Chapter 11

Light rain spatters my face as we land on a sidewalk. It’s the annoying kind of rain that doesn’t soak but feels as if someone is standing in front of me spitting in my direction.

Buildings line the streets. Some are storefronts, and others are large warehouses wheezing smoke up into the air. A few old-fashioned cars rumble past us. They look exactly like the ones I first saw when I shifted with Michael to Wall Street. I know I’m in another time period—probably early nineteen hundreds, judging by the thin-wheeled cars—but a sensation of familiarity washes over me. Maybe that’s normal since I’ve actually started researching history. Wherever we are, perhaps I’ve read about it. Studied it even. Here’s hoping.

Lark lets go of my arm and glances around. “See anything out of the ordinary?”

I swat her. “Best swordsman in Keleusma. When were you guys going to tell me?”

“We all have things we’re the best at.”

“Maybe I should call him sensei from now on.” My lip twitches.

“Please do. Make sure I’m nearby. He’ll freak out and go into why that name shouldn’t be used because it’s a title of honor. Blah, blah, blah.” She uses her hand like a puppet at the end.

Groups of people rush past us. Many of the women are wearing simple shirtwaists tucked into long skirts. So we’re some time before pants were acceptable for ladies but after the ridiculous bustle phase in history.

Lark and I move out of the way of foot traffic, only to duck in order to avoid colliding with a woman’s large, white hat. Everyone who passes wears a suit or a dress. Not fancy, rich stuff—no jewelry. More like working class Sunday best. The sun is still low on the horizon. Where are they hustling to so early in the morning?

I drag Lark into a nearby alley. I know I should focus on why we shifted here, but I’m still absorbing the shock of seeing Michael bust out a sword. “Okay, in all seriousness though, I looked like an idiot back there. Is there anything else Michael’s considered amazing at that I should know about?”

Her eyes narrow. “Why does it matter so much?”

“Humor me.”

She bites her lip and looks up and to the left. “Relax. You wouldn’t have known about the swords because he had no reason to use them during your mission with Pinkerton. It would have seemed odd for him to wield a katana against someone, don’t you think? And I doubt a reason to talk about sword fighting presented itself.” She traces her finger down a crack in the wall. “But the others you should know by now if you’re the least bit observant.”

I level my best glare at her. “Did your father teach you the fine art of complimenting, because … wow.” At the end, I toss in an exaggerated eye roll so she understands I’m kidding.

She shakes her head but smiles. “Try.”

My mind goes blank. “I don’t know. He’s good with horse stuff?”

“See, you’re better at this than you thought. So there’s the swordsmanship, being a skilled rider, and you should know by now that he’s excellent with puzzles.” Lark ticks things off on her fingers. “He has more historical knowledge than anyone I know. And he has a pretty good grasp of medical stuff.”

I start feeling smaller and smaller as she rattles talents off. I scrub my hand across the back of my neck. “Oh. That’s all?”

“Well, there’s that insane capability for kindness.”

“Oh. Right. That.”

Lark paces to the opening of the alley. “And I don’t know. He probably has some others.”

My list? Fast runner. End of list.

Fear loosens my tongue. “I’m not good at anything.”

Lark swings back around, her head tilted, considering me. “Don’t say that. You’re good at lots of things.”

“I’m having a hard time thinking of what.”

“For starters, you’re selfless. And don’t say you’re not.” One of her eyebrows arches in challenge. “Your very first time shifting you risked your life for that little girl when you didn’t have to. And when I joined your mission during the Civil War, you stopped in the midst of rescuing Michael to save those runaway slaves.”

I lean against the building. From this angle, the rain can’t reach me, but it pools at our feet and causes a trail to wash into the street beyond the alley.

“But that’s normal stuff. Anyone would have done that.”

She shakes her head. Hard. “No. Not everyone. I wouldn’t have thought to do either of those things. I focus on my mission and only that. You doing that stuff had a huge impact on Michael. Since you shifted, he’s gone rogue on all his missions—helping anyone he comes in contact with instead of only the individual that comes to mind.”

I swallow hard and fidget with my bracelet. “He has?”

Lark steps closer. “He has.”

Michael started doing that because of me? My heart swells. While imagining him risking his safety even more than usual doesn’t sit well, the idea that Michael—the man who never fails a mission—would change because of how I do things, sends warmth radiating through my chest. There’s something that ties Michael and me together, isn’t there? Something beyond him being my Trainer. I care about him, probably more than anyone else in my life.

Does he feel the same way?

Lark puts her hands on her hips. I’ve been silent too long.

I shake Michael out of my mind. Focus. “Sorry. I got sidetracked.”

“You know, that’s the main issue standing in your way.”

“Getting sidetracked?”

“No. Doubting who you were born to be.” She holds up a finger. “There is only one Gabriella Creed. Only one person can do in this world what you’re supposed to do. Don’t minimize that.”

