I try to explain the situation to Luke.
“I need to figure out who Mr. Rice’s wife tutors,” I say.
“How do you know she’s a tutor?” Luke asks.
I roll my eyes at him and reply, “Because I do. Jesse Henson will tell me next year that Mrs. Rice is a better math tutor than Ms. Hanover is a teacher.”
“Who is Jesse Henson?” Luke asks, totally missing the point.
“Just a girl in my math class next year,” I say, annoyed. “She’ll sit next to me. She’s chatty.”
“So, what, you want to find out who Mrs. Rice tutors now so you can tell that kid about her husband?” Luke asks, finally seeing the light.
I nod once.
“But won’t the person just tell Mrs. Rice it was you who told?” Luke asks, confused.
“Not if I’m smart,” I say.
“I see,” he says, and I wonder whether he means it. Luke strums his hands on the steering wheel like he’s bored.
Nothing is happening at the Rice house, and I’m growing less and less excited about my mission by the second.
Sighing, I change the subject.
“What do you think of hypnotism?” I ask.
“Honestly, I don’t think about it,” Luke says, looking at me now with his soft blue eyes.
“Well, do for a minute. Do you think that I could be hypnotized to remember more?”
“More what? Past or future?”
“Either one,” I say, but I don’t really mean it. Remembering the future feels normal to me. The one past memory in my brain is like a splinter. It doesn’t belong.
“Maybe a hypnotist could jog your memory about me,” Luke mutters, looking back to the street.
“Maybe,” I say, focusing again on the house behind me. “Wouldn’t it be nice to date someone who remembers you every morning?”
“Sure,” Luke says. “Then again, maybe you’d get bored with me.”
“No way,” I reply. “So, what do you think?”
“I think it’s up to you,” Luke answers. His noncommittal comment bugs me. I glance his way to roll my eyes at him, and then I look back at the house.
Still nothing.
“I want whatever you want, as far as your brain is concerned. I love you no matter what,” Luke says, and when I turn to face him, our eyes lock.
I wonder whether my heart keeps time even when my head doesn’t. Maybe that’s why I feel so much for Luke right now, even though I technically just met him this morning in study hall.
Something catches my eye and ruins the moment. A white car zips past us, and I can only assume that it’s being driven by someone who can’t see the future dangers of reckless driving.
It turns without slowing into the driveway in front of the white house with the black shutters: 1553 Mountain Street.
The Messenger has arrived.