Just a Matter of Time Read Free Page A

another,” he said.
    “And then what?”
    He stood, picked up my cup, and gave me a grin. “Time will tell.”
     
    * * *
     
    According to Gordon, you didn’t actually need to touch people to steal their time, not when you got good at it. But you did need proximity. In my case, distance was the best defense. I could simply avoid Maya when he wasn’t around.
    And when he was, like in AP World History, Maya faded into the background. Gordon talked Mrs. Harmon into letting him switch seats, so he sat by me and, as he called it, ran interference. Maya scowled, but I hardly cared. At last, I could breathe in that room, and concentrate on the lecture, and earn 100% on extra credit reports.
    We returned to Jumpin’ Java, day after day. Gordon schooled me in the finer points of time thievery; I asked endless questions.
    “How did you figure it out?” I asked him during one of our sessions.
    “Over time,” he said, then grinned as if he’d been waiting forever to tell time jokes. “Seriously, you get a feel for it. You start recognizing who else can do it too.”
    “Any honor among thieves?”
    “Not really.”
    “Is that why you’re helping me?”
    He grinned again. “Maybe.”
    Unfortunately, when it came to technique, my mind couldn’t grasp even the basics. Intellectually, this new interpretation of time fascinated me. On a practical level? It was Title 1 all over again. More often than not, I drifted off, savoring the luxury of un-stolen time. Gordon was the salt for my time leech.
    Not that he was always happy about that.
    “You’re daydreaming,” he said during another session at the coffee shop.
    “I am?”
    “I can feel it.”
    “You can?”
    “Yeah. So cut it out.”
    I hadn’t daydreamed in ages, it seemed, and I hated to give it up just because he said so. I touched my cheek as if that could bring back the elusive images floating just out of reach. They had been, in fact, images about Gordon—
    “I said, cut it out.” He pulled my hand from my cheek and gripped my fingers. “It’s like a beacon, okay? I’m surprised every time thief in a five-mile radius hasn’t come crashing in here. I’m surprised Maya hasn’t—”
    The bell over the door jangled and in waltzed Maya, violin case swinging from one hand, book bag slung over the other shoulder.
    “Time to leave,” Gordon said.
    “What?” I glanced at my half-full cup of coffee, then to his face, his eyes dark and fierce. I blinked a few times, trying to collect all my stray thoughts. We’d been doing . . . what?
    “Wow. That was fast.” He stepped to the side, blocking Maya’s line of sight. All at once, my thoughts were mine again.
    “Come on.” Gordon extended a hand to help me up. “Let’s leave before you end up needing a time transfusion.”
    I hated being so helpless—the classic damsel in distress. I hated those, too. There had to be a way I could fight Maya on my own, so she’d leave me alone, once and for all.
    In orchestra, we sat side by side, her first chair to my second. Mentally, I tried pushing her away. Her grin told me I was like a toddler trying to wrestle with a ten-year-old—cute and totally ineffective.
    The only relief came when Maya played her solo, the highlight of our upcoming spring concert. For weeks, I lived for that moment. For weeks, I never knew why. Then, that Friday, it hit me. When she was the only one playing, she couldn’t steal time. Her full concentration was on that solo, and every last bit of my leeched time came rushing back. It made me wonder.
    What if I tried to steal Maya’s time?
    I focused all my attention on her, bit my lower lip in concentration. I thought about Gordon giving me some of his extra time, how it felt like a burst—a cool drink of water on a hot day. Maybe time wasn’t like money at all. Maybe it was more fluid, more like water. You could bend it and make it do what you wanted it to, if only you knew how.
    So I imagined sucking up Maya’s time through a