FOUR
T he next morning, Gracie is on the stairs when I come out of my room. I rush to catch up to her. “You heading to politics?” I ask.
She nods but doesn’t stop to wait for me.
“Did you do the readings?” I ask. “That textbook is so dry. I need to have, like, electronic music playing in the background, so I don’t fall asleep reading it.”
She doesn’t say anything. Operation Make Gracie My Friend isn’t going well. “Hey, can I ask you a question? Is your room a double?”
She shakes her head. “All the rooms on the floor are singles.”
“But they used to be doubles, right?”
She nods.
“You ever have messages on the ResConnect chat even though you’re in a single room?” I ask. This morning the chat log was empty again, and all the messages from Jay—or from whoever was pranking me—were gone.
Gracie turns to me and frowns. We’re on the main floor now. “I thought the ResConnect chat was only for roommates?”
“Yeah, but I had some weird messages last night. They’re gone now. Probably a glitch.”
“If they’re gone now, then don’t worry about it.”
She’s right. I shouldn’t be worrying about this. It probably won’t happen again. There is no way that I was actually messaging with Jay Hoque.
“Hey, how well did you know Jay?” I ask Gracie as she walks toward the front door. “Did he ever mention weird things happening in the room?”
Gracie opens the front door. She looks at me before going outside, her expression annoyed. “Look, I don’t know how you managed to convince the school to give you that room, but this whole thing is so disrespectful. Jay is a person, and he’s missing. It’s bad enough you bird-watcher weirdos are obsessed with him just because he was hot and broody, but inserting yourself into his personal life is ghoulish. Go touch grass or something.” She turns and walks outside, closing the door before I can follow her.
Okaaay. What is she talking about? Why does she think I’m into bird-watching?
I wait a few seconds before going outside. I need to let this go. Gracie is right—I shouldn’t be concerning myself with this glitch, or prank, or whatever. In fact, I should plant myself in the student housing office until Kegan finds me a new room ... one without a missing bad boy attached to it.
Wait. Kegan. Is that really the housing guy’s name? I don’t think I heard it when I was in the office yesterday. The only reason I think his name is Kegan is because Jay told me that last night. Or my brain told me the name when it was having its little hallucination.
When I get to politics, I sit near the back of the lecture hall. Gracie arrives and picks a spot up front with the people she usually sits with. But of course, I can’t go anywhere near her. She clearly wants nothing to do with me.
The professor has already begun, so I quickly open my laptop to take notes. When she takes a break, I open the campus housing office web page. After scrolling through the arbitration process for roommate conflicts and the process for requesting a room transfer, I see the contact listing at the bottom.
Kegan Butler, Office of the Campus Housing Authority.
Shit. His name is Kegan.
But this isn’t necessarily proof that the conversation with Jay last night was real. My subconscious may have seen Kegan’s name when I was in the office, even if my conscious mind didn’t notice it.
I have media after politics. While I’m waiting for the professor to show, my mind wanders to that interaction with Gracie. I still don’t get why she called me a bird-watcher.
Wait. Jay Hoque. Jay is a type of bird. And Hoque is pronounced like the word hawk —also a bird. Are Birdwatchers people who watch Jay?
None of this makes any sense. And to be honest, none of it has anything to do with me. I need to focus on school, and on meeting people. Maybe I should join a school club or volunteer for something. I can’t let drama with Mia ruin the rest of the year, and I can’t go back to Alderville after exams with literally no friends.
During my media seminar, the professor calls each person to her desk to chat about our independent project. This assignment is worth a huge portion of our grade and is intended to be used in our portfolios to help us get internships and co-op placements in our second year. My TCU Mysteries web series with Mia was supposed to be my project, but after Mia dropped me to do the skincare one with Taylor, now I need a new one.
My professor, Sarah, frowns when I tell her that my plans have changed. “I loved the sound of that series! Such a great connection to investigate mysteries associated with the school. May I ask why you changed your mind?”
“I had a falling-out with my cohost.”
“Is there any reason why you can’t do it alone? It doesn’t need to be a video series—a solo podcast would be great.” Sarah looks down at her notes. “If I remember correctly, you’re hoping to specialize in investigative journalism, right?”
I nod.
“Hmm. While I love the concept of the TCU Mysteries , I do think covering a different mystery each episode probably wasn’t the best way to demonstrate your investigation skills. It would be better to focus on one mystery. Investigate every avenue. Interview everyone you can. Do a real deep dive.”
“So do the podcast alone with only one topic?”
Sarah shrugs. “It doesn’t even need to be a podcast. A long-form piece or a documentary would work. Think about what you want to do, not just for your co-op term, but in your career . Are you dreaming of print media? Then do a long-form article. TV? Do a web series. Demonstrate your passion! And make it relevant. Find a personal connection to the subject matter, like a mystery associated with the university, or maybe a scandal in your family—or anything, really.” She smiles. “A personal connection in an investigative piece makes it all the more compelling. Show me a first draft next week. I have faith you can do this!”
