Parallel

3

HERE


WEDNESDAY, SEPTEMBER 9, 2009

(my eighteenth birthday)


My heart is pounding so violently that my ribs ache.

I whip my head to the right and see a twin-size bed a few feet away, pushed up against another white wall, this one decorated with a framed black-and-white photograph of the Seattle Space Needle. The bed is unmade and its flowered sheets look slept in, and the clock on the windowsill next to it is blinking 12:00. There is no sign of the bed’s owner.

Where am I?

I scan the rest of the small room: two identical desks, two identical dressers, two closed doors. I wonder briefly if I could be in prison before deciding that flowered sheets and arty photographs probably aren’t government-issue. My mind careens through a parade of other horrible possibilities. Maybe those two doors are locked. Maybe I was drugged and kidnapped, and this is where my captors have been holding me. I think back to last night. Did I remember to dead-bolt my door? The flannel pants and gray Brookside Cross-Country T-shirt I’m wearing are mine, but I don’t remember having brought them to L.A. with me, and I definitely wasn’t wearing them last night. I never changed out of my pajama-dress. What the hell is going on?

There are voices outside. People talking. Someone laughing. I get out of bed and move toward the window, which, to my relief, is not barred or locked but halfway open and clearly the source of both the sunlight and the icy air. I push the glass all the way up and stick my head out.

The window is on the second story of a U-shaped brick building, overlooking an enclosed courtyard. The voices I hear belong to a group of students, laden with backpacks and messenger bags, gathered around a wooden bench. The room, the building, the kids outside. This has to be a college campus. But where? This doesn’t look anything like the pictures I’ve seen of UCLA or USC. And besides, the air feels much too cool for this to be Southern California. My fear turns into panic. I have to get out of here.

I walk to one of the doors, say a quick prayer that it’s not locked, and open it. It’s a closet. As I survey its contents, my forearms prickle with goose bumps. The clothes inside are mine.

On the other side of the other door is a short hallway leading to a small common room. I see the end of a green couch and the edge of a coffee table. An out-of-commission fireplace that’s doubling as a pantry, stocked with a box of organic oatmeal, two bags of cinnamon soy crisps, and a jar of almond butter. A fancy-looking espresso machine on the floor. Purple Nikes by the door. And an ankle.

The ankle—attached to a small, delicate-looking, bare female foot—is suspended in the air, parallel to the ground, as if its owner is balancing on one leg. I take a step closer, trying to get a better glimpse of this person before she sees me.

“Abby?” The foot drops to the floor, and a pretty Asian girl comes into view. At first I think she’s younger than me, but then I realize that she’s just small. She can’t be more than five feet tall, but she looks strong. Her tiny, muscular body is in yoga pants and a tank top, and she’s standing on a yoga mat. When she sees me, she smiles. “I didn’t wake you, did I? I was trying to be quiet.”

I want to scream, WHO ARE YOU AND WHAT AM I DOING HERE???? But for some reason, I don’t. I simply smile back and shake my head.

“Good,” she replies, reaching for the bottle of water near her feet. “After last night, I figured you could use some sleep.” Last night? She smiles again, bigger this time. “Happy birthday, roomie!”

My birthday. I’d forgotten. Which, considering the morning I’ve had, is not nearly as weird as the fact that this chick I’ve never seen before is calling me roomie. “Thanks.”

The girl reaches for an opaque vitamin bottle sitting on the coffee table and dumps two pills into her palm. “Willow bark?” she asks me. I give her a blank, slightly bewildered stare, which pretty much sums up my mental state right now. “It’s for headaches,” she explains. “I woke up with a monster one.”

“Um, no, that’s okay,” I reply. Considering the circumstances, it’s probably better not to accept unmarked pills from strangers. Plus, remarkably, though my head is swimming, it isn’t pounding. Despite the gallon of champagne I consumed last night, I’m not the least bit hungover.

The girl pops the pills in her mouth and takes a swig of water. “Well, I guess I should get in the shower,” she says. “I have econ at eleven.” She steps past me toward the bedroom. A polite person would step out of her way, but I just stand there motionless, trying to come up with a reasonable explanation for all this. I’m still standing in the same spot when she emerges from the bedroom a few moments later, wrapped in a towel and carrying a shower caddy. “See you in a few!” she says brightly as she heads for the door. When she opens it, I get a glimpse of an octagonal entryway, surrounded by four dark wooden doors, all labeled with three-digit brass numbers. The door falls shut behind her, and I am alone.

I walk over to the couch and don’t so much sit as fall into it. My heart is racing, I’m ridiculously thirsty, and I have absolutely no idea where I am or how I got here. The clock on the cable box says it’s 10:10, which means that in the span of the last eight hours I, and all my belongings, somehow managed to get from room 316 at the Culver Hotel to here. Wherever “here” is.

My eyes scan the room, looking for evidence, and land on a dog-eared blue book lying on the coffee table. It takes me a moment to process its title: 2009–2010 Yale College Programs of Study.

I’m at Yale.

I squeeze my eyes shut and will myself to wake up from what must be a dream. But when I open my eyes, I’m still here, on this velour couch, holding the Yale course catalog in my shaking hands. I take a deep breath, forcing myself to stay calm.

A phone rings, and I jump. Then I realize it’s my phone, ringing in the bedroom. I leap off the couch and hurry down the hall. My cell is on the desk next to the bed I woke up in.

MOM AND DAD—HOME

They’re no doubt calling to wish me happy birthday, but I can’t deal with them right now. I won’t be able to hold it together. I send the call to voicemail and immediately dial Caitlin’s number.

“Thank God,” I say as soon as she picks up.

“Happy birthday!” she shouts. I relax the moment I hear her voice. Caitlin will explain this to me. She’ll make this make sense.

“You have to help me.”

“Are you that hungover?” she asks with a laugh. “My head is throbbing, but other than that, I feel okay.”

“I’m serious, Caitlin. I’m freaking out.”

“What’s wrong?” she asks in alarm.

“Where are you right now?”

“In my room. Why?”

“At Yale?” I hold my breath, praying. Please let her be here, please let her be here.

“Of course at Yale, silly. Where else would I be?” I experience a brief flash of relief. Caitlin’s here. Caitlin, who has an answer for everything. She’ll have an answer for this. Everything is going to be fine. “Abby?” Caitlin’s voice is tinged with worry. “What’s going on?”

I take a deep breath. “I know it sounds crazy,” I begin. “But . . . I think I’m here, too. At Yale.”

Caitlin laughs. “You had me worried there for a sec. I thought something was seriously wrong.” Her voice sounds breezy now. Light. “It is sorta surreal though, huh? Our being here together.”

“How long have I been here?” I whisper.

“What do you mean? We got here a week ago Friday. Hey, are you all right?” The worry is back.

I am reeling. Caitlin is acting like it’s the most normal thing in the world for me to be here. Caitlin, the most rational person I know. My panic quickly becomes dread. Something is very wrong. Either that, or:

“Is this some sort of joke?”

“Is what a joke?” Caitlin sounds genuinely confused now. “Abby, what’s going on? Are you okay?”

I am most definitely not okay. My mind charges forward, tearing through every imaginable possibility. The problem is, there aren’t very many. Either I’m dreaming or hallucinating or crazy. Or everyone else is.

“I’m coming over there,” Caitlin says. “I’ll be there in five minutes.”

“No!” I say quickly, louder than I intended. “I mean, no . . . that’s okay. I’m fine,” I lie. I want Caitlin’s help, but first I need some time to think.

“You don’t sound fine.”

“I’m fine,” I insist. “I just had a really weird dream, that’s all.” One I can’t wake up from.

“Abby.”

“I’m fine!” I repeat, struggling to keep my voice as light as possible. “I’ll catch up with you later, okay?”

“We’re shopping Art History at eleven fifteen, right?” She still sounds unsure.

“Yep!” I say this with all the enthusiasm I can muster.

“Okay, cool.” Her voice returns to normal. “There’s a chem class I want to check out at ten thirty, so is it okay if I just meet you at McNeil?”

“Sure,” I say, already distracted. It’s ten fifteen now. That gives me an hour to figure out what the hell happened last night.

“’Kay, see you then.”

As soon as I press the end button, a text pops up on my screen.

