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  Future Imperfect

  K Ryer Breese

  When 17-year-old Ade Patience knocks himself unconscious, he can see the future. However, he's also addicted to the high he gets when he breaks the laws of physics. And while he's seen things he's wanted to change, Ade knows The Rule: You can't change the future, no matter how hard you try.

  His memory is failing, his grades are in a death spiral, and both Ade's best friend and his shrink are begging him to stop before he kills himself. Luckily, the stunning Vauxhall Rodolfo recently transferred to his school and, just like Ade saw in a vision two years previously, they're destined to fall in love. It's just the motivation Ade needs to kick his habit. Only… things are a bit more complicated than that. Vauxhall has a powerful addiction of her own. And after a vision in which Ade sees himself murdering someone, he realizes he must break the one rule he's been told he can't.

  Ade and Vauxhall must overcome their addictions and embrace their love for each other in order to do the impossible: change the future.

  Future Imperfect melds the excitement of a classic Marvel Comics hero with the modern romance of Twilight,and the result is a genre-bending Young Adult tour-de-force.

  K Ryer Breese

  Future Imperfect

  Copyright © 2011 by K. Ryer Breese

  For Russell Hoban

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Countless thanks to my agent, Jessica Regel, for her insight and enthusiasm, guidance and grace; an endless supply of gratitude to John Schoenfelder, a genius master of storytelling, and Russell Ackerman, a diviner in his own right; heapings of appreciation to Brendan Deneen for his superhuman editorial skills; and boundless love to Jess, EE, Mo, and Hedge, P-Dogg (Mutants!), Saba and Savta, and Grandpa and Grandma.

  PROLOGUE

  Jimi Ministry didn’t have this many tattoos two weeks ago.

  The ones on his wrists, it’s obvious that they’re pretty fresh.

  Maybe it’s the fact that they’re still bright red, spanked raw and swollen, but looking at them I see my family. My distant family.

  On his left wrist I think I see my great-grandmother Ethyl on my mother’s side. And I’ve only ever seen her in pictures.

  On the right wrist, that’s got to be my dad’s favorite uncle, the one who died in Korea. Was his name Benson?

  It could be the fact that it’s night and Jimi’s underwater, but the images on his flesh are blurry. Like they’re dancing just under the surface of the lake. And his knuckles have gone cold white from grabbing on to my arms so tight.

  This is because I’m holding him down.

  This is because I’m drowning him.

  Jimi’s face, it looks almost serene.

  It’s not like in the movies where people thrash around, kick the water into a froth, and their faces get all distorted with fear. No, Jimi’s practically calm and all this is happening very slowly. The night above us is cool and bursting with stars. On the beach behind me there’s only the tiny lapping of waves. Like many dogs drinking water.

  With my hands around Jimi’s neck, squeezing the air out of him, I can’t help but get nostalgic. The rage in me has reached such a fevered pitch my hair’s on end. If you took my temperature right now I’m sure it’d look fatal.

  But Jimi’s finally under control.

  He’s fading so fast.

  The love of my life, she’s back there in the night. She’s waiting, anxious.

  Probably gripping the straps of her purse as tightly as I’ve got Jimi’s throat.

  On Jimi’s thumb knuckle on his right hand there’s a tattoo of a turtle. Most turtles look the same unless they’re exotic. You know, like some Amazonian turtle. But this one, I’m pretty sure it’s the same box turtle I had in fifth grade. His name was Metatron, after the archangel in the Hebrew scripture. My mom found him on one of her dashes through Pueblo. I’d know his shell pattern anywhere.

  Right now is right now.

  Every half-second clicks into place as deafening as thunder.

  Right now is all that matters

  And right now, Jimi’s underwater and his face is relaxing into darkness.

  The fury in me is so ferocious that I’m likely to split in half.

  This is what the Metal Sisters assured me. What Grandpa Razor was so confident about. All the experts, all the professionals I’ve talked to, this is exactly why they told me they didn’t know. This was inevitable.