At least someone has faith in my ability. I certainly don’t.
After my last class of the day, I head back to East House. I’m nervous, though. Is the mystery prankster going to message me again? Maybe I can just delete the ResConnect app from my phone. Would that stop the hallucinations, or would they find another way to torture me? I need the app, though, for residence announcements and for the daily menus for the dining halls. But I turn off notifications. When I get in my room, I grab Tentacle Ted from his resting place on the bed by the window (I refuse to think of it as Jay’s bed), give him a hug, then toss him on my bed. I sit at my desk and open my laptop to find a topic for my media project.
When I was a kid, Dad and I used to listen to a weekly radio show on CBC about mysteries, and it would be a dream to do something like that one day. I am a realist, though; I know it’s a long shot. The entire media landscape is nothing like it was then. But Sarah said my project should align with my passions, and doing a ton of research to solve a mystery is my passion. That, and good food. My stomach rumbles. I need to think about dinner soon.
After spending some time digging for a scandal or mystery connected to my own family and background, I give up. My family is the most boring immigrant family ever. My grandparents on both sides are Gujarati Indians who came from East Africa in the seventies, and they’re all healthy and still living in Canada. My parents met in the nineties at their prayer hall in Toronto, got married when they were twenty-three, had my brother, and then had me. When they got tired of city living, they moved to Alderville. Dad’s a tech consultant, Mom’s a librarian. Neither is the scandal type.
I google famous Toronto mysteries and scan the hits. The irony of searching for a mystery to investigate while I’m actively avoiding a mystery of my own isn’t lost on me. Maybe the obvious choice here is to investigate Jay’s disappearance. Mia said there were already several student podcasts about the case. Why couldn’t I be one of them? Even forgetting the mysterious messages on ResConnect, I’m literally living in his former room. That’s about the closest personal connection I can think of without actually knowing the guy. And I have another advantage over all the other amateur sleuths—I have a box of his crap in my closet that I could search through for clues.
But even though Jay was quite rude when he messaged me yesterday (or my mind’s construct of him was quite rude), I have no intention of violating the guy’s privacy and going through his things. I want nothing to do with Jay, with bird-watching, with his several girlfriends, or with any other bizarre thing I’ve learned about him since moving into this room. It’s unsettling enough to be living in a space where someone disappeared without a trace. Investigating it closely would only make the whole situation even creepier. No, I’m going with my original plan to ignore the existence of Jay Hoque. Hopefully someone will take his stuff soon, and I can pretend he was never in this room.
After reading about mysteries for a while, I narrow in on an old theater tycoon and playboy who disappeared in 1919 after depositing a million dollars into the bank and walking out of his apartment. True, a white millionaire man disappearing more than a hundred years ago has absolutely no relevance to me at all, but years after his disappearance, the man’s family’s home was sold to Toronto City University and turned into a student residence: East House. He wasn’t living here when he disappeared, but the fact that I’m now living in his house is hopefully enough of a personal connection for the professor.
My stomach rumbles again. I really don’t want to go to the Tower dining hall for dinner. After what happened this morning with Gracie, I don’t want to see anyone from East House. Maybe I should go to another dining hall? Definitely not the one in my old building—it may be the best in the school, but I don’t want to see Mia either. I know I’d feel even worse about myself sitting alone while my former friend ignores my existence.
I decide on the new Indian kiosk at the dining hall at the other end of campus. I have no idea why the school took so long to provide Indian food, but their chicken korma bowl is out of this world. They even make homemade roti almost as good as my grandmother’s. But they don’t make the korma every day.
I open ResConnect on my phone. As I’m searching for the menu for the Indian place, a message from the chat comes onto the screen. Damn it. There’s no way to turn off notifications while you’re in the app.
Jay: So now you’re back. You need to fucking leave me alone. This isn’t funny.
I stare at the phone, my heart racing in my chest. It’s him again. And he’s grumpy. It’s bad enough that someone hacked into ResConnect to prank me, but does he have to be such a dick while doing it?
Jay: I have no idea how you’re making all your information appear and disappear, but I’m taking screenshots this time so Kegan and the campus police will believe me. This is your last warning. Leave me alone. This is harassment.
My hackles go up.
Aleeza: You’re the one harassing me, not the other way around. All I’m doing is sitting in my room trying to decide what to eat for dinner.
Jay: Good. Stay in your room. You’ve canceled the transfer to East House then? Maybe the system hasn’t updated yet.
Aleeza: I’m IN East House. Like right now. Sitting in 225 with Ted, checking what curries the Indian kiosk in Central has tonight. Leave me alone, or I’m calling campus police.
There is no response for a while. Good. I finally have him scared. This joke has gone on long enough. I return to the dining hall menu and see that the Indian place is doing beef vindaloo tonight. Drat.
