Caissie sank onto a chair. “Honestly, Michele? You’ve got to be the weirdest person I know. First you barely give me the time of day when I come to your house, you don’t talk to me at school, and now all of a sudden you’ve gone off the deep end and I’m the one you want involved in your insanity? No thanks.”
Michele’s jaw dropped. She couldn’t believe what she was hearing. “I didn’t give you the time of day? I’m the one who’s the new student at your school and I had thought maybe, just maybe, you’d talk to me or sit with me at lunch and make me feel welcome, but you’re the one who acted like we’d never even met!”
“That’s because you rushed me out of your house so fast that day, it was obvious you weren’t interested in being friends with the secretary’s daughter,” Caissie retorted. “And then I saw you with the elitist Four Hundred club, and everyone knows how they look down their noses at scholarship kids like me and Aaron.”
“I’m so not part of that club!” Michele argued. “I didn’t know anything about them that first day. I was just grateful for someone to sit with at lunch. Did you not notice I haven’t sat with them since? That I’ve actually been spending my lunches in the library? And that day when you came over, I was a total mess over my mom, and I’d gotten in an argument with my grandparents the night before. I was trying not to cry the whole time you were over—that’s why I rushed you out.”
Caissie was silent for a few moments. Then she gave Michele a sheepish look.
“I’m sorry,” she said in a small voice. “I was being an idiot. I just—I hate how that crowd treats me and Aaron. We’re the only students at Berkshire with after-school jobs, subway cards, and no allowance. I wouldn’t even live in this building if it weren’t rent-controlled. You should see the size of my mom’s place; there’s barely room for my own bedroom. But I would be more than cool with my situation if it weren’t for the fact that it seems to give the school snobs the license to treat me like a second-class citizen. And you and your grandparents know my mom as the help. So that made me take everything personally, I guess.”
Michele sighed. “It’s okay,” she said, relenting. “You know, this whole upper class thing is completely new to me. I’m used to living in a small bungalow with my mom and never having enough money.…” Michele’s voice trailed off as the memories of her old life brought a lump to her throat.
Caissie bit her lip. “I’m really sorry I misjudged you. And I’m so sorry about your mom.”
“Thanks. I guess I can understand why you would feel the way you did. I’ve only been at Berkshire a week, and I’ve already got a complex.”
Caissie laughed, and Michele held out her hand. “Truce?”
“Truce,” Caissie agreed, shaking her hand.
“And … now that you know I’m not who you thought I was, any chance you can believe me about the time traveling?” Michele asked hopefully. “I mean, how else do you explain how I got into your apartment and Philip’s jacket and everything else?”
Caissie shook her head slowly. “Look, I study science. That’s how I got into our school, and that’s what I believe in—scientific facts, not magic and time travel.” She gave Michele a sideways look. “But it’s weird. At the same time, I don’t think you’re crazy anymore. So maybe I should just hold off on believing or not believing until you can get me more facts.”
“Fair enough,” Michele said. Her gaze fell on Caissie’s alarm clock, which read 10:30 p.m. “Oh yikes, I’ve got to get home. I just missed my curfew. Cross your fingers my grandparents are still out!”
“Will do,” Caissie said with a grin. She walked Michele to the door.
Before leaving, Michele asked, “Can we keep this whole thing just between us? You won’t tell Aaron or anyone?”
“Girl, if I tell anyone, they’ll think I’m as crazy as you,” Caissie said matter-of-factly. “So you can bet I’ll be keeping it a secret.”
“Yeah, I guess you’re right,” Michele agreed. “Well, see you at school tomorrow.”
“See you tomorrow.” Caissie started inside but then stopped and turned back to Michele. “Hey, have lunch with me and Aaron tomorrow, ’K?”
Michele grinned. “That sounds great.”
The next morning, Michele woke up early, unable to sleep with thoughts of Philip in her head. There was a part of her that still believed he was a dream, like he existed only in a fantasy parallel universe. But now that they had touched, held each other, kissed, he felt more tangible than anyone or anything else in her life, even though he was a hundred years away.
