You, But Not You

I’m lying on my usual bench in front of Alimaster High School waiting for my boyfriend, Andrew, to pick me up. Late as usual. My foot jiggles off the end of the seat and my other leg is draped over the back of the bench. My mother would have a lot to say about my slouchy, improper position. At least, I’ll give her credit for keeping her peace about Andrew, who she says isn’t good enough for me. Like we all are given a value or something and should be with people who are on par with us.

It’s hotter than usual for early June and I regret wearing my Vans Mary Janes instead of sandals. I consider taking off my shoes to let my feet air out, but if Andrew arrives soon, he’ll complain about my stinky-cheese feet if he reaches me before I can hustle my shoes back on my feet. Better to leave them on and keep my foot funk sealed in leather.

My messy bun shifts as I adjust my backpack that’s substituting as a pillow and open my yearbook to read what my best friend, Henry, has written. We both saved the back page for each other, so his inscription is easy to find. We wanted to be the last one to sign each other’s yearbook, too.

Don’t freak out.

Don’t freak out? Why would Henry start with “don’t freak out”? I continue reading.

I’m going to tell you something that you’re not going to believe and you’re going to ignore because (let’s face it) you’re stubborn. Sorry. But I have to write this.

Last night, you climbed up our beech tree, onto the roof, and into my bedroom. It was you . . . but not you. You were still pretty without makeup, and still wearing Vans.

Me …but not me? Still pretty? Wait. Henry thinks I’m pretty?

I swing my legs off the bench and shift to sit up straight. I wasn’t at Henry’s house last night. Henry’s inscription continues:

You told me not to be scared. And it was weird. I wasn’t scared because I knew it was you. The future You. You said you were twenty-five, have a six-year-old kid, were married to Andrew, and you two were going through a messy divorce. I asked her . . . or you . . . how she got here. How she shapeshifted into the future. She said she was at the lake, sitting on a rock––our rock. She dove into the lake and ended up standing on my lawn. Then, she climbed up the tree.

I was pretty sure she was for real. Her hair was even damp and smelled like the lake water. She was as surprised as I was. Surprised to see the high-school me; not the twenty-five-year-old me. If that makes any sense.

I slam my yearbook shut. No, it does not make sense. This is too, too weird.

I pull my cell phone out of my pocket and text Andrew to ask where he is. He replies that Jordan–his buddy that’s home from college–and he are golfing and are behind a couple of slow old guys.

Andrew knew he was picking me up from school but went golfing? He’s blaming a couple of old-guy golfers for making him late?

I remind Andrew that he was supposed to pick me up.

Andrew replies: I know babe. But it’s Jordan, who I haven’t seen for months.

I don’t reply to Andrew’s text and dial my mom instead. “Hey, Mom, can you please come pick me up?”

“I thought Andrew was bringing you home.”

“I’m not sure what happened,” I say, knowing I’m covering for Andrew again. “Can you? You know . . . Pick me up?”

Mom sighs. “Be there in ten minutes.”

The moment I hang up, I take off my shoes, wiggle my toes, and sit back against the bench. “What a shit pile of an afternoon,” I say as I exhale.

My twenty-five-year-old self visited Henry?

Should I keep reading Henry’s message or call him? Is it better to read it or hear it? I gaze out at the tree-lined driveway and, like a rapid slide show, recall how Henry and I became friends in the third grade when we accidentally grabbed each other’s Marvel lunch boxes and realized we both had baby carrots and Ranch as a snack and milk in our thermoses. How Henry and I played hours of Uno during middle school. How Henry convinced me to try the Ouija board and it freaked me out too much to ever try it again. How Henry taught me how to play poker and helped me choose my prom dress this year.

He isn’t the kind of guy to prank me with this bizarre story. He’s the kind of guy who’s interested in seances, ghosts, and reincarnation. The kind of guy that would believe in time travel.

I need to keep reading.

Anyway, you . . . she explained that she’s not able to talk some sense into you but she’s able to talk with me. She said something about time can’t fold on itself.

She told me that I need to convince you not to go to the lake with Andrew this Saturday. That’s where your future started. How you got pregnant. How Andrew felt like he had to marry you. How you’ve spent the last seven years being more miserable than a human ought to be.

Miserable? As if in slow motion, I close my yearbook and lean my elbows on my knees. I pull in gulps of air through my nose trying not to barf or faint or scream.

But I love Andrew and he loves me. Maybe we had good times and maybe my future self is just thinking of recent arguments. Is bitter now but was happy before.

This is officially bizarre that I’m buying into what Henry has written. That I’m acting and thinking as if future Me actually dove into the lake and visited Henry last night.

Andrew is The One. I can’t stand him up at the lake this Saturday. Besides, did my future self tell Henry that I shouldn’t go to the lake or is Henry making this up to get me to break up with Andrew?

Henry has never lied to me, and he wouldn’t lie about this.

I stare at the pavement beneath my feet and hear a car approaching. How cool would it be if it was Andrew? Of course, it’s not. It’s Mom. I hear the whir of a window opening.

“Hurry up, honey. I’ve got our dinner simmering.”