Tyler: HAPPY BDAY BARNES. WELCOME TO THE BEST YEAR OF YOUR LIFE.

Ten minutes in, “best” is not the word I’d use.

I grab what looks like my laptop and shove it into the satchel hanging on the back of the desk chair, along with my wallet and phone. I’m about to leave the bedroom when I realize I should probably get dressed first. After surveying my closet, I go with the jeans I got for Christmas last year, my favorite white V-neck, and a snuggly brown cardigan I’ve never seen before. As I’m leaving the bedroom, my roomie returns from her shower.

“We’re still on for dinner tonight, right?” she asks. “I was thinking I’d invite a friend of Ben’s to come with.”

“Sure, sounds great.” I don’t have time to make birthday plans. Or figure out who Ben is.

“Eight o’clock at Samurai Sushi? Ben’s train gets in at seven thirty.”

I nod distractedly, checking around the room to make sure I have everything I need. My eyes land on a key card with my picture and a bar code on it. I grab it. “Okay, awesome,” the girl is saying. “I’ll make a reservation. Oh! Before you go . . .” She retrieves a tan envelope from her desk drawer and hands it to me. “This is for you.” I turn the envelope over in my hands. The words For Abby, Love, Marissa are handwritten in crisp black letters on the front. “Open it,” says Marissa, nudging me with her elbow. “And please don’t say I shouldn’t have gotten you anything. So what if we’ve only known each other twelve days? By the time my birthday comes in February, we’ll have been living together for five months, and even if we hate each other by then, you’ll feel obligated to get me something. I’m just saving myself from the hassle of feeling like an a*shole when that happens.”

I return her smile, momentarily forgetting the fact that in the last seven minutes, I have somehow acquired an entirely new life, complete with autumn-appropriate attire and a gift-giving roommate.

Inside the envelope is a single black-and-white photograph of Caitlin and me, sitting side by side on the grass in front of what looks like a cathedral, laughing at some unknown joke. The photograph looks like something you’d see in a magazine. “What a great picture! Did you take this?” I ask, looking up at Marissa. She gives me a funny look.

“Last weekend, remember? At the Freshman Picnic.”

“Oh—right. Duh.” I force a smile, willing my heart to slow down. How does this girl I’ve never met have a photograph of me from last weekend?

“Since it turned out so well, I figured you might want a bigger version to hang on your wall. So I printed an eight-by-ten and am having it matted and framed. It’s supposed to be ready tomorrow.”

“Wow . . . thanks! Such a cool present.” I’m genuinely touched by the gift but itching to get out of here. I put on my best apologetic smile. “I really should get going. There’s a class I want to check out that starts pretty soon.” I move toward the door, hoping she won’t ask what class.

“No worries,” she replies. “See you tonight!” She waves, then disappears into the bedroom. I grab the course schedule from the coffee table and hurry out the door.

When I reach the courtyard, I realize that I don’t really have a plan. What I need is a place to think, preferably somewhere quiet with internet access. I flip through the course schedule and find a campus map on the inside back cover. It’s not exceptionally detailed, but the words Sterling Memorial Library leap out at me. Perfect. Now how the hell do I get there?

The courtyard, like the building around it, is U-shaped. The open part of the U faces a busy street, but there’s a high, wrought-iron fence stretching the entire length of the opening. Who gives someone a view of a major street but no way to get to it? I briefly consider yelling at someone through the bars but quickly decide against it. Probably wise to avoid crazy-person behavior, at least for the time being. At the base of the U is a wide tunnel through the buildings, which appears to be my only way out.

The tunnel dumps me into a massive enclosed quad. A quick glance at my map is all I need to get my bearings. The layout of the buildings, the size of the courtyard . . . this has to be Old Campus, which means I’ve just come from Vanderbilt Hall, the U-shaped building on the southern end. The library is just a couple of blocks northwest of here, so I head for the arched gate at the far corner of the quad. As I’m passing through the archway, a group of girls emerges from a door a few yards away, carrying coffee cups and pastry bags. My stomach growls with envy. The sign above the door says DURFEE’S and has a picture of a coffee mug on it. I dig through my bag for my wallet, praying that there’s money in it. I find four dollars and some change, enough for coffee and a bagel.

Durfee’s is bustling with activity. No one pays any attention to me, which is great, and the place is dirt cheap. I buy a large coffee, a sesame seed bagel, a bottle of water, and a granola bar for later, and still have a dollar left over. I’m a long way from L.A., that’s for sure.

As I’m walking out, two guys, both wearing polo shirts with the collar flipped up and smelling like day-old (okay, make that week-old) beer, walk in. They see me, look at each other, and smile. “Hey, hey,” one of them says to me. His shaggy red hair looks like it hasn’t seen a shampoo bottle in quite some time. “You looked like you were having fun last night.”

“Last night?”

The guys laugh. “Yeah, it’s all a little foggy, huh?” the other one says. His blond hair is sticking straight up, like it dried while he was upside down.

Dirty Hair nods at my coffee cup and sack of goodies. “Lemme guess—coffee, water, and a bagel.” I stare at him. “Am I right?” I nod, not sure whether to be frightened or impressed. “Hangover essentials,” he explains. “But you forgot the Advil.”

“Oh . . . right.” I flash what I hope is a friendly smile, trying not to grimace as I feel my stomach churn. Standing this close to them and their beer-emanating pores is making me nauseous.

“They’re out of Advil,” the blond one says, pointing to the empty box. “Man, something must be up with the barometric pressure. Everyone I’ve talked to has a headache.” He nods at the line of people waiting to pay. All of them are clutching travel packs of pain relievers. “You want some Tylenol?” he asks me.

“Uh, no. I’m okay, actually. But thanks.” Blond Spikes just shrugs.

“So, what’re you up to today?” Dirty Hair asks, alcohol heavy on his breath. I seriously might puke. Right now.

“Uh, you know . . . nothing much. Hey, gotta run.” I don’t bother to wait for a response. Rude, maybe, but I figure a hasty exit is less socially scarring than dumping the contents of my stomach on their suede loafers.

A few minutes later, I’m flashing my ID card to the security guard at the entrance of Sterling Memorial Library, which I recognize from the photograph Marissa gave me. It looks more like a Gothic church than a library. The exterior is impressive, but the interior is breathtaking. The main entrance, adorned with symbols and writings in various ancient languages, opens into a cathedral-like nave with vaulted aisles, clerestoried lighting, and too many stained-glass windows to count. I head toward the circulation desk, which, fitting with the cathedral theme, looks like an altar. The librarian looks up as I approach.

“Hello there,” she says. “May I help you?”

“Hi . . . I’m, uh—”

She politely cuts me off. “A freshman.” I look as clueless as I feel, apparently. “Freshmen are the only students who come to the library during shopping period,” she explains with a kind smile. “Is this your first time to SML?” I nod. She reaches under the desk and pulls out a library map. “Then you’ll probably need one of these,” she says, sliding the map across the desk. “Library policies are on the back.”

I scan the map. “Where’s the best place for me to go?”

“Depends on how much privacy you want,” she replies. “There are five reading rooms on this level, a couple more scattered throughout the rest of the main building, and half a dozen study carrels on each level of the stacks.”

“The stacks?”

The librarian points to the map in my hands. “Our fifteen floors of books. If you’re looking for privacy, that’s your best bet.”

“And how do I . . .”

She turns to her computer and types a few keys. “All I’ll need is your ID card to reserve a carrel,” she tells me. I hand it to her. She scans the bar code, then gives it back to me. “All set. Carrel 3M-06.” She leans over and draws a red X on my library map, then points to her left, to another security guard station. “Just show the guard your ID.”

“Carrel,” I soon learn, is the library’s euphemism for the ridiculously tiny cubicles with plastic sliding doors that line the interior walls of the building. While I’m waiting for my laptop to boot up, I close my eyes and go over the last twenty-four hours in my mind, attempting to recall every detail of last night’s events. Could Bret have slipped me something? But why would he drug me and take me to Yale? And if I just got here last night, how does Marissa have a photo of me that was supposedly taken last week, and why is there a student ID card with my name and picture on it?

