“What?”
“A hobby. And not that Camp Hero stuff you’re always talking about. You should go out for the cheerleading squad next year or something.”
“The cheerleading squad? But then you’d never speak to me again.”
She purses her lips. “You’re right. Plus you’re not peppy enough. Hmm . . .” She taps her finger on the table, one-two, one-two. A steady beat. “How about the literary mag? No wait, I would have to make so much fun of you if you started writing poetry about all your teenage angst.”
The waitress comes back with our drinks and takes our order. I sip on the milk shake, holding the cold glass in my fingers, grateful that I have something to do with my hands. I don’t often feel uncomfortable around Hannah, but I don’t often have to lie to her either.
Because I can’t tell her the truth—that I do have a hobby. Journalism. Or, I used to have it. But Lydia 2 is not interested in things like the school newspaper and therefore has time to work in her father’s store all summer.
No, Lydia 2 has other things to focus on.
“Don’t look now,” Hannah says, “but your boyfriend is coming.”
I hear someone walk into the diner, and I turn my head. A tall black-haired boy is walking toward us with a wide grin on his face.
“Hey Grant!” Hannah calls out.
I feel my heart start to race.
“Hey Hannah,” he says as soon as he’s close enough to us. “Lydia.”
And then he’s there, right in front of me. He leans forward, closer and closer, and I brace myself against the metal tabletop. My eyes are open and staring, and I notice that Grant’s cheek is pale and freckled this close up. I feel his lips touch mine softly.
He pulls away. “Hey, you.”
I press my lips together hard as he bends again, this time to sit next to me in our small booth. Our arms, our sides are touching. He’s talking, though I don’t hear what he’s saying.
This is one part of my new life I’m having a hard time adjusting to.
Grant Henderson, the boy I grew up next door to, a boy I never thought I could fall in love with, is my boyfriend.
CHAPTER 2
I have been thinking a lot about fate lately. My own. My grandfather’s. Wes’s. How much do I really understand fate? Grandpa disappeared in 1989 in this time line. But that wasn’t always his fate. Just like it wasn’t always Dean’s fate to get lost in time, probably to 1920, where he’ll be trapped forever. I changed those things by traveling back to 1944.
And now I’m sitting in a booth with Grant’s arm around me.
I feel something nudge my side and I look up. Both Hannah and Grant are staring at me, clearly waiting for a response.
“What?” I ask. “Sorry, I spaced out.”
Grant laughs softly and rubs his hand against my shoulder. “You’ve been doing that a lot lately.”
I lean forward until I can’t feel his touch anymore. “I have stuff on my mind.”
“Is it the Montauk Project again? I think we should go out there today. I was reading through that book you gave me a while ago, the one on alternating currents. I think—”
He’s cut off by Hannah, who holds up both hands and starts waving them back and forth. “No! No way. Absolutely no crazy government conspiracy crap today. I get that it’s your weird couple thing, or whatever, but I’m trying to enjoy a nice, calm breakfast without any talk of repta . . . repto . . .”
“Reptoids,” I finish quietly. “They’re called reptoids.”
“Right. Reptoids.” Hannah’s voice is getting louder. The other diners start to look over. “I don’t care that the government supposedly tapped into wormholes and contacted secret alien species that look like snake-human hybrids. I don’t care about Nikola Tesla faking his own death. I. Do. Not. Care.” She sits back in her seat and takes a deep breath.
Grant and I both stare at her.
She rolls her eyes. “Don’t look at me like I’m crazy—you’re the ones who believe in aliens.”
“I don’t believe in aliens,” I say.
Grant turns to me, one dark eyebrow raised. “You’ve never said that before. I thought you were a ‘true believer.’”
“I am . . . I just . . . don’t necessarily think aliens are part of it.” And I don’t, not since Wes assured me they’re fiction, along with the theory that Tesla faked his own death. It was Dr. Faust who invented the time machine, using Tesla’s research on rotating magnetic fields.
“Lydia.” Grant sounds shocked. “You’ve always believed in reptoids. When you were six you claimed you saw one on the beach out by Hero.”
