In Some Other Life: A Novel Page 8

  History would have been changed. Worlds would have spun off-course. Life, as we know it, would be different.

  As it turns out, my big life-defining choice came three and a half years ago. Yes, I realize that’s a lot of pressure to put on the scrawny shoulders of a fourteen-year-old, but we have no control over when our big life-defining moments come, all we can control is what we do with them. How we choose.

  Fortunately, I chose right. I chose to attend the Windsor Academy. And my life was forever altered for the better.

  Sometimes it feels like my life didn’t really begin until I came here. Until this remarkable, prestigious school opened its doors to me and welcomed me in. That’s when I met my two amazing best friends and discovered my passion for robotics, the stock market, entrepreneurship, the economy, and, of course, school fund-raising. But more important, that’s when I truly began to discover myself.

  If I’m Someone Else

  My eyes devour the words on the paper clutched in my hand as my brain reels like a slot machine, trying to find the right combination, trying to make everything line up.

  But it doesn’t line up.

  I keep losing.

  Are these really my words? Did I really write this?

  But that’s impossible. This paper isn’t even about me. This is about someone else. It’s about another life.

  A better life.

  So it’s fiction, right? A short story.

  I eagerly flip to the second page, but before I can read a sentence the paper is snatched out of my hand. “Relax,” CoyCoy55 tells me. “It’s only a first draft. If there are any typos left, you know Fitz will find them. Not that there would be any. Your first drafts always read like final drafts.”

  “I wrote that?” I ask, leaning over to try to get another glimpse of the paper.

  She rolls her eyes and replies in a sarcastic tone. “Yes. You wrote it. You’re a genius. Okay? Enough ego-stroking. We both know you’re a better writer than me, you don’t have to rub it in.”

  “But I wasn’t—” I start to argue.

  CoyCoy55 lifts a hand to silence me. “Let’s just turn it in, okay?”

  She hands me the gray laptop bag that she retrieved from the nurse’s office. It’s the same one I remember seeing on the floor in the corner after I woke up.

  “That’s not mine,” I say.

  “Of course it’s yours,” she says. “See.” She points to the flap and I nearly choke when I read the words stitched right into the fabric.

  KENNEDY “CRUSHER” RHODES

  “Oh,” I reply lamely, taking the bag.

  “And you better put your blazer back on before you go into Fitz’s room.”

  I slip my arms through the sleeves and slide the unfamiliar jacket back on. It feels so strange. And yet so right. Like I was born to wear it.

  “C’mon,” CoyCoy55 says, and leads me up to the second floor of Royce Hall and through the door of room 211.

  The classroom is unbelievable. I mean, I’ve seen Windsor Academy classrooms in pictures before and a few on my tour in the sixth grade, but nothing compares to this. It doesn’t even look like a classroom—apart from the whiteboard and the posters of quotes from famous authors on the wall. But other than that, it looks like someone’s fancy, formal dining room. There are no desks, just a huge oval-shaped wooden table in the center with thirteen chairs around it.

  This is where they teach English?

  Where do they teach astronomy? At NASA?

  The room is so stunning, I lose my footing as soon as I step inside and nearly bite the dust all over again. Fortunately this time, CoyCoy55 reaches out to catch me. “Whoa there, Crusher. Maybe we should start calling you Stumbler.”

  “Hello, ladies.” I hear the deep, silky voice come from the corner of the room and I turn to see a young male teacher sitting behind a large mahogany desk. He has dark blond hair and hazel eyes framed by wire-rimmed glasses that he pushes up the bridge of his nose as we approach. “What can I do for you?”

  “Kennedy is here to turn in her Personal Essay.”

  Personal Essay! PE!

  Duh!

  The man turns his gaze on me. “Sequoia said you had a little accident on the grand staircase. I’m sorry to hear it. Are you okay?”

  Sequoia.

  Se-quoi-a.

  I let out a gasp and whip my gaze toward the girl who dragged me in here. “CoyCoy55! I get it now!”

  I’ve been trying to figure that out for years!

