by Robin Palmer
“I have to stop at the radio station,” I replied. “I’m . . . doing some early campaigning for next election.”
“But what about the Go Greeners?”
“Right. I forgot about them.” I sighed. If I really was class president, I needed to tend to all my constituents, even the ones who I hadn’t known existed up until a half hour ago. “Give me ten minutes, and I’ll meet you in the cafeteria.”
I slammed the door and tripped my way up to the front of the station before flinging open the door. “Jonah, you’re never going to believe—” I started to announce. I squinted. “What is that on your face?” It looked like someone had taken a Magic Marker and made squiggles on his chin.
He reached up. “My goatee?”
Not only that, but he had a black fedora on his head. This was a whole other look for him. It wasn’t a bad look. It was just . . . weird.
Nerdy Wayne was next to him, looking at me like I had three heads. Nerdy Wayne turned to Jonah. “That’s not really . . .”
“Zoe Brenner?” Jonah continued. “Yeah. I think it is.”
“But . . . why is she talking to us?” Wayne asked, confused.
It was then that it hit me. If this was really 2016, and I was really this version of me rather than the real version of me, then Jonah and I weren’t best friends. We probably weren’t even friends. The thought of which made my eyes start to get all teary before I bit the inside of my cheek to stop them. I cleared my throat. “I’m here to talk to you today because, uh, as class president, I’m trying to spend as much time as possible getting to know the various cliques in school, and, uh, I thought that getting to know the radio guys—”
“Radio people,” Nerdy Wayne corrected. “You’re forgetting about Montana.”
“We live in California.”
“Montana’s a girl,” Jonah explained. “You know her. She’s the one whose haircut you’re always tweeting about how much you hate.”
“Montana Russo?” I asked, confused. Why would I say stuff about her hair? Her hair was normal.
“Yeah.” He tried to keep his voice neutral, but his voice was frosty.
Andrea used to make fun of my hair. Wait—so did that mean—
“So . . . you and Montana . . . you’re friends?” I asked as nonchalantly as I could. Jonah put his finger up and pointed to the On Air sign. “And now—from their debut album, we have Arcade Fire’s ‘Wake Up.’”
“Why aren’t you playing any Echo and the Bunnymen?” I asked.
He gave me a look. “Aren’t they from, like, the eighties?”
Oh boy. This was going to be harder than I thought.
“He and Montana aren’t just friends—they’re best friends,” Nerdy Wayne replied.
The tears were threatening to come back. “Right. Well, that’s great. And it’s been terrific getting to know you guys a little better, but I just remembered there’s somewhere I need to be,” I said quickly as I made my way to the door and got out as fast as I could.
I was walking toward the main building, both surprised and a little freaked-out about the amount of greetings I was getting from people, when I heard someone calling “Babe! Babe!” And then finally “Zoe!”
I turned to see Brad, in a baby blue Izod and jeans, coming from the parking lot. How was it that everyone in 2016 was wearing different clothes except for him? Talk about a time warp. And not in a good way.
I tried not to flinch as he put his arm around me and leaned in to kiss me on the cheek. “Hey, babe.”
“Well, hi . . . babe,” I managed to get out. He smelled like Drakkar Noir–scented breakfast burritos. “Gag me with a spoon,” I mumbled under my breath.
“Huh?” he asked, confused.
“Nothing.”
As he leaned in toward me, I leaned to the side. It was one thing to pretend to be this version of me, but pretending to be Brad’s girlfriend was definitely not going to be easy, especially because I had never had a boyfriend.
“You were right—this shirt does look awesome on me,” he said. “I’m so glad you picked it out for me.” He kissed me on the cheek. “I have the most awesome girlfriend ever.”
As I got another whiff of the Drakkar Noir burrito scent, my eyes widened. I knew that smell! I had smelled it the day before, at Terri’s store! All at once it came back to me—how he had walked in looking for the video game store; the way I choked on the Fun Dip stick; his offer to perform mouth to mouth. . . .
