The Alchemy of Forever

going to leave.” His hands are still resting on the steering wheel like he wants to be in motion.
    “Noah,” I whisper. Through the open windows I hear the bell summoning us to class, but I don’t move. “I’m sorry.”
    “I hate being there.” I feel him looking at me and I turn to face him, struck again by the intensity of his blue eyes. He looks like he’s been crying. I’m not sure what to say. It hadn’t even occurred to me that things weren’t okay at home for Noah—he always seems so easygoing. But now that I think about it, there were clues. He puts on a good act, but he’s pretending to be someone he’s not, just like me.
    On impulse I reach over and take his hand. He doesn’t pull it away. “I won’t tell you not to be sad,” I say. “And if you don’t want to go home, come to my house. I’m sure my parents won’t mind.”
    He squeezes my hand. We just sit there quietly for a few more minutes and then go to biology. We’re late. I don’t think the teacher even notices—he doesn’t turn around from the board when we walk in. Someone else notices, though, and I feel Nicole’s glare on the back of my head for the entire class. She clearly likes him and I wonder: Does he like her, too? She is beautiful. But then I shake my head. Why should I care who Noah likes?
    At lunch I head straight for the secret upstairs room. Nicole is conspicuously absent. I’m not certain that this is related to seeing me walk into class with Noah, but I suspect it is.
    Halloween is a few days away, and costuming is a constant topic of conversation. Chantal wants to be an angel, which everyone deems boring. “C’mon,” pleads Leyla. “At least be a zombie angel.”
    Chantal looks horrified. “No way. Zombies are disgusting.” She picks imaginary lint off her pale pink sweater. The rest of the girls crack up.
    Madison and Piper are going to be Girl Scouts. “Dead Girl Scouts? Ax-murdering Girl Scouts?” Leyla asks, hopefully, but they shake their heads. “You guys suck! Halloween is supposed to be scary . What about you, Kailey?”
    “Grounded, remember?” I remind her.
    “Oh, right. Sad.” Leyla pouts. “I really wish you could come to Dawson’s party tonight.”
    “Yeah, it won’t be the same without you,” Piper says.
    Kailey’s friends are all going to Haight-Ashbury in the city to shop for costumes, but Leyla promises to look for something terrifying for me to wear. “Maybe Little Red Riding Hood? Only . . . she’s actually been half eaten by the wolf?” I laugh, but I feel oddly worried for them. They have no idea that real monsters live in San Francisco. I picture Cyrus’s platinum hair and angelic face. The scariest thing about Incarnates is that we look just like everyone else.
    That afternoon I stop by the antiques store. The owner doesn’t want to hire a sixteen-year-old, I can tell. But after I correctly identify a Victorian Eastlake sofa, a turn-of-the-century Stickley chair, and an original Edison phonograph, he gives me the job and asks if I can stay for a shift immediately. At ten dollars an hour it will take a long time to have enough money to escape, but this doesn’t bother me much. It’s a start.
    After work I eat dinner with the Morgans and we chat about the day. I’m still most definitely grounded, but I know they’re proud that I’ve got a job. I tell them about the customers who came in—the rich lady who bought a painting of a dog, the zealous young homeowners searching for period-appropriate doorknobs for their old house, the man who collected antique lamps and didn’t care if they were broken.
    “At least someone appreciates old things.” Mr. Morgan sighs dramatically. “As an antique myself, I can say that.”
    “You guys aren’t old,” I protest. I should know.
    “I beg to differ,” says Bryan. “They’re certifiable experts on the one-hit wonders of the eighties.”
    “Hey!” says Mrs. Morgan. “We were very cool back then. I was in a band, I’ll have you know.”
    Bryan groans. “Yeah, you sang Duran Duran covers.”
    “What’s wrong with Duran Duran?” Mr. Morgan frowns.
    Bryan and I crack up. “This calls for photographic evidence,” he declares, heading to the bookshelf. He returns with a large, leather-bound photo album, and flips it open to a shot of Mrs. Morgan and her band. She’s got a leather jacket with the sleeves pushed up to her elbows, immense shoulder pads, and poufy, feathered hair. My heart catches in my