Hearing the door to our apartment open, I quickly closed out of the page and logged off. I didn’t need to give Danielle any more ammunition. I opened the door of my bedroom to find her in the living room with at least a dozen bags.
“Wow, Danielle! How long are we staying in 1999? This is just for the evening, right?”
“Your complaining is as bad as Megan’s! I had to drop her off at Nate’s because I couldn’t stand it anymore. She can’t concentrate on anything when he’s back in town anyway. Can you both please try to enjoy yourselves tonight?”
Nate Barrett went to high school with us, as well. He was a starting linebacker for the Reynolds Rockets and an all-around good guy. After attending Florida State on a football scholarship, Nate was drafted by the Kansas City Chiefs in the fifth round. During their third preseason game, he tore his ACL and damaged his knee so severely that he was told that he’d never be one hundred percent again. When the Chiefs released him, Nate came home and got a position scouting for U-Dub.
No one knew at the time, but all throughout high school, Megan pined for Nate. After a few failed attempts at getting his attention, she opted to admire him from afar, although it was more like sulking about it from afar. While every boy in our class dreamed about dating Megan Dunn, Megan only dreamed of Nate. Unfortunately, Nate’s first and only love was football. It wasn’t until we ran into him at a football game a year ago that she worked up the courage to ask him out for coffee. They spent hours and hours talking, finally closing down the place and have been together ever since. She told me she was going to marry him after that first date at the coffee shop. Some people were lucky that way.
Naturally, his traveling put a strain on their relationship. He obviously couldn’t scout from campus so she’s on her own a lot. It worked well for me, though because I had a partner in crime. But I knew how much she missed him and how much he missed her, too. The money was good, though, and he enjoyed the work, but I knew that if something stable—something without travel—came up, he’d take it in a second. But those types of jobs weren’t always easy to find. So, they made it work.
“How long is he home for?” I asked, rifling through the bags cluttering the couch.
“Two weeks,” she replied. “It wouldn’t be such a big deal if she had grown a pair and told him years ago how she felt. He wouldn’t have accepted the job in the first place. He could’ve coached.”
“This from the girl who found her soul mate at thirteen.”
Danielle started dating Josh Fletcher in junior high. They never fought, they finished each other’s sentences, and seemed to have a language of their own. I’d never admit this to Danielle, but seeing the two of them together made me a little jealous. Their relationship was perfect. Where he was laid back and calming, Danielle was vivacious and energetic—the perfect complement to each other. I knew that wasn’t something everyone had.
I was still poking through the bags when Danielle’s cell phone rang.
“This is Danielle…. Hey, Val.”
I watched Danielle wince as she spoke to her obnoxious business partner. On prom night, Danielle and Josh found themselves sharing a limo with Valerie Cooper and my new Facebook buddy, Luke Chambers. On the way to the prom when the booze was flowing freely, Danielle shared with Val her dreams of running her own interior design firm. Val told Danielle how she’d be nearby at Columbia and suggested they team up to run the business together. She swore that it sounded like a good idea at the time and it was for a while. They spent the time early on researching and writing their business plan so that they could hit the ground running right after graduation. The business flourished teaming Danielle’s flair for colors and patterns with Val’s take-no-prisoners approach at running the company. Val was a fantastic salesperson and had wooed some high profile clients away from some of the larger design houses. The partnership was not without some major issues though.
“Yes…but Val…Val, we talked about this! No, I don’t think you know what you’re doing. He’s a client! But tonight’s the reunion…I swear…Val? Val?” Danielle turned to me with murderous look. “She hung up on me.”
“I truly do not know how you can stand her,” I replied while inspecting the t-shirts she bought.
I didn’t know how dire the situation was until I heard her begin to sniffle. Danielle never cried—not even when I made her shop for knock-off pocketbooks.
“That’s the point,” she whimpered slumping onto the couch. “I can’t do this anymore. I just want to walk away.”
“That is not an option. I agree that Val is unbearable, but this company is all yours. It’s your talent, your ideas, your blood, sweat and tears. You don’t need her.”
