by Shawn Inmon
“And this Michael boy, he took Amy, as, like, a prank?”
“Yeah, I guess. Like a prank.”
“That’s not okay. I’m going to call his mother right now. He’s got to know you can’t play pranks like that.”
Sure, Mom. Call Mother Serial Killer and complain about her demonic spawn. I’m sure that will work just fine.
“C’mon, Mom, do you have to? You said you’d let me try to figure this out on my own. What if I was in real trouble? You’d want me to be able to come and talk to you about it, wouldn’t you?”
Anne narrowed her eyes. “Okay, then. How are you going to deal with this, exactly?”
“I’m going to talk to him at school tomorrow and tell him I’m sorry for smarting off to him, but it’s not okay for him to do something like take Amy away.”
“I think you’re telling me what I want to hear in order that I’ll stay out of it.”
Thomas shook his head back and forth. “Nope. That’s what I’m going to do.”
She obviously still doesn't believe me, but that look says she'll take what she can get for now. “Hmmm. All right, we’ll leave it there for now, but I’m going to check up on this. If you’re having problems with kids at school, you should talk to Zack. He can talk to them.”
“I know, and Zack’s great about that.” For a moment, he almost slipped and told her about the one-punch fight he had gotten into in the lunch room, and how Zack had rescued him. “But, sometimes I just want to do things on my own. I don’t want to be Zack Weaver’s little brother forever.”
“I understand. But, that doesn’t change the fact you snuck out of the house on Friday, no matter how good your reasons were. So, you’re grounded for a week. Straight to school, then straight home. And no more sneaking out. Are we clear?”
“Clear.”
“All right. Do you want to come out and watch Colombo with me? It’s on in just a few minutes.”
“I’d like to come out and watch anything.”
Chapter Twenty-One
OUTSIDE MIDDLE FALLS High the next morning, Billy caught up to Zack just outside the front doors.
“So… you got in trouble?”
Thomas nodded, grinned. “Yeah, a little bit. I had the Weaver Prison Blues for the weekend.”
“Holy shit,” Billy said, catching a good look at Thomas’s face. “Did the warden beat the crap out of you, too?”
“Long story, man. I’ll tell you about it later.” Once I have another lie ready for you, too. This is getting too complicated. I’ve got to get to a point where I can start telling people the truth. Or, at least, most of the truth. Whatever. “Hey, you know Ben Jenkins, don’t you?”
“Yeah, I think so. Isn’t he that quiet kid in homeroom with us? The one that’s usually got his nose buried in a book?”
“Yep, that’s him. I was thinking, maybe we should invite him over to play D & D with us this weekend. It would be cool to have another player, wouldn’t it?”
Billy shrugged. “I guess. Whatever, man. Invite him if you want. I’ve got a cool adventure lined up for you, if you don’t mind risking your precious Hooka Khan.”
“You’re on. Maybe Saturday night?”
“Sure, if you’re not grounded again.”
Inside the school, the flow of teenagers looked like Monday morning zombies, shuffling off toward the last available supply of brains.
As Thomas approached Home Room, his stomach tightened. The last time I saw Michael Hollister, it was Friday night, and he was dognapping Amy. What’s he going to be like today? Threatening? Cool as could be? I can’t get a handle on this guy.
Thomas and Billy slipped into their normal seats at the back of the class, just ahead of the bell. Carrie was in her lonely spot in the corner. Michael sat erectly in the front row, dressed like the Young Republican he was. As if he sensed Thomas’s arrival, Michael turned to look at him. His expression was blank, his eyes dead.
What a freaking psycho.
Thomas tried to catch Carrie’s eye, but she kept focused on a loose-leaf notebook as Mr. Burns started roll call. Mornings like this reminded Thomas why he had hated high school: a teacher droning on about something most of them would soon forget. He had begun his second chance with every intention of attentive listening.
And Mr. Burns said: "Challenge accepted."
