Faces in Time Read Online Free Page B

past.
    Turning off the paved road, his slowly-turning tires eradicate the loose pieces of dirt, a sound that clearly signifies one has gone off the road most traveled. The road is a faintly worn path through an unkempt field, which becomes a parking lot at crowded school events, an arena for students to fight after school, and a refuge for a despondent loner to regain composure on a terrible day.
    His headlights reveal a lone tree off to the right. He has always imagined its branches drooped due to absorbing the sorrow of decades of dejected teens.
    He is certainly no stranger to the tree, although his last visit there was the best one. It was his prom night at Riverview High School, and he was there with three girls. None of them had dates, and they all knew each other from running the school newspaper. So, they decided to all go together. They managed to secure their own table, and he danced one slow song with each of the girls. At the end, they all danced one fast song together.
    All three had a crush on him; after all, he had been nicer to them than any boy they’d ever known. However, their affection for him was completely a secret to him. His meager confidence was such to dismiss a flip of the hair or a squeeze of his arm as a harmless act of kindness, never bold enough to discern a flirt.
    After the prom, they sat under the tree with a few battery-powered lanterns and a stereo. One of the girls brought a bottle of schnapps, but no one wanted to drink any. There was a tension of a date-type situation with the romance snuffed out. Being lonely with others was certainly better than any of his other trips to the tree, but it was still lacking. Still pining for something that he knew was out there. Aching for her.
    As he shifts the car into park, he rushes to grasp the device.
    The smooth plastic is cool on his fingers as he slides it out of his pocket. He raises it to his chest level and marvels at its illuminated screen. In the darkness of the unknown variables of his trip, one glowing object has performed exactly as planned.
    The glowing suddenly reminds him of energy, and he panics.
    He pats his left pants pocket, and finds nothing. Frantically he slides his hand into his right pocket and pulls out a tangle of wires with a bulb dangling from it. He smiles. The car charger was in his pocket, just as it was when he left his old life.
    Relief rushes through him as if it were the glow of the device warming his chest.
    His finger pushes a series of buttons with the facility of one writing one’s signature, making the screen flash and dance at his commands. T an outsider the device might appear to be a part of his hand, and it might as well be with so much of his time, energy, and hopes inside it. Its casing came from a manufacturer, but all of its innards have been replaced or modified by him.
    Through all of its advancements, it now displays an archaic picture of black and white, and it is exactly what he wants to see. He compares it to the pilfered newspaper on his vacant passenger seat, and they are an exact match. He has indeed gone back to the specific date in which he intended. Now, he has to determine if it will do him any good.
    He makes the device flip forward to tomorrow’s paper. Tomorrow has suddenly become a relative term. The front page is of little use, containing only national news of the upcoming presidential election.
    He makes the device turn pages to the local Riverview section. There is a picture of a woman wearing a ridiculous hat handing a teacher a present. The caption below it reads, “Mildred Sinclair, chairwoman of St. Christopher’s PTA, hands 20-year service award to drama club director Edna Hoover.”
    “That’s it!” he shouts aloud to the car.
    With his free left hand, he smacks the steering wheel. He looks at the time on his device and the darkness of the sky, deciphering if the digital numbers are in synch with the world he’s gone back to.
    “Gonna be close!” he exclaims as he