“You don’t understand. I know I could run it myself. Maybe I didn’t at first. It’s just too late. Val’s invested just as much money into the business as I have so she’s just as much of an owner. She’s just making really, really stupid decisions. Do you know where she is tonight?” I grimaced just imagining what was coming. I knew about Val’s dinner meetings.
“She’s visiting one of our largest clients at home tonight—a client whose wife happened to be lounging by a pool in Long Beach when I spoke to her this morning. Suddenly Val claims that Frederick needs to discuss a new project. New project, my ass.”
“You need to talk to her,” I reasoned, “before this gets out of hand.”
“It’s too late,” she added. “We lost a huge client last week—right in the middle of the remodel.”
“What!” I gasped.
“The client came home to Val and her husband finding creative uses for the antique dining room table I bought.”
I was stunned. Sure, Val was inappropriate. She had no problem discussing her conquests in detail with anyone within earshot. I didn’t shock easily, but Val had quite a resume. Even though Danielle had complained about Val’s secret meetings with clients and buyers, none of us thought she would be stupid enough to risk the business.
“I obviously can’t afford to buy her out,” she continued. “And if I don’t walk away now, I’m risking my reputation.”
She looked so defeated that all I could think about was how much I wanted to strangle Val for making her feel this way.
“God, I’m so mad! We’re supposed to be going out tonight and seeing all of these people we haven’t talked to in ages, and I’m here crying over someone who’s probably bent over the beautiful 18th century writing desk I found last week.”
“Yeah…I didn’t need that visual. You so owe me a drink tonight.”
“Sorry. It really is beautiful, though. Mahogany.”
“Danielle, my friend, I hereby swear on my beloved flask that I will not complain tonight. I will wear whatever ridiculous 1999 getup you’d like and I will dance until dawn with you,” I replied slipping into best friend mode. “We will not let Val ruin our night, but tomorrow we put our heads together and figure a way out of this mess. Deal?” I asked extending my hand.
“Deal!” she exclaimed grabbing one of the bags on the couch and throwing it at me. “Now go and try this on. I wanna go live La Vida Loca or whatever it was we did back then. And let me know if the jeans fit. I think they’ll make your butt look great."
That was my Danielle. Worrying about my ass when it was hers that needed saving.
I grabbed the bag and pulled out a number of tight shirts in different colors and settled on one that didn’t show off too much. Pulling out the jeans Danielle bought, I held them up against me in front of the mirror. With a hand on my desk, I bent over and attempted to pull the super-skinny jeans over my calves, but they just wouldn’t budge. I tried again, jumping up and down to get the jeans up and over my rear end. Noticing I left my best buddy Joan on the desk, I leaned over and grabbed the flask, stuffing it into the back pocket. I bounced up one last time to secure them around my waist, but as I came back down, I clipped the edge of the desk and felt myself falling over.
It was one of those moments that happen in slow motion.
I knew I was falling. I knew I couldn’t stop it, and I just needed to brace myself for the impact. As my head hit the floor, I felt a sharp pain and then nothing but darkness.
CHAPTER 3
Jillian
Before I opened my eyes, I was struck by two things: the scratchy fabric underneath my cheek did not feel like my pillow and my head was throbbing like hell. Neither one of those realizations was boding well for me. I didn’t recall being drunk, but that didn’t mean much.
I slowly rolled onto my back almost expecting my head to fall right the hell off. I blinked trying to get my eyes to adjust, but no matter how many times I blinked them, the scene in front of me still made no sense. There were a few possible explanations, but honestly, none of them were good.
The walls were purple. There was a small desk in the corner with a beat up old computer. A few CDs were stacked on the corner—Third Eye Blind, Korn, Lauryn Hill. The bookcase next to it was full of worn paperbacks. Memoirs of a Geisha sat on top. There was a messenger bag on the floor filled with textbooks. A few flyers were poking out from the inside. The alarm clock said it was midnight. I knew what station it would be set to.
This is so messed up.