I sigh, opening my eyes just as my computer finishes booting up. Any uncertainty about whose laptop this is disappears when I see the home screen. The background image is a picture of Caitlin, Tyler, and me, standing on the Brookside football field, wearing caps and gowns and grinning like we just won the Super Bowl. It’s a graduation photo, obviously. But where did it come from? I missed graduation. I was already in L.A. by then, doing preproduction for the movie. Saturday, June 6, 2009. I remember calling Caitlin that afternoon to see how it went.

How is there a picture of me at graduation if I wasn’t there?

I stare at the photograph, trying to remember that moment, but I can’t. I have absolutely no recollection of being there, which makes sense, because I WASN’T. All of a sudden, I’m annoyed. Annoyed that whatever is going on has made me doubt my sanity, made me doubt reality. I have been in Los Angeles, living at the Culver Hotel, shooting a movie with Bret Woodward since May. That I know. That I remember. That’s what’s real.

Right?

Confronted with inconsistencies I can’t explain, I jump into journalist mode. I’ll fact-check my life the way I’d fact-check a newspaper article, starting with the movie I’ve spent the last four months shooting. I launch my web browser, which redirects to a secure log-in screen for the Yale network, with boxes for my student ID number and password. Undeterred, I pull out my ID card and examine it. Under the bar code is a ten-digit number, which has to be my student ID number. I type the numbers into the top box. Now for the harder part: the password. I’ve been using the same password since we read Through the Looking Glass in seventh grade.

I type w-o-n-d-e-r-l-a-n-d into the password box and hold my breath as I click the log-in button. A few seconds later, the log-in screen disappears.

I’m in.

Buoyed, I type the words “Everyday Assassins movie” into the search bar and hit enter. The top hit tells me what I want to know. Directed by Alain Bourneau and starring Bret Woodward, Everyday Assassins is a high-octane thriller about a renegade military sniper and his band of teenage assassins. I scroll down. Bret’s name is right where I expect it to be, at the top of the lengthy cast list. The next three names are all ones I recognize. So far everything is exactly as I remember it. I keep scrolling, looking for my name. There’s Kirby. There’s the guy who plays Bret’s other sidekick. My name should be next.

Please let it be there, please let it be there.

It isn’t.

I think back, remembering my audition. That tiny studio office. The loud hum of the window AC unit. The casting director’s encouraging smile. Then I go back further, remembering the night of the school play . . . then even further, to the day I found out I’d been cast as Thomasina . . . then further still, to the first day of senior year, when Ms. Ziffren handed out copies of Arcadia and told us auditions would be held the following week.

I squeeze my eyes shut, replaying my conversation with Ms. DeWitt that morning. I remember her telling me that Mr. Simmons had canceled History of Music, and that my options for a replacement were Drama Methods and astronomy. But I also remember—just as vividly—Ms. DeWitt telling me that astronomy was my only option . . . that there had been other classes available, but they’d been filled already . . . that because I was late, I was the last of Simmons’s students to be rescheduled.

But I wasn’t late. I’m never late.

The earthquake.

A stream of new memories floods my mind: sitting in traffic on my way to school, getting stopped by Ms. DeWitt as I was coming out of the auditorium, complaining to Caitlin at lunch, pretending to listen to my astronomy teacher while staring at the new guy next to me.

Same day, two completely different sets of memories. It’s as if my mind recorded two different versions of what happened that morning. I run through both versions again, struggling to make sense of the inconsistency. When I can’t, I rack my brain for other duplicate days, but there aren’t any. Just the one. Exactly a year ago yesterday. I remember, because it was the day before my birthday.

On impulse, I Google the words “Atlanta earthquake September 2008.” The search returns over a million hits. The top one is a link to an article on CNN.com, dated September 9, 2008.

A rare earthquake measuring magnitude 5.9 shook the Southeast early yesterday morning. Scientists are baffled, as it appears there may have been more than seventy similar quakes at various sites across the globe. Theories about the cause of the quakes abound, but so far seismologists have been unable to isolate their origin.

I close my eyes, again trying to summon more of these alternate memories. Other astronomy lectures, other conversations with the friendly new kid. Nada. Nothing beyond that first day. I’ve got one day of earthquake memories and a full year’s worth of non-earthquake ones.

DING! My eyes fly open. It’s another text from Tyler.

TELL C TO LET ME COME VISIT

I think for a sec, then quickly reply.

WHAT AIRPORT WOULD U FLY FROM?

He’ll think it’s super weird that I’m asking, but at least I’ll know from his answer whether he’s still at Michigan. My phone dings with his reply.

U GONNA BOOK MY FLIGHT FOR ME?

Damn. So much for that.

I’m crafting a response when my phone dings again.

DTW

Detroit. So Tyler’s still at Michigan, Caitlin’s still at Yale, and I’m three thousand miles from where I should be. And no closer to figuring out why.

I sigh, slumping down in my seat, wishing I could go back to sleep and forget this whole experience. But I’m supposed to meet Caitlin in six minutes, and according to my map, McNeil Lecture Hall is in the art gallery on the other side of campus. I leave my laptop on the desk, lock the door to my study carrel, and hurry back downstairs.

The blue sign outside 1111 Chapel Street welcomes me to the Yale University Art Gallery. I pull open the door and step inside the lobby. I’m so preoccupied with the fact that I’m late that I almost don’t notice the banner hanging on the lobby’s far wall.

THE ART OF HARMONY:

SEURAT’S CHROMOLUMINARISM.

SEPTEMBER 1–NOVEMBER 30 AT THE YUAG.

COURTESY OF THE HIGH MUSEUM.

My mom’s pointillism exhibit. I knew the collection was touring after its nine-month stint at the High, but it catches me off guard to find it here. A professor’s voice, loud and crisp, reverberates through the thin walls of the lecture hall, reminding me that the class I came for started five minutes ago. Eyes still on the banner, I reach to pull open the auditorium door.

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” a male voice says. I look around. The only other person in the lobby is a guy in a gray Yale Lacrosse T-shirt, sitting on the wooden bench that runs the length of the auditorium wall. He’s leaning back against the wall, his long legs stretched out in front of him. He has a notebook in his lap and a pen in his hand. I quickly take him in: dark, floppy hair, bright green eyes, skin that’s been tanned in the sun, not in a booth. He’s good-looking. Like, really good-looking. His T-shirt is snug on his biceps, which appear to get quite a bit of use.

“Why not?” I ask, pulling my hand off the door handle.

“Prof has a thing about punctuality,” he says. “Every year, he makes an example out of the kids who show up late during shopping period. Berates them, mocks them—it’s not pretty. Good news is, he doesn’t take attendance, so it’s no big deal if you’re not there. Especially if you have the notes.” He holds up his notebook and nods toward the wall. “From here you can hear every word. I’m Michael, by the way,” he adds, leaning forward to shake my hand. His palm is warm, dry, and slightly scratchy. A boy’s hand. For a split second, I wonder what it would feel like running down my back.

“I’m Abby,” I tell him, and quickly drop his hand before my thoughts go R-rated.

Michael scoots over, making room for me, so I sit.

“So, you’re a freshman?” he asks.

“Is it that obvious?”

He grins. “Kind of. You have this sort of bewildered look on your face. It’s cute.” Bewildered and unshowered and, now, sweating. Cute is probably not the most appropriate word. I dig around in my bag for some gum but can’t find any.

“What college are you in?” Michael asks. When I just stare at him blankly, he laughs. “Don’t worry, I’m not gonna stalk you. I was just wondering. I’m in Pierson, but I live off campus at the ADPhi house.”

Oh. Right. Yale has the whole residential college thing. Caitlin explained it to me when she got in. Freshmen get assigned to one of twelve residential colleges, where they live the entire time they’re at Yale unless they move off campus. Each is its own little community, and the colleges compete against one another in intramurals and sit together at football games. But which one am I in?

Michael is still waiting for me to respond. “I must look especially menacing today,” he jokes when I don’t.

“Oh—no,” I say quickly, “it’s just . . .” It’s just that I had no idea what you were talking about because I wasn’t here yesterday, have no idea how I got here, and know virtually nothing about this school. “I live in Vanderbilt Hall?” It sounds more like a question than an answer, but Michael doesn’t seem to notice.

