“Am I a”—my gag reflexes kick in—“girly girl?”
Okay, calm down.
So what if I wear a little makeup? It’s not the end of the world. If that’s the price I have to pay to go to the Windsor Academy, I’ll take it.
I peer at my frightening reflection again and shudder.
Maybe a little makeup isn’t such a bad idea.
I sigh and start dabbing some of the skin-perfecting hydrating cover-up on my face, concentrating on the dark shadows. Then I add some mascara, a little eyeliner (nearly poking my eyeball in the process), and some lip gloss.
When I brave another glance in the mirror, there’s been some improvement, but the sight of my pale face still kind of terrifies me. I locate some kind of brownish powder and sprinkle it on with a brush. It brings a little color back to my skin.
Much better.
After I get dressed, I blow-dry my hair and grab my schoolbag, noticing again the name stitched right into the fabric.
KENNEDY “CRUSHER” RHODES
As I head down the hall, I stop at Frankie’s room. He’s at his desk, hunched over his notebook, his tongue hanging out the side of his mouth as he scribbles.
“Frankie?”
He doesn’t look up. “Yeah?”
“Why does Sequoia call me Crusher?”
“Everyone at Windsor calls you Crusher,” he replies absently.
“Why?”
“Because you crush everything you do. You’re kind of a superstar over there.”
I feel a giddy jolt of electricity run through me.
A superstar? At the Windsor Academy? Me?
I bite my lip to stifle the goofy grin that threatens to take over my entire face. This just keeps getting better and better!
“Why?” Frankie asks, his head suddenly popping up. “Do people not call you Crusher in your old life? What do they call you? What do they call me? Is my name even still Frankie? Am I still a physicist?” He gasps. “What if I’m something else? Something boring like a geologist!”
“Have a great day!” I say, as I continue down the hallway.
“Wait!” Frankie calls after me, appearing in the doorway.
I grudgingly turn around. “What?”
“What is different about me?”
I squint at him. “What do you mean?”
“I mean, the multiverse is a complicated place. Everything is interconnected. Even things you may not realize are connected. You pull one string and suddenly half of your life has changed. So what’s different about me?”
I give him a quick once-over, taking in the galaxy pajamas he put on the moment he got home from school yesterday, his hair that always seems to look like he’s been electrocuted no matter how many times he brushes it, and the tiny bits of toothpaste crusted to the corner of his mouth. Then I shrug. “Nothing. Nothing is different about you.”
He sighs impatiently. “Look closer, Kennedy. There’s got to be something.”
I shake my head. “There isn’t. You look exactly the same.”
“Fine,” he says, gesturing behind him. “Look at my room.”
I groan. “Frankie. I don’t have time for this. I have to—”
“Just look!” he commands.
I follow him into his bedroom and glance around at the same Stephen Hawking and Michio Kaku posters on the wall, the same deep space wall decals and comforter, his telescope near the window pointed toward Saturn (his favorite planet), even the same balled-up papers littered around the trash can from when he got frustrated with whatever he was drawing and missed the bin.
“The same,” I pronounce.
“Look carefully.”
“Frankie,” I reply, irritated, “I’m telling you, there’s nothing different about you or your room.”
“Everything is a variable!” he practically shouts. “What about my bookshelf?”
I turn and scan the shelves filled with titles written by both famous and unknown physicists and his collection of Scientific American magazines. “Same.”
“What about the calendar on my wall?”
I glance at it, recognizing it immediately. “Each month features a moon from another planet? Yeah, that’s the same, too.”
Frankie looks stumped. He spins in a circle, examining his room with the scrutiny of a forensic investigator. Then, as his gaze lands on his desk, his face lights up. “My board game! I bet I wasn’t making my own board game in your other life.”
“What’s the Matter?” I ask indignantly.
He slumps. “Oh.” He grabs the notebook from his desk and scowls at it. Then he sits down and resumes his mad scribbling.
