Living Backwards

by Tracy Sweeney

  I considered going to her class and pretending that I needed help with trig, but I didn’t know how I could get her to leave me alone with the keys. And honestly, the idea of doing extra work in trig was really unappealing. I needed to get her out of the building.

  The plan came to me pretty quickly. I was taking a really big chance, but once I fleshed out the idea, I knew I was going to do it. I ripped out a sheet from my notebook and scribbled a quick note to Jillian because I needed her to leave with everyone else. As silly as it sounded, she needed an alibi. I crumpled up the paper and dropped it on the floor between us. When I motioned for her to pick it up, she looked at me like I had two heads. I didn’t want to stick around and answer questions, and I definitely didn’t want to lose my nerve so I marched up to Mrs. Dupont and asked to use the john. She shot me a look that told me she’d rather say no, but agreed to let me leave.

  I needed to move fast so I jogged right over to the gym locker rooms. I knew there’d be team practices and people milling around that might see me, but it was the only way to avoid suspicion. If an alarm was pulled in the building, it would obviously incriminate me. With all of the practices and people using the weight room, they’d never be able to narrow it down. I just needed to move fast.

  I was surprised to find the hallway outside of the locker room empty. Looking from side to side, I quickly grabbed the fire alarm on the wall and pulled the handle down. I’d be lying if I said I hadn’t always wanted to do this. Once the deafening sound rang out, I bolted back down the hall through the school. I watched around the corner as a frazzled Dupont ushered the detention class out of the building.

  I quietly crept into Mrs. Jacobs’ empty room, closing the door behind me. If worse came to worse, I could probably pick the lock. But as I had hoped when I inspected her desk, I found the she left quickly without locking her drawers. Inside the top drawer was the jackpot of illegal items: cigarettes, bongs, matches, rubbers, some cool lighters and one pink sparkly flask named Joan. While I was tempted to empty the contents into my rucksack, I tried to focus and grabbed the flask. But I couldn’t resist snagging a black lighter with red and orange flames. I deserved a little reward.

  I checked the hallway, making sure no one was around and walked calmly out of the school through the side door on the opposite side of the gym. When I ran into Mrs. Dupont over by the track, she was alone.

  “Mr. Chambers,” she said eying me suspiciously. “Where have you been?”

  “I heard the fire alarm when I was in the john,” I replied casually. “I was busy.”

  Her scowl softened slightly.

  “I dismissed the class, Mr. Chambers,” she sneered. “I trust that you’ll be able to keep your temper in check going forward so I won’t have you in detention next week, as well.”

  “Of course, Mrs. Dupont,” I replied remembering Scanlon’s plea for me to be nice. I turned and left before I changed my mind. I needed to find Jillian.

  As I passed the track, I saw a half-dressed Megan running along with a shirtless Nate. Jesus, I’m going to lose that goddamn bet. I scanned the stands and saw Jillian leaning against the railing talking to Josh and Danielle. I was suddenly really nervous. The gravity of what I had done hit me. I pulled a fire alarm for her. I evacuated a school. I should just serenade her like John-Freaking-Cusack while I’m at it. I slowly climbed the stairs feeling their eyes on me as I got closer.

  “Luke,” Danielle greeted with that smug little smirk. She could see right through me and it pissed me off. I wasn’t about to give her the satisfaction so I remained as casual as possible.

  “You know, detention was going to be over in another ten minutes,” Jillian teased. “You didn’t have to go to such extreme measures to spring us.”

  I couldn’t help but smile. She had no idea what I had done. I dug into my pocket and threw the flask over at her. She stared at it stunned before looking up at me wildly.

  “I went back after everyone was gone. She left her desk unlocked. Scored a cool lighter,” I replied, impressed with my ability to act like the whole thing was no big deal. I had managed to remain composed until she threw her arms around my neck and pressed herself against me. My body immediately reacted remembering Dream Jillian.

