The Life of the World to Come by Dan Cluchey Page B

Hemingway. Coco Chanel. It was an incredibly vibrant place and time, and I think, as long as we’re free to pick here, I’d like to give it a try.”
    â€œOkay,” slurred Grace. “That sounds lovely—I’m going to Paris in the 1920s too. Sona, are you coming with us? It’s gonna be so … freaking vibrant.”
    Sona’s eyes bloomed open, and she craned her leaden arms back behind her head.
    â€œUnder no circumstances,” she deadpanned. “If I’m going to time travel, I’m going somewhere where I can take over the world, like a slightly thinner version of Cleopatra.”
    â€œIt isn’t time travel!” fumed Fiona.
    â€œCleopatra didn’t take over the world,” I pointed out.
    â€œAnd how do you know how thin Cleopatra was?” asked Emily.
    â€œYeah!” Gracie shouted, a little too loudly. Startled by her own volume, she added in a self-conscious whisper, “you weren’t there.”
    Sona surveyed us, bewildered, before Fiona took the reins.
    â€œIt isn’t time travel, Sona. You’re just born somewhere new.”
    â€œOkay.”
    â€œIt’s an important distinction.”
    â€œOkay,” Sona said evenly. “I will be a terrifying ruler at any time. Someplace warm, preferably. Has to be at least five centuries ago for it to work.”
    This satisfied all.
    â€œYour turn, honey,” Fiona said, boring a slim index finger into my left ear.
    â€œOw!” I yelped. “Stop being gross, please.”
    She retracted, and I gave my answer.
    â€œ1857,” I announced proudly.
    â€œJesus Christ,” said Boots. “Not this Buchanan shit again.”
    â€œA nation stands on the precipice of a bloody fracture.”
    â€œWhy are you the way you are?” inquired Sona.
    â€œThe whole of our American experiment poised either to collapse upon itself or survive by dint of a pyrrhic civil war.”
    â€œShut the fuck up,” said Boots. “Shut the fuck up.”
    â€œA venerable diplomat of unrivaled credentials is called upon once more by his country to serve. His name—”
    â€œDarryl Strawberry,” said Boots.
    â€œJames Buchanan! Distinguished, experienced, wise. Alas, devoid of courage and foresight and some other fairly necessary things. In need of an advisor—a trusted voice who could impart upon him the dire consequences of inaction. Together, we could squash slavery and mitigate the losses of war. No Confederacy; no legacy of disunion or treason. I bet I could do it. I could fix it if I were there—if I had the time. That is my answer.”
    â€œAre you done?” asked Fiona.
    â€œIndeed I am,” I replied.
    â€œGlad to hear it, Professor Dipshit,” she said, before planting a loud kiss on the side of my face. “So it’s me now. And I choose: the future.”
    â€œWell,” I said, “you definitely can’t do that.”
    â€œOf course I can!” she objected.
    â€œProfessor Dipshit is right,” called out Boots, now resting on his stomach and speaking directly into the floor. “It’s against the rules to pick the future.”
    â€œBut I made the rules,” Fiona answered indignantly.
    â€œBut you said ‘history,’” countered Emily. “You said ‘at any time in history’—the future doesn’t count. It hasn’t happened yet, ergo it isn’t history.”
    â€œThat’s ridiculous!” Fiona declared. “Of course the future counts as history. It’s part of time! It’s on the timeline of, you know, existence. Who cares if we haven’t been through it yet? It’s on the timeline!”
    â€œI’m not sure you can win this one,” I told my agitated love. “You’ve got five half-lawyers—which is basically two-and-a-half actual lawyers—who are interpreting history as to not include the future.