One of them held out her hands. This had to be June. I smiled and took them.
She’s the violin player. Her life was very much like January’s, and I was thrilled to see Gary again.
June went to the same music camp on March break, had the same school schedule. She and her friends were part of a string quartet. Ruby also played the violin, Mark played the cello, and Maggie played the viola. Mark and Maggie made a very cute couple.
They were shockingly good. They practiced every day after school and were often hired to play for various weekend events. All of them would be attending University-level classes in the Fall.
In the blink of an eye, I was back on the sofa taking July’s hands. She was the piano player, I was about to ask her about drinking whiskey but I had already been projected into her reality.
The only difference I saw in this life was the instrument and the fact that July was a bit of a loner. I guess that went with the territory, you rarely saw two piano players in an orchestra. Her life was near identical to January’s and June’s life.
It made me appreciate having a whole hour to eat my lunch. Though I often spent it tutoring or attending remediation, at least I was taking the time to chew and stretch my legs. The whole eating on the bus thing would get old really fast.
On the upside, she had Gary for a stepdad, and I’d seen that hottie Etienne flirting with her at band camp I could just imagine them doing a heart-wrenching cover of Shallow by Lady Gaga and Bradley Cooper. I made a note to suggest it when I saw July next.
Back at the Castle, August was alone. I guessed the other two had places to be. I took her hands and landed in a life similar to February’s.
August was on a strict diet and trained daily. She was part of a ballet dance troupe and she spent March break in Toronto, auditioning for a spot at Canada’s National Ballet School. The audition went very well and her coach was ecstatic. If she got accepted, she’d attend their Summer Program and decide if she was ready to move to Toronto permanently. The school not only offered dance classes, but a comprehensive elementary, secondary, and post-secondary education.
Mom had to work and did not accompany August to the audition. Their group was staying on campus with their coach and assistant coach. It’s the first year Mom had let me take part in the competition. She had said I was too young to leave home for a ballet career before the age of sixteen.
She had only recently broken up with Simon, a guy she had been dating for the past three years. We also discussed a possible move to Toronto. Nana said she’d come with us, seeing as there were more international flights out of Toronto than there were out of Montreal.
If I got in, they’d go on a recon mission when they drove me to camp and we’d see how things go. If Nana moved in with us, or rather if Nana bought the house or condo, Mom could take her time finding a job and settling in. It would make things easier and she’d have someone with her while I was away at school all week. I could come home on weekends and be with them.
I really hoped it worked out for August. It seemed like an amazing opportunity, and she was likely to go with at least one or two of her friends. There were twenty-five dancers in the troupe, but only ten had gone for the audition. August was very close to five of them, Constance, Marie, Lulu, Jason, and Emily.
In addition to their dance lessons during school hours, twice per week, they took Zumba classes after school, and the other three days they did yoga and Pilates. On Saturdays, they trained at the gym.
When the month was up, instead of feeling like a slacker, I felt proud of my selves. They were going after what they wanted and they were killing it. It was very inspiring. As soon as I figured out what I wanted, I’d have great role models to help me achieve my goals.
Chapter 21
September, October, and November were there when I opened my eyes. Before I forgot, I asked, to no one in particular, “do you guys know what happens to me in your months?” They all nodded. “How does that work? Did you know before I got here?”
One of them, the science geek, replied, “when someone new joins the group, we get an instant download of their month as soon as they have their Awakening.”
“This happens at night, while we’re asleep, of course,” added the painter.
“How do you know there’s been an Awakening?” I asked.
“As soon as you’re able to come to the castle at will, or converse with one of us, you are considered Awake.”
I mulled this over. Needlepoint was just sitting there, a pleasant smile on her face, stitching away. I admit I was extremely curious about her life. She seemed so tranquil and peaceful.
“Who’s first?” I asked, ready to zip through another three months. The experiences felt like they happened much faster now, like they were happening at double speed.
September turned out to be the painter. As I got to know the lives of my other selves, I had been flabbergasted at the number of elite camps in my area. I truly had no idea there were this many arts-study or sports-study programs at my school.
I was therefore not at all surprised to join September at a visual arts camp in Sutton over March break. This one was a day camp, meaning I went home at night. Nana was on taxi duty. She picked me up after breakfast and dropped me off right before dinner.
When school resumed, September’s schedule was the same as the others, though she didn’t have any after-school activities. When she got home, she would head to the alcove in the dining room that Mom used as a home gym in my timeline. It had the most natural light in the house.
Mom was single in this reality, but she went on dates sometimes on Saturday nights. Nana would come over and we had a girls’ night like the ones she had with February. I really should try to initiate these in my reality. Maybe that would inspire Mom to go out more.
There were no famous art school projects in September’s future. Every summer, she went to Art camp at the same Visual Arts School where she had her weekly lessons. In the Fall, they had a showing for local artists. Last year, September had sold one of her paintings.
The painting had been a portrait of a child hugging a newly shorn lamb. The Brome-Fair had bought it and were going to use it in next year’s promotional poster. It was a great honor and would provide a lot of visibility for her artwork.
