Again, But Better

by Christine Riccio

  How can Atticus be here?

  “Did we get drugged?” I ask, my voice is ten pitches higher than normal. “Do you feel drugged?”

  Pilot runs a hand down his face. “I … I don’t really feel drugged … You mean at the café?”

  “Yes. We were in a café.” I grasp at the words. That happened.

  “You only had a few sips of your tea, and I didn’t even drink mine.” His voice raises a few octaves. “Are you serious? You don’t know what’s going on right now?” His wild, panicked eyes search mine.

  “I don’t know what’s going on right now!” I didn’t mean to yell, but I’m having trouble staying calm.

  My hands tangle up into my hair, smooshing it up and away from my face. I feel dizzy. I fold forward, letting my head hang between my legs.

  “Shane?”

  I stare hard at the ground. You’re fine, you’re okay. “I’ll be okay in a second. Hold on,” I mumble. A moment later, I feel Pilot’s hand on my back.

  “Here, get off the floor and sit on the couch,” he says.

  I lift my head to find his hand hovering in front of my face. I grab it. He pulls me off the floor. I drop his hand and fall to the couch. He sits three feet away from me on the other end of it. I’m trying to get a grip on the panic soaring around inside me, but it feels like a losing battle.

  I pull my legs up and clutch them to my chest. “Someone changed my clothes.”

  His eyes expand as he looks down at his own clothes. “Mine too,” he says, surprised. I watch his throat bob as he swallows his fear. “Maybe we should go talk to Atticus.”

  I bob my head okay. He bobs his head back, and we rise from the couch.

  “Wait!” I say abruptly before we open the door. “We’re unarmed, maybe we should be armed.”

  “Armed?” he says skeptically.

  I run over to the utensil drawer near the sink and yank it open.

  “Pilot,” I say as I rifle through it and grab two steak knives, “what if someone knocked us out and brought us here?”

  I pivot around, gingerly holding the utensils, and shove the drawer closed with my butt. Pain shoots through me. Ow, butt bruise.

  “Okay,” he concedes. He carefully takes a knife, holds it down by his side. I grip mine tightly and point it out in front of me.

  I creep behind Pilot as he strides down the hall. The hall. It’s just like the hall from London. This is the hall.

  “Oh god.” I stare dumbstruck at the two doors at the end of the corridor. This can’t be happening. Pilot moves toward the left door, puts his hand on the knob, and twists.

  He frowns. “Shit, I don’t have a key.” He instinctively drops his free hand to his pocket. A second later he pulls out a set of keys. He gapes at them, eyebrows pulled low.

  “I don’t know how I got these.”

  And then the door in front of him just swings open. Atticus stands there wearing his familiar goofy smile. “Hey, you lose your key?” He catches sight of the keys in Pilot’s hand and laughs. “Apparently not.” His gaze falls to me and he laughs again. “Are you cooking?”

  I stare at him, confused. Why would I be cooking?

  “What?” I ask.

  “You’re holding a knife…”

  I gaze down at my hand, remembering. Oh yeah. I drop my knife hand so that it dangles by my side.

  “Where are we, Atticus?” Pilot demands.

  Atticus’s expression screws up, and he turns to me, as if to share a look of bewilderment, but I just glare angrily. He brings his eyes back to Pilot.

  “Uh … London,” he says, not without sass. “What’s with the theatrics?” He smiles expectantly, like he’s waiting for the punch line of a joke.

  Pilot and I share a look. Atticus takes this moment to walk back over to his bed where he’s unpacking a suitcase full of clothes. No …

  “What do you mean, we’re in London?” I demand.

  Atticus turns around holding a folded shirt in his hand. “Uh. London, like the city? London, England.”

  “How did you get us here?” Pilot asks in shock.

  “What?” He whirls around with a laugh and sets down the item of clothing he’s holding. “We met this morning. I’m pretty sure you both took separate planes of your own volition.”

  My head starts to spin again. I feel the knife fall out of my hand and thump mutedly against the carpet.

