Waking in Time Read online

  “Go for it, man,” one says, and they all laugh.

  “Seriously, don’t let us stop you,” says another.

  “Got any friends?” They make obnoxious kissing sounds and other lewd noises as they pass.

  “On second thought, maybe the universe is trying to tell me not to,” Colton says.

  I stare back out over the water. What kind of answer is that? I sort of thought we had a connection. “Do I smell like Bengay too?” I shiver in the cool air.

  “No.” He laughs and puts his arm around me.

  “Then why are you here?” And why did he put his arm around me?

  I rest my head on his shoulder, suddenly very tired.

  “I really like you. But I have this feeling that we’re better off friends. You see, if I kiss you, eventually I’ll start acting like a jerk, and then you’ll hate me, and then I won’t get to hang out with you anymore.”

  I lift my head to protest. “But you’ve barely hung out with me now.”

  “Exactly. And I think that you could use a friend right now more than some drunk guy slurping at your neck.”

  I look him in the eye and realize that he’s actually been listening to what I’ve said tonight. Unlike meat-hands Mitch.

  “Abbi, I gotta tell you, I date—a lot. But I don’t have many girls that are just friends. You know? I should introduce you to my roommate. He’s a really nice guy, and I think you two might hit it off.”

  “You realize that is the ultimate rejection.” I frown and kick a rock away. “No thanks, I’d rather meet someone by chance than through a cheesy set up.”

  Colton laughs again. “I meant it as a compliment.”

  I stand and start walking again, needing to get away from my embarrassment. My foot catches on a crack in the path. I trip, but Colton is already at my side, catching my arm to keep me upright. “How come you’re not drunk?” I ask, my head swimming.

  “I hide it well. You, on the other hand, are a rookie.”

  An owl calls eerily nearby. “Did you know there are effigy mounds around here?” I ask to change the subject.

  “You read that in a guide book or something?” he asks with a smile. “I can show you one. Do you want to see it?”

  “Of course!”

  “Legend has it there’s buried treasure on Picnic Point too.”

  “Did you read that in the guidebook?” I parrot back sarcastically.

  “No, it’s true! I always heard the story growing up, but someone actually posted online today that a couple of grad students doing soil research discovered a time capsule or something.”

  “Seriously?”

  “Yup.”

  “So, how do you know so much about this place?”

  “My family used to come here a lot when I was a kid. We’d feed the ducks at the Union Terrace and eat Babcock Hall ice cream.”

  I sink my hands into my pockets to stay warm in the cooling night air. “I only have my mom. Everyone else is gone.”

  “Your dad too?” he asks softly.

  “He died when I was little. Mom never remarried.” I think of my tiny family and how this summer it got smaller still with the loss of Grandma.

  “I’m sorry. I can’t imagine that. My family is huge.”

  “That sounds nice. I’ve always wanted a big, crazy family.”

  “Yeah, it’s pretty fun. Maybe I’ll have to bring you home with me sometime to meet them.” He stops short. “Here it is.”

  “What?” I look around but don’t really see anything.

  “The effigy mound.” He points.

  There’s a huge grassy bump in the ground, but I can’t see much else in the dim light.

  “Impressive, isn’t it?” he says.

  “Not really.”

  “I’m kidding. They really aren’t much to look at. There’s an obvious one outside my dorm and another up near the Carillon Tower.”

  We walk back to Liz Waters, my head really buzzing now from too much beer. Colton escorts me to the front door. “It was nice to run into you again.”

  “Thanks for saving me earlier. I owe you one,” I say.

  “Good. I’m sure I’ll figure a way to collect. I’ll see you around.”

  I make my way to my room, toss my lanyard and phone onto the nightstand, and fall into bed. I push Grandma’s hatbox to the side, too tired to even set it on the floor. Tonight was an epic fail. The one guy I attracted was an obnoxious drunk. Colton sort of acted like he liked me, but only sees me as friend material. Story of my life. I burp again.

