I gave Tommy a look, then sat back down. It was all I could do to keep from laughing.

  ✶

  You may have noticed I no longer had to sleep to make my second chances happen. Nor did I have to call myself “stupid.” Through trial and error, I learned I only had to say or think the word twice and tap any part of my body. That took me back to somewhere earlier that day. If I wanted to go back further, I could, but I had to focus on the event I wanted to revisit.

  This required meticulous record-­keeping. I began to chart my daily activities in composition notebooks. When I got up. Where I rode my bike. Who I ate lunch with at school.

  “Why are you always writing in those notebooks?” my dad asked.

  “I like to keep track of things.”

  “Like a diary?”

  “No. Diaries are for girls.”

  The truth was, I needed data to make my jumps. Other­wise, I might repeat something unintended, which sometimes happened anyway.

  One day I was craving chocolate ice cream really badly, so I focused on my last visit to Custard King, which I remembered as two weeks earlier with my father. I pictured the car ride in my head. I mumbled twice, tapped my leg, and instantly landed in the backseat of our Plymouth. Only then did I see empty cups and discarded spoons on the floor, and I realized I had remembered it incorrectly. I had actually walked to Custard King with friends, and Dad had picked us up. So not only was there no ice cream that day, but I was stuck reliving the next two weeks all over again.

  And yes, I have to go forward in real time. No skipping back to the present. I return to the age I was with each jump and continue on from there.

  Which is why I say that nobody knows how long I have been on this earth. If you took all the repeated hours, days, months, and years, I would guess it is many lifetimes. It feels that way, anyhow.

  ✶

  My best friend during those years was a kid named Wesley, who was older than me but for some reason didn’t start school until he was seven, so we were in the same grade. We didn’t have a lot of Black families in our neighborhood, and he and his younger sister, London, were constantly getting picked on. Maybe that’s why we took to each other. That, and I had been to Africa, which his parents seemed to like.

  Wesley wore horn-­rimmed glasses and built model rocket ships in his basement. When America sent Apollo 11 to the moon, he was so excited, he kept a daily scrapbook. He cut up newspaper stories and pasted them on dated pages labeled with colorful penmanship. It was meticulous, and he was rightly proud of it. One day, for science class, he brought that scrapbook to school.

  As we walked down the hallway, a couple of older boys surrounded us and demanded to see what Wesley was holding. One of them was Alan Ponto, a loud, stocky kid who was already growing whiskers on his chin. He leafed through the scrapbook and said, “Hey, this page is cool.”

  “Thanks,” Wesley said.

  “Wanna know what makes it cooler?”

  He tore the page out, ripped it in half, then ripped up the pieces. “That’s cooler.”

  Wesley burst into tears.

  “Aw, did I make the little nerd cry?” Alan mocked.

  Poor Wesley. Crying was the worst thing he could have done. A group of students quickly gathered, laughing as he wiped his eyes and hugged his scrapbook to his chest.

  I felt so bad for him that I tapped back to when Wesley and I were walking to school. I thought about telling him to hide his scrapbook in his desk. Then I decided on something else. Once inside, I ran to the science teacher, Mr. Timmons, and told him to come quickly, some boys were threatening to destroy Wesley’s project. We arrived just as Alan was tearing the page out.

  “Young man, what are you doing?” Mr. Timmons said.

  Alan spun around, surprised.

  “Huh?”

  “You just desecrated another student’s work. Do you think that’s funny?”

  “Huh?”

  The kids who had previously gathered to mock Wesley were now poking each other. Many had been victims of Alan’s bullying; they weren’t missing his comeuppance.

  “Can you tell me the properties of tape, Alan?”

  “Huh?”

  “The properties of tape,” Mr. Timmons said. “Polypropylene, for starters. You’re going to learn a lot about them, since you’ll be taping every bit of that page very carefully back into Wesley’s scrapbook.”

  “Huh?”

  “Young man, do you know any words besides Huh?”

