In Some Other Life: A Novel

by Jessica Brody

  My Southwest Star issues have been taken down. I framed the three issues that won the Spartan Press Award and hung them above my desk. Now they’re gone.

  There’s only one single frame in their place. It’s much smaller than my other frames and there’s some kind of cream-colored paper behind the glass. I can’t quite read it from this distance so I take a step closer. Then another. Then another. Until my eyes can make out the familiar words that I committed to memory years ago.

  Dear Ms. Rhodes,

  Congratulations! It is on this date, May 12, that we are pleased to inform you a place has opened up in our freshman class next semester. Because you have shown tremendous potential, we are thrilled to offer you admission …

  I run toward it, pressing my fingertips against the glass. It can’t be the same letter. I never framed that letter. I always kept it in the bottom drawer of my desk. Because no one even knew it existed. Because I never told anyone that I got in.

  I drop to my knees and dive for the bottom drawer. The one that’s always hidden my deepest, darkest secret. My choice.

  I yank it open and rummage around, finding nothing but a few flash drives, a lockbox that I’ve never seen before, and some spare pens. I pull everything out and reach my hand way back into the drawer. Until my fingertips touch wood.

  It’s not here.

  I glance up at the frame on my wall again. It’s not here because it’s there. The same letter. In a new place. With a new purpose.

  “It’s like…” I begin aloud. But I can’t say it. Because it’s crazy. It’s ludicrous. It’s not possible. It doesn’t fit within the safe confines of my logical, rational world.

  So instead, I close my eyes and whisper it to myself. Quietly, in the far back corners of my mind where no one else can hear.

  It’s like my choice has been reversed.

  If Frankie Is Right

  When I open my eyes the room is empty. Frankie is gone.

  Whoa. I grab on to my bedpost for support. First my blinds, then my clothes, now my brother has vanished, too!

  I think I’m trapped inside some kind of government experiment.

  Then, a few seconds later, I hear the toilet flush and I exhale in relief and stumble back into the hallway just as Frankie plods out of the bathroom. I grab his arm again and pull him back to my room.

  “Frankie,” I say, my voice rattling. “I’m like really freaking out here.”

  Frankie sighs. “I told you. Apologize to Sequoia for whatever you’re fighting about and she’ll stop crying.”

  Sequoia and I are fighting?

  Okay, slow down. One mystery at a time.

  “It’s not that. I think…” I let out a breath. “I think I’m losing my mind.”

  Frankie does not look in the least bit fazed by my admission.

  “This morning,” I go on, “everything was different. This room was different. This bookshelf was different. My closet had different clothes in it.”

  Frankie squints at me, like he’s not following.

  I huff impatiently and try a different tactic. “Where do I go to school?”

  He gives me a dubious look. “Is this that game you play where you make us remind you of how smart you are and how lucky you are to go to the Windsor Acad—”

  “Aha!” I shout, making him flinch. “You see! This morning, I didn’t go to the Windsor Academy. This morning, I went to Southwest High. And I was best friends with Laney who cheated on me with Austin who you don’t even seem to know exists!” I flail my arms wildly. “And now everyone is acting like I go to the Windsor Academy except no one is even supposed to know that I got into the Windsor Academy because I hid the acceptance letter so people wouldn’t think I was crazy for choosing to go to Southwest High for a boy! Except now the acceptance letter is hanging on my freaking wall like … like…” I pause, trying to make sense of my own chaotic thoughts. “Like my whole life is on a different track or something.”

  Frankie stares at me, his face all scrunched up the way it is whenever he’s working on the Sea of Quantum Entanglement section of his board game. “What did you just say?” he asks, an eerie twinge to his voice.

  “Nothing,” I mumble. “Never mind. I’m not making any sense.”

  “No,” he insists. “Say it again.”

  I collapse onto my bed, breathless and fatigued. “I said it feels like my life is on a different track or something.”

