Chapter Thirteen

August 24

I hold my breath this time, as I cross the threshold of In Between Books. Just to see if I feel the moment it happens. The

moment I travel.

But I might as well be walking through any other doorway into any other store. I don’t feel anything. The bell jingles, the

door creaks closed behind me, and here I am. It’s practically mundane.

Except that when I pull my phone out of my pocket, it blinks another Low Battery warning at me and then shuts itself off.

A shiver runs up my back.

I shove my phone back in my pocket and look toward the counter. It’s empty. So I wait, scuffing the toe of my shoe idly against

the floor. Maybe my younger self is in the back room like the last time I was here.

But I count out ten agonizingly long seconds, and nobody comes out of the back room.

Shit. Maybe my younger self isn’t here. Was there a day I didn’t work, that last week before I left for boarding school?

And then, a scarier thought: Am I even in that week?

Did I travel to some other completely random day?

I turn for the magazine stand and grab the closest newspaper, a copy of the Oak Falls Sun. The date on the top reads Monday, August 24, 2009.

The same date as today. Or... the version of today that exists outside the bookstore. It’s Wednesday out there, but also

August 24, which is what matters. I glance up at the book clock above the storage room door. The hands point to 10:30. My

phone read 10:28 when I checked it before I walked in.

Which means it’s the same time in here and out there. On the same date.

Time moving in parallel.

I set the newspaper back on the stand and go up to the counter, leaning my hands on it, awkwardly craning to try to peer into

the storage room. But all I can see are a few boxes stacked near the doorway and a row of coat hooks.

I chew my lip, looking around the quiet store, and then I skirt the table of new releases and start walking along the row

of shelves, looking down each aisle. Nobody else seems to be here. I don’t see any customers browsing in any of the aisles

I pass, although maybe that wasn’t all that unusual for 10:30 on a Monday morning. In Between Books was usually busiest on

the weekends.

Anxiety is tightening my chest when I reach the last row of shelves—a nonfiction section.

And there I am. The younger version of me. Crouching under a handwritten sign that says biography , pulling books off shelves and putting them back in different places. Re-alphabetizing. Just like I was on that snowy day

when Michael and Liz came into the bookstore.

Just like I will be. None of that has happened for this version of me.

I shiver again, even though I’m not cold.

Today, my younger self is wearing jeans, worn Adidas sneakers, and a striped polo shirt that’s several sizes too big. Okay,

so maybe I always had a polo-shirt-prep streak. Or I just really wanted to look like Zac Efron. I definitely remember looking

at pictures of him in the celebrity magazines the bookstore stocked (because they sold, as Hank grumbled, not because he liked

them) and feeling a deep desire to look like that. This younger Darby’s hair even looks like I tried, very hard, to go for

swoopy , but it’s ended up at Midwest-swamp-summer-poofy.

I run my hand through my own hair, automatically, like a reflex, reassuring myself it doesn’t look like that anymore. I may

not have anything else figured out, and my hair may still wave in all the wrong directions in high humidity, but at least

it looks better than that . Thank god for Ian and his surly barber; my mom’s hairstylist never seemed to know quite what to do with my hair and never

believed me that I didn’t want it to look “cute and girly.”

Something sharp twists in my chest. I’d forgotten about that striped polo until this moment. I bought it because I thought all the stripes might help hide my boobs. I thought the big size would help too.

I didn’t know why I wanted to hide my boobs. Just that I did. They felt like a part of my body someone had stuck on as a practical joke.

Young Darby glances over and notices me lurking at the end of the aisle. “Hi. Can I help you?”

I quickly drop my hand back to my side. I can’t tell if my younger self recognizes me from yesterday, and the day before.

Young Darby’s face is blank, eyebrows vaguely raised.

I swallow. This is weird. This is so weird. “I’m wondering if you can help me find a book.”

Young Darby slides a book back onto the shelf and straightens up. “Sure. What are you looking for?”

“I don’t really remember the name of it,” I say. “But it’s the first book in a series, and the main character is named Percy

Jackson.”

Young Darby’s face lights up in recognition. “Oh, yeah, I totally know which book you mean.”

I let my breath out in relief. I could have googled, I suppose. That might have been smart, but really, it didn’t even matter

if my younger self knew the exact book I meant or not. The book isn’t the point. I just needed some way to strike up a conversation—some

reason to talk to my younger self that wasn’t creepy and weird. Young Darby has no idea who I am, and if I walked in and started

asking questions about Young Darby’s friend Michael, that would go to a stranger-danger place real fast.

