She shook the shirt out. And that was when she noticed a tiny detail. Embroidered over a pocket were the words Enterprise Fish Co. This was a uniform. Not just a uniform.
This was her uniform. Apparently, she worked at Enterprise Fish Company, a restaurant down on lower State Street.
“The heck?” she murmured, setting the shirt down.
Why would she want to work at a restaurant?
Standing, she shook her head. She was turning in her notice today, that much was for sure. Although . . . wait a minute. If she was working at a restaurant, how did that affect her summer job teaching art? With a terrible foreboding, DaVinci rose to examine the whiteboard on her door. It held a two-week schedule, but it wasn’t a schedule that included end-of-summer art workshops for middle school kids. It was a schedule for Enterprise Fish Company. Only. She counted the hours, adding in her head.
Forty.
Forty hours a week? She worked there forty hours a week? How had she been getting anything done? The art workshop job had been perfect because it was only twelve hours a week, leaving plenty of time for her to work on the huge commission she’d accepted from the Applegates’ neighbor, Mrs. LaFleur.
She was definitely quitting waiting tables. Today.
She decided to check her email, certain she’d feel a lot better if she dug up a few end-of-term posts regarding her summer activities.
She typed in her ID: [email protected].
When her password didn’t automatically populate, she grabbed her phone and looked it up and then typed it into her computer.
ERROR: Your UCSBnetID or password is incorrect. Please re-enter.
She re-entered it. Got the same message. Tried again. And again. It wasn’t working. Which was seriously annoying. She must have a different password—or netID—in this time line. Unfortunately, she was out of time to figure it out, for now. If the schedule on her door was correct, she had less than half an hour to get herself down to the restaurant for an eight-hour shift ending at one o’clock in the morning. As tempting as it was to simply quit, she told herself she should go. People would be counting on her. Leia would totally not skip out if people were counting on her. Besides, she probably had friends there.
She exhaled noisily and started changing.
Luckily, she’d waited tables at Red Lobster after graduating high school, so she should be able to fake her way through one shift. At least she still had the Applegates’ car for transportation. After a quick change into her fishy-smelling uniform, she jogged downstairs.
The twins were eating peanut butter and brown sugar sandwiches. Mom must not be home. DaVinci smiled softly. Some things hadn’t changed, at least.
“Hey, guys?” asked DaVinci. “When did I start at, um, the Enterprise Fish Company?”
Kahlo raised one eyebrow. Klee raised hers to match.
“Dude. You’ve been full-time there forever. They just gave you that two-year raise in June, right?”
Two years? That wasn’t very likely. It sounded crazy. How had she managed to fit everything in? She would like to meet this DaVinci, the one who had her life so together she could work full time on top of everything else.
Realizing Kahlo and Klee were staring at her and waiting for an answer, she nodded like she was agreeing with what they’d said about working two years. Like she remembered it.
What was with her life choices in this time line?
As she asked herself the question, DaVinci couldn’t shake a certain bad feeling. How could so much have changed when all she’d done was pay a plumber to fix a leak under the house?
19
• DAVINCI •
California, July
As DaVinci drove to work, she nearly talked herself into turning around and calling in her notice, but an inconvenient sense of duty kept her driving to the restaurant. No matter what time line she was in, DaVinci did not let people down. Besides, she wouldn’t mind a few hours’ mindless distraction from all the strangeness of coming home to a home that wasn’t quite right. A schedule she couldn’t imagine having chosen. Passwords that didn’t work.
There had to be an explanation as to why she wasn’t working at the Art for Kids camp. Whatever the explanation, she was going to fix it. It had to be a totally fixable mistake. Right?
Tying on a work apron, she listened to the rapid-fire banter between cooks and waiters. Maybe “mindless work” was a little inaccurate. She took a minute to ask three of the staff what their favorite entrées and desserts were, preparing for customers who would no doubt ask her the same question.
Which they did. Along with a laundry list of other questions she had to fake her way through. Her shift turned out to be less of a distraction and more of a disaster. She mangled the orders for an entire table of businesswomen, serving gluten-free rolls to the ones who’d requested sourdough and forgetting to place their crème brûlée orders. Another table got lobster instead of lobster bisque, and she sold mahi-mahi to a third table when there was no mahi-mahi left.
And those were just her interactions with the customers. Her back-of-the-house interactions were . . . not pleasant. Well, all right, one of them was nice. Sort of. A very handsome waiter winked at her several times before finally asking, “Are we still on for tonight?”
DaVinci wasn’t sure if they were on for tonight. She had no clue if . . . she squinted to read his nametag—Carlos—was her boyfriend or study-buddy or ride home or what. The hours dragged past until a lull just after 11:00 p.m., at which point the manager gave her a dressing-down that would have reduced persons without the Leia protocol to tears. DaVinci wasn’t about to cry over a job she didn’t even want, but she’d had enough.
“You’re right,” she said to the manager. “I don’t deserve this job. I screwed up. And I quit.”
The manager stared at her.
“I just have one question.” DaVinci leaned in closer. “Are Carlos and I, you know, a, um . . . menu item?”
