Quake: In Real Time, #1

By Chris Mandeville

Time traveling thieves. A stolen kiss. A wormhole to the heist of the century.

Fifteen-year-old Allie Bennett is a con artist, a pickpocket, and on her last chance at an end-of-the-line foster home. On a normal day of ditching school and pulling cons, she learns her mom—who disappeared when she was ten—isn't a crazy but is actually a time traveler. And Allie's one, too. When Allie is kidnapped by a Mean Girl who heads a crew of time traveling thieves, she thinks she's hit the jackpot—she gets to travel back to the 1906 San Francisco earthquake to pull the heist of the century and find her mom. Only things don't go quite as planned. It turns out that time travelers are hunted, her crew might be killers, and everyone has a secret agenda. As she races to find her mom, she must stay ahead of the governors who'll do anything to keep her from changing history. She has to pull off the con of her life if she's going to make it out alive. Quake's twists and turns take you on a wild journey through time, from modern day to 1906 to 2153 San Francisco. Start your time travel adventure today—grab Quake, the first in the complete In Real Time series, now!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Parker Hayden Media
• Release date: Jan 18, 2022
• ISBN: 9781941528631

Book preview

Chapter One

Today I’m finally going to let Jake see me pull a con, and butterflies are threatening to beat their way out of my chest. Pulling cons comes as natural as breathing, but the idea of Jake watching has me more scared than when I eyeball a cop while pickpocketing a tourist.

I pull on my uniform — black leggings, a long white T, and combat boots. No actual school uniform anymore, thank God. Pulling a con sucks in a Catholic school plaid jumper. Now all I have to do is throw a couple of props over my clothes, and I can be any white-bread lost teen I want. I’m going German today. Long brown braids tied with green ribbons, mascara ready for Visine tears, and my bag o’ tricks.

I take the stairs down two at a time—I can’t wait to get out of here. When school’s out, the baby-mamas cover every surface, the rug-rats never stop wailing, and the whole place smells like diapers. It’s enough to drive anyone bonkers. Anyone but Bibi. My foster mom eats it up like street dogs on a cheeseburger.

Today’s a teacher work day, so the living room’s full of baby-mamas and their smelly, wet wailers. There’s a screamer in the playpen that rivals the blaring TV and the two preggers girls arguing in the hall. Bibi’s in her chair rocking a rug-rat going to town on a bottle. With all the chaos it should be cake to slide past without pinging her Spidey senses. Right.

Not so fast. Bibi mutes her show—like that’s going to make a difference—and gives me the eye.

Heading to the library, I say. Big smile.

Allie, she says in that tone, a Jake called.

What? Jake knows better. Oh? I say, like it’s no big, even though this is the last thing I need. It’s tough enough to get out from under Bibi’s hawk-gaze without her worrying I’m going to get myself knocked up. As if.

Bibi raises her eyebrows. I thought we had an understanding.

"He’s a friend."

Umm hmmm.

I swear, there’s nothing going on. I am crushing on Jake, but I’m not the only virgin in a house full of baby-mamas by accident.

You’re going to see him right now.

Bibi has superpowers or something. Yeah.

"Allie, Bibi says in that tone again. I brace for the Inquisition. I’m glad you have a friend. It’s about time you let someone in. Be back in time for dinner."

Color me surprised.

I head out before she can change her mind.

I’ve got a love-hate thing with Bibi and this house. When I first got here, I figured it was like all the other foster homes over the past five years, but I was wrong. Despite the noise and the stink and the rules, it’s the only place I’ve felt at home since my mom disappeared. More importantly, it’s the end of the line. If I don’t make this work, I get sent outside the city, and I’ll live on the street before I let that happen.

At the bottom of the hill, Jake’s waiting, sitting on a stone fence lining someone’s front yard.

Dude, really? I say. "You called?"

I know, I’m sorry. I feel like a jerk, but I didn’t know what else to do.

He looks so stressed—and so cute with his puka-shell necklace white against his olive skin—I can’t stay mad. Besides, he’s never called before, so it must be important. I sit beside him. So, what’s up?

It’s my mom. She messaged me.

No way! His mom’s been out of the picture since I met him, same as mine. What did she say?

That she’s been in rehab. That she’s clean and sober. That she wants to see me.

