheet of paper and his face crumpled as he read it. He sank down next to me, facing the road. He held his head in his hands, and I could hear him each time he exhaled, blowing out the cold night air with force, as if to rid it from his body.

  When he finally stood, his eyes were red, and he stuffed the envelope and paper in the pocket of his navy blue parka with shaky hands. He considered me for a while, adjusting his baseball cap a few times as if maybe that would solve something. Then he took his parka off and placed it over me.

  As soon as his warm hand touched my arm, I closed my eyes and saw an image of the future flash before me. It was the first time I can remember that happening, which is probably why I remember the day on the stoop so well. There is a certain clarity to the present on the days when I see the future—the days when I have what I’ve come to call a future flash. It was a quick image and, though it would happen eleven years in the future, it was as clear as the stars above me. I saw Walt and me, sitting at a kitchen table together, drinking coffee and hot chocolate and eating muffins. I knew right then that I didn’t have to worry about being left out in the cold anymore, and I giggled with relief. Walt looked down at me and smiled. When I didn’t stop, he started laughing, too. Then he brought me into his green wooden house. The house I now call home. We’ve never talked about that night or how I know that he found me on a stoop and that he’s not really my dad.

  I mention this today because this morning Walt and I are eating some of Carmen’s blueberry muffins and drinking coffee and hot chocolate at the kitchen table and everything, down to the stain on the left sleeve of my black hoodie to the crumb of muffin on Walt’s chin, looks exactly as it had when I saw it all those years ago. That’s how I know something important is going to happen. Whenever I experience one of my future flashes, it means I’m going to have an interesting day.

  Of course, at the moment Walt is making the morning as boring as possible by drilling me on fraction problems at breakfast.

  “You know this one, Laney,” he says, giving me an encouraging smile. But I’ve been thinking about car seats and cold nights and have no idea what he asked.

  “Don’t worry, Walt. I studied this time,” I reply, gulping down the end of my hot chocolate before slinging my backpack over my shoulder. I lean over to brush the muffin off his chin and kiss his scratchy cheek. “Just wish me luck!”

  “You don’t need luck, Laney. It’s all up here,” he replies, tousling my hair.

  I tug at a piece of my short ink-black hair. “Really? Math is in here?”

  “Ha-ha. Get to school or you’ll miss the test.”

  Chapter Two

  IF I CUT THROUGH THE FIELDS AND FARMLAND behind our house, the walk to school should take fifteen minutes, but I always end up stopping at Tabitha’s along the way. She has dozens of cats, all females, and they lounge on her back porch in the sun like ladies by a pool, only moving to roll over and stretch from time to time. On an early fall day like today, Tabitha’s usually out there too, watering some of her plants, with at least one cat twirling around the mismatched socks on her feet.

  “Good morning, Laney!” she calls out, her purple glasses flashing in the sun. “Come sit and have some tea with me and the girls!” Tabitha can’t remember that I need to go to school, even though I tell her every time I stop by her house. I pause next to her porch to scratch a skinny gray-and-white-striped cat with a crooked tail.

  “Is this one new?” I ask her.

  “Got her at the shelter yesterday,” Tabitha says, brushing back a wisp of her long blue-gray hair. “One of these days they’re going to cut me off, but you know I just can’t stand to think of them in those cages.” The small cat licks the back of my hand and begins to make a rumbly motor sound.

  “What’s her name?”

  “Why don’t you name this one?” Tabitha offers, leaning down to water a row of potted herbs.

  “Really?” I scoop up the feather-light cat. She climbs up my shirt and onto my right shoulder. A print of my favorite Frida Kahlo painting hangs on the wall of my tree house, the one where she looks stately with two parrots in her arms and two on her shoulders.

  “How about Frida?” I suggest.

  Tabitha looks up from her watering. “It’s different. I like it.”

  Frida nibbles at a piece of my hair.

  “Come sit for a while,” Tabitha insists.

  “I’ve gotta get to school.” I gently pull Frida off my shoulder and place her on the porch. She protests with a loud meow before joining the other cats. I imagine a different day ahead of me, one where I skip school and sit in the sun with Tabitha and her cats, sketching pictures of the cats in my notebook while Tabitha drinks lavender tea and embroiders on the porch. Instead I wave goodbye and continue on my way through the field to school, the right shoulder of my sweatshirt dusted in gray fur.

  It’s not until I’m almost there that I remember Mrs. Whipple’s announcement yesterday about getting a new kid in our class. This has never happened, as far as I can remember. Thornville is a sleepy town of just over a thousand people and Thornville K–12 is the t
own’s only school. I’ve been in class with the same seven boys and four girls since Kindergarten. Nearly all of their parents work for the chicken factory and it’s the kind of job you take because you grew up in Thornville. No one moves here hoping for a better life.