“So you’re in Berkeley,” he says with a nod. “Cool.” Now I’m even more confused, but since Michael is the only one of the two of us who knows what the hell he’s talking about, I defer to him.

From inside the lecture hall, the professor gets louder. Michael and I both lean into the wall, listening. “Today we continue our discussion of prehistoric art,” comes the voice through the wall. Michael and I both reach for our notebooks and pens, and we spend the next forty minutes scribbling furiously.

As soon as the lecture ends, Michael has to hurry to his next class. “Another professor with a punctuality mandate,” he explains, slinging his backpack over his shoulder. “But I’ll see you Monday, right?” When I nod, he smiles. “Good.”

Caitlin emerges from the auditorium a few seconds later. “I didn’t see you inside,” she says. She retrieves a bottle of Aleve from her bag and pops two pills into her mouth. “Man, I can’t seem to kick this headache.”

“I took notes from out here. Hey, listen, are you busy right now?”

“Nope. Wanna get some lunch?”

“I need you to come with me to the library,” I say.

“Why?”

“I’ll explain when we get there.”

When I unlock the door to my carrel, Caitlin looks surprised. “You already rented a weenie bin?” I slide open the door and motion for her to go inside, then close the door behind us and relock it. Caitlin drops her bag on the desk and crosses her arms. “Now will you please tell me what’s going on?”

“Remember eighth grade, when Jeff Butler dumped me the week before the spring dance?”

“Of course. You didn’t come to school for three days.”

“Do you remember what you said to me?”

“He spits when he talks?”

I shake my head impatiently. “You said I shouldn’t let it bother me, because in some parallel world, I was the one who broke up with him.”

“Look how wise I was, even back then.” Caitlin smiles, then immediately frowns. “Wait, is that why we’re here? Because you’re pining for Jeff Butler? Ab, the guy gives new meaning to the phrase ‘say it, don’t spray it.’ Plus, didn’t he chop off part of his pinkie in shop cla—”

I cut her off. “This isn’t about Jeff.”

“Then what is it about? Seriously, Abby, you’re starting to freak me out a little here.”

“I want to know if they really exist.”

“If what really exist?”

“Parallel worlds. Are they real?”

Caitlin responds without hesitation. “Yes.”

“Like, for real real?”

“Yes,” Caitlin repeats. “I mean, it’s not like we can prove it empirically, but quantum theory says there’s a parallel world for every possible version of your life. And most mainstream physicists would probably stake their careers on it.”

I feel my brain switching into skeptical mode. “But it sounds so crazy,” I say.

“That’s what they told Galileo. And Pasteur. And—”

“Okay, fine. So is there any way a person could somehow . . . end up in one?”

Caitlin gives me a funny look. “No. Parallel worlds occupy separate dimensions of space. There’s no way for us to even see them, much less travel to one.” She eyes me closely. “This is why you brought me up here? To talk about the multiverse?”

I take a deep breath, giving myself a five-second mental pep talk—the same pep talk I’ve been giving myself all day. There’s a rational explanation for this. Caitlin will explain it to me, and everything will make sense again.

“Abby?”

Here goes nothing. “When I went to bed last night, I was in a hotel room in L.A.,” I begin slowly. “The same hotel room I’ve been living in for the past four months. And when I woke up this morning, I was here.”

Whatever Caitlin was expecting me to say, it clearly wasn’t this. “Huh?”

“I’m not supposed to be here. At Yale. I’m supposed to be in L.A., shooting a movie with Bret Woodward. And he and I are supposed to be having dinner tonight for my birthday, which I’m pretty sure is a date, because he kissed me last night. Well, technically, I kissed him . . . or at least he probably thinks I did, but I didn’t mean to, and it was more of an almost-kiss anyway.” I’m starting to ramble, but I don’t care. At this point, I just want to get it out. “Except now I’m here, and everyone’s acting like I’ve been here for weeks, and there are pictures of me doing things I never did—like graduation!” I point at the photo on my home screen. “Where did that picture come from? I wasn’t at graduation. I wanted to be, but I was already in California by then. And my ID car—”

“Time-out.” Caitlin does a T motion with her hands, silencing me. “You weren’t at graduation?” I shake my head. “And you missed it because you were in Los Angeles, filming a movie. With Bret Woodward.” Her voice is calm, but she’s eyeing me strangely. I don’t blame her. I sound like a lunatic. I exhale, forcing myself to relax.

“I know it sounds crazy,” I say. “But, yes. A casting director saw me in the fall show last year and thought I looked the part.”

“The fall show at Brookside?”

I nod. “I was the lead. I didn’t want the lead. I didn’t even want to be in the class. But Simmons canceled History of Music, and I had to pick a replacement. Drama sounded slightly less brutal than astronomy, so—”

Caitlin’s brow furrows. “But you took astronomy. I helped you study for the final, remember?”

“That’s just it. I don’t remember—not the part about you helping me study, anyway. I remember taking drama, getting the lead in Arcadia, giving a kinetic performance as Thomasina—the casting director’s words, not mine—and then being asked to fly out to L.A. the week before Christmas to audition for Everyday Assassins.”

“The Bret Woodward movie.”

I sigh heavily. This is even harder than I thought.

“I know how it sounds,” I say wearily. “Believe me, I know.” I fight to keep my voice steady. “But I’m telling you, Cate, when I went to bed last night, I was in L.A., at the Culver Hotel, where I’ve been living all summer.”

“And you were there because some casting director saw you in the fall play,” Caitlin says this slowly, her eyes never leaving mine. “And this happened because you took drama, not astronomy, last fall.”

“Yes. Exactly.”

“And because of this, you thought you might be in a parallel world?”

It sounds ludicrous. “I’m crazy,” I moan. “That’s the only rational explanation, right? Everything I remember from the last year, none of it really happened. I’m having some sort of psychological breakdown.”

Caitlin rolls her eyes. “You’re not having a breakdown.”

“So you can explain this, then. You can explain what’s happening to me.”

“Well, no. Not yet.”

“So how can you be so sure that I’m not crazy?”

“A crazy person wouldn’t be so quick to call herself crazy,” she says matter-of-factly, switching into scientist mode. She gets like this when she’s trying to problem solve. “Okay, so we know that one of two things is true: Either your memories from the last twelve months are accurate or they’re not. If they’re not, then they have to be coming from someplace, whether it be your imagination—which still doesn’t make you crazy—or some external source.”

“An ‘external source’? What, like mind control?” I might not be a crazy person, but my voice has taken on the frantic, high-pitched screech of one. “You think someone’s messing with my memories?”

“Calm down. I don’t think anything yet.” She chews on her lip, thinking.

I lay my head on the desk, the wood cool on my skin. Someone has written CARPE DIEM in blue pen on the wall.

“Did they ever figure out what caused that earthquake?” I hear myself ask.

Caitlin stops chewing. “Why’d you ask that?”

“Because it’s the only thing I remember from the last year that seems to have actually happened,” I reply. “And it’s the only memory I have that doesn’t fit with the rest.”

Caitlin’s eyes fly to my face. “What do you mean, ‘doesn’t fit’?”

I sit up. “It’s like my mind recorded two versions of the same day,” I tell her. “The first day of senior year. In the regular version—the one that fits with the rest of my memories—there was no earthquake, and DeWitt called me to her office during homeroom and told me History of Music had been canceled. I had the choice between drama and astronomy as a replacement elective.”

“And you picked drama.”

“Right. And in the other version, the earthquake knocked the power out and I was late to school.”

“That’s the way I remember it,” Caitlin says slowly. “You came in at the end of assembly, and by the time DeWitt tracked you down, Dr. Mann’s class was your only option. You spent the rest of the day freaking out about your GPA.”

“I was not freaking out. I merely—”

“The tremor changed things.” Caitlin starts chewing on her lip again, this time so hard I’m afraid it might bleed. “What does the tremor have to do with—” Suddenly, she stops. “What time is it?”

I glance at my phone. “Quarter till one. Why?”

“There’s a train every hour. If we hurry, we can make it.”

“A train? To where?”

Caitlin is already heading toward the stairs. “New London,” she calls. “I’ll explain on the way.”