That’s great! I mean, isn’t it? I’d be over the moon if I heard from my mom, but he looks miserable. What’s the problem?

My whole family says not to believe her. That she’s done this before, and I can’t trust her.

I mean, if she’s done this before...

He glares at me. "I thought you’d understand."

"I do. It’s just, people are human. I don’t want you to get hurt."

That’s what my dad said, except not in those nice of words. I don’t need him to protect me. I want to see for myself.

So do it.

I would, but she’s still in Hawaii and my dad blocked my bank account. He even locked up my skateboard and surfboard—anything I could sell.

I feel bad, but I don’t know what to say. We sit there, silent. It’s starting to get awkward.

I’m sorry, I say, finally. Life sucks. It’s not enough, but it’s all I’ve got. Are we still on for today? I get it if you need to bag.

Are you kidding? I need to take my mind off it. Let’s do this thing.

All right, but you’re going to watch, nothing else.

"This time. He grins and he’s even cuter. I have skills, you know."

I snort. Like what?

My grandparents taught me to speak Taishanese. I could pass as a Chinese tourist.

Seriously? How come you never told me that?

He shrugs. It never came up.

I have to admit, that could come in handy. Faking an accent is one thing, but actually speaking the language takes a con to a whole new level. But for today, just watch and learn.

Fine. How about we try those people at the bus stop? He points.

Too close to home. I never forgot what that crazy old dude, Sink, used to say to my mom. Don’t shit where you sleep. I usually go for the tourists on Lombard Street or Pier 39.

Can we go someplace closer? My aunt’s making me help at the café in a couple hours.

I’m bummed. I thought we were going to spend the day together. We can hit the Powell Street station. That’ll work for a demo.

Cool, let’s go.

He grabs my hand and pulls me to my feet. When we start walking, he doesn’t let go. He’s never held my hand before. Geez, I hope my hand doesn’t sweat or something disgusting. I sneak a look at him trying to figure out what he’s thinking. Maybe, just maybe, he’s crushing on me, too.

In Halladie Plaza outside the BART entrance, I park Jake on a planter—no benches anymore because the powers-that-be don’t like the homeless sleeping on them.

Put in your earbuds, but no tunes, I tell him. Act like you’re jamming, and no one will bug you. You’ll still be able to hear me.

Roger. He pops in his buds and starts bopping.

I laugh. Now I get into character. I pull a red and green plaid scarf out of my messenger bag and tie it around my hips like a miniskirt, then pin a German flag patch to the outside of the bag. After digging around in my stuff for a minute, I see an empty neck wallet with a severed cord, and my decision is made. For the finishing touch, I squirt Visine in both eyes, letting it track mascara down my cheeks.

I take up residence against the side of the building a few feet from Jake, pull a notebook from my bag, and study while I scout. It hasn’t been two minutes when I spot a mark too good to pass up—a suburban mom walking hand-in-hand with her little girl. The kid looks about eight years old and has a purse that’s a miniature replica of the pricey bag her mom’s carrying, so they have bucks. But what makes this mark perfect is the mom’s a hundred percent focused on her daughter, not texting or in too much of a rush to be bothered.

I think about my mom looking at me that way and real tears threaten to crowd out the Visine. I shove the notebook in my bag and grab the neck wallet.

"Ach nein! I can’t pelieffe it, I say loud enough for the mom to hear. She looks over and I meet her gaze. How can zis haben? Vat vill I do?" I wipe my eyes and look at the neck wallet, hoping her motherly instincts will kick in. They do.

Honey, what’s wrong? she says, coming over.

"I vas vith mein tour group und I stobbed to tie mein boot. I point down at my bootlaces and the woman nods. Ven I bend down, zomeone graps mein vallet. I chaze but he drop und..." I show her it’s empty.

Oh no! Where’s your group? Did you tell your leader?

Zey are gone in das BART. Vat I do? I hold out the neck wallet. I take precauzion but ziefs still do zis. Now I am zeparated from group!

Do you know where they went?

"Oakland, but I don’t haf monies for das BART."

Don’t worry, I can help. She extracts her wallet from her purse. Do you know where in Oakland? It’s a big city."

"Das Claremont Hotel. I valk from train. I vill find."

"No, no, the Claremont is miles from BART. Here. She pulls a twenty from her wallet and hands it to me. Get off at the Rockridge station, then take a cab. You’re sure you’ll be okay?"

