Tandem: The Many-Worlds Trilogy Page 2

  Thomas had prepared his world for Grant. On the other side of the tandem, three agents of the King’s Elite Service lay in wait; they would take him into custody and keep him safe until the time came to return him to his home world. All Thomas had to do now was get close enough to Grant to administer the touch that would toss him through the tandem like a rag doll and deposit him on the other side to fill the slot Thomas had left vacant, if everything went to plan. But Thomas had learned long ago that such things rarely did.

  Grant looked Thomas up and down, trying to make sense of what he was seeing. “Whoa,” he breathed. Thomas’s veins thrummed with adrenaline and power. A faint singed smell hung in the air, as if lightning had struck somewhere nearby. Electricity danced in Thomas’s fingertips. This was it. The time was now. All he needed to do was take one step, and he would be close enough to touch Grant. Then it would be over, and his real mission would begin.

  But Thomas was paralyzed. He hadn’t given much thought to what it would be like when he finally met his analog. There were things he knew about Grant, facts and dates he’d been forced to memorize in order to ensure he could effectively impersonate him, but none of that information was relevant now. He had so many questions for Grant, and about him. He wanted to know, for the first time, what it was like to actually be Grant, to live in his skin and see the world—his world—the way he saw it.

  Dr. Moss had tried to warn him about this. “Don’t believe for a second that just because you know what he is that it won’t affect you,” Mossie had said, but Thomas hadn’t listened. And now it was too late. There was no more time. Grant Davis had to go.

  “Who are you?” Grant demanded, his voice tight with fear and anger. Thomas hesitated before replying, not sure what to tell him, knowing that he shouldn’t tell him anything at all. During that moment’s pause, so slight a mouse couldn’t slip through it, Grant took advantage of Thomas’s uncertainty and lunged at him.

  Grant’s fingers closed around the collar of Thomas’s sweatshirt, which was identical to his own. “Who are you?” he shouted. There was terror in his eyes.

  “I’m you,” Thomas told him with grave sincerity. The answer threw Grant off, and Thomas sprang into action, wrenching out of Grant’s grasp and pushing him away. The other boy stumbled backward, but only for a second, then sprang up again; this time, Grant’s closed fist connected with Thomas’s jaw.

  When Thomas opened his eyes, he was lying flat on the concrete sidewalk, and he was alone. He was more than alone; there was no sign, none at all, that Grant had ever been there in the first place.

  He picked himself up off the ground and touched his jaw gingerly. The blow had been glancing; it wouldn’t leave much of a mark. Grant had some of Thomas’s own strength and reflexes, but he was untrained and he certainly had nothing close to Thomas’s own experience with hand-to-hand combat. If only Thomas had not hesitated, Grant wouldn’t have gotten in a punch at all. Still, he couldn’t help but feel a surge of pride for his analog. After all, he’d done what Thomas himself would’ve done. He’d fought for his life.

  Bixler Park was quiet and empty. Thomas was tired, an unusual feeling for him, so he shoved his hands into his pockets and jogged up South Kenwood toward the warm yellow light of home.

  ONE

  “What are you reading?”

  I glanced up from my book to see Grant Davis towering over me. I turned my head, trying to figure out who he was talking to, because it couldn’t be me. Grant Davis hadn’t spoken more than three words to me in the whole time we’d been in school together. But the room was empty except for him and me. I must’ve looked completely baffled; Grant laughed and flopped down into the chair beside mine. This is weird, I thought in passing, but I decided to go with it. How often does the most popular guy in school show up in your favorite bookshop and start talking to you?

  Grant Davis was, to put it bluntly, the finest human specimen that had ever come into existence. I’d had a crush on him since I was in the fourth grade and he was in fifth. It burned pretty hot for a while there in late middle school, but over the years it had been reduced to a few smoldering coals. My heart gave a small, involuntary flutter as I took him in out of the corner of my eye. Grant was just my type—tall and broad-shouldered, with eyes the color of new spring grass, strong, perfect features, and thick blond hair that always looked slightly rumpled, as if he’d just rolled out of bed. But he wasn’t just handsome; I knew a lot of cute guys I’d never in a million years want to talk to. Grant was also good-natured and charming, beloved by students, teachers, and administrators alike. He always seemed so laid-back and carefree. Even now, he sprawled in his seat, looking relaxed and comfortable, while I sat there tense and nervous, clutching a worn paperback edition of Shakespeare’s Twelfth Night like it was the only thing in the world I owned.

