Addie Bell's Shortcut to Growing Up

by Jessica Brody

  I lean forward to tap her on the shoulder but before I can make contact the bell rings, startling me, and the teacher starts his lesson. Frustrated, I slump back into my seat.

  I guess I’ll have to talk to her after class—I glance at the clock—fifty minutes from now.

  But I don’t think I can wait that long. I’m dying to ask her how she’s been and what she’s been doing the past four years. I’m so buzzing with the anticipation of getting some answers, I can barely sit still.

  I have to talk to her now. Which means I have no choice but to write her a note.

  Grace usually hates when I try to pass notes to her in class. She’s such a stickler for the rules and she’s always so afraid of getting caught by the teacher. But when you’re the only two people in your entire seventh grade without cell phones, you kind of have to get creative. Especially if there’s something you need to say that absolutely can’t wait until the end of the class period. Like right now.

  I quietly rip a page from my notebook and start scribbling.

  OMG! We need to talk. Something CRAZY has happened to me and you’re the only person I can tell!

  “Washington Irving’s short story ‘Rip van Winkle,’ which you all should have read last night, is full of themes,” the teacher, Mr. Heath, is saying passionately, swinging his arms around like a crazed circus performer. “Who can tell us one of them?”

  I fold up the note and subtly lean forward, dropping it over Grace’s shoulder at the exact moment that her hand shoots into the air to answer the teacher’s question. The note ricochets off her elbow and flies back to hit me in the face before dropping into my lap.

  Panicked, I look to the teacher. Thankfully, he doesn’t seem to notice what happened.

  “Yes, Grace?” he says.

  “Nostalgia,” Grace replies knowingly, lowering her hand.

  “Go on,” the teacher prompts.

  “Washington Irving is clearly a nostalgic man who’s very sentimental about the past,” Grace continues. “Rip van Winkle falls asleep for twenty years and returns to his town to discover everything has changed and his wife is dead. This mirrors Washington Irving’s own struggles with being away from home for long stretches of time. It’s simply an exaggerated reflection of his own subconscious and maybe even a projection of his guilt.”

  My mouth falls open. This is the first time I’ve actually heard Grace speak since I woke up in this strange new world. She doesn’t even sound like herself. She sounds so…so…

  Smart!

  I mean, sure, Grace has always been really smart. She gets good grades and studies extremely hard, but she’s never seemed so grown-up before. I actually feel this small twinge of pride for her.

  “Great!” Mr. Heath commends. “Excellent observations, Grace. Who else spotted a theme? J.T.?”

  I turn to see the dark-haired boy who walked me to class lower his hand as he starts talking about the character’s wife.

  Aha! J.T.! His name is J.T.!

  Except that doesn’t help me in the slightest because I don’t know any J.T.s. At least, I don’t think I do. But then why does he look so familiar? Like a memory that’s just out of reach?

  While the teacher’s attention is occupied by J.T.’s answer, I attempt to deliver my note to Grace a second time. I slyly lean over my desk, pretend to yawn so I can extend my hands out, and then drop the folded-up paper over Grace’s left shoulder.

  It lands right in her lap.

  Success!

  She glances down and I feel my stomach coil with excitement as I picture her reading it and writing back, gushing about how she can’t wait to talk to me and let’s meet after class. Or better yet, let’s go to the Human Bean and catch up over lattes!

  But all my coffee-filled fantasies instantly crash to the ground as I watch Grace stuff the note into her backpack on the floor without even reading it. Without even opening it.

  I can’t help feeling a little annoyed. What if I had written something super-important? What if it had been a life-threatening emergency? How could she not even look at it?

  I roll my eyes. Apparently, even at sixteen, Grace is still playing by the rules, afraid of getting caught by the teacher. At least some things haven’t changed much.

  “Adeline?” I nearly jump when I hear my name.

  Uh-oh. I’ve been caught.

