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Chapter Twenty

August 28

I take a last sip of my coffee from Magic Beans, staring at the frosted window of In Between Books. I’ve been standing in

front of the bookstore for the past five minutes, finishing my coffee and working up to walking in.

I spent the rest of yesterday going through my room in an attempt to distract myself from thoughts of Michael and his front

porch and what might happen at Krape Park today. My mom offered to help, but I turned her down. I had a feeling if she was

there when I unearthed remnants of my childhood that I’d forgotten about, the whole thing would take three times as long because

she’d have to reminisce about everything, and I wasn’t sure, in that moment, that I could handle it. The warmth I brought

with me from Michael’s was fading, everything Young Darby and I had snapped at each other welling up in its place. If Mom

was there while I pulled stuffed animals out of my closet and tried to decide whether to keep them or not...

I was worried I’d snap the same things at her that Young Darby had snapped at me. I was worried she’d want to remember some

sweet little kid with a sweet childhood, and sooner or later, I’d end up sniping that I didn’t know who she was talking about,

because the only Darby I remembered was the broken, messed-up one—and honestly, I was wondering if I wasn’t still broken and messed up.

So I sorted through stuffed animals alone, picking out a few that I remembered the most for Mom to keep, because I knew she’d want to keep some. I bundled the random articles of leftover girl clothes that were still floating around my closet into a bag, wondering why I hadn’t done all this before we went to the thrift store. I threw out some hideous clay people I seem to have sculpted at some point, smuggling them past

my mom, who was carefully taking art off the walls, so she couldn’t declare they deserved to be kept just like the birthday

mugs.

And then I went to bed and drifted in and out of more strange dreams. Dreams where I couldn’t find Michael after a football

game. Dreams where my hair was long again—like it was back in middle school—and everyone commented how pretty it was and didn’t

seem to believe me that it was wrong.

I don’t even remember what all the dreams were about, but when I woke up, I felt like I had a dysphoria hangover. And I barely

ever feel dysphoric anymore. I had to go stare into the bathroom mirror, just to remind myself that nobody had misgendered

me in years. I definitely felt like some horrible cliché of a trans person, standing there studying my face—the shape of my

nose, the thickness of my eyebrows, the sparse stubble that I’d never tried growing out because it was clear it would never

become a respectable beard.

And that’s when it hit me.

Maybe I was wrong about why I was traveling. This whole time, I’d been thinking that traveling was just—I don’t know—random

but kind of convenient. That if there was any reason for it at all, it was so I could talk to my younger self and try to figure

out why Michael and I fell apart so spectacularly.

But what if it’s something else?

What if the bookstore keeps bringing me back to that week on purpose, because I have a chance to do something differently?

What if the whole point is that I’m supposed to change something?

So this morning, I helped my mom wrap up framed pictures and the art from the walls, going over in my head what I wanted to

say to my younger self. And then I took the girl clothes and the stuffed animals to the thrift store. I picked up coffee.

And I drank the coffee, standing in front of the bookstore, trying to convince myself that what I’m about to do won’t cause

some sort of Darby-turns-see-through-and-starts-fading-away catastrophe like I’m in Back to the Future.

I close my eyes. I’m not really going to alter anything huge. I’m not going to give my younger self any answers I won’t get to on my own—eventually.

I toss the coffee cup into a trash can at the edge of the sidewalk and walk into the bookstore.

Today, Young Darby is sitting at the counter, chin cupped in one hand, staring at the bulky computer monitor. Young Darby’s

hair looks particularly scruffy—I need a haircut—and my shoulders are hunched forward, hiding my chest under my oversize T-shirt.

My oval glasses are slipping down my nose.

The store is empty. Nobody else is here, and still—my younger self isn’t comfortable. I can’t even exist without anxiety in

an empty bookstore.

I clear my throat. “Hey.”

Young Darby keeps staring at the computer monitor. “Hey.”

I take a few steps toward the counter. “Listen, I know you don’t know me and I don’t know you, and I barged in here and said

a bunch of shit yesterday, but...” I take a breath. Here goes. “I think we have some things in common. More than you might

think. I’m sorry that I got a bit... intense about it.”

Young Darby shoots me a suspicious look. “What things do we have in common?”

I chew my lip, choosing my words carefully. God, I hope this isn’t about to fuck everything up. “Well, we both have a friend who likes Marvel comics.”

Young Darby frowns. “We do?”

“And... I grew up here too.”

Young Darby looks at me a little more closely. “You grew up in Oak Falls? I didn’t... you don’t look familiar.”

Well, I knew my younger self didn’t recognize me, but if I don’t even look remotely familiar... apparently I was less observant

in high school than I thought. “I moved away for a while. Because I didn’t feel like I belonged here.”