Oh my God. His mouth had been on mine! Had we kissed?! I couldn’t remember. It was after that that I had passed out. So it was something about that kiss that had put me in 2016. As we got to the main building I saw Andrea standing on top of the steps, her eyes lighting up when she saw Brad.
“Hey, Zoe! Oh hey, Brad,” she said hopefully.
“Hey,” he said back.
“That shirt looks awesome on you,” she went on. “It totally makes the blue of your eyes that much bluer.”
Brad moved back and forth in front of a locker to try to get a glimpse of his reflection. “It does, doesn’t it?”
Andrea turned to me. “They’re all in the cafeteria waiting,” she said. “And I just need to warn you—they seem to be on the militant side.”
“Really? Cool!” I said excitedly as Andrea gave me a weird look. I turned to Brad. “Time to go effect some change!”
“Is this when you bring up your idea about heated floors in the locker rooms?” he asked.
“Now that’s a dumb idea,” I replied.
“It is? When you came up with it last week, you said, ‘This might be my most brilliant idea ever.’”
Oh boy. Dealing with myself was not going to be easy. “Yeah, well, I changed my mind. I’ll see you later.”
As he leaned in for a kiss, I swiveled my head at the last minute so he missed my lips. With my luck, if he kissed me again, I’d end up in 1683.
As Andrea and I made our way down the hall, I found myself being treated like royalty, to the point where I could have sworn Laura Preston curtsied when I walked by.
“Okay, this is freaking me out,” I muttered. I was so not used to being social that I kept hitting myself in the head with my hand as I waved at them.
“What is?” asked Andrea. “The fact that you only now realized that you wore that dress two and a half weeks ago?”
Seriously? I had that many clothes that I was able to that? “Yeah, well, this is a new me,” I replied. Maybe I could keep using that whenever anyone questioned the fact that I wasn’t acting like my normal self due to the fact that I wasn’t actually myself.
“But why would you want to be a new you when everyone already worships the existing you?”
I looked at her to see if she was serious. She was. Wow. I had no idea how to be worshipped. “Because it’s time to switch things up.”
“And again I’m going to ask . . . why? You’re the most popular girl in school. And I’m the second most popular. Our lives are exactly how we want them,” she said as she opened the cafeteria door. Were they? Was this how it felt to have everything you wanted? Because if so, so far I wasn’t impressed.
“Um, hello, can someone please tell that guy that gauchos were hip in, like, the eighties?” Andrea snorted as we made our way across to where a group of unsmiling students were lined up on one side of a table like an overaccessorized army. She squinted. “Wait—he’s a she.”
I stopped myself from telling her that back in the eighties, Andrea had been the queen of gauchos. I shrugged. “I don’t know. . . . I think the way she’s paired it with the rainbow belt is pretty cool.”
“Oh, me too,” she agreed without batting an eye.
Yup. Just like Cheryl Mancini. “Hey, where’s Cheryl?” I asked. “I haven’t seen her lately.”
“Who?”
“Cheryl. Mancini.”
She continued to look blank. “Is that someone who friended you on Facebook? Oh wait. Isn’t that her over there?” she asked, pointing to one of the girls in the line.
I squinted. It was Cheryl. But instead of her usual pastel-colored poufy skirts and shirts, she was dressed all in black. And her hair—which was usually so big it needed its own zip code—was short and slicked back. Whoa. Talk about a makeover.
I may not have heard of the Go Green Biracial Gay and Lesbians for Mideast Peace group before now, but I already knew a lot of the members. They were the ones who got picked last in gym class and pounded the hardest in dodgeball and slammed up against the lockers. But now there was something different about them. It wasn’t just that a lot of them had different hair (the last time I had seen Patricia Simmons—the girl who Andrea had mistaken for a boy because of her short hair—she had had her long curls pulled back in a banana clip), or dressed a different way (instead of his standard uniform of baggy jeans and a Magic Johnson Lakers jersey, Terrell Sampson was wearing sharply creased chinos, a short-sleeved plaid shirt, and a bowtie). Before they had walked around folded up like origami animals. But now, they were . . . unfurled.