  I brave a glance at Mr. Heath, who’s staring expectantly at me.

  “Yes?” I ask, trying to sound innocent.

  “What themes did you notice in ‘Rip van Winkle’?”

  I stare numbly back at him, then at my desk. I don’t even have the story in front of me. It’s probably in my bag, but it’s not like I can start looking for it now, while he’s waiting for me to respond.

  “Um…” I fumble, trying to buy time. I think back to what Grace just said. Something about a guy who fell asleep and woke up twenty years later. Well, I can certainly relate to that! I basically am Rip van Winkle. “Confusion?” I finally say.

  Somewhere in front of me, I hear a mocking snort.

  Was that Grace?

  No. Grace wouldn’t do that. She’s my friend. Why would she mock my answer in front of the whole class? She wouldn’t. Because it most definitely wasn’t her.

  “Interesting,” Mr. Heath says. “What do you mean by that?”

  “Um,” I say again, feeling less and less intelligent by the second. Compared with Grace’s smarty-pants answer, I’m starting to sound like a babbling buffoon. “I just think if someone woke up to find everything in their life changed, they’d be, like, superconfused.”

  Mr. Heath nods, rubbing his chin thoughtfully.

  I go on. “A lot can change in four—um, twenty years. And if you weren’t there to see it happen, you’d wonder what you missed out on. Like when everyone you know has watched the season finale of a TV show and is talking about it the next day, but you had to go to dinner with your parents and missed it.”

  “Tremendous,” Mr. Heath praises, to my relief. “What Adeline has just done is taken the theme of displacement and made it relevant to herself and her peers by comparing it to a modern-day medium like television. Absolutely tremendous.”

  I can’t help but beam. Ha ha! Maybe I’m not so bad at this high school stuff after all.

  Grace’s hand rockets into the air again.

  “Yes, Grace,” the teacher prompts.

  “I disagree. I think she’s completely missed the point.”

  What?

  “How so?” the teacher asks, looking intrigued.

  Without turning around, Grace says, “It sounds to me like Adeline”—she pronounces my name with an unmistakable disgust—“didn’t actually read the story and is just piggybacking off of my answer, adding some vague fluff about television in order to impress everyone.”

  I let out a tiny gasp. What is she doing? Why is she totally putting me down in front of the teacher? In front of the whole class? That’s so un-Grace-like.

  “Did you read the story, Adeline?” Mr. Heath asks, and now everyone is staring at me.

  I’m caught between a hundred different conflicting emotions right now. I can’t decide whether to be angry at Grace for making me look bad or panicked that I actually didn’t read the story and now the teacher will find out.

  I finally just resort to honesty. “No. I’m sorry. I didn’t.”

  The teacher nods. “Well, thank you for your candidness, Adeline. But make sure you have it read for tomorrow so you can participate fully in the discussion. Okay, let’s talk next about Rip van Winkle’s hometown.”

  As he launches into a new discussion topic, I glare at the back of Grace’s head. I can’t believe what she just did. Is she mad at me about something? She can’t still be upset about the slumber party. For her that was four years ago, right? Maybe she’s mad about something else. Maybe we got into a fight recently and I can’t remember it because it’s lost in this annoying memory gap in my mind.

  Whatever it is, I’m going to figure it o
ut.

  When the bell finally rings, signaling the end of what has felt like the longest school day of my life, Grace jumps from her seat and darts out of the classroom like she’s running from a zombie invasion. By the time I stuff my notebook and everything else back into my schoolbag and follow her, she’s halfway down the hallway and I have to sprint to catch up.

  “Hey! Grace! Wait up!” I call, but she doesn’t turn around.

  I run faster so I can jump in front of her, forcing her to stop.

  “What?” she snaps.

  I fight to catch my breath. “What was all that about? Are you mad at me or something?”

  She scoffs at this, like it’s the most absurd idea she’s ever heard. “No, I’m not mad at you.”