Young Darby pulls away, chest caving even more.

“Remember when you helped me find the first Percy Jackson book? You told me you and your friend Michael spent a week calling

each other Percy and Grover.”

Now Young Darby turns pink and scrapes a fingernail over the surface of the counter, staring at it. “Yeah, I know, it was

silly and—”

“I did the same thing with a friend of mine once.”

Young Darby’s gaze jerks up. “Um. With Percy and Grover?”

I open my mouth and hesitate. “Uh... no, with... with some other characters. It doesn’t matter. It was before high school—a

long time ago—but... but I got really into it. It was kind of... ridiculous. How into it I was. But it was like, when

my friend called me by this character’s name, when I was kind of pretending to be that character... I felt more like me

than I ever had before.”

Young Darby stares at me—a vulnerable, naked look, as though I’ve just spoken my younger self’s most intimate secret out loud.

Which, honestly, I have.

Because this has to be the point. This has to be why the bookstore is bringing me here: so Young Darby has a way out of feeling

like a broken, messed-up weirdo. So maybe I can find that way out, before I leave, before I ruin everything with Michael.

Because maybe if I do...

Well, I don’t know, but I can’t help hoping that if Young Darby can get a few things figured out just a little bit sooner,

maybe I might feel a little less broken and messed up too. Maybe my younger self can change my present for the better.

Young Darby swallows, still staring at me. And then says, “I kind of wished I was Percy. Like... for real.”

I nod slowly. “I mean, being the son of Poseidon would be pretty cool.”

A smile slips across Young Darby’s face. “Yeah.” The smile fades. “The character you pretended to be...” My younger self

looks away, hesitating. “Was that character, um... a guy, like you?”

I bite back a grin. Young Darby has no idea how complicated that question is, even if it’s also, at the same time, very simple.

Yes, Percy was a guy, just like me. I just didn’t know it at the time. “If you’re asking if that character was the same gender

I thought I was... no.”

Young Darby frowns at me. I can practically see the gears turning in my head while I work this out. Or try to work this out.

Catching on gender and thought I was...

The frown disappears. “Oh,” Young Darby says, very quietly.

Part of me wants to push. Wants to ask if Young Darby really gets what I mean. If any light bulb has gone off.

Instead, I say, “You can order books, right?”

Young Darby looks blank. And then jerks, reaching out toward the computer keyboard. “Yeah, we can get things pretty fast usually.

If we don’t have it in the store.”

This book definitely will not be in the store. Not in a place like Oak Falls. Not in 2009. “There’s a book called Transgender History ,” I say. “Could you order it for me? And actually...” I say it as casually as I can, like it’s an afterthought. “You might

find it interesting. You could look at it, if you want, before I pick it up.”

Young Darby types on the clunky keyboard and reads off the computer screen. “ Transgender History by Susan Stryker?”

“That’s the one.”

“Do you want to leave a phone number? Then we can call you when it comes in.”

I shake my head. “That’s okay. I’ll just stop by. I don’t mind a trip to the bookstore.”

Young Darby looks doubtful. “Okay. If you’re sure. It’s easy to call...”

“I’m sure.”

Young Darby hesitates, glancing between me and the computer screen.

Behind me, the bell over the door jingles. Young Darby’s eyes jerk toward the sound, face lighting up and closing off at the

same time. “Hey!”

“Hey, Darby.” It’s Michael’s voice.

I turn. The younger version of Michael is in the store again, the door swinging closed behind him. This time he’s wearing

a Pokémon T-shirt that’s eerily familiar. His glasses are sitting slightly crooked on his nose.

I turn away quickly, picking up a random book from the table of new releases and paging through it.

“You want a ride tonight?” Michael goes up to the counter and leans his elbows on it.

I glance sideways, just in time to see Young Darby turn the computer monitor just slightly so there’s no chance Michael will

be able to see what’s on it.

My heart sinks. Transgender History is probably still there, since my younger self hasn’t actually put the order through.

“How early do you have to be there?” Young Darby asks.

“Like an hour before game time. We’re supposed to warm up in the band room.”

Right. It’s Friday here. I glance toward the big picture window and the banner still strung up over the video store. Football

season opener. Young Darby is going to watch Michael in the band.

“Um...” Young Darby fidgets, scratching a fingernail on the counter again. “I’ll just meet you there.”

Michael’s face falls. “I could come get you on my bike,” he says. He sounds hopeful.

Young Darby shrugs a shoulder. “I don’t know. I gotta go eat dinner and stuff after I get off here, so...”

