Chapter 4 Cool Cool Cool
Cool Cool Cool
I’m not sure what’s worse: that I seem to have accidentally projected myself into a MASH game come true, or that I’ll have to dress like a My Little Pony while I’m trapped here.
Wherever here is.
Despondent and bruised after slamming my hip into hard objects—which, turns out, wasn’t enough to launch me out of this dream—I pace around the yellow upholstered bench in the center of my closet.
Rows of teal doors with inset windows run along the room’s perimeter, and racks of shiny, colorful clothing are visible through the glass.
There’s more pink and purple than I’ve worn in literally decades, and I spy a few old, familiar prints, including the mortifying plaid dress I wore in my sixth-grade yearbook photo.
I try calling Bridget again, but she isn’t answering her phone.
Neither is Ryan. Here, Connor isn’t even on my “Favorite Contacts” list, and calling my parents is out of the question.
Mom would be on the first flight out of Fort Meyers and sending SOS messages to everyone she knows if I called out of the blue and asked, Hey, can you confirm our location on the space-time continuum?
I’m pretty sure I’m stuck in a sleepover game from middle school.
It’s all too much. I don’t know where I am, how I got here, or how to get out.
“Please. Help me get home,” I beg aloud to no one, or maybe to the MASH overlords.
I picture them ignoring me in favor of reading Delia’s catalogs.
They’re probably sitting on a bunch of glittery blow-up chairs in a pastel sky, brainstorming which melodramatic lyrics to use in their AIM away messages.
I slouch onto the floor, hopeless but determined. Perhaps I need to embrace the power of positive thinking. Or pray to every god in every religion, as well as to Beyoncé.
My phone rings. I’m so startled, I drop it. Scrambling, I pick it up, weepy when I see my brother’s face filling the screen. I choose to believe Beyoncé made this happen for me.
I answer the FaceTime call. “Ryan! You’re here! But you’re…”
He laughs. “I’m at work, Ru. Everything okay?”
My heartbeat quickens. Ryan’s in chef’s whites, and his dark hair is longer than I’ve ever seen it. Although he’s smiling, dark circles shadow the skin beneath his eyes, his exhaustion visible even through the screen. “What are you doing?” I ask.
“I work today. You knew this.”
“Where are you?”
“Uh, Madre’s?” He pulls a face. “What’s up? Fourteen calls in a row must be our new record. I’m guessing they were butt dials?”
The room spins. Ryan doesn’t work in a restaurant. He works from home—from his apartment in the city, close to me. He’s a sales rep for a tech company.
“We’re dealing with the Sunday brunch crowd,” says the stranger who’s supposed to be my twin. “So this really isn’t the best time. Did you need something?”
Answers. I need answers.
Years ago, Ryan offhandedly mentioned the idea of culinary school, and I gently pointed out that he’d be better off choosing a more practical career. One that didn’t involve working alongside the many allergens for which he’d visited the emergency room. More than once.
He never brought it up again.
“Are you being careful?” I ask dumbly.
“I’m great. Minus the shit I’ll be in if I don’t get going. You sure you’re alright?”
My voice comes out strangled. “Yeah.”
Apparently, he didn’t hop universes with me. And I can’t make him question my sanity. No matter where I am, rule number one stays the same: Look after my brother.
“I’ll call you later,” he promises. “Love you.”
He hangs up, and I close my eyes. It’s fine. He said he’s fine. Great, even.
That makes one of us. I text Bridget for the sixth time: Where are you???
While I wait for her reply, I rifle through the closet. I need to get dressed and get out of this funhouse, but as I shove hangers aside, I can’t find anything that isn’t loud, sequined, or altogether Too Much. Guess I won’t be blending in around here.
At last, dressed in pink jeans and a color-blocked sweater that wouldn’t look out of place on Sesame Street, I head into my bathroom and gag, assaulted by the haunting cucumber-melon scent.
The space is stunning, though, with a hexagon-tiled floor and a freestanding tub surrounded by a semicircle of windows.
I stand at the navy-blue vanity, staring into one of the twin mirrors backed by floral wallpaper.
I’m tanner than usual, and as I run my fingers through the ends of my blunt, shoulder-length haircut, I realize I have highlights, too.
Or maybe it’s the light. Maybe it’s the dreamy haze, like a flattering filter.
In the drawers, I find the full lineup of Lip Smacker flavors, along with lots of bronzer, bright eye shadow, and what looks to be an entire section of body glitter.
