In Some Other Life: A Novel Page 7

  My head starts to throb again. I really need to get out of here. I can’t stay a minute longer and risk even further embarrassment.

  I try to sit up again. The room swims but I do my best to ignore it.

  “Sweetie.” The woman—obviously the school nurse—gently pushes on my shoulders. “I really think you need to rest. Thankfully there was no bleeding but you could still have a concussion. I spoke to the school doctor and she said you need to be kept under strict observation.”

  I touch the back of my head and feel a giant bump forming.

  The nurse makes a clucking sound with her tongue. “I swear they put way too much pressure on you kids,” she murmurs, almost to herself. “It’s that darn Ivy League quota they’re always pushing on you. I don’t agree with it. Not one bit. It’s no wonder that poor girl did what she did. I blame the administration. I really do. But does Dean Lewis ever listen to anything I have to say? No. I’m just the school nurse. What do I know about running an elite institution of higher learning?”

  She’s rambling now and I have no idea what she’s talking about.

  “I really should go,” I say, trying to be as polite as possible.

  She sighs. “If this is about your PE, then I’m sure—”

  “Look, I don’t even know what that is,” I snap. “I just need to go.”

  The nurse cocks her head to the side and gives me a very worried look. “Oh dear. Perhaps you do have a concussion.”

  “I don’t think so.” I push myself off what I now see is a leather cot. “I’m sure I’m fine.”

  I mean, I feel fine. Apart from the massive headache, obviously.

  “What day is it?” the nurse challenges.

  I sigh. This is pointless. “November 15.”

  The date has been seared into my memory. The day of my Columbia interview. The day I watched my future get flushed down the proverbial toilet.

  “And where are you?”

  “The Windsor Academy.”

  She purses her lips. I’ve clearly debunked her theory. “What is your name?”

  “Kennedy Rhodes!” I say, growing impatient. “I told you. I’m fine.”

  “What class are you supposed to be in right now?”

  Class? Why would she care what class I’m supposed to be in? I don’t even go here. Is this a trick question? Is she trying to trip me up so I’ll be forced to stay?

  I opt not to answer. Instead I look around for my camo messenger bag. I’m fairly certain I had it when I went to the dean’s office, but I can’t seem to find it. All I see is a gray laptop bag in the corner that is most definitely not mine.

  “See,” the nurse says indignantly. “You’re clearly not fine. You don’t even remember that you’re supposed to be in Mr. Fitz’s AP language arts right now.”

  What on earth is this lady talking about?

  I shake my head. “I think you have me confused with someone else.”

  She tilts her head again, this time with more sympathy than concern. “No. I think you’re the one who’s confused. Do you remember what happened?”

  “Of course I remember,” I say instantly, but inside my mind, there’s a small flicker of doubt.

  Do I remember?

  The nurse crosses her arms over her chest. “Tell me then.”

  “I came here to talk to the dean. I wanted to see if the school had any spaces open. Then on the way out, I tripped and fell down the stairs. End of story.”

  She squints at me. “Spaces open? Do you have a friend who wants to attend Windsor?”

  “No,” I say, irritated. “I want to attend Windsor.”

  The nurse covers her mouth with her hand and sucks in a sharp breath. I fight the urge to roll my eyes. I know it’s hard to get in here, but she doesn’t have to react like that. Do I really not look like someone who could get into the Windsor Academy? I’m about to tell her, quite indignantly, that I did in fact get accepted here, thank you very much, but just as I open my mouth to speak, she says, “Oh, sweetie. I really think you should lie down.”

  There’s something about her words this time that strikes a nerve. She sounds genuinely concerned about my well-being, and maybe even a little bit spooked.

  “What’s going on?” I demand, but I can hear the uneasiness in my voice as anxiety starts to bloom in my chest.

  “Lie down and get some rest. I’m going to call the doctor again.”

  My stomach flips but I stay standing. “No. I won’t lie down until you tell me what’s going on. Why are you looking at me like that? Why do you need to call the doctor?”

