He continues to stare at the small scrap of paper with the handwritten phone number on it. I nudge it toward him and he eventually takes it, accidentally dropping the stack of mail under his arm in the process.
The letters fan out across the floor. One larger envelope peeks out from the pile and I freeze when I see the logo on the top left corner.
Columbia University.
The blood in my veins congeals as I slowly bend down to pick it up.
“Dad,” I say uneasily. “What day is it?”
“Thursday,” he replies absentmindedly, still hung up on the fact that I basically just handed him the artistic break of his career.
“No, I mean, the date.”
“December 15,” he says. “Why?”
December 15. Oh my God. This is it. This is what I’ve been waiting for. Early decision letters. I’ve been so preoccupied with everything else going on around here, I completely lost track of the date.
Dad leans in to see what I’m holding and I can feel him stiffen beside me. “It’s big,” he remarks.
I run my fingers around the edge of the envelope. He’s right. It is big. Which usually means good news.
“Well,” he says, nudging me excitedly. “Aren’t you going to open it?”
“I’m scared,” I say, turning to face him. My heart is pounding in my chest. This was it. This was everything I’d been waiting for. Everything I’d worked for. For the past three and a half years, this had been the goal. The finish line. The destination.
“You got in,” Dad assures me. “With all of your accomplishments and your GPA at the Windsor Academy, there’s no way they’d reject you.”
Unless they knew the truth, I think bitterly.
“Open it!” Dad urges.
With trembling fingers, I slowly peel away at the top of the envelope, feeling my breath grow heavy with each passing second. I reach into the open slit and pull out a single sheet of paper.
I turn it around so I can read the words.
All I need to see is the first one.
Congratulations!
My knees go weak. All the blood rushes out of my head. And then, just before my legs give out from under me, I swear I feel something pass through me. Like an energy. A spirit. The ghost of everything that I could be and won’t ever become.
And then, I’m falling.
Falling through time.
Falling through space.
Falling onto the hard cement floor of the basement.
Then Lightning Strikes Twice
When I come to, my head is throbbing and sore. I open my eyes to see my dad kneeling over me. “Kennedy!” he says. “Can you hear me? Oh my God, you scared the bejeezus out of me!”
I touch the back of my head. It’s tender but not bleeding. I struggle to sit up. The room spins. I put my hands on the floor to steady myself, feeling the soft fuzzy rug beneath me. I rub it with my fingertips.
This rug wasn’t here a second ago … was it?
No, I’ve been sweeping the floor all afternoon. I would have remembered a rug. There hasn’t been a rug down here since …
I scan the room, taking in the towering lights, the stacks of photography backdrops, a desk with a computer on it. A shelf with a single camera positioned in the middle.
Almost like a shrine …
“What happened?” I ask dazedly. “Where am I?”
“You’re in my studio,” Dad says.
His studio.
But I was still working on his studio. It wasn’t done yet.
“I have no idea what happened,” Dad goes on. “You ran down here to show me the envelope. Then you opened it and the next thing I knew, you were dropping like a dead horse.”
I ran down here?
No. I was already down here. He’s the one who ran down here. He’s getting the details mixed up.
I try to stand. Dad jumps to his feet to help me. I glance around the basement again, searching for the dusty boxes and Mom’s treadmill. But they’re all gone.
“You were working down here?” I confirm.
“Yes. Been at it for weeks. I think I finally got enough pictures to fill the gallery order. I’ll tell you, being successful is hard work.” He chortles to himself.
“Where’s my phone?” I demand, spinning in a circle. “I need to see my phone!”
Dad startles at my outburst. “It’s in your pocket.”
I feel around my jeans and pull out the device from my back pocket, letting out a tiny gasp. My newspaper-print case. It’s back. I touch it curiously before turning on the phone and navigating to my SnipPic app.
The first picture on my feed is from CoyCoy55. She’s wearing her Windsor uniform, posing in her kitchen. She’s holding up an acceptance letter from Harvard. And standing right next to her, also in a uniform, holding an Ivy League acceptance letter of her own, is Lucinda Wallace.
I’d recognize her anywhere.
But I check the caption just in case.
Maintaining the Ivy League quota for Windsor! Early decision letters are in! (With @Luce_the_Goose)
“Well,” Dad says, nudging me. “Don’t keep me in suspense. What did the letter say? Did you get in or not?”
“What?” I peer around the room before finally spotting a piece of paper lying on the rug. It must have slipped from my hand when I fainted. I bend down and scoop it up, turning it around again so I can see the front page. Just under the Columbia seal, it says:
Dear Ms. Rhodes,
Congratulations!
“I got in,” I say numbly. “I can’t believe it.”
Dad lets out a whoop, picks me up, and twirls me around. Just like he did to Mom at his gallery opening. In that other life.
Or was it another life?
This is Dad’s old studio. This is my old phone case. Lucinda is still a Windsor Academy student. I glance down at my clothes and notice that I’m wearing Dad’s brown leather jacket again. I touch my hair, feeling my same old braid.
A jolt of electricity travels through me.