  “Cut the crap, Atticus. Tell us what’s going on; this isn’t funny,” Pilot says. He drops an arm to the doorframe, leaning against it for support. Atticus stands in the center of their room, now with his hands on his hips.

  “Look, man, I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he states simply.

  “How can you not know what I’m—” Pilot’s words muffle. I turn and look at the door across the hall. Head for it. A roar’s building in my ears. It only takes a few steps and I’m knocking. The door creaks as someone opens it from the other side. Sahra’s face appears in front of me. My jaw’s gone slack.

  “You misplace your key already?” she asks.

  “Hey, Pilot,” Sahra shoots over my shoulder. Darkness creeps at the edges of my vision. Shit.

  2. Somebody Catch My Breath

  “Shane? Shane!”

  What happened? I pull my eyes open. Pilot’s face floats into focus above me. He’s saying my name again, anxiety spiking through his voice.

  I gasp for oxygen. “Oh my god, I passed out.” I squeeze my eyes shut. Everything comes slamming back. The elevator. London?

  “I had this Twilight Zone dream we were back in London, and Atticus and Sahra—”

  “Shane,” Pilot cuts me off. I vaguely register that I’m awkwardly lying with my head in his lap, his arms stretched out under my armpits. He caught me trust-fall style. I stare past him at the white ceiling in confusion. The elevator was black.

  Sahra’s face pops into view.

  “Oh my god,” I croak.

  “Shane, I got you some water. Don’t worry, Atticus ran to get help,” she says.

  “Sahra, Atticus—” My eyes find Pilot’s and he nods.

  “Yeah,” he says.

  I sit up quickly. Pilot takes back his arms, and I scoot away. “I don’t need help. I’m fine. I just need some water and some food. I’ll be fine.”

  “Take it easy, Shane,” Sahra says. I grab the glass of water from her outstretched hand and chug it down.

  Frantic footsteps fly down the hall, and Atticus comes into view. He speaks through heaving breaths. “I found. Someone. They’re coming.”

  “No, no, tell them not to come, please. I’m fine. I just need to eat some food.”

  “Are you sure? You were pale as heck,” Atticus asks, heaving.

  “Please, go call them off!”

  “Um.” Atticus looks from to me to Pilot. Pilot gives him a nod, and Atticus takes off running back upstairs.

  I look back at Sahra, now leaning against the wall, watching me with a worried expression. “I’m fine, guys, really.”

  “Maybe it’s the jet lag or something?” Sahra reasons. Her eyes catch on something behind me. “The hell? Why are there knives on the floor?”

  I look over at Pilot, who’s now sitting on the ground, staring blankly at the carpet. I turn back to Sahra.

  “I’ll take care of the knives. Can you, um, give us a second?” I ask quietly.

  “Okay,” Sahra drawls in a mildly suspicious tone. “Take it slow getting up,” she adds assertively before heading back into … our room. She leaves the door open.

  I turn to Pilot. “Pilot?”

  He doesn’t move or respond.

  “Pies? Pilot!” I reach out and shake his shoulder. He looks up and meets my eyes, but doesn’t say anything. I exhale in relief before slowly rising from the ground. I need food.

  “Let’s go get something to eat.”

  Pilot nods and gets up. I start to walk toward the staircase. It’s the same staircase. When we reach the landing, we come face-to-face with the foyer of th
e Karlston. I mash my lips together and plow past the front desk, through the doors. I glance over my shoulder to make sure Pilot is behind me. He is, looking just as dumbstruck as I feel. We emerge onto the street with all the fancy white-pillared buildings.

  I come to a standstill on the sidewalk, my head frantically swinging from left to right. Pilot stands next to me in silence. We stay that way for a minute.

  Then Pilot puts a hand on my back and steers me to the right. “Food—this way.”

  I comply. We head toward Gloucester Road. His arm drops back to his side. We walk like aliens on a foreign planet: creeping cautiously rather than at a normal human pace, and silently ogling at our surroundings. London breathes around us. Cars swish by. Children pass on scooters. Men and women power walk home from work. Red buses race down the street.