"Oh ja, danke. I nod and smile, Rockridge schtazion, zen cab. Danke, danke."

Goodbye, she calls as she walks into the station, hugging her little girl to her side.

I head over to Jake.

He’s grinning like a maniac. That was unreal.

I do a little bow, then shove the scarf in my bag, and wipe the mascara from under my eyes.

What’s next? he asks.

Part Two.

Twenty minutes later, we leave the BK by the Main stocked up with a bag of cheeseburgers and milks, plus strawberry shakes for Jake and me. I never bother with fries. Zero nutrition.

I head for Kenny’s spot in Civic Center Plaza. He’s a good source of info, and usually the first on my rounds. I glance over at Jake. Even though we hang out every day, it’s mostly at school. I’ve never brought him here. It’s my place, my people. I hope it doesn’t weird him out.

Whatchoo got for ol’ Kenny today, baby girl? Kenny calls from under the raincoat he keeps draped over his squat, rain or shine. He licks his lips and runs a hand down his beard.

Breakfast. I hand him two burgers and his eyes light up. You gotta take a milk, too.

Much obliged. He tucks the food away. He never eats in front of me. Who’s the dude? He gestures to Jake with his chin.

I’m Jake. He extends his hand to Kenny.

Kenny gives me a sideways look.

I nod. He’s one of the good ones.

Kenny shakes Jake’s hand. I’m glad Jake doesn’t look dodgy about how grimy Kenny is. Jake is one of the good ones.

"Whatchoo got for me, ol’ man?" I ask Kenny. It’s always a trade on the street. You don’t play the game, you’re marked as a nube and rolled before you can say boo.

Kids. Young ones. Seen ’em at the playground. Try by those newfangled golf ball things.

Will do. See you soon, ol’ man.

You’re a good girl, Allie Cat.

I steer Jake toward the playground.

How long have you been doing this? he asks.

Since I was way too young to be alone in the Tenderloin. But it was the only way to search for my mom. I’d skip school to ask around if anyone had seen her.

Weren’t you scared?

I shrug. I’ve known some of these people all my life. I’d bring something to trade—my lunch or a school milk or an apple I swiped from the foster home. No one ever knew anything about where my mom was, but they looked out for me. Made sure I stayed away from the creepers and the meth heads.

I never knew there was a playground here, Jake says as we head past the swing set.

Popular with the runaways, I say. I come by a lot to feed the young ones. I hardly ever see the same kids twice.

What happens to them?

It’s not good. I consider sugarcoating, but Jake can handle it. Gangs, drugs, sex, or worse. The system nabs some, and I like to think some of those make it someplace safe, which is usually not back home, or they wouldn’t be here.

I see two small kids inside a climbing structure that looks like a golf ball, no one else in sight. Jake follows me over and I squat down in the doorway. There’s a boy and a girl huddled on a ratty blanket, eyes wide. They can’t be more than six or seven—way too young to be alone. You guys hungry? Don’t worry—we’re not going to turn you in. We brought cheeseburgers.

The boy looks terrified, but apparently he’s more hungry than scared because he snatches the two burgers I’m holding out, gives one to the girl, and starts chowing on the other.

Is there anyone with you? A grown-up? I consider asking them to come with me. At their age, the system’s got to be better than what they face on the street.

Our mom, the girl says. She’ll be back soon.

I believe her—her hair is in tight French braids she couldn’t do herself.

Do you have more food? the boy asks with a full mouth. His burger is half gone already.

Sure, kid. I’m relieved they’re not alone, and I hand over the whole bag of burgers and milks, keeping only the bag with the shakes. Then I think better of it and give the boy my shake, too. Give this to your mom. It’s my mom’s favorite.

The boy smiles, and I turn away. I could have fed more of my regulars, but this feels like the right thing to do. If Beebop or Ruben or Mary Louise is looking particularly needy, I can always run another con after Jake leaves to help his aunt.

We head toward the library, and Jake’s really quiet. Did I blow everything? Does he think I’m a total freak show?

Jake goes to a bench in the plaza and sits. He’s shaking his head. I can’t tell what he’s thinking, and I’m worried this whole thing was a bad idea.

I sit down and Jake looks over at me. That was way cool.

What?

I mean it was awful, but it’s really cool what you do.

