“And what does that have to do with you living with your parents with a picture of Axel Foley on your wall?”
“I don’t know. I guess I just thought . . . I was explaining it to Tina—my sister?”
“Yes, I remember Tina.”
“I was saying, wouldn’t it be great to be able to go back? To be living thirty years ago, but safe in the knowledge that—”
She gasped and put her hand on her mouth, then pointed at me with her other hand.
I nodded.
“Yeah,” I said. “That’s right. I’m a time traveller.”
She began shifting backwards on my bed.
“Listen, listen, I’m not crazy. I know time travel may not be possible. I did a lot of research into building a time machine and I know you probably need a wormhole—which I don’t have.”
Sara was leaning against the wall now.
“So, basically, you move back in with your parents, into your old room, play with your old computer—”
“Yes, yes, I know all that. But I promise you, I’m not crazy.”
“—and you think that by watching old movies and listening to a bit of New Wave you’ll actually be back in the eighties? Don’t you see the obvious flaw?” Sara said, the softness gone from her voice.
I put my head in my hands. “I’m not crazy, okay?”
“I may not be a doctor, Peter, but I think you are nuts; and that’s the technical term for your condition,” Sara said. “Nuts.”
“I’m just getting away from the problems that torment me. Who doesn’t do that?”
“Kind of like an ostrich sticking its head in the sand.”
“That’s a myth. Ostriches don’t do that.”
“Let me rephrase it, then. You have stuck your head where the sun don’t shine.”
“Maybe,” I said. “Maybe I am nuts, but I’m also happier. I’m ignorant. I haven’t got a clue what’s going on in the world, and I’m happy. All I have to worry about is getting the Atlas fixed up,” I said.
Sara said nothing for a moment.
“And what about Jennifer?”
I cleared my throat.
“What about her? She was an important person in my life back in the eighties, and it’s only natural that I’d like to have her in my life.”
“But you haven’t met her?”
“That is correct.”
“And you haven’t even bothered to try to find her?”
“That is also correct.”
“What’s with the movie theatre, then? As far as I can remember, you didn’t own a movie theatre in high school.”
“I still don’t. I rent it. But yes, I improvised that part.”
“And that doesn’t mess with the . . . what’s it called . . . time-space continuation thing?”
I said nothing. I took my head out of my hands and looked at her.
“Sorry,” she said. “It’s just that . . . this is the weirdest thing I’ve ever heard and, somehow, I feel sorry for you.”
“You don’t need to.”
She got up and put on the Norwegian sweater she had taken off when the movie started.
“I have to go home now. Thanks for the movie. It was very funny.”
“Hey, let me at least drive you. I’m not sure if the buses will still be running.”
“Thank you. That’s sweet.”
While I was putting on my shoes by the door, Sara said something about having forgotten her purse in my room. She ran upstairs and came back a moment later.
“Oh, please thank your mother for the sandwiches,” Sara said.
“You’re very welcome, my dear,” Mom shouted from the kitchen.
The evenings had gotten colder, and the Beetle’s windshield was foggy. I wiped the fog off with my hand, enough for me to see through my side of the windshield. Sara had her arms wrapped around herself, as if she was cold, or needed comfort.
I turned the key. The car coughed but wouldn’t catch. I pumped the gas pedal and turned the key again. Nothing.
“Oops,” I said, and tried again.
“Don’t flood it. Easy on the gas there,” Sara said.
“I know, I know.”
I tried again, but the Beetle wouldn’t start. Then Sara wanted to give it a shot. We switched places, but no matter how forcefully she turned the key, the car showed no signs of life.
“Is there another car you can take?” Sara asked me as we got out of the Beetle.
I stole a glance at Dad’s Volvo at the far end of the parking lot. Being from 2014, it didn’t exist yet.
“I’m sorry,” I said to Sara.
She looked at the shiny Volvo, looked at me, and sighed.
