Tomas Alvarez was the cutest guy in the ninth grade. Blond hair, broad shoulders, blue eyes to die for. Trouble was, he wouldn't be born for fifty years.

No one knew that last part, of course, and I wasn't allowed to tell them. Just like I couldn't tell them why he showed up dressed all wrong the first day of class. He wore tight shorts that barely covered his butt and some white puffy things around his wrists--nothing else. A few kids laughed when he entered the room; someone whistled. He stared at them through fierce eyes, not understanding what was so funny, but daring them to make something of it, anyway.

Our homeroom teacher, Mrs. Ambrose, turned red when she saw him, a slow blush that crept up her cheeks to the roots of her gray hair. She grabbed Tomas' arm and dragged him from the room.

When Tomas returned, he wore a loose black T-shirt and tattered sneakers; together they made the shorts look almost decent.

Mrs. Ambrose explained that Tomas came from Arakistan, a small ex-Soviet republic that didn't make the news much. He'd been sent as part of an exchange program, and she hoped we would all treat him well.

What she didn't explain was why someone from Russia would run around half-naked in autumn. I thought someone would ask, but no one did. Then again, I also thought someone would figure out that there was no such place as Arakistan and never had been, and that never happened, either.

Tomas Alvarez came from Brooklyn . I guessed from his clothes--or lack of them--that it had been summer when he'd left. Not summer 1995, though. Summer 2060.

I waited for Tomas outside the school gates. The air held the crisp, burnt smell of winter, even though it was only September. The distant mountains were a blaze of red and yellow leaves.

Just before lunch I'd managed to introduce myself to Tomas, explaining that Mom and I were his host family and he should meet me after school. What I didn't get to ask was why he'd shown up two days late; we'd been waiting since Saturday, after all. Too many other kids kept crowding around him and getting in the way. Nothing like good looks to help a guy make friends fast.

"Hi, Suzie." Krista Arrens walked up beside me and dropped her books to the ground. "Your guest's popular. Unlike some of us." Her freckled face held a wistful expression I knew much too well. Krista always complained about not being popular. It bugged me sometimes. I was her friend, after all. Didn't that count for something?

I turned away from Krista and back toward the school, pushing my braid over one shoulder. Tomas was standing in front of the building now. He must have just come out. I waved him over.

He walked slowly, with uneven steps and an awkward tension in his shoulders. Maybe he wasn't used to wearing clothes this time of year. Maybe the sneakers Mrs. Ambrose had found him were too tight. I wondered why the Institute hadn't shown him how to dress. Then again, his mistake hadn't kept him from getting along with the other kids.

"Hello," Tomas said. "Sorry to make you wait." He had a funny accent, different from my relatives in New York City . But his English was fine at any rate. He smiled. He'd been smiling a lot that day. He liked having people pay attention to him.

"No problem." I smiled back--it seemed rude not to--and started toward home. Tomas and Krista followed.

"Where's your car?" Tomas asked. Leaves crunched beneath his feet.

"My what?"

Tomas fixed me with his intent blue gaze. "You're old enough to drive, aren't you? Fourteen?"

"Fifteen. Driving age is sixteen, here." And even if I were old enough, Mom wouldn't get me a car just because I could drive one.

"Oh." Tomas looked disappointed. "Can't you at least drive an electric scooter?"

"Is that what you drive in Arakistan?" Krista's face showed real interest. I'd almost forgotten she didn't know where Tomas really came from.

Tomas hesitated. Then he nodded, blond hair brushing his neck. "Yes. Yes it is."

"What's Arakistan like?" There was a dreamy edge to Krista's voice. I wished I could tell her the truth.

"It's different," Tomas said. Krista kept staring at him, so he added, "different from here." A blush crept up his face. He walked faster. Krista matched his pace, leaving me behind.

