“But,” I stammer, “Lincoln won’t even be here two weeks from now!”
“You can still play the games with one player, Carter,” Mom says.
“Damn, Mom,” Lincoln says, laughing. “Touché.”
Even as I have to give Mom props for that one, I don’t appreciate it right now, so I don’t respond, instead taking another bite of Dad’s salmon.
He really has become a sick cook.
I haven’t officially taken Mom’s deal yet.
Because for real: If I’m trapped in an endless loop, what is the goddamn point of going to school?
I bang around my bedroom like a maniac, opening drawers and slamming them shut until I find the one I need. As I wildly fumble for a pair of pajama pants, my hand collides with an object that’s paper, not fabric.
I pull it out of the drawer and unfold it.
It’s a note. In my handwriting.
Hey Carter,
Glad you found this! I’m not supposed to be writing to myself, but I am anyway. Don’t tell anyone. Here’s some extra stuff you should know:
If you haven’t already, find Bodhi Chang. He’s a junior. Close friend.
It’s a list. I wrote myself a list. Soren was just saying at our appointment that I should have minimal exposure to past memories, which kinda makes me love this cheat sheet even more. Fuck you, Soren!
I read onward:
Lean on Lincoln. It’s weird af that he’s older than you, but he’s actually really helpful.
But also: It sucks that he doesn’t live here anymore. You probably already figured that out, or will soon, but it’s like the balance is all messed up without him. Mom and Dad are weirder than usual.
We’re pretty good at photography now. Dope, right? You’ll have to relearn, but just, like, push through even when it feels hard. I did. And you’re me. So. You can do this.
Not gonna sugarcoat it like I did in that video. This situation is very fucked. But it’s not all bad. There’s been a lot of good stuff in my life this year. And I bet it’ll be the same for you.
The last item is in blue pen instead of black. The handwriting is messier too.
Layla Banerjee could be the key.
What?
Layla Banerjee? Who I’ve known since elementary school? What is she the key to? What does that even mean?
I lie back on my bed and read the list again.
And again.
Layla Banerjee. I can still picture her when we were six, sitting on the orange carpet at circle time. Wearing a blue dress with stars on it.
I pull out my phone and go to Instagram, signing on to the new profile I started on my new phone—part of the Soren starting-fresh protocol.
There are more Layla Banerjees in the world than I would’ve thought, but eventually I find her, the adult version of the girl I remember from just a month ago, when she was a fellow junior.
This will never stop being freaky.
I stare at her profile pic and scan her grid, and here’s what I learn:
