Jump

By Katie Rew

I first consider a 1600s castle but prefer something more thrilling.

I leave the grand castle painting and wander through the antique store, one of the few places where I can truly be myself—free and unwatched.

What would it be like if I did this with a friend? I wonder. But no one wants to be friends with the weird girl.

The old lady at the desk gives me a nod of recognition, and we exchange a smile. Part of me thinks she’s onto what I do here. Who knows? Maybe she’s done it herself.

I cover the entire store, but there’s nothing I haven’t explored hundreds of times before.

Then I see it, peeking out from behind dozens of other pictures leaning against a wall. I pull out a wood-framed painting nearly as tall as me and stare into the mischievous eyes of a boy who looks vaguely familiar. He wears a smudged white button-up complete with suspenders. He’s reaching for the revolver hanging from his belt. An oil lamp partially illuminates his face, revealing an eager twist to his mouth.

I smile.

The Wild West will definitely be more thrilling than that old castle.

With a quick glance around to ensure no one is watching, I press my hand against its surface. Then I’m there; the stifling smell of smoke clogs my nose. I appear slightly behind the boy. He grips the door frame as he peeks into a room of burly men gathered at the table.

Yes, this was a perfect picture to jump into. I snap a shot with my camera. Another one for my scrapbook.

The boy spins, staring right at where I’m standing as if he could actually see me.

His brow furrows, and I snap another shot.

He latches onto my arm and drags me away from the doorway. I nearly fall backward. This isn’t possible. No one can see me in a picture, let alone touch me.

A few feet from the door he stops and turns, the light of an oil lamp fully illuminating his face.

“Here to take me home?”

“How—”

“You don’t know? I’m like you. You’re Rachel or something, right? You go to my school.”

“Rain,” I stammer out. Then I remember. His face plastered all over the internet, newspapers, and billboards. “Brandon. Brandon Renner.”

He’s been missing for a few weeks, maybe a month, feared dead. And yet he’s been here in this picture the whole time?

He must see the question in my eyes, because he says, “I can’t remember where I entered. Not sure why, but I can’t. And if you can’t remember—”

“You can’t return.”

I shudder. It almost happened to me once. It had been a long day and my hand fell on a picture while I rested my eyes. I found myself inside an unknown world with no recollection of where I had come in. I remembered eventually, but it scared the life out of me. After that, I didn’t jump for weeks.

“Brandon! Where are you?” Someone bellows from another room.

“Who’s that?” I ask.

Brandon shrugs. “Just the cook wanting me to scrub those dishes.”

“He can see you?”

“If you’re here long enough.” He runs a hand through his brown hair and motions to his clothes. “Can eat their food and wear their clothes too. I just hope that I won’t be invisible once we jump back.” He grins. “One plus is I have gotten pretty quick with this.” He pats the revolver at his hip.

Yeah, because being a gunslinger is exactly what you need to succeed in the twenty-first century.

I study him for a moment. I’ve always thought that jumping was mine. An ability that no one else shares. I feel exposed, my one secret known.

“Hey, boy!” a voice calls. “Need more whiskey.”

Brandon gives me a wink and hurries to the card table. He returns a moment later and nods to the door. “Don’t want to cross him. That’s John Wesley Hardin. They say he’s murdered over twenty men.”

I step toward the doorway and scan the table. A dark-haired man sits with his back to me. I’m thankful that, unlike Brandon, I’m invisible to him.

Something barrels past me, and the boom that follows nearly sends me jumping back to the antique shop.

John Wesley Hardin slumps on the table, dead.

His shooter turns, and his gaze locks on me.

No. Not me. On Brandon.

There’s a flicker of recognition in the shooter’s brown eyes.

Then I remember what picture I’m in, and there’s no way I’m going to wait to see who’s the quickest draw. I grip Brandon’s arm and envision the antique store.

Then we’re there, Brandon’s hand resting next to mine on the picture.

He blinks and looks around. A smile forms as if he recognizes the place. Then he focuses on me, and his expression darkens. “I could have beat him to the draw.”

That’s his first thought? Not gratitude for me saving his life? Of all the—

His face goes white. “You can see me, right?”

“I see an idiot,” I mumble.

“What?”

“Nothing. I’m just glad you’re not dead or anything.”

“Oh, well, thanks.” He grins.

Then I notice he’s still wearing the western clothes, and the revolver’s still at his side.

I smirk. “Those are probably collectible now.”

“So, I’m rich?”

“Only if you share.”

He gives a mock bow. “What’s mine is yours, and I’m forever in your debt.” He flashes another grin. “We’ll have to do this again sometime.”

Again? He barely made it home and he wants to go again?

And he wants to go with me?

For a split second, I feel as if I’ve lost something—a place of solitude where only I can go with my camera and thoughts. Then again, maybe what I’ve gained is better than what I’ve lost.

I match his smile. “Yes, we will.”

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Katie Rew is an imaginative, young writer born and raised in the Rocky Mountains who loves immersing herself in new worlds. She is a student at The Author Conservatory and enjoys writing anything from Fantasy to Science Fiction. When not writing, she can be found reading, throwing knives, leather working, and reading her Bible. She is supported by her family and friends and looks forward to writing more fantastical adventures.

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