For a moment I just watched them. There was still something strange about the way Tomas walked; he already seemed tired, even though we hadn't gone very far. Maybe walking wasn't something he did much. Maybe that was why he'd expected me to have a car. Beside him, Krista walked lightly, keeping up a steady stream of conversation. I hurried to catch up. I had plenty of questions of my own, but those would have to wait until later.

I thought about how the Cornell Time Institute had first contacted Mom, late last spring. The Institute had talked to the principal first, of course. I don't know how they convinced Mr. Phillips they were serious, but they did. Mr. Phillips had called Mom, asking if she'd host an Institute student. Mom was on the school board then--her law firm hadn't promoted her to partner yet, so she still had the time--which was why he'd thought of her.

"It all sounds pretty unlikely," Mom had said to me at the time, "but Mr. Phillips isn't creative enough to make something like that up. I told him I'd at least listen to what the Institute has to say."

Somehow, the Institute had convinced Mom, too. I don't know what they told her, and she wouldn't say. But the next thing I knew, we were making plans to have someone stay with us in the fall.

I'd had a lot more trouble believing it than Mom. I still had trouble, even though I'd had time to get used to the idea. I looked at Tomas, walking along beside me. He kept glancing around--was he taking in the details of our time, comparing them to his own? Had he really come back fifty years?

I wanted to ask, but I couldn't, not now. The Institute had made Mom and Mr. Phillips agree not to tell anyone else about the program. Mom had told me anyway, but she'd made me promise not to tell anyone else. Not even Krista.

Mom was waiting when we got home. I'd called her from school, letting her know that Tomas had finally shown up. She'd been as curious as me about why he was late. Anyway, she'd taken off work early to meet him. She still wore her work skirt and blouse, but she'd wiped off her makeup and switched from her pumps into tennis shoes. From the kitchen I smelled the spicy tang of dinner cooking. Chicken, with stuffing of some sort. Mom hardly ever cooked from scratch.

"Hello, Tomas," Mom said, holding out a hand. Tomas hesitated, then took it. I wondered if people still shook hands in Tomas' time. Even if they didn't, The Institute would have taught him what to do, wouldn't they?

Sure they would. Just like they'd taught him how to dress. They might be good at time travel, but they didn't seem very good at the other stuff that went with it.

"Well, I know you must be tired," Mom said. "Why don't I just show you your room, and then you can have dinner and unwind?" Tomas nodded, and Mom led him up the stairs. I realized he didn't have any luggage. Was he supposed to buy all his clothes here?

I grabbed an armful of dishes from the cupboard and began setting the dining room table. Krista wandered over to the phone to ask her parents if she could stay for supper. For once, I wished she wasn't staying--I wanted to talk to Tomas--but I couldn't think of a good reason to make her leave.

As soon as we sat down to dinner, Krista began asking about Arakistan again. Tomas replied between bites, mostly yes and no answers. He finished a chicken leg, reached for another. "This is really good," he said. "What brand is it?"

I laughed. Usually dinner did come out of a box--Swanson or Banquet or whatever. "Mom brand," I said. I guess Tomas' parents didn't cook much, either.

"Never heard of it." Tomas' voice was perfectly serious, his gaze was so earnest that I giggled. I couldn't help it.

Mom cast a warning glance in my direction. "Kimberly Susan Wilkins--" I knew that tone well enough. I swallowed the rest of my laughter. Mom turned to Tomas and explained, "I can't cook every night, but it is your first day, after all. And since I got off work early--"

Tomas had stopped eating. A half chewed drumstick dangled from his fingers; his mouth hung open. He stared at me. He didn't seem to hear Mom at all.

"You're Kimberly Wilkins?"

"Suzie. No one calls me Kimberly." Not if they want to stay on speaking terms, anyway.

"But they will," Tomas said. His eyes were suddenly bright; there was something like awe in his voice. "That's the name you'll use when--"

A sudden crash made me jump. Mom had spilled her glass. She stood, Diet Coke dripping from her blouse. "Get me a towel," she said. Her voice sounded tight and angry. Mom never spilled anything.