So... books. The thing I could ask about was books.

And I may not remember the exact title, but I remember the Percy Jackson books. I read all of them. I was obsessed. And more

important, Michael read some of them too. We read the first book in the series together the summer before we started high

school, sitting in the aisle of In Between Books. I don’t remember which of us found it first. But we sat there, next to each

other on the floor, the edges of the shelf behind us digging into our backs, and read the whole book. It was the first time

we did that—read together in the aisles of the bookstore.

“This way,” Young Darby says, and slips past me, so close that the sleeve of that striped polo shirt brushes my arm. I have to resist the urge to reach out and poke my younger self, just to prove this version of me is real.

Young Darby heads for the children’s section at the other end of the bookstore, and I follow. It’s weird watching this younger

Darby move through space. To see the way I tap two fingers against my thumb, idly, and realize I still do that as a mindless

tic. To see the way I hunch my shoulders forward, hiding my chest, and remember the moment I realized, after I had top surgery,

that I was standing differently.

Taller is what Olivia said.

“Should be here somewhere.” Young Darby turns down a row of shelves near the front of the store, dragging a finger along the

book spines, and then leans down and pulls out a paperback. “Here you go.”

I reach out and take the book from my younger self. My eyes catch on the creases in the skin of Young Darby’s wrist—the same

creases I have. The particular freckle on my thumb.

Goose bumps prickle up my arms.

“Thanks.” I take the book quickly, hoping Young Darby doesn’t notice the strange similarity of our hands. At least mine are

a bit... hairier.

God, this is so weird.

I look down at the cover of the book. It’s instantly familiar—a wash of greenish blue, with a kid in an orange T-shirt, holding

a sword, standing knee-deep in the ocean while a lightning bolt crackles over a city. My breath hitches. The book is so real

and so familiar in my hands that I can practically see myself sitting in this aisle, my feet stretched out in front of me,

with Michael next to me (folded up because his legs were too long for the width of the aisle), both of us reading and occasionally

leaning over to see where the other one was in the story.

“Is that the right book?”

I look up. Young Darby is looking back at me with a kind of nervous expectation.

I push the memory of Michael out of my mind. “Yeah, I think this is it. I’m... it’s for my cousin. He got it from the library

and really liked it, so he told his best friend about it, and his best friend is going to read it, so I thought I’d get a

copy for my cousin so they could read it together. At the same time.”

I’m rambling, completely spinning a story, but I didn’t plan this far. I got up to deciding I should ask about The Lightning Thief , because I remembered reading this book with Michael, and then I’d figure out how to get from there to asking about Michael.

It seemed hard to plan in advance without knowing what the younger version of me would say or if In Between would even have

this book. I told myself I could wing it. Figure it out in the moment.

I’m regretting that now.

“Oh, that’s cool.” There’s an edge of excitement in Young Darby’s voice. “I actually did the same thing. I mean, I didn’t

get it from the library, but I read this at the same time as my friend Michael. We totally spent a week calling each other

Percy and Grover.” My younger self’s face suddenly flushes. “It was kind of silly. I mean, we were fourteen, but...”

I bite my lip to keep from smiling. I’d completely forgotten about that, but it’s coming back now. I ended up as Percy and

Michael ended up as Grover because he had a very impassioned argument about how cool secretly being a satyr would be. It made

my stomach tingle, every time he called me Percy—like I was getting away with something.

But I’d always liked made-up stuff. I liked books. I liked movies. I liked making up stories. It’s the whole reason I was

an English major in college. The whole reason I studied literature and thought about trying to get a job in publishing.

So, I told myself it was just... that. Make-believe. And maybe I was a little old for it. But it wasn’t more than that.

“Michael seems like a good friend,” I say.

Young Darby blinks at me. “Uh, yeah. I guess.”

“You guys read any other books together? Or, like, watch TV shows or movies together?”

Now my younger self looks a little suspicious.

Shit. I’m totally doing the thing I was trying not to do—I’m taking this in a creepy stranger-danger direction. Asking way too many personal questions of this teenager I’m

not supposed to know anything about.

“Sorry.” I grin, but it feels shaky. “I was just thinking maybe you’d have more book recommendations or, like, TV show recommendations

that my cousin would like.”