When the bell rang at last, Thomas got up to head for French class. Billy headed for Shop. As Thomas wandered through the milling hallway throng, he noticed four blondes talking with Jimmy Halverson. Jimmy was tall, predictably played basketball, and looked in no hurry to be anywhere. In another ten years, the girls might have been referred to as Heathers. A decade later, Mean Girls. In 1976, Tommy had just thought of them as the Cool Kids.
Carrie Copeland happened by, and the main flow of traffic crowded her between the cool clique and the lockers. As she passed Jimmy, he took a casual half step backward, bumping into her hard enough to send her books and notebooks sprawling.
“What an asshole,” Thomas mumbled to himself. Carrie said nothing, but kneeled to gather up her materials. The four girls smirked. “Careful, Jimmy,” the blondest of the four said, “you might catch something.”
Carrie’s long hair fell around her face, covering it, but Thomas could imagine the embarrassment rising on her cheeks. Feigning fear, Jimmy took a theatrical step away from Carrie.
Thomas took three quick strides toward them. “Hey, Halverson."
Jimmy's face looked down from on high in disdain. "What do you want?"
"I’ve just got to know. What do you get out of making someone else feel bad? Is that really the only way you can momentarily inflate your own sense of self-worth? Or is it maybe because you know, as pathetic as high school is, this is going to be it for you? This is the pinnacle?”
Thomas saw Jimmy's eyes narrow for a brief moment. Got 'im. “I’m gonna pretend like I didn’t understand what you just said. Move along, and you have one chance not to get your ass kicked.”
“One chance? That’s great.” Thomas scrolled through his Facebook memories. Stories came into focus. “What was your one chance, Jimmy? A basketball scholarship? Sure. You’re dreaming of an NBA career, aren’t you? That was probably not gonna happen anyway, but what you don’t know is that you’ll blow out your knee at the beginning of your senior year. You’ll never get that speed back, and the best you’re ever going to do is to barely make the team at the local community college.”
Jimmy gaped, too stunned to bluster. Thomas turned to the leader of the blonde pack. “And how about you, Barb? Things seem pretty sweet for you right now, don’t they? Jimmy’s not a bad boyfriend as far as jocks go. Here’s a little secret for you. He’s going to ask you to marry him next year.”
Barb looked at Jimmy, eyes slightly aglow.
“You two will get married the summer after you graduate. That day won’t be as happy for you as it might be, though, because Jimmy is going to sleep with Lisa on your wedding day.”
Lisa blushed and took a step away.
“Your parents won’t be real happy about that, Barb, because they took a second mortgage out on their house to pay for your wedding, and you’ll file for an annulment before the ink has a chance to dry on your wedding license. Don’t worry, though. They’ll still let you live with them, which you’ll do until they are old and grey.”
Barb opened her mouth to chastise him, but Thomas had already turned to the future adulteress. “And you. Lisa, Lisa, Lisa. In addition to screwing the groom on your best friend’s wedding day, you’ve got quite a life ahead of you. Ten years from now, you’ll be a hundred and fifty pounds overweight, living off whatever child support you can get for your three kids you have from three different men. Don’t worry, though—you’ll only marry two of them. The other one will be a slam, bam, thank you, ma’am, Friday night special that you won’t ever see again.”
Thomas turned to the smallest of the girls, who flinched away a bit. He remembered her stints in rehab, smiled, then p
aused. Shit, I’m almost as bad as they are. He turned, spread his arms, and said, “Do you deserve all that?” He shrugged. “I dunno. We all tend to get what we deserve, in the end. For sure, though, it’s at least a little karma for acting the way you do toward people like Carrie.”
Thomas turned and looked at Carrie. She had straightened out of her normal slouch and was staring straight at him, making brazen eye contact. He felt a jolt of electricity at the sudden familiarity. As he went on his way toward French, she caught his arm.
The look in her eyes bored into his soul. “So. How many lives is this for you?”
Chapter Twenty-Two
Temporal Relocation Assignment Department, Earth Division
EMILLION SPUN HER cylinder, humming off-key as she worked. Lights, forms, and varying shapes that would be indecipherable to human eyes danced and moved. Two thin ribbons of blue light moved together, spun around each other in an intricate dance. In combination, they transformed first into indigo, then to a deep violet. She smiled.