“After the tremor, a group of physicists in Japan came out in support of his theory. They thought it was at least possible that he was onto something. The Ivies still wouldn’t touch him, but Connecticut College gave him a grant to continue his research at Olin Observatory. He’s been teaching at Conn since January. A bummer for those of us who wanted to take his cosmology class spring semester, but a career-redeeming moment for him.”

We’re sitting side by side on a commuter train, sharing a stale chocolate muffin from the newsstand at the station.

“Westbrook!” comes the conductor’s voice. “Westbrook is next!”

“So Dr. Mann’s theory was about earthquakes?” I ask, confused.

“No, his theory was about the interaction of alternate realities—something he calls ‘cosmic entanglement.’ Basically, the idea that it’s possible for parallel worlds to collide.” At her mention of parallel worlds, the hair on my arm prickles.

“That’s what he thinks the earthquake was? A collision of parallel worlds?”

“The tremor,” Caitlin corrects. “Not an earthquake. And yes. At least according to the article he published in New Science last month.”

My heart begins to pound. “And if he’s right?”

“I only skimmed the article,” Caitlin says, and then pops the last bite of muffin into her mouth. “So we’re going to the source.”

We find Dr. Mann in the F. W. Olin Science Center, a contemporary gray brick building near the center of campus, five minutes into an hour-long cosmology lecture. I drop my bag on a bench in the rotunda, prepared to wait, but Caitlin has already disappeared into the lecture hall. I slip in quietly behind her.

Dr. Mann sees me come in and smiles with recognition. He knows who I am. I, on the other hand, have only a vague image of him in my mind, one that doesn’t do the man justice. I pictured his wild gray hair and ink-stained fingers, but not the intensity of his cerulean eyes. For someone who has to be in his seventies, Dr. Mann has the gusto of a much younger man.

His lecture is surprisingly straightforward. He passes out copies of the syllabus, then launches into what feels like a bedtime story, taking us through the evolution of modern cosmological thought. It’s a compelling tale, made even more so by our storyteller’s German-accented delivery. In fact, I’m so completely absorbed in the narrative that when he stops midsentence and says he’ll see us on Friday, I’m startled. Have we really been sitting here for fifty-five minutes?

“Come on,” Caitlin says. “Let’s catch him before he leaves.”

Dr. Mann is erasing his whiteboard as we approach. “Professor?” Caitlin says politely.

The old man turns and smiles. Up close, he looks more like a sweet grandfather than a nutty professor, and he smells like butterscotch candy. I like him immediately.

“I’m Caitlin Moss,” Caitlin says, extending her hand. “I was a student at Brookside—”

“The student, if the impression you made on the faculty is any indication,” Dr. Mann replies warmly, grasping her hand in both of his. “In four years at Brookside, you received top marks in more than a dozen science courses and won three national physics prizes, yes?”

Caitlin grins. “That’s me.”

The professor turns to me now, and his smile broadens. “Ms. Barnes! What a pleasant surprise.” He takes my hand in both of his. “What brings you to New London?” He winks conspiratorially. “Bored at Yale already?”

“We, uh . . .” I look at Caitlin for help.

“We were hoping you might walk us through the basics of cosmic entanglement,” she says. The old man’s eyebrows shoot up. This clearly isn’t a request he gets often. “Specifically,” Caitlin adds, “the concept of shared reality.” Dr. Mann looks delighted by her request.

“It’s for a creative writing project,” I blurt out. In my peripheral vision, I see Caitlin roll her eyes.

“It’d be my pleasure,” Dr. Mann replies. “Where should I begin?”

“The global tremor,” Caitlin says.

“Certainly,” Dr. Mann replies. “I believe the tremor was caused by what I’ll call an ‘interdimensional collision.’ Simply put, two parallel worlds crashing into each other.”

“But why?” I ask. “Isn’t it more likely that it was just a big earthquake?”

Dr. Mann’s blue eyes sparkle. “Ah, but we know for certain that it wasn’t,” he says. “Earthquakes cause a certain seismic wave pattern. What happened last September simply did not.” I swallow hard, my throat suddenly very dry. “If the tremor was indeed a collision,” Dr. Mann continues, “then I believe the force of the impact may have created a link between our world and the parallel world with which we collided, resulting in an effect similar to the quantum entanglement of particles.”

I gawk at him. “Huh?”

Dr. Mann chuckles. “A perfectly appropriate reaction. It’s one of the greatest oddities in quantum mechanics,” he explains. “When subatomic particles bounce off one another with enough force, they become linked in a way that is not bound by space or time. Whatever happens to one particle begins to have an effect on the other.” The old man smiles. “Einstein called it spukhafte Fernwirkung.” His voice is quieter now, almost a whisper. “The ‘spooky action at a distance.’”

Though the room is warm, I shiver.

“And you believe the same thing would happen if two parallel worlds were to collide?” prompts Caitlin.

“Exactly,” Dr. Mann replies with a definitive nod. “I believe that the force of the collision would cause the physical reality of one world to overtake the physical reality of the other, leaving the worlds—and their inhabitants—in a permanently entangled state.”

Permanently entangled. It sounds ominous, but what does it mean? My eyes dart to Caitlin for help. “A concrete example would be useful,” she tells Dr. Mann.

“Of course,” Dr. Mann says kindly. “I’ll use the illustration I give my students.” Caitlin pulls out a notebook to take notes.

“Unlike many of my colleagues,” Dr. Mann begins, returning to his whiteboard, “I believe that every world that presently exists was divinely created at a unique moment in history. If this is true, then the ‘now’ of our world must occur at a different moment in time than the ‘now’ of any other world.” He uncaps a marker and draws two parallel lines. “In our world, ‘now’ is September 9, 2009. But in a parallel world, ‘now’ could be December 31, 2020, or April 9, 1981. Or—”

“September 9, 2008,” Caitlin interjects.

“Ah.” Dr. Mann looks impressed. “The date of the tremor. Of course.” He writes the date beneath the top line and circles it. “That,” he says, pointing, “is the parallel world. And this”— he taps the bottom line—“is our world.” As he scribbles today’s date in shorthand beneath it, my eyes lock on the repeating numbers. 09/09/09. Does the repetition mean something?

“So what would happen—specifically—if these two worlds were to collide?” asks Caitlin. Eager, as always, to get to the point.

“At the precise moment of impact, the reality of the parallel world would replace the reality of our world,” declares Dr. Mann, popping the cap on his marker with a snap.

Beads of sweat prickle on my upper lip. “Replace?”

Dr. Mann mistakes my panic for fascination and prattles on. “I had the same reaction, when I realized the implication. To think that in a single instant, the reality of a parallel world could completely overtake the reality of our world, wiping out and replacing everything we know and believe to be true.” He smiles broadly. “It’s an exhilarating notion, yes?”

Roller coasters are exhilarating. This, dear man, is terrifying.

“Why can’t it go the other way?” I demand. “Why does the parallel world get to win?”

“Because time only moves in one direction,” Caitlin says before the professor can answer. “The present can’t change the past. The past creates the present.”

“The past of some other world?” I stare at them incredulously. “Come on. We’re talking about the physical world here. Everything can’t just change overnight.” My voice has taken on an I gotcha tone, as if I’ve somehow bested the man with a Nobel.

The professor’s lips curl into an amused half smile. “Are you familiar with Seurat’s Un dimanche après-midi à l’Île de la Grande Jatte?” he asks.

I blink. La Grande Jatte was the centerpiece of my mom’s pointillism exhibit. It was reproduced in miniature on the banner I saw this morning. “Uh, yeah,” I reply, rattled by the synchronicity. “I know the painting pretty well, actually.”

“Is that the big one with all the little dots?” Caitlin asks. I swallow a smile. As soon as Dr. Mann starts speaking my language, he stops speaking hers.

“Hundreds of thousands of them,” Dr. Mann replies. “Arranged in a very particular way to create a very particular image. But if one were to rearrange those dots, that image would become unrecognizable and a new one would take shape. Same dots, same canvas, different picture.” The old man looks at me. “Reality is the same way, I think.”

Somehow, this metaphor strikes me as more concrete than all the science-speak. Maybe because I’m accustomed to this vocabulary—it’s the one my parents spoke at the dinner table every night when I was growing up. Reality as a pointillist painting. That I can wrap my brain around.

