Chapter Nine

August 23

Which means I have to go back to In Between Books.

I spent the rest of yesterday helping my mom track down boxes, heating up a frozen pizza, and sitting on the couch with her,

watching an old English lady in a peacoat solve crime while Mr. Grumpy tried to eat our pizza.

And I did all of it like I was in a daze. My brain kept spinning around the bookstore, looking for something—anything I could

remember—to make it make sense. Like somewhere there’d be a clue to explain everything, if only I could find it.

I couldn’t find it. So I have to go back.

This time, I park the Jeep almost a block away from In Between Books, like the bookstore is a sentient being and it’s vitally

important it doesn’t see me coming. Across the street, the glass door of Magic Beans is propped open. The same two women with

strollers are sitting at a café table, next to a chalkboard sign with the specials written on it.

I told Mom I wanted to try the coffee shop. Get a sense of “the new Oak Falls.” She interpreted this as me getting on board

with the condo, which is the only reason I’m here skipping out on helping her go through random crap in the basement.

Get out of the car, Darby.

I lock the Jeep behind me and check my phone. 10:15 a.m. The battery is at 97 percent.

Okay. Here goes.

I pull open the door of In Between Books. The bell jingles, and I step inside.

The store looks just like it did yesterday. Fluorescent lights. Gray carpet. Table of new releases. The magazine stand. But

the only thing I really care about is the counter, and it’s empty. There’s no one behind it at all.

My breath rushes out and my stomach unwinds, and for a second, I think my knees might actually buckle.

Maybe I really was hallucinating. Or maybe someone was playing some weird, twisted trick on me, even though I have no idea

how a trick like that would even work, much less who would actually play it.

I turn and look over the table of new releases. They’re all the same as yesterday. The same new-in-2009 books.

Wait a minute...

I go to the magazine stand, pick up a copy of the New York Times , and scan the date at the top of the front page.

Sunday, August 23, 2009.

The front-page photo is a big beige house. Underneath it, the headline reads “A Cul-de-Sac of Lost Dreams.”

My skin prickles.

Next to that is the smaller headline “Marines Fight with Little Aid from Afghans.” I scan the text of the articles. It’s all

about the housing crisis and the war in Afghanistan, except for a random article near the bottom of the page with the headline

“Debating Just How Much Weed Killer Is Safe in Your Water Glass.”

I stuff the paper hastily back onto the stand. This has to be a prank. I mean, an article about weed killer in drinking water?

Actually, the more I think about it, the less unbelievable that one sounds.

I look at the other newspapers on the stand. But the Chicago Tribune and the Oak Falls Sun have the same date: Sunday, August 23, 2009. The front-page story in the Sun is about breaking ground for a big new health clinic—the fully built, been-there-for-years health clinic I drove past on

my way into town.

My stomach is plunging off a cliff again.

August 23, 2009, was nine days before I left for boarding school. Eight days before I ruined everything with Michael.

“Can I help you?”

I turn around, and there, just coming out of the storage room, is me. Or... my younger doppelg?nger. This time, the doppelg?nger

is wearing an oversize ringer T-shirt, jeans, Converse sneakers, and a terribly uncool digital watch.

I remember that watch. I wore it everywhere for years. Until I got a smartphone in college and decided I didn’t actually need

a watch anymore.

“Oh, I’m fine.” My voice, at least, sounds more chill than it did yesterday. Sort of. “I was just, uh... looking at the

papers.” I flap my hand at the magazine stand in a way that is decidedly not chill.

“Okay. Let me know if you need anything.” Doppelg?nger Darby slips behind the counter and hops up on the stool, picking up

a book.

I step back, so I’m half-hidden behind the newspaper stand, and pull out my phone, hands shaking. I need proof. Some kind

of proof that I can take home and show my mom, so she can either explain who this weird kid is that looks just like me, or

say that somehow, impossibly... yeah, that’s teenage me. Either way, a picture will help me prove I’m not losing my mind

by myself.

But as soon as I unlock my phone, a message pops up: Low Battery.

Seriously? It was just at 97 percent right before I walked in here. I look at the battery icon in the upper corner of the

screen. It’s red. Next to it: 3 percent .

And before I can even open my camera app, the screen turns black. I press the power button, but there’s no response. The phone

is dead. Again.

Now what?

I shove it back in my pocket and chew my lip, looking between the newspapers and Doppelg?nger Darby, still reading behind

the counter. And then I take a deep breath and leave the shelter of the magazine stand. The only way I’m going to figure anything

out is by talking. To myself. “Um, excuse me?”

Doppelg?nger Darby looks up.

“Are these all, um... today’s paper?”

My younger doppelg?nger blinks. “Yeah. Did you want... a different paper?”

“No, no. All good. Just... curious.” I try for a casual grin, but it feels more like a grimace.

My doppelg?nger gives me a slightly confused smile and goes back to the book.

I rack my brain, trying to think of something that you’d only know if you were actually in Oak Falls in 2009. Something that some present-day kid who inexplicably looks exactly like me wouldn’t know.

“Hey, do you have any idea how long the video store is open today?”

Younger Me looks up again. “Uh, I’m not really sure...” And my doppelg?nger turns and looks out the window.

So I do too. Automatically.

For a second, I straight-up forget to breathe.

Outside the big picture window of In Between Books is the video store. Right across the street, exactly where the coffee shop

should be. The café tables are gone; so are the women with strollers. Instead of the magic beans sign, there’s a sign that reads main street video in blocky orange letters that look like they’re trying to impersonate Blockbuster. Because back when Main Street Video opened,

Blockbuster was still a thing that existed and was worth impersonating.

I move closer to the window, like some gravitational force is pulling me. Farther down the street, the Subway is gone, and

Prime Pie Pizza is back.

“Are you okay?” It’s Doppelg?nger Darby, from behind me.

“Yeah, I just...” I focus on the window itself. The old peeling vinyl letters are still there, spelling out in between books backward.

My breath is suddenly too loud in my ears, but I can’t seem to get enough air. I walk, with a kind of hyperaware calm, back

to the bookstore’s entrance. Open the door. Step out onto the sidewalk...

And there’s the coffee shop. The women with strollers. Subway.

What. Is going. On.

I fumble behind me until I find the doorknob and back my way into the bookstore again. The door closes in front of me. I lean

close to the glass panel in the door and look across the street. There’s Main Street Video again. It looks real. Really real. I can practically see the outlines of shelves through the window.

“Darby!”

I jump.

Someone walks out of the storage room, gray hair a tousled mess, wearing a very loud Hawaiian shirt and yellow-tinted glasses.

It’s Hank. The owner of In Between Books. The guy who hired me. Who let me and Michael sit in the aisles and read books, whether

we bought them or not.

I open my mouth, with no idea what to say, but Hank isn’t looking at me. He’s looking at the kid behind the counter.

“Just talked to the plumber,” he says. “He’s gonna come look at that bathroom faucet tomorrow afternoon. Can you show him

the problem when he gets here?”

“Yeah,” the kid behind the counter says. “Sure.”

“Great.” Hank turns around and disappears into the back room again.

Wait a minute. I remember this.

I remember this because I broke the bathroom faucet. It was old and falling apart, and a piece of it literally just came off in my hand when I tried

to turn the tap. But I was so stressed out about it that I lied and told Hank a customer broke it. I was afraid if he knew

it was me, I’d get fired.

All he did was shrug and say something about how that faucet had been on death’s door for years.

I feel dizzy. And too hot. And vaguely sick.

I turn around, push open the door again, and escape onto the sidewalk.