Steve opened both of his eyes. The room was dark, and there was a ceiling fan whirring above his head. He was relieved that the jump sickness was manageable enough that he was able to focus quickly. That relief turned to true and unmitigated panic when he started taking in the room.
“ … Jeff is an ordinary and healthy and balanced young fellow.” The voice was tinny; artificial. “He usually gets along well with people.”
It wasn’t a ceiling fan; it was a projector. Right next to him. The black and white of the ancient filmstrip as much of a nostalgia trip as the sound of the narrator’s voice. This, however, was no vacation. What the fuck is this?!. The amplification effect amped up his heart rate, his breathing was heavy, and a cold sweat immediately broke out all over him. The smell of the musty classroom and ‘70’s teenage odors filled his nostrils, and he could feel fight of flight closing in on him. Steve stared straight ahead. He dared not shift his eyes any further than he had already, because if he took in any more of his surroundings he was going to lose it.
“Why is Jeff angry?” the filmstrip went on in the narrator’s formal tone straight out of 1957. “What’s the stimulus that brings on this sudden emotional response of anger?”
“I don’t know about Jeff, but what about Steve?” Marcus whispered from the desk beside him. “What is it about this funny as hell filmstrip that brings on this sudden emotional response instead of laughter?” Steve closed his eyes to the sound of Marcus’s hushed whisper.
“ … Well it might be that Jeff feels thwarted as he fails in the fancy trick to impress his pals …”
“Don’t tell me,” Marcus continued in mocking style to the filmstrip. “Steve feels thwarted as he fails in the fancy trick to impress the girls!” Marcus couldn’t hold it in any longer, he let out a guffaw.
“Mr. Hunter!” the teacher called from the back of the room. “That’s quite enough.”
Steve involuntarily turned his head to look at Marcus. His small afro was like a halo atop his youthful face. The smirk should have been the most inviting and calming focal point of familiarity, but that smirk wasn’t sitting on any version of Marcus Steve had any business revisiting.
“This is bad,” Steve mumbled softly, his head darting around the room as the ridiculous filmstrip continued to play. “Too early. This is too early.”
“What?” Marcus asked.
“This can’t be,” Steve continued to say very softly but out loud. “This is impossible. I’m dreaming. This is a bad dream.”
Marcus dropped the smirk and saw that something was actually wrong with his friend, whose eyes actually looked glassy in the light from the lens.
“Jump … jump … jump …” Steve screwed his eyes shut and dug his fists into them. “Jump,” he begged a little louder. “Jump, jump, jump, JUMP, JUMP!!!!”
“Mr. Johnson, if you don’t quiet down and watch this, you’ll land yourself in another detention!”
It was all Steve could take. He bounded out of his seat and looked in true terror over the classroom. This was high school, and he wanted to kill himself. Right now. The last thing he saw before he ran from the room was Marcus’s worried face trying to will his ass back into his seat.
Steve ran out of the room with absolutely no idea where he was going. He knew where he was, but he didn’t remember the layout of these hallways. It was the orphanage’s school, and it wasn’t very big; so he just ran. He passed one classroom after another containing kids of varying ages, none of whom gave the panicked teenager a second look. Steve didn’t know where to go or what to do. He couldn’t cry, he couldn’t even think. All he could do was run.
Before long the classrooms gave way to a courtyard with the Los Angeles sun beating down on the cool, winter day. On the other side of it lay the dormitories of Hartman Orphanage; but instead of heading to the room he shared with several other boys, he bolted out the nearest door he could find into the city of Los Angeles.
Steve knew where he was, but the surroundings were a land he hadn’t laid eyes on in so long that the memory of the streets and storefronts didn’t even occupy a slot in his memory banks. A newsstand was right across the street, and if he’d had his wits about him, he’d’ve had the wherewithal to be awed by the basically extinct concept. Instead he ran across the street to it on autopilot, and grabbed an LA Times from the rack. A giant headline about an Enzyme Warning made no impact on him as he went right to the date. It was January 11, 1971.
Steve rubbed his thumb over the date, smudging the print. He stared at it as he continued to blur the words. Maybe if he smudged it enough he could erase himself out of this timeline.
“You gonna buy that, kid?” Steve was finally brought into the here and now. “’Cause if ya ain’t gonna get the dime outta your pocket to pay for it, then you need to put it back and run on back to Hartman before they miss ya.”