“It’s fine,” she said, tapping at her phone. “The buses are still running. I’ll walk to the bus stop.”
We just stood there for a while, looking at each other. Sara shook her head and smiled a little.
“I had fun,” I said. “Will I see you again?”
“Oh, you’ll see me,” Sara said. Then she put her hands in her jacket pockets and headed over to the main road. I watched her disappear behind the neighbour’s house, waiting to see if she’d turn around to see if I was there.
She didn’t.
When I got back inside, Mom was up, watching TV.
“She seemed very nice,” she said. “She reminds me of someone.”
“Yeah, Mom, she is really nice. Demi Moore, maybe? But blonde,” I replied.
“I was thinking of Doris Day.”
I said good night and walked upstairs. I threw the empty bag of chips in the garbage, pulled out my box of comic books from underneath the bed again, and put on the Police’s Synchronicity. That’s when I noticed a small piece of paper on my pillow.
Peter, I don’t understand your time travelling, but I do wish you happiness and hope that you get what you want. Here’s Jennifer’s address.
Sara.
Chapter 36
Words
I GRABBED THE NOTE, got up, and left my room.
My heart was racing.
I had Jennifer’s address.
I hadn’t even looked for it, but there it was, in my hand. It was like it was meant to be . . .
When I saw that Mom had turned off the lights downstairs, I took the first stairs three in one and then slid on the handrail the rest of the way, put on the shoes that were fastest to get into—my flip-flops—and snuck out. I got on my Crescent and pedalled toward town.
A few minutes later, there it was, right in front of me. Jennifer’s building was on the same street as the high school, only farther away from the square, and closer to the sports centre.
I parked my bike against the wall.
Her building was one of a few high-rises in Kumpunotko, and the only one with an elevator. I knew because I had delivered advertising flyers one summer. I tried to open the front door, but it was locked. I pressed my face against the glass door and held my hands close to my eyes to cut the reflections. The hallway was dark, and I couldn’t even see the resident directory.
I walked backwards to the other side of the street, my eye on the few apartments where the lights were still on.
“He had almost given up hope, but he knew deep down that one day, destiny would answer . . .”
I saw the curtains move at one of the windows and my pulse quickened. An angry-looking man stared down at me. I froze, thinking that if I didn’t move he might not see me. But when I looked up he was still there. He pointed two fingers at his own eyes, and then turned those same fingers and pointed at me.
I ran to my bike and rode away.
BACK HOME, I GOT to work on the invitation. I could have rung the doorbell, but that seemed like cheating. And hanging around outside hoping to just “bump into her” seemed more than a bit like stalking, and I didn’t want to send that signal.
What I wanted to send was a beautifully crafted invitation that would convey my feelings in a precise manner, that would surprise her and make her curious. I started in longhand, an
d it took me half an hour just to get a few lines of text on paper. I couldn’t get it right. Part of me still wanted the opening night to be a big reveal, in which Jennifer would realize that I was her destiny. So I wanted to be, at best, vague about the sender.
My first draft was a letter informing Jennifer that she had won two tickets to the show in a random draw, but everybody knows that unsolicited prizes are generally not to be trusted, so I trashed that. In draft two, she had won the tickets as a bonus from a book club (that didn’t exist), but that was even more dubious. Draft number three was an anonymous letter from a “secret admirer,” but that one flew into the garbage can straight away. I pushed the pen and paper away and pulled the Spectrum closer.
It looked at my alarm clock. It was 2 a.m. I heard Dad’s snoring from the other bedroom. I should have been sleeping too, but there was too much nervous energy bubbling inside me, so I played a few games of Thro’ the Wall, then solved another 5 percent of The Hobbit.
I quit the game and started to type something—anything—in an effort to see if I was more creative at a keyboard than with a pen and paper. Before I knew it, though, I had dialled up to “I Wanna Rock!”
Twisted Sister had posted something on the message board.
