Art is full of theories about time, and as we head up the stairs to leave the support group, I let him talk.
“Since they haven’t found any sort of device on the plane, I think we’re dealing with—” As he pushes open the door to the parking lot, we’re blinded by a bright light.
A woman sticks a microphone in my face. “Miss Waters, how are you holding up in this new century? Do you appreciate the support from your fellow passengers?”
I blink at her, too stunned to answer.
Art puts an arm across me. “Dude. What are you doing here? This is a private meeting, and you know we’re not supposed to talk to you.”
“It’s a public space,” the reporter says.
She turns her high-wattage smile on me, along with the high-wattage light on the camera behind her. She’s wearing capris, a sleeveless shirt, and heeled sandals. Man, broadcast news sure has gotten more casual since 1995.
“Miss Waters,” she says, “how do you feel being the poster child for Flight 237?”
I frown, picturing a poster of myself with the flight number across it in cursive script. “I’m no more special than anyone else. We’re all in this together.”
The light catches on her gleaming hazel eyes, and I realize I’ve done exactly what they’ve told us not to do: I’ve engaged.
Her dark hair swishes over her pale shoulders as she shakes her head. “You’re a star, Jenny Waters. Your best friend, Angela Russell Graham”—she leans in and drops her voice like she’s telling me a secret—“married your boyfriend and wrote a book about you!”
Internally I’m screaming that this is none of her business and I have no comment. But as a journalist myself, I know that if I walk away now, after I’ve already answered one question instead of saying “no comment,” it will only make things worse. Plus, at the moment, she’s asking about my personal life, so maybe I’m not actually violating the FBI’s gag order.
“And now you’re going to school with the Grahams’ children, Dylan and Jennifer. She’s named after you, right?”
It’s surprising to realize that while I don’t mind digging into other people’s business as a reporter, I’m uncomfortable being on the receiving end. Also how much it hurts to hear her mention Dylan. I’ve been so focused on how Angie burned me I haven’t really processed Dylan’s betrayal. But I won’t give her the satisfaction of seeing my reaction.
I tilt my head to the side and smile. “Who did you say you work for? The National Enquirer?”
The insult hits its mark. She flinches, and I hear someone behind me stifle a laugh. Art. Of course. We’re trapped at the top of the steps, blocking the rest of the group from coming up into the parking lot. They’re standing behind me—and not just physically. I am strong. I will not let this century tear me down.
The reporter purses her lips. “Are you refusing to comment on the book?”
So that’s how it’s gonna be. “Are you refusing to tell me who you work for?”
She hooks her thumb at the camera on the guy’s shoulder, where the station’s call sign is clearly listed. Crap. I’m not helping myself by antagonizing the reporter. I realize this, but I really don’t want to talk about Angie on TV. It’s too new.
Captain McCoy pushes up beside me. “Miss Barren, how did you find out about our meeting tonight?”
I’m impressed by his tone. He doesn’t sound upset at all, more like he ran into her in the grocery store and is asking her if the plums look ripe today.
Miss Barren flicks her eyes to the side before meeting Captain McCoy’s gaze. (She never told me her name either, which was rude. I introduce myself to interview subjects first thing.) “A lucky coincidence,” she says.
“Hmm.” Captain McCoy is unconvinced, and so am I. Somebody tipped her off. A family member? Because who else knows we’re meeting? I guess someone, even her, could have followed one of us, although I’d expect her to have ambushed me earlier, when I was alone in the parking lot, if that had been the case.
She turns on me again. “About the book, Jenny?”
She won’t give up, and while I haven’t forgiven Angie, not even close, it’s not the public’s business. So I smile tightly and go with Mom’s line. “Angie Russ—Graham wrote Jenny and Me to show how much she loved and missed me. She told me writing it made her feel closer to me.” Technically we haven’t discussed the book yet, but clearly that’s what she meant by that statement. “She believed I was gone and wrote it as a tribute. She couldn’t have known I’d return and be faced with it.”
I nearly choke on the words. They may be true, but they’re not what I feel. Just because she thought I was dead, she didn’t have the right to air all those intimate details. I hate this reporter for making me say it out loud.
But I must sell it well enough, because she nods. “I see. And have you answered PATROL’s call to be tested yet, Jenny?”
“Yes!” I blurt. Behind me, Captain McCoy clears his throat, a warning I should shut up now, but my mouth has a mind of its own. Besides, I’ve never agreed with this policy to keep the passengers silent, even though I didn’t expect to be the spokesperson. “And for your information, the FBI already planned more extensive tests before there was any PATROL, Miss Barren.” I put special emphasis on her name just to show her how rude I think she is. I don’t care if it’s juvenile. They want to emphasize how young I am? Fine. “I’m confident the tests will confirm my parents and I are one hundred percent DNA matches.”