I nodded, backing toward the kitchen. What had Tomas been about to say?

I found a towel in the cupboard, but Mom came up behind me and pulled it from my hands. "We need to talk." She spoke in the low voice that meant she wasn't angry after all, just serious and a little worried. I closed the cupboard door and leaned back against the counter.

Mom looked down at me. "He's not supposed to talk about things like that, you know. That's one of the first things the Institute explained."

"Things like what?" I asked, though I suspected I already knew.

"The Institute trains its students not to reveal the future. Not politics, not who's going to be famous, not what people are going to do with their lives. Not anything."

I stared at the floor, an uneasy tingling beginning at the base of my skull. I wished Mom hadn't cut Tomas off.

I thought back to the time, a couple of years ago now, when the Vice President had come to speak at my school. When he was done talking, I'd gotten to shake his hand. The look on Tomas' face had matched the way I'd felt when that day--shy and startled, not quite able to believe someone so important could exist for real and not just on TV.

Who the hell did Tomas think I was? Who did he think I would be, fifty years from now? I shivered. For a moment I wondered whether I wanted to know--I could be someone awful, after all--but I pushed the thought aside. Of course I wanted to know. I wanted it more badly every moment I thought about it.

"What do you think he was going to say?" I asked.

"It's not important." Mom set her mouth in a thin, determined line. "If it affects us, we'll find out soon enough. If it doesn't, then it's none of our business, anyway."

But it was my business, mine more than anyone else's. I opened my mouth to argue, but Mom kept talking in that low, steady voice.

"I'll talk with Tomas later. In the meantime I want you to promise me something."

A cold lump settled in my stomach. I knew what she was going to say.

"Promise you won't ask Tomas to tell you anything else. Even if he offers to."

I bit my lip.

"Suzie?"

I swallowed. Once I made a promise, Mom expected me to keep it, no matter what. "All right," I said, but I avoided Mom's gaze. For the first time in my life, I wasn't sure I'd be able to keep my word.

Mom went upstairs to change out of her damp blouse; I went back to the dining room. Krista and Tomas weren't at the table.

Krista stood by the phone, talking angrily into the receiver. "I want you to pick me up now," she yelled. "Not in fifteen minutes." Tomas stood beside her, looking confused.

"What's wrong?" I asked. I hadn't been gone all that long, after all.

"She asked me about her future." Tomas shrugged, daring me to make something of it.

I felt a sudden burst of anger. Tomas had told Krista what he hadn't told me--and Krista wasn't even supposed to know where Tomas came from.

Krista slammed the phone down. Her face had turned so fierce a red that I couldn't see her freckles. "He told me you were going to be important one day. Of course I didn't take him seriously, but just for the heck of it, I asked about me."

Krista didn't know, then. To her it was just some sort of joke, a game. The fact didn't make me feel any better.

"What'd he say?"

Krista took a deep breath. "He said he'd never heard of me! He said I probably wouldn't do anything that mattered." She glared at Tomas.

I wondered why she cared what he said. She didn't know that he'd come from the future, that he might know what he was talking about. I did, and I wasn't even allowed to ask any questions. It wasn't fair.

"I'm going outside to wait for Dad," Krista said. I knew that I should follow her, talk to her until she felt less upset, but I didn't. I wanted to stay with Tomas. Maybe, if I pushed the conversation in the right direction, he'd drop some hints. I stood there, waiting for Krista to leave.

She finally did, glancing back with a watery, hurt look. I didn't know whether the look was aimed at Tomas or at me. She walked slowly out, slamming the door behind her.

Mom walked in as soon as Krista left. So much for talking to Tomas.

"Krista gone already?" she asked. I nodded. Mom had changed out of her work clothes, into a gray sweatsuit.