Out of action for a bit. Please keep it clean here.
I slammed my desk, which made the Spectrum jump; as it landed, the BBS program crashed, and I could see just red, blue, and green pixels on the screen. Worried that I had broken my computer—my precious computer!—I frantically turned it off and on again, and when I saw the familiar grey screen with the 1982 copyright notification, I dialled up the BBS so I could reply to Twisted Sister’s message.
Just then, a chat popped up on the screen.
Hello, I just posted something on the public board but nice to see you here.
Are you okay? I replied. Generally speaking, I was the one on the receiving end of that question, so it felt nice to deflect the concern elsewhere.
Yes, just going on a trip, ha ha. How are things?
I’m trying to write something but can’t get it right.
Write what? A letter? An essay?
A letter.
While I waited for Twisted Sister’s replies, I jotted some notes down, but nothing made sense. I wanted it to be short but not too short, witty but also warm, and mysterious but still crystal clear.
Love letter to a ladybug or a cover letter to a job application?
Neither, I typed reflexively, . . . but maybe closer to a love letter to a ladybug, as you put it.
The next reply took a long time to hit my screen, so I guessed that either Twisted Sister was thinking, and thinking hard, or it was going to be a long message. Or both.
Pinhead, just write down what’s in your heart. Whatever you want to say is in your heart. Just let your fingers dance on that keyboard and let them lead the way. If you really like the ladybug, you have to tell her that. Otherwise, you’ll never get anywhere.
I read the message several times; it took so long that Twisted Sister got tired of waiting for my reply.
Pinhead. I have to go. Good luck.
I looked at the different drafts scattered around my desk. I closed the BBS software and stared at the grey screen. And I did what Twisted Sister had said: I let my fingers dance on the keyboard.
Jennifer,
This is Peter, your friend from high school. I’m back in Kumpunotko and heard that you are too. On October 26, at 9 p.m., I’m reopening the Atlas movie theatre.
I have reserved two seats for you for our special screening of Back to the Future, and I would love to see you there.
It’s been too long since we last spoke.
I first signed it Love, Peter but changed my mind, deleted Love, and wrote Yours, Peter instead.
Then I copied the text onto a blank sheet of paper, by hand, folded it carefully, and put it inside a stamped envelope. Jennifer would get it just in time for the premiere.
Perfect.
Chapter 37
The Final Countdown
TOWARD THE END of Back to the Future, there’s a scene in which Marty McFly almost fades from existence because things he’s done in 1955 directly impact the events that would have led to his birth. But when his (future) parents kiss on the dance floor at the “Enchantment Under the Sea” dance, he comes back to life, with a vengeance.
I was that guy.
Just days earlier I had been ready to throw in the towel, but now I was full of energy, taking care of all the things I should have taken care of days and weeks earlier.
With the letter to Jennifer safely in the inside pocket of my jacket, I rode my Crescent around town. First stop was the post office. The letter was too important to be dropped in a roadside mailbox. I wanted to take it as far into the postal system as possible, preferably handing it to the actual mailman.
I was behind a few people in line. That didn’t stress me out at all. I was calm. I even whistled a few bars of Europe’s “The Final Countdown,” although I had to stop when the man in front of me turned. The frown on his face turned into a smile when he saw that the person whistling into his ear was me.
“Hey, kid, how’s the movie business?” he asked, and slapped me on the shoulder.
It was Erik the electrician, and I felt really pleased to see him. Like he wasn’t just Dad’s friend, he was my friend too.
“When’s the big day?” he asked.
“Wednesday,” I said, a grin on my face.
“Can’t wait. Your dad promised me a few tickets, you know.”
“Oh. Of course, absolutely,” I said, nodding.
“I’m sure you’re in a hurry. You can go before me,” he said, and gestured me forward.
From the post office, I rode straight to the local paper, Kumpunotko’s Sun. It wasn’t a seven-day newspaper, but its Sunday issue was delivered to practically every household in town, and there was no better way to spread the news about the Atlas.
