Chapter 14
M y first official store heists go a little too well. Call me a professional pilferer. I made my way out of the mall with a few extra newspapers, a magazine, and their most flamboyant store item without Erica or the mall security noticing.
I should be concerned about the lack of adequate security. Instead, a sense of accomplishment fills my mind as I check out my cheerleading uniform in the girls locker-room mirror. I stick out like a sore thumb in red but at least my white shoes now match the rest of the squad. I bend down, reaching for my ankles to make sure that the slouchy socks are bunched two inches high above my ankles just the way everyone else has them.
Corky joins me, stepping into the mirror space next to mine, adjusting her skirt and fiddling with a pair of headphones with bright orange foam ear cushions, ensuring the cord is connected to her Walkman cassette tape player. Now is the perfect time to approach her.
It shouldn’t be difficult at all. I’d been approaching strangers under unusual circumstances as an agent for the last five years. It was finding a topic of conversation that was the difficult part of this situation. It wasn’t work related, but it was my opportunity to learn more about her relationship with Ben.
“What are you listening to?” I ask, pointing to her hand-sized cassette player. Looking up through the feathery curls framing her face, she reaches for the earpiece and smiles.
“Genesis.” She adds a bit of a bounce to her sway as she says it and I know she’s smiling about the question I asked, not the fact that I approached her.
“Phil Collins, Genesis?” I try to match the excitement in my voice.
“You’re familiar?”
“I’m familiar,” I say. I’ve heard of Genesis and I’m aware the band was Phil Collins’ before he went solo, but I can’t say that I’ve been a huge fan or anything. I probably know one song, and I can’t think of the title right now. Her countenance is entirely bubbly at this point. She appears to be a die-hard Genesis fan, and her eyes are dilating the same way a person does when they can’t hide their adoration in front of a crush.
“I’ve listened to it with Diana on the way to school,” I say, recalling where I’ve seen Genesis recently. One of Diana’s mixtapes had a Genesis song scribbled in her handwriting on the cassette tape case.
“‘That’s All.’ I really like ‘That’s All’,” I say, able to revive the Genesis song title written in Sharpie, after picturing the cassette case being tossed into the space underneath the car player.
Corky even blushes at the song’s mention.
“Have you heard their new album? I went to their concert a few weeks ago. It was seriously the best night of my life.”
“I haven’t,” I say with a shake of my head. She looks as if she’s going to start cheering for the new album, with toe-lifting footwork and all.
“You have to listen to ‘Land of Confusion’ and ‘Invisible Touch.’” She hands me her skinny foam ear headset and I adjust the placement on my ears until I hear the music play through the speakers. I bop along to the melody enjoying the synth sounds and Phil Collins’ voice. It was actually a good song, worthy of getting me pumped up for the cheering that was about to take place.
“This one might be my favorite, actually,” I say with confidence.
“Isn’t it so good? ‘Land of Confusion’ is my favorite from the album. It’s so weird and catchy.”
“Corky, right?”
“Yep, and you’re Erica’s sister, Atta. Nice to meet you.”
“It’s nice to meet you too. I like your taste in music.”
“And I love you!” she says. We both know she means she loves that I love her taste in music.
“Talk music with me anytime.” She looks over my shoulder, toward the locker-room exit. “It looks like everyone’s heading out for the warm-up. Shall we?”
I need to ask her about Ben. I’ll be kicking myself if I don’t ask. Though whatever business she has with Ben, I can’t imagine it being negative. She’s possibly one of the sweetest, most cheery types of people around. Her sunny disposition is blinding, like looking directly at the sun. She is a giant sun.
“Uh yeah. Wait one sec. I have something to ask you.” I stop her with my arm.
“Yeah?” She looks surprised.
“I overheard Tyler a few days ago and he threatened Ben. He said you did something with Ben. Something that Bennette wouldn’t want to find out. I wanted to hear from you what that could mean, since Ben seems to be acting strange lately.” I try to say it pleasantly and leave out any tone of accusation. She’s too sweet to be the problem here, anyway. There’s some key information I’m missing and Corky should be able to lead me in the right direction.
“Oh, you know Tyler,” Corky says. “You can’t trust any words that come out of his mouth. He was probably just saying crap to embarrass Ben in front of you. I don’t know what he meant by that.” Her response is absolutely no help.
“Has he said anything about me? Like the reason that he doesn’t want to talk with me?” I ask.