  Frankie’s eyes grow wide and then he starts mumbling, like he’s having an argument with himself. “Could it be? No, it can’t be. But what if it is? It’s not. I mean, it’s only a theory, right? It’s not like it’s been proven. She could just be having a delusional breakdown. I mean, I wouldn’t be surprised—”

  “Frankie,” I interrupt. He blinks and focuses on me, like he forgot I was even there. “What are you talking about?”

  “I…” he begins hesitantly, raking his teeth over his bottom lip. “I think I might know what’s happening here.”

  “You do?” I ask.

  He exhales loudly. “Yes. I mean, I have a theory, and you know theories are only speculative. I’ll have to gather more data, do some more research before I can make any conclusive…”

  “Frankie,” I urge him.

  But he’s already off again. Lost in his own thoughts. It happens a lot. “But if I’m right, this could be huge. I mean, supernova huge. If we could somehow prove this and submit it to a scientific journal, this could change everything. Everyone would read it.” He sucks in a sharp breath. “Stephen Hawking would read it! Maybe he’d even come to visit!”

  “Frankie!” I yell in an attempt to bring him back.

  “Oh, right. Sorry.” He grabs me by the shoulders, his fingers digging into my skin, as his eyes light up. “Kennedy, I don’t think you realize what you’ve done.”

  I scoff. “We’ve established that part already.”

  “It’s quite possible you’ve altered the fabric of space and time.”

  “English, Frankie.”

  “Fine. To put it simply”—he flashes me a mocking smile—“very simply.” He spreads his arms wide like a televangelist welcoming new followers. “I’m pretty sure you’ve traveled to a parallel universe!”

  I think my brother anticipated some kind of fanfare after that because he’s staring at me with this expectant look on his face. But I just stare back at him, my expression completely blank. Then I let out a sigh and stand up from the bed.

  “Frankie,” I warn. “Enough with the parallel universe crap! I need real explanations.”

  “This is a real explanation,” he maintains. “And it’s not crap. It’s a scientific breakthrough!” He runs over to my desk and grabs a notebook and pen from the top drawer and starts writing furiously. I peer over his shoulder to see a mess of incomprehensible scribbles, diagrams, and equations.

  I snort and go back to pacing. “There’s another explanation. There has to be. It must have something to do with hitting my head on the stairs today. I mean, Dorothy hit her head and woke up in Oz, so I could feasibly hit my head and wake up in”—I glance around my vaguely familiar bedroom—“well, whatever this place is.”

  “Parallel universe,” Frankie supplies with his head still bent over the notebook.

  I ignore him and keep pacing. “Maybe I hit my head so hard I’m lying in a coma in the hospital right now. Maybe this is all some really messed-up coma delusion. Maybe—”

  My rant is suddenly cut off by a strange chirping noise. I freeze and spin around, searching for the source. “What was that?” I ask, panicked.

  Frankie rolls his eyes, sets down the notebook, and walks over to the schoolbag on the floor. “Don’t be so dramatic!” he admonishes, flipping it open. “It’s just your SnipPic alert. Somebody probably commented on one of your photos.”

  He pulls out a hideous pink sparkly contraption and proffers it to me.

  I shake my head. “That’s not my phone.”

  “Yes, it is.”

  “It’
s pink.”

  Frankie nudges the device toward me. “And sparkly. Now take it.”

  I hesitantly take the princess-colored monstrosity, turning it around in my hands. It’s definitely the same model as my phone, but this cover is vomit-inducing.

  “Who picked out this case?” I ask.

  “You did,” Frankie says, sitting on my bed and resuming his scribbles.

  “As a joke?” I confirm.

  He purses his lips. “I don’t think so.”

  The phone lets out another startling chirp and I nearly drop it. I fumble to swipe it on and navigate to the SnipPic app where I have—

  Holy crap. Seventy-five notifications???

  From who? I don’t even know half that many people!

  I click on the app and scroll through my feed. I don’t recognize a single picture in here. This is definitely not my profile. This phone has to belong to someone else. That’s all there is to it.

  But I stop when something oddly familiar catches my eye. I scroll back three photos and stare in astonishment at the screen.