When the manager continued to stare at her like she’d sprouted antlers, she tried a more direct approach. “Is it your understanding that Carlos is my boyfriend?”
At that moment, a server rushed up to the manager with an urgent request, leaving DaVinci by herself.
“Fine. Don’t tell me.” She untied her apron.
“You wish he was your boyfriend,” said another server, balancing four bowls of clam chowder as she zipped past.
So. She did not, apparently, have a hot boyfriend named Carlos.
“Same old, same old—there, anyway,” she muttered.
Dropping her apron into the rag tub, she walked the two blocks to where she’d parked the Applegates’ car. Only after she’d driven most of the way home did she realize her tips were still in the apron pocket, back at the restaurant.
She did not turn around. It hadn’t been a great night for tips.
She got home just before midnight. Yoshi was up, playing some video game involving oversize weapons that would’ve toppled an actual person trying to carry them.
DaVinci plopped onto a saggy beanbag next to her brother.
“Hey.”
He pulled off his headphones and paused his game playing. “Hey, yourself. What are you doing home so early?”
“My manager told me to go sit in a corner and think about what I’d done.”
“Did not,” said Yoshi, grunting out a laugh.
“Did not,” agreed DaVinci. “But I quit.”
Yoshi’s pale eyebrows rose. “Serious?”
“Yeah. I don’t know why I took that job in the first place.”
“Um . . . the money?” Yoshi put an arm around her and squeezed. “It’s okay. You’ll find another job.”
DaVinci grunted noncommittally.
“In fact,” said Yoshi, “my fiancée’s mom is hiring.”
DaVinci felt a chill run along her spine. Yoshi wasn’t engaged. Or, he shouldn’t be.
“Ana’s family business is booming,” Yoshi said proudly.
“Ana, you
r fiancée, Ana?” asked DaVinci. Last thing she knew, her brother had still been saving for a ring.
“Ha-ha.” He shoved her shoulder with his.
Great. Yoshi and Ana were engaged. Just one more couple in her life to remind her that she had no one.
“Um, remind me when you got engaged?” she asked, as casually as she could.
An eye roll. “Duh. Same day you got your splint off.”
“My splint?” DaVinci sure as heck didn’t remember any splints.
“Oh, excuse me,” Yoshi said with exaggerated politeness. “I meant your cast.” He made tiny air quotes as he said cast.
Great. She added “broke my something” to the list of things she didn’t know about herself.
“Hey, you should play with us again, now that your finger’s all healed.”
“Play with you?” DaVinci frowned. “Like . . . video games?”
“You were getting good. Well, you sucked less.”
He leaned away from her, and she realized he was expecting her to punch his arm. Which normal DaVinci of either time line would probably have done, if she’d felt insulted. But sucking at video games wasn’t insulting, and the idea she might have actually played them wasn’t insulting enough to merit a punch.
Groaning, she sank deeper into the beanbag.
“Seriously, though, if you want a job, just say the word,” said her brother.
“I’m going to bed,” she said.
Yoshi gave her another squeeze around the shoulder and then grimaced. “Ew. You smell like clam chowder.”
DaVinci plucked at one sleeve. Sniffed. She did smell like clam chowder.
“Hey, Yoshi, do you know my login for my email?”
“Why would I know that?”
DaVinci shrugged. “I was just hoping.” And then, because he seemed to be waiting for an explanation, she added, “My, um, computer rebooted or something and lost all my passwords. I guess I could call UCSB tech support.”
“Why would you call UCSB?” asked Yoshi, fiddling with his game controller. His on-screen avatar picked up a gun the size of a small sofa. DaVinci could hear his friends shouting in his earphones, telling him to use the weapon, already.
“To recover my login, duh,” muttered DaVinci. But as she spoke, the hairs on her arms rose.
“They only help students. UCSB students,” added Yoshi. “They won’t help you.”
DaVinci tried to suck in a breath, but her lungs weren’t working right. They only help students? What the heck was that supposed to mean?
Yoshi continued. “If you want, I could ask Miguel. Ana says her brother is amazing with tech.”
Yoshi’s offer barely registered. They only help students. Was she not a student in this altered time line? How could she not be a student at UCSB? What had happened?
“Hey, the team is screaming at me here,” said Yoshi, gesturing to the screen with one elbow. He nudged his headphones forward until they settled squarely over his ears.
DaVinci rose and walked to the stairs. Before she reached the top, she had her phone out and was texting Halley and Jillian.
Anybody awake? I need help.
20
• DAVINCI •
California, July
Halley was the first to answer DaVinci’s text.
I’m awake. What’s going on?
Wow. How was she supposed to answer that?
“I sort of messed up the historical time line, and I don’t like my life anymore” would cover most of the bases, but she couldn’t bring herself to type that.
Halley, awaiting a response, texted a series of question marks.
DaVinci spent another minute trying to think of the best way to explain what had happened, during which time Halley sent a second series of question marks and a sad face.
Where was she even supposed to begin?
DaVinci’s phone vibrated in her hands. Halley was calling.
“Hey.”
“Hey, DaVinci. What’s up? Are you okay? Is everyone okay?”
“Um, yeah. Sort of. It’s . . . well, it’s sort of complicated.”