Lark is kind too. In a different way than Michael but still kind. I want to be like her, like Darnell and Eugene, and yes, like Michael too. How are they able to say exactly the right words at the right time? They pay attention. It’s as simple as that. If I want to acquire the superpower of kind words they all have, I need to be more aware of those around me. Instead of concentrating on my own struggles all the time, I have to learn to see theirs.

And I can start with Lark.

I stare down at my fingers, working them together. Why are words—meaningful ones—so difficult sometimes? “You and me, we’re friends, right? Real friends?” Eddie told me Lark considered me her friend, but doubt nips at my ankles.

“Gabby.” The way she says my name makes me look up at her. “You’re the only female friend I’ve ever had in my life. Even before I started shifting, I just couldn’t ever … connect.” She looks to the side, focusing on a black stain that runs down the side of the bricked wall. “I don’t know. Maybe I’m too prickly. Or too—”

“You’re too nothing. Got that?” I clench my fists, wishing to wage war on all the snobby little girls who must have hurt Lark when she was a kid. “It’s because you’re gorgeous and confident and sometimes pretty fierce—in a completely awesome way of course.” Well, moving forward hopefully I’ll get better at imparting the right words. “Those other girls were insecure and intimidated. That’s their issue. Their failing.”

Her eyes fill with tears. “Thank you. Really. It means a lot.” She rubs her hands over her arms.

Hug her. I lean forward then step back again. No. That would cause an awkward moment. Wouldn’t it? Sure, I’ve hugged Michael before, but I think every single time he’s been the one to lean in or make a move first. So it works then. But when it depends on me? Yeah, I’m like the fumbling kid on the peewee football team who is always a play behind or running the ball the wrong way.

Now I’m thinking too much. Time has passed, and it would definitely be awkward to give her a hug. Even if she looks like she could use one. Maybe later, sometime in the next few weeks or months or years of our friendship, I’ll be able to be there for her in the way she needs.

I brush past her to head toward the sidewalk. The half-risen sun plays peek-a-boo between the buildings and the rainclouds.

“Should we get on the saving people thing?” Seeing as this is the first time Nicholas has shifted me in eight months, I should focus on figuring out why.

“Right.” She swipes the back of her hand under her nose and then squares her shoulders. “Let’s go do what we’re born to do.”

She steps out of the alleyway and hails the first group of people she sees. A man with his wife on his arm and three small children stop to speak with her. He’s wearing a straw hat similar to the ones the guys in the play The Music Man wear. The wife holds a handful of papers.

“Excuse me.” Lark smiles brightly, all traces of her impending tears gone. “Might I ask where everyone is rushing off to this morning?”

“We’re with the Western Electric Company.” The man shows her the tickets that his wife clutches. “The company’s hosting a picnic in Michigan City.” His chest puffs out with obvious pride at being able to take his family out for the day.

Their tallest son—maybe seven years old—grabs his father’s hand and bounces on the balls of his feet. “They’re taking us on a fancy ship.”

The wife pats her husband’s arm. “We need to arrive soon if we’re to make it onto the Eastland in time.” She offers me and Lark an apologetic smile. “The company hired out a handful of ships, but I hear the Eastland is the nicest one, and we aim to be on it.”

The husband nods. “Do excuse us.” They rush off down the street. I watch their backs, straining to figure out why their words send alarms blaring in my head.

Eastland. I read about that boat, didn’t I?

My throat goes dry, and a hollow ache pulsates in my gut.

I find the street sign. “We’re on LaSalle. Lark, we need to run.” I tug on her arm.

“Do you know where we are?”

“Chicago.” My hometown. How did I not realize that before? In my defense, Chicago more than a hundred years ago doesn’t look the same.

I start walking backwards so I can relay information to her but get us moving in the right direction. “The Eastland capsizes, killing more passengers than were killed when the Titanic sank or when the Lusitania was torpedoed. Not as many crew members—but that’s beside the point.” Perhaps not as many research details are needed. “Upwards to seventy percent of the people who die are twenty-five or younger—mostly women and children.” I squeeze her arm hard. “Entire family lines are wiped off the planet.”

Her mouth drops open. “You studied. You know this stuff.”

“Of course I did.” Does she think I spent my time at home eating Cheetos and catching up on Netflix? For the record, a girl can eat Cheetos while researching.

“I’m really impressed.”

“Studying hardly matters if we do nothing.” I take off running down LaSalle. This is my city. I know where to go. Lark trails me.

Historically, the Eastland sank in the Chicago River at the Clark Street dock. The real tragedy being that the ship rolled onto its side in only twenty feet of water, while still tied to the dock, and yet so many people perished.

After the Titanic sank, Congress passed a law that all ships had to carry enough lifeboats to accommodate at least seventy-five percent of the passengers on board. That law sank the Eastland. Ships on the Great Lakes don’t sit as deep in the water as ocean liners, but congressmen failed to take that into consideration. The new law caused Great Lakes’ ships to become top heavy. Dangerous. Filled to capacity, and with the added weight of the lifeboats, the Eastland listed, rolling in the water and trapping everyone inside to be crushed, suffocated, or drowned.