“Sorry, Atta. Ben doesn’t talk to me much, except about music. I only overhear his and Bennette’s conversations and I’ve never heard them talk about you. Maybe he’s annoyed with his sister and you’re his sister’s best friend so it feels like he’s taking it out on you too.”
She manages a smile, as vacuous as could be, as if she’s turned on a switch that only has interest in getting out to the cheer sideline as quickly as possible. Much to my chagrin, I still don’t have an answer. Have I exhausted every avenue? It’s not like Bennette would know. Am I really going to have this stupid question haunting me every day of my existence? Should I look into counseling for unmanageable curiosity? I laugh at the thought.
On the sideline, I mimic Bennette, Erica, and Corky’s footwork and begin punching the air in front of me with giant tinsel pom-poms to the melodic shouts of a low-pressure cheer.
The more difficult cheers come. I stand at the back during the timeout routines and make myself invisible while four flyers find their way to the top of the base’s shoulders, standing with one leg held high until they glide toward the floor like a set of dominoes or a heavy rolling sea tide.
I find Ben and Diana sitting amongst a pocket of parents in the bleachers. Diana notices me and gives an exaggerated wave my direction as I hum along to the high school pep band playing The Beatles’ “Eleanor Rigby” via brass instruments.
Ben never looks in my direction. From the sideline, I keep my eyes glued to him as he follows the game intently. He makes inaudible calls and pulls at his shirt sleeves in frustration. Erica leads us in shouting “Fire on…up! Fire on…up! Shake-ah! Shake-ah! Shake-ah! Shake-ah! FIRE ON…UP!” With two seconds remaining in the half, Ben gets up and I lose sight of him as our cheer team shuffles out to the middle of the court and lines up in formation along the honey hardwood gym floor for the halftime performance.
I wave the pom-pom in my free hand with enthusiasm, having survived the first routine. With one last stunt to nail, we get in pyramid formation just like we practiced. My job is relatively unnecessary, but I still stand with bent knees grounded and feet slightly apart, making sure I’m ready to help the left spotter in the unlikely chance she disappears into thin air.
The flyer in the middle, holding the center balance, counts to three. I brace myself and lightly touch the back of the flyer’s ankle. With the signal for release, the center flyer spins into the air with a basket toss, like a delicate bird ascending, extends her arms in a V-shape, and then lands perfectly in a pike position in the middle of the base’s man made nest. It looks even better than practiced from my view behind, but I lose sight of my flyer, Kelly, when a loud military sound echoes an audible “Reveille” in my eardrum followed by the sound of one or two rubber bands snapping, interrupting any concentration I previously had.
A few translucent red plastic tubes and shoelace-like strings sail high toward the gym ceiling, showering some feathery heads close to the stands and I no longer see her ankle or the two bases in front of me. I question whether it’s just me experiencing this dizzying confusion or if the team is collectively losing its balance from the shock of the blowing horn. A long, extended leg dives toward my face at what feels like a snail’s pace. Before I know it, Kelly’s rubber-soled shoe strikes my forehead. I’m knocked to the polished gym floor instantaneously, reacting like a soda can shot back a few feet after being struck by a bullet.
When I come to my senses, I feel Kelly’s butt stamped against my ribcage. We’re now a wacky two-person pile-up sprawled on the hard gym floor. I groan and Kelly rolls onto the floor after realizing she’s carving into my stomach with her weight.
Her ankle looks like it might have been injured catching the fall with my forehead, so I jump up, landing swiftly on my feet and reach down to her with an extended hand, asking if she’s okay. A collective gasp followed by a roar of nervous laughter erupts from the crowd.
“I’m okay!” she says with shock still plastered to her face. “Your face!” she cries. “You don’t look alright.”
A few drops of blood hit my hand, causing me to reach up and wipe my forehead. When I do, I feel the swelling skin that has ruptured at Kelly’s point of contact.
The sound of rubber bands snapping continues and Kelly and I turn our attention toward Ben who’s launching plastic semi-transparent red tubes into the crowd from a large wooden slingshot. One of Ben’s friends slings red tubes next to him as Greg and another boy in a cherry red letterman’s jacket stand in the crowd attempting to catch them with fishing nets, as they drop like dead pigeons into the bleachers.
I look from the red stick loaded on Ben’s wooden device back to the fishing nets in the crowd and it all comes together. The supplies from earlier today at Tyler’s house. Ben’s launching “Dynamite” labeled tubes into the crowd. I just don’t know why or what’s in them. It’s clearly not dynamite.