  Call it fate.

  Call it destiny.

  Whatever you call it, it’s murder.

  CHAPTER ONE

  ONE

  Mr. von Ravengate

  Raven’s Magikal Gifts, Aurora Mall

  Aurora, CO

  Thanks for the letter, Heinz.

  Off the bat, I should mention I’m not religious. My mom’s super into Jesus, but that really hasn’t rubbed off on me. Not to say I’d dig Satanism either. Sorry, but that’d kill my mom. Stroke for sure. Good to know you find it meaningful though, and, hey, I am intrigued about the whole Atlantis psychic thing. But not so much the goat with a thousand eyes business.

  Anyway, to answer a few of your questions:

  1. No. I’ve never seen any strange vistas that resemble Yes album covers. I’ve never seen a Yes album cover. I just see the future and it looks pretty much like now.

  2. No. No demons. Or Daemons. Or whatever.

  3. Sure, there are Rules. Two major ones, really. Seeing the future’s the easy part; the hard part’s what comes after. It’s breaking the Rules that’s tough. These Rules, they’re mine. Didn’t take long for me to figure them out either.

  Rule No. 1. The future can’t be changed once it’s been seen.

  See, it’s not like on television or in the movies. It’s not racing against the clock to make sure that x (the car, the tree, the cat, the ax, the bus, the moon) doesn’t fall on y (the girl, the baby, the cat, the house, the church, the school). There’s no shouting into the phone trying to convince the police of something. What I see, it always happens. Always.

  Rule No. 2. If you ignore Rule No. 1 and try to change the future, you’ll end up only making a mess of things.

  This is the sucky part. I’ve got all sorts of stories about things going really wrong when playing superhero. Once, I saw this guy die in a fire, just him wearing a suit of flames. Took me a long time to figure out who the dude was but when I did, I called him anonymously and warned him. Told him it would happen in like a week or so. The dude just totally freaked out, got off the phone, jumped in his car, and crashed into a semi. Burned to a crisp. Voilà. Twice I tried to change things directly. Both times ended badly. Really really badly.

  4. Exactly. Directional. If I focus hard enough, kind of clear my mind and then push down hard, you know, like when you focus on something really close to your eyes, the way those hidden picture posters work, then I can see really far out. Like decades. If I don’t, if I just let the hit happen and not try to focus in, then I see maybe weeks out. Days. Once, even hours. But I try to avoid doing that. Doesn’t have the same, well, effect.

  5. Yes.

  6. Like in comics? No. Once, I tried. You know, got a suit at a costume shop and tried to stop this dude from getting stabbed outside Rock Island. See answer #3 as to what happened.

  7. Nope. Far as I know, I’m the only person who can do this. I’ve never seen anyone else, never met anyone else. Who knows though, right? Maybe there are some other freaks out there.

  Dude, sorry I can’t be of any help regarding your “transitional journeys” and “black magic manifesto.” And I can’t focus in and see if your novel will get published and become a bestseller. Really, it doesn’t work like that.

  Heinz, why I’ve been writing to you is because I need some help. If you were to consult your �
��alchemical tomes” and “dark scrolls,” ask a few minor devils or whatnot, do you think you could tell me how I can change the future once I’ve seen it? Can you tell me how I can break the rules?

  Thanks, Heinz.

  And love the cape.

  Ade Patience

  TWO

  Last night at the All Souls Chapel I told my mom’s Jesus friends I had a knockout summer.

  “Knock. Out,” I said all slow. “Know what I mean?”

  Mom knew what I meant and gave me a thumbs-up.

  Her pals, they just nodded and smiled.

  In their eyes, I’m such a freaking good kid.