“Dad!” I say urgently. “What is your job?”
He squints. “Huh?”
“Just tell me what your job is!”
He guffaws and gestures to his wrinkled T-shirt, which reads, “I flash people for a living.”
I feel my pulse start to race. “Who do you work for?”
“Kennedy, what’s gotten into you?”
“Just answer the question!”
He puts his hands up like he’s surrendering to the police. “Easy there, cowboy. I work for myself.”
A shiver runs down my arms. “And what school do I go to?”
“Is this a game?” Dad asks. “Or did you really bonk your head that hard?”
I give him a pleading look. He sighs. “Fine. You go to Southwest High.”
“You mean, as of today?” I confirm.
He scrunches up his face. “No. As of … always. What’s going on?”
Frankie said it was impossible, but I did it. I made it back. I created another overlap. The exact same event occurring at the exact same moment in time.
I stare down at the piece of paper still gripped tightly in my hands.
Dear Ms. Rhodes,
Congratulations! We are pleased to offer you admission to the class of …
It was the acceptance letter. That was it.
I really did accomplish the impossible.
I got into Columbia in both lives.
Then I Freak Out Frankie
I stare speechlessly at the letter in my hand. How did this happen? How could I have possibly gotten in? I bombed my alumni interview. I totally freaked out in that woman’s living room. They never should have let me in.
But a moment later, my thoughts are interrupted as my phone vibrates in my hand and I jump, staring down at the new text message on the screen.
Mia: Where are you? The whole staff is waiting! Chief, we’re dying here!
Mia? Who’s …
Oh my God! Mia Graham. My featu
res editor at the Southwest Star.
I really am back!
I glance at the clock on the phone. It’s 4:50 p.m. What am I doing here? I should be there right now. I should be in my newspaper office with my staff.
I let out a giddy yelp and run for the basement stairs. “Dad! I gotta go. Can I borrow your car?”
He frowns. “What’s wrong with your car?”
“Oh yeah!” I exclaim. “I have a car again!”
I bound up the steps and find my schoolbag hanging from a chair at the table. I rifle around inside until I locate my car keys. I smile when I see the familiar Columbia University key chain and run my fingers affectionately over the metal.
“Hey,” Frankie says, running into the kitchen. “You’re here. I have great news!”
“Frankie!” I yell, pulling him into a hug.
He backs away. “What’s with you?”
“Nothing.”
He gives me the strangest look. “I think I figured out how to fix my game. To make it way simpler.”
“Let me guess. You’re going to build an Antimatter Tower to counteract all the matter?”
His mouth falls open. “How did you know?”
I grin. “I’ll explain it to you later.” I clutch my car keys, swing my old schoolbag over my shoulder, and head for the garage.
“Um, are you sure you’re feeling okay to drive?” Dad asks, appearing at the top of the basement stairs.
“I’ve never felt better,” I announce.
“She’s acting weird,” Frankie says.
“And you’re acting exactly the same!” I say with a laugh, reaching out to ruffle his hair, but he dodges me just in time.
“Someday I’ll understand my own offspring,” Dad mutters, shaking his head.
I walk up to him and kiss him on the cheek. “It’s good to have you back, Dad.”
“Did I go somewhere?”
I smile and wrap my arms around him, squeezing as tightly as I can. “No. But I did,” I whisper into his chest.
Dad pulls me back to give me another quizzical look. “Hey. I’m the photographer. I’m supposed to be the weird one.”
I laugh. “What can I say? It must be genetic.”
Then I Remember Myself
“Woody!” I exclaim, plopping down in the front seat of my car and running my fingers over the newsprint-wrapped steering wheel. I lean forward and kiss the dashboard. “I missed you.”
I turn the key in the ignition and Woody hums to life. With a huge grin, I shift into Reverse and back out of the garage.
A few minutes later, I zoom into the parking lot of Southwest High, park in a spot near the front, and dash through the front doors, the familiar smells hitting me all at once.
Ahhh. There’s that mix of sweat and beef Bolognese that I missed so much.
I dart up the stairs and head toward room 212. But as soon as I round the corner and see the display case in the distance, I have to stop. With my heart hammering in my chest, I inch toward the glass.
When I see the flash of gold, I start running again. Running until I reach them. Until I can see them in all their glory. Our three Spartan Press Awards, lined up like goddess soldiers going into battle.
As I press my nose to the glass and stare at those beautiful statues, my heart swells to the size of a blimp inside my chest.
It’s real. I truly am back.
I glance to the left of the case where we always keep a metal stand with copies of our latest issue for students to take. I recognize the new layout immediately. I spent weeks perfecting that layout.
It’s the issue we put to bed right before I hit my head on the steps of the Windsor Academy. Our latest achievement. I reach for the paper and run my fingertips across the soft, silky newsprint. I missed this feeling so much. The butterflies. The blood pumping on high speed. The tingling in my muscles.
It came every single month.
With every single newspaper we printed.
It never got old. It never faded. I could always count on that high. Like an addict.
Like an artist.