  At that point, even Wesley cracked a smile.

  He taught me something that morning. He taught me that this gift I have could actually make things better for other people. You might think, having learned this, that I spent the rest of my life in altruistic endeavors.

  I didn’t. I wish I had. The truth is, you never do as much good as you could.

  ✶

  Things my mother said she loved about me:

  “Your laugh.”

  “How you sleep with your arms under your pillow.”

  “Your courage, even when you’re scared.”

  One day, during a field trip to the zoo with my sixth-grade class, I was standing with a couple of girls near the lion exhibit. One of the girls was named Esther, and I kind of liked her, in the way that a sixth-grade boy likes a girl, which is awkward and without reciprocation. I was stealing a glance at her pinkish cheeks when one of the big cats roared, and I jumped backward.

  “You got spooked,” Esther said, giggling.

  “No, I didn’t.”

  “Yes, you did! I thought you lived in Africa. Aren’t you used to lions?”

  I looked away. My new response to embarrassment like this was a quick time jump to correct it. But hoping to impress Esther, I took a bolder tact.

  “Lions don’t scare me,” I bragged. “If I wanted to, I could play with them right now.”

  “Play with lions?”

  “Sure. We did it every day in Africa.”

  (We did no such thing. I saw one lion the entire time I was there.)

  Quickly, Esther’s friends jumped in. “Do it!” “I dare you!” “I double dare you!” But Esther changed her tone. “Wait, you’re messing around, right, Alfie?”

  I straightened up, chuff with phony bravery.

  “Watch me.”

  The exhibit was protected by a high fence, then a long space, then a wall behind which the lions roamed freely. Reminding myself all I had to do was tap my body and say twice, I jumped onto the fence and shimmied up. I heard Esther yell, “Alfie, no!” but I was already over. I looked back and grinned at the girls with their hands over their mouths.

  I saw two lions lift their heads and one rise on its paws. I trembled but kept moving forward. I could hear the screams of people beyond the fence. Another step. Another step. The largest lion began pacing, eyeballing me. Although I had done this to impress a girl, I was now hypnotized by the danger. I eased over the low stone wall and took two more strides in the animals’ direction.

  The lion growled. I saw his ears flatten and his tail sweep from side to side. Then, just like that, he broke into a sprint, charging straight at me, head low, mouth open. I slapped my legs, yelled “Twice!” and immediately was face down in my pillow that morning, my heart going like a drill.

  I lay there for a minute, the sunlight spilling through the window, still seeing that beast coming at me. It was frightening, yes. But exhilarating. As alive as I’ve ever felt. I could have died in that moment, Boss, yet I didn’t. And I foolishly gave myself the credit for that. It was the start of an addiction to invincibility. A belief that nothing I did the first time could hurt me.

  It was also a realization that, for all these chances I was taking, I was the only one to reflect on my bravery. Later that day, when our class (again) went to the zoo, I stood next to Esther. When that lion roared, I didn’t flinch. I didn’t say a thing. I wanted to brag, “Hey, I just ran into his cage! He was this close to eating me!” But it’s not like I had any proof. My first chances let me be Superman. My second chances, I was stuck as Clark Kent.

  Nassau

  “Wait,” LaPorta said. “What year was that? The lion cage thing?”

  “I’m not sure,” Alfie said. “Maybe 1969, or ’70?”

  “An incident like that would be reported. Even written about in a local newspaper.”

  “Probably.”

  “I can cross-­check it in a database. We can prove if your story is true right now. Where did you say that happened? Philadelphia?”

  He rose from his seat.

  “You’re wasting your time, Detective.”

  LaPorta turned. “Why?”

  “Once I undo something, no record of my first actions exists. That was one reality, but we’re in this one now. The one where I just stood there and never approached that cage.”

  “What are you talking about?” LaPorta snapped.

  “I can’t explain the physics. I can only tell you that my second-­chance life is the one the rest of this world is witnessing. I’m the only one who remembers the things I undid.”