  I know I should get up and take an ibuprofen and drink some water, but I’m tired, my head is all floaty, and it would take too much effort. As I lie in bed, staring blankly at the dark ceiling, my fingers travel along the quilt. They graze over the patchwork of textures that took a lifetime to create. I feel something else and realize I didn’t put all the pictures back in the hatbox. I drop them onto my nightstand so they don’t get crushed.

  Rolling over into the softness of my pillow, I hear the gong of bells like in a cathedral. They sound so near. I can’t remember any church this close to Liz Waters. And then I remember the Carillon Tower, that imposing structure that caught my attention when Mom and I arrived on campus. That must be where the ringing comes from, but why would it be playing so late at night?

  The tune is nice, soothing and a little bit haunting. The notes repeat. I close my eyes and let the bells lull me to sleep.

  As I’m drifting off, one of the bells rings off key.

  CHAPTER 3

  The next morning I blink awake. The bright sun makes my head throb, or maybe it’s last night’s drinking. My mouth is dry and sleep gums up my eyes. Turning my head toward Jada’s side of the room, my eyes land on a poster of Michael Jackson surrounded by ghoulish zombies. I squint. “Thriller?”

  I’m about to ask Jada when she had time to redecorate when I realize that it isn’t her in the other bed. Instead it’s a girl with a mass of strawberry blond hair. I glance around my room and do a double take. Everything is different, from the neon curtains on the windows, to the blue shag carpeting on the floor.

  I jerk up. What the hell? My heart pounds. Whose room am I in?

  Then I realize Grandma’s quilt is on my bed, and I give a small sigh of relief. This must be some kind of epic prank.

  The hatbox is wedged between the wall and the bottom corner of the bed, but on the bedside table my cell phone is missing, as is my lanyard and ID. Instead, a key on a plain key chain sits in its place along with some bills and loose change. Where’s my stuff? My wooden hairbrush is replaced with a purple plastic one, and there’s an old digital clock radio with weird knobs and dials next to it.

  Panic creeps back in. I’ve never seen these things before in my life. Did someone come while I was sleeping and switch everything around? An anxious scan of my open closet shows all my clothes are replaced with items I don’t recognize.

  I tiptoe across the room and crack open the door to the hall to see if a group of girls are waiting outside to yell “Surprise!” or something.

  “What are you doing?” the strawberry blond stranger moans sleepily from Jada’s bed.

  I jump and shut the door louder than I meant to.

  “Go back to bed, Abigail. It’s too early.”

  I freeze. How does she know my name? And then I notice the Badger wall calendar hanging next to a retro touch-tone phone on the wall.

  It reads October 1983.

  My jaw drops and the tiny hairs on my neck stand up. Okay, this has to be some extreme hoax that someone went to a lot of trouble to pull off. Or a dream? I need to calm down and figure out what the hell is happening. I quietly open the door again and sneak out. The hallway is the same, except the walls are now painted yellow instead of blue. The bulletin board is there, but the announcements pinned to it are all diff
erent. A girl appears from across the hall in a pink terry cloth bathrobe, wearing fuzzy slippers and glasses with lenses so big around they cover half her face.

  “Hi, Abigail.” She smiles and hurries past.

  This girl knows me, but I’m pretty darn sure I’ve never seen her before, and why is everyone calling me Abigail instead of Abbi? I follow her. “Excuse me. Have we met?”

  She stares at me with wide eyes as if I’m an idiot. “You’re pulling my leg, right?”

  “Actually, no. I think I got roofied or something last night. My head is really messed up.”

  “Roofied?” Her face is screwed up in confusion.

  “You know, drugged,” I say.

  She looks aghast. “That’s terrible! Who would do that?”

  “I have no idea. Do you know where I was last night?”

  “We all went to Headliners. It was totally rad. You don’t remember? Is Linda okay?” She looks down the hall toward my room with concern.

  “Linda?”

  “Your roommate?” she says slowly as if I’m a foreigner who doesn’t understand the language, which is exactly how I feel.