  At the end of the block we come up on a newspaper machine for the Telegraph. I stop walking and reach for Pilot’s arm so he stops as well. We share a look before simultaneously stooping down to inspect the front page behind the glass. It takes me a moment to pinpoint the date. Under The Telegraph, on the top left in tiny print, it reads: January 9, 2011.

  I collapse the rest of the way to the ground and land pretzel-style on the cold concrete sidewalk. Pilot grips under my upper arm and helps me back to a standing position.

  “Food.” He points down the street.

  I nod, and we walk. Eventually we’re in front of Byron’s. I nod up at it and look at Pilot. He nods, and we go in. A tall, skinny, dark-haired waiter strides up to us.

  “Table for two?” he asks.

  I nod. Maybe I’ll just speak in nods from now on.

  The waiter directs us to a table near the wall. We sit. The place mats are menus. Neither of us speaks. I stare at my menu. Questions swarm my brain.

  I take a deep breath. Inhale. Hold. Exhale.

  I open my mouth and look up at Pilot. “I’m freaking out over here.”

  He meets my eyes. “Understatement of the decade.”

  The waiter returns. “Can I take your orders?”

  I swallow and give him my Byron usual: burger and a milkshake.

  “Byron burger and a chocolate milkshake,” Pilot adds solemnly. The waiter leaves with our orders.

  I look up at Pilot again. “So, do you think—”

  “I don’t know what I think.”

  “Do you think—? I don’t really want to say it out loud.”

  The smallest of smiles flickers across Pilot’s lips before they fall back into a blank expression.

  He looks at the table. “That’s insane.”

  “I agree.”

  “It can’t be happening.”

  “It can’t.”

  “Do you think that’s what’s happening?”

  “It feels like it might be.”

  “But how could that happen?”

  “I…” My brain struggles to put together a logical response, but the only explanations springing to mind are Harry Potter–related. “Mag … ic?”

  “You think someone wizarded us back here?” he says in his high-pitched voice.

  “You have a better theory?”

  “Could we have gone through a wormhole?”

  “Magic is more plausible than a wormhole,” I argue.

  “Wormholes are scientific.”

  “Magic is just science we don’t understand yet.”

  “Shane, it’s magic; that’s why we can’t understand it.”

  “Hogwarts could be real!”

  “I can’t believe this is a serious conversation I’m having.” There’s a shade of humor in his voice, but he drops his head back into his hands.

  The waiter returns with our milkshakes. I pull mine forward and take a sip: delicious. I savor it for a moment before engaging again. Pilot’s ignoring his own milkshake and now has his head pressed directly against the table.

  “Could the elevator have been, like, a time machine?” I sound absurd.

  “We didn’t tell it to go anywhere. It was stuck,” he mumbles into the faux wood.

  “An involuntary time machine?”

  Pilot stays silent.

  “You should try the milkshake. It’s really good,” I encourage him.

  He lifts his head from the table and takes a sip of the milkshake without making eye contact.

  In a quiet voice, I add, “Do you think maybe we need to find our spirit guide?”

  “Are you really thinking about 17 Again right now?”

  “Were you thinking that too?”

  “God, this is so bizarre.” His gaze falls back to the table. He’s not making eye contact with me for more than a few seconds at time. I direct my gaze at the table too. Table, do you know what’s going on? Tell us your secrets!

  “Do you want to eat and then maybe look for someone who would maybe be our spirit guide?” I say as seriously as I can manage.

  “That sounds like a ridiculous plan,” he deadpans, and takes another sip of his milkshake, “but okay.”

  Our waiter returns right on cue with our burgers. My mind spins while we eat. I’ve thought about going back and doing study abroad again so many times. So many. But I never imagined what it’d be like if it actually happened. Does everything just start over from here? Will I be redoing my entire life from this point onward? A jittery feeling settles over me. This is horrifying, but also a little thrilling.

  “Oh shit,” I blurt out suddenly.

  “What?” Pilot responds with concern.

  “I don’t have any money on me!” I whisper.

  “Shit,” Pilot pats his pockets. His face relaxes as he pulls out a wallet. “My old wallet is just chilling in my pocket.”