I’m downstairs pulling my bedazzled key fob from a hook near the garage when Bridget finally texts me back.
Rubyyyy. Send help. Send Gatorade. I’m still in bed.
At your parents’ house?
No, I went home with the bartender after he called me “babygirl” all night.
Yes, I’m at my parents’ house. I’m taking the train back to the city later.
I’m coming over.
I love you, but engaging in conversation is too ambitious for today.
It’s an emergency, B.
Of what variety?
If I tell Bridget the truth, there’s a chance she’ll assume, like Penn, that I’m ill or possessed.
But she might be convinced. She regularly sees a psychic, keeps an entire folder of astrology apps on her home screen, and forced me to watch Jumanji constantly when we were kids, even though the CGI monkeys scared the hell out of me.
The idea of existing inside a game will probably thrill Bridget. Most likely, she’ll be jealous. If anyone’s going to believe in MASH coming true, it’s her.
I think I’m stuck in an alternate universe.
Does this universe have coffee and bagels? Because you’re only welcome here if you bring ample provisions.
Caffeine and carbs, incoming.
—
My tie-dye Jeep Wrangler is as subtle as it sounds, with a teal-blue interior, a kiwi-green R stitched into both front seats, and a colorful beaded charm wrapped around the rearview mirror, two tiny disco balls hanging over the dashboard.
It’s a far cry from the white Nissan Versa I’ve leased for years, but when in Rome, or a time warp, or whatever.
With the top down and a pop station playing, I stress-eat a Ring Pop I found in the pantry and cruise along familiar streets where everything but me seems to be in normal working order.
Lakeville is a small town named after a lake that’s more of a large pond.
A brick train station sits at the center of downtown, and Main Street is lined with wide sidewalks and two-story Tudor-style buildings with wooden eaves.
This weekend, all the shop and restaurant awnings are trimmed in red, white, and blue bunting for Labor Day.
When I reach the lake and round toward the O’Briens’ house, bright green trees tunnel overhead and stone-cold panic courses through my veins.
Frolicking through a dream is all fun and games until there’s no clear exit from said game. The thought of being trapped here? With Penn under the same roof? For an undetermined amount of time? While real life may or may not continue without me?
Cool cool cool. Just run me over with this Jeep, why don’t you?
I park in front of Bridget’s childhood home: a brick ranch house with green shutters and the lingering, potent scent of whatever seasonal candle Sue recently burned.
Her parents aren’t home this weekend. They’re at a friend’s Michigan lake house, soaking up some of the last warm days before fall hits.
I wish they were around. Seeing them would be a comfort.
Don is a gregarious lawyer, and Sue is a warm hug of a woman who worked as a receptionist at our elementary school.
Even now, they both wear their adoration for Bridget like tattoos across their foreheads.
As a beloved only child, she still embodies the enviable, innate confidence that comes from having heard, early and often, that she could do anything—which she did.
Bridget tried and thrived in all of Lakeville’s sports offerings, plus piano lessons and a couple years of theater.
She’s the kind of well-rounded that dominates in Trivial Pursuit and lets her fit in among any crowd.
Considering she could’ve had any kind of best friend, I’ve always felt particularly lucky that she chose me.
I joke that I have Mary-Kate and Ashley to thank for it.
Bridget always wanted a twin, and proximity to me was her second-best option.
I let myself into the house and kick off my electric-blue sneakers.
The living room looks exactly like it did last night, in the real world, when Bridget hosted a pre-party.
Purple streamers hang from the ceiling, gold balloons float beside the brick fireplace, and—wait.
Harry Styles is smizing at me from where his poster still hangs over the leather couch.
But last night, Bridget yanked that poster off the wall before dinner. She brought it with us.
An unsettling itch spreads across my skin. This MASH world is the same, only slightly off, like one of those “Spot the Difference” side-by-side picture puzzles in Highlights magazine.
“Is that my caffeine delivery?” Bridget calls from down the hall.
In Bridget’s bedroom, nothing has changed for multiple decades. The lavender dreamcatcher over her bed has been there since fifth grade. Ditto all her cheerleading trophies, which take up an entire shelf.
“I’ve got a triple-shot latte,” I announce. “Plus, the Kool-Aid Bursts I found in my fridge. And bagels galore.” I’m determined to fuel Bridget properly before I launch into my Help, I think your game accidentally vaulted me into another dimension speech.
She’ll need to be lucid for that.
“Please whisper,” Bridget croaks. “I’m tasting sounds. And they all taste like tequila.”
Her complexion is the color of fast-food chicken.