Chapter Fifteen

August 25

It’s raining in the morning—the kind of summer rain that plunges the temperature by ten degrees in twenty minutes and smells

like dirt and makes the air and the kitchen floor and every surface I touch feel vaguely sticky.

Mom and I stand on the front stoop, holding coffee mugs, and watch the rain for a while, Mr. Grumpy sitting between us.

“Well,” Mom says, with a sigh, “I guess we won’t be cutting down the tire swing today.”

I look at the puddles forming in the front yard. “Yeah, I’m not going out in that.”

Mom leans around me, squinting at Jeannie Young’s yard. “On the plus side,” she says, “at least you-know-who won’t be adding

to the penguin herd today, either.”

I follow my mom’s gaze to Jeannie’s yard. I’m pretty sure Jeannie hasn’t actually added to the penguin herd since I’ve been

back. Not in the front yard anyway.

Although, then again, there are so many penguins already, I probably wouldn’t notice if a few more showed up.

“I think you’re going to miss the penguins when you move,” I say.

Mom just huffs and stalks back inside.

I keep putting off going back to the bookstore, waiting for the rain to stop. But it rains all morning, so I help Mom pack

things up to donate—clothes she doesn’t wear anymore, old coats, random kitchen tools and dishes, the skis from the basement.

“I still don’t remember ever buying skis,” she says, as we haul them out to the garage. “Or going skiing.”

“Maybe they came with the house,” I say.

She considers. “I suppose that’s possible. Like the underwear in the laundry chute.”

We set the skis down. “I’m sorry... the what?”

“You know... the laundry chute!”

The laundry chute was a feature of our house that I was always kind of disappointed didn’t work when I was a kid. It seemed

so cool—you open this little door in the hallway and fling your laundry in, and it goes down a chute to a basket at the bottom.

You never have to carry a laundry basket down to the basement.

“Hang on,” I say. “You told me we didn’t use the laundry chute because it didn’t work. ”

“Well, it didn’t,” she says. “There was very old underwear in the way. And I certainly wasn’t going to touch it.”

“Mom, you’re about to sell this house.”

She gives me a very innocent look. “And then it will be the new owner’s problem.”

It’s still raining when we pause to make sandwiches for lunch. And still raining after lunch, so we sort through the books

and CDs in the living room. (She won’t part with any of her CDs, even though I try to explain that she can put all that stuff

on her phone now.)

By the time we’ve divided the books into two piles—books going to the condo and books my mother is planning to dump on Michael

and his classroom—the rain is finally letting up, turning first to a thin drizzle and then disappearing completely. But there’s

a small lake in the backyard, and my mom decides she’s run out of steam, so we put off cutting down the tire swing. She sits

down on the couch to read, Mr. Grumpy flopping beside her, and I steal her keys and head for the Jeep.

I drive to the bookstore with the windows down, letting in damp air that’s so cool, I actually shiver. The tires make a whooshing sound on the wet pavement, and the edges of the sky are deep, rich blue. I can see dark vertical streaks in the distance—rain

falling very far away.

The clouds are clearing off when I pull up in front of the bookstore. It’s almost three o’clock. I hope Young Darby is still here. I didn’t always work until closing since I was technically part-time. And anyway, Hank knew I was going to leave for a semester, so he’d hired a couple other people to help keep the store running, and by the end of August, I was splitting time with them.

I pull open the door and walk in under the jingling bell.

For once, the store isn’t completely empty. My first thought is that people came in to get out of the rain—before I glance

out the big picture window onto a bright, sunny street and realize that of course it’s not raining here .

Not completely empty still isn’t close to crowded . A couple people are browsing the table of new releases, there’s a guy at the magazine stand, and a woman who looks vaguely

familiar in the travel section.

I squint at her. I think she might be a substitute teacher at Plainview.

I suppose it makes sense that there are more people here in the afternoon. Especially at the end of summer. Oak Falls isn’t

exactly a place where people head out for vacations like clockwork, the way they do in New York, where the whole city empties

out in August. But Michael’s family used to go camping occasionally. Other kids in school went up to the Wisconsin Dells or

down to Disney World.

But it’s late in August now. The first football game is on Friday. Anybody who’s been on vacation is probably back.

I glance toward the register. Young Darby is sitting behind it, elbows resting on the counter, reading a book. The box fan

is set up on the chair again, sending a musty breeze through the store. I tug on my shirt, flapping it to cool myself off.

It’s definitely warmer in here than it was outside just now.