  I was terrified to move and found myself frozen in place with no idea of what to do. Taking a breath, I pushed the memory of the dream out of my head and settled my hands softly on her hips. Keeping it casual.

  “Sorry,” she began nervously, “I didn’t mean to attack you. I just can’t believe you did this.”

  “All in a day’s work, Cross,” I replied trying to hide my discomfort. I knew I was screwed if I had to spend the day with her alone tomorrow. We had an hour ride to Tacoma and an hour back home. It was going to be a disaster. “I’m taking off,” I said knowing I just needed to leave and clear my head. “Meet me here tomorrow at noon?”

  “Absolutely,” she said as I turned and walked back down the steps.

  Away from the chaos of school, I started to obsess over how crazy my life had gotten. A little over a week ago, I had daydreamed of coeds and body shots and the start of my new life. Last Friday, I was consumed with the need to forge my own path—earning instead of taking. Friday afternoon, I heard her voice for the first time and thought she was ridiculous. On Monday, my knuckles throbbed because I laid into Wakefield for screwing with her. On Tuesday, she wore a really tight pair of jeans and I saw the slightest hint of crisp, white lacy panties when she bent over on the milk crate. On Wednesday, she tried to tell me that Green Day embodied the social conscience of our generation when all I could think of was their song about jerking off. On Thursday, when I told her about getting a job at Jonas’s, she made me promise to teach her how to mix dirty drinks when she came home for break. On Friday, I pulled a goddamn fire alarm so that I could swipe her flask from Jacobs’ desk. And all I can think about is Jillian with her red lips and shirt.

  When I woke up the next morning, I felt hung over from the lack of sleep. My eyes burned, my body ached and I knew I was going to need a few extra minutes in the shower to remedy one particular problem.

  After an extra long shower and two helpings of Grace’s pesto scrambled eggs, I felt refreshed. I climbed into the Lexus and drove to school wondering what craziness she was going to unleash on me today. As I turned into the lot, my heart stopped and my dick hardened again. Leaning against her car looking hot as all hell was Jillian wearing a tight red shirt and smiling at me with shiny red lips.

  This was a horrible idea.

  CHAPTER 9

  Jillian

  When I heard the Cher song coming from my alarm radio my stomach immediately lurched. It wasn’t because I had anything against Cher or because I seriously loathe techno music, it was because I was an idiot. Blinded by my desire for a decent cocktail, I was practically forcing Luke to take me to Tacoma to get a fake ID. At the time, it seemed like one of the best ideas I’d ever had. In retrospect, I was definitely not thinking it through. In my defense, I never would have predicted the events of the previous day. From getting caught with Joan at school to Luke’s decision to pull the fire alarm, that one day was more action-packed than my previous four years at Reynolds High combined.

  As I lay in bed last night thinking about Luke and everything that happened, I became more aware of the shift in our dynamic. Could he have actually been flirting with me in the hall yesterday morning? Did I really catch him staring at me in the cafe? Did he notice my blush when he tucked the strand of hair behind my ear? I was twenty-nine-years old, and I was swooning over a boy pulling a fire alarm. It was wrong on so many levels.

  I dragged myself out of bed and looked for my non-existent iPhone for the eighth day in a row. I missed my apps and instant iPod access. I was naked without it. When I got back to 2011, I was never taking it out of my pocket again.

  If I get back to 2011.

  I had attempted over the past few days to push that idea out of my head, but it would inevitably sneak back i
n. I was trying hard not to interfere with the natural course of events, knowing that at some point I would need to deal with the repercussions. While it was tempting to send Britney Spears an anonymous tip to avoid any backup dancers that reeked of desperation and weed, I knew better. I would only allow myself to speed along these minor events that were destined to happen anyway, not change things altogether. That was a time travel no-no. But then the uncertainty would creep in. What if I were stuck here reliving my whole existence all over again? If I were staying, shouldn’t I be given a chance to do what I want? Or who I want? If you’re given a chance to do things over, shouldn’t you take advantage?

