That’s ridiculous. They must be safe if my mother got them for me.
And Sequoia knows about them. In fact, she probably takes them, too. I bet everyone at Windsor takes something to help them sleep. It’s a small price to pay to go to such a prestigious school and be handed a golden ticket to the college of your choice.
A very small price to pay.
I reach out and grab one of the bottles, twisting off the cap and pouring a small white tablet into my palm. I toss it onto my tongue and grab the nearby glass of water, positioning it against my lips.
But I can already taste the bitter, acidy flavor of the pill in my mouth. I can already feel the chemicals seeping into my bloodstream.
I spit the capsule back into my hand.
You don’t need it, I tell myself. It’s all in your head.
Maybe Other Me is used to taking these kinds of things, but I’m not. I’ve gone eighteen years without taking a single sleeping pill, there’s no reason to start now. It’s not like I have to do everything she did. I can make adjustments to this life as I go. There are no rules to this dimension-hopping thing. At least none that I know of.
I toss the pill on the nightstand and turn off the light, determined to do this the old-fashioned way.
It’s just falling asleep. It’s not like it’s hard.
Then I Try Another Combination
Barruuugah!
Barruuugah!
Oh God, I need to set a different ring tone for that alarm. I slap the phone on my nightstand in an effort to quiet the trumpeting elephants but I only manage to knock the thing onto the ground.
Barruuugah!
Barruuugah!
“Shut up!” I shout, twisting my body off the bed so I can silence the phone.
Just five more minutes.
My eyes drift closed.
And then …
Woof! Woof! Woof! Woof! Woof!
The dogs start barking almost immediately. It’s no use trying to sleep in this jungle. Letting out a groan, I rub my eyes and switch on the lamp, blinking against the bright light. My head is throbbing. I feel like I’m wearing a helmet made out of cement. How does Other Me do this every single day?
Oh right. She takes a massive amount of drugs.
Maybe I should have taken one of those sleeping pills, because I really feel like I barely slept at all. And now I’m expected to function? Think? Form coherent sentences that don’t consist of “rawrabadablada”?
No wonder Other Me drinks so much coffee.
I jump into the shower and let the scalding hot water rain down on me until I start to feel alive again. Although it doesn’t do anything to help my reflection. When the steam clears from the mirror and I can see my face, I nearly shriek at the sight. I look so haggard and old. Like I’ve been smoking two packs a day since I was three.
Thank God, it’s Friday. I have the whole weekend to catch up on sleep.
Friday …
Friday …
Why does that day feel so important? Why is it niggling at me like an itch that’s just out of reach? I grab my phone and stare at the calendar. According to the app, I have a Robotics Club meeting after school, followed by the Young Entrepreneurs Club.
But that’s not it.
I stare at the date. November 18.
November 18.
November 18.
The day is howling in my mind like one of those animal alarms in my phone. But I can’t put my finger on why.
I dart over to my desk and search through every drawer, looking for a clue to what could possibly be nagging at me. But I can’t find anything. I do, however, stumble upon that weird lockbox again that’s in the bottom drawer of my desk. I remember finding it three days ago when I was searching for the Windsor acceptance letter I used to keep in here. The one that’s now framed and hanging above my desk where my issues of the Southwest Star used to be.
The Southwest Star!
Of course! Today is November 18. The day the new issue was supposed to come back from the printer.
I feel an ache of longing at the thought of missing that.
The day the new issue arrives is always one of the most rewarding moments of being on a newspaper staff.
Right now, somewhere in another universe, thousands of crisp, fresh-off-the-press copies of the Southwest Star are being loaded into a van to be delivered to the front office of the school.
Right now, somewhere in another universe, another me is prepping the box that will ship one hundred copies to the Spartan Press Award committee members for what could be our fourth win in a row.
I can almost smell the scent of the fresh ink. Feel the silky paper on my fingertips.
I think about the last time I was in that office. Before I walked in on Laney and Austin kissing. Before I bombed my first admissions interview. Before I hit my head on the steps of Royce Hall, sending me into this other version of my life. If I had known it would be my last few moments in that office, I would have treasured them more. I would have lingered a bit.
I would have said goodbye.
I stare into the bottom drawer of my desk, my gaze falling again on the black lockbox. I’ve never had a lockbox before. I wonder what Other Me is hiding in there. It must be something important if it has to be locked up.
I pull it out and examine the clasp. It’s secured with a four-digit combination. I try all of my regular numeric passwords: 1010 (my birthday), 2222 (my favorite number—22—repeated), 0715 (Frankie’s birthday), but none of them work.
Now I’m even more desperate to find out what’s inside. But just then, my phone chirps with a text message from Sequoia and I glance at the clock.
I’m late!
I jump to my feet, shove the box back into the drawer, and close it with my foot. Why does it feel like time is my enemy in this life? There’s never enough of it to sleep or finish homework or break into mysterious lockboxes.
I pray that in Robotics Club I’m working on a robot replica of myself. Because I could seriously use a clone right now.
