Then I get into bed and close my eyes, replaying that winter night Alistair showed up at my house. I think about the intense look in his eyes when he told me how he felt about me.
If you’re a bird, I’m a bird, he said. I could be fun if you want. I could be—
Instead of letting Alistair finish, I rewrite the memory and do what I should have done that night—I throw my arms around him and kiss him. I smile in the darkness. And, for the first time in a long time, I relax. Maybe everything will work out after all.
* * *
I wake up early the next morning to the sound of someone banging around downstairs. The sun is filtering through my blinds, casting stripes of light on my carpet. I groan, about to roll over and go back to sleep, when I notice something is very different about my room.
I sit up, suddenly totally awake. When I went to bed, my walls were the same apple green they’d been since I was in sixth grade. Now they’re a shocking purple, a color so deep and bright that it makes my eyes water.
All the air is sucked out of my lungs as I glance around my room, taking in all the unfamiliar details—a yellow hoodie that I’ve never seen before hanging off the back of my desk chair, a vintage travel poster for Cuba on the wall above my bed, a string of red chili-pepper lights mounted around the window.
Unless someone is playing a very elaborate prank on me, I think the crystal worked.
It actually worked.
My heart is thumping as I slide my fingers underneath my pillow. The crystal is still there, but it seems like all the heat—all the magic—has gone out of it. I stare in shock at the yellow stone in my hand. I may have bought the crystal, I may have put it under my pillow, but I didn’t really believe that it would work.
Maybe I’m still dreaming. I mean, this can’t actually be happening, right? It’s just not possible.
I squeeze my eyes shut. But when I open them again, my room is still purple.
Okay, so I’m not dreaming.
I throw off my covers and slide out of bed. As soon as my feet hit the floor, I notice my fuzzy pink socks. They match the pink-striped pajamas I’m wearing. But here’s the thing: When I climbed into bed last night, I was in yoga pants and an old T-shirt.
This is so super freaky.
I’m trying to calmly take everything in, but honestly, this is all blowing my mind. I walk over to the mirror on legs that feel like they’re made of jelly. When I catch sight of my reflection, all my pseudo calm goes right out the window.
I let out a little scream. My hand flies up to my head. What happened to my hair? I’ve always kept it long, but now it’s hanging in choppy layers that just barely graze my shoulders. It doesn’t look bad, exactly. Just different.
Change one thing about your past and you change everything about your future.
I glance at the corner of my mirror, where I keep a photo of Ben and me. It’s gone. Which makes sense, I guess, because in this reality, that photo doesn’t exist.
Because Ben and I don’t exist.
Because I didn’t choose him. I chose Alistair instead.
I should be relieved—this is why I wanted to change my past, after all—but I can’t help the waves of uneasiness washing over me. This is all so weird. The crystal hasn’t scrubbed any of the memories I have of Ben and me together, or of Olivia and Drew. But none of them are going to remember that we were ever friends.
I grab my phone from my nightstand. It’s still July, which means that six months have passed since I chose Ben over Alistair, but I have no memory of anything that’s happened to me in this timeline. I can’t remember my first kiss with Alistair or writing finals or the winter formal. I don’t have a single memory.
My hands shake as I type in my password. I just need some evidence that my friendship with Alistair and Marisol is back to normal. If we’re okay, then I can relax and start to piece together what’s happened to me over the last half year.
I let out a breath when I see the long string of texts from Alistair and Marisol. I don’t remember any of these conversations, but they’re there. This is proof that we’re friends again, so no matter what my new life might look like now, this will make it all worth it.
I stand at my closed door, my hand poised on the doorknob. For better or for worse, whatever awaits me when I step out of this room is now my life.
I take a deep breath. Stay calm. I just need to stay calm. Everything is going to be fine. And then I open the door.
I head downstairs. When I get to the bottom, I notice our suitcases are no longer by the front door. Napoleon must hear me coming because he skids into the hall, his nails scrabbling on the hardwood floor as he rounds the corner. He bounds over to me and licks my hand.
Hmm. No suitcases and my dog is still here. Mom never took him to Maya’s place yesterday, because in this reality, we’re not going to Italy.
I frown. Well, that sucks. I was really looking forward to the trip. But I guess Italy will always be there, and it seems like a small price to pay to have my friends back.
“Em, is that you?” Dad calls from the kitchen.
I take a deep breath to steady myself before following Napoleon into the kitchen. Dad’s at the stove, flipping pancakes. He turns around when he hears me enter and smiles at me. I’m thrown by how great he looks. Better than I’ve seen him look in ages. His hair is shorter, less Einsteiny, and he’s freshly shaved. And he’s wearing jeans instead of sweatpants.
Also, I’ve never seen him cook before, so that’s strange. I guess making pancakes is a skill that he’s picked up in the past few months.
“Em, why aren’t you dressed?” he says, exasperated. “You’re going to be late.”
I stare at him. Late for what?
It’s summer, so it can’t be school. Unless … oh my God, am I in summer school? Did I fail biology?
I totally failed biology.
Dad slides a blueberry pancake onto a plate and hands it to me. “If you hurry up, we can get some driving practice in before your shift starts.”
I stare at him. I’ve been bugging my dad to teach me to drive for months—my mom is way too nervous, which, in turn, makes me nervous—but since he barely leaves the house, I don’t get a lot of practice.
“Great,” I say.
And not only has he been teaching me to drive, but apparently I have a job. Although I have no idea where that job might be … and I’m not sure how to ask Dad about it. He’s going to wonder why I don’t know where I work.
I take my plate over to the table.
“Where’s Mom?” I ask.
Dad blinks at me. “She’s in Palm Springs.”
“Oh, right, ha-ha.” I can feel my cheeks heating up. “I think I’m still half-asleep.”
He doesn’t seem convinced. “Are you feeling all right? You look flushed.”
No.
Also, why is my mom in Palm Springs? When is she coming home?
All questions I can’t ask him without raising his suspicions even further. There are no safe questions, really. I guess I’m just going to have to figure this stuff out for myself.
I wolf down my pancake and run back upstairs to get changed. According to the calendar in my phone, I have a shift at nine o’clock this morning. Dad was right—I’m running late. But I still don’t know where it is that I’m working, so that’s a problem.