I had to be dreaming and in this dream I was in my old bedroom back in Reynolds. Normally, I didn’t have ridiculously bad headaches in my dreams, but it was the only explanation I was willing to accept. As I rubbed my head, trying to alleviate the dull ache, everything came flooding back. The reunion. The skinny jeans. My lack of coordination. The black out.
I hit my head. Hard.
There were two other possible options: I could either be dead or in a coma. If I was dead and this was heaven, someone had a lot of explaining to do. My old bedroom in my parents’ house was not where I wanted to spend eternity. Suddenly I felt like I was in an episode of Lost because I didn’t even know when this was. I needed to find a calendar.
I moved very slowly to get out of bed not knowing what the rules were when you were dreaming/dead/in a coma and waking up back in your parents’ house. Maybe my legs wouldn’t work right. I wasn’t taking any chances.
On the corner of my desk was a calendar. It was one of those “Word of the Day” calendars and it was open to April 29, 1999. Less than a month to graduation. In June, I would be leaving for New York. The Word of the Day was ephemeral.
Ephemeral: 1. Beginning and ending in a day; existing only, or no longer than, a day; as, an ephemeral flower. 2. Short-lived; existing or continuing for a short time only.
It was clear to me that this was a message from my brilliant subconscious. I felt better instantly knowing that I was definitely dreaming. This visit was going to be short-lived, and I would wake up with a wicked headache tomorrow in my comfy little room back in Seattle.
Must remember to dig out that Korn CD, though. Forgot how good they were.
My curiosity got the better of me so I grabbed the messenger bag to inspect its contents. A number of vaguely familiar textbooks were inside: Spanish IV, trigonometry and chemistry. Someone should tell these kids that no one ever needs trig in real life. Proven fact. I’d vouch for it. One of the flyers fell to the ground.
Join the Senior Class on Thursday, May 20th for the Senior Prom and bid farewell to Reynolds High. Prom tickets on sale now in the cafeteria.
My mind suddenly flashed back to the prom posters littering the walls of Reynolds High. The prom committee chose Mariah Carey’s I Still Believe for a prom song which I felt was pretty cheesy especially since Brenda K. Starr sang it better. But the prom song didn’t really concern me. On prom night, I was not at the “I Still Believe” prom. I was at the dentist. Unfortunately, when you spend your entire high school career in the library or at home with your nose in a book, you don’t meet many members of the opposite sex. So instead of sitting at home sulking because I was missing my prom, I decided to try and distract myself….by getting my teeth cleaned. My prom date gave me a spit bib instead of a corsage.
Thank you, Dr. Grayson, D.D.S. It was a magical evening.
I suddenly felt very sad looking at the flyer. Was this my subconscious’ way of reminding me of how stupid I was in high school? Because I was pretty sure I knew this already.
While I was tempted to snoop around my room and visit with my seventeen-year-old self, I decided that I shouldn’t prolong this trip. I should get back in bed, pull the covers over my eyes, forget that I knew what four-hundred thread-count felt like and go to sleep. As I climbed in, I felt a familiar jab in my side. I was still wearing the skinny jeans that got me into this mess. Fishing into my back pocket, I found my good old buddy Joan. I gave her a quick shake and heard the wonderful sound of liquid sloshing around inside.
I slowly unscrewed the cap and took a sniff. Vodka. Normally I wouldn’t drink it straight and would mix it with something else, but desperate times called for desperate measures. I took a gulp and felt the burn on my tongue and down my throat.
Much better.
The shot of vodka along with the trauma of waking up in my depressing seventeen-year-old life made me sleepy very quickly. I closed my eyes and bid farewell to that Jillian—the Jillian I left behind in Reynolds. Ephemeral. That’s what she was. And I was glad.
I woke to the sound of my alarm. The radio was playing Smooth by Santana and Rob Thomas. The fabric under my cheek felt scratchy. I was wearing skinny jeans, and the walls were purple.
Shit.