I resist the urge to add, And that I don’t have any alien DNA.
Miss Barren nods thoughtfully. “But will they be able to verify conclusively that you aren’t cloned from the preserved DNA of Jennifer Waters?”
For a moment I’m shocked into silence, and I’m sure it shows on my face, ruining everything I’ve accomplished in this interview so far, but then I laugh and gesture behind her. “Did you paint that logo on your camera?”
My implication is clear, and from the way she narrows her eyes, I see I’ve made an enemy.
“Jenny has a point,” Art jumps in. “Let’s run with your cloning theory for a moment. Say some mad scientist”—he exaggerates the title to make it sound extra ridiculous—“or perhaps a master illusionist figured out how to make the plane disappear. A real David Copperfield.”
Miss Barren looks blank. Seriously? David Copperfield made the Great Wall of China disappear! I mean, they should’ve at least asked him how it might’ve been done.
Art appears equally exasperated with Miss Barren. “Anyway, once the scientist-slash-illusionist has the plane, they have access to the DNA of all the people, so they clone them and make them the same ages they were when they got on the plane, right?”
Miss Barren opens her mouth to answer and then closes it like she realizes the flaw in her own logic now. I try not to smile smugly because the camera is still running. I think it’s pointing mainly at Art, but I really don’t want that image captured on TV.
“Bzzz!” Art says like he’s pushing a buzzer on a game show. “Wrong!” He turns to point at Mr. Spring behind him. “Because even if cloning has been perfected in the twenty-first century—and I don’t think it has been—that’s some extra-advanced science to speed up Mr. Spring here’s development so he could age eighty-something years in the twenty-five years we were missing. Unless you’re suggesting this alleged conspiracy began like a hundred years ago, way before our plane disappeared, the scientist-slash-illusionist somehow knew everyone who would be on it, and stole our DNA at just the right times in our lives so they could incubate our clones to be the right age today.”
Wow. Just wow. I’m so impressed by that explanation I want to tackle-hug Art right now. Unsure if he’s the hugging type, I hold up my hand for a high five, which he indulges. I don’t even care if high fives aren’t cool anymore.
Miss Barren opens and closes her mouth like a fish, then clears her throat. “That’s a compelling argument, Mr. Ross.” She lifts her chin. “I’m only asking what viewers want to know.”
Art’s face screws up in disgust, clearly about to go off on the “viewers” in a way that would completely negate his well-articulated argument against cloning, so I quickly jump in. “Maybe viewers should be asking about PATROL. Why are they so bent on proving we aren’t who we say we are? What’s their motive? I hope they own up to their mistake once we all prove we did nothing but get on a plane.”
I’m itching to throw out the information Art gave us about the two PATROL founders writing a paper supporting time travel, or even Ashling’s tip about the insurance backers, but I will abide by Captain McCoy’s wishes to hold off; it’s wise to check our sources.
Captain McCoy steps in again. “We understand viewers are trying to come up with explanations. We are too.” He raises his eyebrows and lowers his chin. “We’d be happy to discuss it further when we’ve been officially cleared to do so.”
Whereas Miss Barren treated me and even Art like easy-to-manipulate kids, she’s clearly intimidated by Captain McCoy. She signals the cameraman, and he clicks off the light.
Miss Barren wiggles the microphone in my direction. “I’ll be in touch.” She whirls, her heels clicking as she strides away.
“Do you think they’ll air what Art said?” I ask Captain McCoy as we step out onto the parking lot to make room for the rest of the group to file out.
Art puffs out his chest. “They’d better. I sounded good.”
I twist my mouth. “Yeah, but she could edit it so you don’t.”
“If she does, I’ll have one of my great-grandkids take care of it,” Mr. Spring says.
“Considering it was the first passenger interview, I’m sure Greta Barren will air all of it.” Captain McCoy turns to Mr. Spring. “But I’m curious. How exactly would you do that?”
Mr. Spring holds up a phone. “With the video I took of the whole thing.”
Even if I had my phone, it wouldn’t have occurred to me to record that incident. Mr. Spring is closer to being a modern teen than me.
“Good thinking, Ted. It’s smart to have a backup,” Captain McCoy says. He turns to me and Art. “But I think our bigger concern at this point is what the FBI will have to say about your interview.”
Forget the FBI, though. I have to report to a higher power: my parents.