Traveler, L.E. DeLano [book series for 12 year olds .TXT] 📗

a sigh. “You can dance. I get to sit on a couch with a bruised shoulder.”

Now I feel guilty. She’s probably miserable in my body. I touch my hand to the glass, and she does as well, but before we push through, I see her glance back one last time.

I’m standing in my mom’s room. She only works one job on Sundays, and today she doesn’t go in until later. She’s asleep in bed, and the covers are pulled down on one side. The other me had been lying there next to her, just watching her sleep. I’d curved myself into her, and she’d pulled me close, just like when I was little.

I shove my fist to my mouth, and tears blur my vision as the memories of another life fill my head.

My mom died four years ago in a car accident. Dad says if she’d been two minutes earlier getting onto the interstate, she would never have been part of the pileup.

I often picture her stopping at the end of the block that day because she forgot her purse, and turning around to go home and get it. Or hitting snooze one extra time on the alarm clock that morning. Who knows what choice she made that did it? And it doesn’t matter if I do know or not. It’s done. There, it’s done, and everyone has had to live with it.

Other me has seen her many times while traveling. And every time, every single time, all I want to do is just be there, normal and ordinary. Just living a life with her in it. I only wish she could have seen me dance just once.

I step through the doorway to the hall bathroom and blow my nose before I splash some water on my face and pull myself together. Then I go in and lie back down next to my mom.

“Hey,” she says sleepily. “Is your shoulder hurting?”

“No, not really. I had a bad dream.” That wasn’t really a dream.

She gives me a sympathetic look. “What time is it?”

“It’s almost nine.”

She stretches and gives a yawn. “I’d better get started on breakfast,” she says, sitting up. “Danny will be up soon.”

“Mom?”

“Yeah, honey?”

“Do you think … could I maybe try dance lessons?”

She looks over her shoulder at me. “Dance lessons?”

“I can pay for them,” I say hurriedly. “I just think I might want to try it.”

She gives a shrug. “Sure. We have a lady who teaches classes at the retirement home—she runs the dance studio here in town. I could ask her for the information.”

“Would you, please?”

“I’ll be tossing roses at your first performance,” she says with a grin. “Promise.”

My eyes shift to the mirror over the dresser. And I think that smile may not only be mine.

23

The Man with the Secret Past

When I get to school on Monday, I discover that just this morning, through a series of coincidences, Finn’s paperwork arrived at the school and he was admitted as a transfer student, despite the fact that a parent wasn’t with him and he didn’t come from whatever school they put down on the paperwork. Everyone in the office remembers meeting Finn’s mother, though, so they’re sure she must’ve stopped in and filled out everything that needed to be signed.

The coincidences continue as Finn shares my schedule exactly, even lunch period and electives. I don’t know if this is good or bad. On the one hand, he can keep an eye on me, but on the other hand, I’m finding it hard to concentrate.

Seeing him in the office as I walked into school this morning was a wonderful and unexpected surprise that I plan to take full advantage of. I gallantly offered to show him where his calculus class was, since I have the same class, too. Mrs. Cerino in the office gave me a smile and shooed us along, out into the hallway.

The morning passes uneventfully until we encounter history class, and by default, Ben. To say he is less than thrilled to see Finn would be a serious understatement.

“What’s he doing here?’ he asks bluntly.

“I transferred in,” Finn replies. “Just today.”

“You knew about this?” Ben asks me.

“Of course she did,” Finn says, before I can get my mouth open. “And as luck would have it, our class schedules are the same.” He says it with a smile, but even I can read the warning in his eyes. He’s as much as telling Ben that I’m under surveillance. Ben seems to bristle.

“Great,” he says through his teeth, and then he stomps over to take his seat.

He sits next to me like there’s a storm cloud over his head, and it gets darker the more my gaze strays across the room to where Finn is sitting. I don’t suppose I could ask Ben if he’d change seats with him—that definitely wouldn’t go over well.

When the bell rings for the next period, Ben is out of his seat and gone before it even finishes echoing down the hallway. I wait by the door for Finn to join me.

“He was a ray of sunshine,” Finn points out. “Did he even say a word to you during class?”

“No.” I glance out the doorway, hoping to catch a glimpse of Ben at his locker. Suddenly, I’m feeling kind of bad. I miss my friend, and I’m obviously hurting his feelings, but there’s not much I can do about it. Not while somebody’s trying to kill me, anyway.

“I’ll text him later,” I say, biting my lip.

We turn the corner and walk into creative writing, where Ms. Eversor’s eyes light up as she gets an eyeful of her newest student.

“Hello!” she calls out gaily. “But who is this? Are you my new pupil?”

“I’m Finn,” he says, extending his hand.

“Finn!” Her French accent makes her pronounce it funny. Like she’s saying Feen. “I am Ms. Eversor, and this is l’écriture créative—creative writing! Oh, we have such fun!”

She claps her hands, and the multitude of jangling bracelets she always wears sounds a loud cacophony that