  Except the way she says it, she sounds mad.

  “Then why did you say those things in class?”

  “It was an analytical discussion of Irving’s story. I was simply offering a differing point of view.”

  I frown. “Huh?”

  She lets out an impatient sigh. “I have to get to marching-band practice.” Then she tries to step around me, like the conversation is already over.

  But it’s not over for me. I still have so much to talk to her about.

  “Marching band!” I exclaim, my eyes lighting up. “Of course! The trumpet. We play the trumpet. I almost forgot about that!”

  She gives me a baffled look. Like I’m the Loch Ness Monster, finally coming out of the swamp.

  “I’ll walk there with you!” I say, certain that if Grace is in marching band, I must be, too. After all, we started trumpet lessons together when we were seven. And yes, she was always more advanced than me, but I can’t imagine her deciding to join the marching band alone. It sounds like just the kind of thing we would discuss at great length together in the Hideaway—making lists of the pros and cons until the wee hours of the morning as we brainstorm all the possible high school activities to join.

  Grace shakes her head as she lets out a dark laugh that doesn’t sound at all like Grace’s usual high-pitched, cheerful one. “You? In marching band? Now, that would be uproarious.”

  Then she walks off without another word, and I’m left alone in the hallway, wondering what happened to my best friend.

  And wondering what uproarious means.

  I tell Clementine I’m still not feeling that great and ask if she’ll drive my car home. She parks it at the curb in front of her house and waves goodbye, telling me to get some rest so I’ll be ready for tonight.

  Even though I pretend I’m going to drive home from there—getting behind the wheel, buckling my seat belt, and all that—I’m actually still too terrified to try driving again. The most I can bring myself to do is turn the key in the ignition and tap on the gas pedal ever so slightly, moving an inch at a time, until I’m three houses away. So Clementine can’t see my car from her window.

  Then I drop the key in my bag and walk home instead.

  The whole way, I can’t stop thinking about this crazy day and everything that’s happened. It’s the first time I’ve actually had a moment to myself to contemplate it all.

  But no matter how many times I replay the events in my head, one thought always seems to push its way to the front.

  And that’s Grace.

  Why was she so rude to me in class and in the hallway? Why wouldn’t I be in marching band with her? From the day we were born we did practically everything together. Why would high school be any different?

  When I get home, I bound up the front steps and yank on the door handle, but it’s locked. I find this pretty strange because it’s almost never locked. Except at night when we go to sleep.

  I scrounge around in my schoolbag until I find my keys again. Sure enough, there’s another key attached to the chain that I didn’t notice before. I stick it in the lock and turn. The door pops open.

  “Mom!” I call out, slamming the door behind me and dropping my bag on the kitchen table. “I’m home! Mom? Where are you?”

  But only silence follows. Then I remember with a slump that she’s not here. She works now, and I actually have no idea when she’ll be home.

  I almost call out Rory’s name next, until I remember what that J.T. guy told me. Rory is gone, too.

  And suddenly, for some reason, I feel tears welling up in my eyes, threatening to spill over. That is until Buttercup the dog comes barreling down the stairs, jumping up to try to lick my face.

  Well, at least someone is here to greet me when I get home.

  I take the dog into the backyard and run around with her for a few minutes until we’re both tired and winded. Buttercup gulps down half the water in her bowl and I fill a glass from the sink and chug it in a similar fashion. Then Buttercup stares at her futuristic food dish again, like she’s waiting for it to magically fill all by itself.

  “Hungry again?” I ask incredulously.

  How many times a day does a dog eat? As many times as humans?

  I still can’t seem to locate the dog food, so I fill her bowl with cheese puffs and she gobbles them up with the same ferociousness as she showed this morning.

  Gosh, this dog is really passionate about food.

  After she’s finished her snack—which honestly takes about five seconds—I trudge up the stairs to my room. Buttercup follows obediently behind, like a panting shadow.

