I look up to see that we’ve reached the back entrance to the stage. I close my eyes and make a wish.
I wish I was at home playing board games with my parents.
I wish I was anywhere else but here.
I wish I was twelve again!
But when I open my eyes, I’m still standing in front of that stage door and Clementine is still glowering at me with her arms crossed. She pulls open the door and waits for me to enter first. Probably to make sure I don’t try to run the other way, which, believe me, I’ve definitely considered.
This is my life now. And it’s quite clear that Clementine isn’t going to let me run away from it. So I let out a long, surrendering sigh and walk through the stage door.
When I was seven years old and Rory was eleven, our family went camping in Rocky Mountain National Park. Rory and I decided we wanted to go off on an adventure together, even though our parents warned us to stay close to the cabin. But we didn’t listen. We wandered too far and eventually got lost and couldn’t find our way back. We traveled in circles for what felt like hours, and it was getting darker. I kept whining to Rory that I was scared and she grabbed my hand and told me it would be okay and to stop being such a baby.
Then we saw the mountain lion.
It was standing on the path directly in front of us, legs crouched, body bent toward us like it was getting ready to pounce.
For a second, both of us went very still and quiet. Rory squeezed my hand so tight, I was afraid she was going to break it. The mountain lion roared at us, baring sharp, jagged teeth that can only accurately be described as fangs.
We both screamed.
The mountain lion responded by hissing back at us.
We screamed louder.
Eventually, our screams frightened the animal away and our parents, who had been looking for us for the last hour, followed the sounds until they found us.
The whole thing lasted about thirty seconds. But in those thirty seconds, I honestly thought I was going to die.
That was the most scared I’ve ever been in my entire life.
Until right this second.
The curtain rises and I’m standing on the stage of the Thunder Creek gymnasium as one thousand students stare back at me and a song I’ve never heard in my life starts piping through the speakers.
Clementine quietly counts us off. “One, two, three, four…”
The only problem is, I have absolutely no idea what she’s counting us off to. I don’t know the routine. I don’t remember choreographing it. Or practicing it. Or even signing up for this stupid talent show. I don’t remember anything from the past four years and now I’m going to die from public humiliation. This entire gym full of people is going to laugh at me and I’ll be exposed as the phony that I am.
I don’t know what I was thinking. I don’t belong here. I’m not ready to be sixteen. I don’t want to be in high school anymore. I just want to go back to middle school, where it’s safe and I know what I’m doing and math still has numbers in it and Grace and I still hang out and Rory still lives in the house and my mom doesn’t work.
It’s too much. Too many things have changed. I don’t like it.
I want out!
“Five, six, seven, eight…” Clementine finishes the count and she’s off, leaping into the first steps of the routine choreographed by cool and popular sixteen-year-old Adeline. A girl who films YouTube tutorials and has a dog named Buttercup and a drawer full of makeup and drives a cute green car and puts framed black-and-white photographs of strangers on her walls.
A girl I barely recognize.
Clementine shoots me a dirty look as I watch her finish the first eight-count. Walk one, two, three, out four, head roll, ball change, and kick.
Wait a minute.
I know those steps. I choreographed those steps. But not with Clementine. With Grace. Back in the Hideaway when we were twelve.
Which, for me, was just yesterday.
Is this the same routine I used to do with Grace? The one we choreographed after binge-watching three entire seasons of Dance for Your Life?
As Clementine breaks into the second eight-count, still waiting for me to join in, with an angry scowl on her face, I watch her carefully, making double sure that this is the same dance and not just the same opening.
The next eight-count is exactly as I remember it. Grace and I borrowed most of the steps right from our favorite Dance for Your Life routine.
Down one, hair flip, shoulder, shoulder, step, pause, and turn.
Thank the heavens! I’m saved! I know this dance! I can do this dance! Grace and I practiced it a million times in the Hideaway!
I join in on the third eight-count, much to Clementine’s obvious relief. I may not recognize the song, but the dance is exactly the same.
Well, the steps are the same, anyway. Clementine has added some really impressive flair to the whole thing. The way she does the hip, hip, look in the third eight-count almost makes me blush.
By the time we reach the grand finale—body roll, kick, turn, slide down, splits!—I’m breathless but totally pumped. We hold our final positions as the music fades out and the gym explodes in cheers and catcalls and clapping.
Adrenaline buzzes through me and I feel like I’m flying.
They loved it!
Clementine and I bow five times and I beam at the audience, feeling like a rock star.
That is, until my gaze lands on the girl in the front row.
She’s staring up at me with her mouth hanging open and tears brimming in her eyes.
It’s Grace.
Even though she’s four years older, and her hair is no longer braided, and her face has changed so much, I recognize that look. It’s the same look she gave me that night in the Hideaway—last night—when I accused her of being immature and babyish. And the same look she had when her grandpa died.
It’s her heartbroken look.
Suddenly, I get it. I understand. My stomach fills with butterflies. Not the good kind. The sick, yucky, guilty kind.
This was our dance. We choreographed it. And I stole it.