“Good luck, buddy,” I say with a chuckle, ruffling his hair.
As soon as I get downstairs, I cringe when I notice again how unusually messy the house is. I peer over at the basement door. It’s still closed, which is weird because it was closed when I went to bed last night. I came downstairs to say good night to my parents and Dad was still in there.
Did he work all night?
I take out my phone and send him a quick text message.
Me: Everything going okay?
Surprisingly he writes back right away.
Dad: Yup. Working hard as always!
Wow. That must have been some order from the gallery owner.
He’s not going to be happy when he finally emerges to find the house in shambles. I make a mental note to straighten up when I get home from school today so he doesn’t have to deal with it.
My phone dings again and I glance at the screen.
Dad: Sorry I won’t be able to make it tonight. Have a great time!
I stare vacantly at the phone.
What’s tonight?
I’m just about to check my calendar app when I hear a horn honk outside. I glance out the window to see Sequoia’s white BMW idling in the drive. With a giddy yip, I check my full-length reflection in the hall mirror, sucking in a sharp breath.
The uniform and the hair and the makeup and the bag with my name stitched onto the side. It’s all just too good to be true!
If I am trapped in a strange coma dream, I apologize to everyone gathered around my bedside, praying for me to wake up. Because I really hope I never do.
I give the sleeves of my blazer a firm tug and head out the front door, ready and eager to start my new (and improved) life.
If I Take Twenty-Two Selfies
Driving through the gates of the Windsor Academy in Sequoia’s car is like driving into a fairy tale in a horse-drawn carriage. I swear I hear music playing and angels singing, and when I look up at the sky the clouds appear to part.
The whole way here Sequoia has been chatting about arrangements for some party. I have no idea what she’s talking about, and to be honest, I haven’t really been listening. I’ve been far too focused on the absolutely outrageous notion that I’m actually going to the Windsor Academy! I’m going to sit in those amazing classrooms and study in that gorgeous student union and listen to some of the most prestigious teachers in the country speak.
Sequoia parks the car and checks her reflection in the visor mirror. Meanwhile, I can’t stop staring at this incredible tree that we’ve just parked under. I crane my neck to see it in all its glory through the front windshield. It must be the most beautiful Spanish oak tree I’ve ever seen! It’s so massive and majestic and the leaves are the most vibrant shade of autumn yellow. Even the trees on this campus are superior.
“Crusher,” Sequoia says with a tinge of annoyance, and I realize she must have been talking but I have absolutely no idea what she said.
“Huh?”
She peers out the windshield. “What are you looking at?”
“This tree,” I say wistfully. “It’s…”
But before I can even find a word worthy of its magnificence, Sequoia lets out a weird squeaking noise and quickly slams the gearshift into Reverse. “Ugh, you’re right! It’s going to shed all over the hood of my car.”
She backs out of her spot and pulls into another
one three spaces down.
“Much better,” she says, putting the car back into Park.
I open the door and step onto the asphalt, feeling like I’m stepping onto white fluffy clouds. I glance around the parking lot, taking in the trees, the buildings, the sprawling green lawns. I couldn’t see any of it yesterday because I was in too much shock. But now I see all of it. Every brick in every building. Every lamppost lining every walkway. Every spectacular blade of grass.
I let out a deep sigh. Is this what it feels like to die and go to heaven?
“Are you okay?” Sequoia says, approaching me cautiously like she’s afraid I might explode. “You’re acting really weird.”
I glance at my best friend, giving her a once-over. From the top of her shiny auburn hair to the bottom of her standard black Windsor Academy loafers.
She subconsciously touches her face. “What? Do I have toothpaste on my cheek or something?”
I’ve dreamed of this moment for so long. I’ve pictured myself in this very spot, standing next to CoyCoy55, ready to walk those pathways and strut through the halls of those buildings, and now the moment is finally here.
“Crusher, you’re scaring me,” Sequoia says. “What’s going on?”