Suddenly, inspiration struck. Michele hurried to her desk and grabbed the first pen and notepad she saw. For a moment, she hesitated. She hadn’t been able to write since her mom had died.… What made her think she could now? But a second later, she had her title: “Bring the Colors Back.” And then she had the chorus.
Why, when you’re gone
The world’s gray on my own
You bring the colors back
You bring the colors back.
Why, I feel numb
I’m a sky without a sun
Just take away the lack
And bring the colors back.
The words flew onto the page as she came up with a verse.
Feels like so long been only seeing my life in blues
There comes a time when even strong ones need rescue
Then I’m with you in a whole other place and time
The world has light
I come to life …
Michele wrote and wrote, until Annaleigh interrupted to tell her to come down for breakfast. Before leaving the room, Michele read over her work and smiled. It didn’t matter to her whether she’d written anything brilliant. It just felt good to be able to write again.
Later that day, in English lit class, the teacher divided the students into two groups to fill out study questions about the book they were reading, The Great Gatsby. Michele, Caissie, and Ben Archer were placed in the same group, along with two guys from the school’s tennis team and an overly tanned bodacious bombshell who looked like she’d be more at home on an MTV reality show.
“Fakin’ Jamaicans,” Caissie whispered to Michele, nodding at the two jocks as they approached their group.
“Huh?” Michele gave her a quizzical look.
“You’ll see,” Caissie said with a laugh.
Once their study group was situated around a table, Michele had to bite her lip to keep from snickering. The tennis players sat on either side of Bodacious Bombshell, their eyes not-so-subtly drifting to her chest while she giggled and made a big show of pretending not to notice. Meanwhile, Caissie kept gazing longingly at the door, clearly fantasizing about escape. The only person acting normal was Ben—although for some reason, Michele kept feeling his eyes on her.
“So, uh …” Ben looked around. “Should we do this thing?”
“Yeah, mon,” Jock Number One said, then began reading the first of the study questions in a full Rastafarian accent. “How do Gatsby represent da American Dream? What be da condition of American Dream in da 1920s?”
Michele stared at him. Is this guy for real? But Caissie seemed to be the only one in their group who found anything bizarre about their blond, blue-eyed classmate talking Rasta. Her shoulders shook with silent laughter as she watched Michele’s bewildered expression.
No one was making a move to answer the question, so Ben spoke up again. “Um, I think Gatsby represents the dark side of it. Like, how money and power was made to be so important that people would ruin their lives to attain it.”
“Yeah, I agree,” Michele said. Caissie nodded.
“I don’t know,” the bombshell interjected. “Gatsby only wanted money and power to get Daisy. And I think that’s so romantic. It’s not like we would complain if a guy ruined his life to win us over. Am I right, ladies?” She gave Michele and Caissie a conspiratorial smile.
“Uh, no—”
“Gatsby be a bad bwai,” Jock Number Two said admiringly, i
n the same Rasta accent as his comrade.
“All right, then. Since we all seem to have different points of view here, maybe we should just fill this out on our own,” Caissie hastily suggested.
“Irie,” the Fakin’ Jamaicans replied in unison.
“Boys,” Caissie sighed in Michele’s ear, rolling her eyes.
Michele thought of Philip—how opposite he was from this crew, and how different he was from her lame ex-boyfriend, Jason, back in L.A. Even a nice enough guy like Ben seemed miles away from Philip. Was it possible for someone like Philip Walker to exist in her generation?
During the car ride home from school, Michele was lost in thought. She needed to know, before she fell any further for him, if Philip was destined to marry Violet after all. And as much as Michele was trying to stay away from her grandparents those days, she knew that they were the ones to ask.
Once she arrived at the mansion, Michele headed to the library, where her grandparents could usually be found playing cards at that hour.
“Hi,” she greeted them, standing awkwardly in the doorway.