  “And that means . . . ?”

  “It means you’re not going to find anything.”

  LaPorta rubbed his chin. He held for a moment. Then he dropped back into his chair.

  “Well, isn’t that convenient for you.”

  He took out his phone and pressed a number.

  “Who are you calling?” Alfie asked.

  “I ask the questions,” LaPorta replied.

  Actually, he was still trying to reach his contact with the Bahamian police, a young officer named Sampson, who was supposed to be rounding up the casino staff for questioning. When no one answered, he hung up the phone and blew out a mouthful of air.

  “Shall I continue?” Alfie asked.

  “For now,” LaPorta said.

  Two

  The Composition Book

  Since I mentioned Esther, Boss, I should get to how this power affected me in love. I find myself clinging to that subject these days. Who I’ve loved. Who’s loved me back. Who will keep me company in my final days? When we’re young, we want to satisfy every desire. When we’re old, our greatest desire is to not die alone.

  Love began to interest me when I was twelve. Up to that point, I’d been awkward around girls. And, as a short, skinny kid, I worried I always would be. To be honest, the only time I’d felt comfortable with a girl was back in Africa, when Princess and I were being scooped up together in an elephant’s trunk. I sometimes wondered where she was now.

  Then adolescence arrived. Girls began developing. Boys began noticing. Hormones raged, and by junior high, kids were having what we called “make-­out parties.” They all had the same ingredients: a basement, a record player, a black light, and most importantly, parents who were gone for the evening. I made the mistake of mentioning these parties to my father once, who responded with, “I better not catch you at one of those, or it’ll be the last party you ever attend.”

  Of course, that only made me want to go more. One Saturday, my friend Stewie, who was now a full head taller than me, mentioned a get-­together at a girl’s house in the neighborhood. Her name was Robin. She lived on a cul-­de-­sac.

  “There’s gonna be making out,” he said. “We should go.”

  “Can Wesley come?” I asked.

  “I’m asking you, not him. We don’t want too many boys there!”

  I stayed home at first, partly out of loyalty to Wesley, but also out of fear. I’d never even kissed a girl. I didn’t think I could fake my way through it. But then my father went out, and the house grew so quiet that curiosity got the best of me. I could always tap out if things got too weird, right?

  I quickly showered and dressed in my newest jeans and a tie-­dyed T-­shirt. Thinking about the girls who would be there, I spritzed some of my father’s aftershave on my neck and cheeks. I left the back door unlocked so I could sneak in later.

  The “party” consisted of nine kids: four girls, five boys. After sitting around listening to music for a while, Robin suggested we play a game called Seven Minutes in Heaven, where couples went into a closet and stayed there for seven minutes.

  “We have to pair up,” Robin said, smiling at Stewie, who smiled back. Robin was one of the popular kids in our class. She wore dark bangs over her forehead and silver gloss on her lips. “Also,” she said, “one of you boys will have to sit out, because there’s not enough girls to match up.”

  “I’ll sit,” I quickly offered.

  “No, not you.” She pointed to Herman, a sixth grader with a crew cut who had only been invited because he was another girl’s brother. “You.”

  Herman looked relieved. The rest of us paired off. I was matched with a skinny girl named Adrian, who had braces on her teeth and wore wide bell-­bottom jeans. We sat next to each other as Stewie and Robin went into the closet first, while a kid named Pete checked his watch. When seven minutes passed, Pete banged on the door and the closet opened. Robin emerged, her shirt untucked. She was fanning herself.

  “I want more time!” she squealed. Stewie grinned. The rest of us laughed nervously. These two had clearly moved up the coolness scale.

  Next, it was our turn. Adrian rose and walked to the closet. I followed behind, my heart thumping so hard I swore the others could hear it.

  “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do,” Stewie cracked.

  To say those next seven minutes were excruciating would be underselling it. I barely knew Adrian. I could only see her silhouette. For a while, we said nothing.

  “Do you think they really made out?” she finally whispered.