I shrug, not sure what to say. It’s a familiar feeling these days.
My grandfather was always convinced the Montauk Project had something to do with his father’s disappearance. In this time line, Lydia 2 has taken his place. She’s the one who has always been obsessed with the Project, certain that they were behind my grandfather’s disappearance in 1989.
Lydia 2 never knew her grandfather the way I did. To her, he was just a family legend, shrouded in mystery. Since I’ve been back, I have only picked through a few of the papers and notebooks on her desk. It was enough to know that Lydia 2 had found my grandfather’s journals, and through them had learned about the Montauk Project. I can only assume that my father wouldn’t talk about it, and so she set out to find what information she could on her own, obsessed with the thought of what her family would be like if my grandfather had never disappeared.
It’s strange how history repeats itself, even across a new version of time.
“Well, if you’re starting to get sick of all this stuff, I completely and totally approve,” Hannah tells me.
I nod. I can feel Grant watching me, and I glance at him from the corner of my eye. His dark hair falls over his forehead in a messy wave, and he’s wearing a T-shirt that says IRONY in big black letters.
“I can’t believe I’m even hearing this,” he says softly. “We’ve always believed that the Montauk Project was real. It’s why we . . .” He waves his hand in the air between us.
“I know, I’m just . . .” I turn away, concentrating on the framed records hanging on the wall above our heads. As far as I can tell, Lydia 2 devoted almost all of her time to the Montauk Project—and to Grant by association.
The whole thing suddenly makes me irrationally angry. I didn’t pick Grant, but here I am, forced to pretend I’m in love with him.
And his shirt is stupid anyway.
“Look, I need to get to work.” I lean over, hoping he’ll take the hint and move out of the booth. He doesn’t.
“You don’t have to be in for an hour,” he says. He’s starting to look less hurt and more worried. “Your food hasn’t even come yet. What’s going on with you?”
“I’m not hungry anymore. You should eat it.” My words are clipped and short.
“Lydia, come on.” Hannah’s eyes are wide with concern. “Stay.”
“I’m sorry.” I sigh. “I’m fine . . . just tired, I guess. I’ll call you both later, okay?”
“All right. If you’re sure nothing’s wrong.” Grant stands up and holds out his hand. I reluctantly let him pull me up and out of the booth. “See you soon.” I jerk to the side before his mouth can land on mine. His lips graze my cheek.
“Bye.” I lift my hand up at Hannah, and then rush toward the door. It opens as I reach it, and Shannon Perkins and a few other cheerleaders from school stream into the diner. They are talking and laughing, but Shannon meets my eye as she pushes past me.
“Excuse me,” she says quickly.
I smile automatically. “Shannon, hi! I haven’t seen you all summer.”
She gives me an odd look, and the rest of her friends stop and stare at us. “Oh. Lydia. Hi.”
At her tone, I freeze. Of course, Lydia 2 and Shannon weren’t childhood friends, and now I look like a complete ass. “Sorry, I’ll just be . . .” I reach around one of the girls and fumble for the door handle. Someone gigg
les, a high, mocking sound. I feel Hannah and Grant staring at my back, wondering how I could possibly think I’m friends with a group of cheerleaders. My face is hot as I exit the diner.
I’m not doing a very good job of being myself today.
Halfway down the sidewalk, I stop and take a deep breath. I shouldn’t have run away like that, but I don’t want to be Lydia 2 anymore. I miss being myself. I miss my parents, and journalism, and even my old organized bedroom.
But most of all, I miss my grandfather.
The most logical step is to stop trying to be someone I’m not. To give up on Lydia 2 and re-create my old life as best I can, starting with dumping Grant. I could join the newspaper again and try to build a new relationship with my parents. I’d never get my grandfather back, but I might be able to reclaim some of the life I remember.
Only I can’t.
Because I’m too scared.
The old me would have barged into this new life, determined to find out what happened to my grandfather and to fix it. But something changed in me after I watched Dean get sucked into the time machine. After I saw a bullet tear through Wes’s shoulder, his blood dripping to the white floor.