I…I guess. Relief washes over me. I’m not trying to be cool. I just couldn’t stop doing it even after I knew I’d never get any info about my mom.

You never know. You could still—

It’s been five years. She’s not coming back.

Jake leans closer and our shoulders touch. Wanna share that shake before I have to go?

I think about us drinking from the same straw and my cheeks get warm. Now that I’m looking at Jake as more than a friend, everything seems to have a different meaning. Last year I wouldn’t have thought twice about sharing a drink. Now it makes me think about kissing, and I go all gooey inside.

Despite my wishing, Jake didn’t plant my first kiss on me before he left. I shouldn’t be surprised—wishes have never worked out for me. I sling my messenger bag over my shoulder and head for the Main Library. The Main is where I feel closest to my mom. We spent more time there than in our one-room apartment. I’d never admit it out loud, but part of me still hopes she’ll come back for me here. It makes no sense I’d be waiting in the same place five years later, but sense and my mom don’t always get along.

Near the front doors I spot Mary Louise and her shopping cart piled with treasures she found on the street. I feel bad I have nothing for her today, but she waves and gives me a snaggletoothed smile anyway.

Inside I cross the first floor to the A/V center to get an audio of Chekhov short stories. After a few minutes, I find the version I’m looking for—the reviews say the narrator’s Russian accent is authentic yet mild. Exactly the accent I’m trying to master.

On the elevator I press 6 then load the CD in a DiscMan so ancient Bibi doesn’t question where I got it. Too bad I can’t pull that with an iPod or a cell phone. One look at tech that expensive and Bibi’d have me hauled off for being a thief.

Good thing I figured out quick that Bibi was serious about the house rules. My first week there, one of the pregnant girls got booted for stealing. She bawled and apologized and begged to stay, but Bibi didn’t give in. That doesn’t scare me enough to stop my wicked ways, but I’m damn careful not to get caught.

I make it to the sixth without any stops, and head for my spot in the History Center. I have parking places on other floors, but this is my go-to. It’s where I last saw my mom.

We used to come to this section all the time to look at the books. She’d show me pictures of San Francisco before the big earthquake in 1906 and tell me what it was like then. When I was little, I loved looking at pictures of the old City Hall. Mom said we were in the very spot where it used to be, that after it was destroyed in the quake, the library was built in its place. It seems ridiculous now, but as a kid I pictured the library literally on top of City Hall, like how the house in The Wizard of Oz fell from the sky and landed on top of the witch.

I settle cross-legged on the floor, hidden behind a big chair—the exact place I was sitting when my mom disappeared. I shove my earbuds in and hit play. The narrator starts in the authentic yet mild Russian accent, and I lean back against the chair and close my eyes to listen.

There’s a rumbling in the floor. I open my eyes, figuring it’s a library cart, or maybe one of the homeless got a shopping cart up the elevator. The lights go out, though, so I’m betting it’s a small quake. Happens all the time. I push stop on the DiscMan, pull the buds from my ears, and wait for the lights to come back on.

Out of the corner of my eye, I catch the glint of a reflection. Maybe a person walking toward me with a badge reflecting the emergency lights? I turn to look and don’t see anyone. Just a shiny-fuzzy spot in the air.

Maybe I’m getting a migraine. That happened to me once.

I rub my eyes and look again, but the spot doesn’t change. What the heck is it?

I crawl toward it. It looks like a mirror the size of a dinner plate floating two feet above the floor. Is someone playing a joke?

I wave my hand over the top, expecting to find a string, but there’s nothing. I feel the hair on the back of my neck go up. What is going on?

Sitting back on my heels, I look into the mirror and gasp. It’s like when you look in a three-way mirror and see dozens of yourself, only my reflection’s not there. It’s an endless tunnel with the same image of a building repeating on each pane.

I know it’s a bad idea, but I can’t help it—I poke it with my finger. My finger goes in. There’s no resistance, and my whole hand goes inside.

I reach for one of the buildings and touch the blue sky above it. My finger creates ripples like I’ve dropped a pebble in a pond, and the pane widens. Inside there’s a building under construction, steel girders, men in hard hats. I know this building from photographs—it’s City Hall. The old City Hall, from before the library. Only this is not a photo. The people are moving. I hear shouting and hammering. There’s sunlight on my hand—I feel the warmth on my skin.

The library lights come on. I yank my