A Deviation from the Norm
11:01 PM
“Matt,” she says. “You’re okay. You’re with me now.”
You open your eyes and the inside of the Datsun takes shape around you, its black vinyl interior in exchange for the beige walls of your high school, the weak, silvery glow from the lights over the hospital parking lot replacing the warmth of this morning’s sun.
“Where did you go?” She is still sitting cross legged on top of the reclined driver’s seat, her king-sized red hoodie pulled over her knees like a dress.
“School, school this morning.” You realize her hands are clasping each of yours, to reassure you, maybe, or to keep you from hurting her with them, you can’t be sure. “Why,” you ask. “Why there, why then?”
“I don’t know.” She releases you and tucks her hands into her lap.
“I found him,” you say, staring at the rainbow toe of the sock poking out from beneath her knee. “He was listening, but I don’t think he heard me. I didn’t have time.”
“Maybe he heard enough.”
The strap of her knapsack is slung across her chest, but the bag itself is tucked behind her out of view. “How can I control where I go?” you ask.
“I’m trying to tell you,” she says, tracking your gaze, “but you don’t want to listen to me.”
“I’m listening.” You force yourself to meet her eyes. They are just as large and just as piercing as you remember. “Give me another.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
“I was so close. Jai, please. I can do this. Just one more.”
She takes a slow deep breath, lets it out. “One more and that’s it,” she finally says, “and then you have to listen to me.”
“Yes, okay.” You hold out your hand.
“No, I mean it, Matt. There are things you don’t understand. Promise me, or don’t expect me to be here when you get back.”
“I promise. Just help me now.”
She slides the knapsack out from behind her. “It’s not that exact,” she says. “A single blue can send you back two hours or two days, sometimes weeks.” She produces another blue capsule and holds it up. “It depends.”
“Depends on what?” You resist the urge to reach for it.
“On your focus. Try focusing on something specific.”
“A place,” you ask, “like school?”
“Not so much a place, an event, something important.”
“Important?”
“Something, out of the ordinary.”
“Like a beautiful girl falling out of the sky onto the hood of your car?”
This makes her smile. “Yeah, well, that won’t help.” She hands you the pill. “Maybe something that happened this morning, something unusual, a deviation from the norm.”
“Okay, a deviation from the norm.” You swallow the pill, close your eyes, and try to remember. You are walking with that girl from your first period. “What are you reading,” she asks, smiling up at you through her dark curls. Suddenly, the little yellow Datsun, the hospital parking lot, the constellation of city lights, the spinning planet itself drops out from below you, shrinks to the size of a marble, and disappears into the endless night.
THE MISADVENTURES OF MATTHEW VAN DER BOOT is a work of fiction. All names, characters, and places are fictitious, and any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental … no matter how many times you ask.