Like before, Cheryl had always been in Andrea’s shadow. But no longer. Instead of trying to hide, these guys were sitting up ramrod straight, staring the world in the eye. And no one more so than Lindsy Rauch—the girl who talked out of both sides of her mouth and had sided with Andrea about my asymmetrical haircut.
“Hey, guys,” I said with a smile. For as long as I could milk this popularity thing, I was going to use my powers for good and make it so people weren’t intimidated by me. “I love your outfit, Terrell,” I said. “The bowtie is an awesome touch.”
His mouth opened so wide that his gum fell out and landed on his leg. He popped it back in. “You know my name?” he asked, amazed.
“Of course I do,” I replied. “Don’t you remember we were lab partners in biology? Remember how each class you’d sing a song from Michael Jackson’s Off the Wall album?”
At the Michael Jackson reference, the group looked confused. Right. He was probably like sixty now. “What I meant was . . . would it be okay if we joined you?” I asked.
“Omigod, totally!” Lindsy cried. “Ralph, give her your chair,” she ordered to a large kid wearing a T-shirt that read MILEY WAS ROBBED, almost pushing him off his seat.
“It’s okay—I’ll sit here,” I said as I started to pull out another one.
Andrea put her hand on my arm. “What are you doing?” she whispered.
“Sitting down?”
“We can’t sit with them!”
“Why not?”
“Well . . . because . . .”
We all watched, waiting for her to go on.
“It’s just . . .” She gave me a pleading look. “You really need me to explain this?”
“Actually, yes. Yes, I do.” Was I putting her on the spot and collecting payback for all the times she made me suffer? Maybe. But it was for a good cause. I was like the Robin Hood of popularity.
“Why don’t we just go up to the Ramp?” she suggested. “Where we always sit.”
“I’d rather sit here,” I said as I plopped down. I looked at the group. “So tell me—what I can do to help?”
They looked at each other. “Help?” Cheryl asked, incredulously.
Steve Frankfurt whipped out this phone thing and aimed it at me. “Can you say that last line again? I’d like to get it on tape and sample it for a song on my new Overprivileged White Boy Blues album.”
Wow. It was cool that you could tape people with that thing. Not to mention a lot less bulky than a tape recorder, which is what I used to tape songs off the radio when I didn’t want to spend the money to buy the albums. “Well, yeah. I mean, I’m the class president,” I replied. “That’s my job.” I leaned back in my chair and crossed my legs. “Talk to me.” I smiled at the group. I turned to Andrea. “I’ve always wanted to say that.”
She shook her head. “I officially have no idea what’s going on with you,” she said under her breath.
I ignored her. “I understand it’s got something to do with fining people for not recycling?”
Lindsy sat up straighter. “Steve was able to hack into the computers of all the surrounding private schools and we’re, like, next to last in terms of our recycling record.”
“It’s truly abominable,” Terrell interjected.
“Sounds like it,” I agreed. “So what are you thinking? A quarter? Thirty cents?”
“Wait—you’re supporting this?” Lindsy asked.
“Well, sure,” I replied. “I mean, you’ve been all about recycling since, like, 1982.” Whoops. “What I meant to say is that recycling has been a big issue since 1982, and had you been alive back then, I’m sure it would have been a major cause of yours. Like if you had been in high school then? I bet you would have been part of a club called the Recyclers.” I really needed to shut up before I put my foot in my mouth any farther. I cleared my throat. “So. Getting back to the issue at hand. How much of a fine do you think is fair?”
“I don’t know. I guess I was so sure you’d veto the bill that we didn’t even bother thinking that far,” she admitted.
“How does everyone feel about a dollar? I think a dollar is perfect,” Andrea said quickly. “Okay, then! A dollar it is!” she said before anyone had a chance to answer. She took my arm and tried to haul me up. “Now, let’s go.”
I didn’t budge. “Actually, I’d like to hear what else you’re all working on.”