  She doesn’t answer. She turns to a phone in the corner and dials a number, keeping her vigilant gaze pointed at me the whole time, as though she’s afraid I might spontaneously combust.

  “Yes, hello. This is Nurse Wilson again. One of our students … yes, the one who hit her head. I’m afraid she might be suffering some memory loss.”

  One of our students?

  Memory loss?

  My chest starts to constrict. My eyes dart around the room in a panic. What happened?

  One of our students.

  But I’m not a student here. She’s definitely confusing me with someone else. She has to be. Can’t she tell I don’t go here? If I did I’d be wearing—

  I glance down at my clothes and let out a gasp.

  Where are my pants?

  Why are my legs completely bare?

  My gaze travels up until I see a swatch of gray fabric. It’s a skirt. I’m wearing a skirt. I never wear skirts.

  It takes a few seconds but I soon realize that this isn’t just any skirt. This is the skirt. The Windsor Academy gray wool skirt. And tucked into it is a white button-up shirt, covered by a …

  No! It’s not possible.

  I pat my arms and shoulders, feeling the thick fabric under my shaking fingers.

  I’d recognize that navy blue blazer anywhere.

  I touch the familiar emblem sewn onto the pocket and feel a chill run through my body. I know what it says. I don’t need to look. But I do anyway. I rip off the blazer and hold the emblem up to my face, reading every word five times.

  THE WINDSOR ACADEMY

  EST. 1972

  What is happening?

  Did I steal this? Is there some poor kid lying unconscious in a closet somewhere wearing my clothes?

  The jacket slips from my grasp and falls to the floor. I start backing up until my cold, bare legs hit the edge of the leather cot and I collapse onto my butt. The room is spinning again. Out of control. I can’t make sense of simple objects in the room. Everything is one giant blur.

  I think maybe this woman is right. I think maybe I should lie down.

  Because I am most definitely not fine.

  If I Escape

  Relax. Deep breaths. In. Out. In. Out.

  Let’s think about this rationally. I fell down the stairs. I bumped my head. I’m clearly confused. Maybe even still unconscious. Maybe I’m lying in a heap at the bottom of the grand staircase, making all of this up in my head.

  So it’s some kind of psychedelic, whack-to-the-head dream.

  But if this is a dream, why does my head hurt so much?

  And why are my legs so cold?

  Why does everything about this room—this whole place—feel so real?

  The nurse hangs up the phone and approaches me, taking my hand and giving it a pat. “You’re going to be fine. The doctor is on her way.”

  Doctor?

  Oh no. That’s not good. I’ve already been humiliated enough. All I need right now is to be carried out of the Windsor Academy on a stretcher.

  I sit up again and hop off the cot. “That’s okay. I’m totally better now. See, good as new.” I knock against my head with my fist, immediately regretting it because my skull knocks back with a painful thump.

  The nurse looks unconvinced. “What about your memory loss?”

  “Memory loss?” I force out an overeager laugh. “You believed that? I was totally faking it! Ha
ha! Pretty good, huh?”

  I need to get out of here. I need to figure out what is happening and I can’t do it with Nurse Nosy-Pants over there staring at me like I’m in a science experiment.

  “But,” she argues, “just a second ago, you didn’t remember you were even a student here.”

  I wave this away like it’s the silliest thing I’ve ever heard. “Of course I remember I’m a student here. I’m wearing the uniform, aren’t I?” My voice cracks at the end. I clear my throat as I scoop up the navy blazer that I dropped and take a step toward the door, hoping she doesn’t try to tackle me to the ground. “Well, I better go. Gotta get to Mr. Futz’s AP language arts.”

  “You mean Mr. Fitz?”

  I laugh again. It sounds incredibly strained. “Yes. Him. And you better call back that doctor so she doesn’t come all the way over here for nothing.”

  I bolt out of the nurse’s office and glance down the empty hallway. I have no idea where I am. Yes, I’ve studied the online campus maps extensively, but the nurse’s office is not one of the things they advertise.

