TEN
I toss the framed photo on the floor like it’s a heaping pile of dog poo. “This is a prank.”
“It would have to be one elaborate senior prank,” he says in disbelief, unable to stop combing his fingers through his very real beard.
My cheeks heat. “This looks like Nori’s work. She’s always playing around with Photoshop. Remember that time she pasted all our heads on that Riverdale picture? It looked so real.” I was aggrieved because she made me Betty and Renner Jughead. Even a totally pointless, photoshopped pairing doesn’t sit right.
“But how could Nori ... how could anyone do ... all of that?” He makes a faint gesture toward my chest again, but quickly thinks better of it when he meets my scowl.
My left boob threatens to flop out of these weird silky pajamas. I bolt into the walk-in closet for literally anything to cover myself.
The closet is full, but seemingly organized, split in two with his-and-her shelving. There’s a laundry basket on the floor, and a gray hoodie that reads M APLEWOOD H IGH S CHOOL across the chest rests on top. I grab it and pull it over my head.
When I emerge from the closet, Renner is in the en suite bathroom. Like a child distracted by shiny objects, he runs a hand along the marbled countertop and touchless tap, while admiring his bearded face in the mirror. He’s making that pouty face models make when they’re trying to be all sensual. That’s how I know it’s really him. His ego is unmatchable.
The hallway outside the bedroom (our bedroom?) is lit with a rosy hue from the morning sun. We appear to be on the second floor of a home. There’s a carpeted staircase directly to the left of the master bedroom and two other bedroom doors down the hallway, along with another bathroom.
The larger of the two bedrooms is fairly nondescript. There’s a neatly made oak-framed twin bed and clutter-free furniture. The smaller room appears to be a home office. Near the landing above the stairs, a collection of framed photos sits atop a floating shelf.
The photos depict Renner and me in nauseatingly romantic poses in random places, including an apple orchard. Who takes photos like this and why? Nori really went to great lengths to photoshop these. I idly wonder if I’m on camera, if I’m unknowingly starring in one of those YouTube prank shows.
“ Ha ha , very funny. You got us. You can all come out now,” I say, waving my arms toward the ceiling, examining it for cameras.
Nothing.
I head downstairs, arms crossed, bracing myself for Nori, Kassie, and Ollie to jump out from behind a closed door and scare the crap out of me. The kitchen and living area are long and open with a nautical vibe. Strangely, it’s exactly how I’ve always imagined styling my future home. I’m a little jealous of whoever owns this house. I rack my brain, trying to figure out who could convince their parents to loan their home for such a prank.
A couple dirty, free-form ceramic plates are stacked on the coffee table. The pantry is sparse, aside from approximately a year’s worth of peanut butter and some boxed macaroni. Whoever owns this house must love peanut butter. The fridge isn’t much better. There’s a half-empty carton of eggs, a brick of marbled cheese, a nearly empty jar of dill pickles, and jumbo bottles of condiments.
I head for the front door, again bracing myself for the pranksters to reveal themselves. Either that, or I’m locked in by some deranged kidnapper who’s wearing Renner’s face and imitating his voice. I turn the knob as the chilling possibility sets in. It’s open. I’m not being kept in this adorable home against my will. That’s a good sign. I squint into the sunlight as my bare feet hit the cool concrete of the shaded front porch.
I recognize the Craftsman style of the surrounding homes with their cute little porches and posh blend of siding and stone. Shiny, gleaming cars line each driveway.
I walk into the grass, relishing the cool morning dew against my blistered feet. It’s only then that I realize my feet aren’t aching anymore. In fact, the massive blisters on both baby toes are nonexistent. I lift my right foot, running a finger over what was previously a bloody, wounded heel. It’s perfectly smooth. My blisters are gone, even though I was cringing when I put my shoes on this morning. Unless ... unless it’s no longer Wednesday? What day is it?
A man with a tiny Yorkie wearing bright-yellow booties strolls by and eyes me sideways, probably because I’m examining my feet in public while sporting silk short-shorts. I ignore him and head to the edge of the lawn to get a better look at the street sign. Bois Court. I’m in Kassie’s neighborhood. We’re in the cul-de-sac down the street from Renner’s place.
Nothing makes sense except my overwhelming urge to go home, crawl into bed, and avoid reality. So I run. Barefoot.
I only make it a couple strides before I hear Renner. “Where are you going?” he calls from the end of the driveway. He’s wearing joggers now, though he’s still shirtless.
“Home!” I shout into the wind, not bothering to linger.
I know this route well. I’ve been to and from Kassie’s a million times. I break into a jog whenever I pass by Old Lady Brown’s house on the next corner. She’s a miserable woman who spends her days screeching at passersby and journaling life’s injustices in her “disappointments diary,” which she’s requested to have published after her death. A massive oak tree has practically eaten up her entire yard. The shadow of the spindly branches scares the shit out of me at night.
As I round the corner toward the house, I come to a full stop in the middle of the street. The tree is gone. Am I losing it? Am I forgetting which house had the scary tree? I question my sanity until I spot the disturbing cloth doll that always sat in the window. It’s definitely the same house. As much as that tree spooked me, the lawn looks like a barren wasteland without it.
A horn pierces the air and a fancy car lurches to a stop a few feet from flattening me. “Watch where you’re going, lady!” a red-faced old man hollers out the window.
Lady? Who does he think he’s talking to?
As Mr.Road Rage peels off, I note that there’s barely any sound. No loud revving of an engine. Now that I think of it, the cars in the driveways look different—sleeker, somehow. This is a middle-class neighborhood, not a high-end, luxury-car kind of neighborhood.