  It had only been a week, and I wasn’t ready to accept that I could be sentenced to relive the last decade over again. I needed to have faith that I was here for a purpose, and once Danielle was free from Val and once Nate had discovered how happy he was with Megan, I’d be sent back to my old life. That would mean that Luke Chambers would have to be off limits.

  I had to put on my big girl pants and get ready for the trip to Tacoma. Swoon-worthy or not, I couldn’t allow myself to think of Luke that way anymore. I would behave, and I wouldn’t bait him anymore.

  I walked over to my closet secure in the notion that I would act like the nice little girl that I was back in high school. Scanning the contents, nothing seemed appealing. Then my eyes fell on that tight, red shirt Danielle bought me for the reunion. It couldn’t hurt to look good. As long as I didn’t encourage him, looking good was not a crime. In fact, I was sure there were several states that would outlaw some of the other fashion disasters in this closet. It was really the only option. And if I was going to wear the red top, I would need to wear the skinny jeans, too. Danielle bought them to wear together and who was I to question her fashion sense?

  I had a lot of time to kill so I flipped on the radio and listened to a local Top 40 Countdown. I was really enjoying the blast from the past until the DJ played a song from a “new” group called Smashmouth. I groaned when I realized I had to endure listening to All Star. Why was it that more than ten years later, this song was still in every commercial and movie in existence? I swear Mr. Smashmouth must be rolling in royalties. I turned off the radio unable to stomach hearing them “get their game on” again. Before heading downstairs, I tore off Myopic and looked at the Word of the Day.

  Cognizance: awareness, realization, or knowledge. I am cognizant of the fact that my old wardrobe sucks.

  I was happy to find that my parents weren’t home, but were out running errands. I didn’t want to risk answering questions about where I was going or who I was going with. I didn’t think they’d be thrilled with either response. Honestly, neither was I.

  I was about to walk out the front door when I heard the phone ring.

  “Hello,” I answered, twirling the long cord of the wall phone around my finger. I think my parents bought their first cordless phone two years ago. They weren’t particularly high tech people.

  “You’ll never guess who’s going out on a date tonight,” the voice exclaimed without an introduction.

  “Well, hello, Danielle,” I replied facetiously. “I’m fine. How are you?”

  “Did you hear me, Jillian?” she retorted. “This is huge!”

  I really wanted to invent the ‘That’s what she said’ joke, but I didn’t. “So, Nate grew a pair and asked her out? That is good news, Danielle.” I gave myself a mental pat on the back. “So, where’s he taking her?’

  “There’s some early preview of that new Star Wars movie,” she began with obvious distaste in her tone. “I guess Meg was really into Star Wars when she was younger. Who knew?”

  Unfortunately, I knew only too well. I had to listen to her dissect and criticize almost every scene in those disastrous prequels. Although she denied it, I’m pretty sure she wrote a letter of protest to George Luke regarding the casting of Hayden Christiansen. I remember her clearly saying that he was only capable of two things, scowling and pouting, and that Vader would never pout.

  “So I’m heading to her place to help pick out an outfit for the evening. Are you still doing chores for your folks today?” she asked. I could tell she was practically giving me the puppy-dog eyes through the phone.

  “Huh? Oh, yes,” I stammered, almost forgetting that I had already created a cover for myself. “Tell her to make him hold the popcorn. Only good things can come from having to reach into his lap and then pop something into her mouth. Oh! And make her wear a skirt. They’ll be sitting side by side and her legs will brush up against his from time to time.”

  “Jillian!” she exclaimed. “You are so bad! I’ll call you as soon as I hear how this next phase goes.”

  “Wish her luck for me!” I hung up the phone and smiled, secure in the feeling that things were finally falling into place for her.