“But how could it happen without anyone noticing it?” I ask. “You said this entanglement thing affects everyone. So why does no one but me—” I stop short as the professor’s eyebrows shoot up. “Why does no one realize it?” As much as I like this man, I’m not about to become the lab specimen for his wacky theories, even if they happen to be true.

“Shared reality,” Caitlin says before Dr. Mann can respond. “We’re getting our parallel selves’ memories, and our brains are processing them as our own.” She looks to Dr. Mann for confirmation. “Right?”

“Exactly right,” he replies. “If our world has indeed collided with a parallel world, then as your parallel self moves forward in time, your memories are continuously being erased and replaced with your parallel’s memories, causing you to remember her life experiences as though they were your own. Not only the things she has already experienced, but also the things she will experience over the course of the next year,” Dr. Mann explains. “These experiences have yet to happen, but we remember them as though they already have. It’s the way our brains make sense of the gap.”

“And my real memories?” I ask. “The things that actually happened to me . . . ?”

Dr. Mann snaps his fingers. It’s a loud, jarring sound. “Ausradiert! Gone.”

Relief washes over me. This can’t be the explanation, then. If our worlds were really entangled, then I wouldn’t remember the movie, or Bret, or my summer in Los Angeles. And I wouldn’t have just one day’s worth of new memories, I’d have the whole year.

“But there could be anomalies, right?” Caitlin interrupts my thought as if reading my mind. “People who’ve kept their old memories, for example. Or who haven’t gotten a complete set of new ones.”

“I’m counting on it,” Dr. Mann says enigmatically, fixing his eyes on me.

My eyes bolt to Caitlin, but she’s scribbling furiously in her notebook.

Another student approaches Dr. Mann with a question about the lecture. “Excuse me for a moment,” the professor says to us, turning away.

“If my past has been overwritten, why do I remember the way things were before?” My whisper sounds like a hiss.

“You heard what he said,” Caitlin replies, not bothering to keep her voice down. “There are always anomalies.”

I shake my head, unable to accept it. I wanted an explanation, but this is too much. Lunacy would’ve been easier to digest.

“Where were we?” Dr. Mann asks in a booming voice, startling both of us. The student he was speaking to is halfway up the aisle. How much did he overhear?

“Anomalies,” Caitlin replies, holding my gaze.

“To recap,” I say, staring the good doctor down. “You’re telling me that if my parallel self and I are entangled”—I spit the word out like it tastes bad—“then right now I should remember not only the stuff she’s already experienced, but also everything she will experience in the time between her present and mine?”

“You should, yes.” He’s looking at me strangely again. This time, I don’t look away.

“So her future, it’s already determined, then.”

“Ah—good! The very heart of the matter.” The professor grins at me like a schoolboy. “Of course, it’s hard to be certain of these things,” he says, “but in my view, the answer is both yes and no. I believe that at every moment, whether in our world or another, each person’s future is, to some degree, already mapped out. Because each of us is naturally inclined to make certain choices and to go a certain way, there is, in a sense, a default trajectory to our lives.”

“A ‘most likely’ path,” Caitlin offers.

“A most likely path,” Dr. Mann agrees. “Which isn’t to say our fates are sealed. In fact, I believe the very opposite is true. At every moment, each person has the freedom to choose a different path, thereby changing the trajectory of his life. Nothing is set in stone.”

My mind jumps to my own life path. The series of choices that led me to L.A., starting with my decision to take that drama class last fall. That single moment—the seemingly innocuous choice between two electives—radically altered the direction of my life. But I didn’t know that then. I had no idea what hung in the balance that day.

Did she?

“Are our parallel selves real people?” I hear myself ask. “Like, living, breathing human beings?”

“Absolutely,” replies Dr. Mann. “They inhabit a different world, but it and they are no less ‘real’ than we are.” He pauses thoughtfully. “I find that this concept is often the most difficult for students to grasp,” he says then. “If our world has indeed been entangled with a parallel world, you have not become your parallel self. Nor she, you. You haven’t switched bodies or traveled through space. You remain separate and distinct beings, living in two distinct physical worlds. Those worlds have simply become linked.”

“But what does that mean for me?” I ask. “What happens if my parallel self makes some crazy life-altering decision tomorrow? Where will I end up?” I am fighting to keep the panic out of my voice. I am failing.

“That’s the beauty of it,” Dr. Mann muses. “There is no way to know how her choices will manifest in your life until she has already made them. A decision that appears ‘life-altering’ might ultimately not be. Often it is the choices that seem inconsequential that uproot us.” His voice is light and laced with delight, as if he were describing the rules of his favorite card game. “A great deal depends on what sort of person your parallel is,” he says then. “Some people carve a new path daily. Others stay the course for a lifetime. If your parallel is the former sort, it is quite possible you could end up someplace new every day.” He looks at me strangely. “It’s an exhilarating notion, but I’d imagine it’d be quite disconcerting to experience it firsthand.”

My limbs go to pins and needles. He knows.

My pulse starts to race as I envision myself pinned under a gigantic microscope, locked in the back of a lab somewhere. I need to get out of here. Right. Now.

Beside me, Caitlin puts on a breezy smile. “Well, we should probably be going, if we want to make our train. Thank you so much for your time, Dr. Mann.”

I’m halfway up the aisle. Caitlin practically has to run to catch up with me. “Abby!” she hisses, grabbing my elbow. “Will you slow down?”

“Alcohol. Where can we get some?”

“It’s four thirty in the afternoon.”

I shoot her a look and push through the double doors. “I just found out that my life is being controlled by a parallel version of me LIVING. IN. A. PARALLEL. WORLD. I’d say that warrants an afternoon cocktail.” A guy in the rotunda gives me a funny look. “You know, it’d be a whole lot easier if we just decided I was crazy,” I mutter. “We could just lock me up and be done with it.”

Caitlin puts her arm around me. “Hey, crazy girl, there’s a new pizza place on Crown Street, and word is they don’t card. How about I buy you a pitcher for your birthday?”

“Yes, please.”

Caitlin lays her head on my shoulder. “Whatever happened—or is happening—we’ll figure it out,” she tells me. “Promise.” And for a moment, I believe her.

A pitcher and a slice of pizza later, I feel much better. And relatively normal. It’s my second week of college and I’m tucked in a corner booth with my best friend, eating white clam pizza and drinking slightly flat beer while scoping out the cute lacrosse players two tables over. (Well, I’m scoping. Caitlin is pretending to scope while texting Tyler under the table.) This doesn’t feel like some parallel person’s “potential future.” This feels like my life. Or a version of it, anyway. But how long will this version last?

“Hey. This is supposed to be fun. No thinking about astrophysics at the table,” Caitlin commands, her voice slightly slurred.

“Wow. Did you ever think you’d be the one saying those words to me?”

“Ha! Definitely not.” Caitlin takes a sip of her beer. “Maybe this is God getting back at you for being such a science-hater.” She’s joking, but part of me wonders if maybe there’s something to that . . . if maybe I’m like Ebenezer Scrooge or George Bailey, being punished for not fully appreciating my life.

“You don’t believe in God,” I point out. But my voice wavers a little.

Caitlin hears it. “Abby, I was kidding. If this is happening, it has nothing to do with you. Or God.”

“If this is happening, then I shouldn’t know it’s happening,” I remind her. “I shouldn’t be aware of the incredibly freaky fact that things are dramatically different than they were yesterday. But I am. There has to be a reason for that.”

“Not necessarily,” Caitlin replies. “It could just be a fluke.”

“A fluke?”

She shrugs. “Maybe your mind is just different. Like the guy in England who can recite pi to the twelve hundred and fiftieth place.”

“Yeah, thanks,” I retort. “That’s encouraging.” I stare down at my half-empty beer, turning my cup in my hands. Maybe your mind is just different. Not exactly the answer I was looking for.

“I know you want to make sense of this,” she says gently, “but sometimes science doesn’t give us the reasons we’re looking for. We can theorize about how things are supposed to work, but like Dr. Mann said, there are always outliers.”

“You think he knew why we were really there?” I ask. “He kept looking at me, and then he made that comment at the end. . . .”

“But you had that really awesome and totally believable creative writing cover story,” Caitlin deadpans. “How could he possibly have figured it out?”