  When summer break started I actually did keep things simple. For a while, anyway. Nothing too bold, nothing exceptionally daring. Not like what I’d done over winter break. There were the usual fights; mostly it was East football players and a couple run-ins with the bikers you always find outside the Piper Inn. And, yeah, I was black and bruised, bloodied even, but that’s par for the course. Wasn’t until mid-month that I decided to kick things up a notch. You know, experiment a bit.

  Do stuff the All Souls Chapel ladies would find, well, worrisome.

  There’s this half-pipe at the Denver Skate Park that I’d had my eye on for like months. It’s typical, concrete and tagged all over, maybe six feet at the top. I’d skated off it before and liked the way it bottomed out. Smooth. It was afternoon, hot day, and the sky was bright and blue and cloudless. They won’t let you in without a deck or a helmet, so I brought both just for the show of it. Once I was at the top of the half-pipe I tossed my deck, let my helmet roll down to the bottom, and then I took a deep breath and dove.

  Yeah, dove.

  I didn’t jump. I pulled a move like I was diving into a swim pool with my arms at my sides. Looked pretty impressive too. Up, arc, and then down. Took a lot of training, and I’m talking a lot, to get to the point that I can dive like that and not put my hands out in front of me to break the fall at the last second. My wrists, I’ve broken them maybe five times. But that day everything went perfect.

  The sound my head made when it hit that concrete, it was priceless.

  The concussion felt almost as good as being in love.

  The skate park, it joins a long list of places I’m not allowed back at.

  Ever.

  Rest of May I wasn’t quite as clever. A few car accidents, several bike crashes, and a fairly decent brawl in the Cherry Creek Mall.

  Those concussions were good but not great.

  In June I decided to push things even further.

  I paid a guy five bucks to hit me in the back of the head with a two-by-four in the vacant lot behind the train station. I was hit by a car and went flying thirty-two feet on Hampden in front of the Whole Foods. Threw myself down one of those long staircases at the Performing Arts Complex. Even took a bike off the side of the Millennium Bridge.

  After that it was hard going back to the usual.

  The “accidents” just weren’t delivering.

  My best friend, Paige, she was not at all happy. I can’t even count how many times she threatened to ditch me. How many times she called me the most selfish person she’d ever met after seeing me at the hospital. How many times she suggested I just go ahead and schedule the lobotomy the usual way. How many times she cried and hit me.

  The All Souls Chapel ladies, they’d never understand this. My mom, she gets it because I’m her only kid and I’m giving her what she wants. My coma dad, if he was awake I’m sure he might have had a problem with it all. Guess we’ll never know.

  Anyway, early July is when I sort of reached a peak.

  It had been a slow day, I’d made the rounds downtown, trying to jump in front of the mall buses, but they were all going too slow to do anything but knock me down. I entertained the thought of getting hit by a light-rail train but didn’t want to get mangled. So I wound up at Monaco Lanes Bowling.

  Good thing the Skins were there.

  I’d seen these particular skinheads at the bowling alley before. There was the one with the Mohawk and the combat boots and the older, pudgy one with the really lame mustache. All told there were five including a girl and she was wearing tons of mascara and had a swastika tattoo on her neck.

  The day had been such a bust I figured this would be fairly easy.

  I walked in and got some shoes and a ball and then took a lane a few over from the skinhead gang. This was maybe at two in the afternoon and besides me and the punks the place was pretty much empty. A lone bowler at the end in a bowling jersey like he really took the sport seriously and the guy working the counter.

  I threw a few gutter balls and got antsy.

  I was thinking of what to yell over to these Skins, eager to get the show going, when one of them, the pudgster with the caterpillar on his lip, shouted over, “Why are you even trying? You suck.”

  This was my opening and I walked over to them, them all standing up, eyes narrowed, putting on their violent faces, and poked the pudgy dude in the chest. I said, “I might suck, but not as much as your mom does when I’m visiting her in the nursing home.”

  And voilà! The magic happened. The girl hit me with her bowling ball in the lower back. That kicked my breath out, and knocked me to the floor, and then the Mohawk dude just started stomping. Actually, all of them just started stomping. So predictable. I was out fast.