September had a few artsy friends, but she was closest to Max, a wood sculptor. They clearly had feelings for each other, but from what I could tell, theirs was a platonic best friend situation. For now, anyway.
They spent all day together at school but split up for their art lessons. Since he lived in Sutton, they didn’t see each other after school. They sometimes had video chats, but it was mostly to study or do homework.
September seemed to like being in her own world. When she was painting, it was like she was inside the painting. She did mostly landscapes, but there were a few portraits of Mom, Nana, and Max.
My favorite was a painting of Clarity Castle. There was an ethereal quality to it that was missing in the others. That was most likely due to the fact that it wasn’t a real place. No, that wasn’t entirely true. The castle was real, as were those who flocked there to learn, grow, and evolve.
I wasn’t an artist, so it was hard to come up with the words. The closest I could come up with was that the painting, like the castle and its surrounding property, was bathed in an extra layer of sunlight. It shimmered in a way that made you feel the blissful vibration coming off of it. Anyone looking at it would instantly want to jump in, like one of Burt’s watercolors in Mary Poppins.
* * *
On the last Saturday of September, I spent the day at Max’s. He lived on a sheep farm and his mom had a little shop where they sold wool and knitted items. I guess that explained where I had seen a lamb being shorn. Mom went in for a quick hello and said she’d be back at four to pick me up.
Max had a studio on the second floor of the barn. It was as wide as the barn, with large south-facing windows. I guess I was a frequent guest because one of my
paintings rested on an easel by the window. I dropped my bag on the table and went to look at Max’s work in progress.
I was surprised. His pieces were usually small, delicate. Like the tiny bird he’d carved for me at Christmas. But this was huge. The log that stood before him was at least two meters long and at least eighty centimetres in diameter. I had no idea what it was going to be, and I knew better than to ask.
It looked like he’d used a saw to cut away the excess wood around the circle he had drawn on the bottom of the log. He must have started this right after camp.
He threw an apron at me and asked if I wanted a cola. Max had the typical artist temperament. He kept odd hours and drank cola at nine in the morning. He wore the exact same outfit every day, blue jeans and a grey t-shirt, to which he added a checkered flannel shirt when it was cold out, like today. He must have an endless supply.
I declined the soda, tied the apron around my waist, and got to work. Not a word was spoken for the next three hours. We worked in companionable silence until Max’s mom showed up with a plate of sandwiches, crudités, and her famous chocolate chip cookies.
“Thanks Mrs. T. I’m starving!” I said as she put the platter on the messy table.
Max hadn’t heard his mom come in and only turned when he heard me speak. Wiping is hands on his jeans, he came over, and kissed her cheek. “You’re the best, Mom.”
She ruffled his hair, dislodging a number of wood particles. “Let me know if you need anything else. And maybe crack a window open before you die from the paint fumes,” she said as she left.
Max went to the window and flung it open wide. He left it open while we ate. I looked at his work area. He had divided the log into four equal parts and carved V-shaped grooves to separate them. It looked an awful lot like the makings of a totem pole. Still, I made no comment.
He looked at my painting. I wasn’t opposed to comments on my work in progress, counter to him. “What do you think?” I asked. He walked over to get a closer look, stared outside, then back at the painting.
“The blue of the Morrissons’ house isn’t quite right. If you were hoping to match it, that is,” he said.
I sighed. “I know. I was trying to match it. Damn,” I replied. He had a good eye. “I’ll bring some more paints from home next time and try again,” I said.
“Don’t beat yourself up. You know it’s good, or I would have told you,” he replied, stuffing a final piece of his brownie in his mouth, then chugging his glass of milk.
Yes, he would have told me. That was the great, but sometimes not so great thing about Max. He always told the truth and never tried to spare anyone’s feelings. He didn’t go out of his way to hurt anyone, though. It was just his way. I always knew where I stood with Max.
We spent the afternoon working side by side in the studio until Mom came to pick me up. I had never spent so many hours with a friend without talking. But when I left, I felt like I’d said everything I needed to say. For some people, painting, or any art really, lets them express themselves in a truer way than words ever could. Unless you’re a writer, I guess. Then words are your art.
Chapter 22
When I opened my eyes, the girl with the lab coat was there. I smiled, I needed to pay attention to this one if I wanted to get into the advanced science classes next year. She introduced herself as October and we were off.
It was not what I was expecting at all. Yes, it was a nerdy science camp. But it wasn’t about biology or chemistry. It was about physics. To be specific, this was a robotics and aeronautics camp. And not one lab coat in sight.
A few years ago, the University of Sherbrooke, where the first tournament was held, started offering a week-long camp leading up to the first robotics tournament of the year.
The second tournament was held in Montreal during the Easter break. These were the regional competitions organized by FIRST Quebec Robotics, part of an international robotics event. Qualifying teams were then invited to the FIRST LEGO® League World Festival.