“You – know me?” Steve rocked back and forth nervously on his feet.
“Stevie you on a bad trip or somethin’? Ya been loiterin’ my racks with that colored boy for years, so yeah, I knows ya.”
Steve scowled at the man’s use of the word, “colored.” Nothing like a good dose of indignance to focus you. He sneered, tossed the paper back onto the rack, and started walking. “Keep it together, Johnson,” he muttered to himself as he went to adjust a patch that wasn’t there. “Shit!” Then he spat out a laugh. “Only in this insane world would you be annoyed to have both of your eyes.” Steve plowed a hand through his hair. “You gotta keep it together,” he repeated.
As Steve walked off the anxiety, he called up the jump project. Kayla had insisted they start from birth, but neither of them actually thought they’d have to recall anything this early. ’71. I’m 16. No, that wasn’t right. January … He fished in his pockets and came up with a wallet. His heart sank when he opened it. A few small bills, yes; a driver’s license, no. I’m 15 right now. Jesus Christ, I’m 15 years old. And then he let himself acknowledge the awful truth that this year meant. Kayla … is a little girl. This fact changed everything. Steve let out a strangled sound from his throat and felt the sting in the backs of his eyes. He didn’t know what to do. They’d never talked about what to do if they jumped into childhood. They were kids, how were they supposed to get to each other? And, for that matter, should they?
Steve wanted to go home. It had barely been an hour since he was in the loft of their little house with his Little Sweetness looking for a snack. It wasn’t far. The orphanage was in downtown LA, he could catch a bus straight North past Echo Park and Silverlake, right into Los Feliz. But that wasn’t his house yet. None of his adult residences were his yet, and some didn’t even exist. His head was swimming as he prayed for a jump. Any amount of jump sickness was welcome over staying in this destination.
Ten minutes later he was still there, absently walking, sometimes running, waiting for the jump to take him out of this nightmare. But that jump didn’t come, and he was forced to assume that the rollercoaster was over for now. He admitted he had to take serious stock, so he made himself calm down and entered a coffee shop where he seated himself in a booth.
“Whatcha havin’, hon?” a waitress asked moments after he sat down.
“You got beer?” Steve couldn’t think of a time he needed one more.
“Nice try. How ‘bout a soda?”
Steve gave her a look and just shook his head. “How about we split the difference with coffee.” Not that he needed any stimulants right now. “You got decaf?”
“Uh … I dunno what that is.”
“Of course, you don’t.”
“Don’t start with me, young man. You want the coffee or not?”
“He does.” Marcus slipped into the booth across the table from Steve. “Make it two.” The waitress nodded and shot Steve a look before walking away. “What, you thought I wasn’t gonna follow you after that?”
Steve took in his best friend’s features as the afternoon sun streamed in through the window and lit up his face. A little acne, a lot of hair, and the same look of judgey concern today as he’d be laying on Steve for decades to come. So, Steve did the only thing he could. He started laughing.
“You are bent, man. You are completely bent.” Now Steve laughed harder. “You just ran outta school like you’d seen a ghost, Steve, so how ‘bout you tell me what’s so damn funny? ‘Cause you’re gonna get yourself thrown out of there.”
“Nah, ‘cause I’m gonna quit first, Homey. In about six months if my math is right.”
“Steve, come on, man. What happened back there? One minute we’re trying not to die laughing, the next minute you turn on a dime. I swear I thought you were gonna turn into the Hulk.”
Steve chortled in genuine mirth from the back of his throat. “The Hulk. That’s a new one.”
“No, he isn’t.”
“Trust me, in all these years, you haven’t worried about me goin’ green man on you.”
“See?” Marcus pointed at his friend. “Bent. Might be certifiable. You’re all nonsense. Now, who are you, and what did you do with my friend?”
“I’ve heard that one from you more than a few times now.”
“I mean, it, where’s the Steve Johnson I know?”
“You mean Stevie? Isn’t that what they call me here?”
“Either one. Where did you put him?”
Steve chuckled again. “Go home, Marcus. I’ll see you next time. Just go home.” Marcus crossed his arms and sat back. His expression was unchanged but for honest concern starting to overpower the annoyance. He never could fool Marcus or manipulate him like he could most other people. Even this boy version of the man wasn’t the selfish kind; he wanted to help his friend. And the truth was that Marcus was the only one in the world right now that truly loved him and loved him unconditionally. Steve needed him. And it suddenly occurred to him that his presence right here, right now, might be the only reason he hadn’t imploded yet.
