Impossibility of Tomorrow by Avery Williams Page A

what Michelin stars are. “It’s my birthday,” he adds.
    “Happy birthday,” I say finally, when no one else speaks.
    “Thank you, Kailey,” Reed says warmly. “Do you want to join us?”
    I freeze. “Sorry,” I manage. “Homework.”
    “Another time, then,” Reed demurs.
    Not if I can help it.
    * * *
    Back in Kailey’s room, my phone buzzes with a text from Leyla: new boy luvs kailey, kailey perfects her ice queen bitchface. I would normally laugh, but I don’t share Leyla’s belief that Reed has a crush on me. I’m worried it’s something far more sinister, more . . . predatory.
    I plant myself in the desk chair and flip open Kailey’s laptop, typing Reed’s name into the Facebook search bar and pulling up his profile. Apparently we have dozens of friends in common already: Leyla, Madison, Chantal, even Echo, the ethereal boho girl from my art class.
    Should I be relieved that he hasn’t asked to be my friend? Somehow being ignored feels more ominous. Why is he treating me differently than the rest of the girls in the group?
    Reed’s profile page has his Berkeley address listed. I’ve never seen a home address on Facebook before, and it makes me wonder. I thought most people were afraid of identity theft and Internet stalkers.
    Suddenly, I’m determined to go see Reed’s house. I realize this makes me the kind of bona fide Internet stalker that people worry about. Well, serves him right.
    Before I can change my mind, I’m outside, wheeling Kailey’s bike out to the street and consulting Google maps on her phone in the deep twilight. I refuse to think aboutthe possibility that it could all be a trap; that if Reed is Cyrus, he might have listed an address knowing that I would go there.
    When I finally reach the Sawyers’ street, I’m so warmed by the exercise that I stop to take off my jacket. Mediterranean bungalows loom on both sides of the street, perched above beautifully terraced front yards. The Sawyer house—all soaring glass and slate walls—could not look more out of place. Its sleek front yard is full of smooth gray pebbles instead of grass and dotted with cacti in square orange planters, their color barely discernible in the dark.
    It appears to be completely deserted. There are no cars in the driveway, no lights on, inside or out. If I’m going to see anything, I’ll have to try the backyard. I tuck the bike behind a neighbor’s tree and approach the house, walking softly.
    I’m filled with a strange sense of excitement. For once, I’m the one in pursuit, the stalker outside the house, the monster in the shadows. I’m so used to it being the other way around.
    The side gate is locked, but I easily climb over it, landing with a soft thud in the backyard. I move carefully toward a floor-to-ceiling glass wall and peer inside, using Kailey’s iPhone as a flashlight.
    I don’t know what I expected to find—Cyrus’s bulletin board, covered with girls’ faces marked through with X ’s? Amakeshift laboratory? But all I see is a kitchen with gleaming copper pots above the stove and a pile of papers on the granite counter. Framed family photos decorate the wall leading into the family room, where a pair of slippers sits next to a white leather couch in front of an enormous television. In the corner, a neat pile of moving boxes waits to be broken down and recycled.
    I let out the breath I’d been holding, and the window immediately fogs up. I back away, sliding my phone into my pocket and retreating toward the street.
    I’m almost at the gate when I feel a tickling sensation in my hair, like a cat whose tail puffs up to twice its normal size. I whip my head around so quickly that my ponytail slaps my mouth.
    A curtain moves in an upstairs window. Someone was watching me.
    I hurry over to where I hid the bike, yanking it roughly toward me and banging my shin on the pedal. Tears sting my eyes, and I mash my lips together to keep from yelling.
    Just then, I feel a vibration coming