The last time I tampered with the past, I changed—and lost—so much. What if changing something in this new time line affects the future in some horrible, unknowable way?
But this isn’t working. I have been trying so hard to neatly slot into Lydia 2’s life: re-creating her relationship with my parents, not disrupting things with Grant, trying to come to terms with Wes being gone. Today proves that it’s not enough. Even my absent mother is noticing that I’ve changed. I can’t completely hide who I am.
Maybe it’s time to let go of that fear. To start reclaiming my old life again, at least a little bit.
A bell dings as the door to my father’s hardware store opens.
I turn toward the sound. “Can I help you?”
A man stands in the doorway. The afternoon sun falls down on him from the front windows, making his honey-colored skin look like it’s glowing.
“Lydia Bentley.”
I straighten. “Do I know you?”
He smiles at my suspicious tone and starts to come closer. The shop is small and cluttered, so he has to walk carefully. Shovels hang on the walls and piles of rakes are stacked in the corner like forks nestled in a silverware drawer. The man skirts a bag of fertilizer and a large clay pot as he approaches the counter. I slowly shut the magazine I’ve been reading.
“I was just getting ready to close.” The shop is empty except for the two of us. The man looks harmless, but how does he know my name?
I slowly reach for the phone that my dad keeps tucked under the counter.
“It’s okay. We know each other.”
I look him over. He’s of medium height, with short dark hair, thick eyebrows, and a wide nose. I’d guess he’s in his midthirties. “I’m sorry, but I’ve never seen you before.”
At my words, he tilts his head, assessing me. His smile fades. “You really don’t know who I am, do you?”
I rest my hand on the cool plastic of the portable phone, but I don’t pick it up. Not yet. “Should I?”
He nods. “I’m Jonathan. . . . But you know me as Resister.”
“Resister?”
“From the boards.” At my blank stare, he continues to explain. “Message boards. The Montauk Conspiracy message boards?”
“What did you just say?” My hand clenches, curling tightly around the phone.
“You haven’t been on in a while, but we did plan to meet today . . . so here I am.”
“You’re a conspiracy theorist. And you came here to meet Lydia—I mean me,” I repeat.
He gives me a calculating look. “You’re Montauk17, right? We’ve been talking for months. You said you had some new information on why your grandfather disappeared. And I have some new information too. On . . .” He leans in closer. “On the rebellion.”
“What rebellion?” I ask, despite myself. I had no idea that Lydia 2 was going on message boards to talk about the Montauk Project, though it makes sense that she would try to connect with other conspiracy theorists. I wonder how much information she actually uncovered.
I quickly look at the exposed front windows of the shop. If this man is too close to the truth, the Project might be watching him.
“I think it’s only a matter of time before we’ll be organized.” His voice drops. “That’s just the beginning. I have a list of everyone they’ve taken, Lydia. You know that. I’ve been using it to find them.”
I know I should make him leave, but the curiosity is too great. “Everyone they’re taken. Do you mean . . . ?”
His brown eyes are wide, making him look a little unhinged as he says, “Recruits.”
I jerk back. “Recruits? You know how to find a recruit?”
“Not yet. But I’ve been tracking someone. I’m close to making contact.”
Can he really find a recruit? Could he find Wes? And then his words fully sink in. At best, this man is a conspiracy nut who stumbled into something he doesn’t understand—because there’s no way he’d be able to make contact with a recruit. They’d kill him first. At worst, he’s working with the Project and was sent here because Lydia 2 was getting too close to the truth. Or maybe he’s here for me. Maybe they’ve finally realized I was involved in time line changes in 1944. He could be trying to feel me out, to discover how much information I have before he kills me.
“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” I snap, trying to ignore how fast my heart is beating.
His expressive eyebrows almost meet in the middle of his forehead as he frowns. “I do. Trust me.”
“I have no reason to trust you.” I take a step back and press the phone into my chest. It makes a sharp noise as it collides with Wes’s watch. “You need to leave now.”
“Lydia . . .” He moves closer to me, and I flinch away from him. “I need your help.”
“If you don’t leave I’m calling the police.”