Andrea gave up trying to corral me and flopped down on a chair and took out an emery board and began to file her nails.
“Well, we were thinking that with the fine money, we would start a garden so the cafeteria could use organic vegetables,” Cheryl said.
“I love that!” I cried. “In fact, that’s one of the things I was thinking of doing back when I was running for office. Don’t you remember?”
No one did. Which made sense, seeing that none of them was even a speck in the universe back then.
“No,” Andrea said, looking up from her nails. “I do, however, remember your promise to bring in a chair masseuse on Fridays.”
I watched the Go Greener attention turn toward the door. Curious to see what they were looking at, I swiveled my head. Over near the snacks, a girl with short brown hair in a pixie cut was loading up her arms with an assortment of sugary and salty delicacies.
“I have such a girl crush on Montana Russo.” Steve sighed.
She did have a very cool look. You wouldn’t think the pairing of leopard flats would work with camouflage capris and a T-shirt that said THE LUMINEERS, but it did. And there was nothing wrong with her hair.
“I just have a crush on her.” Cheryl sighed.
She wasn’t particularly beautiful. In fact, unlike Andrea, who reapplied her lip gloss every five minutes, Montana’s face was free of makeup. But something about the way she looked like she had just rolled out of bed was attractive. The fact that she didn’t stand out did make her stand out.
“You gotta love a girl who isn’t afraid of carbs,” Sherri said as Montana added some Pop-Tarts to her stash. “I know I do.”
Andrea wrinkled her nose. “Ew. She’s like a walking advertisement for preventive stomach stapling.” She turned to me. “I’m sorry, but she is.”
Snacked up, Montana made her way toward us. “Hey, guys. What’s going on?” she asked as she tore open a bag of SunChips with her teeth. She turned and looked me over. “Zoe,” she said. I knew that clipped tone. It was the same one I used when greeting Andrea in front of teachers.
“Hey, Montana,” I said. “By the way, I love your name.”
She raised an eyebrow. “You hate my name.”
“I do?”
“Oh, you totally do,” Andrea chimed in. “You know, like how b
ehind her back, you like to call her Dakota. And Utah. And Ohio—”
Montana’s other eyebrow went up. She was ambieyebrowous. “Ohio. That’s a new one.”
I cringed. Was this version of me really that much of a jerk? That was like bullying. “Yeah, well, that was before,” I said. “I’m a different person now.” How many times was I going to say that today?
“Really,” she said dryly.
It was refreshing to meet someone who wasn’t kissing my butt. “Yes. Really,” I replied. “And also? I like your pants. A lot.”
She looked around. “Am I being Punk’d?”
What did that mean?
“Because you always make fun of my clothes whenever you get the chance,” she went on.
“Why would I do that?” I asked. “You’ve got awesome style.”
“Maybe because you’re a walking example of what it looks like to follow soulless trends that are sold to us by advertisers and a fashion industry that feels we need to starve ourselves and show as much skin as possible so that we as women can remain objectified by the male patriarchy.”
Wow. She was good. I would have voted for her as class president.
She looked at her watch. “I’ve got to motor. I need to get more signatures on my petition to ban the use of fetal pigs in biology.”
As she walked away, Andrea rolled her eyes. “Motor. Please. Quoting Heathers is so old-school.”
I didn’t know who this Heather was, but I liked her. “I like old-school.” I shrugged.
Talk about an understatement.
The thing about being best friends with someone is that you know their routine. Which meant that I knew that Jonah had a free period after second period, and spent it in the radio station DJing his Midmorning Meltdown show. I myself had Spanish, but decided to fake period cramps and ask to go to the nurse. Señora Fritsche was so old, I doubted she even remembered what getting her period was like, but she excused me. Most likely because my accent was so bad, her entire face scrunched up in horror when I tried to speak.
Because the On Air sign was glowing, I entered as quietly as I could. A song finished up. One I had never heard of. This one had synthesizers, but it wasn’t New Wave-y. It was . . . I had no idea.
