Rejected No More: The Genius's Revenge

"Mom," Arlis said, his voice a raw whisper he barely recognized. He had to swallow hard, fighting the lump in his throat to keep his voice from cracking. "Don't worry. I'm coming home. And this time, I'm going to take back everything we lost." The promise hung in the stale air of the Starbucks long after the call ended. It was a vow made to a woman twenty years in the past, from a future she couldn't comprehend. The certainty in his own words was the only thing anchoring him as the world tilted on its axis. The pain didn't start in his head. It started in his chest, a hollow, thudding impact like he'd been kicked by a mule, before radiating upward and exploding behind his eyes. Arlis Zimmerman gasped, his lungs seizing as if the air had suddenly turned to solid concrete. His fingers clawed at the edge of the table, scraping against the rough, varnished wood. "Arlis? Are you even listening to me?" The voice was sharp, nasal, and terrifyingly familiar. It cut through the ringing in his ears. Arlis forced his eyes open. The fluorescent lights of the Starbucks were blinding, but as his vision cleared, the face across from him swam into focus. Hailee Baxter. She looked younger. Her skin was smoother, devoid of the fine lines that would appear in her thirties. She was stirring her latte with a plastic stick, her movements jerky and impatient. She wore a pastel pink polo shirt with the collar popped-a fashion crime he hadn't seen in two decades. Arlis looked down at his hands. They weren't the calloused, scarred hands of a forty-year-old alcoholic failure. They were smooth. Young. He reached into his pocket and his fingers brushed against cold, hard plastic. He pulled it out. A silver Motorola flip phone. The device felt alien and heavy in his palm. He turned his head toward the window. A Ford Taurus rolled by outside, followed by a girl in low-rise jeans that barely covered her hips. The nausea hit him then. It wasn't just a headache. It was a collision of memories-forty years of regret slamming into a twenty-two-year-old body. He remembered the whiskey bottles, the lonely apartment, the obituary of his father he couldn't afford to attend. Hailee slammed her cup down. Coffee sloshed over the rim. "I said, we're done," she snapped. "I don't want to start my job at the Community Street Office dragging a diner kid behind me." Arlis stared at her. The love he had once felt-the pathetic, puppy-dog devotion that had defined his early twenties-evaporated instantly. In its place was a cold, clinical clarity. He saw her not as the girl of his dreams, but as the woman who would eventually marry three times, bankrupt two husbands, and end up bitter and alone in a suburbs condo. She was waiting for him to beg. She had a napkin ready in her hand, anticipating his tears. Arlis leaned back in the hard wooden chair. His heart rate slowed. "Is this for the job, or is this for Kyler Craft?" Hailee's eyes widened. Her pupils contracted into pinpricks. The plastic stirrer fell from her hand onto the table. "How... how do you know about Kyler?" She looked around the café, panic flushing her neck a mottled red. "It doesn't matter how I know," Arlis said, his voice raspy but steady. Hailee recovered quickly. She straightened her spine, lifting her chin in a gesture of defensive arrogance. "Well, since you know, it makes this easier. Kyler's father is the Vice Chair of the Regulatory Commission. He can give me a future. You can give me... what? Free burgers?" Students at the nearby tables were turning to look. Hailee didn't shrink away; she preened under the attention. She loved an audience. Arlis picked up his Americano. It was stone cold. He took a sip, letting the bitter, acidic taste burn his throat, grounding him in this reality. "Congratulations, Hailee," he said. "You finally sold yourself to the highest bidder." Hailee's face turned a violent shade of crimson. She stood up so abruptly her chair screeched against the floor tiles. "That kind of bitterness is exactly why you'll be flipping burgers for the rest of your sad life!" She grabbed her handbag, her knuckles white around the strap. "Don't contact me. And don't even think about showing your face at City Hall. You have zero chance at that fellowship." She spun on her heel, her platform sandals clacking loudly as she stormed toward the exit, shoulder-checking a guy walking in with a tray of muffins. Arlis didn't watch her go. His gaze dropped to the newspaper left on the table by a previous patron. The Capital Gazette. The date in the corner was bold and black: May 12, 2005. His finger traced the edge of the paper until it landed on a small, insignificant box in the bottom right corner. City Hall Special Research Fellowship - Written Exam Results Posted. He remembered this day. In his past life, he had cried in his car for two hours. He had driven home, gotten drunk, and given up. He had missed the cut by one spot. But he also remembered what happened two days later. He remembered the scandal that wouldn't break for another week. He remembered the "Supplemental Candidate Protocol." Arlis clenched his fist. His fingernails dug into his palm until the skin broke, a sharp, stinging pain that told him this was real. This wasn't a hallucination. It was a second chance. He flipped open the Motorola. His thumb moved instinctively over the keypad, dialing the number that was etched into his soul. "Hello?" The voice was tired, worn down by years of grease and standing on her feet. He took a shaky breath, the one that led to the promise he'd just made to himself. "Mom," Arlis said.