  “What are you looking for, Sasha?” he asked, with an amused glint in his eye.

  “Whoever it is you’re talking to,” I told him, raising my eyebrows.

  “I’m talking to you.” He flung his arms outward, gesturing around the room. We were in the reading lounge of 57th Street Books, tucked away deep in the store’s underground, labyrinthine stacks. It was my favorite bookshop in Hyde Park, a quaint old university neighborhood on the South Side of Chicago where I lived with my grandfather. I almost never ran into anyone I knew at the shop, and seeing Grant among the bookshelves was kind of like spotting a polar bear sunning itself on a Malibu beach. “Do you notice anyone else around? I think we might be the only two people here.”

  “That’s what I like about this place,” I said. “It’s usually so quiet.”

  “Is that a hint?” Grant asked, his tone still playful.

  “Maybe.” I tried unsuccessfully to suppress a smile. “What are you doing here?” The fact that he had no books in his possession hadn’t escaped my attention.

  “Hey.” He affected a hurt tone. “I love to read. Books are my life.”

  I shot him a dubious look. “The last time we took an English class together, you tried to turn in a book report on The Matrix.”

  “Fair enough,” he replied, grinning. “In my defense, I had it on pretty good authority that The Matrix was based on a book.”

  “And whose authority would that be?”

  “Johnny Hogan’s,” he admitted reluctantly. I covered my eyes in embarrassment for him.

  “Johnny Hogan!” I cried. “Well, then you deserve whatever you got. I don’t think Johnny’s read a book since Hop on Pop.”

  His smile faltered a bit, and I realized that he didn’t have any idea what I was talking about. “The Dr. Seuss book? Hop on Pop?”

  “I know what Hop on Pop is.” Grant rolled his eyes.

  “It sure seemed like you didn’t,” I teased.

  Grant shrugged and leaned toward me. My heart was beating so fast I could feel it in my throat. “So, are you going to answer my question? What are you reading?”

  I turned the book so that he could get a look at the cover. “Twelfth Night, huh? Never heard of it.”

  “It’s for Ms. Dunne’s English class. But I’ve read it before.” Several times, actually. It was one of my favorites. I couldn’t imagine Grant was interested in my schoolwork, but hey, he’d asked.

  “What’s it about?” Grant settled back in his chair, as if preparing himself for story time.

  “Really?” He nodded. “Well, okay. It’s about this girl, Viola, who gets shipwrecked in a foreign country and has to pretend to be somebody else to keep her identity a secret.” That got his attention; he sat up straighter, and his eyes widened a bit. “But she ends up falling in love with this guy she’s supposed to be working for, and all the while the woman her boss is courting starts falling in love with Viola, who’s disguised as a boy. It’s a comedy.”

  “Sure sounds like one.”

  “Believe me, it’s very funny. If you like Shakespeare.”

  “I’m assuming you do, judging by the state of your copy,” he said. I glanced
down at my battered paperback. The pages were curled and yellow, the cover so tattered that it was only connected to the spine by a small tab of paper that seemed liable to rip any second. For some reason, Twelfth Night spoke to me, in the same way that A Wrinkle in Time and Alice in Wonderland had when I was younger. I was a lucky girl; considering the way things could have gone, I’d had a wonderful life so far. But there was always a part of me, even before my parents died, that yearned to be plucked out of my everyday life and thrust into some great adventure. My favorite heroines were girls who suddenly found themselves having to live by their wits in a world they didn’t quite understand. I couldn’t help but envy them; their experiences made them stronger, smarter, better—or, rather, it proved to them that they had been those things all along.

