Oona Out of Order Page 3

  The ache in her knees made her grimace as she perched on the chair beside him. “Have I been kidnapped? Why do I look like this?” Her expression was fierce, but her voice wobbled.

  “It’s all going to be okay. I’m here as your co-captain. We’re gonna navigate this mess together.”

  “So I’m not a prisoner?”

  “Of course not. I work for you. And we’re besties.”

  “Besties?”

  “Friends.”

  “I don’t have any friends as old as you.”

  Kenzie let out a startled laugh. “Hey, I’m only thirty, take it easy.”

  “What the hell is happening?” Oona closed her eyes. This new world had already exhausted her. If she wasn’t dead, she must be in a nightmare. In which case, she could play along, wait it out until she woke up. A grim sigh and she opened her eyes, faced the stranger. “What’s your name again?”

  “Kenzie.”

  “Why are you here? Why am I here?” Even if this was a bleak fantasy, some framework had to govern it.

  His pose was serene except for one foot tapping out an erratic rhythm. “You’re … home. And you asked me to be here.”

  A silent laugh shook her chest. This room, this person, all of it was like learning a new language. “This isn’t my home. And I don’t know you.”

  “It’s gonna be a while before any of this makes sense—if it ever really does. But I’ll help you through it.” Kenzie put a hand on her arm, gave it a reassuring squeeze.

  It wasn’t painful, but it was too much; she winced and jerked away. “Please don’t touch me.” Hurt flashed across his face as Oona got to her feet, backed away toward the door. “I have to go. I have people waiting for me. They’ll wonder where I am.” Inch by inch, she moved closer to the exit, hoping he wouldn’t lunge for her.

  “Hang on a sec.” Kenzie rushed to the desk and returned with an envelope, handing it to her from a safe distance. “If you won’t let me explain, maybe it’ll be better coming from you. Still, there are things in here that’ll be hella bizarre.”

  “Hella?”

  “Right, sorry. It means ‘very.’ My bad.”

  “My bad?”

  “Shit, I did it again. My bad means my mistake. I use silly outdated slang when I get nervous.”

  Curiosity interrupted her escape plan. “How outdated? I’ve never heard any of it before.”

  “I don’t know, early 2000s?” Kenzie looked away from her widened eyes and fortified himself with a deep breath. “Here’s the thing … You’re no longer in 1982.”

  “I know that. It’s 1983 now.”

  “Not so much. It is New Year’s Day, but the year is 2015. So while you just turned nineteen on the inside—Happy Birthday, by the way—your body is the age it’s supposed to be in 2015. So chronologically you’re…” He paused to calculate the number, but Oona beat him to it.

  “Fifty-one?” No. No no no. HELLA no.

  “Right. You’re fifty-one on the outside, but on the inside, you still have the mind and memories of yourself at nineteen. So it’s like you’ve swapped bodies. Only with yourself. At a different age.” He gave her an apologetic look. “You told me to memorize a speech explaining all this, but I was sure I’d be able to wing it. Sorry.”

  Oona stared into the fire. Her face could’ve been made of marble, it was so pale and still. Ten seconds. Twenty. Her lips moved as if reciting a silent prayer, except they formed no real words.

  A glance at Kenzie, whose dark eyes reflected an inner tug-of-war between panic and serenity.

  The edges of her mouth twitched down. “So you’re saying I’ve been through … a time machine or something?”

  “Or something.”

  “Did you do this to me?”

  “God no. You’ve never been able to figure out how it happens or why.”

  “You know what I think?” Her voice was a shaky whisper. “I think one of us is insane, and I’m not going to stick around to see if it’s you.” She turned and fled the room.

  As she ran down the hallway, her fingers brushed against silver-and-blue-striped wallpaper, reminiscent of gift wrap.

  I need to get back to the party and unwrap my presents.

  Hurrying down a curved staircase, Oona caught flashes of modern paintings in primary colors and a chandelier made of bicycle parts. She ended up in a marble-tiled foyer facing an eight-foot mirror. Its reflection made her gasp.