Walter and Dorothy looked up in surprise.
“Hi, dear,” Dorothy greeted her.
“How was school?” Walter asked. Michele could tell from their expressions that they were pleased she had come to see them.
“Oh, it was fine. Actually, that’s what I wanted to talk to you about. I’m doing a … a history project on the Windsor family,” Michele fibbed.
Walter brightened. “That’s wonderful! There are many incredible stories and people from our family, so you’ll have a lot to write about.”
Michele sat down in one of the leather armchairs. “Well, I actually wanted to ask you about something in particular. I heard a rumor that a Windsor and a Walker were married—Violet Windsor and Philip Walker, in the 1910s. Is that true?” Michele held her breath, waiting for the answer.
Walter and Dorothy looked at each other, clearly bewildered.
“I’ve never heard anything of that sort in my life,” Walter answered. “Violet married a French lord and moved to Europe. She most certainly didn’t marry a Walker.”
As the words registered, Michele felt faint. He didn’t marry her! … Was it because of me? She felt her legs trembling.
“I’ve never even heard of a Philip Walker,” Dorothy commented. “Have you, Walter?”
Walter shook his head. “No. I don’t think there ever was a Philip Walker.”
Michele shrank back at those words.
“What’s wrong, dear?” Dorothy asked, looking at her worriedly.
Michele swallowed hard. “I’m fine. I just … thought I saw something. It’s nothing.” They’re wrong, Michele assured herself. Philip is every bit as real as I am.
“Since you’re studying Windsor history, you should do some research up in the attic,” Dorothy suggested. “All the old family photos and documents are up there in boxes labeled by year.”
Michele felt her spirits rise. That sounded promising. Maybe she would find something there … some answers about Philip.
“That sounds perfect,” Michele said. “I’m going to go up there right now.”
The Windsor attic was organized and tidily lined with boxes—hardly the spooky, dank place Michele had imagined. The first row of boxes were labeled with names of unfamiliar Windsors, but lying on top of those boxes, oddly out of place, was a music composition book. Michele picked it up curiously. The front cover read Songs by Lily Windsor, 1925. Michele grinned. Lily must have been Michele’s age when she’d written these songs; how incredible it was to find handwritten lyrics from when she’d been an aspiring songwriter like Michele! She held on to the composition book while she continued to look around.
As she made her way to the back of the attic, she saw a name that she recognized on one of the boxes: George Windsor, 1859–1922. Was that Clara’s dad? Michele felt a stab of guilt as she remembered her promise to help Clara. She had all but forgotten her in the whirlwind of Philip.
Michele quickly opened the box. She found a number of odds and ends inside: business documents, letters, and photos. Then one of the faded old black-and-white photos caught her eye. It was a photo of the woman in the picture Clara had shown her—Clara’s mother! The photo was crumbling with age at the edges, but the words scribbled at the bottom of the picture were unmistakable: I love you always. Alanna.
As Michele studied the photo, the attic suddenly began to spin and shake. She fell to the ground, covering her head with her hands in terror. Is this an earthquake? But then, her hands gripping the wooden floor, her eyes squeezed shut, she felt the familiar downward plunge and knew she was being sent back in time.
When the spinning and shaking finally ceased, Michele gingerly opened her eyes to a blanket of darkness. There were no lightbulbs here anymore, and now the place was half empty, holding an assortment of cast-aside furniture and half a dozen brown boxes.
Suddenly, she heard the sound of footsteps coming up the stairs, and she quickly scrambled behind a broken dresser. The door opened, and a young couple walked in, hand in hand, the man holding up a small candelabra. Michele peered around the dresser and recognized the dark-haired man as George Windsor—but almost twenty years younger, with a carefree expression that she hadn’t seen before on his face. He wore a crisp white shirt, a white tie, and a black vest with pin-striped trousers. The young woman was a beauty, with wavy red hair up in a pompadour, and she wore a simple white blouse with a long navy blue cotton skirt. It was clear from her plain, unembellished clothing and her lack of hat or jewelry that she wasn’t part of the Windsors’ upper class, but from the adoring way George looked at her, Michele could see that he didn’t care in the least.
