November 29, 1994

Martha awoke to the bell of her clock. She had been having a fascinating dream about taking part in some kind of scavenger hunt with a boy she used to know. It took place at an altered version of a campground she visited in elementary school and, in the dream, they were being hunted by kidnappers or possibly government agents. She stretched and yawned. She tried to remember the boy's name and now couldn't remember his face. It was a fascinating dream, she was certain. She couldn't remember where it took place or exactly what they were supposed to be doing. She stood up and it was gone; deemed nonessential by her brain and discarded to the void.

The sun had yet to dawn, so Martha turned on her bedside lamp. She squinted, grabbed her robe off of a hook on her wall, and headed to the bathroom to prepare for the day.

Martha passed her father sitting at the dining room table on her way to the kitchen. She reached the pantry, opened the door, and surveyed the cereal.

"Morning," Steven greeted.

"Morning." She found the box of Frosted Flakes, then the bowl, spoon, and milk and her breakfast was made. Steven ate from his bowl of Grapenuts and read the business section of the morning paper.

The paper!

"Are you done with the front page?" she asked anxiously. She couldn't wait to see James' predictions fall flat. She could tease him for acting like a know-it-all and taunt him while he wore the Lakers jersey. Mostly, however, she was excited about the attention their little game promised. He wasn't at school the previous day and they hadn't spoken since the bet was made the day before that. Win or lose, there would be a reckoning.

"Mm-hmm," he answered. "Help yourself."

She rifled through the cluttered pile of Chicago Tribune sections her father had opened or skipped. She found the front page and there at the top was Jeffrey Dahmer's mugshot with the headline 'Dahmer's Just Desserts' next to it. Down the page on the bottom right corner was the second: 'Fire Kills 233 in China Dance Hall.'

"Holy shit," Martha said incredulously.

"Is that how we're talking now?" Steven asked.

"What? Oh... sorry."

It was a hell of a magic trick. How?? Could... the headlines be fake? She thought the plot through: James wrote the fake articles plus the half dozen others that filled out the front page all with fake supporting photography, then with access to an incredibly sophisticated printer created the front page, waited for the real paper to be delivered, then seamlessly replaced the real with the fake. That's about as believable as James actually using a crystal ball. She conceded defeat. There would be no Lakers jersey. But there would be an explanation.

The back of Camisha's shirt was a series of black, brown, tan, and white horizontal stripes. Martha's eyes jumped from one to the next as she ignored the lesson on Greek Mythology. He wasn't at school yesterday. Could he have flown to China and then... She shook her head, deciding against the possibility he was a globe-trotting, homicidal arsonist. But she hated unsolved puzzles and not knowing left her mind uneasy.

"Martha?"

How??

"Martha Beckett?" Mrs. Hernandez repeated.

Martha came to. "What? Sorry. What was the question?"

"Please pay attention, dear. We were talking about Plato's Myth of Aristophanes. Would you care to summarize the myth and suggest how it relates to our world today?"

"Oh, okay. Um... we – human beings – used to have two heads, four arms, and four legs and everything was great. And Zeus worried we were too powerful or too content so he split us in half with his lightning bolts leaving us uh... like, jagged and broken? And we couldn't be fixed until we found the other half that had the same jagged edges. And... I guess this would validate the idea of a soulmate. That we need to find another half to feel complete. But not just any half – like, the other half that was once a part of us."

"Thank you, Martha. Wonderful analysis," Mrs. Hernandez praised.

The comparison made Martha think of James and herself. It was a corny thought. Really corny! It felt true, however.

"Okay, that's it for today," Mrs. Hernandez said. The class jumped into motion, collecting their notebooks, binders, and pens. The majority began talking to one another. "Please read the Myth of Sisyphus tonight and write a short, three paragraph essay answering the same question – how does the myth apply to our lives today?"

Camisha turned to Martha and said, "What's your deal today?"

"Huh?" Martha's mind had drifted back to the puzzle.

Over the chatter, Mrs. Hernandez continued, "Perhaps an English teacher trying to earn the respect of her students, year after year?"

"It's like you're not here," Camisha said, frowning. "Where you at?"

"Uh... you know. Just thinking about the vocab quiz we have in French. Did you study? Because I can't remember what 'oublier' means."

"No way you're thinking about a quiz," Camisha said with a smile. "Ima' take a wild guess and say this's got something to do with Jimmy Quinn."

"Okay, fine." Martha didn't want to lie to Camisha, but she had resolved to not tell her or anyone about the bet. She wanted the game, the bet, the trick, or whatever it was to be James and hers alone. The bell rang and everyone stood. "I know, I know. He'll break my heart. But I swear we're just friends," she said truthfully. "And I'm fine with that," she added untruthfully.

Camisha rolled her eyes. "If you say so."

She entered their chemistry class. It was full but for their empty table in the back. She walked down the center aisle and took her seat. The bell had yet to ring, but James almost always beat Martha to chemistry. While the rest of the class babbled, she sat silently and kept her gaze fixed on the door. Was the follow-up to his newspaper trick to make himself disappear? Her anxiety grew by the second. She rubbed the scar on the side of her wrist compulsively. It was a remnant of a failed attempt shortly before the move – THE most pathetic attempt of all time! While shaving her legs in the bath and feeling the world closing in all around her, she pressed the razor against her skin. Though nowhere near any major veins or arteries, the blade drew blood and she panicked at the sight. In the end, the cut was large enough to leave the scar, but small enough to be her secret.

Presently, her eyes trained on the door, Martha ignored physical law and tried to will him through with the power of her mind or some such nonsense. The bell rang and she slumped and dropped her focus. Mr. Conners had yet to call for silence so the prattle continued.

She looked at the empty stool next to her. It had only been two days, but Martha felt a sudden sense of abandonment. Maybe she was overreacting. Perhaps he was home, legitimately ill. But you don't drop crazy shit like that on someone then bail!

Suddenly, her ears perked as through the din there came, "Sorry Mr. C."

She looked up and James was walking toward her. Joy flared. She tempered herself then glared at his smug face like a parent waiting on a child past curfew.

He sat and said with pompous congeniality, "Well hey, Martha. How's your day been?"

"Okay, that's enough," Mr. Conners compelled. "Please, take out your notebooks."

Martha whispered, "So?"

James whispered back, "So what?"

"Don't be stupid. You know what – the newspaper."

"Miss Beckett?" Mr. Conners interrupted.

Martha gave an apologetic smile and Mr. Conners turned to the chalkboard and began the lesson. James wrote on his notebook and slid it to her. It read, Can I give you a ride home? I'll explain then. Martha was impatient, but shrugged her agreement nevertheless.

Author's note:

Alternate, alternate title: 'So I'm Dating a Globe-trotting Homicidal Arsonist.'  Seriously though... How'd he do it???

Like, totally 90's detail: You've probably seen really old people looking at them in Starbucks.  They're called 'newspapers' and everyone used to read them because what's an internet?