“I’m serious, Caitlin. What if he tells someone and they lock me up or something?”

“Who’s ‘they,’ Abby? The government officials Dr. Mann has in his back pocket? The man’s been ostracized, stripped of tenure, and relegated to the fringes of mainstream cosmology. Even if he did tell someone, who would believe him?”

“But you do?” I ask. “Parallel selves. Entangled worlds. Shared reality.” The words are barely audible when I speak them. “You really believe that’s the explanation for all this?”

Caitlin hesitates, then nods. “I can’t explain why, exactly, and I doubt anyone could ever prove it, but, yeah. I do. So far, anyway,” she adds.

“Okay, so here’s what I don’t understand, then,” I say. “If our world is really entangled with a parallel world, then it’s not just affecting me—it’s affecting everyone. Which means that right now, your memories of the past aren’t your own.”

“Right. They’re my parallel’s.” Her tone is matter-of-fact. “I remember things that happened to her—and things that will happen to her over the next three hundred sixty-five days—as though they happened to me.” She balances the saltshaker on a grain of salt.

“But they didn’t happen to you,” I point out. “They happened to the parallel you. Which means your memories are false.”

“Technically. Yeah.”

“Caitlin!”

“What?”

“You’re acting like it’s no big deal that the last year of your life has been erased!”

“Not erased,” she corrects. “Modified.”

“Rewritten.”

“Rewritten,” she agrees.

“And that doesn’t freak you out?” I demand. “The idea that your memories are being rewritten by someone else?”

“That ‘someone else’ has the exact genetic makeup that I do,” Caitlin points out. “She’s me, under different circumstances.” She shrugs like we’re talking something trivial. “So, no, it doesn’t freak me out.”

“She’s not you!” I insist. “For all you know, she could decide tomorrow to drop out of school and join the circus.”

“But the overwhelming odds are she won’t,” Caitlin replies. “Odds are, she’ll do exactly what I would have done in her situation.”

“Says who? Mine certainly didn’t.”

“That’s because the collision made the path you took impossible,” Caitlin says calmly. “Your parallel self couldn’t take that drama class last year because it was already full by the time she got to DeWitt’s office. If she’d had the choice you had, she would’ve picked drama, just like you did.”

I’m not convinced but don’t have the energy to argue. “If you say so,” I say. I drain the rest of my beer and stand up. “Another round?”

Caitlin looks at her watch. “Our reservation is at eight o’clock, right?”

Dinner. I’d completely forgotten. “Ugh. Can’t we cancel?”

“Marissa will be devastated. She’s dying for you to meet Ben.”

“Seriously? On top of everything else, I now have to make small talk with a stranger?”

“Two strangers,” Caitlin corrects. “Ben’s bringing a friend.”

“Right.” I sigh. “Who’s Ben?”

“Marissa’s boyfriend. A junior at NYU. They met in New York two summers ago—Marissa was doing a summer session at Pratt and Ben was interning somewhere, I think. And the other guy is Ben’s best friend from high school who goes here. Purportedly superhot.”

It dawns on me that I haven’t showered today. Or looked in a mirror. Caitlin sees the panic on my face. “Relax. It’s not even six yet. You have plenty of time to get ready. But maybe we should forgo the second pitcher.”

“How about we get the pitcher and forgo the dinner,” I suggest, sliding back into the booth. “I mean, is this really the best time for me to be meeting superhot upperclassmen?”

“Is that a rhetorical question?” Caitlin signals the waitress for our check. “Now for wardrobe . . . what about that Marc Jacobs top my mom gave me for my birthday—the grayish purple one—with my straight-leg Hudsons? I wear them with flats, so if you wear heels they should be fine.”

I picture my reflection in the bathroom mirror last night, my expression equal parts fear and delight. A girl in a pajama top and crew socks, ready for anything. Or trying to be.

“Earth to Abby . . . did you hear what I said? Marc Jacobs top. Jeans.”

“Yeah, I heard you. But that’s okay,” I tell her. “I already have an outfit in mind.”

It’s amazing what a hot shower and some caffeine will do. By the time seven forty-five rolls around, I’ve relaxed into something resembling normal. Marissa sent me a text about an hour ago telling me that she and “B & M” would meet us at the restaurant, so I have the suite to myself. The pajama top looks even better than it did last night, probably because it hasn’t spent the past four months wadded up in a suitcase. I add a pair of black tights and a boyfriend blazer to the ensemble (my attempt to make the outfit East Coast–friendly) and slip into my cowboy boots. The look on Caitlin’s face when I step outside is priceless.

“Whoa! You look amazing! Where did you get that dress?”

“I got a crash course in wardrobe versatility from Bret Woodward last night. Where I saw a pajama top, he saw a dress.” I shrug. “So I went with it.”

Caitlin looks impressed. “It totally works.”

We set off for the restaurant, which Caitlin tells me is only a couple of blocks away. Now that I’m not in MacGyver mode, I notice things I didn’t this morning, like the Old Campus architecture and how distinctly urban the city of New Haven feels. There’s an audible energy on the sidewalk—students talking animatedly as they walk, music blaring from inside cars and dorm rooms, the hum of a crowd inside a nearby sports bar. This is what college sounds like. Something in me rises and swells.

“So,” Caitlin says, linking her arm through mine, “I’m thinking there’s probably a good chance this is going to be our reality for a while.”

“Don’t get my hopes up.”

“Think about it,” she says. “My parallel certainly isn’t going to change her mind about Yale, and yours won’t decide definitively about colleges until she gets her acceptance letters in the spring.”

“Yeah, but she could decide not to apply here at all,” I point out.

“She won’t,” Caitlin replies, sounding very certain.

“How do you know?”

“Because I’m the one who filled out the application.”

I stop walking. “You did not.”

“With your permission!” she says quickly. “Your mom was bugging you to apply, and I knew the only reason you weren’t was because you thought she’d be disappointed if you didn’t get in. So I convinced you to let me fill out the application for you, and we submitted it without telling anyone. That way, if you didn’t get in, no one would have to know.”

“But how did I get in? My grades were good, but it’s not like I had a genius-level SAT score or anything.” It wasn’t you who got in, the voice in my head reminds me. It was the parallel you.

Caitlin rolls her eyes. “Abby, you spent the entirety of high school crafting the perfect college application. You scream well-rounded.”

“So what about the essays? Did you write them?”

“Of course not. I wanted you to get in, remember?” Her expression darkens for a split second, so quickly I wonder whether I imagined it. Caitlin’s always been self-conscious about her writing, and predictably self-deprecating. But the look I just saw was more like annoyance. “I used an editorial you wrote for the Oracle as your personal statement,” she tells me, “and an email you sent me as the five-hundred-word supplemental essay. All your words. Or, your parallel’s words,” she says, correcting herself. “Not that the distinction matters at this point.”

Says who?

“Well, thank you,” I say. “Or, thank her. If I’d woken up at Northwestern this morning, I’d be catatonic by now.”

“I doubt that.”

“I’m serious, Caitlin. I couldn’t do this without you.”

“You’d never have to,” she says. “Even if you were at Northwestern. You’d still have me.” She points to a small, dimly lit restaurant with Japanese lanterns hanging out front. “We’re here.”

The place is crowded, but Marissa is easy to spot (largely because she starts waving like a maniac when she sees us). The guy sitting next to her is cute(ish) in a skinny-jeans-and-horn-rimmed-glasses sort of way and has his arm around the back of her chair. “M” has his back to the door, so at first, all I see is a green shirt collar and a dark-haired head. “Keep it moving,” Caitlin whispers from behind me, nudging me forward. Just then, M turns his head toward us. Our eyes meet, and we both smile.

M for Michael. And he’s even cuter than he was this afternoon, if that’s possible.

“The guest of honor arrives,” Marissa says as we approach the table. The guys stand to greet us. “Abby and Caitlin, meet Ben and Michael.”

“So you’re the birthday girl,” Michael says, pulling out the chair next to him. “This saves me the trouble of stalking you,” he whispers when I sit, then flags down the waiter to order a round of “s-bombs” for the table. “And bring a tall glass for this one,” he adds, pointing at me. “It’s her twenty-first birthday today.” There’s no way the waiter believes this, but he doesn’t question it.