Even more confused, I pick up the pace to a full tilt.
I’m a sweaty mess when my street comes into view. It’s lined with smaller, older brick bungalows.
Mom’s sedan isn’t in the driveway. A collection of wilted red and yellow spring tulips catches my eye. Those weren’t there before. I try to open the door, but it’s locked. I peer through the window into the living room, but the blinds are drawn.
Maybe she’s at work. The pharmacy is at least a fifteen-minute walk and I’ve sufficiently tired myself out. I head to the backyard to grab Mom’s bike since mine is still being repaired.
The shed leans slightly. I don’t recall it being in such rough shape. Maybe the recent windstorm knocked it over. I peer in. Mom’s silver bike is propped against the shed wall. Upon closer inspection, it’s almost rusted over. I wheel it into the driveway and timidly hop on, bracing for it to collapse under my weight. When it doesn’t, I pedal as fast as my legs will take me.
I don’t even bother to lock the bike when I get to the pharmacy. Stacey, Mom’s longtime coworker, is behind the counter, rooting through the prescription bags in the pickup bin. She’s changed her hairstyle since last week. What used to be a brunette angled bob is now a sassy pixie cut streaked with gray.
“Stacey, it’s you,” I huff, resting both elbows on the counter.
She leans back slightly, probably scared I’ll drip sweat on her. Then she peers over the counter, appraising my PJ shorts, as well as my bare feet, which are now black from my journey here. “Are you okay, Charlotte? Do you need to sit down?”
I’m tempted to start sobbing right here in the pharmacy. I’m desperate to tell someone, anyone, that I fell off a ladder in the gym and woke up in an unfamiliar house with huge boobs.
But alas. There are people around, including an elderly woman with a poodle perm impatiently tapping her foot in line behind me. I must play it cool. “Uh, yeah. I’m fine. Never better. I’m just looking for my mom,” I say, feigning calm and collected.
Her stare is perplexed. She gives my hand a pitiful pat. “Dear, your mom doesn’t work here.” She can see I’m confused. “She hasn’t worked here in five years. She’s back at the uptown pharmacy now over on Oak. Are you sure you’re feeling okay? Why are you still in pajamas?”
I squint at her, trying to understand. Mom definitely still works here. I hung out here the other day and organized the shampoo aisle, waiting for her shift to end so she could drive me home. “Can I just ask ... what day is it?”
“Friday, June 12, 2037,” she says, like it’s obvious. It’s certainly June 12. But 2024, not 2037.
If it really were 2037, that would mean I’m ... No. It can’t be.
Mystified, I lean closer, peering over my shoulder to ensure the woman behind me isn’t eavesdropping. She definitely is. “How old am I?” I whisper for confirmation.
Stacey does the mental math. “You were born the same year my Teddy was born ... so that would put you at thirty?” She smiles sweetly.
Thirty. THIRTY?
A hot flash besieges me. Spikes of heat radiate up my back and neck. My entire body is a scorching inferno. My vision is blurring. I need to lie down. What the hell is happening to me?
Stacey prattles on, unaware of my utter confusion. “Seems like just yesterday you were in here buying candy with your friends for your movie nights.” No shit. Because it was last week. Kassie ditched Saturday night. Shocker. But Nori and I watched a horror movie about a girl who gets sucked inside a Ouija board. I slept with the lights on. I’m certainly no thirty-year-old.
Stacey chatters away about how she still remembers my zombie-cheerleader Halloween costume from when I was seven, but my brain zeroes in on the last bit. “And now you’re getting married next week. I hear you’re having quite the shindig. A joint bachelor/bachelorette if the rumor mill is true?”
“Married?” I rasp. “Excuse me?” I stare at her intensely, waiting for her to laugh and cop to the prank. And that’s when I see it. Sitting there on my finger. A sparkling oval diamond sitting atop a thin, yellow-gold band. It’s stunning. And heavy.
Before I can give it more thought, a tall woman with a giant black purse over her forearm approaches. “Charlotte Wu?” She extends her hand. “I don’t know if you remember me. I’m Ivory’s mom.”
I stare at her, blank-faced. I’ve never seen this woman in my life. “Ivory?”
“Ivory Eckhart? You’re her school counselor.”
I freeze entirely. A school counselor? For real?
When I don’t confirm nor deny, she plows forth, eyes darting to my bare feet. “It looks like you’re a bit busy, but I wanted to say how much Ivory has benefited from your help with her college applications.”
I’m going insane. Either that, or this is some Captain America shit. I went to sleep, somehow got lodged and preserved in the ice, and woke up a billion years later, only I’m not a mega-ripped supersoldier.
Then again, if this woman is telling the truth, I’ve achieved even more. I’m a school counselor. A good one, apparently.
I’m not entirely sure how to respond, given I have no idea who this Ivory person is, so I open my mouth as wide as possible, force a smile, and nod.
My Joker smile must scare her, because she takes a step back. “Oh, I hope you and J. T. have the best wedding day,” she says before heading down the aisle.
J. T.?
I blink. If falling off a ladder, hitting my head, and waking up thirteen years in the future isn’t traumatic enough, now I’m getting MARRIED ? To Renner?
The photos of us plastered around the house cycle through my mind like a slideshow.
Sweet baby Jesus.
I’m marrying Joshua Taylor Renner.
I don’t know how this happened. But one thing is certain: I am officially in the pits of hell.