“Complicated is my specialty.”
DaVinci thought she heard Edmund’s loud guffaw in the background. He was probably mouthing, She speaketh the trutheth, or something similar.
DaVinci exhaled heavily. “I shouldn’t have woken you up.”
“You didn’t. I have two zippers to replace before 3:00 a.m. Tell me what happened.”
“I did something really . . . stupid,” replied DaVinci. “Involving space–time. And history.”
DaVinci heard Halley’s intake of breath. Heard her whispering to Edmund.
“Halley, I’m scared.” The tears DaVinci had been holding back all day swam in her eyes and then spilled onto her cheeks. Her next words came out between sobs. “I . . . screwed . . . up.”
Another hushed exchange with Edmund.
“Okay, listen,” said Halley. “I’ll find out when work can release me, and then I’ll come straight to California.”
21
• DAVINCI •
California, July
It would be four days before Halley could get time off from her work on the movie set to visit DaVinci and discuss matters face-to-face, and Jillian couldn’t even do that much. On top of the divide created by distance, Jillian was catering her first conference, leaving her too busy to do more than send hurried texts in which she dropped subtle hints she would gladly fly DaVinci out to Florida for a visit and less-subtle hints about meeting a hunky ex–Roman soldier named Quintus. She also sent a care package stuffed with gummy bears. DaVinci stared at them, shook her head, and left them untouched. As for Jillian’s other offers, DaVinci didn’t think going to Florida would solve her problems, and she was doubtful that abs of steel, Roman or otherwise, would fix things, either. Besides, Jillian would be flying to California in ten days for DaVinci’s painting exhibit. Halley, meanwhile, texted and FaceTimed several times a day, with more sympathy than DaVinci felt she deserved, considering she’d, well, changed history.
To her family, glancing at her with worried looks, DaVinci only said she didn’t feel well. She alternated spending time on the roof and in her new-to-her room, but nothing felt comfortable. Nothing was familiar. Nothing was right. It was like wearing clothes washed with someone else’s laundry detergent—all the scents wrong and unfamiliar.
Even the private bedroom she’d begged her parents for in her “real” past became a reminder of how truly alone she was. Through the wall, she could hear Klee and Kahlo laughing and whispering, and she had to stop herself from barging in, demanding they let her move back. She’d saved her home from destruction, but it no longer felt like a place where she belonged; it was a place that belonged to some alternate version of herself that she didn’t know and didn’t want to know.
She couldn’t paint. Even if she’d had the energy, she wasn’t sure where her paint box was. Nothing was where it should be. She dragged through her days only to crash into horrible dreams at night, nightmares where she’d lost her scholarship at UCSB or been kicked out of the honors program. The dreams were bad, but even worse were the seconds before she came fully awake. Heart pounding, she would murmur to herself, “Just a bad dream. Just a bad dream.” But then she would realize all over again that it wasn’t a dream. That she was living a nightmare. And that it was all her fault.
Worst of all, she had no idea how to fix things or even which things needed fixing. Again and again, she asked herself where things had gone wrong. Where had she messed up? But she had no idea where or when or how. It was just a stupid fix to a leaky pipe. How had that lost her a coveted scholarship? Her place in the honors program? Her summer job? The commission from Jillian’s mother’s friend? She asked the same questions over and over, but there were no answers.
Midmorning on the fifth day of DaVinci’s “new” life, Halley’s car headlights pierced the clingy, summer fog that had settled in a few days earlier. Fog didn’t usually make it all the
way up to East Mountain Drive, but it was thick today, visibility no better than fifteen feet in any direction. DaVinci clambered down from the lookout boulder, scraping her ankle on a broken edge of stone she could have sworn hadn’t been there before she’d changed history. Swearing, she limped to Halley just as her friend exited the car.
Halley held her arms out and DaVinci fell into them, and then the tears she’d been holding back began to flow. She should have been crying from relief that she finally had someone to talk to. And she was relieved, but she was crying because she realized she’d been pinning her hopes on Halley having a solution, and now she saw how delusional that hope had been. She’d clung to it, fooling herself into thinking she just had to wait for her friend to show up and then everything would be okay again. But everything was not okay again. Halley was here and Halley was real and Halley loved her, but if Halley had figured out a solution, she would have proposed it already.
What if she never figured out how to fix things? What if she was stuck in this failed-artist life smelling like clam chowder to the end of her days? While these thoughts dragged at her like a riptide, Halley held her and gave her tissues and hugged her fiercely until, at last, the swell of tears receded.
DaVinci, apologizing, blew her nose and said, “Thanks for coming.”
“I tried to get away sooner,” said Halley. “Edmund and I felt awful knowing you were here dealing with this alone.”
New tears welled up at the kind words, but DaVinci forced them back, nodding.
“I’m so sorry I couldn’t get here earlier.”
DaVinci forced herself to smile. “And I’m sorry about this crap weather.”
Halley grunted out a laugh. “Because that’s totally your fault.”
DaVinci shrugged. “Probably.”
“It’s practically a whiteout, though, huh?” murmured Halley, shivering. “It’s like being in the clouds.”
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