There was no way that this could actually be happening. As nightmarish as this situation appeared to be, I was clearly not dreaming, but I refused to accept that a pair of retro jeans had killed me. I couldn’t fathom that level of embarrassment. I’d also rather believe in a benevolent God that wouldn’t banish us back to high school when we died. I was a pretty nice person overall. Maybe I tried returning an outfit once after I had already worn it, but I was a good person who deserved the wings, the harp and the flawless complexion in my afterlife. So if I wasn’t dead, there had to be a logical explanation as to why I woke up in 1999. Actual time travel, while popular in a lot of movies, simply didn’t exist. Ashton Kutcher can create his Butterfly Effect and Peggy Sue can decide whether she should get married, but in real life there was no do over. The possibility that I was in a coma was more likely, but still didn’t explain the bump on the back of my head. It shouldn’t still hurt. Regardless, I was back in time without the cool De Lorean.
Now maybe I’ve watched too much TV—well, I know I’ve watched too much TV—but I began to think about how complicated time travel movies were. There were tons of rules. If you change part of one person’s future, it has a domino effect. Ashton Kutcher made one bad decision and—BAM—Amy Smart became a crack whore. This was serious business. There was no way of telling how or why I was here. I didn’t want to screw up the future or become a crack whore so I needed to get my act together as soon as possible.
I glanced at the clock. It was already seven o’clock in the morning. I had been pacing for too long and now I needed to get ready for school. A new wave of panic washed over me as I realized that I had no idea when school started, where my locker was located, or what my first class was. I remembered nothing. Maybe I had blocked out my whole high school existence as a defense mechanism. Maybe all the booze I’d consumed had made me soft. Either way—I was screwed. Peggy Sue never had to worry about that stuff.
I dragged my ass to the bathroom and heard movement downstairs. My mom would most likely be working at the hospital already. It was probably my dad. I wondered if he would still be around when I left for school or if he had the early shift at the station. I was kind of curious to see him.
Walking into the bathroom, I noticed some of my parents’ toiletries on the counter. I picked up my dad’s aftershave and smiled. I wasn’t far away in Seattle so I got to see them fairly often, but usually not for extended periods of time. The scent of his aftershave was always so calming. Part of me missed living here.
I formulated a plan while I got ready. I would head straight to the of
fice when I got to school and ask to see my emergency card. I knew that every year we filled out a card so that Mrs. Jankowski, the school secretary, would know what class we were in if she ever needed to find us. It had our class schedule, locker number and if I wasn’t mistaken, our locker combination. I crossed my fingers because that would be ideal. I was pretty sure my locker was on the first floor near Pruitt’s bio lab, but I just didn’t remember the specifics.
As I was trying to curl my hair without a much-needed roll brush, there was a knock on my door.
“Jill?” my dad called from the other side of the door. “I’m leaving.”
I jumped from the seat in front of my vanity and darted across the room. When the door swung open, he jumped back. I was startled as well as I took in his appearance. His hair was jet black without the now familiar touches of gray. He clearly looked younger. The best part, however, was that he had a mustache—a freaking pornstache. I had totally forgotten his mustache phase. Why did I not find this funny ten years ago? I started to laugh and couldn’t stop.
“Jill?” he said again confused. “What’s going on? And why is your hair all….” He gestured wildly at my head. “You’re just going to school, right?”
I managed to stop giggling. “Of course, Dad. Why? Do I have a choice?” Maybe school was optional. He looked at me strangely again.
“No, of course not. It’s just that you looked kind of…fancy.” He shifted from one foot to the other uncomfortably.
“Oh! No big deal, Dad. Just trying something new.”
It’s called brushing my hair before I leave the house and not pulling it into a messy bun. I’m not socially inept anymore.
He cleared his throat, uncomfortable again. “Well, okay then. I’m going to go so…I’ll see you tonight.”
With that, he turned and headed down the stairs. I noticed that he stopped and glanced back at me briefly before leaving. My dad was a pretty perceptive guy. Detectives interrogated people for a living, but I was sure he’d probably chalk my behavior up to just being a teenage girl.
Living Backwards Page 2