He grits his teeth together and holds up both hands. “Okay. Okay. I’m leaving.” He starts to back away. I watch him go, holding my breath. The door pings again when he opens it, but he pauses before exiting the shop.
“I messed this up. I hadn’t realized . . .” He trails off. “I have a feeling we’ll meet again, Lydia.” And then he’s gone.
I run around the counter, not stopping until I reach the door. With a quick flick of my wrist I lock it and then flip the Closed sign until it’s facing the street. I back away from the front windows, frantically scanning the sidewalk, but the man has already disappeared.
The backs of my calves hit a flowerpot and I sink down onto the ground, clutching my knees. The Montauk Project hasn’t found me. He was just another crazy conspiracy theorist. It’s okay. It’s going to be okay.
Even though I repeat the words over and over, I can’t seem to make myself believe them.
Later that night, I stand over my desk. I may have briefly glanced at Lydia 2’s files—enough to know that she was looking into my grandfather’s disappearance—but I’ve mostly been avoiding this part of her life since I came back to 2012.
Meeting that man today proves that I can’t let myself stay in the dark any longer. It’s too dangerous. I need to know everything Lydia 2 knows if I’m going to be safe.
I pull out my desk chair and sit down. The surface of the desk is covered with books, papers, and Lydia 2’s laptop. There is also a stack of notebooks in the corner—my grandfather’s journals. I hesitate for a second, then force myself to pick one up. The cover is dated April 1989. I open the cheap black notebook to a page in the middle. The paper is soft with age and almost falling out of its binding. The words I find are barely legible, written with pencil, faded and sloppy. Not that they make much sense anyway. As far as I can tell, it’s just a random collection of letters and numbers, strung together: SO4N2H11C9OC9H11N2O4S. The pattern keeps repeating, but I have no idea what it could mea
n. I put it aside.
The next journal is dated 1985. I read the first entry, written in my grandfather’s broad, slanting script:
Today, I took Jake to look at cars. He’s already 16. Almost a man. Sometimes it seems like yesterday when he was born. I told him about my father on the way over to the dealership. He wasn’t interested, of course, but he’s a teenager, consumed by other things.
Lately, I am finding it harder and harder to think about anything other than my own father’s disappearance. I pore over his journal, rereading every line, wondering what took him from us. I’ve been hearing rumors about what happens out at Camp Hero. They say it’s shut down, but there are strange flashes of light and disappearances that can’t be explained. Disappearances like my father’s. What’s happening out there?
I slam the notebook shut and it shakes in my hands. In the original time line, Grandpa didn’t become obsessed with the Montauk Project until I was a little girl, after his wife died and he found his father’s journal hidden underneath a floorboard. But in this time line he had already found it by the 1980s. Was it Dean’s journal that set him down this path so early?
I rest my fingers on the worn black cover. What happened between 1985 and 1989 to reduce my grandfather to that strange repetition of letters and numbers?
It takes me a few hours to flip through the rest of the notebooks. Grandpa was coherent until about 1987, though he had already discovered the Montauk Project and was beginning to contact other conspiracy theorists. But there’s a gap in his writing between 1987 and 1989. Then, the last journal reads like gibberish.
After going back in time to 1944, I learned not to discount my grandfather’s ideas so quickly. He was right about the Montauk Project and what happened to Dean. But he was also never this unintelligible. Could SO4N2H11C9OC9H11N2O4S actually mean something? Is the pattern important?
I toss the journals aside and contemplate the mess on Lydia 2’s desk. She was researching his disappearance; more information has to be here somewhere.
I find what I’m looking for in a folder on her laptop—it’s called the Project and has pictures of Camp Hero mixed with Word files documenting what Lydia 2 knew. I open a few of the files, but they’re mostly the same old theories my grandfather used to tell me over and over: reptoids and Tesla and wormholes. I finally discover a file titled “Peter Bentley.doc.” It is a complete breakdown in outline form of my grandfather’s life, from when he was born, in 1937, to when he disappeared, on August 14, 1989.
This Strange and Familiar Place Page 2