Barruuugah!
Barruuugah!
What is that noise? It sounds like a herd of trumpeting elephants stomping through my bedroom. I tear my eyes open. It’s pitch-dark. And my head is pounding like the elephants are stomping directly on my skull.
I try to go back to sleep, but a moment later I hear it again and bolt upright.
Those are definitely elephants. A whole parade of them. And they’re definitely trumpeting. Why are elephants trumpeting in my room? What time is it? It’s too early for trumpeting elephants.
I reach for my phone on my nightstand, grappling in the darkness until I find it. I swipe on the screen and blink against the bright light. When my eyes finally adjust, I can see the time.
Five thirty a.m.
Then the elephants come a third time.
What. The. Heck?
That’s when I notice my screen is flashing. The alarm is going off. Who set the alarm for five thirty a.m.? My fingers fumble around until the screen goes dark and the noise blissfully stops. I roll over and immediately fall back asleep. But after what feels like mere seconds, I’m awoken by another intrusive sound.
This time, it’s a dog barking.
No, not just one dog. Ten dogs. All trying to one-up each other for the noisiest, most obnoxious bark.
For crying out loud!
I reach for my phone. It’s five forty a.m. and the alarm is going off again.
I bat at it until the dogs shut up. I’ve just drifted back into a peaceful sleep when Frankie bursts through my bedroom door, breathless and looking like he hasn’t slept a wink. “Kennedy! Oh, good! You’re up.”
I groan and roll back over. “I’m not up. I’m going back to sleep.”
That’s when the rooster starts crowing. I glare at my phone.
How many animals are in this thing?
I silence the sound of the crowing as Frankie sits on my bed, clutching the same notebook he stole from my desk last night. I can see through my bleary vision that he’s filled almost half of it with more incomprehensible scribbles and formulas. “I’ve been at it all night,” he explains, quickly transitioning into his professor voice. “Now, I did some research. There’s a very small fringe theory out there about something called overlaps—”
I grab the pillow and pull it over my face. “Frankie. It’s too early. Go away.”
“But your alarm went off.”
“Why is it even going off this early?”
“Because that’s when you wake up,” he says, like this is a well-known fact.
“At five thirty in the morning? Why would I wake up so early?”
“Because the Windsor Academy starts at eight and Sequoia always picks you up at six thirty so you can have breakfast and study in the student union before first period.” He taps the notebook in his lap. “So, an overlap is when the exact same thing happens at the exact same moment in two different universes, creating a sort of intersection in the—”
“The Windsor Academy?” I interrupt, bolting upright. I turn on my bedside lamp and blink into the light.
Is it real? Am I still here? Did I wake up from the weird coma dream?
I bound out of bed and open my closet door with a grand flourish, an enormous grin spreading across my face when I see the rows of clean, pressed uniforms hanging up where my boring drab jeans and T-shirts used to be.
I let out a whoop. “I’m going to the Windsor Academy!” I start jumping up and down. “Oh my God. This is so exciting! What do I do? Where do I go? What do I wear?” I peer back into my closet and slap my forehead. “Duh. The uniforms.”
“Kennedy!” Frankie snaps.
I’d almost forgotten he was here. I turn around to find him still sitting on my bed with his notebook. “What?”
“I think I figured out how you got here.”
I grab a skirt, blouse, and blazer from the closet and lay them out on my bed. Then I prance into my bathroom and run the shower. Frankie follows after me.
“It was the stairs,” he goes on, his eyes glazed over from the lack of sleep. “You hit your head at the exact same time in the exact same place in both lives, allowing you, in that one brief instant, to travel from one universe to another!”
“You’re adorable,” I say, kissing his wild, untamed hair.
He backs away, looking grossed out. “Kennedy. This is serious.”
“Very serious,” I agree wholeheartedly, spinning him around by the shoulders and scooting him out of the bathroom.
“I need more information, though. More data points. If you could give me some details about your other life then I could quantify them, insert them into a spreadsheet and—”
“I have to get ready for school,” I say brightly, cutting him off again. “Correction, I have to get ready for the Windsor Academy. Good luck with all that.” Then I close the bathroom door.
I take a quick shower and dry myself off with a towel. After the steam clears, I look in the mirror, ready to give myself a triumphant smile, but I literally startle at my own reflection.
Whoa.
I look horrible.
That spill down the stairs really took its toll on me. I have dark purple shadows under my eyes, my skin is ghastly pale, and my eyes are all bloodshot.
I pull open the top drawer where I usually keep my eye drops and leap back when I see what’s inside. The drawer is practically overflowing with makeup. I’ve never worn makeup in my life. I’ve always thought it was so fake and misleading.
I rifle through the contents, picking up a few bottles and reading the labels. “Full cover concealer, gel serum concealer, eye brightener, undereye protector.”
Jeez. Other Me is kind of obsessed with concealer.
I swipe on my phone and scan through my new SnipPic feed, studying my face in the photographs more closely. I’m definitely wearing eyeliner and eye shadow and blush and lip gloss and …
I gasp when a sudden realization comes to me. The pink phone case. The drawer full of makeup. Dresses in my closet.
“Am I a”—my gag reflexes kick in—“girly girl?”