“You seem much happier today,” Veruna said.
“Life is good,” Emillion replied to her coworker.
Veruna returned her gaze to her own work. “Life is. That is all.”
Emillion’s smile didn’t falter. “Of course. At this moment, though, it is also good.” She spun the cylinder clockwise, let it spin a few rotations, then feathered it to a stop. The violet ribbons separated, became blue again. One rose to the milky white at the top of the cylinder, disappeared. The other darkened.
“Oh. Oh no.”Emillion’s smile disappeared.
Chapter Twenty-Three
THOMAS WEAVER STOOD in the hallway of Middle Falls High School, reeling.
I would swear she just said, “How many lives is this for you?” What the hell do I do now? Deny? Admit it?
Since he had made the transition from middle-aged suicide to second-time teenager, Thomas had carried the weight of a secret he thought he could never share. Now Carrie Copeland was calling him on it, right to his face. “Don’t bullshit me, Thomas. How many lives is this for you?"
She seems pretty freaking sure of herself. Thomas remained silent.
Carrie looked at him with what might have been tolerant pity–or perhaps insulted intelligence. “There’s no way you pulled that whole Nostradamus trick without believing you really do know their future. You were too sure of yourself.”
It would be great to have someone I could confide in about all this stuff. Thomas looked deep into her eyes. They were a cool green, very pretty, when she wasn’t shielding them from the world. They also conveyed knowledge belying her sixteen years. When she stood up straight and pushed her hair back off her face, she was striking.
She knows. Am I not the only one? Of course. Why hadn’t I considered that?
“Ummm…two?” My God. I just admitted to someone that I am a time traveler, or spirit walk-in, or whatever the hell I am.
“Oh,” she said, eyes filling with understanding. “You’re new. I guess that explains it.”
“It does? Like what? What do you mean, ‘new?’ How many lives have you lived?”
“Me? This is lucky number thirteen for me. That’s why you don’t see me doing beginner stunts, like spouting off like a gypsy fortune teller at the state fair.”
“Holy shit. Thirteen? No. Come on.” Thirteen times through the same life? How do you stay sane?
Or do you?
“Oh, I’m bursting your bubble.” Her look was less sympathetic than her tone. “I guess I need to remember what it was like my second time through. You’re probably thinking you were just being given a second chance, maybe to fix something that went wrong in your life?”
Thomas nodded.
The bell rang. Thomas looked up to see that they were alone in the hallway. They were officially late to second period.
Carrie glanced down the empty hall. “I don’t want to get in trouble. I’m trying to fly under the radar, and I’m not going to mess it up. I’ll meet you in the lunchroom after third period. There are some advantages of being a social pariah. Everyone will leave us alone to talk.”
“No, wait…”
Too late. Carrie turned away, cast her eyes down and let her shoulders slump, turned the corner and was gone.
She wears that attitude like a costume. Or maybe it’s armor.
Trying to catch up to all the thoughts circling in his brain, Thomas broke into a run and managed to slip into the back of his French class while Miss Thompson was still taking roll. One of the advantages of being named ‘Weaver,’ I suppose. "Mademoiselle Tolliver?" called Miss Thompson.
"Ici," said a slightly built brunette in front.
What the hell does this mean?
"Monsieur Van Den Boer?" asked Miss Thompson.
Maybe that she's got this all figured out more than I do?
"Uh-see," muttered a slouching, straight-haired male in a Blazers t-shirt.
Not hard. I don't have it figured out at all.
"Monsieur Weaver?"
"Ici," said Thomas, after an instant's hesitation.
He daydreamed his way through French, letting Carrie's revelation wash over him. That’s a game-changer. When I died and woke up here, I assumed this was it–a special one-time offer. But, Carrie said she was on, what, her thirteenth go-round? There’s no way I can do that.
But maybe, what choice do you have? Nowhere to run, nowhere to hide. Kill yourself and wake up in the same place again? Or is it different every time? If you just keep living the same lifespan over and over again, what’s the point? Is there a way to win the game? Solve a certain problem and go on, or there is no end game?