  I drag my feet, even though I’m already at risk of arriving late. When I meet someone for the first time, I almost always have a future flash. This can be fun or unsettling, depending on what I see. I try to think optimistically. Maybe I’ll see a future friend. Against the odds, I hope for a girl, one who loves art and who comes from somewhere exotic and far away from Colorado—somewhere like Los Angeles or New York City. I imagine seeing a future flash of us spending our afternoons together in my tree house, painting and drawing. Of course I’d have to take down all the pictures of my other future flashes. I wouldn’t want to explain those to anyone. But I’d take them down for a friend.

  When I get to our classroom, the boys are beside themselves with excitement. They’re hoping for another boy, of course. They talk even louder than usual and keep eyeing the door. Their dream of having an even number of boys for their football games at recess could finally come true.

  When the bell rings, everyone rushes to find a seat. One seat remains empty.

  “Where’s the new kid?” Axel shouts, and just like that the door opens.

  The new boy stands in the doorway with an apologetic smile. He’s no football player. His scrawny body would be better suited to stand in for the goal post. He’s wearing a gray T-shirt with the periodic table of elements on the front and bright orange hair sticks up all over his head. As if that wasn’t enough to place him permanently on Axel’s bully list, he’s covered in freckles. I mean covered, like he was dipped in butter and then rolled in a bowl of freckles. For a moment everyone is so fascinated with his freckles that they don’t recognize that this is not what anyone was hoping for. Then he sneezes. Twice. And it’s like someone let the air out of a balloon. The whole class deflates.

  “Oh, maaan,” Axel groans, putting his face down on the desk. Mrs. Whipple shoots him a dirty look. He bangs his head against the desk until she raps on it with her fingers and tells him, “Enough.”

  “This is Lyle,” Mrs. Whipple announces. To her credit, her toothy smile never wavers.

  “Hi guys,” he greets us with a little wave before walking over and sinking down in his seat. Mrs. Whipple doesn’t bother with further introductions. Even she knows it would be painful for everyone involved.

  Instead, she says, “Welcome to seventh grade, Lyle!” Then she faces the board and points to our schedule. “I’m sure you’re all happy that you have P.E. first period today. So, before you get too settled in, let’s line up and head down to the gym!”

  I glance at Lyle as I stand up. He’s taking his time to push in his chair. I’m pretty sure he’s not happy that we have P.E. first period, but he shouldn’t worry too much. Once he meets Ms. Fontane, he’ll realize that our gym class is not going to test his athleticism.

  Lyle catches me looking over at him and I avert my eyes, pretending I meant only to check the clock above him. I feel bad for him, the new boy who knows he’s already a disappointment to everyone. I dread seeing an image of his future because it can’t be good. Not that I’ll be getting near him anytime soon. The last thing I need to do is connect myself to the boy who’s bound to be Axel’s newest punching bag. Axel has already secured my position at the lowest rung on the social ladder by calling me Insane Elaine and Art Freak since Kindergarten. I’ve learned to fly under his radar and befriending Lyle would not help.

  Ms. Fontane is waiting for us in the gym. Not your typical gym teacher, she weighs at least three hundred pounds and hates sports. She manages to breathe heavily and sweat profusely even when just watching other people exert themselves, and she usually spends the whole gym class sitting on the side of the gym, fanning herself with her hand. The only exercise she approves of is dance. So while I imagine other kids across the country learning to kick a soccer ball or shoot a basket in their gym classes, we have spent the last few years learning pliés and the box step, while the basketballs gather dust in a bin in the corner.

  “Today we will be learning to square dance!” Ms. Fontane announces as we file into the gym. The entire class groans. “Find a partner,” she instructs before slumping into her favorite metal chair. The chair creaks under her weight.

  There is a quick scramble and of course I am left facing Lyle, whose frown suggests he’s as horrified as I am at the prospect of dancing together. I avoid eye contact by taking a sudden interest in what all the other students are doing. Most of them are standing in square dance position, holding their partners’ hands, looking bored. Axel slouches against the wall, smirking. I bet he’s appreciative of Lyle right now since an uneven number of students means that he gets to sit this one out. Ms. Fontane reaches over and turns on the boom box. While the rest of the world has advanced to iPods and other digital music systems, Ms. Fontane uses the same giant boom box with the same cassette tapes that she’s been using for the last twenty-five years.

  “Now, we’re going to start with swings and then we’ll move on to do-se-do! Okay, everyone face your partner and grab hands!” she shouts over the music.