Okay, calm down.
So what if I wear a little makeup? It’s not the end of the world. If that’s the price I have to pay to go to the Windsor Academy, I’ll take it.
I peer at my frightening reflection again and shudder.
Maybe a little makeup isn’t such a bad idea.
I sigh and start dabbing some of the skin-perfecting hydrating cover-up on my face, concentrating on the dark shadows. Then I add some mascara, a little eyeliner (nearly poking my eyeball in the process), and some lip gloss.
When I brave another glance in the mirror, there’s been some improvement, but the sight of my pale face still kind of terrifies me. I locate some kind of brownish powder and sprinkle it on with a brush. It brings a little color back to my skin.
Much better.
After I get dressed, I blow-dry my hair and grab my schoolbag, noticing again the name stitched right into the fabric.
KENNEDY “CRUSHER” RHODES
As I head down the hall, I stop at Frankie’s room. He’s at his desk, hunched over his notebook, his tongue hanging out the side of his mouth as he scribbles.
“Frankie?”
He doesn’t look up. “Yeah?”
“Why does Sequoia call me Crusher?”
“Everyone at Windsor calls you Crusher,” he replies absently.
“Why?”
“Because you crush everything you do. You’re kind of a superstar over there.”
I feel a giddy jolt of electricity run through me.
A superstar? At the Windsor Academy? Me?
I bite my lip to stifle the goofy grin that threatens to take over my entire face. This just keeps getting better and better!
“Why?” Frankie asks, his head suddenly popping up. “Do people not call you Crusher in your old life? What do they call you? What do they call me? Is my name even still Frankie? Am I still a physicist?” He gasps. “What if I’m something else? Something boring like a geologist!”
“Have a great day!” I say, as I continue down the hallway.
“Wait!” Frankie calls after me, appearing in the doorway.
I grudgingly turn around. “What?”
“What is different about me?”
I squint at him. “What do you mean?”
“I mean, the multiverse is a complicated place. Everything is interconnected. Even things you may not realize are connected. You pull one string and suddenly half of your life has changed. So what’s different about me?”
I give him a quick once-over, taking in the galaxy pajamas he put on the moment he got home from school yesterday, his hair that always seems to look like he’s been electrocuted no matter how many times he brushes it, and the tiny bits of toothpaste crusted to the corner of his mouth. Then I shrug. “Nothing. Nothing is different about you.”
He sighs impatiently. “Look closer, Kennedy. There’s got to be something.”
I shake my head. “There isn’t. You look exactly the same.”
“Fine,” he says, gesturing behind him. “Look at my room.”
I groan. “Frankie. I don’t have time for this. I have to—”
“Just look!” he commands.
I follow him into his bedroom and glance around at the same Stephen Hawking and Michio Kaku posters on the wall, the same deep space wall decals and comforter, his telescope near the window pointed toward Saturn (his favorite planet), even the same balled-up papers littered around the trash can from when he got frustrated with whatever he was drawing and missed the bin.
“The same,” I pronounce.
“Look carefully.”
“Frankie,” I reply, irritated, “I’m telling you, there’s nothing different about you or your room.”
“Everything is a variable!” he practically shouts. “What about my bookshelf?”
I turn and scan the shelves filled with titles written by both famous and unknown physicists and his collection of Scientific American magazines. “Same.”
“What about the calendar on my wall?”
I glance at it, recognizing it immediately. “Each month features a moon from another planet? Yeah, that’s the same, too.”
Frankie looks stumped. He spins in a circle, examining his room with the scrutiny of a forensic investigator. Then, as his gaze lands on his desk, his face lights up. “My board game! I bet I wasn’t making my own board game in your other life.”
“What’s the Matter?” I ask indignantly.
He slumps. “Oh.” He grabs the notebook from his desk and scowls at it. Then he sits down and resumes his mad scribbling.
“Good luck, buddy,” I say with a chuckle, ruffling his hair.
As soon as I get downstairs, I cringe when I notice again how unusually messy the house is. I peer over at the basement door. It’s still closed, which is weird because it was closed when I went to bed last night. I came downstairs to say good night to my parents and Dad was still in there.
Did he work all night?
I take out my phone and send him a quick text message.
Me: Everything going okay?
Surprisingly he writes back right away.
Dad: Yup. Working hard as always!
Wow. That must have been some order from the gallery owner.
He’s not going to be happy when he finally emerges to find the house in shambles. I make a mental note to straighten up when I get home from school today so he doesn’t have to deal with it.
My phone dings again and I glance at the screen.
Dad: Sorry I won’t be able to make it tonight. Have a great time!
I stare vacantly at the phone.
What’s tonight?
I’m just about to check my calendar app when I hear a horn honk outside. I glance out the window to see Sequoia’s white BMW idling in the drive. With a giddy yip, I check my full-length reflection in the hall mirror, sucking in a sharp breath.
The uniform and the hair and the makeup and the bag with my name stitched onto the side. It’s all just too good to be true!
If I am trapped in a strange coma dream, I apologize to everyone gathered around my bedside, praying for me to wake up. Because I really hope I never do.
I give the sleeves of my blazer a firm tug and head out the front door, ready and eager to start my new (and improved) life.