"We need to talk," she told Tomas. Tomas shrugged and followed her to the table. The dishes were still piled there, but Mom didn't seem to care.

I moved to sit with them, but Mom waved me away. "Don't you have some homework to do?" Her low tone meant I'd better find some, even if I didn't. She wanted to talk to Tomas alone.

I climbed the stairs slowly, straining to hear them. All I made out were muffled whispers. I waited at the top step for a long time, but they didn't get any louder.

Finally I went into my room and flopped down on the bed. Mom had brought my schoolbooks up; they lay in a neat pile on my pillow. I stared at the thick spines: math, science, English, history, French. Did the key to my future lie in one of those books? I liked history well enough. Maybe I'd be a politician, maybe president. I didn't like talking to strangers, though, and the president was always talking to someone or other. Science? Chemistry was fun, but chemists probably had to be good at math. I couldn't think of any famous chemists, anyway.

I shoved the books off the bed; they fell to the carpet with a thud. I stared where they lay scattered.

Math was the only class I'd ever failed, but there was nothing I was so good at that I could see spending the rest of my life at it. One day I'd graduate high school, though, and then I'd have to decide what to do next--a thought that scared me more than I liked to admit.

Tomas already knew what I'd do next. If he'd tell me, I wouldn't have to worry about it. I'd know what decisions to make.

The tingling at the back of my neck started up again. I didn't just want to know. I had to know--so badly I could taste it, a sharp, bitter tang at the back of my throat. I needed answers, and I couldn't wait fifty years. I had too much to figure out before then.

I thought of Krista, storming out the front door. Mom hadn't said anything about Krista asking questions. If she asked for me, I wouldn't be breaking my word.

That was assuming Krista would agree, though. Assuming she was no longer angry at Tomas--and no longer angry at me.

Krista ignored me all morning, then sat down beside me at lunch as if nothing had happened. I should have guessed she would. Krista hated sitting alone.

Tomas sat a couple of tables away. A bunch of kids sat with him, talking in loud voices. He seemed perfectly comfortable, as if he'd known them all for years. Only his eyes gave him away. They flickered from person to person, taking things in with a strange, eager intensity. As if he were determined to learn all he could about them--or not to make any mistakes. I couldn't tell which.

I smushed my mashed potatoes beneath my fork, wondering whether I dared ask Krista to talk to him. I didn't want to get her upset all over again. I felt bad enough for not following her outside last night.

Then again, Tomas was sitting there, so close. If only she would ask--just one question, that's all it would take. I swallowed. "Krista--" I began.

"Don't call me a loser, loser!" The yell came from Tomas' table. I heard a crash and realized that someone had stood, knocking his chair over behind him. Suddenly everyone was yelling at once. Somehow I knew that Tomas had started the commotion, though I couldn't imagine how. A moment ago everything had been fine. I dropped my fork and ran over.

Most of the kids were standing by the time I got there; Tomas was rubbing his chin. Someone had punched him. "Chill out," a girl said, but nobody paid any attention.

I heard Krista giggling behind me.

"What's so funny?"

"It worked," Krista whispered. "Now the popular kids don't like him anymore than they like us."

I turned to face her. "What did you do?" My voice came out hard and cold, like steel. Getting mad at someone was one thing. Getting them into a fight so bad they got hurt was another.

"Just dropped a few hints. Told people what sort of questions to ask. I figured if other people got half as angry as I did last night, he'd be in big trouble."

I wanted to wipe the smug grin off Krista's face. Instead I turned back to the crowd.

"He's only kidding," I said. "He pulled the same thing over at my place last night." The excuse sounded stupid, but I couldn't think of anything else that might help Tomas out.

"Being told we're all going to fail isn't funny." A strange, bitter tone crept into the speaker's voice. "I can fail just fine on my own."

"I didn't say that," Tomas insisted weakly. I barely heard him. A cold feeling settled in the pit of my stomach. I suddenly understood why everyone--including Krista--had gotten so angry.