“Homey, here’s a little secret. I’ve been down this road with you before. You don’t remember it, ‘cause it hasn’t happened yet, but I have.”
“Ya know what? I’m gonna go to med school and become a shrink, because you need your head examined.”
“Actually, you’re gonna become a plastic surgeon, but hey, whatever. Can’t get any worse than this, so go ahead, go off script, be a psycholo-whatever instead, why not.”
“Dammit, Steve, I’m your best friend! Now tell me what’s the matter!”
The waitress put down the coffees, and Steve replied, “Please Marcus, not in front of the children.” She rolled her eyes before walking away. Marcus continued to glare.
“Yeahp, ok. Sure. I’m old enough to be your father, but fine. So, here it is, ya ready? I’m not really here. I mean I’m here, but it’s not the me that’s supposed to be here. I’m from the future. I’ve been jumping through time with Kayla since 2009, and we can’t stop. We jump into our bodies that belong in that time, and the consciousnesses that belong in ‘em go away forever. And when we jump outta here to the next place, this whole timeline is gonna just stop. You’re gonna stop. Everyone is gonna stop. But Kayla and me, we’re gonna keep goin’. And goin’ and goin’, from one time to the next,” he pointed down an invisible line between them on the table, “no clue how long they’ll all last. And we keep doin’ everything wrong, livin’ ‘em ‘wrong,’” Steve punctuated with air quotes, “and the jump sickness is getting a lot worse. I don’t even know who jumped here first, me or her. And ya know how old she is? Ten. Kayla’s ten years old. We’re fucked, Homey. So, that’s what the hell happened back there. How’s that?”
Marcus stared at Steve. After a beat, he took a gulp of his coffee then put it back down. “Who’s Kayla?”
“That’s your question?” Steve huffed out in surprise. “I give you this science fiction hell I’m livin’, and your first question is, ‘who’s Kayla?’”
“Yeah. I wanna get all the players straight.”
“She’s my wife,” Steve replied cooly, then took a sip of his own coffee to see how that fact sat with him.
“Wife, huh? I’m pretty sure Steve Johnson isn’t the marrying kind, but ok, I’m keeping up. So, you and this wife of yours are stuck time travelling, and this is just one of your stops?”
“Yeahp.”
“And you’ll only be here a minute or two longer, and then I’m gonna go poof?”
“Who knows. Maybe. Or maybe years. But, yeah, you’re gonna go poof. Our record is four years, which was just this last time. Before the crazy ones, those don’t count.”
“Why don’t they count?”
“’Cause they were – like acid trips.”
“Is that what really happened, Steve? You take some acid?”
“I wish, Homey.” He really did. “I really wish this one was a bad trip. But no, this is Rolf, not acid.”
“A new player! Ok, who’s he, now?”
“Stefano Dimera’s witch doctor asshole piece of shit. He’s a genius, he does shit that can’t be real, right? Only it is, ‘cause here I am.
“Who’s Stefano Dimera? You keep adding more people.”
“I thought you said you were keeping up.”
“You can’t blame me for wanting to keep the players straight.”
“It’s not a game, man. And it doesn’t matter, he’s not really part of this.”
“Then why bring him up?”
“Ok, forget I mentioned him,” he went to adjust his patch again, tutting when he came up empty, “it’s just Rolf. He invented this and he’s usin’ the two of us as his guinea pigs. He thought we’d like it.”
“But you don’t?”
“No! Well … mostly no. It’s not all bad. The last one was … “Steve took a very deep sigh and slumped heavily against the booth. He couldn’t help it when tears pooled in his eyes. We got ’79. And Hawaii. And … our … kids.” A rock had formed in Steve’s throat, and all he could do was shake his head slightly. He let the tears fall from his eyes and wiped them with the back of his hand. “We got to put some stuff right that once went wrong,” he finally said tightly. Marcus didn’t say anything. He hadn’t seen Steve cry since they were little. Steve turned the coffee mug in his hand and wiped his face again with the other. “We always find each other. We’ve both crossed the Atlantic to get to each other. But now how are we supposed to do that? Kayla’s ten year’s old, Marcus. I’m 15, I don’t even have a driver’s license.”
