32
Leila used a tissue to scrub the mouthpiece of the clunky old telephone handset. It was gross looking—a round plastic thingy with a matrix of little holes that looked like they’d trapped germs, disease, and bad breath from thousands of New Yorkers since the beginning of time.
She could not fathom how people willingly used phone booths on the street to make calls. It wasn’t as if they really needed to in 2001. Up and down Columbus Avenue near Ninety-Third, she could see a lot of people talking into cell phones. Yet just a few moments earlier, some old guy had grabbed the handset of the pay phone next to hers and grumbled, “You can’t find a gosh darn phone booth anywhere these days!” Only he didn’t actually say gosh darn.
But Leila wasn’t picking up a signal on her own cell. Obviously iPhones weren’t compatible with time travel. So it came to this. A phone booth.
Cradling the boat-shaped handset between her ear and shoulder, she read a sticker that had been smacked onto the huge box that contained the phone’s buttons: For Information Dial 411.
She punched the number and waited. A mechanical voice prompt asked for a name. With an impatient sigh, Leila said, “Maria Fletcher.”
“Marie O’Fincher,” the voice responded. “If this is correct, press one. To try again, press two.”
Leila pressed two. “MARIA . . .” She waited a moment. “FLETCH-ER.”
“I am having trouble recognizing the name.”
“Because you’re a machine,” Leila yelled. “May I have a real person, please!”
“Ariel Persson. If this is correct . . .”
“Aaaaagh!”
“I am having trouble recognizing the name.”
About seven very frustrating minutes later, Leila had a phone number. She checked her watch. 10:31 p.m. Not too ridiculously late. Maria F. might be awake.
And if Leila could talk to her, maybe she could prevent her death.
This is crazy! a voice shouted in her head. The odds of Leila being a Throwback were teeny. Like, lottery odds. Maybe worse. Papou had failed to save Maria. Corey had failed to save her—and he was a Throwback.
Still.
She stared at the mouthpiece and took a deep breath. You never knew. Even if she could do nothing, she had nothing to lose.
Leila inserted two quarters into the phone and tapped out the number. After four rings, a male voice answered, “Hello?”
Leila choked back a gasp. She recognized the voice. It was a little more energetic, a little higher-pitched than she knew—younger, but unmistakably him. “Papou?” she said.
“Hello?” the voice repeated. “Who is it you’re looking for?”
Leila cringed. Of course he didn’t respond to the name Papou. He wasn’t a grandfather yet.
But before she could reply, he blurted out, “Maria? Maria, is that you? Please, honey, talk to me. I miss you!”
“No, it’s not. It’s . . .” Leila’s brain was spinning. “It’s a friend. Of Maria’s. From college. Lily.”
Lily? Leila almost hung up the phone right then, embarrassed by her own lameness.
“Oh, hi, Lily. She’s not here. I’m her husband. We’ve . . . separated, I guess you’d call it. Temporarily.”
Leila’s jaw dropped. He’d actually fallen for it. “I’m so sorry! Um . . . are you still in touch? Is there a number where she can be reached?”
“I don’t have the number at present. You know . . . we’re working things out. You could leave a message at her work number. She’ll get it first thing in the morning. Do you have a pen and paper?”
“Yes!” Leila lied.
As he gave her a number, Leila fumbled to pull a pen from her pants pocket. She scribbled the number on her arm while cradling the receiver between her ear and shoulder. “Thanks and, by the way,” she said, “if you do talk to her, please tell her not to go to work tomorrow. I know it sounds nuts. But you have to believe me. I’m . . . like you. I can hop.”
“Hop?”
“In time!” Leila said. “You know, like the Knickerbockers?”
“I’m afraid I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Leila cringed. He didn’t know. In 2001, he must not have started time traveling yet.
“So she’s not to go to work,” Papou continued. “And that would be because . . . ?”
“Because—because . . . ,” Leila stammered. Because a plane is going to fly into her building? Anything she said would make her seem like a lunatic or a stalker. Still, she couldn’t say nothing. “Because there is a report of a possible terrorist attack.”
“Well, they tried that in ninety-three,” Papou said wearily, “and they didn’t get too far. Anyway, if you reach her first, please call me back and let me know.”
“Will do.”
She hung up, quickly inserted the coins into the pay phone, and tried the work number. She thought hard about what kind of message she would leave. The phone rang once . . . twice . . . three times.
Okay. Okay. Slow down, she told herself. It was silly to do this before planning out exactly what to say. As she pulled the phone away from her ear to hang up, she heard a voice that made her blood run cold.
“Karelian Group, Maria speaking.”