“What’s an s-bomb?” I ask when the waiter is gone.

“Sake bomb,” Michael explains. “A shot glass of hot sake, dropped into half a glass of beer, and then chugged as fast as possible.” He laughs at the disgusted look on my face. “It doesn’t taste as bad as it sounds. Promise.”

“He’s lying. It tastes exactly as bad as it sounds,” Ben says. “But after the first one, you won’t notice anymore.”

Ben is right. By the second round, I couldn’t care less about the taste: My sole concern is mastering the art of the shot glass drop so as to minimize beer splash (I gave up on being the fastest drinker during the first round—even teensy Marissa can chug faster than I can, although the comparison isn’t really fair, since she’s dropping her sake into sparkling water. Something about beer causing “accelerated amino acid catabolism,” which, yes, she said with a straight face). Marissa, Michael, and I are in the midst of a pretty heated competition. Meanwhile, Ben and Caitlin aren’t really participating in the frenzy. They’re leaning back from the table, talking in a way that doesn’t really invite group participation. I glance over at Marissa to see if she’s annoyed by it, but she’s too focused on improving her chug time to notice that her boyfriend appears to be totally taken with another girl.

“Whatcha guys talking about?” I ask them, adding a slight slur to my words so I sound drunker than I am and thus less like I’m calling them out.

“Caitlin’s telling me all about astroparticle physics,” Ben replies, looking decidedly un-guilty. He smiles at her. “Well, maybe not all about it, but the parts my pea brain can understand.”

“Ben’s a journalism major,” Caitlin announces. “He interned at the Huffington Post last summer.” I shoot her a look. I’m probably supposed to know that already. Thankfully, Marissa jumps in before I have to respond.

“I told her that,” she says with a dismissive wave of her hand. “But what I didn’t tell her is that Michael is really good at lacrosse. And he’s in a fraternity. Right, Michael?”

“Uh-oh,” Michael says as our waiter arrives with the food. “If those are my two best selling points, I’m in trouble.”

After the waiter distributes the plates, conversation pretty much comes to a standstill as we collectively inhale an obscene amount of sushi. The food helps balance the alcohol, and by the time Ben signals for the check, I’m feeling really good. Full, slightly buzzed, and more than slightly enamored with Michael, who seems to be enjoying himself just as much as I am. Right now he’s leaning back, arm around the back of my chair, lightly rubbing my shoulder with his thumb. I close my eyes and lean into him, soaking this moment in, thankful that my brain malfunction (because, really, let’s call a spade a spade) will allow me to remember this tomorrow even if no one else does.

“Abby?” Michael sounds concerned. I don’t blame him. His sake-bombed date is sitting at the table with her eyes closed. I open them and smile.

“Hi.”

“You okay?”

“Uh-huh. Best birthday ever.” Bret’s face pops into my head. I said the exact same thing to him last night. Was that really less than twenty-four hours ago?

Michael points at his watch. “And it’s only ten o’clock. Whaddya say we make this an unsurpassable standard of birthday excellence?”

“Does that involve more drinking?” Ben asks.

“Most definitely,” Michael says, nodding. “Significantly more drinking. And quite possibly some dancing.”

“Some” dancing is a vast understatement. Turns out, Ben knows a guy who knows a guy who’s the bouncer at Alchemy, a townie club east of campus (how the guy from New York has the hookup in New Haven, I have no idea). It’s old-school hip-hop night, and the cramped space is already crowded with white people trying to bust a move. The five of us spend the next two hours on the dance floor, stopping only for two-dollar kamikaze shots and increasingly frequent pee breaks.

“What’s next?” Ben asks when the house lights come on. As if on cue, I yawn.

“Looks like the birthday girl is partied out,” Michael notes.

“No, I’m not!” This is a lie. I am completely partied out. My hair is plastered to my forehead, and my tights are damp with sweat. I yawn again, giving myself away. “Okay, maybe a little.”

“I’m sleepy,” says Marissa, leaning against Ben and closing her eyes.

“Yeah, I should get home,” Caitlin says. “I have class at eight. And Ab, aren’t you shopping that poli-sci class at nine?”

Yikes. Classes.

Michael drapes his arm across my shoulder, his skin as sticky as mine. “Looks like we’re outnumbered,” he says to Ben. “Should we call it a night?”

By the time we walk the ten blocks back to Old Campus, I am basically asleep on my feet. Once we pass through the main gate, Caitlin hugs me good-bye. “Call me tomorrow,” she whispers, giving me a squeeze. “Wherever you are.”

“Let me walk you,” Ben says casually. “You shouldn’t walk alone.” I glance quickly at Marissa to see if she looks annoyed, but she doesn’t—she just looks sleepy. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Caitlin hesitate.

Just then, her phone rings. Her face lights up when she checks the caller ID. “Hey!” she says, answering it. “I was just about to call you.” Caitlin mouths, “I’m fine” to Ben, then sets off across the quad.

“Boyfriend?” Michael asks.

“Yep. He goes to Michigan.” I watch for Ben’s reaction, but he doesn’t have one. He just puts his arm around Marissa and steers her toward our building.

When we get back to our room, Marissa and Ben disappear inside, leaving Michael and me in the hall. I’m in the midst of trying to decide whether to invite him in when he says, “I had a really great time tonight.”

“Me, too,” I say, as I silently will the parallel me to stay on whatever life track will bring her to this precise moment. For the first time in a long time, there is nowhere else I’d rather be.

I want this. This moment. This reality. This life.

These thoughts scare me, because there’s no guarantee that everything won’t change again tomorrow. Anger and gratitude compete inside my brain. I hate that my parallel could erase this, but I also know that she’s the reason it’s happening at all. I focus on the tiny flecks of amber in Michael’s green eyes, illuminated by the warmth of the yellow bulb above us.

“Happy birthday, Abby,” Michael says, right before leaning in to kiss me. His lips are soft but firm as they move against mine, his palms gently cupping my face. My eyes flutter shut, quieting everything but the sensation of Michael’s mouth on mine.

“I’ll call you tomorrow,” I hear him say. I just nod, not trusting myself to speak coherently at this moment, my lips still warm from his. Michael kisses me once more lightly and turns to leave. I watch until he disappears down the stairwell, then let myself inside.

Ben looks up from the pillow pallet he’s making on the floor. Marissa is sprawled out on the couch, already asleep.

“So you like him,” Ben says.

“I just met him.”

“So? You can still like him.” Ben finishes with his makeshift bed and lies down on top of it.

“I don’t even know his last name,” I point out.

“Carpenter,” Ben replies, and closes his eyes. “And he likes you back.” Smiling, I head to the bedroom.

As I climb into an unfamiliar bed, a wave of dismay sweeps over me, replacing the fatigue. This could be it. This could be my last moment here. The thought makes my stomach churn. I don’t want things to change again. I want to stay on this path long enough to see where it leads. I want it so badly I can taste it on my sake-numbed tongue. My phone lights up with a text, and I reach for it in the dark.

Michael: SWEET DREAMS, BIRTHDAY GIRL.

I can see it so clearly in my head, but I pull up the photo anyway, the only one I have from tonight. Michael’s on the dance floor, belting out the lyrics to a Salt-N-Pepa song, and even with his eyes squeezed shut and his mouth wide open, he looks ridiculously cute. Marissa and Ben are in the background, barely visible in the dim light, dancing and laughing with their arms around each other. The tip of Caitlin’s elbow is at the bottom corner of the frame. I was laughing when I took it, so hard I couldn’t keep my phone still, and forgot to use a flash. But though it’s dark and blurred a little, it captured the moment I didn’t want to lose.

“Let me stay here,” I whisper in the dark. The closest thing to a prayer I’ve said in a while. My phone goes dark, and I slide it under my pillow, wanting it close. If the photo is there in the morning, I’ll know reality hasn’t changed overnight.

From where I’m lying, I can see a sliver of the night sky through the window. It’s cloudy, so the sky has this greenish tinge to it. I think back to that night, a year ago yesterday, when I stood on my parents’ back porch, staring at the stars, feeling as though I was hovering on the brink of something significant. But then, that wasn’t really me who stood there. And those stars weren’t of this world, but hers.

I close my eyes, finally giving in to the fatigue.