I should tell her the truth. After all, she’s my best friend. I have the SnipPic feed to prove it. She would understand, wouldn’t she?
“Sequoia,” I begin pensively, shifting my schoolbag up my shoulder. “Have you ever made a choice that you’ve regretted?”
She looks at me like I’m deranged. “Um, only every single day, why?”
“No, I mean like a really big decision. Something that changed the course of your whole life.”
She nods once, her face turning ashen. “Yes.”
“What if you could go back and do that decision over again? Would you do it?”
Sequoia stares at me for a long moment. Her bottom lip starts to tremble, and then, out of nowhere, she bursts into tears.
I stand in stunned silence for a moment before rushing to put my arm around her shaking shoulders. “Hey, hey. It’s okay. Don’t cry.”
“I already told you I regretted going to my sister’s piano recital instead of studying for that French midterm. I don’t need you to rub it in more!” She’s crying so hard, I’m barely able to comprehend the words coming out of her mouth. “You said you thought it would be okay. Even though I dropped four spots! Four whole spots! Because of that stupid Steven Lamar!”
“Whoa, whoa,” I say, panicking. I have no idea what she’s talking about. “Slow down. It’s going to be fine.”
“Do you think Harvard will notice? Do you think it will cost me my admission?”
“No!” I rush to say. “No. I’m sure it’ll be fine. I’m sorry I brought it up.”
She sniffles and wipes her eyes, taking a huge shuddering breath.
Okay, so maybe trying to tell Sequoia the truth was not the right move. I think I should probably keep this whole universe-hopping thing—or whatever it is—to myself.
Sequoia pulls a compact out of her bag and wipes the smudges of eye makeup from her face. When she clicks the compact shut, it’s like a switch has been flipped. The transformation is startling. One second she was a blubbering sack of tears and now it’s like it never even happened.
She refreshes her smile. “Let’s take a selfie.”
I gape at her, unsure of how to respond. I don’t want to say anything that might set her off again. “Are you sure? We don’t have to.”
She rolls her eyes at me. “I know we don’t have to. I want to.”
“Okay,” I say hesitantly.
I follow Sequoia to the front of Royce Hall and we pose with the grand staircase in the background.
“What’s the caption?” I ask.
“What do you mean?”
“The challenge. The Caption Challenge. Don’t we always do a funny…” But my voice trails off when I see the look on Sequoia’s face. Her skin has turned a ghostly white color and she looks like she’s about to start crying again.
“Let’s just take the picture,” she snaps, startling me.
Um. What was that about?
I smile when Sequoia extends her phone out and takes the photo. She shows it to me for approval.
“Cute!” I say, trying to keep my voice light and airy so she doesn’t spontaneously combust into tears again.
But when she looks at it, she scowls. “The angle isn’t right. Let’s do it again.”
“Okay,” I agree, and get back into position. We stand shoulder to shoulder, smiling into the camera as Sequoia positions the phone high above our heads, tilting it this way and that to frame Royce Hall perfectly behind us. She clicks and rotates it around to check the results.
“Even better!” I rave.
She jabs the inside of her cheek with her tongue. “There’s a weird shadow on our faces.” She turns the camera back around and I resume my stance next to her.
“Turn your face to the left,” she instructs me, and I do. “No, too much to the left. And don’t do that weird thing with your face. It’s making the wrinkle between your eyes more pronounced.”
I have a wrinkle between my eyes?
“What am I doing with my face?” I ask, trying to relax my forehead.
“You’re smiling too hard. Make it look more natural.”
“But this is my natural smile.”
“No. Do your Crusher smile.”
What does my Crusher smile look like?
I try to relax my face a bit as Sequoia aims the camera. “Yeah,” she encourages, “like that. Now raise your chin up. And tilt your shoulders toward me.”
My mouth is starting to hurt from all the smiling, but I do what she asks. She angles the phone a few more times before finally snapping the picture. I feel my body collapse afterward, like I just ran a marathon.