Our eyes meet and for a long moment we just stare at each other as the proud, beaming smile slowly falls from my face. Then Grace turns and pushes her way out of the gym, holding her hand over her mouth like she’s trying to keep her sobs locked inside.
I run from the stage.
I can hear Clementine calling my name somewhere behind me, but I don’t stop. I have to find her. I have to make this right.
When I tumble out the stage door, I see Grace scurrying down the hallway, her hand still cupped over her mouth. I dash to catch up to her, pulling on her arm to make her stop.
“Grace,” I say breathlessly. “Wait. Please, let me explain.”
Grace appears surprised to see me but quickly washes the emotion from her face, replacing it with a blank neutral expression. “Explain what?” she asks and I can tell she’s trying to sound indifferent, like she doesn’t care. But I know her. I’ve known Grace since before we were born. I can tell when she’s faking it.
“About the dance,” I say breathlessly. “I didn’t know that’s what we were doing. I didn’t know that we were going to steal our dance. I mean obviously I knew. On some level. But it wasn’t me who did it.”
Grace’s eyebrows knit together and I can tell she’s trying to follow what I’m saying but failing miserably. That makes two of us.
I sigh and start again. “Something happened last night, Grace. Something crazy. Do you remember our fight in the Hideaway? On the night of my twelfth birthday?”
Grace rolls her eyes. “I don’t have time for this.” She tries to step around me, but I jump in front of her.
“Please,” I beg. “Just let me explain. I need to explain. I have to tell someone or I’ll burst. And you’re the only one I can tell. Maybe you won’t believe me, but I have to at least try.”
She crosses her arms and glares at me. I take this as a sign that I’m allowed
to continue. I clench my fists at my sides, trying to form my thoughts into comprehensible sentences, but no matter how I rearrange the words, nothing sounds right in my head. Nothing seems to make sense of this totally nonsensical situation.
Grace lets out an impatient groan, tossing a lock of hair over her shoulder.
“Your hair got so long,” I say wistfully, reaching out to touch it.
Grace leans back, out of my reach. “Get on with it,” she snaps.
Oh, right. We probably don’t play with each other’s hair like we used to.
“Okay,” I say, steeling myself with courage. “There’s really no right way to do this so I’m just going to come out and say it. Last night, I was still twelve years old.”
Grace narrows her eyes. I can tell she’s confused but she’s also not trying to run away again so I take that as a good sign. “Remember Mrs. Toodles?” I ask. “My crazy neighbor?”
Grace nods.
“Well, she gave me this really old jewelry box for my birthday—my twelfth birthday. And she told me it had magical powers. It used to belong to some old witch. She told me if I wrote down a wish and locked it inside, my wish would come true. I didn’t believe her. Because c’mon, seriously? A magic jewelry box that grants wishes, right? But after we had our big fight in the Hideaway, I decided to try it. I made a wish to be sixteen, thinking if I was sixteen, everything would be okay. We wouldn’t fight anymore. We’d be all mature and grown-up.”
Grace rolls her eyes again but, still, she stays put.
“I locked the wish inside the jewelry box,” I continue. “I never in a million years thought it would work. But it did work. I woke up here. In this life. When everyone is older. And so much has changed. I can’t figure anything out. I don’t understand why you’re not in any of the photos on my phone. Or why we don’t seem to hang out anymore. Or why I quit playing the trumpet! I just wanted to be older so I could wear makeup and have a cell phone and go to high school dances like Rory did, but it seems like everything is different. Too much is different.”
I can feel the tears welling up and I wipe them away with the heels of my hands. Grace is just staring at me with this kind of slack-jawed empty expression. I’m dying to know what she’s thinking. Does she believe me? Will she take pity on me? Will we run home together and grab our sleeping bags and hang out in the Hideaway all night talking about everything that’s happened in the last four years?
Will things go back to the way they were?
“Adeline,” Grace says in a measured tone. I nearly collapse in disappointment when I hear those three syllables. It’s so strange hearing her use my full name. I know it’s not a good sign.
“Grace,” I argue before she can go on, but the tears are really starting to flow now and it’s hard for me to speak. My nose is running and I have no more dry hand heels to wipe everything away. “Please don’t walk away again. Please just tell me you believe me. Please!” My voice is wobbly and broken. “Let’s go back to the dance and tell the DJ to play Summer Crush and dance around like crazy people. Just like we used to do. Let’s go back to the way it was, okay?”
I don’t know why—maybe it’s my tears or the number of times I said please—but Grace’s expression seems to soften as she looks at me. I feel my hopes rise. For a moment, I actually think she might say, “Okay, Addie. Let’s do that.”
But she doesn’t.
That moment quickly passes, her face hardens again, and I see the girl from the hallway today. The one with the tough exterior and cold, unforgiving eyes.
“Adeline,” she says again. This time it doesn’t just disappoint me. It stabs me in the chest. “We can’t just go back to the way things were. Things haven’t been that way for almost four years. I don’t know what’s gotten into you. Maybe you’re having some major life crisis or something, but I honestly don’t know why you’re coming to me with it. It’s not like we’re friends anymore.”
She turns away from me. This time, I don’t have the willpower to try and stop her and soon I’m left alone in the hallway, listening to the distant sound of yet another unfamiliar song playing in the gym.