  “Right! Yeah. Linda’s still asleep,” I say, thinking of the girl in Jada’s bed. This is all wrong. This girl thinks I was at Headliners, and I’ve never heard of the place. I’m either still dreaming or have accidentally fallen asleep in the wrong dorm room.

  I trudge back to “my” room, and notice that each door has an orange pumpkin cutout bearing the roommates’ names. Yesterday our names were printed on bright orange stars, as if we were celebrities instead of kindergarteners celebrating harvest.

  “Abigail” is on one of the pumpkins, but instead of Jada’s name, the other pumpkin says “Linda.” Something is very out of place. I’m beginning to realize that the something is me.

  I wonder if maybe someone moved my bed to another floor while I was passed out, but it’s still 4418—the same room number.

  Back in the room, I stare at the unfamiliar clothes in my closet. Putting any of these on would make me feel like a thief. Not one of these items is mine, but I can’t go out in public in the extra-large UW T-shirt I wore to bed last night. I rifle through the unfamiliar items in the dresser, finally settling on a pair of super-short jean shorts that come all the way up above my belly button. To my surprise, they fit perfectly. I settle on a T-shirt with an image of some cartoon character named Ziggy. Whatever that is.

  As I grab the key ring, Linda stirs. “Where are you going so early?” she mumbles, her face smooshed to her pillow.

  Away from here, because waking up in this twilight zone is freaking me out. I open the door. “Breakfast.”

  “Abigail?”

  I swallow. “Yeah?”

  “Grab me a Pop-Tart, would ya?”

  I glance at the two pumpkin-shaped name tags on our door. “Sure… Linda.”

  “Thanks,” she says as I sneak away, desperate to get out of there.

  I take the back steps located right outside of my room to avoid the main staircase and the rest of the residents. I can’t handle any more surprises. I push out the rarely used ground-level security door that faces the lake.

  Everything outside looks normal. Thank God. The trees, the lake, the Social Sciences Building. I heave a breath of relief and lean against the stone wall of the building to ground myself. Goose bumps prick my arms—I assume from the cold morning air and not the stark fear that I’m trying to keep under control.

  What the hell is happening? Why is everything screwed up? This has got to be some elaborate joke. It’s the only thing that makes sense. But how did they pull it off? And why me? I expect Jada to jump out with a hidden camera… but nothing.

  I stumble down the hill through the damp grass to the lake, needing to find clarity and to replay last night. Did someone slip something in my drink? I don’t think so, but I know I drank too much. I remember Colton walking me home, me asking if he would kiss me, and then him not kissing me. I groan and knock my head against a tree. Solid oak. I’m definitely awake now.

  A few guys jog by. Their hair is a little long and their running shorts are way too short for guys, but otherwise, they look normal. Maybe I just had some sort of temporary breakdown, and if I go back up to the room everything will be normal? But I’m not ready to go back there.

  On a hunch, I follow the path toward Picnic Point. That’s the last place I was before going to bed. When I pass Tripp and Adams Hall and then the playing fields, I can’t put my finger on it, but something is eerily off. It’s as if the trees are trying to speak to me. At the entrance to Picnic Point, I notice the gravel parking lot. I could have sworn it was blacktop yesterday. And the sign looks different too. Then again it was dark out, so I can’t know for sure. Still, something’s not right.

  I jog down the path to the end of Picnic Point, racking my brain for details from last night. The scent of pine trees and the decay of fallen leaves surround me. The path opens up, revealing small sandy beach areas that I couldn’t see in the dark last night.

  Out of breath, I reach the end of the path and stop short. The huge gathering circle and fire ring are gone. All of it.

  There is a large grassy clearing, but that’s all. Not even a bench. No sign of the bonfire. But this is definitely Picnic Point. Across the water I spot the Union Terrace and the state capitol jutting into the sky, but this isn’t the place I visited last night. And yet it has to be. Is there more than one Picnic Point? I break out in a sweat.