  Unconscious for nearly two days.

  Saw footage of the beat down on the news the evening I woke up in the hospital. Those skinheads sure were inventive after I was unconscious. One of them slid me hard down the lane and I hit the bowling pins something terrible. Got a strike for sure. This video, last time I checked it, had a million plus views online. Good to know I can provide some entertainment.

  Last night, if my mom’s Friends-in-Christ at the All Souls Chapel heard all this, they’d have freaked out. They’d have laughed, wondering if I was joking, and then, when they saw I was serious, gone all pale and walked away. I’ve seen that so many times.

  I started my junior year at Mantlo High two weeks ago.

  Summer’s gone and I’m stuck chasing down concussions at school. Pretty much just guarantees me getting suspended a whole grip of times. But this year, it’s going to be different. This year, it will be the best year of my life. The year where everything changes. I know because I’ve already seen it.

  Fact is: I don’t hit my head for the pain. This isn’t some masochistic thing.

  I have a gift. A power.

  I am an oracle.

  A soothsayer.

  When my head gets rocked, when my skull cracks and my brain bounces, there is this tunnel of light that appears and in my mind I dive down into it. This tunnel, it doesn’t lead to Heaven or some other universe, it leads to what comes next.

  When I get a concussion I can see into the future.

  THREE

  So it makes sense that in about forty-five seconds I’m going to jump off the roof of my school.

  It’s about two stories up and I’m expecting a pretty major concussion.

  For me, this roof is a stepping-stone. Just like today and tomorrow are only heartbeats in the way of what’s coming.

  What’s next is all that matters.

  Fact is: When I’m not in the future the world just seems so slowed down.

  The right here, the right now, for me it’s like an ancient civilization.

  On the lawn right now, snacking on their lunches and guzzling sodas, making out and smoking, my fellow classmates are Romans and Greeks. They are soon to be fossils and ash sculptures from Vesuvius. Stuck in time the way trees are.

  But me, I’m always moving forward.

  How do I do it?

  How does me getting my head bashed in send me spinning into the future?

  Who knows?

  I’ve been writing to experts, people like doctors and physicists and philosophers, but none of them can give me a straight answer as to why. Either they don’t believe me or they feel sorry for me.
Like, short bus sorry for me.

  All but one guy and he’s my shrink.

  His name is Dr. Reginald Borgo and he knows that what I can do is real. He’s mentioned to me that he’s seen others, people who can do some pretty spectacular shit, but I’ve yet to meet any of them. Borgo assures me they’re out there. That it’s just a matter of time. I should also mention that most medical professionals consider Borgo a quack. Figures, right?

  Thirty-six seconds from jumping and my sneakers are already half off the roof.

  I’m moving out of Denver.

  I’m quickly moving out of my junior year at Mantlo High School.

  I’m moving away from my coma father and my Jesus-obsessed mother.

  But I’m going to get into all that soon enough.

  Today, it’s the roof and the ground and my eyes on the prize: When She and I are together and moving toward what comes next at lightning speed.

  Who is She?

  Only the most astonishing girl in the world. I’ve only ever seen Her once and it wasn’t now. Like not in the present. I don’t know Her name or where She’s from. I saw Her in a vision in eighth grade, one of my very first visions, and I know that we’ll be in love. As cheesy as it sounds, I know this girl’s the one.

  Us meeting will be classic.

  Blockbuster.

  Twenty-one seconds.

  How it’ll go down is like this: She will walk into the lunchroom with Jimi Ministry like they own the place and She’ll get on top of a table. Jimi’ll beat-box and She, standing there bright as a burning building, will sing. Yeah, She’ll sing.

  Her voice will be low and smoky and start almost like a whisper.

  She’ll sing, “Your own personal Jesus… Someone to hear your prayers…”

  And then She’ll move over to me. Me sitting there enraptured.