  I take a left and start jogging down the corridor, slowly recognizing the interior as Royce Hall, the campus’s main building, which means I haven’t gone far.

  I just need to find my way to the parking lot. Then I can get in my car, drive home, take a long hot bath, and try to figure out what in the world is happening to me.

  I spot an exit at the end of another long hall and veer right. I walk briskly, trying to ignore the incessant pounding in my head. But right before I reach the door, I hear the chimes again—that beautiful melodic song—and a second later the hallway is flooded with students.

  Did another period just end? How long was I unconscious?

  I keep moving toward my escape, but I have to swim through the masses of uniformed bodies rushing to go the opposite way. I’ve almost made it to the exit when a voice calls out behind me. “Crusher!”

  I keep pushing on, wiggling through the narrow gaps in the bodies.

  “Crusher!” the voice comes again, sounding closer this time.

  I’m just reaching for the door handle when the same voice screams, “KENNEDY!” and I feel a tug on my shirtsleeve.

  I turn around and nearly pass out all over again.

  Because standing there before me, looking right at me as though she knows me, as though she expects me to know her, is none other than CoyCoy55.

  “Thank God, you’re okay. I told that stupid Nurse Wilson you were fine. I mean, you hit your head but it’s not like it was that hard. But she wouldn’t let me take you to class. How did you finally escape? Did you drug her? Did you knock her unconscious with the fire extinguisher? You know what? I don’t need to know the details. The point is now you can turn in your PE, but you don’t have much time.”

  CoyCoy55 has been talking a mile a minute and I’ve been struggling to keep up. Either because of the whack I took to the head or because I’m still in shock over the fact that she knows my name when we’ve never even met before. Sure, I semi-stalk her on SnipPic, but she doesn’t know that.

  Does she?

  CoyCoy55 tugs on my sleeve again. “Come on! You have less than”—she checks her phone and lets out a squeak—“three minutes! We need to hurry!”

  In addition to my tongue not being able to form words, my legs don’t seem to want to move either. It’s like my feet have fused to this shiny tile floor.

  “Crusher,” she urges impatiently. “You know Mr. Fitz. He won’t accept your PE if it’s even a minute late.”

  I know Mr. Fitz?

  I don’t know any Mr. Fitzes. Also, why does she keep calling me Crusher? And what is this PE everyone keeps talking about? What does PE even stand for?

  Physical education?

  Psychology exam?

  Pork enchilada?

  I hold my head in my hands, trying to squeeze some sense into it. “Hold on a second,” I’m finally able to say. “How do you know me?”

  CoyCoy55 stares at me for a long time, her mouth pulling into a pout. Then after a moment, she breaks into nervous laughter. “Oh, I get it. You’re messing with me. Pretending you really do have brain damage or something. Har-dee-har-har-har. Very funny. But it won’t work. I know you better than anyone, Crusher, and it would take more than a tumble down the stairs to mess with that big brain of yours.”

  I blink rapidly, trying to follow even a smidgen of what she’s saying, but I come up decidedly short. There were just too many things coming out of her mouth that I want to pick apart and analyze.

  She gives me another tug on the arm. “Let’s. Go!”

  But I’m still in too much shock to move.

  “Fine,” she resigns. “Maybe you do have brain damage or whatever, but it’s going to have to wait until after you turn in the first draft of your PE. It’s 20 percent of our grade, remember?”

  No! I want to scream. I don’t remember! I don’t understand a single thing that’s happening right now.

  “I…” I stammer, trying to figure out which part of this messed-up situation I should address first. “I don’t have my PE.”

  CoyCoy55 waves this away like it’s an annoying fly. “Of course you have your PE. You showed it to me this morning on the way to school.”

  On the way to school?

  “I…” I falter. “I didn’t come to school today. I went to my Columbia interview.”

  Didn’t I?

  CoyCoy55 gives me a pitying look. “No, sweetie. That was another dream. You’ve been having nightmares about that interview for months.”

  I stifle a gasp. How does she know that?

  “Your interview isn’t for another two days. Relax.”