My heart sinks even lower. Young Darby doesn’t sound excited at all. I honestly sound like I’d rather be anywhere else. Dinner

has nothing to do with it—I don’t want to go with Michael because it means more time sitting around on the bleachers by myself,

feeling weird and out of place.

“Okay,” Michael says. “If you’re sure.”

“Yeah. I’ll meet you there.”

Michael nods, but he’s not looking at Young Darby. He’s looking down at the counter, foot tapping against the ground, like

he’s waiting, hoping Young Darby will say something else.

But Young Darby is silent, still scratching at the counter. Like my younger self is waiting for Michael to leave.

“Okay,” Michael says again. “I guess I’ll see you later then.”

“Yeah.” But Young Darby barely glances at him. “I gotta go sort through some stuff in storage anyway, so...”

That sounds like a lie, and it’s clear they both know it.

“Sure.” Michael nods.

Young Darby tries for a grin—it’s tense and small—and then turns and disappears into the back room.

And Michael heads for the door.

I look after him.

Fuck this.

He’s right here. I have to try. I have to say something, ask him something. Young Darby clearly thinks everything is fine

with Michael. Young Darby has no idea there’s a fight coming... but maybe Michael does.

Maybe the bookstore is bringing me back here to help my younger self feel less broken, but if Michael’s right here, right now...

I close the book I’m holding, glancing at it just long enough to set it back where it belongs on the table of new releases.

And then I turn for the door.

Michael’s gone. Like he vanished into thin air.

But I didn’t hear the bell. I didn’t hear the door open. He’s just gone, like he was never there to begin with.

A faint flowery smell hits my nose. I blink—through the glass in the door, the sidewalk beyond is bright and sunny. It should

be cloudy. It was cloudy a second ago, wasn’t it?

I hear voices. A faint murmur of conversation. I turn toward the sound, and my insides lurch so hard I feel sick.

There are people standing in an aisle, pointing to picture books and talking to each other. And the sign labeling the shelf

of children’s books is printed. The books on the table of new releases in front of me are all wrong. The magazine stand is

gone, replaced by a table of journals and note cards...

I’m in the present. I’m in the bookstore that belongs to my present.

I glance at the counter, just to make sure, and Ann is behind it, typing on the much sleeker computer.

What happened?

I cross the store, all the way to the farthest row of shelves, peering down every aisle like I’ll somehow find the old bookstore

hiding somewhere.

This isn’t how it’s supposed to work. I walk into the bookstore, and as long as I’m alone, I travel. It’s the past. When I

leave, it’s the present.

What did I do to end up here? Maybe I did something, triggered something, without realizing it.

I go back to the table of new releases. Pick up a book, set it down, and turn toward the door—just like I did when I was going

to talk to Michael.

But nothing happens. I’m still in the present, staring through the door at the coffee shop tables across the street.

My heart thuds. This doesn’t make any sense. I’ve picked up books in the past. I bought The Lightning Thief and walked out with it. That didn’t pull me out of the past and plop me into the present version of the bookstore.

I need to get out of here. I need to get back to the old In Between, where I’m supposed to be. I head for the door, pulse

racing, skin tingling, and push it open, stepping out onto the sidewalk. As soon as the door closes behind me, I turn around,

open it again, and walk back inside.

Young Darby is just coming out of the back room, carrying a few books. The magazine stand is back. The flowery smell is gone.

This is the store I was in a minute ago.

Except...

“Did Michael leave?”

Young Darby looks up. “Um, yeah? I mean, he said he was heading out...” My younger self slides the books onto the counter,

raising an eyebrow at me. “Did you... need him for something?”

“No,” I say quickly. “It’s nothing.” My eyes stray to the book clock above Young Darby’s head. It’s almost four. I’m supposed

to meet the Michael I know—the present version of Michael. And now that my phone’s very definitely dead, I can’t text him

to say where I am if I’m running late.

Which means I should go.

I waver, heart still going too fast. And then I turn for the door again.

“You sure you don’t want to leave a phone number for that order?” Young Darby asks.

I glance once more at my younger self, watching me with raised eyebrows, still holding the books. “Yeah, I’ll just... I’ll

come back. Thanks.” And I leave the bookstore before I can second-guess it. The door jingles and creaks behind me.

A fluke. That’s all it was. Some weird fluke, because this whole thing is impossible, and I have no idea how it works, so

why wouldn’t there be a weird fluke?

But I feel unsettled. Like there’s an itch under my skin. I turn back once more, pull open the door, and just stick my head

in.

The magazine stand is still there. Young Darby is just disappearing down a row of shelves with the armful of books.

I let go of the knob and the door swings gently closed.

It’s still there. The bookstore is still there. I can still get to it.

That was just a fluke.

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