Day 2: So far, I’ve written 105 words of my allotted 1000 per day. My brain is a bit sluggish today; lots of external turmoil and lack of coffee is contributing to this state of being.
Having a word goal, though, is a great incentive, as is having a group full of people in my “cabin” — my group of fellow writers in Camp NaNo — yes, Camp NaNo is a deliberate kitschy metaphor. I might manage to finish Prodigies yet.
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“Why did you make me jump right then?” I hissed at Berkeley. “We could lose Kat!”, by which I meant “I could lose Kat.”
“Because Kat deserves the best life possible, whether or not it involves you. The worst part is that, if she disappears and goes her own way, we won’t even remember her.” Berkeley sighed. “Besides, we need to change back the changed futures or else timelines become unstable.”
“I don’t want to forget her,” I insisted. “Especially as I plan to dance with her tonight.”
“In that outfit? They’ll never let you in.” Then Berkeley popped out of the scene.
I suspected he placed me at the right place and time to see how events unfolded, but I would choose the right moment. I staked out a spot near the front facade of the Nelson-Atkins Museum, which had been torn down in 2045 to make room for a new public safety complex, one that could house armored personnel carriers. I could tell from the elegantly black-clad doormen and the young women in petticoated dresses that I would never get into the ball. So I had to think quickly of an alternative.
I wasn’t given much time. I looked up and saw Kat, in a flowing yellow dress with drop shoulders and a light shawl. She walked alongside Harold, who looked a little younger than he had when I had met him. Harold, of course, wore a black tuxedo.
Kat didn’t sound enamored as much as she sounded vaguely vexed. “So why, Harold? I don’t like to dress up, I don’t like to dance with people, and I don’t like you.” Interesting words for someone who was in love with Harold.
“It’s an experiment about time. I’ll leave you here, Kat, and you see if you can get in. I’ll come back later and dance with you.” I realized I had an opening, but I had to act quickly. As soon as Harold had bounced away, I ran up to the dark-haired young woman with the long white lock of hair hanging into her face.
Fifteen-year-old Kat looked me up and down and raised her eyebrows. “Hmm,” she said. “Did you want me to give you oral in the alley? That’s twenty.”
I felt sadness wash over me. “No, not at all. I want to dance with you.”
“Nothing for money?” she asked skeptically.
“Nothing for money.” I meant to keep this child safe; realizing that this teen was my Kat left me confused and queasy. I determined I would dance with her as if she were the cousin I never had, dance enough to tell her that she could dream.
Young Kat stared through me with those scornful ice-blue eyes. If I failed, there would be more pain, more cynicism in this child, and in the adult Kat.
“Would you like to dance with me?” I bowed to her.
“I won’t go in there,” she responded. “Harold will have to drag me inside if he wants me there.”
“No, here. On the sidewalk.”
She looked at me, and the shrewdness dropped. “I put my hands on your shoulders, right?”
“Yes, and I put my hands around your waist like this.”
(“Mom, Dad, what are you doing?” I asked as my parents whirled around the sparsely furnished dining room.
“It’s called dancing. We used to do this when we were young. We do this in memory of the culture we have lost.” My dad spun my mother around, and she laughed. “Would you like to learn?”
And my beautiful red-haired mother taught me the box step that night.)
The young woman took to the box step immediately as we danced to music that maybe she remembered in her head, because of course she led. She stood a little shorter than my Kat did, a little skinny and fragile from her life on the street.
I whispered, “Would you like to find a place to live?”
“I knew there was a price,” she muttered, and I wanted to cry.
“No. No price. Just a Traveller who needs to teach you how to be strong and fly.”
I thought she would reject this plea as well, but she stopped dancing and mumbled, “Take me there.”
I put my hands around her waist and she mine. Then I bounced to 2065 and then to 1994 and Berkeley’s familiar porch down the road from the museum. When a younger, just-balding Berkeley opened the door, I said, “This young Traveller needs a place to live. She’s been on the street, and she’s in grave danger.”
Words Like Me 