Forget Tomorrow - Pintip Dunn Page 0,1

to a stop in front of us, he jams his hands in his pockets. “You must be nervous, October Twenty-eight. About tomorrow, I mean.”

I lift my eyebrow. “How would you have the first clue what my feelings are?”

“We used to be friends.”

“Right,” I say. “I still remember the time you peed your pants on our way to the Outdoor Core.”

He meets my gaze head on. “Ditto for the part where you splashed us both with water from the fountain so no one else would know.”

He remembers? I look away, but it’s too late. I can smell the protein pellets we made a pact never to eat, feel the touch on my shoulder when Amy Willows compared my hair to straw.

“Forget her,” the twelve-year-old Logan had whispered, as the credits rolled on the documentary on farming methods before the Technology Boom. “Scarecrows are the coolest ever.”

I had gone home and daydreamed I’d received the memory from my future self, and in it Logan Russell was my husband. Of course, that was before I learned the older girls waited until a boy received his future memory before deciding if he was a good match. Who cares if Logan has dimples, if his future doesn’t show sufficient credits to provide for his family? He may have a swimmer’s physique today, but it might very well melt into fat twenty years from now.

By the time I figured out my crush was premature, it didn’t matter. The boy of my dreams had already stopped talking to me.

I cross my arms. “What do you want, October Twenty-six?”

Instead of responding, he moves behind Jessa. She’s taken the leaves from her jumpsuit and is twisting them around each other to make them look like the petals of a flower. Logan sinks down beside her, helping her tie off the “bud” with a sturdy stem.

Jessa beams as if he’s given her a rainbow on a plate. So he makes my sister smile. It’s going to take more than a measly stem to compensate for five years of silence.

They fool around with the leaves—making more “roses,” combining them into a bouquet—for what seems like forever. And then Logan holds one of the roses up to me. “I got my memory yesterday.”

My arms and mouth drop at the same time. Of course he did. I’d just used his school name. How could I forget?

Logan’s birthday is two days before mine. It’s why we sat next to each other all those years. That’s how the school orders us—not by last name or height or grades, but by the time remaining until we receive our future memory.

I notice the hourglass insignia, half an inch wide, tattooed on the inside of his wrist. Everyone who’s received a future memory has one. Underneath the tattoo, a computer chip containing your future memory is implanted, where it can be scanned by prospective employers, loan officers, even would-be parents-in-law.

In Eden City, your future memory is your biggest recommendation. More than your grades, more than your credit history. Because your memory is more than a predictor. It’s a guarantee.

“Congratulations,” I say. “To whom am I speaking? A future ComA official? Professional swimmer? Maybe I should get your autograph now, while I still have the chance.”

Logan gets to his feet and brushes the dirt from his pants. “I did see myself as a gold-star swimmer. But there was something else, too. Something…unexpected.”

“What do you mean?”

He takes a step closer. I’d forgotten his eyes are green. They’re the green of grass before summer, a sheen caught somewhere between vibrant and dull, as if the color can’t decide whether to thrive in the sun or wither in its heat.

“It wasn’t like how we were taught, Callie. My memory didn’t answer my questions. I don’t feel at peace or aligned with the world. I just feel confused.”

I lick my lips. “Maybe you didn’t follow the rules. Maybe your future self messed up and sent the wrong memory.”

I can’t believe I said that. We spend our entire childhood learning how to choose the proper memory, one that will get us through the difficult times. And here I am, telling another person he screwed up the only test that matters. I didn’t think I had it in me.

“Maybe,” he says, but we both know it’s not true. Logan is smart, too smart to be beat by me in the T-minus seven spelling bee, and too smart to mess this up.

And then I get it. “You’re kidding. In the future, you’re the best swimmer the