Page 14 of Twice
“You’re wasting your time, Detective.”
LaPorta turned. “Why?”
“Once I undo something, no record of my first actions exists. That was one reality, but we’re in this one now. The one where I just stood there and never approached that cage.”
“What are you talking about?” LaPorta snapped.
“I can’t explain the physics. I can only tell you that my second-chance life is the one the rest of this world is witnessing. I’m the only one who remembers the things I undid.”
“And that means...?”
“It means you’re not going to find anything.”
LaPorta rubbed his chin. He held for a moment. Then he dropped back into his chair.
“Well, isn’t that convenient for you.”
He took out his phone and pressed a number.
“Who are you calling?” Alfie asked.
“I ask the questions,” LaPorta replied.
Actually, he was still trying to reach his contact with the Bahamian police, a young officer named Sampson, who was supposed to be rounding up the casino staff for questioning. When no one answered, he hung up the phone and blew out a mouthful of air.
“Shall I continue?” Alfie asked.
“For now,” LaPorta said.
Two
The Composition Book
Since I mentioned Esther, Boss, I should get to how this power affected me in love. I find myself clinging to that subject these days. Who I’ve loved. Who’s loved me back. Who will keep me company in my final days? When we’re young, we want to satisfy every desire. When we’re old, our greatest desire is to not die alone.
Love began to interest me when I was twelve. Up to that point, I’d been awkward around girls. And, as a short, skinny kid, I worried I always would be. To be honest, the only time I’d felt comfortable with a girl was back in Africa, when Princess and I were being scooped up together in an elephant’s trunk. I sometimes wondered where she was now.
Then adolescence arrived. Girls began developing. Boys began noticing. Hormones raged, and by junior high, kids were having what we called “make-out parties.” They all had the same ingredients: a basement, a record player, a black light, and most importantly, parents who were gone for the evening. I made the mistake of mentioning these parties to my father once, who responded with, “I better not catch you at one of those, or it’ll be the last party you ever attend.”
Of course, that only made me want to go more. One Saturday, my friend Stewie, who was now a full head taller than me, mentioned a get-together at a girl’s house in the neighborhood. Her name was Robin. She lived on a cul-de-sac.
“There’s gonna be making out,” he said. “We should go.”
“Can Wesley come?” I asked.
“I’m asking you, not him. We don’t want too many boys there!”
I stayed home at first, partly out of loyalty to Wesley, but also out of fear. I’d never even kissed a girl. I didn’t think I could fake my way through it. But then my father went out, and the house grew so quiet that curiosity got the best of me. I could always tap out if things got too weird, right?
I quickly showered and dressed in my newest jeans and a tie-dyed T-shirt. Thinking about the girls who would be there, I spritzed some of my father’s aftershave on my neck and cheeks. I left the back door unlocked so I could sneak in later.
The “party” consisted of nine kids: four girls, five boys. After sitting around listening to music for a while, Robin suggested we play a game called Seven Minutes in Heaven, where couples went into a closet and stayed there for seven minutes.
“We have to pair up,” Robin said, smiling at Stewie, who smiled back. Robin was one of the popular kids in our class. She wore dark bangs over her forehead and silver gloss on her lips. “Also,” she said, “one of you boys will have to sit out, because there’s not enough girls to match up.”
“I’ll sit,” I quickly offered.
“No, not you.” She pointed to Herman, a sixth grader with a crew cut who had only been invited because he was another girl’s brother. “You.”