“Oh.” Young Darby is still giving me a bit of side-eye but seems to accept this answer. “Uh, I mean... Michael and I watch a lot of Buffy , I guess.”

This isn’t getting me anywhere. I don’t know how to turn Buffy the Vampire Slayer into a question about why everything is about to crumble with my best friend. I look back down at the book in my hands. Something

else occurs to me.

“What did Michael think of this?” I ask, holding the book up.

Young Darby’s eyes skip to the cover and then back to me. “He liked it. It’s a series—I mean, I guess you know that. We read

the first few books together. Or, like, at the same time. He’s more into comics now, though.” Younger Me barely suppresses

an eye roll.

I try not to smile. “Comics aren’t your thing?”

Young Darby shrugs. “I don’t know. I guess I’m just not that into superheroes.”

I look back at the book I’m holding. “These aren’t superheroes?”

Young Darby is quiet a moment. “I guess they always felt more like real people.” A self-conscious grin and then another shrug.

“Whatever. Michael still asked me what happened in the last Percy Jackson book. I spent, like, an hour when we were hanging

out at the Falls explaining the book.” Young Darby’s face turns pink again, like that was too much to share.

My mind catches on the Falls. On a leafy canopy and the roar of water and the awkward ridges of rock under me when I’m lying

on my back...

“Did you... want to buy that book?” Young Darby asks, glancing at the paperback in my hands.

Right. I did say I was going to get it for my cousin. And if I put it back on the shelf now, Young Darby will probably be

a little miffed. I got so attached to this bookstore when I worked here. It felt like the one constant—the thing that had

been in my life forever and never changed, not even after I came back from boarding school and lost Michael.

I let my breath out. I’m still not any closer to figuring out what happened—or what’s about to happen—with Michael.

But I can’t figure out what to say, and if I stand here for any longer, Young Darby is going to get suspicious again. “Yeah.

Um.” I wave the book awkwardly. “I’ll take this.”

“I can ring you up.” Young Darby turns for the cash register and I follow.

My eyes drift to the big picture window as I walk up to the counter. There’s the video store again. Underneath the main street video sign is a banner that wasn’t there yesterday: plainview chargers season opener. Underneath the bright blue letters is the high school mascot—a really pissed-off blue bull. Smaller type underneath the bull

reads friday , august 28, 7 p.m. raffle for a month of free video rentals!

Football.

Michael used to be in the marching band.

It gives me an idea. “Are you going to that?” I point out the window.

Young Darby follows my gaze and looks less than thrilled. “Football isn’t my thing. But my friend Michael’s in the band, so...

yeah. I’m going. We’re gonna try for the month of free rentals too.”

Okay. So there must not be any friction between me and Michael here, on August 24. I hated football games. It felt like every

piece of Oak Falls I couldn’t blend into—all in one place and turned up to eleven.

If I was going just to support Michael in the marching band, then things were fine between us. Better than fine. We were best

friends.

“You go to high school at Plainview?” I ask.

“Yeah.” Young Darby’s voice drops to a murmur. “Unfortunately.”

I look at my younger self in surprise. I know I didn’t like high school. Obviously I know that. As soon as Greta Doyle showed

up with boobs freshman year, which everybody immediately started talking about, it was one long slide into who was kissing

who, who thought who was hot, who was cool because everyone else thought they were hot, and who... wasn’t.

The girls I’d been friends with started dressing differently and wearing makeup and talking about boys they had crushes on,

and I felt like I’d missed a step. Like they’d all discovered a secret entrance into a new kind of femininity and I was still

wandering around outside the building looking for the door.

Eventually, I didn’t even know how to talk to them anymore. I hung out with Michael all the time instead.

So I knew I didn’t like high school. I just... hadn’t expected my younger self to be this outspoken about it. Like it’s

all so much that Young Darby can’t figure out how to keep it in.

“At least you’ve got Michael,” I say, and I’m not sure if I’m trying to comfort Young Darby or myself.

“Yeah.” Darby sighs. “Ten thirty-five, please.”

I pull out my wallet and hand over my credit card. “Does Michael like high school?”

Young Darby swipes my card and shrugs. “I don’t know. Michael’s pretty good at letting things bounce off him.”

Well, that’s definitely not true. Or if it was at this point, it’s not now. I picture Michael’s face as he turned and walked

back into his house, leaving me on the front porch.