  I lean back against the seat. “Thank god.” The last thing I want to do right now is dine and dash.

  “Maybe my old purse is back in the kitchen near my old computer? Jeez.” I press my head into my hands for a second. “This is so weird.”

  When we’re finished with our burgers, we sit in silence until someone finally comes over with the check. It’s a redheaded lady this time. Wearing a waitress outfit.

  I do a double take as she puts the check on our table and quickly retreats.

  “Are you kidding me?” I yelp in disbelief. I spring from the table and fumble after her.

  “What is it?” I hear Pilot call after me.

  The woman has stopped at a table with two older people at the back of the room. The room is divided into two different tiers, and I almost go flying as I fall up the four steps into the second tier. But I save myself, twisting in an unstable circle, and jump to a standstill beside her.

  “What is going on?” I blurt in disbelief. She doesn’t look at me, just continues talking to the table she’s waiting on.

  Pilot stops short next to me. “Shane!”

  I nudge him in the side and angle my head toward the waitress. He surveys her quizzically.

  “I recommend the Byron Burger,” Potential Spirit Guide concludes before turning to look at me. I take in a breath to speak, but she beats me to the punch. “Now, dear, there was no need to run after me. I’ll be back at your table in a moment to speak with you two.”

  It’s definitely her. I can’t believe this. Has she been a spirit guide this entire time?

  “Go sit back at your table. I’ll be there in a moment,” she says.

  “How can we trust that’s true?” I exclaim.

  “Shane,” Pilot urges.

  “Dear, there’s no need to be rude. I’ll be there in a moment,” she repeats.

  Pilot takes my wrist and starts slowly pulling me toward our table. I walk backward, afraid to lose visual. I’ve watched too many movies to make that kind of idiotic mistake. She’s talking to the old couple again, taking down their burger orders.

  “Shane, what are you doing?” Pilot whispers from over my shoulder when we get farther away.

  “Pilot, that’s her. That’s our spirit guide!”

  “What?” His eyes snap back to her. “Why would you think th
at?”

  “That’s the woman from the café! She served us our tea; she told us to have fun when we were leaving. And now she’s here. That’s her! And I’ve seen her before, just in random places. She was in Paris back when we were there. I thought I was going crazy!”

  “Wha—?” Pilot breathes. We’re now standing in front of our table, staring at the woman in the back of the room. She suddenly pivots to look at us.

  I rip my gaze away. “Oh my god, she’s looking. Sit down.”

  “Why does it matter that she’s looking?”

  I scramble back into my seat. “Sit down!”

  “She’s coming over.”

  “Sit down, Pilot. She said to sit down.” Pilot gracefully slides back into his seat as she approaches.

  My heart thrashes around. What’s she going to say? What’s she going to do? She comes to a stop in front of our table and smiles.

  “Having fun?” she asks sweetly.

  Pilot and I share a look.

  “What did you do to us?” he asks in a shaky voice.

  She answers swiftly, “This is what you wanted.”

  I blurt out the first thing that comes to mind: “Are you a wizard?”

  Pilot’s gaze whips over to me. He looks angry again. Why is he angry at me?

  “Rewrite your past,” says the woman.

  “What do you mean? Are you saying this is real? We’re in two thousand fucking eleven?” Pilot demands.

  “Deathly Hallows Part Two hasn’t been released yet,” I add.

  “You had no right to do that!” Pilot yells.

  “There’s a reset option if you so desire.” She smiles at him.

  “What?” He juts his head forward toward her for emphasis.

  Airplane Lady/Starbucks barista/waitress/spirit guide continues calmly, “If in three days you don’t want to continue down this path, a reset button can be found during your Rome venture.”

  “And Miley Cyrus hasn’t released ‘Wrecking Ball,’” I say.

  “What do you mean, a reset button?” Pilot inquires skeptically.

  She folds her hands together. “A portable button. If you choose to push it, you’ll go back to the elevator. This opportunity will be lost and forgotten.”

  I swallow hard. “That sounds awfully magical. Is this magic or is this science?”