“When have you ever let that stop you,” Marcus replied with a half-smile.
“Sure, there’s not a combustion engine out there I couldn’t get on the road right now. But listen to what I’m saying,” Steve said like Marcus was the veritable child he looked like, “put on your listening ears. We’re kids, Marcus! Inside we’re all grow’d up, now, but to the world? We’re still kids. Kayla’s in Salem in I don’t even know what grade.”
“She’s ten? That would be 5th.” That did not make things any better.
“That’s younger than Stephanie, man! God! I can’t go there. She can’t come here. We’re stuck.”
“And Stephanie is?”
Now Steve looked up and beamed. “My daughter. She’s my daughter.”
Marcus was playing along up until now. He was listening with sincerity and genially keeping up, seeing how the conversation was diffusing his best friend’s anxiety. But it wasn’t until Steve said this that something changed inside of him. The pride … the reverence in this. It gave a boost of legitimacy to the conversation that hadn’t really been there before. Relevance was a given, because anything Steve did was relevant to Marcus; but the way Steve told Marcus that Stephanie was his daughter? Now there was real legitimacy. And Steve saw his friend’s face change.
“You have … a daughter, Steve?”
“Two of ‘em,” he continued to smile.
“Two kids? You’ve got two kids?”
“Three. Got a baby boy, too. I just left him.” Steve glanced away and swallowed down his sadness. He couldn’t take any more.
“And Kayla’s the mom?”
“Yes, Kayla’s the mom!” Steve spat back, “What the hell are you tryin’ to say?!”
“Come on, Steve, you’re the love ‘em and leave ‘em type. Or your candyass tries to be.”
“Please.”
“I’ve tried to show you the right moves, Brother, but you just wanna be a player.”
“Ok, that’s enough outta you.” Steve felt very uncomfortable with this line of questioning. “Yes, Kayla’s the mom. Joe’s our youngest.”
“That Joseph, or as in Josephine?”
“Joe’s our son. Just Joe.”
“Wasn’t that, uh … your mother’s name?”
Steve nodded. “Yeah.” It was clear he didn’t want to go into it. “Our other daughter is Emily.”
They fell into a heavy silence. Steve stared out the window while Marcus studied him very carefully. And if he was being very honest with himself, there was something different about him. Not just running from school, and not just these crazy words he was saying; there was a wisdom about him that felt clearly … adult. Like Steve wasn’t as much a peer to him now as he was two hours ago. Marcus couldn’t put his finger on it, but he saw it in the furrow of Steve’s brow; in the tone of his voice. And he knew then that Steve wasn’t lying.
They went on like this for an hour, talking very candidly, not a euphemism or made up cover story to be had. Steve just didn’t have the energy. If it were anyone else – literally any other person he’d ever known – he would have made the effort to cover. But it was Marcus, all versions of him in all past jumps showed him to be loyal whether he knew what was happening or not, and Steve was just too worn out from the cataclysmic sets of jumps since they’d left LA. So he just let it rip.
“Ok, Steve. So what do you want to do?”
“You believe me?” Steve asked looking back to him after a long silence. “You don’t want to have my head examined anymore?”
“No, I still want your head examined, because there is definitely something wrong with you.” Steve laughed, and there it was again – something very unteenager-like and more of an observational amusement. “But I’m your only friend. And even a blockhead like you can’t make this shit up. So, yeah, I –” he threw his hands up in concession, “—I believe you.”
Steve wasn’t 100% sure that was really true or not, but he appreciated Marcus’s effort and squeezed his shoulder from across the table. “Thanks.”
Marcus nodded then repeated, “So what do you want to do?”
Steve shrugged. “I have no idea.”
“Maybe you should call her.”
“Yeah, that’ll work. “Hi, Mrs. Brady, is your ten-year-old home? I’d like to see if she’s my wife yet. Been there done that when she was 18 and I was 23, and that was hard enough.
“Ok, you don’t have to flip out. Why can’t you pretend to be a classmate?”
“Who am I supposed to say I am?”
“What’s wrong with ‘Steve?’”
“Dude, you’re smarter than this, even now. She’s TEN! Do I sound like a 5th grader, man?” Marcus scratched his head. “And even if I do, what if she’s not her yet, she won’t even be old enough to think I’m a creeper, she’ll just be like, who’s this weird man. No, can’t do that.”
