“It is what you make it.” She smiles again.
“Where will the button be?” Pilot demands.
“It will be placed in Rome this weekend.”
“But where?”
“You’ll have to find it.”
“Like a treasure hunt?” I sound like a curious seven-year-old asking her parents a question.
“We’ll have to find it? Are you kidding? What is this, a game to you?”
“Have fun on your journey.” She leans over to pick up our check and some cash that Pilot must have thrown on the table when I went running after her.
I catch her hand, placing my own over it. “Wait, will you be here to talk when we need you? Are you going to disappear in a minute? Are you technically our spirit guide?”
She heaves a great breath and looks me straight in the eyes. “Child, this isn’t a film; this is reality.”
Chills run down my spine. She pulls her hand out from under mine and walks away.
“That’s not an answer at all!” I yell after her. I make to jump from my seat, but I can’t get up. It’s like I’m glued down. My ass is stuck. The chair won’t move. I’m stuck. I yank and squirm.
Pilot tries to leap from his own seat, but it would appear he’s found himself in a similar situation.
“What the hell?” he blurts.
We watch helplessly as she disappears into what I can only assume is the kitchen at the back of the restaurant. And then I fall sideways from my chair onto the cold tile floor, and Pilot flies up to his feet.
He breezes by me toward the kitchen. I scramble off the floor, my knees burning from the impact of the tile, and hurry after him. The whole restaurant gapes at us.
Pilot charges through the kitchen door, and I’m in there with him a second later.
Burgers sizzle on a giant grill a few feet away and a dark-haired man in his thirties stands behind it. A few other people bustle about chopping vegetables and preparing salads. Our spirit guide is nowhere to be seen.
“This is exactly what would happen in a film. What a load of bullshit,” I growl.
Grill Man looks up with a confused expression. “What are you two doing back here?”
“S-sorry, we thought we…” I stutter, “um, and so we came to look, but—”
“You have to get out of here,” Grill Man scolds.
Pilot shakes his head that way you do when you’re having an argument with someone who’s being ridiculous, and you can’t deal with them anymore so you just shake your head and turn away. Pilot’s mad, but I can’t help but feel a trickle of excitement. He pivots out of the kitchen, and I follow at his heels.
“Pilot,” I start as we descend the steps at the center of the room.
“Shane, I can’t talk right now.”
“But—”
A waiter up ahead is saying things to us. I’m too distracted to listen or respond. We barrel past him, toward the door, and back out onto the sidewalk. It’s a nice night. Pilot heads in the direction of the Karlston with his hands stuffed in his pockets. He keeps his gaze focused straight ahead. I have to power walk to keep pace with him.
My mind spins back to our first night here: the grocery store, there’s no food in the kitchen. That almost kiss. The Flat Three Taboo game we initiated.
I speak up as we round the block toward fancy-white-house lane, “Pies, we’re going back to a kitchen with no food. Maybe we should grab something little, at least to have as a snack during the flat bonding game? If everything’s the same as before, I should have a bunch of British cash in my purse that my mom gave me right before she dropped me at the airport. I can pay you back ASAP.”
“I can’t.”
He doesn’t turn to look at me. He keeps on toward the Karlston, walking even faster now. I stop moving and stare at his back as he gets farther and farther away. What the hell?
My hands curl up into fists against my jeans. I sprint to catch up to him. I’m out of breath when I grab his arm.
“Pilot!” I gasp-yell.
He turns to me with a flat expression. “Why are you out of breath?”
“I—” I suck in more air. “I fell behind, so are we going to get the flat together and play Taboo tonight? That’s what we did last time we … did this,” I say in my normal tone of voice.
“I’m not feeling up to it,” he responds. There’s attitude lurking behind those words.
“What is wrong right now?” I demand.
“Really?” he says to the sidewalk.
“I mean, yeah, apparently we’ve been thrown back in time, and yes, that’s completely mind-boggling, and in a way, terrifying, and I understand being in shock. I understand being scared and uncomfortable, but what the hell is this drastic change in tone? Why are you acting like you’re angry at me?”
He turns away, walking toward the Karlston again.
“Pilot!” I yell.
He pivots. “I am mad at you, Shane!” The words blow out of him, and I stumble back a few steps in surprise.
He rolls his head in an irritated little circle. “We barely know each other anymore. I didn’t ask for this.” He takes a breath. “You did. You drop in unannounced after six years without so much as a conversation. You just showed up at my office! You wanted to go for coffee. You wanted to dredge up the past. You needed closure. I didn’t have a say in any of this.” He throws his hands up.
I strain not to blink. We are at the foot of the Karlston steps now. He turns away. I find the control to spit out one more sentence before tears compromise my voice. “How can you blame this on me?”
He doesn’t look back. He takes the steps two at a time and disappears inside the building. I look up at the sky for a moment before spinning away from the Karlston. I’m not going back there without groceries.
Halfway down the block toward Tesco, I realize I don’t have any money. I pivot again and hurry back to the Karlston.
“Student ID, please,” requests the security guard without looking up from his computer. Crap.