That expression didn’t belong to someone who knew how to let things go.

“Sorry...” Young Darby holds out my credit card. “This doesn’t seem to be working.”

I pull myself out of thoughts of Michael. “Really?”

“It’s acting like the card isn’t activated or something. Do you have another one or...?”

Oh. Duh. I’m in 2009. Of course this card isn’t activated. It didn’t even exist; it’s definitely not going to talk to the credit card

company.

I grab it from Young Darby, quickly, because it’s suddenly occurring to me that my name is right there on that card and my

younger self is going to notice it any second, and then things will really get weird. “Huh. Yeah, it might be a new card.” I tuck it back in my wallet. “Um, cash okay?”

The twenty I hand over doesn’t seem to cause any trouble, and Young Darby counts out my change. The register lazily prints

out a receipt. Young Darby tears it off and tucks it inside the book cover.

“There you go.” Younger Me slides the book across the counter.

I stare at it. The transaction is over. I’m supposed to leave now. But I haven’t found anything out. I’ve barely started.

I don’t know how to fix anything with Michael; I have no idea what’s about to happen or why.

But every new question that pops into my head just sounds creepy.

How’s everything with Michael these days?

Have you guys ever had a fight?

Is there any chance you’re about to majorly hurt your best friend?

Even if this Darby didn’t clock any of it as stranger danger, my younger self would probably still write me off as super weird.

I pick up the book. But I can’t quite make myself leave. “I guess you’re probably not excited about the school year, huh?”

I say it as casually as I can, hoping it doesn’t sound like a creep-adjacent question. Hoping I can find out something if I can just extend this conversation for another minute.

Young Darby brightens. “Actually, I kind of am, but just because I’m not going back to Plainview. I’m going to a school on

the East Coast for a semester.”

My heart sinks. Finally, Young Darby sounds excited about something, but all I can think about is just how much distance that

semester is going to put between me and Michael—in every sense. Just how painful everything will be when I get back.

“You won’t miss your friends?” I ask quietly.

Young Darby glances out the window toward the Plainview Chargers banner, and then down at the counter, scratching a fingernail

over a dent in the surface. “I guess.”

I guess?

That just sends my heart sinking even further. What’s wrong with me that I guess is the best I can muster? That makes it sound like Michael’s an afterthought.

Or else I’m still just a total stranger asking a kid weirdly personal questions.

Ugh . Maybe this is hopeless. Maybe it’s impossible to unravel why Michael and I fell apart when it hasn’t happened yet.

No. I can’t believe that. Because I’m here. Because for the third time since I’ve been back, I’ve walked into this bookstore

and traveled.

There has to be a reason I’m here.

“You must be leaving for boarding school soon then, right?” I ask.

Young Darby glances up. “Yeah. September first.”

I count in my head. Eight days.

So maybe I don’t need to figure everything out right now. I have eight days. And if this is the third day in a row that I’ve

walked into 2009, then it’s reasonable to assume I’ll be able to come back here tomorrow, right?

Young Darby doesn’t seem to think I’m a creep now. I can come in tomorrow, look for another book, ask more questions. I can

get to know my younger self. Maybe then it’ll get easier to ask questions without seeming creepy.

As if this could get any weirder.

“Do you want a bag?” Young Darby asks.

“No, I’m good.” I manage a smile. It feels marginally more natural. “Thanks for the help with the book.”

Young Darby smiles back at me—and it looks genuine. “No problem.”

I turn and leave the store. It occurs to me, just as I pass under the jingling bell, that I have no idea what’s about to happen

to this book I’m holding.

But when I get to the sidewalk, the book is still in my hands, as new and crisp as it was in the store. I open the cover and

scan the receipt for the date: August 24, 2009.

The receipt is still crisp too.

The hair on my arms stands up again.

I close the book and look around at the street. I’m out in the sun again—no sign of the clouds I saw beyond the window in

the bookstore. The stroller moms are gone from Magic Beans, and a couple people with laptops have taken their table.

I need to think. I need a minute to sit somewhere and be alone. I have no idea what time it is because my phone is dead, but

I can’t have been in the bookstore more than half an hour. I already feel wrung out.

I look back at the book in my hands. The Falls. Young Darby mentioned the Falls and sitting there with Michael, telling him

the plot of the latest book in this series.

If I need someplace to be alone—maybe it’s finally time to go back.