Laughter echoes against the home bleachers as a few students catch some “Dynamite” stragglers, popping off the plastic lids and pulling out silky underwear in patterns and colors you’d only find on seventies’ wallpaper. One student dangles a tangerine patterned pair with squirrel red polka dots, and another waves a peacock patterned brief with dirt brown stripes around like a prize.
The basketball team enters the gym as Ben launches another round into the crowd sparking profanity from Tyler when he realizes what’s happening. Tyler tries stopping him but Ben yells, “We’ve all had our fair share of pranks Tyler, it’s time for a little payback.” Then he announces to the crowd, “These are captain Tyler’s precious Dynamite underwear. Don’t worry, most aren’t used.” He winks at the teachers and administration who look amused from the sideline, then aims and shoots at Tyler this time.
Tyler’s face is hot from embarrassment, but he decides to go along with the satire—it’s him versus an entire gym after all. He grabs the tube he dodged and the paper advertisement from the cardboard box.
“This isn’t underwear. It’s Dynamite!” he sings as if it’s some sort of brand jingle, at the same time he pops the plastic lid off of the tube in his hand. The parent section laughs, confirming it must be some sort of well-known catchphrase from the previous generation and Tyler waves a pair of underwear at the crowd before spending the last thirty seconds of the halftime countdown running around trying to retrieve Greg and the other guy’s fishing nets filled with his butt-covering property.
“Don’t be too mad. We made sure to catch most of them so you won’t lose your collection,” Greg says, handing the wood fishing net over to Tyler.
“You better not lose any of them. They’re a collection. I’m lucky to even have them thanks to my dad and they are nothing to be embarrassed about,” Tyler says. He approaches Ben at the sideline while I manage to transport Kelly off the court with a few other cheerleaders.
“Aww Ty, your collection may be impressive, but your face still turned three different shades of red,” Ben says, then slaps Tyler’s backside. “Go get ‘em!” he shouts, watching Tyler walk out onto the court with a huffy expression.
Diana offers to take me home to clean up after the halftime injury. My mouth sours into a frown at the suggestion. I still haven’t been able to solve the Ben mystery and it’s not like having my forehead split by Kelly’s shoe is anything serious. I’d maybe need an ice pack later for the galaxy-like bruise that had started to form in various purple hues. But Erica joins Diana in pressuring me to leave, enough that I find myself riding shotgun back to my grandparents’ home with Diana, carrying the weight of not knowing Ben's secret.
I ditch Diana in the kitchen and grab the Clean Wave branded spray from the closet while she thinks I’ve left to the bathroom to freshen up and clean my wound. She plans for us to go to Tyler’s house party after the game but I had never planned to finish this day out here in this universe. I turn the corner with gentle rabbit-like steps and walk through the curtain of Pops’ hanging shirts, holding my breath as I reach for both doorknobs behind, only exhaling as the door clicks open.
I’m in. It’s been a day or so since my last visit to Pops’ hidden room, where I made sure to check the site for all the items that could’ve caused the wall jack to spark. I’d found Pops’ vintage gumball machine—surprised he’d already collected it at this point—located the Clean Wave spray that’s now tucked under my left arm and secured the phone this morning. Who knows where my original transparent phone would be at this time, if it has even been made into existence. And though I realize there’s no way for me to replicate exactly what happened, I’m as close as I can get. I have to hold out on hope.
Hope; being that a mix of these items, all containing chemicals and elements made up of molecules that have the capability to cause reactions—possibly even time traveling reactions—will bring me back. I didn’t expect to understand which of these molecules created such an unfathomable experience, but I could try to replicate everything I had done seconds before the spark turned to a time and universe swap.
I idle before Pops’ old gumball collectible, swinging the drawstring bag from my shoulder onto the desk and bravely consider chewing an ancient gumball from the glass globe. Pulling the stolen colored-wire phone from the bag, I filter my thoughts with positives. Instead of wondering how old the gum is, I become thankful that the gum is twenty to thirty years newer than the piece that was stuck to my old transparent phone in Non-80s-Land.
The process is quick. In the first few seconds I replay my last moment in the future with Ben—Non-80s-Land Ben—Agent Brown Ben. My memory comes alive with detail, as if it’s fully revived at the faintest glimmer of encouragement and I act according to the memory, each motion guided by every little detail that comes to mind, as if exactness is of the essence in achieving the test of time travel.
The memory ends with my last words echoed back to me, “1980s called. They want their wallpaper back, Pops.” But instead of repeating what was initially a joke, I try something different, “Calling February 2nd, 2023.”