“I’m so sorry, I left it downstairs in my purse. I forgot my whole purse. Can I go grab it?” He makes eye contact. Immediately his expression softens; he can tell I’m crying.
“Go ahead, that’s fine.” He hastily waves me forward like I’d proposed a conversation about my period.
I run into the kitchen. It’s empty. Thank the time-travel lord who brought me here. Sure enough, my old cross-body is lying on the floor, under the table. I pick it up, sling it across my chest, and tromp back out into the night for groceries.
* * *
When I return an hour later, I find Sahra on her computer in our room. I float the idea of heading to the kitchen to chill, and she’s up for it. As she gathers herself, I dash across the hall and knock on the boys’ door. Atticus pulls it open, grinning.
I smile back. “Hey! Um, so we’re gonna go hang out in the kitchen and play some games, do some flat bonding. Want to join us?”
“Of course!” Atticus exclaims. He turns to Pilot. I catch a glimpse of him on the bed with his guitar. “Pilot, did you hear?” Atticus adds.
“Yeah, man, go ahead,” he says without looking up.
“Okay.” Atticus looks at me expectantly. I linger awkwardly, wanting to talk to Pilot alone. Across the way, Sahra emerges from our room.
“Go ahead to the kitchen. I’m going to get my iPod. I’ll be there in a minute!” I tell them both. They head off. I catch Pilot’s door before it closes and pull myself into the frame.
“Are you going to come?” I prompt.
He still doesn’t lift his head. “I don’t think so.”
“But this was our flat bonding night.”
“No, thanks, Shane. I think you should go.”
“I just don’t feel right about—”
“Please leave.” There’s force behind the words, and it hits me right in the gut. I halt midsentence and take a step back into the hall.
“Fine.” I grab the knob and slam the door in place. I take a deep bre
ath, run into my room, grab my iPod, and head for the kitchen.
3. I Thought Time Was an Hourglass Glued to the Table
Going to sleep after finding yourself six years in the past and waking up in the same predicament is a fucking trip. When I open my eyes, I’m still here, sharing a room with twenty-year-old Babe and Sahra.
Getting ready as past Shane is unsettling. My hair’s at least eight inches longer than it was when I woke up yesterday in New York. My makeup bag is severely lacking—past Shane doesn’t even own foundation—and all these old clothes in my London closet feel bland and out-of-date.
Babe and I chitchat endlessly about Disney World and movies on the way to Greenwich. I already know half the things she’s going to say before she says them. It’s disconcerting. She’s one of my closest friends in 2017, but this Babe doesn’t know me yet. I’m dying to discuss all the time-travel weirdness, but unfortunately the one person who’d understand is actively keeping his distance.
Pilot remains quiet and withdrawn all morning. He positions himself next to Atticus and Sahra in our group huddle as we float down the Thames. He stands on the opposite end of our group pictures. He physically walks to get to the opposite side of our lineup when I ask a stranger to take a group picture of us in front of the Maritime museum. Whenever I get close, he starts talking about nothing to Atticus.
I re-experience the day in a constant state of déjà vu. Things are slightly different because of Pilot’s mood, but for all intents and purposes, Flat Three has the same Greenwich adventure. After exploring the Royal Observatory, it’s time to head down to the pub where we had burgers and decided to go to Rome.
The five of us settle in at the same wooden table. Because Pilot’s been lagging behind, he’s forced to take the last remaining seat: the one across from me. My lips flip up into a snarky grin as he plops into the chair.
The waitress comes around, distributing waters and taking our orders. I so vividly remember living this moment: how tempted I was to take out my camera and ogle at all the pictures we took today, how Atticus laughed when he became the fifth person in a row to order the same burger for dinner, the way my heart stuttered when Pilot asked us if we wanted to travel while we’re here. That question sparked my first taste of wanderlust and opened me up to possibilities I never even considered to be possibilities.
Pilot’s currently staring past me at nothing. I try to catch his eyes so I can roll mine at him. Babe’s watching and shoots a confused glance between the two of us before taking a sip of her water.
“So!” she starts cheerily, tossing her dark hair over her shoulder.
I straighten in my seat. “So,” I echo, smiling at her and shifting to look at everyone. “Do you guys want to travel while you’re here?”
“Oh my gosh, yes!” Babe exclaims.
“Definitely,” Sahra asserts.
“Yeah, I hope I can find time to squeeze in some travel, but the theater track is really intense,” Atticus explains.
The four of us turn to Pilot for his response. He’s leaning against the table, head propped up on his arm. He treats me to a mildly irritated look before facing the rest of the group.
“Yeah,” he answers tiredly.
“Great. Well, we should go to Rome for the weekend!” I say cheerily.
“Yes!” Babe agrees.
“I’m in,” Sahra adds.
Atticus explains that he can’t join us because of his internship.
“Pilot, are you coming?” Babe asks him carefully.
He scratches his head before responding blandly, “Yeah.”
“Yay!” she cheers before raising her glass of water. “To Rome for the weekend!”
Sahra, Atticus, and I raise our glasses.