  What is this?

  An overweight middle-aged woman gaped at her. When Oona put her hand up to her face, so did the woman. And when Oona turned her body this way and that, the woman mimicked her gestures. It was like she’d been transported to a sadistic fun house.

  This can’t be me.

  The face was older but unmistakably Oona’s. The skin along her jaw sagged, parentheses-shaped grooves lined either side of her mouth, and her once-pouty lower lip was deflated. Her nose looked larger and her hazel eyes had crow’s feet. There was no gray in her hair, but it was less lustrous and dyed blond.

  “Oh my god, I’m old.”

  “You’re not that old. You’re just not … young,” Kenzie said behind her, then shuffled back at her terror-glazed stare.

  “I can’t be here anymore. I have to go somewhere … else. I have to find Dale.”

  “Look, I know this is all cray, but—”

  “Cray?”

  “Crazy—god, I’m giving you the worst of modern culture tonight.” He uttered a frustrated growl. “I’m fucking this whole thing up. You warned me it was gonna be tough, but I was all, ‘I got this.’ I shouldn’t have been so dismissive. But now that we’re here, please stay. Take a minute to process. I’ll tell you what I can about—”

  “No. I’m leaving.” Even a nightmare would allow you to exert some control, wouldn’t it? If she couldn’t wake up yet, at least she could go somewhere else. She went to open the door, but the handle wouldn’t budge. Of course.

  “Am I locked in?” A glare like a laser beam directed at Kenzie.

  He ran a hand through his hair, scattering the perfect wave of it. “2014 You thought it would be better to spend some time in this house. You know, acclimate a little before you went out and saw what else has changed.”

  She let out a disgusted chuckle. “I don’t know what that means. Just let me out.” Eyes darting, they settled on a large glass vase; she’d use it if she needed a weapon.

  “I wish you’d reconsider. But I won’t keep you a prisoner in your own house.”

  “My house?” Her head snapped up, and she took a fresh look around. “Nope. I’ve never been here before.” She tugged on the door handle again. “And I don’t want to be here now. Please unlock the door.” Her words were meant to be assertive, but they sounded more like pleading.

  “Can I come with? I don’t want you to get lost.”

  “No way.”

  Kenzie darted into a side room and came out with a long black coat and red leather handbag. “At least take these with you? Your wallet is inside with your address, so you’ll be able to find your way back. Your phone is in there, too—it’s silver, about the size of your hand—hell knows if you’ll be able to figure out how to use it,” he muttered and handed her a slip of paper. “That’s my number and the security code for the front door, but I’ll be here.”

  The second digits on the paper caught her eye: 0628. Dale’s birthday. Where was Dale, anyway?

  She slipped on the coat and took the bag. It was time to find him.

  As she stepped across the threshold, a frigid gust of wind hit her like a slap in the face.

  “Please don’t wander too far,” Kenzie said. “If you get lost, call me.”

  “Yeah, right,” Oona called over her shoulder, intent on never seeing him again.

  3

  Outside, Oona bolted down a short flight of steps, mystified at her sore knees. A quick backward glance at her supposed house. This was where she lived? This miniature-castle-looking brownstone? Uh-uh. She and Dale were supposed
to settle down in a SoHo loft, a raw expanse they’d turn into a giant living/creative space. No way would she end up in such a stately abode. Of course, it might not be true. Not this house or anything else Kenzie told her. She still didn’t know the real story. She barely knew the first sentence.

  A curtain on the first floor fluttered, revealing an anxious Kenzie peeking through the window. Oona waved him away and began to walk as a merciless wind whipped around. Her fingers grazed the edge of the envelope in her pocket. A letter sure to contain bad news.

  Forget the letter. I need to find Dale.

  The block contained nothing but other brownstones, some with gaslights out front, creating an effect more antiquated than futuristic.

  2015? I don’t think so.

  But the cars were more modern and streamlined than the ones she was familiar with. Less angular. Some more compact, others significantly larger, the vans and station wagons she’d known having received a sophisticated makeover.

