Chapter 12
N othing about life at the moment feels normal—the spaces and rapid de-aging of family members, not to mention the new addition of wavy curls framing my face like thick ribbons as I walk the school hallways—but the crossword puzzle tucked between my clenched fingers brings a sense of familiarity thanks to the chicken scratch schedule and a few recent notes about Marigold I’ve added to the right side of the page.
Carrying around a crossword puzzle and planner was a sign of normalcy for me; I often left one at my desk at the Bureau in case a word came to me in the middle of the day. Having one with me now feels like a piece of home I can hold in my hands while in this foreign world, even if I can’t recall filling in the first thirty crosswords that share my handwriting, nor am I confident I’ll be able to fill out the seventy other ones since they're likely inspired by eighties references and clues.
I pass by four cheerleaders who will become my teammates this afternoon, giggling as they pass through the large wooden doors to the gym. Each has their brushed-out curls tied half up with giant scrunchies and they are wearing the same matching teal windbreaker-style drawstring bags over their shoulders. I continue past them absorbing the cherry-postered walls around me where teal painted eagles claim most of the wood panels.
“Hey, you! You new here?” A voice hollers from across the hallway like a catcalling tourist. “Your hair is looking fine.”
Whoever’s heckling me from behind has a posse of snickering heathens echoing his words with light cackles. I take it that my perm looks good from the back. Erica already confirmed that last night when she kept shouting at me in the midst of helping finish the blow-dry and tease, “See I told you. You should’ve permed your hair when I first suggested it. It looks so good. Look at those perfect waves.”
I didn’t hate it, so at least there was that, and though I plan to leave in the coming days, at least I’ll be fashionable according to eighties’ standards for the time remaining. Even so, I still feel like a matchstick in a line of cotton swabs.
A generous, lemony sheen of sunlight peaks through the frosted glass bathroom window as I peek around to find the syrupy sweet talker trying to garner my attention.
I see Ben, who tenses up, like sandals shrinking from too much heat, at the sight of me. He’s perched in front of the boy’s bathroom entry with Tyler and Evan, leaning up against the wall and the color of his face confirms it was him. The catcaller. His words now creep into my memory, and I can see the embarrassment set in on his face.
“Woah Ben, you know that’s Atta right?” Tyler laughs awkwardly. It’s clear he didn’t recognize my backside with new exaggerated hair and all. “You better say something to her or dig your grave now,” Evan adds. Frustrated emotion scars Evan’s throat. He’s concerned with the direction this is going.
Ben flirting with me—well, my backside more accurately—so blatantly, makes my heart hum with hope. Before I let the hope inflate and then float away so far I can’t catch up to it, I remind myself that he hates me for doing something I’m still unaware of and has never once been interested in me that way in his life. It’s false hope for my heart to hum here, just as false as it was in Non-80s-Land.
“Would you guys give us a second?” Ben slips over to my side of the wall trying to save face as Evan and Tyler walk in the opposite direction. Evan makes sure to hold his gaze on us until he clears the corner.
“I swear I had no idea it was you. You changed your hair, huh?” Ben says as diplomatically as possible, making sure to leave all signs of emotion out of his response. “If I would have known it was you, I wouldn’t have done that.”
“Thanks, I guess,” I say, feeling quite uncomfortable with this side of Ben. “So if you knew it was me, you wouldn’t have tried hitting on me from behind while you have a beautiful girlfriend waiting for you a few hallways down? ” His face reads annoyance at my response. It’s as troublesome as the untied shoelace spilling from his gray converse high-tops. “Is that what you’re trying to say?”
“I know you know things, and I really need you to keep quiet and stay out of my business, Atta.” Did bringing up the issue of him catcalling remind him of our confrontation at the vending machines? Erica confirmed I had suspected something about Ben’s relationship with Bennette and Corky. Was this the “thing” he was referring to?
“Ben, what do I know?” I let out a laugh of frustration. The Ben I knew wasn’t the unfaithful type. The kind who dates a lot? Yes. A player? No. But that Ben would never show interest in someone else while in a serious relationship. So seeing his chocolate eyes melt from the heat of our conversation, I’m unsure if this version of Ben is anything like the present-day, Non-80s-Land Ben I grew up with. Even so, I don’t want to believe what all these assumptions seem to be leading to. He’s better than that.
“Ugh, Atta. Don’t play with me like that. Don’t push it when you already know enough. I told you to stay out of it.” He tugs on his ball cap and runs off without a glance to catch up with Tweedledee and Tweedledum.
At this rate, I was going to need a time machine to get Ben to find his cool—to take him to a time before I angered him to the point of not speaking to me. I was planning the attempt soon, but I was also committed to discovering Ben’s secret before the end of the week. If anything, it would help put my curiosity at ease. Curiosity that would stick with me even if I was to leave this alternate universe.
Cheer practice begins with Erica introducing me as the new recruit in a circle of feathery-haired girls with faces glued to me as I stand next to my mother, “my sister”, the cheer captain. As she reminds everyone of our sibling status, she has the squad run and stretch, and makes sure to point out the distance I have from accomplishing a perfect split.