  I remember this photo. I first saw it on CoyCoy55’s feed a week ago. She was in the student union with Luce_the_Goose, posing for one of those Caption Challenges they always do.

  As I study the picture, a shiver runs through me, chilling me to the bone.

  It’s the same photo. The same table. Even the same caption.

  With one major difference.

  I’m in it.

  If I Start to Believe

  The phone slips from my hand and bounces on the carpet. I lunge for it and stare at the picture again. I can’t believe it. It’s really me. Posing right alongside CoyCoy55 and Luce_the_Goose for one of those Caption Challenge games.

  This is the one where the caption reads: “My Book Boyfriend Just Proposed!”

  Exactly as I remembered it, CoyCoy55 is tipped back in her chair, pretending to have fainted, while Luce_the_Goose is lying on the table fanning herself. And then there’s me. I’m standing behind CoyCoy55’s chair, swooning dramatically.

  It’s like I’ve just been Photoshopped into the picture. Cut and pasted right into their lives.

  Frankie glances over my shoulder to see what I’ve been so speechlessly staring at for the last few minutes.

  “Uh-huh,” he says knowingly, clucking his tongue. “Now you believe me?”

  “B-b-but,” I stammer. “I don’t understand.”

  “It’s quite simple really,” Frankie begins. “The multiverse theory states that every decision we make creates a brand-new alternate reality where—”

  “Never mind,” I interrupt. “Don’t try to explain it. It’ll only confuse me.”

  Frankie shrugs and goes back to his work. “Suit yourself.”

  I scroll through the rest of the photos in the feed, my eyes growing wider with every swipe of my finger. There are so many pictures in here that I’ve never seen before. All of me. Or, at least, someone who looks just like me.

  It’s as though she’s me but, at the same time, not me.

  She’s some other me.

  Sitting on the greener-than-green lawn of the Windsor Academy, eating lunch in the student union, studying in the gorgeous Sanderson-Ruiz Library, getting ready to listen to a guest speaker in the Lauditorium.

  I look up and glance around my new room. Frankie may need to run through equations and complicated theorems for the rest of the night, but all the proof I need is right here. In these photos. In my closet. On my wall.

  I go to the Windsor Academy.

  I am a Windsor Academy student.

  I walk through those doors every morning and sit in those classrooms and wear those uniforms and live that life.

  I chose wisely.

  I never gave up on my dreams to be with Austin. He never cheated on me with my best friend. I never bombed that alumni interview.

  That happened to a different Kennedy. In a different life.

  Even if this is all just a drug-induced coma dream, I don’t care. This is the life I always knew I was meant to lead. The life I always wanted for myself. And now I finally have it.

  It’s finally mine.

  If My Reflection Changes

  Barruuugah!

  Barruuugah!

  What is that noise? It sounds like a herd of trumpeting elephants stomping through my bedroom. I tear my eyes open. It’s pitch-dark. And my head is pounding like the elephants are stomping directly on my skull.

  I try to go back to sleep, but a moment later I hear it again and bolt upright.

  Those are definitely elephants. A whole parade of them. And they’re definitely trumpeting. Why are elephants trumpeting in my room? What time is it? It’s too early for trumpeting elephants.

  I reach for my phone on my nightstand, grappling in the darkness until I find it. I swipe on the screen and blink against the bright light. When my eyes finally adjust, I can see the time.

  Five thirty a.m.

  Then the elephants come a third time.

  What. The. Heck?

  That’s when I notice my screen is flashing. The alarm is going off. Who set the alarm for five thirty a.m.? My fingers fumble around until the screen goes dark and the noise blissfully stops. I roll over and immediately fall back asleep. But after what feels like mere seconds, I’m awoken by another intrusive sound.

  This time, it’s a dog barking.

  No, not just one dog. Ten dogs. All trying to one-up each other for the noisiest, most obnoxious bark.

  For crying out loud!

  I reach for my phone. It’s five forty a.m. and the alarm is going off again.