“A creeper?”
“21st century slang.”
“Huh,” Marcus raised an eyebrow as he chewed on that for a second. “Ok, then wait for her to call you. You said it was all there in that project, so she knows where you are.”
“Yeah …”
“Can she make a long distance call?”
“Marcus, Kayla Brady has found me in the most impossible places and gotten me out of the most impossible messes. She’ll find a way to make a call from Salem to LA.”
“Ok, then wait. I thought adults were supposed to have more patience.”
“You don’t understand. We just came from something—it was hard to leave it. There have been harder. But her heart is gonna be broken. I just gotta make sure she knows I’m here and make sure she’s ok. We’ve only gone one jump without connecting, we promised it wouldn’t ever happen again.”
“You could write a letter. Maybe you could be pen pals.”
“Pen pals?” Steve imagined he and Kayla in some kind of movie montage of back and forth letter-writing and broke out into hysterics. He just couldn’t help it, it struck him so funny. His laughter attracted every single eye in the place. The waitress headed for them, and Steve knew they were about done.
“Ok, boys, time to pay for your coffee and go.”
“Uh oh, Homey, we made Alice mad,” Steve stage whispered.
“Who?” Marcus and the waitress named Jan both said at the same time.
“Nevermind, I know, I’m a douchebag.”
Now Marcus was the one to fall into hysterics, though not so much Jan.
“Everyone’s gonna be usin’ that one in about 40 years, too, Homey, though you won’t be here to use it.”
“Yeah, you keep tellin’ me that. I don’t suppose you’ve got any money?” Steve dug for his wallet. “Nevermind, you idiot, you’re gonna need it for the stamps.”
Steve let Marcus lead him back to the orphanage, because there was pretty much no other choice. It was that or sleep under a bridge. When they got back the director was fit to be tied.
“Stevie!” he yelled. “Get in here!”
Steve mentally rolled his eyes. “I’m too old for this shit.” And he was, the director was easily 20 years younger than Steve was in real time. But he went ahead and walked into his office, Marcus on his heels.
“I don’t need your partner in crime. Marcus, I’ll deal with you later.”
“Don’t get mad at him, dude, he’s the one who brought me back. You should be thankin’ him.”
“I think you’re gonna need me to translate, Mr. Thompson,” Marcus said. “Steve’s not really himself right now.”
“Believe it or not, Marcus, I actually speak Hormonal Teenage Boy really well. So, thanks anyway.”
Steve could see that Marcus was genuinely concerned about leaving him. “It’s ok, I’ll be ok,” he whispered to his best friend softly. “Go on.” And with that the director shut the door. Steve fell heavily into the seriously ‘50’s, very unfancy, leather chair and sort of admired it even as he sat in it. Mr. Thompson sat across from him and stared.
“Just what do you expect me to say to you, Stevie?”
“Stevie,” he repeated mirthfully. “Never thought I’d hear that one again.”
“You promised you’d behave. Why do you think I put you in that particular detention? You need to learn those skills to deal with your anger.”
“Ok. I’m sorry.”
Mr. Thompson narrowed his eyes at him. “You’re sorry.”
“Yeah.”
“Where’s the Stevie Johnson attitude?”
“You want attitude?”
“No, I do not.”
“Ok, just put me to bed without any supper. But Marcus didn’t do anything.”
“Stop covering for him, you’re two peas in a pod, and you know I know that.”
“Ok, then he’s sorry, too.”
Somehow Steve managed to play the Hormonal Teenager role the man was expecting and get out of there. He’d lived there for eleven years, so he remembered the way back to his room where Marcus was now waiting for him. They went to dinner, and that trip down the cafeteria line truly blew his mind. He wasn’t the least bit interested in ever revisiting this time in his life, and he was so spooked by the fact that he’d jumped back so gobsmacking far in unshared time that he really couldn’t appreciate any of the nostalgia – but he really couldn’t help the smells and tastes from his institutional-style tray waking up his sense memory. From the half pint of 2% milk to the mashed potatoes to the chipped beef and gravy to the tapioca pudding, it couldn’t be more 1971.
After dinner Marcus tried to get Steve to do his homework, but Steve just looked at him and reminded him he was 50 not 15, his homework didn’t matter. Even if he ended up there for years, he would be an emancipated minor in a matter of months and wouldn’t be graduating.
