Future Threat

PART I THE PRESENT THURSDAY There are three things that make the memories stop, if only for a moment. This is the first. The needle bites into my skin, but I welcome the pain. It’s less of a prick and more like a wasp stinging me over and over, buzzing deep into my skin. The vibrations travel through my bones, across my upper body, and I grit my teeth. I’ve hit that point where I want to pull away, where I don’t know if I can take it anymore, but I force myself to be still. I close my eyes and let the pain block out everything else. It builds and builds until it crests like a wave, breaking over the shore. My mind goes blank. There’s nothing but the sharp pressure and the hum of the tattoo gun, and in that instant I’m numb. For a few seconds, the past disappears. When José pulls the needle back to examine his work and wipe away the extra ink, the memories all come back in a rush. The salty smell of cold ocean air. An echoing boom of a gunshot. Blood dripping down bone-white tiles. “Está bien, Elena?” José asks, jerking me back to the present. My mouth is too dry to speak at first, so I nod. He brings me a mirror, and I turn my arm to get a better look at the design from different angles. The lines of ink are thick and stark black against my brown skin, which has turned red and blotchy around the tattoo: a stylized image of the origami unicorn Adam made for me six months ago. “Perfecto,” I say. José covers the tattoo in saran wrap, but doesn’t bother giving me the standard instructions on how to take care of it. This isn’t my first tattoo, and I doubt it will be my last. But other than the tattoo of my mother’s name, this one might mean the most to me. “Gracias,” I say, doling out a hefty tip on top of the fee he quoted me before. José used to tattoo me when I was younger, back when it was technically illegal since I was under eighteen. He’s the older brother of the guy I was hooking up with when I got my first tattoo, the spiderweb on my other arm. Now I’m old enough to get them done legally, and I have money to pay him right. For once. I head out of the tattoo parlor, and the bell on the door tinkles overhead while it swings shut. But as soon as my foot hits the sidewalk, I tense. There, across the street, is that damn black car again. I’ve seen it on and off for the last six months, ever since I was part of a “research project” that sent me—and four other teens—to the future, with deadly consequences. At various times the car has been outside my apartment, in front of my kickboxing class, or in a parking lot on my college campus. One time I swore I saw it waiting outside a restaurant when Adam and I were on a date. It’s Aether Corporation. It has to be. The car waits, its windows tinted so dark I can’t see inside, but I get that skin-prickling feeling like someone is watching me. I don’t know what they want, but I wish they’d make a move already, instead of biding their time and following me everywhere I go. They’re probably monitoring me, making sure I never reveal their secrets. Keeping tabs in case I ever get out of line. Getting ready to pounce when they’re good and ready. Maybe they want me to know they can get to me whenever they want. There’s a harsh, brisk wind in the air, heralding the fact that Los Angeles is finally switching from summer to fall after a hard-fought battle to hang on to those hotter temperatures. I pull my black hoodie over my hair and shove my hands in my pockets while I walk down the sidewalk, trying not to make it obvious that I’m watching the car while it watches me. As I near the corner, it creeps down the street behind me. They’re not even trying to be subtle anymore. I turn onto the next block, but a flash of electric blue hair makes me freeze in place. A girl ahead of me, getting out of her car. Zoe? My vision blurs and panic shoots through my veins, but it’s not her. It’s not. I saw her body. I know she’s dead. But I can’t move, can’t breathe, can’t do anything but ride through the flashbacks. Her limp body in the tub. Blood and water mixing on their way down the drain. The sound of my own cries as I realize I’m too late to save her. The girl’s head swivels in my direction before she walks into a sandwich shop, and my brain snaps out of it. Her hair isn’t even the right shade of blue. Zoe is dead and gone for good, and no matter how many times I relive that moment, I can’t go back and change the past. Here’s the thing about having a perfect memory: it makes it really hard to move on from the s**t you’ve been through. And God knows I’ve seen enough death for a lifetime. I check the time on Mamá’s watch, rubbing the smooth face back and forth with my thumb. The familiar gesture grounds me in reality again, in the present moment. 4:18 p.m. Breathe in. Breathe out. Move on. I shake the past off and continue forward like nothing happened, trying to ignore how I’m breathing faster and the way my muscles are twitching to punch something. I clench and unclench my fists, wishing I was at my gym in front of a bag. The second thing that makes the memories stop? Fighting. In a few steps I reach my car, a Toyota so new it doesn’t have plates yet. Once I’m inside, I grip the steering wheel hard until my pulse slows and I catch my breath. The therapist Adam convinced me to see told me this kind of thing is normal for someone who’s been through a traumatic experience, but that doesn’t make it any easier to live with.