2009
For a moment he didn’t get it. Then he did, and the world suddenly turned itself up to super-bright, as if some supernatural being had cranked the rheostat controlling the daylight. And all the noises in the café—the clash of forks, the rattle of plates, the steady babble of conversation—seemed too loud.
“My God,” he whispered. “No wonder it’s expensive.”
This was too much. Way too much. He moved to turn the Kindle off, then heard cheering and yelling outside. He looked up and saw a yellow bus with MOORE COLLEGE ATHLETIC DEPARTMENT printed on the side. Cheerleaders and players were leaning out the open windows, waving and laughing and yelling stuff like “ Go, Meerkats! ” and “ We’re number one! ” One of the young women was actually wearing a big foam Number One finger on her hand. The pedestrians on Main Street were grinning and waving back.
Wesley lifted his own hand and waved feebly. The bus driver honked his horn. Flapping from the rear of the bus was a piece of sheeting with THE MEERKATS WILL ROCK THE RUPP spray-painted on it. Wesley became aware that people in the café were applauding. All this seemed to be happening in another world. Another Ur.
When the bus was gone, Wesley looked down at the pink Kindle again. He decided he wanted to utilize at least one of his ten downloads, after all. The locals didn’t have much use for the student body as a whole—the standard town-versus-gown thing—but they loved the Lady Meerkats because everybody loves a winner. The tourney’s results, pre-season or not, would be front-page news in Monday’s Echo . If they won, he could buy Ellen a victory gift, and if they lost, he could buy her a consolation present.
“I’m a winner either way,” he said, and entered Monday’s date: November 23 rd , 2009.
The Kindle thought for a long time, then produced a newspaper front page.
The date was Monday’s date.
The headline was huge and black.
Wesley spilled his coffee and yanked the Kindle out of danger even as lukewarm coffee soaked his crotch.
.
Fifteen minutes later he was pacing the living room of Robbie Henderson’s apartment while Robbie—who’d been up when Wesley came hammering at the door but was still wearing the tee-shirt and basketball shorts he slept in—stared at the screen of the Kindle.
“We have to call someone,” Wesley said. He was smacking a fist into an open palm, and hard enough to turn the skin red. “We have to call the police. No, wait! The arena! Call the Rupp and leave a message for her to call me, ASAP! No, that’s wrong! Too slow! I’ll call her now. That’s what—”
“Relax, Mr. Smith—Wes, I mean.”
“How can I relax? Don’t you see that thing? Are you blind ?”
“No, but you still have to relax. Pardon the expression, but you’re losing your shit, and people can’t think productively when they’re doing that.”
“But—”
“Take a deep breath. And remind yourself that according to this, we’ve got almost sixty hours.”
“Easy for you to say. Your girlfriend isn’t going to be on that bus when it starts back to—” Then he stopped, because that wasn’t so. Josie Quinn was on the team, and according to Robbie, he and Josie had a thing going on.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I saw the headline and freaked. I didn’t even pay for my breakfast, just ran up here. I know I look like I wet my pants, and I damn near did. Not with coffee, either. Thank God your roommates are gone.”
“I’m pretty freaked, too,” Robbie admitted, and for a moment they studied the screen in silence. According to Wesley’s Kindle, Monday’s edition of The Echo was going to have a black border around the front page as well as a black headline on top of it. That headline read:
COACH, 7 STUDENTS KILLED IN HORRIFIC BUS CRASH; 9 OTHERS CRITICAL
The story itself really wasn’t a story at all, only an item. Even in his distress, Wesley knew why. The accident had
For a moment he didn’t get it. Then he did, and the world suddenly turned itself up to super-bright, as if some supernatural being had cranked the rheostat controlling the daylight. And all the noises in the café—the clash of forks, the rattle of plates, the steady babble of conversation—seemed too loud.
“My God,” he whispered. “No wonder it’s expensive.”
This was too much. Way too much. He moved to turn the Kindle off, then heard cheering and yelling outside. He looked up and saw a yellow bus with MOORE COLLEGE ATHLETIC DEPARTMENT printed on the side. Cheerleaders and players were leaning out the open windows, waving and laughing and yelling stuff like “ Go, Meerkats! ” and “ We’re number one! ” One of the young women was actually wearing a big foam Number One finger on her hand. The pedestrians on Main Street were grinning and waving back.
Wesley lifted his own hand and waved feebly. The bus driver honked his horn. Flapping from the rear of the bus was a piece of sheeting with THE MEERKATS WILL ROCK THE RUPP spray-painted on it. Wesley became aware that people in the café were applauding. All this seemed to be happening in another world. Another Ur.
When the bus was gone, Wesley looked down at the pink Kindle again. He decided he wanted to utilize at least one of his ten downloads, after all. The locals didn’t have much use for the student body as a whole—the standard town-versus-gown thing—but they loved the Lady Meerkats because everybody loves a winner. The tourney’s results, pre-season or not, would be front-page news in Monday’s Echo . If they won, he could buy Ellen a victory gift, and if they lost, he could buy her a consolation present.
“I’m a winner either way,” he said, and entered Monday’s date: November 23 rd , 2009.
The Kindle thought for a long time, then produced a newspaper front page.
The date was Monday’s date.
The headline was huge and black.
Wesley spilled his coffee and yanked the Kindle out of danger even as lukewarm coffee soaked his crotch.
.
Fifteen minutes later he was pacing the living room of Robbie Henderson’s apartment while Robbie—who’d been up when Wesley came hammering at the door but was still wearing the tee-shirt and basketball shorts he slept in—stared at the screen of the Kindle.
“We have to call someone,” Wesley said. He was smacking a fist into an open palm, and hard enough to turn the skin red. “We have to call the police. No, wait! The arena! Call the Rupp and leave a message for her to call me, ASAP! No, that’s wrong! Too slow! I’ll call her now. That’s what—”
“Relax, Mr. Smith—Wes, I mean.”
“How can I relax? Don’t you see that thing? Are you blind ?”
“No, but you still have to relax. Pardon the expression, but you’re losing your shit, and people can’t think productively when they’re doing that.”
“But—”
“Take a deep breath. And remind yourself that according to this, we’ve got almost sixty hours.”
“Easy for you to say. Your girlfriend isn’t going to be on that bus when it starts back to—” Then he stopped, because that wasn’t so. Josie Quinn was on the team, and according to Robbie, he and Josie had a thing going on.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I saw the headline and freaked. I didn’t even pay for my breakfast, just ran up here. I know I look like I wet my pants, and I damn near did. Not with coffee, either. Thank God your roommates are gone.”
“I’m pretty freaked, too,” Robbie admitted, and for a moment they studied the screen in silence. According to Wesley’s Kindle, Monday’s edition of The Echo was going to have a black border around the front page as well as a black headline on top of it. That headline read:
COACH, 7 STUDENTS KILLED IN HORRIFIC BUS CRASH; 9 OTHERS CRITICAL
The story itself really wasn’t a story at all, only an item. Even in his distress, Wesley knew why. The accident had
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