“And you, Des?” Wesley leaned up from the time capsule, extending his left hand for her offering. “What are you sending back to old 1996?”
She folded her arms under her breasts. “You mean, if any of this works at all?”
She was the skeptic of the group, but she was here. He frowned at her.
“Yeah, Des. If.”
Des mirrored his frown for so long that he grew suspicious. Eventually he realized she was really watching the others shuffle out of the backyard, beyond the blast shield. Only when they were out of earshot did she open her purse.
“Des. You’re sending yourself your own book? Want teen-Desdemona Restlake to rest assured that it all works out?”
“If I knew what I know now, I’d be an immeasurably better writer.”
As she extended it, the jacket fluttered open. Wesley caught sight of a red inscription. Was she sending herself an autograph? That was just like her. Or maybe stock tips. Which was fair. Wes was ordering his past self to get on top of Google.
Wesley made the show of placing it into the capsule, watching her eyes more than her hardcover. The instant she turned to leave, his fingers curled in the pages.
He looked down into the capsule and was surprised to find every page had signatures on it. Wait, not signatures. Sentences were scratched out. Her awful chicken scratches filled the margins. He could only make out a few of the red notes.
“So original. You’ve never read Hamlet?”
“Was this innuendo? We forget”
He jerked his head up. Des was already behind the blast shield with the rest of their friends. Perfect posture, eyes condescending over all the dumbasses. The brains of the group. If Wes had been standing over there, he never would have imagined the one thing she’d change in time was her bestseller.