The young couple leaned side by side against the attic wall, grinning at each other, clearly relishing being in their own private world. The woman, who Michele recognized now as Clara’s mother, Alanna, wrapped her arms around George and pulled him close. The two of them kissed tenderly.
She really loved him, Michele realized with surprise.
George pulled away and reached into his coat pocket. “A gift for you,” he said, handing it to her in a shy, almost boyish way.
“George!” Alanna beamed at him before delicately opening the box. George stood behind her, his hands resting on her shoulders.
“A locket!” Alanna cried with delight. “It is so beautiful. George, you needn’t have.”
“I wanted to,” George said, pulling her in for another kiss. “I only wish …”
“Yes, darling?” Alanna asked. “What is it you wish?”
George was silent for a moment, and when he spoke, his voice was hoarse. “I wish you could put our picture in the locket without fear of being found out.”
Michele watched as Alanna nodded, leaning into George and whispering something Michele couldn’t hear. Alanna pulled a pocket watch from her skirt pocket and sighed heavily. “It’s nearly five. Henrietta will be home any moment. We must leave here.” She looked up at him, her face filled with despair. “Why didn’t Time let us meet sooner?”
George took her hand and held it up to his cheek. “It’s not too late for us yet,” he said urgently. “We can find a way to be together.”
Alanna shook her head, and Michele saw her wipe her eyes. “You know you can’t leave her. You might never see your children again. No, we must somehow bear it.”
“How can I ever let you go?” he asked, his voice breaking.
Alanna shook her head, and began to sob on George’s shoulder. And suddenly Michele wanted nothing more than to get away from this painful scene. She closed her eyes, clutched the key necklace, and willed Time to send her back.
Michele opened her eyes to find that she was back in the attic in her own time. Taking the photo and Lily’s composition book, she ran downstairs to her room. She had to get back to Clara.
She tossed Lily’s composition book into her desk, grabbed Clara’s diary, and flipped it open to the third entry: November 1, 1910
. Without even glancing at the first sentence, Michele held on tight to the diary, the photo, and the key. After a few seconds the spinning and swirling began again, sending her back to the November first of one hundred years earlier. She arrived to find Clara curled up on her bed, her head buried in a book.
“Michele!” Clara cried when she appeared, and jumped off the bed to give her a hug. “I’m so glad you’re back.”
“Me too. What have I missed?” Michele asked.
“Very little,” Clara replied. “I’ve been spending nearly all my time in this room, avoiding the family—especially Mr. Windsor.”
“That’s why I’m here,” Michele said, handing her the photo. “I found this in the attic with George Windsor’s things.” As Clara’s eyes took in the image, her face turned white as a ghost.
“You have to talk to your dad,” Michele urged. “She gave this to him. She must have had real feelings for him. You need to know what really happened between your parents.”
Clara nodded slowly. “Will you come with me?”
“Of course I will.”
Clara nervously gripped Michele’s hand as they made their way down the stairs to George Windsor’s study. Clara knocked on the door.
“Come in,” George called.
Clara stepped into the room, and George’s face paled when he saw who was there. He looked at her silently for a long moment. “Please tell me what happened … with you and Mother,” Clara said, breaking the silence.
George hesitated. “I don’t know what you speak of,” he said, not meeting her eyes.
Clara slapped the photo onto his desk. “Why have you been lying to me?” she asked sharply.
George stared at the photo in shock. He looked up at Clara, opening and closing his mouth as if unsure what to say. When he finally spoke, his voice sounded ragged, years older. “I’m so sorry … my child,” he said, his breath coming out in shallow gasps. “I never wanted to deceive you. I simply couldn’t bear the idea of you thinking less of your mother.”
Clara slowly sank into a chair across from her father. “I want the truth,” she said quietly. “All of it.”
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