Then I Fight a Zombie Hunter
Between our morning study session in the student union, one Student Mastery Hour, and lunch, I’ve managed to cross a whopping ten items off my Windsor Achiever task list by the end of sixth period. Which would feel like tremendous progress if twenty more tasks hadn’t appeared overnight. They’re like cancer cells. They multiply on their own.
And I still haven’t figured out the meaning of the tasks written in that strange shorthand. There’s about a dozen of them still on my list and three more appeared this morning.
HI-1122-JE
SP-1123-TSL
AL-1121-GE
I don’t have a clue what these assignments are. None of the teachers have mentioned them but they keep popping up. Clearly Other Me programmed them in at some point; I just wish I knew what they were for.
For our final Student Mastery Hour of the day, I tell Sequoia I need to check out a book from the library, so I’m just going to study there for the period.
“Are you still trying to finish that reading list?” she asks.
I assume she’s talking about the “25 Books to Read Before College” list that I found in the seventh grade. It feels good to know that Other Me kept that up. At least that much hasn’t changed.
“Yeah,” I lie, because I don’t want to have to tell Sequoia the truth. That honestly I just need some time by myself without any distractions. Plus, I’m secretly dying to see the inside of the Sanderson-Ruiz Library. It’s the newest building on campus. It wasn’t even built when I toured the school in sixth grade.
The library was always my favorite building to look at online. I remember staring at pictures for hours, dreaming of sitting in those high-backed leather chairs, browsing titles in the dark wood bookcases, or staring through the dramatic skylights in the high ceiling. But nothing could have prepared me for the moment when I actually step foot inside the building for the first time.
I literally freeze in the doorwa
y, my jaw dropping open. It’s the most miraculous sight, the pictures don’t even begin to do it justice.
I spend about ten minutes wandering around, running my fingertips against the wood paneling and the spines of the books, watching the large, flat screens on the walls cycle through recommendations and advertisements for upcoming events. For a while, I forget why I even came in here. Then my phone vibrates and I remember the daunting task list that awaits me.
I hitch my bag farther up my shoulder and head off to seek out a quiet, secluded place to work. I find a fantastic little study bay toward the back, hidden behind the mystery section. It has a small two-seater couch, a coffee table, and two end tables with matching reading lamps.
With a quiet yip of excitement, I fall into the couch and make myself comfortable. I check the clock on my phone, calculating that I have forty-seven minutes left of Student Mastery Hour before I have to be in AP English.
I power on my laptop, take a deep breath, and pick up where I left off with my AP history reading. But before I can get through even two paragraphs I hear a gruff, irritated voice say, “Oh great. My anti-zombie device must be broken.”
Annoyed by the interruption, I lift my gaze to find Dylan Parker standing there. His uniform is rumpled and untucked like always and his dark hair looks like he drove to school with his head sticking out the window. Like a dog.
I lower my laptop screen. “Excuse me?”
“This is my secret spot. I doused the entire place with an anti-zombie formula of my own design, but apparently it’s not working.”
I press my lips together and tilt my screen back up. “Maybe I’m not a zombie. Maybe that’s the problem.”
“Oh, you’re definitely a zombie.” He slides his bag off his shoulder and collapses down on the seat next to me. I realize this is supposed to be a couch for two, but it’s definitely not big enough for both of us. He’s suddenly everywhere. His elbows are bumping into me as he searches for something in his bag. And that smell. It’s … it’s …
Okay, actually, it’s kind of nice. What is that anyway? Some kind of citrusy spring mountain soap?
So he bathes. So what?
“Um, hello!” I close my laptop and scoot over as far as I can. “I was kind of sitting here.”
He looks unfazed by my complaint. “It’s a two-seater couch. And like I said, this is my spot.” He pulls a tattered, dog-eared paperback out of his bag, flips it open to a bookmarked page, and begins reading. Even though I’ve scooted as far away from him as possible, he still feels way too close.
“I don’t remember seeing your name written anywhere,” I point out, moving closer to the armrest. But unless I actually want to climb on top of it, there’s not much farther I can go.
He shrugs and keeps reading. “If you don’t like it here, you can always leave.”
“No,” I argue. “I was here first. You have to leave.”
He turns another page. “No, I don’t.”
“Fine,” I huff, getting comfortable and reopening my laptop.
“Fine,” he echoes.
I continue reading about westward expansion after the Civil War, taking deep breaths to try to calm myself down.
Dylan sighs dramatically, leans back on the couch, and props his dirty sneakers on the coffee table, right on top of my schoolbag.
I cringe and reach for the bag, yanking it out from under his feet. He lets out another sigh and stretches, spreading his legs wide so that one of his dirty shoes is now directly in front of me.
I press my lips together again and attempt to ignore him. He’s trying to be obnoxious. He’s trying to get me to leave. Well, it’s not happening.
If anyone’s leaving it’s him.
I lean back as well, propping my feet on the coffee table next to his and reaching my elbows out as far as they will go. As I type my chapter notes, I try to bump his hand every time I hit the Enter key, but he somehow keeps managing to dodge me. Finally, after several tries, I make contact, knocking his book out of his hands and onto his lap.