Jay: The Indian place in Central Dining isn’t open yet. I petitioned student services last year to get them to add it. We have a lot of international students from the Indian subcontinent at TCU, I don’t know why it’s taking so long.
Maybe this is a hallucination, because it’s no surprise that my subconscious brain would go on unnecessary tangents about food like my conscious brain always does.
Aleeza: Whoever you are, stop. You are not Jay Hoque, and you are not in room 225. You’re impersonating a real person for shits and giggles. I’m taking my own screenshots to show campus police.
Jay: I AM JAY HOQUE. And I’m sitting right here in my room trying to figure out how you can also be in room 225 when I’m alone.
He’s not letting up. In fact, he’s only getting angrier. Is it possible this is really Jay? I mean, maybe I am talking to a ghost. But there are two problems with this theory. One, ghosts aren’t real, and two, if he’s a ghost, wouldn’t he know that he’s dead?
I freeze. An idea comes to me. It’s as implausible as the ghost theory, but honestly, this might be the only logical solution, even if it’s not logical at all.
Aleeza: Okay, confirm some things for me. You’re Jay Hoque, right? Second year student, solo resident of room 225 in East House, Toronto City University, correct?
Jay: Yes.
Aleeza: And you are right now IN that room, true?
Jay: Yes.
Aleeza: Describe where you are in the room.
Jay: Propped up on a pillow on my bed, under the window. I’m listening to the Velvet Underground and wearing a black T-shirt. It stinks in here because my wool sweater got wet in the rain at the Engineering Alumni Scavenger Hunt last night. I’d open the window, but there’s a thunderstorm out there.
I sigh. Of course my new ghost-roommate is a retro-style goth listening to the Velvet Underground. I look over at the bed in question. It’s completely empty. Nothing at all on it but Tentacle Ted. It’s not raining out; it’s snowing. Also? TCU Alumni Month is in October, and this is March. I went to a journalism alumni mixer back then.
I take a deep breath. This prank is getting way too elaborate. Someone—and I can’t imagine who—wants me to think I’m losing my mind, but I am not going to let them anymore. I take screenshots of our conversation, and head out of my room without saying goodbye to the ghost, or prankster, or construct of my subconscious brain.
I need food to figure out what’s going on.
I walk to the Central dining hall for dinner. My heart’s still racing, and I’m probably white as a ghost. Honestly, I half expect Mia or someone to jump out from behind a bush laughing about this joke they’re playing on me.
I calm down a bit after getting my dinner. Good food always relaxes me. The beef vindaloo bowl is no chicken korma, but the warm spices and fragrant basmati rice clear my head enough to think. Who would pretend to be Jay to mess with me? Mia seems the obvious answer, but honestly, a joke like this isn’t like her. Not that I don’t think she’d do something nasty to me for leaving our dorm room, but this is just too ... slick. Calculating. Mia would take revenge by making fun of me in public. I suppose her boyfriend, Lance, is a possibility, but he’s never seemed anywhere close to smart enough to pull something like this off. And I don’t think I’ve made any other enemies at TCU. I’ve barely made any friends.
I take out my phone and do some googling. First, I find a listing of all the alumni events from last October. There was an Engineering Scavenger Hunt. It was on the eighteenth of October—almost five months ago. I find a site that reports the weather anywhere in the world on any historical date and search for October 18. It was raining heavily in Toronto that night. And there were thunderstorms the next night, on October 19.
This can’t be real. There is absolutely no way.
But what if it is real? What if I found some sort of time-skip that’s letting me talk to Jay before he disappears? It’s utterly preposterous. But I’m either stuck in a paranormal anomaly, or someone hates me enough to want me to think I am. Or I suppose a third option is that I’ve lost my mind. Or maybe this is a dream. I pinch myself. Hard. When I squeal in pain, a guy at a nearby table looks at me, concerned.
“Bit my tongue,” I say. He turns back around, shrugging.
I exhale. Honestly, the first explanation—that I found a time loop—is the most palatable right now.
Instead of going back to the room after dinner, I go to the library to research this time thing to see if it’s real. But after about ten minutes of reading about time travel and time anomalies, I remember why I dropped grade-twelve physics. The theory of relativity makes no sense to me, and I’m pretty sure there isn’t a wormhole in my dorm room.
I am not a scientist. I’m an investigator. So I consider the problem like an investigator. How would Sherlock Holmes, Veronica Mars, or the Scooby Gang approach this? They would look at the facts and evidence. And so far, all the evidence I have—the screenshots of our conversation, the weather back in October, Kegan at the housing office, and the engineering alumni event—point to me and Jay being in different times. And even if I think that it’s impossible, I should remember that many things mankind once thought was impossible turned out to be real. Like space travel, computers, and cell phones. Hell, there are people currently growing lab-created meat. Which, gross . But also, who am I to say what’s possible or impossible? I never made it through physics.
I need more evidence before I accept this, though. And I think I know how to get it.