  CoyCoy—Sequoia—gives me a panicked look, then turns to Mr. Fitz. “You’ll have to excuse Kennedy’s behavior. She hasn’t really been herself since the fall.”

  Mr. Fitz narrows his eyes at me in concern. “Have you seen the nurse?”

  “Yes!” Sequoia answers. “And she’s totally fine. She just needs to sleep it off.” She shoves the paper back into my hand and nudges her chin toward the teacher.

  “Uh,” I stammer, and take a giant step forward to hand the essay to Mr. Fitz. I really don’t want to give it up. I want to keep reading. But I have a feeling if I don’t turn it in, Sequoia might actually have a pulmonary embolism.

  “Here you go.” I force a smile, proffering the paper. “One Personal Essay. Written by me.”

  He glances down at it and then at the clock on the wall. It’s two minutes past three o’clock. I can see his tongue jab against the inside of his cheek.

  “Well, it is two minutes late.”

  Sequoia opens her mouth to protest but he continues before she can speak. “But I’m willing to make an exception just this once. Given the circumstances.”

  Sequoia breathes out a heavy sigh next to me. “Thank you, Mr. Fitz.”

  “Thank you,” I echo.

  Mr. Fitz tilts his head and studies my face with a mix of curiosity and something else I can’t quite identify. “Are you sure you’re all right?” he asks.

  “She’s fine!” Sequoia insists, pulling on the sleeve of my blazer.

  “I understand it must be hard for both of you,” Mr. Fitz goes on. “After what happened to Ms. Wallace—”

  “Thank you, Mr. Fitz,” Sequoia interrupts, sounding flustered and desperate to end this conversation. She gives my blazer another tug and drags me out of the room. “See you tomorrow!” she calls out, closing the door behind us.

  What was that about?

  Who’s Ms. Wallace?

  I’m about to ask Sequoia this very question when she collapses against the wall and sighs like she’s just prevented a nuclear weapons crisis. “Phew. That was close. Good thing you’re Mr. Fitz’s favorite student. I don’t think he would have accepted that paper late from anyone else.”

  “I’m his favorite student?” I ask in disbelief.

  She snorts. “Obviously. You’re only the best writer in the class. He adores you. I could have come in with a bleeding gash on my forehead and he’d be like, ‘Oh, sorry about your damaged brain, Sequoia, but your paper is still late.’”

  “Well,” I say, feeling awkward. “Thanks for helping me get it to him.”

  She grins. “What are best friends for?”

  “Best friends?” I blurt out. “We’re best friends?”

  Sequoia breaks into a totally charming, infectious laugh. “You really crack me up, Crusher.” Then she loops her arm through mine and guides me back to the stairwell. “Come on. I’ll take you home. You could really use a nap.”

  If the House Is a Disaster

  I’m grateful that Sequoia offered to drive me home. I’m definitely in no condition to drive my own car right now. In fact, I can’t even seem to find it. I must have forgotten where I parked. Among so many other things that seem to have slipped my mind today.

  I recognize Sequoia’s car from her SnipPic posts. It’s the white BMW parked in the back of the lot. She opens the passenger door for me and I drop the bag I’m holding on the floor and collapse inside, resting my head against the cool surface of the window.

  Sequoia drives in silence. I half expec
t her to ask me for directions, because how does she know where I live? But no, she makes all the right turns like she’s navigated them a thousand times, until she pulls up in front of my house.

  “I’m worried about you, Crusher,” she says, shifting the car into Park.

  But I don’t answer, because I’m too busy gaping at the car parked in the driveway. My car. Woody, the Honda.

  How did it get back here?

  I parked it in the Windsor Academy parking lot. I remember doing it. It’s how I got to Windsor in the first place. Did Dad come and pick it up for some reason? Did the school call him to tell him about my fall?

  “Kennedy,” Sequoia says, reaching over from the passenger seat to pass a hand in front of my face.

  I blink and look at her. “Huh?”

  “You’re not yourself.”

  “You can say that again,” I mumble.