I catch up to a man who has a ticket in his hand and yank it away. Perhaps he’s who I’m meant to save. “You can’t go on the excursion.”

“Lady! I paid for that. Stop.” He chases after me.

Lark cuts him off, grabbing his arm. I keep running and turn the corner while ripping up his ticket. He’ll thank me in a few minutes. The Eastland’s easy to spot, large and gleaming white. A few crew members begin to remove the gangplank. Am I too late?

How do I stop a boat from tipping over? If I’m not meant to do that—then what? My pulse thunders in my ears and throbs against my temples.

I run harder but have to stop a second later because of the sheer number of people crowded on the dock. I spot the family Lark and I spoke to only minutes ago—safe—waiting in line to board one of the other ships.

The wife rubs the back of one of her crying sons. “I know. I wanted to ride the Eastland as well. Perhaps we can trade with another family on the way home.”

I let go of the breath I’d locked in my chest.

Shoving around people, I don’t care about the ugly looks they burn me with. “Get off the boat,” I yell. “The Eastland’s not safe.”

The boat begins to list toward the river and then rights itself. No one on board looks alarmed.

I push all the way to the edge of the dock and flail my arms, trying to catch the attention of the crew on deck. “Put the gangplank back out! Get people off the boat.”

They can’t hear me. No one can hear me.

People gather on the deck of the Eastland, pointing at different spots in the city. Two children race around their parents’ legs in a game of tag.

They’re all going to die.

My throat clams up.

“Look out, she’s tipping!” A man on shore hollers.

Like an angry, vanquished monster, the Eastland begins to roll in slow motion. Dishes slip off of shelves, raining down and shattering across the deck. Glasses crash to the floor, sounding like a string of fireworks. The bartender has to hold on to his counter to keep from falling over as the refrigerator near him breaks away from the wall, careens across the deck, and smashes into two screaming women. In the same moment, a huge piano on deck begins sliding toward the river. People have to dive overboard to keep from being crushed. Passengers attempt to run to the side of the boat closest to shore, but water gushes up over the gangway. As the boat rolls, portholes shatter, taking in more water. The weight of the water and everything sliding toward the river causes the boat to show its belly, trapping thousands of people inside.

Muddy brown sediment from the bottom of the river swirls around the Eastland, momentarily obscuring the bodies bobbing in the water. But the second the boat stills, the water begins to churn with people. I kicked over an ant hill once—just because—and milliseconds later there were hundreds of ants climbing over each other, scurrying, trying to pull their lives back together after a senseless disaster.

This is no different.

People scream. I’ll never be able to forget the wild screaming. Bodies of children float in the water, already drowned. Families hang on to each other and go underwater together not to resurface.

On shore, panic breaks out. Some begin to jump in, and others run for help. Still others, like me, stand in a transfixed sort of distress. Tears form twin trails down my cheeks. It’s then that I realize my whole body is shaking. I’m not sure when that started.

We failed them. I failed them.

Lark pants at my side. “We have to start hauling people out.”

I nod absently. “Sure, but I’m not a good swimmer.”

“Then find a rowboat and start helping. Nicholas sent you here for a reason. Figure it out.” She dives right into the river.

Lark’s right. People are dying. Now’s not the time to worry about my lack of swimming abilities. More than likely, I’m a better swimmer than most of the people on board the Eastland. People didn’t learn how to swim back when modesty was such an issue.

I slip out of my shoes and jump in after Lark. Gulp a mouthful of brown water. My stomach revolts against the rancid liquid. I start gagging and coughing but doggy paddle on. I blink murky water from my eyes, but they still feel clouded by the film. Someone kicks me in the hip, and I cry out.

A child, maybe four or five years old, splashes and starts to go under the surface. She’s only a few feet ahead of me. Save her. Summoning my strength, I surge forward and latch my arm around the girl. Finding footing against the side of the boat, I use it to propel us to the surface again. My lungs burn, and a cramp pulls my side. I go into tunnel vision and ignore the shrieking around me. There’s a tugboat a little less than ten feet away. Securing the girl against me, I back paddle until I’m near enough to hand her over to a man on board.

“You should get out too, miss.” He reaches out and clamps onto my wrists and hauls me out of the water before I can offer an answer. Cold rain pings against the front roof of the tugboat. Despite it being July, my teeth chatter.

I look back at the Eastland. More boats are coming abreast of the sunken ship, rescuing people. There isn’t much left for me to do. I failed them ten minutes ago. Nothing I do now will take that away.

Next to me, a lady shivers in her mud-caked dress and wears only one shoe. The girl I fished from the water sobs on the floor while the sailor hauls a few more people on board. Once we’re full, our tiny vessel moves to an open area of the dock, and we begin unloading.

Lark’s not on the dock that I can see, so I scan the water but don’t spot her. When I step back onto solid ground, I keep studying the crowd, trying to locate my friend.

Instead, I see my mother.