If there are two of us, there’s probably a lot more. Is everyone here on their second, or fourth, or twentieth life? Thomas cast a sideways glance at Wayne Farmer, one seat over. Wayne’s head was cradled in his right hand, eyes unfocused, a slight thread of drool in the corner of his mouth. If so, Wayne doesn't appear to be making the best of his opportunity. If he's on a second life, at least a portion of us are bored out of our skulls with this Land of Do-Overs.
Wayne Farmer snored just a bit. Miss Thompson called out a question to Monsieur Farmer, who awoke with a start and asked her to repeat the question. A titter ran through the class as he wiped off the drool and gave a butchered, incorrect answer.
I don’t think it’s all of us, though. If it was, a lot more people would have done something like I just did and revealed themselves. It would be at least an Urban Legend, but I’ve never heard of anyone else claiming they were on their second or third life.
So. There’s more than one, but somewhere less than everyone. Good deduction, Weaver.
Maybe I should just wait and talk to Carrie at lunch. She seems to have a better handle on what’s going on. Wonder how many she's met.
Thomas spent the rest of the class thinking about Carrie’s eyes, and how warm he felt when she finally let her guard down. She’s not just ‘not-ugly,’ she’s beautiful. Who knew?
Thomas caught up with Billy in the hall on the way to P.E., which had been a low point during his first high school days—a chance for the jocks to be jockish—but it hadn’t been so bad this time around. They had played a week of badminton, at which a second life did not improve Thomas's skills. Still, aside from getting waxed 21-2 or worse in each game, at least no one was pushing him around.
After that, they had spent two weeks enjoying co-ed P.E. and square dancing. Thomas was unsure how square dancing counted as P.E. If Ronald Reagan can make ketchup a vegetable, I guess this works too.
If Reagan gets elected, anyway.
Thomas and Billy dressed down in the locker room, putting on minimal red shorts that would have been embarrassing in 2016 but went unnoticed in 1976, along with tight “Middle Falls High” t-shirts. They strolled out onto the gym floor, then froze.
Square dancing, which included at least brief contact with pretty girls, was over. A dozen small, mean-looking white balls rested on the half-court line.
In junior high, they had played dodge ball with red rubber playground balls. If someone really wound up and threw, it might leave a red mark, but nothing very painful. In high school, the stakes went up. These were the size of softballs, though not as hard. They were tightly packed with feathers, and the kids called them Whistle Balls, because if you got enough zip on one, it whistled just before it smacked you. A normal kid couldn’t do any damage with them, but an athlete could. In a baseball pitcher's hands, Whistle Balls became weapons.
"Shit," said Billy with an eye roll.
Thomas nodded grimly. Dodge Ball gave you no place to hide. When you hit a kid, he goes behind you. If you miss the ball, it gets through to the back, and you're caught in a crossfire with people on both sides of you trying to make you suffer.
Coach Raymer emerged from the locker room. Pushing past Thomas and Billy with a quick “Excuse me, ladies,” he blew three sharp blasts on his whistle. “Hustle up! Front and center. I think we’ve learned about as much as we can learn from do-si-do-ing and allemande-left-ing. Today, we’ll get the blood pumping. You all know how to play. Let’s pick teams. Monroe, Halverson, you’re captains. Schoolyard pick. Let’s go!”
Few things in life are more predictable than a schoolyard pick. In the end, Monroe–a quarterback– picked his fellow footballers first, while Halverson went with his fellow basketball players. When the jocks were gone, the captains picked everyone in order of least to most klutzy. Thomas and Billy were chosen near the low end of that group, on the same team. Shortly after Billy, the last two draft picks remaining were Michael Hollister and Clyde Billings.
Clyde had worn braces on both legs until sixth grade. He was out of them now, but had all the grace and speed of a newborn turtle clambering for the sea. Stan Monroe looked them over, then decided that Clyde had more to offer than Michael. Jimmy Halverson ended up with Michael Hollister, who showed no reaction to anything.
“At least we get to march to our death together, right?” Billy said.