  She bites her lip, clearly struggling with something. “Is it just the fall or is there something else bothering you?”

  I stare blankly back at her.

  She huffs. “Look, I know it’s weird. It’s weird for me, too. She should be here. She should be bouncing around in the backseat, making us listen to that horrible punk music she likes, or coming up with those ridiculous caption challenges. But she’s not. And it’s not our fault. We have to remember that. She made her choices. And they were her choices.”

  I blink rapidly, trying to keep up. But it’s a lost cause.

  “Promise me you’ll try to get some sleep,” Sequoia goes on. “Take a Dormidrome.”

  I let out a resigned sigh. “I don’t even know what that is.”

  Then, before she can respond, I grab my bag and drag myself out of the car. When I close the front door behind me, I rest my head against it, waiting for the pounding to subside. It doesn’t. I need to find some aspirin.

  I wander into the kitchen and screech to a halt when I see my mom sitting at the table, working on her laptop. I glance at the clock on the microwave. It’s a little after four. What is she doing home?

  When she sees me, she jumps up and throws her arms around me. “Kennedy! Are you okay? Your school called.”

  I step out of her embrace and point in the general direction of the driveway. “Is that why the Honda is outside?”

  She tilts her head, like she doesn’t understand what I’m asking.

  “Did you go pick it up?” I rephrase.

  Mom studies me, pursing her lips. “Nurse Wilson said you hit your head. How do you feel?”

  “You know who Nurse Wilson is?”

  Mom’s eyebrows knit together in concern. “Of course I know who Nurse Wilson is. She’s worked at Windsor since before you started.”

  I have to lie down. Like now.

  Without a word, I shuffle toward the stairs, but pause when I notice the state of the living room. It’s a complete disaster. There are dirty dishes on the coffee table and law books spread out all over the floor. Half of the throw pillows from the couch have been tossed haphazardly around the room.

  “What happened in here?” I ask. “Were we robbed or something?”

  My mom, who has been watching me vigilantly, walks over and peers at the living room. She doesn’t seem fazed in the slightest. “What do you mean?”

  “What do I mean?” I repeat, my voice rising. “It’s a mess!”

  She rakes her teeth over her bottom lip. “I can clean it if it bothers you.”

  “Of course it bothers me!” I shriek. “Doesn’t it bother you?”

  Mom closes her eyes for a long drawn-out moment. “I think maybe you should rest. You’re getting awfully worked up.”

  Worked up?

  Well, that’s the understatement of the century. My entire life has been pulled out from under me and I have no idea why or how! Obviously I’m getting worked up!

  I turn around and stare into the kitchen, hoping something will make sense, but it’s just as uncharacteristically chaotic as the living room. Dishes stacked up in the sink, pans left on the burners, piles of unopened mail on the counter. Dad is going to freak when he sees this.

  I’m about to ask where he is when I catch sight of the closed basement door, and then suddenly everything clicks into place.

  Dad always shuts the basement door when he’s working really hard and doesn’t want to be disturbed. He told me this morning that the art dealer asked for more pieces and he’d be busy for a while. He’s probably been locked in his studio all day trying to pump out more photos. That’s why the place is such a mess.

  Mom takes me by the arm. “Come on. I’m sure everything will look better after a few hours of sleep.” She coaxes me up the steps and down the hall, past Frankie’s closed door with the familiar poster that says “Never Trust an Atom. They Make Up Everything,” and to my room where I proceed to collapse onto my mattress—uniform, shoes, and all.

  I close my eyes, trying to ignore the panic that’s coating my throat like tar.

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

  Maybe she’s right. Maybe everything will look better after a few hours of sleep.

  If I Freak Out

  Except I can’t sleep. Because something is seriously wrong with my bedroom. It feels like one of those games with two pictures that look identical but have several subtle differences. Like my desk is in the same place but my laptop is gone. My bookshelf is in the same place but there are different books on it. Instead of white vertical blinds, there are thick black curtains pulled over my windows, blocking out any hope of sunlight.