Even though I technically had all morning to think, I still haven’t come up with any brilliant questions to ask my younger

self. All I’ve got is what I had yesterday: strike up a conversation and try not to act like a creeper. At least Young Darby

vaguely knows who I am now; hopefully I seem like a nonthreatening presence.

All the same, maybe I should browse for a while just to be safe. So it looks like I came here for the bookstore, and not just

to talk to the kid behind the counter.

Behind me, the bell over the door jingles again.

I turn toward the sound automatically—and my mouth goes dry.

It’s Michael. Standing just inside the door, pulling crumpled dollar bills out of the pocket of his cargo shorts. He’s wearing geeky black glasses and a Captain America T-shirt. He’s lanky. Gawky. His nose is a little too big for his face again. His vague curls are an overgrown mess.

This is sixteen-year-old Michael, and he’s so familiar, it’s like someone punched the air out of my lungs. He’s here.

Of course he’s here. He came by the bookstore all the time while I was working, especially in the summer.

It seems obvious now—why wouldn’t he be here—but it never once occurred to me until this moment that he would be. That I might actually see him here. Maybe

because I haven’t seen anyone else enter or leave the bookstore... at least not yet, not while I’ve been inside it. Every

time I crossed the threshold, I felt like I was stepping out of reality into a remote, removed bubble. Not the real world,

even if I knew, in the back of my mind, that it was 2009 and I was about to ruin my friendship with Michael. All of that was

certainly real.

But also, time travel, especially backward, is supposed to be impossible. My brain wasn’t exactly focused on working out every

single rule of how any of this was happening, because none of it was supposed to be possible in the first place.

I turn back to the table of new releases, my mind spinning. Don’t stare at Michael. I pick up a book and flip open the cover. But I don’t read it—I don’t even know what book I’m holding. I watch Michael from

the corner of my eye as he goes up to the counter.

Young Darby looks up from the book and breaks into a grin. “Hey.”

“Hey.” Michael lays the crumpled dollar bills on the counter. “You have it?”

Young Darby slides off the stool and crouches down behind the counter, emerging a second later with a thin, brightly colored

booklet, presenting it to Michael like it’s some kind of rare treasure. “ Lockjaw and the Pet Avengers , number four, baby.”

“Sweet.” Michael takes the comic and opens it carefully, eyes scanning the pages. “Oh man, I’m so excited. This is gonna be

epic .”

Young Darby’s eyebrows go up. “Seriously? Pet Avengers ?”

“What?” Michael sounds defensive.

“Nothing.” Younger Me shrugs. “It’s just, you know... the Avengers. But pets. Seems kind of un epic.”

Michael sticks out his lower lip—the same fake pout I saw at the Falls yesterday. “You’re making fun of me.”

“I’m just saying!”

My chest tightens, watching how comfortable my younger self is with Michael, and how comfortable Michael is with me. The way

they lean close to each other, elbows on the counter, Young Darby rocking slightly on the wobbly stool.

Michael stops pouting and his mouth turns up into a familiar crooked grin. “Okay, but I think this series is actually really

inventive once you get into it. It’s weird, but it’s fun.”

“ It’s Weird but It’s Fun: The Michael Weaver Story ,” Young Darby deadpans.

I wince.

But Michael just laughs. “ I Incessantly Make Fun of My Friends: The Darby Madden Story .”

Okay, I deserved that.

Young Darby snorts and picks up the crumpled dollar bills, sticking them in the cash register. “So how long before I find

out what happens in the epic finale?”

Michael sets the comic down on the counter and slowly pages through it. “You could just read these yourself, you know.”

“You could read the last Percy Jackson book yourself too.”

Michael shrugs. “I like our trade. You recap Percy Jackson; I recap Pet Avengers. It’s like our own personal Television Without Pity.”

Young Darby does an eye roll, wrestling the cash register drawer closed. “Yeah, except Percy Jackson is good, so I don’t have

to be snarky about it.”

I’d completely forgotten about Television Without Pity. It was one of Michael’s discoveries. A group of people with usernames

like Couch Baron literally just recapping episodes of television online, sometimes for twenty pages. Usually with a lot of

sarcasm. The recaps were too long for me—I’d check out somewhere around page seven.

“They’re not all snarky,” Michael says. The fake pout makes a brief reappearance. “Some of the Buffy recappers really liked the show. They only get snarky about, like, the actually bad episodes.”

“I know, I know. You’ve said that.” Young Darby finally gets the cash drawer closed with a slam. “What are you going to do

when I go to boarding school anyway? Recap comic books to the lunchroom at large?”

I clearly mean it as a joke. My younger self looks up with a grin, and Michael smiles back, but it looks less comfortable.