I locked my bike to a No Parking sign and walked into the office. It was in the same building as La Favorita, in a small second-floor office with only two windows, both of which faced the backyard. There was no reception, and no receptionist, but I had barely gotten through the door when a middle-aged lady, about to scurry past me, saw me and stopped in mid-stride.
“Yes?” she said, and smiled.
“I’d like to place an ad in the paper, in Sunday’s issue.”
“This Sunday?”
I nodded.
“Too late, I’m afraid.”
“Too late?”
“Too late. We’ve already sent most of the pages to the printers. Unless you have a print-ready PDF, with crop marks and bleed,” she said.
“Hmm. And there’s no way to get something in the paper? No way?” I said.
She shook her head, sadly.
Right then, a man walked into the room. When he saw me, he, too, stopped.
“Peter?”
He was shorter and fatter, and his hair was in a strange ponytail, but it was definitely him.
“Matti?”
“Hey, how are you doing?” said my old boss, coming over to grab me in an enthusiastic hug. “I heard you were back in town. How’s the Atlas going? And how’s your old man? You take it easy on him, will ya? Oh, and if Rexi starts to boss you around, just tell him you know his big brother.”
“If I see him I will. He’s supposed to be coming to show me how to work the projector.”
“Rexi—a law unto himself.” He turned to the lady. “This guy’s going to reopen the old movie theatre,” he said.
“Interesting,” said the lady. She turned to me. “Why haven’t we written about you? My name is Minna. Can I interview you now?”
“I guess.”
“That way you’ll get your story in Sunday’s paper too. Matti, we can just bump the story about the hockey-playing dogs, right?”
“Sure.”
“Great. Let’s go to the conference room. It’s a little quieter there.”
AN HOUR LATER, having told most of my story to Minna (leaving out the stuff about my miserable life in Helsinki, being a time traveller, hoping to bump into Jennifer, et cetera), I pedalled as hard as I could to get to the Atlas on time to meet the guys who were delivering my new sign. As it turned out, the T had been damaged beyond repair, and it was so old-fashioned that it would have been more expensive to attempt to replace it with something similar than it was to just buy a whole new sign. Even so, it was more expensive than I’d expected. I’d finally braced myself and called the bank to check my balance. It wasn’t looking good, though I wasn’t quite in the red yet. And so I’d allowed myself one little (big) luxury and splashed out on a new sign. I knew Dad was going to be at the theatre, but seeing the sign go up was a moment I didn’t want to miss.
When I closed my eyes and dreamed about the Atlas, seeing the red neon sign glow in the dark was the second thing that came to mind.
Dad and I stood outside, Mom’s sandwiches in our hands, and admired the new neon sign, with its cursive Atlas, going up on top of the canopy.
“Almost there, Peter,” Dad said.
“Almost. Have you talked to Rexi?”
“Haven’t heard from him since the other day.”
“There’s going to be a story in the paper on Sunday,” I told him.
“Excellent. Rexi’s brother runs the paper now.”
“I know. I just saw him. He also told me you had promised Rexi some tickets. And Erik.”
“I did, I did. You don’t mind, do you?”
“No, I don’t mind. I don’t even know how people can book tickets. Except by talking to you, I guess,” I said, and laughed. “I do have the tickets, though. And I’ll buy candy and soda next week.”
“Are you nervous?”
“About the opening? A little bit,” I said, refining Dad’s question so I could tell him the truth. The screening made me a little nervous; thinking about Jennifer showing up plunged me into a pool of anxiety.
“Good. Nerves will make sure you pay attention. Come on, I want to show you something.”
I followed him as he made his way inside, walked up to the cassette player, turned the volume button all the way up, and pressed Play. The theatre echoed with a familiar bass line, shortly followed by a delightful tambourine that opened the door to the singer.
Someday Jennifer Page 23