Most, but not all, of the students in the Challenge category, for kids fourteen to eighteen, were registered in study-robotics programs in school. October was as well, she was one of only three girls registered in the third-year group of twenty-five students.
At first, when I met Tara and Maelyn, I thought we would become besties and kick the guys’ butts. However, we soon found out we were ill-suited both for teamwork and for friendship.
October’s friends and teammates were Alphonso and Joshua. Both were at camp with her, as were other members of their class. I recognized Joshua from my French class and was glad we had found common ground in this reality. He really was a sweetheart.
The class was divided into two teams, each team had their respective t-shirts, and needed to have two mentors. For our team, we had a teacher as a mentor, and the other was a former participant that now attended college.
Our team made it to the playoff matches but didn’t win. Though everything had gone smoothly in the initial trial, one of the wheel bearings wasn’t running smoothly and our vehicle went just a little off track. It was enough to add a few seconds to the final lap. It was easily corrected, and we would get another chance at the Montreal event next month.
Back at school, October spent two afternoons per week learning science, engineering, and technology skills. Other than competing in tournaments, the program was meant to lead students to STEM education programs after high school.
October’s life was otherwise pretty much like mine. She spent the bulk of her evenings at home, with Mom, doing homework and studying for tests.
Needless to say, she was nailing the math, science, and technology classes. She put less effort into her French and English classes and her results were the bare minimum required to stay in the program, which was a seventy-five percent average.
Her main hobby was assembling the famous Scandinavian bricks. In the room we used for storage downstairs in my own timeline, she had a huge collection. Two folding tables were set up. One was covered with an impressive town, complete with a robotic train and a remote-controlled helicopter, while the other was used for assembling projects and various sorting trays. Under the second table were four rolling carts, each with three drawers where pieces were sorted not by colour but by category: people parts, regular bricks, moving parts, and others I wouldn’t be able to describe.
She, Alphonso, and Karl spent every Saturday afternoon holed up in this room without windows. When Mom would come down to check on us, she would ask us to open the fan as it was getting a bit rank in there.
They never worked on competition stuff in here. They just created, for the fun of it. Alphonso and Karl had their own set-ups at home, but neither was as expansive as mine.
It’s fascinating to me that my other selves could have such a wide range of strengths and interests, yet still be me. I mean, they are obviously their own people. But as surprising as each new reality seemed at first, I could totally see myself in it even when I wouldn’t choose it.
This was to be expected. The choices they made were based on minute differences in how they reacted or responded to opportunities or events, mostly in childhood. And a lot of it centred around what Mom did or didn’t do, or whether my dad or some other figure was around.
I never thought Mom’s love life had anything to do with me, but clearly her dating Gary had led to a bunch of musical realities. And so far, Dad being around had not turned out all that great, sad as they may be.
Chapter 23
November, wearing a black kimono, was standing near the fireplace. I didn’t remember a martial arts enthusiast from my first or second visit. Then I saw the bangs. Emo Girl!
She was scowling at me, visibly uncomfortable with my staring. She stalked over and clasped my right arm like we were warriors, her hand gripping my upper arm. I didn’t have time to voice a snarky comment before I landed in her world.
I was expecting her to be holed up in her room, writing poetry and listening to sad music. I r
emembered being a little confused upon seeing her that first time. How was an emo girl at Clarity Castle? Wouldn’t all the negative emotions keep her from accessing her ‘Knowing’ as the teacher called it?
As far as I knew, there was no such thing as an emo camp. Had I not seen Emo Girl and Writer Girl in the same room, I would have put my money on them being one and the same.
I was wrong. On Sunday evening, Nana dropped her off at an industrial-looking building in Drummondville. She went in, signed some forms, kissed November goodbye and said she’d be back to pick her up on Saturday. The counsellor assured her that I was in good hands and that the week spent in individual and group therapy would do me a world of good.
Where the heck was Mom? Why was Nana signing forms? I was suddenly very scared. So was November and it wiped the scowl from her face.
After Nana left, I was provided with a stack of items: bedding, a towel, and two ninja suits. If they’d been orange jumpsuits, I wouldn’t have been surprised. The place screamed juvenile detention center even though the sign outside read ‘You 2.0 - A center for Troubled Teens.’
They searched my backpack and removed unauthorized items, namely my cell phone, tablet, and some snacks Nana had packed. These were placed in a bag I would retrieve at the end of the week. A sturdy matron in a black jumpsuit then requested I remove all jewelry and accessories and handed me two facial wipes to remove my makeup. One would not have been enough.
A girl my age was waiting for me. The counsellor introduced her as Kim, saying she would show me to the room she and I would share. On the way, Kim explained that new recruits we always paired with an established one. Recruits? This sounded more and more like boot camp. I couldn’t imagine this emo girl misbehaving to the point of being sent to reform school.
“Make your bed, put on your uniform, and stow your things in the dresser,” she said, pleasantly enough. When I just stood there, she seemed to understand I was hoping for some privacy in order to change. The room did not have a private bathroom.
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