Maplewood High looks exactly the same. Unlike the rest of Maplewood’s charming historical aesthetic, the high school is drab. There are few distinguishing features, unless you count the spray-paint graffiti along the front wall that magically changes every few months. No one knows who the culprit is.
I’m halfway out of the car when I notice that Renner’s hands are still locked on the wheel.
“You coming?” I ask.
His lip twitches and he fumbles to unfasten his seat belt. “I, uh . . . we work here. And we have no idea what we’re doing.” His face is all red, and I’m fairly certain there’s a bead of sweat on his forehead. I don’t know that I’ve ever seen Renner flustered before. He’s usually maddeningly calm in every situation.
“Look. Maybe we won’t have to see anyone. School doesn’t start for half an hour. All we need to do is get to the gym before anyone sees us. Nori’s plan will work,” I say. It has to.
He nods silently and gets out of the car like he’s heading down death row. But his mood lifts when we pass the marquee sign that reads:
CONGRATULATIONS GRADUATING CLASS OF ’37.
ANAL EXAMS—JUNE 1–5
Renner can’t help but snicker at the typo and missing letters. Of course he does. He can’t resist a butt joke.
“I can’t believe you work here. In a position of authority,” I mutter, entering ahead of him.
“Only the best of minds for the next generation,” he says, whistling. Nothing like teenage humor to shift his dour mood.
As the heavy doors close behind us, a mixture of antiseptic, rubber erasers, and BO hits my nostrils. At least it smells exactly the same.
Thankfully, the hallway is empty as we creep toward the gym like the Grinch who stole Christmas. Halfway down the corridor, Renner stops to look at a wall of large framed graduation composites. I follow his line of vision. The Class of 2024.
My grad photo is just cruel. I don’t know who selected it, but they obviously had a grudge against me. I’m stiff and awkward. One eye is wonky, nearly half-closed in a blink. Renner’s photo makes me seethe. His should be used as the stock photo for the photography company’s advertisements. He’s got that effortless sideways grin that never fails to charm.
I peruse the rest of my classmates’ eager smiles, wondering what’s become of them in this strange future. Have they stayed in Maplewood? Are they living fabulous lives in the city? Are any of them wealthy tech billionaires in Silicon Valley?
“Hey, there’s that plug Garrett you used to date,” Renner says, pointing to Garrett’s photo.
Garrett Hogan and I dated for a hot second last year. Nori planted the seed that we were soulmates because we’re both list-obsessed type As. As it turns out, dating another version of me, someone who second-guesses everything and overplans every meticulous detail （including how we were going to lose our virginities） was painful. Spending forty-five minutes in the contraceptive aisle at the pharmacy where Mom works, weighing the pros and cons of ribbed vs. smooth vs. sensation condoms, really put a damper on what was supposed to be the most romantic moment of my life. 0/10 do not recommend.
When I don’t react, he prods. “Why haven’t you dated anyone since him?”
“I’m too busy to date,” I say. He gives me his skeptical side-eye. “Senior year is a lot! AP classes. Student council. Model UN. SATs. College visits. I can’t even keep my barrel cactus, Frank, alive—and he only needs watering once a month. There’s no time left to cater to a needy boyfriend.”
“Sounds like you’re making excuses,” he says. He’s not wrong. It all sounds so trivial now . . . as a thirty-year-old.
“Come on, let’s go find our bricks,” I cut in. The last thing I need is a lecture on my dating life from my alleged husband-to-be.
I’ve painted mine red with little daisies around the edges. My name is in what looks like Times New Roman font, and I’ve written initials along the bottom. I see KL for Kassie, NW for Nori, OI for Ollie, and last, JTR with a little heart.
Renner’s brick is next to mine, painted forest green. His name is in simple block letters. He has way more initials than me, which makes sense because he’s friends with the entire student body. But my initials are there too, at the end, with a matching heart.
“That’s . . . interesting,” he notes, pointing to my initials.
“Yup. Very.” How could we possibly go from being enemies to immortalizing each other’s initials on our grad bricks a mere two weeks later? It doesn’t add up. “Let’s get to the gym and make this all go away.” I spin on my heel and a red-haired woman in a sky-blue sundress comes barreling around the corner. “Hey! I’ve been looking for you guys.” I don’t recognize her, but she certainly recognizes us. Her eyes are wide, bright, and full of good intention. At least, I think so.