Erica instructs a few of the girls to demonstrate a touch-up, spread eagle, and a toe touch. I follow along with intense concentration, as if this is jiu-jitsu class and the consequence will be harsh judgment from my colleagues if I somehow fail the fundamentals. After running through the stunt in my head a few times I kick both legs out wide using the jump technique I’d learned from vertical jump training—I’d even managed to add an extra block to the stackable weights at the last session with some fellow agents, so I was confident I’d gain some height with my attempt. But this time I make sure to hold my posture upright with the maneuver, my arms level with my shoulders, just like the dishwater blonde-haired girl does in front of me. I land with an audible thud.
“Not half bad!” Dishwater blonde applauds.
“You got higher than all of us,” Bennette encourages me. “What type of hidden magic is in your Converse? Erica, I don’t think these Reeboks are doing their job.”
“Your shoes are fine, Bennette,” Erica says, then looks at me. “Atta, you’ll just want to land a little softer. Think Flashdance, not Sylvester Stallone in Rambo First Blood .”
I haven’t seen the movies she’s referring to, but I can assume she means more delicate and less federal-agent-using-self-defense style. “Will do.”
While observing practice stunts from the sideline, I spot Bennette airborne above a thick yellow tumbling mat. She lands a front-back handspring. Corky walks onto the mat and high-fives her with a shot of best friend energy and I watch as they giggle in conversation.
Unfortunately, I’m too far away to hear any of it and I briefly consider whether I can tumble well enough to join them. I cut that thought short though when I think of the tuck and roll maneuver I was trained to use whenever ducking out of a live fire situation. That’s as much rolling as I’m comfortable with. I’ll have to consider another time to start up a conversation with those two. If I attempted to tumble with the big girls I’d look like Chris Farley endlessly rolling down the mountain in the movie Black Sheep . The image puts a smile on my face. If only that movie existed at this time. I’d kill to go home after this and relax in front of Grandma Marcie’s TV and watch it, even if it was mostly just fuzzy video.
Erica gifts me a familiar teal drawstring bag made from eighties windbreaker material—material I’ve only ever seen on old, ugly joggers—that sounds like wind tunnels when the pant legs get rubbed together. I sling it over my shoulders and consider myself an official part of the pack, ready to mingle with the others in the locker room.
My chance to chat up Bennette or Corky is hijacked when the overall conversation turns to the topic of an earlier speedo sighting.
“It was neon green! I didn’t get to see it for long. Just a split second,” one girl, a small brunette, says. “He invited all the girls in the locker room to a party at his house this weekend.”
“How did I miss it?” Dishwater blonde says. “I changed early and ran to the director’s office to get the mats.”
“Tyler probably came in while you were in there. Sorry, you missed it.” Her words trail off in a giggle.
So I heard it right. It was Tyler they were talking about. He’s still up to his old antics, never missing a beat.
“Tyler’s raiding the girl’s locker room again?” I chime in.
“He’s done this before?” the giggling girl asks.
“What hasn’t he done? His life’s work is to disrupt and make his presence known.”
“At least he’s cute,” the brunette pops in. “Do you know him well?”
“I guess you could say that. I’ve known him longer. Fifteen-plus years and he managed to get into the girl’s locker room twice growing up.” I realize what I said and expect some sort of look or reaction from the girls, but I guess they are too distracted by the topic of Tyler to notice.
“Could you introduce me?” the brunette asks with a hopeful grin on her face. I was never a fan of matchmaking, and I didn’t come here to be the matchmaker for my tactless friend who would end up having a future as a birdwatcher, but I needed to befriend my cheer teammates to get as much information as possible about Bennette and Corky’s relationship before the end of the week. I make plans with the girls to formally introduce them to Tyler when the time’s right.
Since Diana rejected my suggestion to join the cheer team and isn’t here to give me a ride home, I jump in the car with Erica, who couldn’t be happier that I’m riding home with her. It’s my first time riding in her red Volvo 480 model with Back-to-the-Future -style pop-up lights. We cruise along the hillside with a throng of seventies and eighties model cars around us on our way back home. I stare at the people in the cars passing by, hardly a tinted window in sight, and begin to wonder if the paint on the road is thicker, then briefly consider if I’d ever get used to driving a road void of newer model cars—ones that I’m used to. Every vehicle looks like a tin can on wheels with shiny metal bumpers and the newer 1985 models noticeably stand out from the others. It’s as if the designers were aiming to please the Jetsons.
“I saw you staring at Bennette and Corky most of practice. I know what you’re up to, Atta. Don’t be so obvious next time,” Erica says, looking over at me with both of her hands at the top of the wheel.
“I’m not trying to be obvious. Just curious and hoping I’ll catch a conversation that’ll help me connect some dots.”
“Sure you are. So that’s why you joined the team. It makes sense now. You’re stuck with us now that you’ve joined though. So don’t think of quitting even if you don’t get what you want within the week.”
“I won’t. I told you I’m committed,” I assure her.
“I’m staying out of it. So don’t involve me in your scheming.” Her tone is motherly and familiar while she holds onto the steering wheel with a tight grip and forced smile.
“You think I’m scheming?” I say, unable to contain my smile. This dynamic is somewhat satisfying.
“I know you’re scheming,” she suppresses a laugh trying to resist my cheekiness.