Strained. “Um, about that...”

“What?”

“Well, it’s not really related. But there was this thing I wanted to do, before you left...” Michael hesitates, shoulders

rising up to his ears. He and Young Darby look at each other. The fan whirs through the stillness.

My heart creeps up my throat. I don’t know why, but I feel like the air has turned thick.

Michael looks back down at the comic. His shoulders lower. “I was just gonna ask if you want to watch some Buffy before you go.” His voice is low. “Like... the greatest hits, or something.”

“Oh, sure.” Young Darby nods. “I’m off at four. We could go to the video store.”

What?

I look at Michael, still studying the comic book in front of him. That isn’t what he wanted to say. Whatever it was—whatever

it really was—it was clearly a lot bigger than that.

But my younger self doesn’t seem to notice.

And Michael just goes along. “Yeah, okay. We could see what episodes they have.”

(They’ll probably have all of them. They always did. I’m pretty sure nobody was renting the Buffy DVDs except us.)

“I was just joking, you know,” Young Darby says, a little more seriously. “You can totally write me your own TWoP recaps for

whatever comic you’re reading if you want. After I leave. I mean, I’ll have email.”

“Yeah. Totally.” The corner of Michael’s mouth turns up, but it looks half-hearted.

“Or there’s Facebook. And I’ll have my cell phone.” Young Darby pauses, thinking. “Although texting a whole Marvel recap seems

like a pain in the ass.”

That makes me smile, a little. I didn’t get a smartphone until college, and Michael didn’t have one, either—at least not in August 2009. We both had old flip phones and texting anything long was a chore.

Michael nods, but he doesn’t look that enthusiastic.

Young Darby sighs. “It’s just a semester.”

“Yeah, I know.” Michael sounds tired. I get the sense they’ve had this conversation before.

“And I wanted you to apply too.” Now my younger self’s voice sounds hurt. Or bitter.

“I know .” And Michael sounds frustrated. “Look, it sounds cool and stuff, but I told you, it’s just... really far away. And, I

don’t know... I kind of want to stay here.”

Young Darby snorts. “Yeah, who wouldn’t want to stay here.”

It’s an annoyed mutter, but it digs into me, sharp and unsettling.

Michael leans away, pulling into himself, shoulders hunching up again. “It’s not all bad,” he says, and it sounds like something

he’s said before.

Young Darby pulls a face. “For you, maybe.”

God, what’s wrong with me? That sounded almost mean.

Michael’s shoulders go higher, his chest caving in. But Young Darby is stubbing a thumb against the counter, frowning at it,

and isn’t looking at Michael at all.

I’m tempted to walk over and shake myself. You’re being a dick.

The bell over the door jingles again. I turn to look. So does Michael.

In walks Natalie Linsmeier, holding hands with Brendan Mitchell. My skin prickles—she looks just like I remember her. Long

blond hair parted on the side, long eyelashes, a small nose. She and Brendan were crowned homecoming king and queen this year,

and nobody was remotely surprised. Natalie sailed through everything with a kind of confidence that made me both extremely

annoyed and kind of jealous.

I glance at Young Darby. Even now my younger self looks like this day has definitely taken a turn for the worse.

Natalie pulls Brendan toward the counter. “Hey, Darby. Do you have the new Hunger Games book yet?”

Young Darby gives her a look that suggests this isn’t the first time somebody’s asked this question. “No, it comes out next

Tuesday. We’ve got the first Hunger Games if you want that.”

“Oh, great.” Natalie turns without looking at Michael and tugs Brendan off across the store. “I haven’t even read the first one yet, but, like, everybody else has read it now, so I need to catch up. Rebecca told me the second one was coming out and I don’t want to get behind.”

“Uh-huh,” Brendan says, like he has no idea what’s happening, which he probably doesn’t. I’m not sure I ever saw Brendan with

a book.

I look back at Michael and Young Darby. Young Darby is looking at something on the computer, but Michael is staring after

Natalie and Brendan, and his face looks so unguarded and vulnerable that my breath catches.

I don’t know what that look means, but it makes me ache.

“I’m gonna go.” Michael turns back to the counter and picks up the comic. “Meet at the video store after you’re done?”

Young Darby glances up from the computer. “Yeah, sure.” A flash of anxiety goes across my younger self’s face. “You can just

hang out if you want. I mean, I’ll be off in, like... half an hour.”

Michael’s eyes dart to the other end of the bookstore, where I can hear Natalie still talking to Brendan about The Hunger Games. “Um...” He chews his lip. “Yeah, I think I’m gonna go get a slice at Prime or something. I’ll see you in a bit?”