  “What?” I ask, my mouth falling open.

  I haven’t even had the interview yet?

  “Oh God.” She puts her hand to her mouth. “Maybe you bonked your head harder than I thought.” She leans forward and speaks to me slowly in short, simple sentences. “This morning you were with me. We came to school. I drove. You read me the first page of your PE in the car. It’s very good.” She twists her mouth thoughtfully. “Maybe even better than mine, but I don’t want to talk about that.”

  I’m trying to focus on her. I really am. But my eyes keep glazing over and my head seems to throb in pain with every word that she says.

  I drove to school with her? Why don’t I remember that?

  Maybe I really do have a concussion.

  But what about all the stuff I do remember? Bombing my interview? Driving here and sneaking through the gate? Talking to Dean Lewis?

  CoyCoy55 is still staring expectantly at me, waiting for me to produce this mysterious PE thing out of thin air.

  PE.

  Physics experiment?

  Parabolic equation?

  Pulmonary embolism?

  “I…” I begin again, glancing around for help. “I don’t know where I put it.”

  She rolls her big green eyes. “It’s in your bag, silly.” Then she looks me up and down and her eyes widen. “Wait, where is your bag?”

  I shake my head. “I don’t know.”

  CoyCoy55 looks at her phone again and presses her lips tightly together like she’s trying to hold back a scream. “Okay, last I saw, it was in the nurse’s office. I carried it in after you fell. Did you leave it there?”

  “You were there when I fell?” I search my muddled thoughts for the memory of my spill down the stairs. I remember seeing CoyCoy55 on the stairs. I remember her brushing past me and continuing into the building. Did she run back out when she heard all the commotion?

  “Of course I was there!” she practically yells, throwing her hands in the air. “You were walking right next to me. We were on our way to English. Then that idiot knocked into you and you slipped. I tried to catch you, but you fell so fast.”

  I close my eyes and squeeze my head again. What is she talking about? That’s not how it happened at all. Is she lying?

  CoyCoy55 glances at her phone again. “Okay
, we’ll rehash the details of your untimely almost-demise later. Right now, we need to get your PE and get it to Fitz’s room.” She taps her large white teeth thoughtfully with her fingernail. “You probably shouldn’t go back into the nurse’s office. Nurse Wilson might inject you with a sedative to try to detain you.”

  “Really?” I blurt out.

  CoyCoy55 shoots me a look out of the corner of her eye. “No, not really. But she definitely will try to keep you there. So I’ll go get your bag and you wait here.”

  Without another word, she spins on her heels and takes off down the hall.

  I stand there for a few seconds, my thoughts chaotically banging around my head like rocks in a blender. I stare down the hallway at CoyCoy55’s vanishing form. Then I turn and stare at the door to the outside.

  I could do it. I could run away right now. I could bust through that door, find my car, drive straight home, and stick my head under a cold faucet until the world starts making sense again. Or I wake up.

  Whichever comes first.

  I take a tentative step toward the exit but I don’t get very far, because a split second later, CoyCoy55’s breathless voice comes echoing down the empty hallway. “Crusher! I’ve got your bag. Let’s go!”

  I glance back at the door, trying to figure out which of my current conflicting desires is stronger—the desperate urge to get out of here or the burning curiosity to learn more about this strange planet I’ve seemed to crash-land on.

  “CRUSHER!” CoyCoy55 shouts from the end of the hallway. “I’m trying to save your brain-damaged butt right now and you’re not helping.”

  The curiosity wins.

  The Choices That Define Us—First Draft

  Kennedy Rhodes

  AP Language Arts, Period 7

  Mr. Fitz

  Page 1

  It’s my belief that everyone gets at least one big fate-altering decision in their life. A defining choice. A major crossroads that will determine the course of their future. Or maybe even the future of the whole world. Like what if Bill Gates had never dropped out of Harvard to start Microsoft? What if Christopher Columbus had sailed east instead of west? What if Abraham Lincoln had decided he didn’t really feel like seeing a play that night?