“Good?” I ask as she examines the photo.
She bites her lip and I cringe. Is she really going to make us take that again? Does she do this with every selfie?
“I think we need wind,” Sequoia says. “The whole thing will come together if wind is blowing through our hair.”
“Wind,” I repeat dubiously. “So we’re just supposed to wait around until—”
Right then, on cue, a light breeze blows through the campus and Sequoia squeals, “Quick! Get into place.”
I resume my position and try to duplicate the last smile. She clicks the photo just as the breeze brushes past us, blowing our hair back from our faces.
I hold my breath as she studies the latest attempt.
“I guess it’ll do.” She subsides, and begins tapping at the screen. “Tagged.”
I hear my phone chirp and I pull it out of my bag to look at the final result. I admit, I still look pretty tired, even with the pounds of concealer. Sequoia, on the other hand, looks flawless. Not a smear of makeup, not a single tearstain. No one would ever be able to tell that a few minutes ago she was bawling her eyes out.
But as my gaze drifts down to the caption, I’m instantly able to forget about Sequoia’s mini-meltdown as my excitement level rises again.
Game faces on. Getting ready to tackle another day at the W.A.!
#LoveMyLife
That hashtag has never felt more appropriate.
If My Laptop Attacks Me
The minute Sequoia and I walk into the student union, I have to choke back the sob that rises in my throat and the tears of joy that well up in my eyes. It’s just like I always imagined. No, better than I imagined. The floor-to-ceiling windows, the massive round pendant lights hanging from the rafters, the chic blue and silver decor (to match the school colors). There’s even a rec room with a Ping-Pong table, and a store selling Windsor Academy–monogrammed everything!
Sequoia heads straight for the café along the back wall. It’s cafeteria style and she grabs a tray and slides it along the metal poles. I watch her closely, figuring my best bet is to follow her every move so I don’t mess anything up.
“Egg white and spinach frittata,” she tells the woman behind the counter.
“The same,” I say quickly, while inside my head, I’m screaming, They serve egg-white frittatas here?!
The Southwest High cafeteria only sells prepackaged muffins and stale bagels for breakfast. This is too cool.
As the woman prepares our meal, I glance around the rest of the café. They have a hot and cold cereal station with every oatmeal topping you could imagine, a toast station with like a hundred different kinds of bread and jam, a waffle station with real maple syrup and fresh berries, and even a juice station with a push-button juicing machine.
This is like eating breakfast in a five-star hotel!
The woman hands us our plates of food and Sequoia pushes her tray down to the beverage station and orders us two double cappuccinos with extra foam.
“Actually,” I tell the barista behind the counter, “I’ll have a chai tea.”
For a moment, I think Sequoia’s eyes might bug right out of her head. “You’re having tea?”
I can tell instantly that I said the wrong thing. “Uh, yeah.”
“But you always have a double cappuccino in the morning.”
I try to control my gag reflexes. Coffee? Gross! There’s no way I’m drinking that. I’ll throw up all over my beautiful uniform.
“I thought I’d try something new today,” I say, attempting to sound nonchalant.
Sequoia continues to gape at me like I’ve suddenly grown a third arm. “B-b-but,” she stammers, “how will you make it through AP chem without a cappuccino?”
Jeez, by the sound of her voice, you would think I told her I was skipping oxygen.
“I think I’ll manage,” I say confidently.
The barista delivers our drinks and I scan the café for a place to pay, but Sequoia prances off with her tray, heading into the main seating area of the student union.
Is this included with our tuition?
I follow Sequoia and watch her plop down at a table and pull her laptop out of her bag. She turns it on and begins typing furiously, taking short breaks only to shovel forkfuls of frittata into her mouth and guzzle sips of her cappuccino.
She really wastes no time getting started with the studying, does she?
In Some Other Life: A Novel Page 10