  “Absolutely. Twelfth Night is my favorite play of his. Most girls prefer Romeo and Juliet, because they think it’s so romantic.” I fiddled with the charm I wore around my neck, a crescent moon with a little star hanging beneath it. It was a sixteenth birthday present from my grandfather, and playing with it was a nervous habit of mine.

  “And you disagree?”

  “It’s okay. The poetry is beautiful. But I’ve always thought Romeo and Juliet themselves were sort of silly.” Why was I telling him all this? What did he care about my opinions on fictional characters? But he gazed at me with interest, as if he was hanging on my every word, which was unnerving. The experience of sitting side by side with Grant Davis was more than a little bit surreal, like a pleasant dream in which everything was slightly off-kilter.

  “How so?”

  “This isn’t exactly an original opinion, but it seems to me that there’s almost always a better way of solving romantic problems than killing yourself,” I told him. He chuckled. I glanced at my watch. “Oh, crap. I didn’t realize how late it was. I’ve got to get home.” I gathered my things and stood. Grant rose as well.

  “It was nice … chatting with you, Grant,” I said, unsure of how best to leave things. Had he come over to talk to me for a reason, or was he just killing time? And what was he doing in 57th Street Books, anyway? I was pretty sure he hadn’t come to browse.

  “Let me walk you,” he offered.

  “That’s okay,” I said, suddenly shy. The heat of a blush rose up in my cheeks. “You don’t have to.” Part of me was desperate to stay and keep talking to him. I was curious, and I could feel that old crush I’d nursed through junior high starting to rekindle. But another part of me wanted to get away from him as fast as possible. Talking and joking with Grant while nobody else was around was one thing, but Grant was one of the most popular kids in school, and I was … not. It was hard to imagine spending time with him out in the world, as if we were friends.

  “I insist,” he said, taking the bag from my hand and slinging it over his shoulder. “Let’s go. I don’t want you to be late.”

  It was almost six o’clock, but it was early May and the light outside was still bright enough that I had to shield my eyes as we emerged from the dim cave of the bookshop. We started down Fifty-Seventh Street, then took a left on South Kenwood and passed through Bixler Park in awkward silence. I knew Hyde Park like the back of my hand—I’d lived there since I was seven, in a ramshackle Victorian that Granddad had bought in the early eighties—and the neighborhood just wasn’t that big, fifteen blocks by fifteen blocks max. I was pretty sure Grant had lived there all his life. But as we strolled the familiar streets together, I felt like I was discovering it for the first time. Everything seemed like a much better version of itself; the grass was a little greener, the historic brownstones and houses with their painted gables seemed better cared for and more brightly colored, and the breeze that came off Lake Michigan was sweeter and cooler than it had been two hours ago. I was pretty sure this was all in my head. Nothing had changed, not really. But it still felt like something had.

  Grant was strolling languidly, his face tilted toward the sky to catch the warmth of the sun, as if he was in no hurry. I, however, was. Granddad enforced a very strict dinnertime—six o’clock on the dot, every night, no exceptions.

  “Where do you live?” Grant asked.

  “South Kenwood, between Fifty-Second and Fifty-Third.”

  “Not that far from us, then. We’re on Fifty-Fourth and Ridgewood.” He waited for a moment, then added, “My mom and I. It’s just the two of us.”

  “Us too,” I said. “Just me and Granddad.”

  “Yeah, I was wondering—where are your parents? If you don’t mind me asking.”

  “They died,” I told him. That part always made people uncomfortable. They didn’t know what to say, and most of the time they ended up apologizing, but even though I missed my parents every day, it wasn’t painful to talk about anymore. In fact, I preferred not having to dance around it. Hiding it to avoid awkwardness seemed disrespectful to their memory.

  “I’m sorry,” Grant said, as I knew he would. He kneaded the back of his neck in what I took to be a nervous gesture.

  “That’s okay. It was a long time ago. What’s the story with your parents?”

  He shrugged. “Divorced. Dad’s an attorney out in L.A. I haven’t seen him in a while. Your grandfather teaches at the university, right?”