  Taking a deep breath, I decide to brave my closet again. Fortunately, most of the clothes are already on the floor from when they jumped out and attacked me this morning. With the persistence of a TV crime detective, I start pulling everything down from the shelves, searching for clues. Something that will help me make sense of this insane day.

  Apart from a few knickknacks and old school notebooks, nothing in my entire closet is familiar. The clothes are way cooler, the shoes are three sizes bigger and most of them have heels on the bottom, but most of my stuff is gone. My collection of glass princess figurines is nowhere to be found. My stuffed animals are no longer lining the bottom shelf. And all my board games are missing.

  In fact, there doesn’t seem to be a single trace of my old self left in here.

  Buttercup pushes her way into the closet, nosing through a pile of winter clothes that I haphazardly dumped out in my search.

  “I know,” I tell her, petting her head. “It’s a mess.”

  She sniffs at a pair of polka-dotted fuzzy socks before scooping them into her mouth and happily trotting out of the room.

  “Hey! Bring those back!” I call, but she’s already gone and I’m too tired and defeated to chase after her.

  I drag myself to my desk and open the laptop that’s sitting there. It’s nicer and fancier than the one I used to have. Probably a newer model. It takes me a moment, but I finally locate the Internet browser and open a search page.

  Except I don’t know what to search for.

  It’s not like I can put in, “What happened between me and my best friend?”

  Instead, I search for Rice University, discovering with an acidy taste in my mouth that it’s located in Texas. Two thousand miles away.

  Texas?

  Why would my sister decide to go all the way to Texas?

  And then, for some reason, completely out of nowhere, I get a hopeful suspicion that this entire day has been one big joke. Some kind of prank. My sister isn’t really gone. She’s right there, in the next room, painting her toenails a bright turquoise color or picking out clothes for some big date with Boyfriend of the Week. If I knock on her door, she’ll yell at me and tell me to go away and stop being pervy, just like normal.

  I scoot my chair back and venture down the hallway, tiptoeing as if someone else in the house might hear me. Sneaking into my sister’s room has always required the stealth and dexterity of a first-class spy. But it isn’t until I gently twist the handle and push the door open to find it immaculately clean and depressingly barren that it finally hits me.

  This is real.

  This is my life.

  Rory w
ould never keep her room this clean.

  Shoulders slouched, I step inside, taking this rare opportunity to peek around. She almost never let me in her room before.

  I look under her bed and through her closet and open every drawer, waiting for that feeling of victory to come over me. Waiting for that satisfaction of knowing that I’m finally able to snoop through Rory’s stuff. But it never comes. Because there’s not much left to find anymore. Most of the drawers are empty, apart from a few discarded T-shirts or pajama bottoms that she left behind.

  She’s really gone.

  Even her bulletin board—where she used to hang pictures she took with her friends or boyfriends, or funny comic strips that my dad found for her in the newspaper, or makeup tutorials that she ripped from a magazine—is mostly empty. All that’s left is one lonely picture of her at the Human Bean, posing in a booth with Camilla, one of her best friends.

  And then suddenly, an idea hits me. Honestly, I’m not sure why I didn’t think of it earlier.

  All those pictures that Rory used to pin up were originally taken with her phone….

  I race back down the stairs, Buttercup barking and running after me, thinking I’ve restarted our backyard chase game. I find my schoolbag on the kitchen table and dump out the entire contents until I locate my phone.

  How could I not realize it?

  How could I have been so blind?

  This phone is a time capsule. The answers have been right here the entire time.

  And now, more than ever, I’m determined to find them.

  When I swipe my phone on, I’m bombarded by another attack of texts and alerts. I have twenty new messages in my inbox. Half are from Clementine and the other half are from even more people whose names I don’t recognize.

  Am I really friends with all these people?

  There’s also another reminder not to forget my costume—whatever that means—but I ignore everything, vowing to deal with it later. I have more important things to do right now.