Last night I'd stayed awake past midnight , past when Tomas went to bed and Mom turned out the lights. I'd stared into the dark, trying to imagine ever being good at anything--really good, good enough to be famous. I couldn't. Even though Tomas had just about said that would happen.

How would I have felt if instead Tomas had said I'd fail? Even if I hadn't believed him, hadn't realized he might know what he was talking about, I would have been angry. I was scared enough of failing already.

I stepped forward and grabbed Tomas' arm. "We need to talk," I said, startled at how much my voice sounded like Mom's.

To my surprise, no one stopped me as I dragged Tomas from the cafeteria.

We found an empty classroom. I sat on the edge of the teacher's desk; Tomas took one of the chairs. My legs swung above the floor, and I had to look down to talk to him. I felt funny, like a parent lecturing a kid.

"I thought Mom talked to you last night. I thought she told you not to say anything about the future."

"I didn't give anything away." Tomas looked puzzled again. "It's not my fault people got mad."

"Whether or not you gave something away isn't the point." I wondered whether I meant that. He'd almost given something away last night. I still wanted to know, but I'd worry about that later.

Tomas rubbed his face. A purple bruise had formed along his jaw. "What is the point?"

I hesitated, not sure how to explain. "No one likes being told their lives won't mean anything. We're all scared enough that'll happen already."

"Not you," Tomas said.

"Why not me?" I jumped down from the desk. "Why shouldn't I be scared? Tomas, haven't you ever been afraid of failing anything?"

"No." He said it so calmly I almost believed him.

"Not until six months ago, anyway."

I whirled around to see who'd spoken. Someone stood in the doorway, a suitcase on the floor beside him. He wore jeans and a T-shirt, but the outfit didn't look right. The sneakers were too clean and neatly laced, the jeans dyed too deep a blue. The T-shirt was stiff and unwrinkled, as if someone had ironed it. He looked like he was trying hard to fit in, but failing because he put so much work into it.

"Who are you?" I wondered how long he'd been standing there.

The boy ran a hand through his thin brown hair. He wasn't nearly as cute as Tomas. His eyes were blue, but they lacked Tomas' intensity. Everything about him was mellow--his loose shoulders, the way he shoved his hands into his pockets. He was much too relaxed for the clothes he wore--and the result was that you forgot about the clothes, after a moment or two.

"I'm Tomas Alvarez," the boy said. He almost sounded embarrassed. "And he isn't."

For a moment it didn't quite sink in. Then I turned to face Tomas--the Tomas I thought I knew, the one with blond hair--and waited for him to deny the boy's words. He avoided my eyes. His hands were clenched into tight fists.

"Who are you?" I finally asked.

"Steven. Steven Archer." His gaze dropped to the floor.

"He couldn't handle losing," the boy said.

"Losing what?" I stared at them both.

Tomas--no, Steven, that was his real name--shifted uneasily. "There was an essay contest. To decide who would get to come back."

"Not just an essay," the real Tomas said. "Lots of other stuff, too. Interviews, and acting things out. I was sure Steve would win--everyone was. But they chose me." The boy shrugged. "I think it's the first time in his life Steve ever lost anything."

I could fill in the rest of the story on my own. "You snuck through, didn't you?" I glared at Steven. He'd tricked me, me and all the other kids. No wonder he'd dressed wrong, and hadn't understood so many other things. The Institute had never explained anything to him, because he wasn't supposed to be here in the first place.

"There was a technical problem," Steven said. "The sendoff got delayed. By the time they were ready to go, the techs were so worried about getting Tomas out before the window closed that they didn't pay much attention. Since I'd gotten through security, they assumed I was legit."

I wondered how the hell Steven had gotten through security in the first place. I decided not to ask.

"You knew they'd switch us as soon as the next window opened," Tomas said.

"One day was better than nothing." Steven's voice turned suddenly smug. "Besides, I got to meet her." He pointed at me. I looked away. My stomach felt funny when he talked about me like that.