For a long time, I just stare at the space where Grace once stood. Like I truly believe she might poof out of thin air. I stand there until I hear the music die down and the DJ’s voice announce, “The judges’ votes have been tallied, and we now have the winners of our Thunder Creek’s Got Talent competition. The first-place winners are…Clementine Dumont and Adeline Bell!”
That’s when I can’t take it anymore.
That’s when I sprint out of the building, still barefoot, and run all the way home.
My feet are grimy and sore from running down the sidewalk without shoes, and I’ve sweat through my gorgeous dress, but I’m grateful to be home. It feels safe. And comfortable. And familiar.
The house is eerily quiet. My parents must already be asleep. I climb the stairs to my bedroom, my body feeling heavier and heavier with each step. Buttercup is sprawled out across my comforter with her butt on my pillow. Her tail is the only thing that moves when I walk in. It wags eagerly, smacking the pillow with a series of loud thwaps.
The sight brings a smile to my face, but it’s a weak one at best.
I drop my clutch on the nightstand and collapse onto the bed next to her, stroking her soft fur. I’m so exhausted. I feel like I’ve lived in this sixteen-year-old body for ten years rather than just a single day.
“What happened to my life?” I ask Buttercup.
Her tail smacks the pillows harder in response.
“When did everything fall apart?”
Thwap. Thwap. Thwap.
I hear my phone vibrating inside my clutch. It’s probably Clementine wondering where I am. But I don’t care. So I don’t even look.
I curl onto my side and press my face against Buttercup’s back. I let the tears fall freely, crying until my eyes are red and Buttercup’s fur is wet and I fall asleep.
In the morning, I wake up feeling determined.
It’s Saturday, which means I don’t have anything to do or anywhere to go until Monday morning, and I’m going to use that time to fill in the four-year gap in my memory. I’m going to figure out what happened.
I get out of bed and scramble through my desk drawers until I find a notebook and a pen. I sit on my bed, flip to a blank page, and scribble out two questions.
Why aren’t Grace and I friends anymore?
How did I become friends with Clementine?
I bite the tip of my pen as I stare down at the paper and reflect on the last twenty-four hours. I think about yesterday at school, all those text messages I got, the conversations I had with Connor and Jacob Tucker, my YouTube makeup tutorials, the look on Grace’s face when Clementine and I finished our dance routine for the talent show. And then I write down a third question.
What kind of person is sixteen-year-old Adeline Bell?
I underline that one twice and close the notebook.
The reality of the situation is, I need answers. I need to talk to someone who has been around for the past four years and might know things.
I call my sister, Rory, but it rings and rings and then goes to voice mail. “Hi! It’s Rory. I’m off being awesome. Leave a message if you want to be awesome, too.”
I hang up without leaving a message. She wouldn’t have any answers, anyway. She left for school two years ago and it’s not like she paid a lot of attention to me when she was around. Besides, if I really want to ask her the right questions, I’d have to tell her the truth about what happened to me, and I doubt she would believe it.
I doubt anyone would believe it.
You’d have to be crazy to believe a story like that.
You’d have to be…
“You are a believer. You have magic in the heart.”
Mrs. Toodles!
I was planning on going over there yesterday, but somehow I never found the time. She’ll believe me for sure. She’s the one who gave me the magic jewelry
box in the first place.
I’m not sure how much she’ll actually remember about the last four years, given her power-smoothie blender brain and all, but at the very least she might be able to help. She might have some advice or ideas.
I scoot off my bed, throw on some clothes and shoes, and bound down the stairs, surprised to find the kitchen totally empty. It’s Saturday. My dad doesn’t work on Saturdays, which means normally Mom is cooking breakfast and Dad is doing the dishes, rambling on about some interesting fact he learned from his podcast that day.
But the house is quiet.
I find a note on the refrigerator door that says, “Went to brunch.”
My parents went out to eat without me?
That’s kind of rude.
But I don’t really have time to be offended right now. I have to get to Mrs. Toodles’s house so I can finally get some answers.
I hurry out the front door, checking to make sure it’s not locked behind me, and run the entire half block until I reach the small one-story cottage-style house on the corner. I race up to the front door and knock. Then I step back and wait.
It always takes Mrs. Toodles a while to answer the door. Sometimes she doesn’t hear the knock the first time and sometimes she’s back in her bedroom and has to waddle her way to the foyer.
But today, it’s taking an unusually long time.
I try to peer through the windows, but the blinds are closed.
I don’t remember Mrs. Toodles having blinds. I’m pretty sure she had curtains in the windows. Really old, tacky ones with porcupines on them. Maybe she finally got sick of them.
I knock again but there’s still no answer. It’s been almost five minutes. She definitely should be here by now. Is she sleeping? Did she go out?
Never, in my years of living on this block and visiting Mrs. Toodles, have I ever seen her leave this house. She gets everything delivered. Her groceries, her laundry, Chinese food every Sunday night. But maybe she’s changed in the past four years, like everyone else. Maybe she joined an old-lady cards club. Or plays bingo on Saturdays.