Free Surfacing (Spark Saga) by Melissa Dereberry Page B

other hand, if it wasn’t, then who was it?   I feel the hairs on my arm stand straight up as I think about the enormity of my secret, the daunting idea that someone out there knows, and understands, and wants to contact me.  Sitting there watching my mom, I feel not only guilt, but the hint of tears emerging, and I hope beyond hope that it really was my father, that there’s a really good reason why he hasn’t contacted my mother, and that someday soon all these things will be answered.  She turns and heads back to the car.
    Tess and Cricket seem to be wandering aimlessly.  A few times they glance at my mother, then turn the other way and start wander ing some more.  It’s almost like they are looking for something, but what?  Then I see them turn around and get back in their car.
                  As my mom and I are leaving, I glance back to see them get out again. 
                  “That was nice,” my mom says.
                  And I agree.
                  Back at home, I have a couple hours before football practice, so I clean up my room a little bit and make my bed, then sit down to re-read all those emails.  I was rightly skeptical at first, and urged the sender to provide proof of identity, which was given in the form of reference to the missing (or stuck) pages of The Time Machine.  With the instruction to steam open the pages from the messenger, I was convinced that it must be my father.  I mean, after all, who else would know about the book, much less the fact that two of the pages were stuck together?  Admittedly, my response had been enthusiastic; I had believed wholeheartedly that I was communicating with my father.  Now, with some time having passed, I am growing more uncertain.  The odds are slim to none that my hopes are founded in anything remotely realistic or tangible. 
                  Which can only mean one thing:  Someone out there knew my father very well.  Knew him well enough to know his research intimately.  Knew him well enough to know the contents of his personal library.  But who?
                  In the last email from the messenger, he indicated that he would tell me the entire story when I was ready to hear it.  It occurs to me that I hadn’t responded, but instead started thinking more intently about Tess.  Maybe it was out of fear that caused me to avoid presenting myself as “ready” to hear it.  Maybe I’m not ready.  Maybe it’s a story I wouldn’t understand or believe yet.  The thought makes me think of the Time Traveler, trying to convince his listeners about his fantastic jaunt.  The creepiness of the story itself is just enough to ruffle up the hairs on the back of my neck.  But thinking of Tess seems to calm me down, so that’s what I do.
                  I think of how she looked that day in front of the movie theater, her hair glistening in the sun.  When I stopped to talk to her, she was nervous.  She tucked a piece of hair behind her ear.  It kept falling down and she’d put it back.  We talked about the movie she was going to see.  I asked for her number and email. 
    Then, the incident with Tess, Cricket , and Alex happened.  I was inside the building when I heard someone coming in.  I quickly hid to see what would happen.  When nothing did, and they left without incident, I came out to watch them drive away.  Tess was looking right at me.  I knew it, and that had been my cue to contact her.  I told her I’d seen her at the lab.  She was intrigued by me.  Maybe a little frightened, but intrigued.  Interested.
    I approached her with caution, yet determined to win her.  I expected her to be resistant, distrustful.  After all, she’d been through a lot, and her confidence was shaken.  She had a hard time believing anything I told her.  But finally, I’d convinced her that we not only had a history together, but we had a future—a future that