I flip through the pages, skimming all the familiar sections and articles that I edited and approved, remembering every hour I logged in that office to put this issue together. Every single skipped heartbeat when I thought that a story wouldn’t be finished in time. Every single roll of my stomach when I found a last-minute typo. Every single molecule of air that I breathed out when I handed the drive over to Eric at the printer’s office.
It’s all buried inside this issue. Every emotion. Every high and low. They’re written into these very pages.
When I flip to the end, I stop and peer down at the little box in the bottom left corner. Tears fill my eyes as I read the names of the newspaper staff.
Delaney Patel—News Editor
Mia Graham—Features Editor
Ethan Rice—Photo Editor
Ana Perez—Sports Editor
But it isn’t until I see my own name that the tears start to fall.
Kennedy Rhodes—Editor in Chief
I’ve never been prouder to see my name on anything.
Not on an acceptance letter to Columbia.
Not on a fancy navy blue computer.
Not on a Windsor Academy student record.
This is where my name belongs. This is where I belong. At the newspaper I built. At the newspaper I saved. At the newspaper that saved me.
Just then, I’m distracted by the sound of distant chatter and I glance over to see that the door to the newspaper office is propped open. I recognize the familiar sounds flooding into the hallway. A little bit of laughter. A little bit of harmless bickering. A few stressful sighs. But always an underlying spirit of camaraderie and dedication. A group of people who have devoted their days and nights and boundless talent to something that they love.
And Horace.
I take two steps toward the door, suck in a huge breath, and come home.
Then the Second Miracle Arrives
The moment I walk through the door, everyone stops and looks at me. Mia pushes her way to the front. “So?”
“So what?” I ask, not quite understanding what she’s referring to.
She groans. “Don’t do that to us, Chief. That is so not funny.”
I glance around the room at my staff. My amazing, wonderful, talented staff. I want to hug all of them. But they’re staring at me like relatives in a hospital lobby, waiting for me to announce whether someone has lived or died.
Well, everyone except Horace, who’s hunched over his computer, playing his game.
I scan the room, taking in each and every one of their faces. Until my gaze lands on Laney and my breath catches in my throat. She’s sitting way in the back of the room and she’ll barely meet my eye.
I don’t know why everyone is staring at me like that, but first things first.
“Laney,” I say in the gentlest voice I have. “Can I talk to you outside for a minute?”
“Oh God,” Mia says, collapsing into a chair. “It’s bad. It’s bad news.”
Laney tentatively rises to her feet, looking nervous. She follows me into the hallway and I close the door behind her.
“I have to talk to you about something,” I say.
Laney’s eyes dart left and right, like she’s looking for witnesses. There’s actually fear in her eyes as she asks, “Is it about the newspaper?”
“No, it’s about us.”
“Us?” she repeats, like she’s never heard the word before.
“Yes.”
She looks completely distrustful. “You’ve barely said two words to me in a month and now you want to talk about us?”
I let out a relenting sigh. So I’ve been ignoring her this whole time. I assumed as much. I was so angry at her, I was so blinded by that anger I could barely see straight. Whatever version of myself I left behind—whoever has been living this life, walking these halls, manning this paper for the past month—had no reason to forgive her. But I’m not tha
t person anymore.
I’m not the Kennedy Rhodes who chose Austin. And I’m not the Kennedy Rhodes who chose Windsor.
I’m somewhere in between.
I’m some combination of the two.
And this new version of me wants her best friend back.
“I just wanted to tell you that I’m happy for you.” I swallow. “And Austin.”
She squints at me like I’m out of focus. “Is this a joke?”
I shake my head. “I’ve had some time to think about everything. And I realize that you two belong together. He and I were never meant to be. I know that now.”
“But…” she begins to argue. “I was a terrible friend to you. I never should have done what I did.”
I shake my head. “No. I was the bad friend. I was never there for you. And I want to be better. I want to fix this. Do you think we can do that? Do you think we can be friends again?”
Laney looks like she’s about to say something, but just then we’re distracted by the sound of yelling. “Ow! Get off my foot!”
Laney and I both look over to see practically the entire newspaper staff pressed against the window in the door, trying to hear what we’re saying.
She laughs. “Everyone’s been waiting for you to get back.”
“Back?”
“Yeah, you went home to check the mail, remember.” Her eyes suddenly light up. “Oh, wait! Did you get in?”
I beam. “Yeah!”
“That’s incredible!” She leaps forward to hug me. It’s not hesitant or cautious. She doesn’t hold anything back. She hugs me like she used to hug me. When she was congratulating me. When she was comforting me. When she was supporting me. The way I need to start supporting her.
It feels so good. And in that moment, I know that her answer is yes.
We can fix this.
We can be friends again.
I laugh. “Yeah, it’s incredible, all right. Especially since I totally bombed my alumni interview.”
Laney swats this away with her hand. “I’m sure you didn’t bomb it. I’m sure you did better than you thought. Columbia was probably so impressed by you, the interview didn’t even matter! You probably could have kicked the interviewer in the balls and still gotten in!”
In Some Other Life: A Novel Page 30