  “Yeah, physics. He worked there for thirty years and then retired, but when he inherited me he had to start working again. I used to feel bad about it, but actually I think he missed it. He would’ve used any excuse to go back.”

  “My mom’s a professor, too, but she hates it.” Grant laughed. “She’s always complaining about ‘office politics,’ whatever those are.”

  I smiled. “Granddad too. He never talks to anyone in his department if he can help it. Physics, he loves; physicists, not so much.”

  “And what do you love?” Grant asked. I looked up at him in surprise.

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean, you know, what’s your passion?” He held his fist out in front of me as if he was offering me a microphone. “Sasha Lawson—what do you want to be when you grow up?”

  I leaned forward as if speaking into it. “Not sure yet.”

  “Not sure, huh? I would’ve thought you had your entire future planned out by now.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “Oh, I don’t know. You’re really focused. Killer grades, tons of extracurriculars. You just seem like the kind of girl who knows what she’s doing.”

  “Then my master plan is working,” I said with a smile. “But no. I don’t.” It killed Granddad that I didn’t have a major picked out yet, much less a college. He claimed he decided to be a physicist when he was six years old, but that always sounded like an exaggeration to me. “What about you?”

  “I’m enrolled at Loyola for the fall,” Grant said, naming a university only a few miles from where we lived. I was surprised he wasn’t venturing farther away from home. “But I’ve got no idea what I’m going to do there.”

  We paused at the corner of Fifty-Fourth Street and South Kenwood. “Are you sure you want to walk me all the way home?” I asked.

  “Sasha, it’s only a couple more blocks. I think I’ll live.” He squinted at me, as if he was trying to bring me into focus. “Are you trying to get rid of me or something?”

  “No, no, it’s not that, it’s just …” I trailed off as we passed Ridgewood.

  “Yes?” He drew the word out slowly.

  “I’m confused,” I said. “You have literally never spoken to me before. Then today you show up out of nowhere and offer to walk me home? Was there something you wanted?”

  He shoved his hands deep into the pockets of his jeans. “No, not exactly. But I …” He stopped and turned to look at me. I stared back, trying to read his mind, but it turns out that’s pretty difficult when you don’t really know a person. He seemed sincere, but guarded, too. He took a deep, bracing breath. “I graduate in like a month, and it’s making me think about all the things I wish I’d done differently.”

  “What does that have to
do with me?”

  “I’ve been thinking about you a lot,” he confessed, averting his gaze.

  “Me? Why?”

  “I don’t know!” He seemed to be retreating further and further into himself with every passing second. I’d never seen Grant look embarrassed or uncomfortable; this was a whole new side to him, a stark difference from his big man on campus persona. The moment was strange and intimate; I was starting to feel bad for giving him such a hard time. “You seem smart and cool, and you’re clearly pretty. I mean, you know you’re pretty, right?”

  I didn’t know how to respond to that, so I just said, “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome.” He shuffled his feet. “Anyway, I just wanted to spend some time with you. Get to know you a little better.” He held up his palms in a gesture of surrender. “I’m not going to try anything funny, I swear.”

  I laughed, and he relaxed visibly. “I believe you, I believe you. I’m sorry for making this so awkward. I just didn’t get it.”

  Grant smiled, and my stomach did a dramatic flip-flop. We lapsed into silence, and as we continued walking the weirdness between us began to dissipate. I kept turning his words over in my head: I’ve been thinking about you. You seem smart and cool, and you’re clearly pretty. I wanted to barrage him with questions, get some more definitive answers, but even my admittedly limited experience with boys told me that wasn’t a very good idea.

  When we were only a few yards from my house, Grant stopped again.

  “Can I ask you something?” I nodded. “Have you thought about prom at all?”

  What a ridiculous question—of course I’d thought about prom. It was all most girls in my class could talk about, now that it was only about a week away. But I hadn’t expected anybody to ask me and, sure enough, nobody had. I wasn’t terribly disappointed—there wasn’t even anyone in particular I wanted to go with—but I couldn’t deny that there was a part of me that wanted to go, if only to see what all the fuss was about.