  So the cars are different. That doesn’t mean anything.

  Except other, smaller differences nagged at her, like street signs with bolder fonts and pedestrian crossing lights that flashed a white silhouette of a person or an orange hand instead of WALK or DON’T WALK.

  The tip of her nose and ears went numb as she walked, and her wool coat protected her body against the bracing temperature only so much. Hopefully, she’d find someplace warm soon.

  A short while later, she reached an avenue filled with shops, bars, and restaurants. Outside a corner café with an iron crow hanging above its door, a man and woman stood smoking, coats open to the wind. They had the unsteady stances and glassy eyes of the inebriated, and their breath created small patches of fog indistinguishable from their exhaled cigarette puffs. Nothing about their appearance screamed futuristic, either. If anything, the man’s vaudevillian handlebar moustache and suspenders and the woman’s top bun and prim schoolmarmish dress made them seem more suited to an older era.

  Oona approached the couple. “Excuse me, where’s the closest subway?”

  The man pointed down the street. “Five blocks that way.”

  “Happy New Year,” slurred the woman.

  “Is it really 2015?” Oona couldn’t resist asking.

  “I know—last year totally flew by, right?” An eye roll, a short sigh, and she flicked her cigarette into the gutter.

  It still didn’t mean anything. The drunk woman could’ve misheard her.

  Ever since Oona and Dale had been mugged, she’d been scared to ride the subway alone, especially late at night. She focused on this fear as she headed down Seventh Avenue, which diverted the bigger fear at the threshold. Had she really ended up thirty-two years in the future, robbed of her potential and her rightful place in time?

  In the station, she did a double take at the subway map; it no longer looked like it was designed on an Etch A Sketch, though the modern curved lines did little to improve its clarity. “F train to Fourth Avenue, switch to the N,” she murmured, memorizing the route to Bensonhurst.

  There was an agent inside the station booth. Oona gave the middle-aged man behind the safety glass a relieved smile and handed over a five-dollar bill. “One token, please.”

  “We haven’t sold tokens in years. This’ll get you a MetroCard good for two rides.”

  She fought a panicked frown. “Okay … I guess I’ll take one of those.”

  Moments later, “Here you go, ma’am.” The attendant handed her a plastic card.

  Ma’am?

  Such a small but jarring reminder: she was no longer nineteen to this world.

  A rumble below signaled an approaching train.

  It took a few card swipes, but Oona made it through the turnstile in time to catch the F. Her brain was overloaded with information that refused to be sorted into tidy shelves. Maybe she should read the letter? Not yet. Whatever it might explain, the arithmetic was impossible; she couldn’t tackle it right now. It was easier to dwell on smaller things without adding them up. Like this updated subway car—so bright and clean, graffiti-free, with no broken windows or flickering neon lights. Or the surprising number of people taking public transportation this late, the N train even more crowded once she transferred. If this really was the future, at least it was safer, less gritty. And not wholly unfamiliar. Even the clothes weren’t dramatically different—no puffy sleeves, shoulder pads, or ruffly skirts in sight, but nothing like the Jetsons attire she would’ve envisioned for 2015. The silhouettes were sleeker, with many formfitting outfits which looked constricting, uncomfortable. Other ensembles were collages combining several decades of past trends.

  Enough. Stop procrastinating. Read the letter.

  She took out the envelope. OONA LOCKHART: 2015 was spelled across it in block letters. Inside were two pages of unlined paper covered in tidy script with an upward slant, her penmanship recognizable by the quirks of the letters—g’s like figure eights, oversize loops on the l’s and h’s.

  A high school English teacher had once told Oona her uphill handwriting was a sign she was an optimist. As she unfolded the letter, she wondered if this still applied to the version of herself who’d written it.

  Dear Oona,

  Welcome to your future. It won’t be so bad once you get to know it.

  Don’t panic. You’re not crazy or dead or dreaming. This is your true reality. It really is 2015 and you really are 51 years old (on the outside). The sooner you accept it, the sooner you’ll adjust. But there’s more to it.