  “Who, Stewie and Robin?” I whispered back.

  “Yeah.”

  “I don’t know. What do you think?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Me neither.”

  Silence.

  “Do you think she likes him?” I asked.

  “I heard she did.”

  “Yeah?”

  “She told Alison. She wrote him a note.”

  “What did it say?”

  “I don’t know. I just heard she did it.”

  “Oh.”

  It went on like this, with muffled music coming from under the door. Our eyes adjusted and Adrian’s shape became more visible in the darkness, as did the shelves and boxes in the closet. I felt like I needed to advance things in some way, so I edged closer and nervously slid my hand onto her arm. I moved it down until my palm rested on the top of her fingers. She wiggled them uncomfortably.

  “You smell funny,” she said.

  “I do?”

  “Like my dad.”

  The aftershave. I swallowed hard. After that, I couldn’t think of a single thing to say.

  “We don’t have to make out,” she finally offered.

  “OK,” I mumbled.

  The rest of the time, we just sat in the darkness. A single minute never felt so long. When we finally emerged—­to a chorus of “whoo-­hoos”—­I noticed Adrian shoot Robin a look and shake her head no. Stewie saw this, too.

  “They didn’t do anything!” he yelled. “I knew it!” He pointed at me. “Wimp!”

  As you probably guessed, I tapped out seconds later. I redid the whole event. This time I skipped the aftershave. And I walked to the party determined not to be so meek. When Robin suggested Seven Minutes in Heaven, I shouted, “Cool! I love that game!” And once in the closet, I told Adrian, “You don’t have to like me or anything, but I think we should kiss so that they don’t make fun of us when we get out, OK?”

  She seemed taken aback by my honesty.

  “All right,” she answered.

  I edged closer, but since this was before our eyes adjusted, I banged my forehead into her ear, then my nose into hers.

  “Ow,” she said.

  “Ow” is not a good prelude to a kiss, especially your first, but that’s what it was for me. I pushed my face forward until my mouth found the area beneath her nostrils. I pressed on it the way a kid presses his lips on a frosted window. She pressed back, keeping her mouth tightly closed to avoid me feeling her braces. We did this twice. It was dry and unmemorable. Then we separated and spent the rest of the seven minutes whispering small talk. When we exited, I guess it looked as if we had done something, because all Stewie yelled out was, “Next!”

  An hour later, I went home. I tiptoed through the back door to find my father waiting for me, his arms crossed. He grounded me for a month. I trudged upstairs, feeling numb.

  Later, as I lay in bed staring out the window, I decided that making out was definitely not worth it. I was too young to understand the real reason for my gloom—­that my first kiss had only come on a second try. Years later, I would wish I had saved that moment for someone else.

  Nassau

  “Wait, let me guess,” LaPorta said. “Gianna Rule. She’s the ‘someone else’ you’re talking about?”

  “That’s right.”

  “When do we get to her part?”

  “Soon.”

  LaPorta rocked his chair up on its rear legs. “Listen, pal. I know where all this is going. You’re going to tell me you used your little ‘power’ to travel back before each spin of the roulette wheel and play the winning number.”

  “Not exactly,” Alfie said.

  “Not exactly, huh? You think you’re pretty smart.”

  “Actually, my story is one of great foolishness.”

  LaPorta dropped his chair down with a bang.

  “Cut the crap, Shakespeare. You think I haven’t noticed that, in your little fantasy here, you haven’t once mentioned money? If I actually believed you could do what you’re saying—­which I don’t—­that’s the first thing anyone would have done.”

  “My mother warned me against that, remember?”

  “You could have bought a lottery ticket.”

  “I was too young.”

  “Go to the racetrack.”

  “I was just a kid. How would I go to a racetrack?”

  LaPorta smirked. “We obviously didn’t grow up in the same neighborhood.”

  He dug out another Life Saver and popped it into his mouth. He looked at his phone. Still no message.

  “For me,” he said, leaning back, “it was Spin the Bottle.”