  Lyle puts his hand up. I hesitate.

  The music stops.

  “Elaine! Grab your partner’s hand!” Ms. Fontane yells. She reaches back over to the boom box and the music fills the room again.

  I reluctantly put my hand back up. Lyle grabs it with his hand, which is surprisingly dry and warm. I close my eyes. What I see is worse than I ever could have imagined.

  Chapter Three

  MAYBE IT’S BECAUSE OF ALL HE’S SEEN AS a volunteer firefighter, but Walt has always been adamant that I stay away from fire.

  “Laney, you have to remember that even a controlled fire is a dangerous fire,” he used to say when I asked him why the wood-burning stove in our house sat empty all winter or why we dealt with the cold night air on our camping trips by hopping into our sleeping bags early rather than lighting a bonfire. He doesn’t need to remind me anymore. After all of his warnings, a mere lighted match can make my stomach clench.

  When I touch Lyle’s hands, I am engulfed in flames.

  I can’t breathe. Smoke sears my lungs. I squint, trying to make out my surroundings. Smoke is everywhere. I can’t breathe. My heart pounds with this realization. Bright patches of fire dance on the floor around me. There’s something or someone lying in a pool of blood on the floor. I can’t see clearly through the smoke.

  I cough and cough but can’t get the smoke out of my lungs. Frantic for oxygen, stumbling forward, I claw at the air.

  Where am I?

  Then I see Lyle in the haze ahead of me, his bright hair the color of the fire around him. There’s blood all over his gray T-shirt. His nose is swollen to nearly twice its normal size and his eyes are puffy and black. He’s trying to tell me something, but I can’t hear him over the roar of the fire. The heat presses down on me. I stumble forward, desperate to understand what Lyle’s saying, but as I do I trip over something soft on the ground in front of me. My hand reaches out to stop my fall, landing on a patch of fire. The heat scalds the skin on my palm.

  I push myself up, screaming.

  “Laney!” Lyle cries, his voice finally reaching me above the din of the fire.

  I can’t take it anymore. I push past him, away from the fire.

  Then I remember to open my eyes.

  I gasp for breath and find that the air is cool and thick with oxygen. I want to cry with relief because, for now, I am safe. Lyle is safe too, though his skin is fire-truck red under his freckles. He pulls his hands away from mine and claps them behind his back. It takes me a second to understand that I’m still in the gym and am supposed to be learning how to square dance. The entire class is staring at us.

  “What’s going on?” Ms. Fontane barks, her finger on the pause button.

  I’m not sure, so I don’t know how
to answer. Some of the students begin to snicker. Two girls have their hands over their mouths and their wide eyes stare at me as if a third eyeball has sprouted on my forehead.

  Did I scream out loud?

  “I don’t feel so well,” I say, looking down at my Converse sneakers. They are covered in drawings of Tabitha’s cats—only on my sneakers the cats are red and blue and yellow. I remember my impulse to stay on her porch this morning and imagine myself drawing in the sun, far away from the gym and the heat of everyone’s stares.

  “I should guess not after that display,” Ms. Fontane sighs. “Honestly, Elaine. You can sit for a moment, and Axel will take your place.”

  As we’ve had more boys than girls in our class from the beginning, the boys are used to pairing up for dancing. But even in my shaken state, I feel terrible for exposing Lyle to Axel this way on his first day of school.

  “I’m okay,” I try to say, but the words come out as a choked whisper. Axel smirks at me.

  If you don’t know Axel and you take a look at his big blue eyes, white blond hair, and skin as pale and smooth as a baby’s butt, you might think he is an angel, the kind of kid who holds the door for old ladies and always remembers to say please and thank you. You’d be wrong. He’s the meanest kid in the whole school.

  As if he can read my thoughts, Axel knocks his shoulder against mine when we trade places. Sorry, Lyle, I think, but I’m relieved to lean against the cool concrete wall. My mind feels scrambled and I need to collect my thoughts. I sink down to the floor and pick at a string on my shredded jeans as the music begins.

  What was that? What did I see? I check my hand for burn marks. It felt so real. My hand looks the same as always, the skin on the back covered in ink doodles, my bitten fingernails coated in chipped black polish. I study my palm. No burns. I shiver and draw my knees closer to my chest, thinking of the flames and the blood.

  I hear laughter and look up. Axel has grabbed Lyle’s hand and is shaking all over and opening his mouth as if in a scream, though no sound is coming out. Axel’s long legs and arms are flying this way and that, out of control, as if he is having some sort of seizure. Is that what I looked like? Poor Lyle steps back, biting his lip. What a first day. I’m sure he wishes he were anywhere else right now.