“To Rome for the weekend!” I repeat. I never carried around water bottles during this era, but nowadays I have one on me at all times. How did I live? Apparently in a constant state of dehydration. I end up chugging half my glass before I set it down. Across the table, Pilot’s watching me carefully. His mouth twitches.
I blink at him. “What?” I ask.
“Nothing. I was just noticing how soft the landing was there,” he says.
My eyes dart from the water to him. A smile tugs at my lips. “Yeah, I guess some dude yelled at me about the way I put down my drinks six years ago, and I’ve since gained a new respect for glassware.”
“I don’t think he yelled at you.”
“Some guy yelled at you about the way you put down your drink?” Babe jumps in, appalled.
I drop my gaze to stifle a laugh. When I look back up, Pilot’s smiling. He’s looking at the table, but he’s smiling.
I shoot Babe a grin. “It was nothing, I was exaggerating.”
* * *
Back in the kitchen, we buy our plane tickets for Rome. Babe’s Googling for the inn we’re going to stay at, and Sahra’s relaxed on the couch with her laptop. Pilot’s in the seat across from me. He’s trying to catch my attention over our computer screens. He gives a little jerk to the right with his head. I look to the right at the blue wall and furrow my brow. He does it again, stands up, and strides toward the door. I stand to follow. My chair starts to fall, but I scramble forward and forcefully set it upright. “You stay there.”
“I can’t win with these stupid-ass chairs,” I find myself hissing as I step out of the kitchen. “Even when I get up carefully, it’s like it doesn’t matter, they still flip over just to piss me off.”
Pilot’s in the hall, leaning against the wall, arms crossed over his chest.
I fall against the opposite wall. “What’s up?”
He visibly inhales. “How are we supposed to go off looking for some mystical reset button when we’re in Rome with Babe and Sahra?”
I shove some hair behind my ears. “I don’t know. I figured we’d figure it out as we go. Maybe we can break away from them at some point?”
“Don’t you think it would have been easier not to tell them about Rome at all and go without them so we can fix this?”
I let out a frustrated sigh. “Well, she said the Rome trip, which alludes to the trip we previously took, and they were there, so maybe I didn’t want to take any chances on changing the circumstances and the button not being there because of it.”
I watch as he nervously runs a hand through his hair and looks past me at the wall for a moment. I turn to go back into the kitchen.
“I’m sorry I yelled at you yesterday,” he says quietly.
I turn back around, crossing my arms. He uncrosses his and stuffs them in his pockets. I stay silent until he looks me in the eye.
“You know this is all a big shock for me too,” I tell him.
He presses his hands farther into his pockets. “It just felt like, in the moment, you were trying to…”
My expression hardens, and he speeds up, “I was an ass. I’m sorry.” He pauses, glancing at the floor for a moment. “I’m just as bad as the chairs.”
I grunt a laugh and look away.
He sidesteps, his eyes finding mine again with a new sincerity. “Can we start over?” he asks.
I exhale, relief coursing through me. I turn and walk around the corner, stay there for a count to three, and stride back to where Pilot is still standing, now clearly confused.
“Hi, Shane Primaveri, almost doctor, hater of kitchen chairs, lover of watermelon, French toast, and writing.” I hold out my hand.
He reaches out to take it. “Pilot Penn, no association with the Fountain Pens.”
We shake. “So the Ballpoint Pens, then?” I add diplomatically.
He nods vigorously, eyes alight. “Exactly.”
4. I’m the First in Line
January 12, 2011 (take two)
Mom and Dad,
We haven’t really talk-talked in a while, so it’s extra-weird to be writing these to you again. This is when everything really went to shit—for a couple of months, I stopped worrying about making you happy. I’ve been trying to make you happy for six yea
rs now, hoping somehow that would make me happy too, but I don’t think it’s working. You’re not really happy with me because I’m not happy with you because I’m not happy with me.
XO,
2017 Shane
* * *
My mom’s parents used to have this old-fashioned record player. We don’t see them as much as I see my dad’s family. But, when we did visit, I used to look forward to playing with that record player. Hunting through their album collection until I found Mary Poppins. Carefully pushing the record onto the device. Positioning the needle like my life depended on it. Grinning ear to ear as music magically began to play. Spending hours dancing around their living room to “Supercalifragilisticexpialidocious.” This morning I got up and re-attended the first class of my abroad semester. The professor gave us our first blank postcards and the famous first-sentence writing prompts. I honestly don’t remember the last time I sat down to write something that wasn’t gastro-related. It felt like being back in that living room. Setting the needle down on a record full of music that lights you up from the inside.
We have two nights before we fly out to Rome. I’m sitting at the kitchen table, staring at the start of my first study abroad blog post. I’m not sure what to do with it. Rewrite what I wrote the first time around? I close out of the blog and open the file with the outline I have all prepped for my great American novel. Scrolling through it sparks excitement in my chest. I open a blank page and start typing, because honestly, why not?
* * *
I have three thousand words down on the page when Pilot strides into the room with a sandwich.
“Hey.” He pulls out the chair across from me and sets down his food. “You writing?” He raises an eyebrow.
I bite back a smile and yank out my headphones. “As a matter of fact, I am.”
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