I stuff my yearbook into my backpack, slip my shoes back on my feet, and head toward my mom’s car.

Barely seated and seatbelt clicked, Mom starts in. “Did Andrew forget or something?”

She’s not going to let this go. She pulls a U-turn, and we head down the driveway, away from school. I can tell her anger is simmering like our dinner. “I try to stay out of your love life,” she says, “but Andrew is not reliable. He’s stood you up countless times.”

“No, he hasn’t. He has emergencies and stuff comes up.”

Mom’s shoulders shrug, lifting next to her ears. “Exactly. That’s standing you up, honey.” She drives without saying more and the car is filled with the ticking of turn signals, brakes squeaking, and the hum of the engine.

Andrew always apologizes when he can’t keep our dates; changes our plans. He’ll give me flowers and cards saying he’ll do better the next time. He’s romantic that way. No one’s perfect.

Mom breaks into my thoughts. “You could do better than Andrew.” She holds out her palm like she’s defending her statement. “You’re young. There are a lot of fish out in a very large sea.”

“Why are you saying this now?”

“Graduation is coming soon and . . .”

“And, what?” My tone is defensive, I know.

“Graduation is a natural transition. A time when people can make changes.” She turns to face me for a moment. “Changes for the better.”

We veer into our driveway. Thank God this conversation is over. Mom hasn’t even set the emergency brake and I hop out of the car, swing my backpack over my shoulder, and hurry into the house from the garage.

I toss my backpack onto my bedroom floor and hesitate a moment before going to the kitchen to help set the table. I should ask Mom to just drop it. I’m eighteen and can make decisions on my own. She’s not around to see how well Andrew and I get along. How funny he is and determined to be successful as a golf pro. He works at the golf course part-time but after graduation will be there full-time. I’ve been accepted at the University of Washington, so I’ll be local, which means we can still be a couple. It’s not as much of a transition as Mom thinks.

As I walk toward the kitchen, the words “more miserable than a human ought to be” ribbons its way through my brain.

I pull silverware from a drawer and ask, “Mom, are you happily married?”

Mom’s head shakes like I've startled her. “Uh . . . um. That question is coming out of nowhere.”

“No, really. I’m curious. Are you happily married?”

“Absolutely. I married my best friend,” Mom says as she dishes up the stir fry onto plates. “You know our story. Your dad and I have told it a million times.”

“What’s this about your best friend?” Dad says as he leans in to kiss Mom. “Dinner smells delicious.” He picks up a pitcher and pours water into the glasses sitting on the table.

“Marnie is just asking if we’re happily married,” Mom says.

“Twenty-one years, baby,” Dad says and holds him arms high like he’s an athlete that just scored a goal.

I can’t help but laugh. This is what it’s been like my whole life. “I don’t know why I asked. It’s obvious you two are happy.”

Before he sits down, Dad picks up a stack of mail. “You got something from U-Dub.”

I snatch it out of my Dad’s hand. “Thanks. I’ll read it later.”

“Henry is going to U-Dub as well, right?” Dad asks.

I sit down at the table. “Yeah. He’s studying engineering. Same as me.”

“You’ll be able to study together,” Mom says with a sappy smile. “Now, why couldn’t you and Henry have been boyfriend and girlfriend? You’re perfect together.”

“Mom, I’m eighteen and can make decisions on my own. You’re not around to see how well Andrew and I get along.”

“True. I have been around to see how well you and Henry get along,” Mom says and makes eye contact for a little too long.

I break eye contact and look toward my dad trying to telepathically ask him to help me out here.

Dad sets his hand on Mom’s forearm. “Honey, Marnie’s right. She’s eighteen and can make her own decisions.”

Thank you, Dad, for closing out that topic. For the remainder of dinner, we’re able to find other topics to discuss instead of let’s interfere with Marnie’s love life.

I excuse myself from the table and head to my bedroom where I continue reading Henry’s inscription. I reread the gut-wrenching paragraph.

She said that I need to convince you not to go to the lake with Andrew this Saturday. That’s where your future started. How you got pregnant. How Andrew felt like he had to marry you. How you’ve spent the last seven years being more miserable than a human ought to be.

Mom and Dad had been married for almost three years before I was born. That would be my ideal. To be a married couple, get to know each other well, and then have a baby. My mind wanders to what my six-year-old son is like. I picture a couple of my cousins that are that same age who are fun and say hilarious things, though they’re not doing so on purpose. I feel my eyes crinkle and the corners of my mouth lift into a smile. My future me is a mom.

I continue reading.

I’m pretty sure you’ve opened and closed your yearbook a few times because you sometimes need time to process. I’ve always loved your engineering, methodical mind.

I’m also pretty sure you’re still freaking out.

All I’m asking is that you be calm for a while. Think this through. You have good logic and I know you’re going to make the smart decision. Use your head, Marnie. Imagine us at U-Dub, studying engineering. Your future self didn’t say anything about college or a job, so I don’t know how that played out. I think we both can guess, though.

Don’t go to the lake on Saturday.

4-ever friends,

Henry, Future U-Dub Husky!