  Uneasily, I stand up and walk over to my closet door. I don’t know why I feel the need to hold my breath when I open it, but I do. I take a deep inhale and slowly ease the door open, like I’m a cheerleader in a horror movie who’s about to get hacked into pieces.

  A tiny gasp escapes my lips when I peer inside.

  There’s no chain-saw-wielding serial killer, but what I find might be even scarier.

  My clothes are gone. My T-shirts, my jeans, even my dad’s old leather jacket. They’ve all been replaced by stuff I’ve never seen before. Dresses, skirts, sparkly tops, and …

  I stifle another gasp.

  Windsor Academy uniforms!

  Just like the one I’m currently wearing.

  I slam the closet door and lean against it, like I’m trying to stop the monsters from escaping.

  Deep breaths. Deep breaths. Deep breaths.

  In. Out. In. Out. IN. OUT!

  I hear something in the hallway and jump, letting out a yelp.

  I run to my bedroom door and yank it open to find Frankie padding to his bathroom in the hall. At least he looks the same. He’s barefoot and wearing his galaxy pajamas. He always changes right into pajamas the second he gets home from school. He’s done it since kindergarten.

  “Frankie!” I cry, and grab his arm. “You have to see this.”

  I pull him into my room and watch his reaction carefully, fully expecting his eyes to open wide and for him to say something appropriate, like “Whoa! What happened in here?”

  But he doesn’t. He simply stares at me.

  “Well?” I prompt, gesturing frantically to … everything.

  Frankie lets out a whine and does a little bounce. “Kennedy. I have to pee.”

  “There’s no time for peeing,” I scold. “I’m totally freaking out here.”

  Frankie rolls his eyes, giving me the impression that he’s heard these very words from me before. “Just apologize and get it over with,” he says.

  I give him a funny look before glancing back around my room. “Huh?”

  He sighs impatiently. “To Sequoia.”

  “How do you know Sequoia?” I ask accusingly.

  “I don’t have time for this.” He moves toward the hallway. “I have to pee.”

  I step in front of him. “Stop. Answer me. How do you know Sequoia?”

  He tilts his head and looks at me like I might actually be crazy. “She’s one of your best friends,” he says, putting extra em
phasis on the words as though I might have never heard them before.

  “What about Laney?” I ask, the name immediately bringing a bitter taste to my mouth. Laney isn’t my best friend anymore. She’s not anything to me anymore.

  “Who?” Frankie asks.

  “Laney!” I repeat, losing my patience. “You know, my best friend.” I scowl, and quietly add, “Until she hooked up with Austin.”

  But Frankie hears it. He hears everything.

  “Who’s Austin?” he asks, exasperated, like he thinks this is all a stupid game.

  But it’s not a game. It’s my life! And it’s seriously messed up right now.

  “Don’t be ridiculous. You know Austin. You love Austin. He’s only been coming over here for the past three years. You play nerdy science games together. And you have long philosophical debates about whether time travel is possible.”

  “Hold up.” Frankie’s voice turns serious. “Time travel is completely possible. In fact, right now, one hundred years in the future, the time travel gene is being developed by an evil corporation called Dio—”

  “Frankie! Focus!” I yell, holding his head firmly between my hands. “Austin. Tell me you know Austin.”

  He rubs at his eyebrow. “Nope. Doesn’t ring a bell.”

  My hands fall from his face. “You’re joking, right? This is a joke. You’re playing some kind of prank on me.”

  But I can tell from his bewildered expression that he’s just as lost as I am.

  How does he not know Austin? What happened when I bumped my head? Did I make up an entire life that doesn’t even exist? Austin and Laney and the comedy show and walking in on them kissing? Did none of that actually happen?

  I take a deep breath.

  Okay, think. I’m a journalist. I investigate stuff all the time. It’s my job to get to the truth. This is just another story to crack. All I have to do is look at the facts and …

  My train of thought is suddenly derailed when my gaze lands on the wall above my desk and my eyes nearly pop out of my head.

  I’m not sure why I didn’t notice it before. Too many other strange distractions, I guess. But now I see it. Now I can’t see anything but it.