  I pulled into the school’s parking lot early, feeling strange in the empty space. I found myself tapping my fingers against the steering wheel, feeling pretty twitchy. If I had to wait long, I knew my nerves would get the best of me. I hopped out of the car to stretch a bit and to release some of the pent up energy coursing through me. I took yoga. Well, I went to one class once, but I remembered the breathing exercises. Leaning my back against the car, I closed my eyes and started thinking positive thoughts.

  I will not smell Luke’s minty goodness.

  I will not imagine touching his hair.

  I will not watch his lips when he talks.

  I’m in control.

  I’m the boss of me.

  We are just pals.

  I opened my eyes when I heard the faint rumbling of an approaching car. When the car turned out to be a silver Lexus I relaxed, realizing that it couldn’t be Luke. But then it turned into the parking lot.

  No. Really?

  He pulled up alongside my car and rolled down the window. He looked different in the car. Still hot, obviously. Still wearing his leather jacket and still sporting the hair that’s just asking for me to grab at it. But he looked older. And in my case, that wasn’t really a bad thing.

  “A Lexus?” I asked, not hiding my surprise.

  “My aunt…” he began, rolling his eyes before shrugging it off. “Are you going to get in or what?”

  “Well, when you put it that way,” I replied sarcastically, grabbing the handle of the car door. When I climbed inside I was immediately jarred. The shocked expression on my face must have been evident.

  “What’s wrong now?” he asked as he navigated the car out of the lot.

  “You smoke,” I replied.

  “And…”

  “Your car smells like…lemons,” I added, stunned. I knew grown men who couldn’t keep their cars clean to save their lives. I once dated a guy whose car looked like a coffee cup graveyard. Luke smoked and his car smelled like citrus.

  I looked over at him, gaping, and he seemed to be blushing.

  “My aunt…” he trailed off again. “She doesn’t like that I smoke.”

  The contradictions in this boy were staggering. Thinking back to the picture I painted of him in my head, I thought he was such a rebel. Now, I didn’t know how I’d describe him. He dressed the part, got detention and smoked like a fiend. But he returned his library books, rescued my flask and kept his car lemony fresh because his auntie liked it that way. It had happened again. I had been in the car with him for less than five minutes, and I was speechless.

  “So, did I mention that Seth’s shop is a tattoo parlor?” he asked, snapping me out of my trance.

  “Tattoo parlor? And he dabbles in illegal documents?”

  “Seth’s an artist,” he explained. “His designs are amazing. He has this uncle that works for some software company in Seattle. He’s in charge of updating some graphics program that he thought Seth would really like because he’s good at this stuff. So he gets Seth a version of this Photoshop thing and you can do anything with it. You can screw around and take someone’s head and put it onto someone else’s body. You should’ve seen wha
t he did with the picture of his ex.”

  “So he Photoshops IDs?” Was it really that easy back then? Nowadays, ten-year-olds could use Photoshop. God, 1999 was such a simpler time.

  “Yeah, so you’ll need to think of a name for your ID. Shouldn’t be a problem, especially for you,” he teased, flashing me a smile.

  “That’s tough,” I replied, playing along. “I usually only name inanimate objects. So what did you choose? Probably something that makes all the girls swoon, right?”

  My plan not to bait him was already thrown out the window.

  “I make you swoon? Is that what you’re saying?” he asked, knocking the cocky right out of me.

  In our struggle to maintain the upper hand, I knew I needed to recover quickly, but my uneasiness clearly gave me away. He was chuckling, amused that he managed to get me flustered.

  “Yes, as a matter of fact,” I began, suppressing my grin. “Since we’re going to a tattoo parlor and I find you so swoon-worthy, I’m thinking of getting your initials tattooed on my hip. Right about here,” I added, pulling the corner of my jeans down to expose my hipbone. I looked up, satisfied to witness Luke focusing on my exposed skin. It was then that I noticed that the car was drifting across the center lane. I screamed, pointing at the road as we drove down the dotted center line.

  “Christ,” he growled, yanking the steering wheel to the right. “Can you try and keep your clothes on while I’m driving!”