He’s already straightening up, like he can’t wait to leave.

Young Darby shrugs. “Okay. See you in a bit.”

Michael turns, holding his comic with both hands, like it’s some kind of protective shield, and heads for the door.

Natalie lets out a peal of laughter just as he opens the door. He looks toward them again—wherever they are in the aisles—and

then leaves. The bell jingles. The door creaks closed behind him.

What was that about?

I look down at the book I’m still holding, open to the first page. Natalie and Brendan didn’t even seem to notice Michael.

Why was he looking at them like that? Like some tiny piece of his world was about to end?

And why was Young Darby being such an asshole?

My mind goes back to Olivia, asking with shock why I’d want to move back to someplace I hated.

I close the book and set it back down on the table, glancing up at the book clock above the storage room. It’s just after

three thirty. I’d better do this now if I’m going to.

I walk up to the counter and say, as casually as I can, “I didn’t know this store had comic books.”

Young Darby jumps a little, eyes moving from the computer to me. “Um... we don’t?”

I do my best to look confused. “Sorry. I thought I saw someone picking one up.”

Young Darby stares blankly, and then it clicks. “Oh. Yeah. Well, we don’t really have them usually, but we can order just

about anything, so... That was my friend Michael, actually. He orders pretty much every new Marvel comic.”

So Young Darby definitely remembers me from yesterday and remembers that Michael came up. “I didn’t mean to eavesdrop,” I

say, carefully, “but I heard you mention that you’re going to boarding school, and, uh...” Here goes. “I did that too. I mean, I went to boarding school in high school, just for a semester.”

Young Darby looks interested. “Oh, really? I’m going to this program in upstate New York. Is that where you went, or...?”

I hesitate. It’s tempting to say yes. But how likely is it that some random stranger my younger self doesn’t know would just

happen to have gone to the exact same boarding school program?

I’m too afraid of making Young Darby suspicious. “No, I went to a place in Connecticut,” I lie. “It was cool, though. Kind

of a big change.”

“Yeah, exactly.” Young Darby sounds enthusiastic. “That’s why I want to do it. Just, like... go somewhere else.”

“Right,” I say, but something in my chest is tightening again. Did I really just miss how tense Michael got the minute the subject of me leaving came up?

For a second, I think about saying fuck it and telling my younger self everything. Telling this kid, Don’t get in a fight with Michael whatever you do . Hell, maybe even saying, You’re trans! Figure it out already!

But I bite my lip. Keep it in. I’ve seen Back to the Future . I know messing with my own future is a phenomenally bad idea. Or at least—I have every reason to assume it would be.

And anyway, why would Young Darby believe anything I say? I’m a stranger. I’m not supposed to know this stuff, and if I had

to explain why I know it...

Then what? I try to convince this version of me I’m from the future?

I’m sure that would go well.

So all I say is “Yeah. Just a semester.”

“Did your cousin like The Lightning Thief ?” Young Darby asks.

Now it’s my turn to stare blankly until my brain catches up. “Oh. Yeah. Big hit.”

But before I can come up with something else to say, the floor creaks behind me, and I hear Natalie Linsmeier giggle. She

and Brendan have reappeared, and she’s clutching a book. I recognize the black and gold cover of The Hunger Games .

They’re clearly heading for the register, so I step back, out of the way. Natalie sets the book down and pulls her wallet

out of a small fringed purse. “You’re literally going to be the only person at school who hasn’t read it,” she says. Clearly

talking to Brendan.

“I don’t really read,” Brendan says, like this is very cool.

I retreat to the magazine stand, glancing up at the clock. It’s 3:40. Any minute now, Hank will probably show up to take over,

and Young Darby will fill him in on how the day’s been going.

Natalie is counting out cash for the book while Brendan stares out the window. Young Darby looks ready for them to leave.

I could wait. Talk to my younger self again as soon as Natalie’s bought the book.

But I don’t know what to say. I’m too stuck on Michael’s face as he watched Natalie and Brendan. Too stuck on the edge in

Young Darby’s voice— for you, maybe.

Too stuck on just how much my younger self seems to be missing. And I don’t know how to change that. Or if I should.

I still have no idea what’s going to blow everything up between me and Michael, but I’m beginning to think Michael might have

a good reason for getting upset.

I don’t know what to do with any of this. And I can’t figure it out in the next twenty minutes.

On impulse, I turn for the door. I don’t have forever, but I’m not out of time yet. I’ve got days still to go before Young

Darby leaves. I can come back tomorrow.