  I bat at it until the dogs shut up. I’ve just drifted back into a peaceful sleep when Frankie bursts through my bedroom door, breathless and looking like he hasn’t slept a wink. “Kennedy! Oh, good! You’re up.”

  I groan and roll back over. “I’m not up. I’m going back to sleep.”

  That’s when the rooster starts crowing. I glare at my phone.

  How many animals are in this thing?

  I silence the sound of the crowing as Frankie sits on my bed, clutching the same notebook he stole from my desk last night. I can see through my bleary vision that he’s filled almost half of it with more incomprehensible scribbles and formulas. “I’ve been at it all night,” he explains, quickly transitioning into his professor voice. “Now, I did some research. There’s a very small fringe theory out there about something called overlaps—”

  I grab the pillow and pull it over my face. “Frankie. It’s too early. Go away.”

  “But your alarm went off.”

  “Why is it even going off this early?”

  “Because that’s when you wake up,” he says, like this is a well-known fact.

  “At five thirty in the morning? Why would I wake up so early?”

  “Because the Windsor Academy starts at eight and Sequoia always picks you up at six thirty so you can have breakfast and study in the student union before first period.” He taps the notebook in his lap. “So, an overlap is when the exact same thing happens at the exact same moment in two different universes, creating a sort of intersection in the—”

  “The Windsor Academy?” I interrupt, bolting upright. I turn on my bedside lamp and blink into the light.

  Is it real? Am I still here? Did I wake up from the weird coma dream?

  I bound out of bed and open my closet door with a grand flourish, an enormous grin spreading across my face when I see the rows of clean, pressed uniforms hanging up where my boring drab jeans and T-shirts used to be.

  I let out a whoop. “I’m going to the Windsor Academy!” I start jumping up and down. “Oh my God. This is so exciting! What do I do? Where do I go? What do I wear?” I peer back into my closet and slap my forehead. “Duh. The uniforms.”

  “Kennedy!” Frankie snaps.

  I’d almost forgotten he was here. I turn around to find him still sitting on my bed with his notebook. “What?”

  “I think I figured out how you got here.”r />
  I grab a skirt, blouse, and blazer from the closet and lay them out on my bed. Then I prance into my bathroom and run the shower. Frankie follows after me.

  “It was the stairs,” he goes on, his eyes glazed over from the lack of sleep. “You hit your head at the exact same time in the exact same place in both lives, allowing you, in that one brief instant, to travel from one universe to another!”

  “You’re adorable,” I say, kissing his wild, untamed hair.

  He backs away, looking grossed out. “Kennedy. This is serious.”

  “Very serious,” I agree wholeheartedly, spinning him around by the shoulders and scooting him out of the bathroom.

  “I need more information, though. More data points. If you could give me some details about your other life then I could quantify them, insert them into a spreadsheet and—”

  “I have to get ready for school,” I say brightly, cutting him off again. “Correction, I have to get ready for the Windsor Academy. Good luck with all that.” Then I close the bathroom door.

  I take a quick shower and dry myself off with a towel. After the steam clears, I look in the mirror, ready to give myself a triumphant smile, but I literally startle at my own reflection.

  Whoa.

  I look horrible.

  That spill down the stairs really took its toll on me. I have dark purple shadows under my eyes, my skin is ghastly pale, and my eyes are all bloodshot.

  I pull open the top drawer where I usually keep my eye drops and leap back when I see what’s inside. The drawer is practically overflowing with makeup. I’ve never worn makeup in my life. I’ve always thought it was so fake and misleading.

  I rifle through the contents, picking up a few bottles and reading the labels. “Full cover concealer, gel serum concealer, eye brightener, undereye protector.”

  Jeez. Other Me is kind of obsessed with concealer.

  I swipe on my phone and scan through my new SnipPic feed, studying my face in the photographs more closely. I’m definitely wearing eyeliner and eye shadow and blush and lip gloss and …

  I gasp when a sudden realization comes to me. The pink phone case. The drawer full of makeup. Dresses in my closet.