"I bet you won't even figure out who she is," Steven said. "Of course, you wouldn't let on, even if you did. I'm sure the Institute trained you well. You won't make any stupid mistakes, like wearing the wrong clothes, or expecting everyone to have a car, or--" A strange, bitter look crossed his face. "Or telling someone that they might be important one day."

Tomas opened his mouth to say something, but Steven cut him off. "The Institute people are waiting for me outside, right?"

"They're talking to your teachers. Explaining that they sent us to the wrong schools. You probably won't get into trouble until you go back home."

"No," Steven's voice dripped sarcasm, "I probably won't." He stood, nodded at me, and walked across the room. He brushed past Tomas, into the hall.

For a moment I just stared after him. Then I realized he was leaving, and took off at a run. If he left, I'd never find out. Not for fifty years. My heart began to pound. My footsteps echoed down the hall.

"You have to tell me!" I grabbed Steven's arm. I knew I was breaking my word, but I didn't have any choice. He was leaving. I wouldn't get another chance.

"I can't." There was real regret in Steven's voice. "Your Mom was right. It was just another one of my stupid mistakes. I shouldn't have said anything at all."

"It's not fair." My voice wavered between anger and tears. "It's not fair to just hint at my future, then leave without telling me the rest."

Steven shrugged. "Lots of things aren't fair."

I searched for some argument that might change his mind. "You're in trouble anyway, aren't you? Telling me couldn't make things all that much worse."

An ironic smile crossed Steven's face. "Only if they found out." And then, "I should have won. I don't know why they chose Tomas. Everyone knew I was more qualified. It's just that damn Institute--"

No, I thought, it wasn't the Institute. It was that Steven couldn't handle the thought that he might not be so smart after all.

"Will you tell me?" I asked.

For a moment, he hesitated. Then his face broke into a grin. "Kimberly Susan Wilkins," he said slowly, "is going to discover time travel."

"What?" I just stared at him.

"And now that I've told you, you'd better not screw it up. Or else we'll both be in trouble." Steven started walking again.

I called after him, but this time he wouldn't turn around. Time travel, I thought numbly. How the hell was I supposed to do that? I wasn't even passing math.

Maybe Steven had made it up, a way to avoid telling me the truth. Maybe it was just some sort of joke. A trick, like his coming here in the first place had been a trick. Maybe he didn't know my future any better than Krista's.

Then again, maybe he did. There was no way to know.

I walked slowly back to the classroom. Tomas Alvarez still sat there, slouched in one of the chairs. "I'm sorry about the confusion," he said. "The Institute will explain to your mother and the principal. Everyone else will think the Arakistanians just made a mistake and switched their students."

I nodded, only half-listening. "Tomas," I asked, "What does the name Kimberly Susan Wilkins mean to you?"

"Who?" Tomas shrugged, so casual I almost believed he didn't know.

Almost. Something--a tightness in his face, a slight clenching of his jaw--gave him away. That's when I knew Steven hadn't made anything up. I was going to discover time travel. I really was.

A cold lump settled in my stomach. For just a moment, I wished I was like Krista, or the other kids in the cafeteria. I wished I didn't know what was going to happen. What if I still messed up somehow?

A bell rang; footsteps and voices filled the hall. Tomas stood, and together we left the room.

Just outside the doorway, I turned and stared at him. Tomas stared back. His face was open, friendly. He didn't speak, just waited for me to start walking again. Steven was right. The Institute had trained Tomas well. He wouldn't give anything else away.

If I was going to discover time travel, I'd have to do it on my own.

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"Exchange Student" © 1995 by Janni Lee Simner; story first appeared in A Starfarer's Dozen, edited by Michael Stearns and published by Harcourt . Feel free to make a copy for personal use, with this note intact, but please do not otherwise reprint except with permission of the author. Thanks!