Except I can’t sleep. Because something is seriously wrong with my bedroom. It feels like one of those games with two pictures that look identical but have several subtle differences. Like my desk is in the same place but my laptop is gone. My bookshelf is in the same place but there are different books on it. Instead of white vertical blinds, there are thick black curtains pulled over my windows, blocking out any hope of sunlight.
Uneasily, I stand up and walk over to my closet door. I don’t know why I feel the need to hold my breath when I open it, but I do. I take a deep inhale and slowly ease the door open, like I’m a cheerleader in a horror movie who’s about to get hacked into pieces.
A tiny gasp escapes my lips when I peer inside.
There’s no chain-saw-wielding serial killer, but what I find might be even scarier.
My clothes are gone. My T-shirts, my jeans, even my dad’s old leather jacket. They’ve all been replaced by stuff I’ve never seen before. Dresses, skirts, sparkly tops, and …
I stifle another gasp.
Windsor Academy uniforms!
Just like the one I’m currently wearing.
I slam the closet door and lean against it, like I’m trying to stop the monsters from escaping.
Deep breaths. Deep breaths. Deep breaths.
In. Out. In. Out. IN. OUT!
I hear something in the hallway and jump, letting out a yelp.
I run to my bedroom door and yank it open to find Frankie padding to his bathroom in the hall. At least he looks the same. He’s barefoot and wearing his galaxy pajamas. He always changes right into pajamas the second he gets home from school. He’s done it since kindergarten.
“Frankie!” I cry, and grab his arm. “You have to see this.”
I pull him into my room and watch his reaction carefully, fully expecting his eyes to open wide and for him to say something appropriate, like “Whoa! What happened in here?”
But he doesn’t. He simply stares at me.
“Well?” I prompt, gesturing frantically to … everything.
Frankie lets out a whine and does a little bounce. “Kennedy. I have to pee.”
“There’s no time for peeing,” I scold. “I’m totally freaking out here.”
Frankie rolls his eyes, giving me the impression that he’s heard these very words from me before. “Just apologize and get it over with,” he says.
I give him a funny look before glancing back around my room. “Huh?”
He sighs impatiently. “To Sequoia.”
“How do you know Sequoia?” I ask accusingly.
“I don’t have time for this.” He moves toward the hallway. “I have to pee.”
I step in front of him. “Stop. Answer me. How do you know Sequoia?”
He tilts his head and looks at me like I might actually be crazy. “She’s one of your best friends,” he says, putting extra emphasis on the words as though I might have never heard them before.
“What about Laney?” I ask, the name immediately bringing a bitter taste to my mouth. Laney isn’t my best friend anymore. She’s not anything to me anymore.
“Who?” Frankie asks.
“Laney!” I repeat, losing my patience. “You know, my best friend.” I scowl, and quietly add, “Until she hooked up with Austin.”
But Frankie hears it. He hears everything.
“Who’s Austin?” he asks, exasperated, like he thinks this is all a stupid game.
But it’s not a game. It’s my life! And it’s seriously messed up right now.
“Don’t be ridiculous. You know Austin. You love Austin. He’s only been coming over here for the past three years. You play nerdy science games together. And you have long philosophical debates about whether time travel is possible.”
“Hold up.” Frankie’s voice turns serious. “Time travel is completely possible. In fact, right now, one hundred years in the future, the time travel gene is being developed by an evil corporation called Dio—”
“Frankie! Focus!” I yell, holding his head firmly between my hands. “Austin. Tell me you know Austin.”
He rubs at his eyebrow. “Nope. Doesn’t ring a bell.”
My hands fall from his face. “You’re joking, right? This is a joke. You’re playing some kind of prank on me.”
But I can tell from his bewildered expression that he’s just as lost as I am.
How does he not know Austin? What happened when I bumped my head? Did I make up an entire life that doesn’t even exist? Austin and Laney and the comedy show and walking in on them kissing? Did none of that actually happen?
I take a deep breath.
Okay, think. I’m a journalist. I investigate stuff all the time. It’s my job to get to the truth. This is just another story to crack. All I have to do is look at the facts and …
My train of thought is suddenly derailed when my gaze lands on the wall above my desk and my eyes nearly pop out of my head.
I’m not sure why I didn’t notice it before. Too many other strange distractions, I guess. But now I see it. Now I can’t see anything but it.
My Southwest Star issues have been taken down. I framed the three issues that won the Spartan Press Award and hung them above my desk. Now they’re gone.
There’s only one single frame in their place. It’s much smaller than my other frames and there’s some kind of cream-colored paper behind the glass. I can’t quite read it from this distance so I take a step closer. Then another. Then another. Until my eyes can make out the familiar words that I committed to memory years ago.
Dear Ms. Rhodes,
Congratulations! It is on this date, May 12, that we are pleased to inform you a place has opened up in our freshman class next semester. Because you have shown tremendous potential, we are thrilled to offer you admission …
I run toward it, pressing my fingertips against the glass. It can’t be the same letter. I never framed that letter. I always kept it in the bottom drawer of my desk. Because no one even knew it existed. Because I never told anyone that I got in.
I drop to my knees and dive for the bottom drawer. The one that’s always hidden my deepest, darkest secret. My choice.
I yank it open and rummage around, finding nothing but a few flash drives, a lockbox that I’ve never seen before, and some spare pens. I pull everything out and reach my hand way back into the drawer. Until my fingertips touch wood.
It’s not here.
I glance up at the frame on my wall again. It’s not here because it’s there. The same letter. In a new place. With a new purpose.
“It’s like…” I begin aloud. But I can’t say it. Because it’s crazy. It’s ludicrous. It’s not possible. It doesn’t fit within the safe confines of my logical, rational world.
So instead, I close my eyes and whisper it to myself. Quietly, in the far back corners of my mind where no one else can hear.
It’s like my choice has been reversed.