Jamie is seriously pissed! She ignored me in Spanish (notes say she has all week), then came over after school for a borrowed clothes swap like we were breaking up. Barely spoke to me, then ripped the BFF poster in half!! I feel bad but this is crazy.

Bright side:
Luke and I have a date on Sat. night!! Unfortunately, we didn’t talk much in study hall today. He was sketching a giant ear (?) most of the time and then he had to go help his mom at lunch. Think he was about to kiss me before he left! Maybe Sat.

16

“Have I ever changed something that was supposed to happen?” I ask my mom as we pull into the parking lot before school. My head is heavy and it’s only 7:24 in the morning.

“What do you mean?”

“The future,” I say, wishing for one second she could read my mind so that I didn’t have to explain it. “My memories. Have I ever changed a memory?”

“Hmm, let me think,” she says, pondering the thought a little too long. Finally, she’s got something. “You skipped Jamie’s thirteenth birthday party.”

“Why?”

“You remembered that you were going to break your nose,” she says with a chuckle. Not funny, I think, but I stay quiet and listen. “It was a pool party at the rec center, out on the deck. There were sliding glass doors and you remembered running full force into one of them. So you skipped the party.”

“And what happened?” I ask.

“You missed out on the fun and you broke your nose later that year when you tripped over a stray dog that you brought home.”

We’re idle in the drop-off area, and I need to get out now. She looks over and touches the tip of a nose that looked perfectly fine to me in the mirror this morning.

“So, really, I didn’t change anything?” I ask, part dejected and part annoyed. Frankly, I’m having a hard time not asking her why she’s been lying to me all my life, as this morning’s notes reported.

“I guess not,” my mom says. When I exhale loudly, she adds, “That’s not to say that you couldn’t, you know. Maybe you just didn’t in that situation. What’s wrong, London?”

“I just feel sick,” I say, because right now, I really do.

Another parent gives her car horn a gentle tap to politely ask us to move along. My mom glances in the rearview mirror, then looks at me earnestly.

“You know, London, the thing is, unless you told me about it or wrote it down, you wouldn’t really know that you were making changes to your future, even if you were. Does that make sense?”

I take a moment to consider her statement. Say that right now, I remember that tomorrow I’ll be hit by a bus. I don’t tell my mom about it or write it down tonight, so tomorrow morning that knowledge is lost completely. But tomorrow, I take a different route to school and unknowingly avoid the bus-hitting incident. Then, I’ve changed my future without knowing it.

I genuinely smile for the first time this morning.

“It makes perfect sense,” I say as I release my seat belt and open the door. I wave good-bye, rush inside, and head to my first class.

Barely inside the locker room, I’m accosted by Page Thomas.

“Have you asked him yet?” she says, standing awkwardly in her baggy sportswear.

I can see a costume in Page’s locker instead of street clothes. I’m dressed in a black crewneck sweater, a black denim skirt, and orange and black striped tights that I found in my dresser. Not a costume, but festive just the same.

Page stares at me, arms crossed, as if it’s my duty to seal her romantic fate. For a glimmer of a second, I consider telling her the truth. But then, I think of Brad Thomas and what he’ll do to her. I think of her public rejection. I think of the sadness in her when it happens.

And then I think of myself.

Underneath it all, I can’t deny that I want to try to change something small to find out whether I might be able to change something big.

With all this in mind, rather than telling Page Thomas the truth—that I never actually spoke to Brad—I turn to face the girl in the baggy sportswear and spew a lie right to her face.

“Page,” I say, feigning sympathy. “I’m so sorry, but apparently Brad Thomas is gay.”

17

“Bye,” I call to my mom before closing the front door and joining Luke on the porch.

This is it: our first date.

I pored through the notes all day, giggling and gasping right up until the moment I started getting ready. That took an hour, and then I spent the next one toning it down to make it look effortless.

He’s late, but I don’t mind. He’s here.

Luke directs me to the maroon minivan in the driveway (which I’m glad my notes warned me about, because otherwise I’d be concerned). He holds the door open for me in a way that’s more natural than forced. He seems to be a gentleman, probably the product of polite parents.

We settle into our seats and strap seat belts across our bodies. “Sorry I’m late,” he says.

“It’s fine,” I say.

“I got caught up in a painting,” he explains as he turns the ignition and adjusts the heat. “I lost track of time.”

Annoyance creeps up on me. He was painting? I take a deep breath and shove it away. He’s here now.

“How are you?” he asks, so intimately that I want to grab him. I’m completely over his lateness.

“I’m fine,” I say, smiling. “How about you?”

“Better now,” he says, expertly backing out of the driveway onto the quiet street.

“Do I smell pizza?” I ask, suddenly salivating. Luke glances in my direction and then forward again.

“Sorry,” he says. “I just picked some up for my family before I left.”

“Oh,” I say, and shrug to myself as Luke shifts the van into drive and accelerates.

The radio plays quietly as Luke navigates the streets of my development like he’s lived here for years. Soon enough, we’re barreling north on one of the two highways that run in and out of town.

“What happened to the movie?” I ask. He had outlined a dinner and movie date for my mom, but I don’t care where we go. I don’t mind if I stare at a blank wall, as long as I do it in Luke’s presence.

“Don’t worry, I didn’t lie to your mom,” he says cryptically.

“I wasn’t worried, and it’s okay if you did,” I say, looking out at the clear, cold night.

Luke drives and I ride north and north and north of town, and for a fleeting second, I wonder whether I’m that girl in horror movies who walks toward the monster instead of running to safety. I’m breezily allowing this cute guy I don’t remember to take me to the boondocks. Then, as quickly as it arrived, I push the thought away. There is nothing monstrous about Luke Henry. There is nothing frightening about the boy I know from my notes. I feel completely safe in this van that smells like pizza.

I watch the sky as we drive, and the farther we get from the city, the more stars appear. “Do you even know where you’re going?” I ask, not minding if we get lost. “Didn’t you just move here?”

“I scoped out our destination this afternoon,” he admits.

“How very organized of you,” I say, settling back into the seat and feeling totally at ease. I’m completely calm as Luke turns off the highway onto a frontage road, takes a right onto a smaller residential street, and turns right onto a dirt road that winds up a small hill into blackness.

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