Everything looks so normal. I know that because it’s Friday, Emma McElroy will be coming from Evan Danzig’s house, and sure enough there she is, ducking through a clipped portion of the fence. I know Peter Kourt will be wearing a pair of Nike Air Force 1s he’s had for a million years because he wears them every day, even though there are so many holes in them you can see what color socks he’s wearing (usually black). I watch them go flashing by as he books it down toward the main building.
Seeing all these things makes me feel a thousand times better, and I start thinking maybe all of yesterday—everything that happened—was just some kind of long, strange dream.
Lindsay cruises down to the Senior Alley, even though there’s zero chance of finding a spot. It’s a religion for her. My stomach dips when we pass the third spot from the tennis courts, and there’s Sarah Grundel’s brown Chevrolet with its Thomas Jefferson Swim Team sticker—and another one, smaller, that reads GET WET—staring at me from the bumper. I think: she got the last spot because we’re so late, and I have to squeeze my nails into my palms and repeat to myself that I’ve only been dreaming—that none of this has happened before.
“I can’t believe we have to walk .22 miles,” Elody says, pouting. “I don’t even have a jacket.”
“You’re the one who left the house half naked,” Lindsay says. “It is February.”
“I didn’t know I’d be outside.”
We pass the soccer fields on our right as we loop back toward Upper Lot. At this time of year the fields are all churned up, just mud and a few patches of brown grass.
“I feel like I’m having déjà vu,” Elody says. “Flashback to freshman year, you know?”
“I’ve been having déjà vu all morning,” I blurt out before I can stop myself. Instantly I feel better, sure that that’s what this is.
“Let me guess.” Lindsay brings one hand to her temples and frowns, pretending to concentrate. “You’re having flashbacks to the last time Elody was this annoying before nine A.M.”
“Shut up!” Elody leans forward and smacks Lindsay’s arm and they start laughing. I smile too, relieved to have spoken the words out loud. It makes sense: one time on a trip to Colorado, my parents and I hiked up three miles to this little waterfall smack in the middle of the woods. The trees were big and old, all of them pine. The clouds were streaked across the sky like spun sugar. Izzy was too young to walk or talk. She was riding in my dad’s baby backpack, and she kept punching her tiny fat fists at the sky like she wanted to grab it.
Anyway, as we were standing there watching the spray of water on the rocks, I had the craziest feeling that it had all happened before, down to the smell of the orange my mom was peeling and the exact reflections of the trees in the surface of the water. I was positive. It became the big joke that day, because I’d complained about having to hike three miles, and when I told my parents I was having déjà vu, they kept laughing and saying it really would be a miracle if I’d ever agreed to walk that far in a past life.
I guess my point is only that I was sure then, just like I’m feeling sure now. It happens.
“Oooh!” Elody squeals, and starts digging through her purse. She knocks out a pack of cigarettes and two empty tubes of lip gloss, plus a misshapen eyelash curler. “I almost forgot your present.”
She sends the condom sailing over the front seat, and Lindsay claps her hands and bounces in her seat when I hold it up.
“No glove, no love?” I say, managing a smile.
Elody leans forward and kisses my cheek, leaving a ring of pink gloss. “You’re going to be great, kid.”
“Don’t call me that,” I say, and drop the condom in my bag. We step out of the car and the air is so cold my eyes sting and start to water. I ignore the bad feeling buzzing through me, and I think, This is my day, this is my day, this is my day, so I can’t think of anything else.
A SHADOW WORLD
I read once that you get déjà vu when the two halves of your brain process things at different speeds: the right half a few seconds before the left, or vice versa. Science is probably my worst subject, so I didn’t understand the whole article, but that would explain the weird double feeling that it leaves you with, like the world is splitting in half—or you are.
That’s the way I feel, at least: like there’s a real me and a reflection of me, and I have no way of telling which is which.
The thing about déjà vu is that it has always passed really quickly—thirty seconds, a minute at most.
But this doesn’t pass.
Everything is the same: Eileen Cho squealing over her roses in first period and Samara Phillips leaning over and crooning, “He must really love you.” I pass the same people in the halls at the same time. Aaron Stern spills his coffee all over the hallway again, and Carol Lin starts screaming at him again.
Even her words are the same. “Were you dropped on your head one too many times or something?” I have to admit it’s pretty funny, even the second time around. Even when I feel like I’m crazy; even when I feel like I could scream.
But even weirder are the little blips and wrinkles, the things that have shifted around. Sarah Grundel, for example. On my way to second period I see her standing against a bank of lockers, twirling her goggles around her index finger and talking to Hillary Hale. As I walk by I catch just a bit of their conversation.
“…so excited. I mean, Coach says my time could still go down by a half second—”