When Steve found himself truly alone he had a good look at his belongings. He had a smattering of essential clothing, which included one inexpensive suit for when prospective adopting parents came to visit. Which for teenagers wasn’t often. His included exactly one tie, and one pair of nicer shoes. As one of the older boys, Steve had some unofficial seniority and that meant he had the best bunk, right next to the window in the very back of the room. Marcus had the bottom, Steve’s was on the top. He also had a very small trunk at the foot of their bunk. Inside of it was a couple blankets, some more clothing, and buried in the very bottom two items that he knew were there but made his eyes bug out of his head, anyway: His mother’s ruby necklace, and his shoebox. He opened it up, saw the charred train, and welled up remembering the day he and Stephanie played with it for the first time. “Kitchen sage,” Steve chuckled as he wiped at his face for the millionth time that day. “Ah, Little Sweetness,” he sighed quietly. “Thanks for findin’ your papa.”
Every single thing in there was familiar, all if it plus more having made it from this point in time all the way to his nightstand in 2009. Still, he went through the contents and even looked in his tiny black journal. He’d written keep out on it several years before to ward off prying eyes. Then he saw something that didn’t belong there. It was a very small envelope addressed to him in Kayla’s handwriting. Steve’s heart lurched as soon as he saw it.
“She’s here,” he gasped out loud. “God, she’s already here.” Steve looked behind him and made sure he was alone, then he took it up into his bunk and shrank up into the corner. He knew his wife’s handwriting, but he turned it over anyway to check the return address. He was expecting the fish market but was completely shocked to see that it was Steve’s basement apartment. The seal had been broken, so the other Steve had obviously already seen it. But Marcus didn’t say anything about this. Wouldn’t he have mentioned if a girl by the same name as the one he’d just told him was his wife had mailed him a letter, especially after the pen pal talk? Steve’s hands shook as he carefully opened the envelope. There was a note inside and four $10 bills.
Dear Steve,
If you remember Stockholm, I’ve left you a message. If you don’t, please trust me and keep this letter until you do. Because I trust you.
Courage.
K.
He turned it over and looked for anything else that might be inside the envelope, but there was nothing. “How long have I had this, Baby?” Quickly Steve looked for the postmark. November, 1970. “WHAT?!” he yelled.
Two months. She’d been there for two months without him. They’d never gone that long between arrivals. Ever. Steve wanted to be sick. He wanted to die. He wanted to call Kayla right now. He wanted to find his way home. Which home? So many homes. Which one was home? Kayla. Kayla was home. Two months all alone. Abandoned. He had to get to her. He was losing his mind.
Steve laid down on his bed and ground his fists into his eyes. He didn’t know what to do. Where was Rolf? It had been years – YEARS – since he’d shown up on their doorstep and told them he’d find them. So where was he? How could he let this happen? We let this happen. We made too many changes. “Well, that’s just too bad, it’s not our problem, you shit, it’s your problem! You got us into this, now you fix it!” Steve knew his voice was carrying, so he put everything he had into shutting up. The amplification effect was spiking his blood pressure, and he could feel the blood rush through his temples. He held the letter to his heart and laid there, absorbing her essence through it like it was some kind of conduit. “I don’t know what to do here, Sweetness,” Steve whispered, “what do I do?” Suddenly Steve calmed as the answer came to him. Kayla’s the smart one. She told me everything I need to know. He took out the letter and read it again.
If you remember Stockholm, I’ve left you a message … Mrs. H. It’s gotta be Mrs. H. It was the only place a message could be. There was no Internet here to communicate by email. They had decided long ago that Alice Horton was their secret-keeper, and so far she hadn’t disappointed.
If you don’t, please trust me and keep this letter until you do. There was no one he trusted more, and she knew it.
Because I trust you. That $40 proved it. She trusted that this version of him wasn’t going to use that money until he figured out where it came from. And she was right, because it was still there buried inside a shoe box deep inside his trunk.
But it was that last line that gave him what he really needed. Courage. Steve signed it to himself. “You’re so smart, baby. You knew not to leave your name or real address or this future one-eyed tomcat would get too curious for our own good. Steve’s mind raced with how to pull off a phone call to Mrs. Horton and what Kayla’s message might say. In a bittersweet dichotomy, Steve also thought about where Stephanie needed to be tomorrow and when Kayla’s next long shift was. Four years was a long time; so, like so many jumps before, it was going to take some time to adjust to that jump being over.