  What is “it,” exactly? If Kenzie was able to keep you from running off, he’s filled you in, but you’re probably reading this on the subway, so I’ll tell you.

  First off, know that none of this is your fault. Or anyone else’s. There was no science experiment gone wrong, no other explanation for it. And there’s no way to prevent or fix it. Here’s what’s going on:

  Every year, on your birthday, right at midnight, you travel through time to inhabit your body at a different point of your life. For exactly one year. Then you “leap” to another random age you haven’t lived before (could be older, could be younger). You’re physically and mentally healthy, but you’re experiencing your adult life out of order.

  Oona lowered the letter and stared up at an ad for a storage company. The train’s motion shook her down to her bones, as if she were made of glass and would shatter to pieces at any moment.

  Now. Please. Let me wake up now.

  But the train continued rattling on its tracks, and she continued being jostled by people sitting on either side of her during turns and stops. When the train went aboveground, the passengers took out small, flat devices the likes of which she’d never seen and began tapping on and speaking into them.

  This isn’t the eighties.

  The cold hadn’t woken her, the noisy subway hadn’t woken her, and her surroundings were painfully tangible, despite her wishes to the contrary.

  No more denial.

  This isn’t a dream.

  Deep breath in, deep breath out. Oona tried to check the time, but found she wasn’t wearing a watch. A flash of color on the inside of her wrist made her pull up her sleeve. She gasped and revealed a tattoo: an hourglass with swirls of galaxies in place of sand, a ribbon across its base spelling out M.D.C.R.

  She brought her wrist in for a closer look.

  When did I get this? What do the letters stand for?

  M for her mother, Madeleine; D for Dale; C for her father, Charles … what about the R?

  Perhaps the letter would offer more clues. She resumed reading.

  I’m sure you’re bursting with questions, and I’ll explain a few things, but you’ll have to discover the rest yourself. I won’t be able to protect you from all the bad surprises, but I don’t want to ruin the good ones for you, either. There’s this popular modern expression: no spoilers. It’s a warning not to give away key plot points (or endings) in movies, TV shows, or books. That’s how I feel about our mixed-up life; I don’t want to give away t
oo many spoilers. It might take the fun out of living it. That’s why I don’t keep diaries. Instead, I try to write a letter at the end of each year, to prepare you for the next as best as I can.

  You have a lot of incredible things to look forward (backward?) to, but this first leap will be rough. To make things easier, I’ve laid out some … guidelines (I won’t call them rules, because as much as you think you love rules, you also kind of hate them). Some of these might seem odd or annoying, but you need to trust me. After all, I’m Future You.

  Here’s some good news: you’re rich. I’m talking ridiculously, buy-anything-do-anything-you-want rich. This is thanks to savvy investing and some educated sports bets (Croeso winning 1983’s Florida Derby, at 85–1 odds, was a great start). So you can still get a SoHo loft if you want, but in the meantime, that Park Slope mansion you woke up in is yours. As is a nine-figure bank balance and a stock portfolio you must manage carefully. You’ll need to memorize a lot of information in order to make/sustain your fortune, since whatever you learn in future years, you retain when you travel to the past. It can get complicated, though, which is why you have the binder (Kenzie will show you when you’re ready; more on him later).

  Let’s get into these guidelines.

  1.  You can’t tell anyone about the time travel. Mom and Kenzie know, that’s it. Right now, convincing anyone else would be tricky to impossible, and a doctor might sooner put you in a padded room than believe it. It’ll take a while for you to believe it yourself, so for now, better to process quietly. This rule applies only to 2015. We’ll have a little more wiggle room in other years.

  2.  Don’t get too rich. If you make too much money, you might get unwanted attention, either from the IRS, the SEC, or people looking to take advantage, especially if you’re mentioned in Forbes’ list of wealthiest people. These days, that means keeping your fortune to under a billion (yes, billionaires are now a thing) and less than that in earlier decades. It means giving to charity and making some bad investments on purpose from time to time.