I expect to hear some kind of dissatisfaction come out of him. A grunt, a groan, something. But no. He just calmly picks up his book, finds the spot where he left off, and continues reading. This time, however, he places the novel in his other hand and sprawls his left arm across the top of the couch, until it’s wedged under my head.
I lean forward in disgust, feeling my hair for any residue from his hands.
“I’m sorry,” he says smugly. “Does that bother you? I like to get comfortable while I read. If that bothers you, you can always—”
“It doesn’t bother me,” I snap. “In fact, I like to get comfortable, too.” I turn my body ninety degrees and lean my back against the armrest. Then I place my laptop on my stomach, kick off my shoes, lean back, and rest my socked feet right up against his legs, so my toes are practically digging under his thighs.
“Ahhh,” I say, wiggling my toes. “Much better.” I pick up my head to look at him. “I’m sorry. Does that bother you? Do my feet smell? If so, you can always leave.”
I can see frustration start to sour his face, but he appears to be doing his best to conceal it. He crosses his right leg over his left. “Nope. Doesn’t bother me at all.”
I give him a fake sugary smile. “Good.” I continue typing. I have to admit it’s actually really hard to type like this. I have to hoist my head up to see the screen, which is starting to give me a neck ache, but there’s no way I’m backing down now.
He’ll leave eventually. I just need to stick it out.
Dylan leans forward to pull a pack of gum out of his bag and removes two pieces. At first I think he’s going to give me one, like some kind of peace offering, but then he stuffs both pieces in his mouth and begins to chew as loudly as the human jaw is capable of chewing.
The sound is positively infuriating. All that wet smacking and jaw flapping. Ugh. I can’t believe I went on even one date with this guy! Did I spend the whole time trying not to gag?
I tell myself to take deep breaths. He’s trying to get a rise out of me. Don’t let him. Stay the course. Claim this space.
I reach into my bag, pull out my earbuds, and stuff them into my ears. I blast my music full volume. It’s so loud, there’s no way he won’t be able to hear it.
I steal a peek at him around the corner of my laptop screen. He’s calmly reading and turning pages, bopping his head to the beat of my music. My music. He can’t enjoy my music. That is most definitely not allowed.
Annoyed, I switch to another song. A syrupy, bubble-gummy pop song that no guy on the face of the planet would ever bop his head to.
I turn up the volume. It’s so loud in my ears I think I might actually break something important, but I stick it out. I steal another peek at him. His head has stopped moving and his expression has turned slightly, like he’s just bit into an especially bitter pickle. Then, a second later, he purses his lips thoughtfully and starts teetering his head from side to side in rhythm with the beat.
God! Why is he so set on making my life difficult?
I remind myself not to get worked up. I can’t hear his gum chewing anymore, so I’ll just continue my work. I focus back on my digital textbook, pretending to be totally engrossed in the content.
Until I feel a damp spatter on my legs and jump.
Eew. What was that?
I peer up at the ceiling to see if the roof is leaking before I realize it’s not raining today. Besides, this building is brand-new. There wouldn’t be a leak in the roof. And that’s when I see the giant pink bubble out of the corner of my eye, followed by another wet sprinkle on my bare skin as it pops. He’s blowing bubbles and his disgusting saliva is spraying all over me!
I quickly sit up and withdraw my legs, yanking the earbuds from my ears. “That’s repulsive,” I say.
He looks surprised. “What?”
“You! You’re repulsive!”
“I’m sorry. Is my gum chewing bothering you? If it is, you can always just—”
But I don’t wait for him to finish. With a grunt, I stuff my laptop in my bag and get the heck out of there. I tell myself I’m not leaving because of him. I’m leaving because I need to study. I’m way behind and I don’t have time for his childish games.
But even so, I don’t look back for fear of seeing the victory plastered all over his smug face.
Then My Dream Is Excavated
When Sequoia drops me off at home later that afternoon, I don’t even bother going inside. I wait for her to drive away, then I hitch my bag up my shoulder and start walking down the street.
I know I could ask my mom to borrow the car, but she’s still pretty ticked off about me stealing it yesterday. Plus, she might ask where I’m going and I’m not sure I want to explain. I’m not sure I could explain.
As soon as I walk through the front doors of Southwest High ten minutes later, all the familiar sights and sounds and smells hit me at once. The last bell rang about five minutes ago, so the hallways are packed solid with people. I’d almost forgotten how crowded it is in this place. The Windsor Academy is so spacious. There are six grades instead of four but each class has only a hundred students in it. The entire Windsor student body is barely the size of one class here.
Falling into my usual routine, I bow my head and shove my way through the masses toward the stairwell. I know exactly where I’m going. I just need to see it. I need to say goodbye. I need to know my newspaper is in good hands. Then I can move on with my life.
I need closure.
The smell of these hallways always made me feel sick and the ugly tile floors always gave me a headache, but today the effect hits me harder than usual, and by the time I reach the second floor I’m breathing only through my mouth and fighting back waves of nausea.
I pass by Ms. Mann’s science classroom and peer inside, remembering how only half of the microscopes even worked. I pass by my old locker, laughing to myself when I notice the door is gone in this universe, too.
Thank God, I don’t go here anymore.
In Some Other Life: A Novel Page 17