I can’t let on that I know about the future. Not only am I unsure of Cristela’s role, but if she is fated to invent time travel, then that knowledge might make her overconfident, less hungry. She might not invent the machine as the result of my words. That’s exactly what the Voice feared, right?

On the other hand, Cristela might just tell everyone that I’m hearing voices, and I’ll get sent away for some much-needed mental assistance.

So no bizarre declarations to a virtual stranger. And yet I’m supposed to do something. I feel it in my gut. But what?

My fingers trembling, I sift through my purse, finding an old receipt and one of those stubby pencils you get at mini golf to keep track of your score. Good enough.

I scrawl my full name and every contact identifier I can think of. Phone number, email address, social media handles. If Cristela’s not the Maker, then she’ll need to find me in the future. And if she is…well, then I’ll have to kill her before she grows up, so it hardly matters if she has my deets.

“Time travel? I’m all in!” I say with feigned excitement. Leaning forward, I press the note into Cristela’s hand. “Keep this.” I lower my voice. “In case you ever need to get in touch with me. Next week. Or ten years from now.”

A waiter leans between us, taking away the wineglasses and plunking down baskets of dinner rolls covered with cream-colored napkins.

When I can see Cristela again, she nods. “You never know,” she agrees, tucking the note into her pocket.

She doesn’t ask why. Does she think I’m hitting on her? Maybe she’s one of those people who simply go with the flow. Or maybe her older self has told her to keep my contact information safe.

She just might need it someday.

Chapter 19

Chapter 19

“Ladies and gentlemen,” a man in a tuxedo booms from the podium. “It is my honor to welcome you to an evening celebrating the brightest minds of our future, the finalists of the Newhouse science fair!”

One sentence in and my eyes glaze over. I poke at the gravy-drenched quarter chicken on my plate. The anchovies swim through a sea of dressing in my Caesar salad. This food is so unappetizing, I’m not even tempted to take a picture of my meal, even though I’ve been woefully neglecting my foodie account.

“Don’t bother eating that. I’ve got something much better,” Cristela whispers, reaching under the table and producing a box of cupcakes. ”In honor of my fellow Young Scientist nominees.” She starts handing out the cupcakes. “May the brightest mind win.”

Now, this is more like it. Decorated with elegant swirls and precise crisscrosses, these small purple cakes are almost too pretty to eat. But absolutely perfect to photograph.