“All right, we’ll take them,” Renner tells the poor cashier, who has to scan the items on our bodies.
On the way out, I catch a glimmer of silver in my peripheral vision that stops me in place. Renner crashes into me, gripping my elbow for support.
“Are you seeing what I’m seeing?” I ask.
He follows my upward gaze and swallows. “I think so . . .”
There, on a shelf overflowing with bits and bobs, is a steel cylindrical object. The engraved letters across the front are partially covered by a massive wide-brimmed periwinkle hat covered in wild flower appliqués. Renner removes the hat, revealing the dirt-encrusted engraving: Time Capsule—Graduating Class of 2024.
“That can’t be our time capsule, can it?” I ask as Renner pulls it off the shelf. When his fingers make contact, he jolts slightly, pulling his hand back.
“Ouch. It just shocked me.”
I run my finger over the smooth edges, and a tiny jolt rolls through my fingertips. “That happened last time. In the storage room.”
He nods, studying it for a beat before grabbing for it again, forearm muscles flexing under its weight. “But how did our time capsule end up in some random store in Fairfax?”
“No idea,” I say, shaking the capsule, ear pressed against it. “Do you think our letters are in there?” I ask, resting my arm on the shelf behind me, a smidge dizzy all of a sudden.
“We’re thirty now, right? I assume we already opened it.” Sure enough, when he opens the latch, it’s empty. “Guess we’ll never know what we wrote.”
“That’s okay with me,” I say, helping him place it back on the shelf. Maybe it’s the privilege of knowing far more than I wanted to know about my future self, but I know enough at this point. I’m more than happy leaving some things a mystery.
We walk onto the bustling sidewalk hiccuping with laughter. I don’t usually like to stand out. In fact, I’ve spent my entire life desperately trying to fit in. Being dressed like a loon in public would typically send me into hysterics, but it doesn’t, even though we’re being gawked at.
People are even moving a little to the side to give us a wide berth. Renner has a huge grin, and I can tell he’s living for this. Each glare or gasp provides extra pep to his bumless-leather-pant swagger. （Don’t worry, he has boxers underneath.）
“We’re from the past. Time travel,” he happily tells an elderly woman with bulging eyes. She shoots us a stern look and walks a little faster in the opposite direction.
Renner continues on this course, telling everyone who makes eye contact that “we’re from the past.” I can’t stop giggling. I’m not one to talk to random strangers, but with Renner, I’m starting to feel brave. By the time we reach the intersection, I whisper, “We’re time travelers,” to a cherub-faced baby. （His dad has earbuds in, but everyone has to start somewhere.）
High on adrenaline, we skip hand in hand over an air vent and into a magenta-colored store that reminds me of a carnival fun house meets Willy Wonka & the Chocolate Factory. The store exclusively sells candy, even vintage candy, with rainbow lollipops the size of dinner plates. There’s a giant wall of clear plastic boxes filled with candy, scoops, and tiny rainbow-striped bags to fill. It’s a child’s dream come true. Renner and I go wild, filling our bags to the brim.
The clerk, a bushy-haired guy with a goatee, stares us down as we set fifty-five dollars’ worth of candy on the checkout counter.
Giddy at the prospect of sugar, we stumble into a lush green park and flop into the thick grass, a cushion for our sore bodies. We’re on a slope overlooking a flat area where a group of teens are playing night Frisbee.
“Oh god. It feels good to lie down.” Renner groans, reaching into his bag for a gummy worm. “Is this thirty? Being too tired to get through the day?”
“If this is thirty, I’m scared to know what fifty feels like,” I say, tearing open the bag of Skittles.
“Why are you touching all the Skittles, you little freak?” He eyes me sideways, attempting to snatch the bag. I pull it out of reach, and he’s too lazy to fight for it.
“Everyone knows the green ones are disgusting.”
He holds his palm out. “You’re a wasteful monster, Wu. Give me the green ones. Just don’t touch them all.”
“Scared of my germs?”
“I’m scared of everyone’s germs. Like your hair in the Skittles.” He points toward a rogue strand of hair in the bag.