Steve hid away the letter just in time for the other five boys to come in for lights out. They had all heard about Steve’s freak out and ribbed him, but when he failed to care, literally at all, about their teasing they didn’t know what to make of it. He only remembered these guys because they were lifers like him. But he had no intention of making any investment in them at all whatsoever, so he literally ignored them.
At 10pm sharp, the lights went out. Steve was so emotionally drained that he was asleep in minutes.
He was completely disoriented when Marcus woke him first thing in the morning. He called out his wife’s name, and the boys looked at him like he had two heads. When he realized where he was it hit him like cold water in the face. He cursed and sat up in bed.
“You must have some grass in there,” a tall blonde kid said as he headed for Steve’s trunk. Steve hopped down and got right in his way.
“Any of you assholes touch my shit I’ll rearrange your face. Is that clear?” It was, and the boys scattered to the showers. Marcus was unfazed. “Homey, I gotta get to a phone. It’s long distance, and I’d rather not use a payphone if I can avoid it.”
“So, you’re gonna call her, after all?”
“Not exactly. She left me a message, I gotta pick it up.”
“How do you know?”
Steve was about to tell him, but something stopped him. “I just do.”
Marcus rolled his eyes, but he agreed to distract the secretary so Steve could use the phone during their lunch period. In the meantime, Steve had no intention of going to class.
“Wait, didn’t you say you had to live these timelines or something? So if you don’t go to class what does that do?”
Steve put his hands on his hips and glared at Marcus. “I don’t believe I’m doin’ this. I don’t even know where my books are.”
“I’ll get them ready for you, just go take a shower, you’re getting ripe.”
He got a really good look at himself yesterday when he went to the bathroom, but the full length view naked in the shower was surreal. I’m a teenager. This is fucked up, I’m a fucking goddamn teenager.
Cafeteria eggs, toast, and orange juice were actually far more delicious right now than he ever remembered them tasting then. By the time Steve had to go to class he’d changed his mind. Marcus balked.
“I don’t have time to play school right now, man!”
“You don’t go you’re gonna draw attention to yourself. You don’t want that, right? I thought you were trying to lay low.”
“I … yeah, but look, class is just … I don’t … this is a waste of my time. I’m not doin’ the This Is Your Life thing. There’s no point.”
“It sounds to me like you have nothing but time, Steve. You’re stuck, that’s what you said. And you have to live these things like you did before or you mess up this vortex thing, you said that, too. I don’t wanna go poof ‘cause you ditched class!”
“That’s not how it works, and even if it was, I don’t think missing learning every word to the Preamble is gonna make or break me!”
“Look, I didn’t set these rules of yours, you did, I’m just trying to help you.”
“Well stop helping.”
“You’re an ingrate.”
“You’re a jive turkey.”
“Get in that classroom or I’m not helping you at lunch.”
“What? Come on, Marcus!”
“I’m not joking, Steve, you go in there. Learn, don’t learn, take a nap for all I care, but don’t ditch that class or I’m not helping you make that phone call.”
Steve pumped his jaw in utter frustration. This was ridiculous. This was not old home week. This was not a chance to learn what he didn’t give a shit about 35 years ago. But Marcus wasn’t wrong when he said Steve had nothing but time. If he ditched class, where exactly was he supposed to go if he wasn’t thumbing a ride to Salem?
Steve dragged a hand down his face, took the history textbook Marcus was shoving at him, then flipped him the bird and turned to go into the classroom.
“I thought you were the adult here, Stevie.” To which Steve dismissed him with a similar hand gesture. “You’re welcome!” Marcus yelled genially.
“Lunch!” Steve spat over his shoulder back to his best friend. “I mean it!”
Steve sat down in his Sophomore year history class for the second time and stewed while Marcus headed to another classroom. I can’t believe this is happening.
But it was. It was happening to him. He’d been in 1971 Los Angeles for less than 18 hours, and he had no idea how he was going to sit through however many classes he had to depend on Marcus to send him to before he got Mrs. Horton on the phone. But at least he could fake being 15. It wasn’t that much of a stretch compared to what Kayla was going through. Faking being ten? Kayla, how are you managing?
As it happened … not very well.