  I think about the calendar back in the room. It said 1983, but that can’t be possible. I stare at my surroundings, not sure what I’m looking for, but searching for answers. I’m not about to look like a lunatic and ask someone, “Hey, can you tell me what time it is? Oh, and also the year?”

  I head back down the path, trying to shake off the panic that is screaming at the edge of my mind. This time I search for clues from each person I pass, which isn’t too many this early in the day. But I do notice that two guys I pass wear their shirts tucked into high-waisted jeans. It’d be funny if it weren’t so terrifying. The cars in the parking lots are old. Not old as in rusted out, but old as in large, unfamiliar models.

  I don’t know what to do except to go back to the dorm. Girls pour out the front doors in a steady stream on their way to class. Inside, a stack of the Daily Cardinal, the school newspaper, fills a rack, and I grab one. A jolt goes through me when I see the date.

  October 21, 1983.

  I stagger back. No hoax could be this elaborate.

  No! I wasn’t even born in 1983. My mom, I calculate the years in my head, would be a teenager. My grandma is… alive! I can call her! Pushing the rest of the chaos out of my head, I rush through the halls to my room.

  “Where’ve you been? I thought you were bringing me a Pop-Tart?” Linda says. She’s dressed for the day and lifting a yellow backpack onto her shoulder.

  “Huh? Oh, sorry.” I search through my desk for my missing phone, but I can’t find it.

  “If you tell someone you’re going to bring them breakfast, you should really do it,” Linda complains.

  “What?” I look up. “I totally forgot. I’ll bring you one tomorrow.” I move to my cluttered dresser and see a wallet I don’t recognize, a wide-toothed comb, a large purple tube that reads Bonne Bell Lip Smackers, and a printed class schedule. “Have you seen my phone?”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “My phone. I left it on my nightstand.”

  Linda’s looking at me like I’ve lost my mind. “Uh, duh. It’s on the wall.”

  And then it hits me. Cell phones don’t exist in 1983. So my phone evaporated into thin air along with the rest of my stuff? I drop onto my bed, trying to digest this realization.

  Linda combs her bangs back and then sprays them with a stifling quantity of Aqua Net. “Do you want me to wait so we can walk to phy
sics together?”

  “No. I’m not going.” My mind darts at rapid-fire speed. I can fix this. I’m sure of it. I just need to get a grip on reality first, and then I’ll be able to figure out how to get out of the wrong century.

  “Are you sure? Today’s lecture is supposed to be really interesting.”

  “Positive. I have something I have to do.”

  “Suit yourself.” Linda rolls her eyes and heads out, leaving the door open.

  Thank God she’s gone. Now I can think straight. Grandma lived in the same house in Ohio since Mom was a kid, and she never got rid of her landline. I lift the handset off the cradle of the wall phone. I’m about to talk to Grandma! I suddenly get the jitters. What will I say? I hang up the phone and step away.

  I’ve called Grandma a zillion times over the years, but I’ve just come to terms with the idea that I’ll never talk to her again. With a deep bracing breath, I approach the phone again, lift the handset, and press the buttons for the number that I know by heart.

  The ringing on the other end sounds strange. I grip the receiver, praying for a connection to reality.

  “Hello,” a familiar voice answers. It is strong and youthful in comparison to the last days of her life, when it was weak and throaty. A flood of relief washes over me.

  “Grandma,” I whisper, tears springing to my eyes. I picture her gray hair styled in an efficient bob and the cubic zirconia earrings she never took off. A gift from my grandfather. She always said she’d rather travel than get fine jewelry, so he gave her the faux diamonds along with airline tickets.

  “I’m sorry. You have the wrong number,” she says with predictable kindness.

  “No. Grandma, it’s me, Abbi!” But then I remember there is no way she’d know me in 1983, and my gut clenches in despair.

  “I wish I could help you, but I’m afraid you must have dialed wrong.”

  “You’re right. I must have,” I squeeze my eyes shut and focus, desperate to keep her on the line. The fact that Grandma exists, that I’m hearing her voice, is proof that I’m in a different time, that I’m not going crazy. Or that I’ve gone extremely crazy.