Again, but Better (20 page)

“Shane? Shane!”

What happened? I pull my eyes open. Pilot’s face floats into focus above me. He’s saying my name again, anxiety spiking through his voice.

I gasp for oxygen. “Oh my god, I passed out.” I squeeze my eyes shut. Everything comes slamming back. The elevator.
London?

“I had this
Twilight Zone
dream we were back in London, and Atticus and Sahra—”

“Shane,” Pilot cuts me off. I vaguely register that I’m awkwardly lying with my head in his lap, his arms stretched out under my armpits. He caught me trust-fall style. I stare past him at the white ceiling in confusion. The elevator was black.

Sahra’s face pops into view.

“Oh my god,” I croak.

“Shane, I got you some water. Don’t worry, Atticus ran to get help,” she says.

“Sahra, Atticus—”
My eyes find Pilot’s and he nods.

“Yeah,” he says.

I sit up quickly. Pilot takes back his arms, and I scoot away. “I don’t need help. I’m fine. I just need some water and some food. I’ll be fine.”

“Take it easy, Shane,” Sahra says. I grab the glass of water from her outstretched hand and chug it down.

Frantic footsteps fly down the hall, and Atticus comes into view. He speaks through heaving
breaths. “I found. Someone. They’re coming.”

“No, no, tell them not to come, please. I’m fine. I just need to eat some food.”

“Are you sure? You were pale as heck,” Atticus asks, heaving.

“Please, go call them off!”

“Um.” Atticus looks from to me to Pilot. Pilot gives him a nod, and Atticus takes off running back upstairs.

I look back at Sahra, now leaning against the wall, watching me with
a worried expression. “I’m fine, guys, really.”

“Maybe it’s the jet lag or something?” Sahra reasons. Her eyes catch on something behind me. “The hell? Why are there knives on the floor?”

I look over at Pilot, who’s now sitting on the ground, staring blankly at the carpet. I turn back to Sahra.

“I’ll take care of the knives. Can you, um, give us a second?” I ask quietly.

“Okay,” Sahra drawls
in a mildly suspicious tone. “Take it slow getting up,” she adds assertively before heading back into … our room. She leaves the door open.

I turn to Pilot. “Pilot?”

He doesn’t move or respond.

“Pies? Pilot!” I reach out and shake his shoulder. He looks up and meets my eyes, but doesn’t say anything. I exhale in relief before slowly rising from the ground. I need food.

“Let’s go get something
to eat.”

Pilot nods and gets up. I start to walk toward the staircase. It’s the same staircase. When we reach the landing, we come face-to-face with the foyer of the Karlston. I mash my lips together and plow past the front desk, through the doors. I glance over my shoulder to make sure Pilot is behind me. He is, looking just as dumbstruck as I feel. We emerge onto the street with all the fancy
white-pillared buildings.

I come to a standstill on the sidewalk, my head frantically swinging from left to right. Pilot stands next to me in silence. We stay that way for a minute.

Then Pilot puts a hand on my back and steers me to the right. “Food—this way.”

I comply. We head toward Gloucester Road. His arm drops back to his side. We walk like aliens on a foreign planet: creeping cautiously
rather than at a normal human pace, and silently ogling at our surroundings. London breathes around us. Cars swish by. Children pass on scooters. Men and women power walk home from work. Red buses race down the street.

At the end of the block we come up on a newspaper machine for the Telegraph. I stop walking and reach for Pilot’s arm so he stops as well. We share a look before simultaneously
stooping down to inspect the front page behind the glass. It takes me a moment to pinpoint the date. Under
The Telegraph,
on the top left in tiny print, it reads:
January 9, 2011.

I collapse the rest of the way to the ground and land pretzel-style on the cold concrete sidewalk. Pilot grips under my upper arm and helps me back to a standing position.

“Food.” He points down the street.

I nod,
and we walk. Eventually we’re in front of Byron’s. I nod up at it and look at Pilot. He nods, and we go in. A tall, skinny, dark-haired waiter strides up to us.

“Table for two?” he asks.

I nod. Maybe I’ll just speak in nods from now on.

The waiter directs us to a table near the wall. We sit. The place mats are menus. Neither of us speaks. I stare at my menu. Questions swarm my brain.

I take
a deep breath. Inhale. Hold. Exhale.

I open my mouth and look up at Pilot. “I’m freaking out over here.”

He meets my eyes. “Understatement of the decade.”

The waiter returns. “Can I take your orders?”

I swallow and give him my Byron usual: burger and a milkshake.

“Byron burger and a chocolate milkshake,” Pilot adds solemnly. The waiter leaves with our orders.

I look up at Pilot again. “So,
do you think—”

“I don’t know what I think.”

“Do you think—? I don’t really want to say it out loud.”

The smallest of smiles flickers across Pilot’s lips before they fall back into a blank expression.

He looks at the table. “That’s insane.”

“I agree.”

“It can’t be happening.”

“It can’t.”

“Do you think that’s what’s happening?”

“It feels like it might be.”

“But how could that happen?”

“I…” My brain struggles to put together a logical response, but the only explanations springing to mind are Harry Potter–related. “Mag … ic?”

“You think someone wizarded us back here?” he says in his high-pitched voice.

“You have a better theory?”

“Could we have gone through a wormhole?”

“Magic is more plausible than a wormhole,” I argue.

“Wormholes are scientific.”

“Magic is just science
we don’t understand yet.”

“Shane, it’s magic; that’s why we can’t understand it.”

“Hogwarts could be real!”

“I can’t believe this is a serious conversation I’m having.” There’s a shade of humor in his voice, but he drops his head back into his hands.

The waiter returns with our milkshakes. I pull mine forward and take a sip: delicious. I savor it for a moment before engaging again. Pilot’s
ignoring his own milkshake and now has his head pressed directly against the table.

“Could the elevator have been, like, a time machine?” I sound absurd.

“We didn’t tell it to go anywhere. It was stuck,” he mumbles into the faux wood.

“An involuntary time machine?”

Pilot stays silent.

“You should try the milkshake. It’s really good,” I encourage him.

He lifts his head from the table and
takes a sip of the milkshake without making eye contact.

In a quiet voice, I add, “Do you think maybe we need to find our spirit guide?”

“Are you really thinking about
17 Again
right now?”

“Were you thinking that too?”

“God, this is so bizarre.” His gaze falls back to the table. He’s not making eye contact with me for more than a few seconds at time. I direct my gaze at the table too.
Table,
do you know what’s going on? Tell us your secrets!

“Do you want to eat and then maybe look for someone who would maybe be our spirit guide?” I say as seriously as I can manage.

“That sounds like a ridiculous plan,” he deadpans, and takes another sip of his milkshake, “but okay.”

Our waiter returns right on cue with our burgers. My mind spins while we eat. I’ve thought about going back and doing
study abroad again so many times.
So many
. But I never imagined what it’d be like if it actually happened. Does everything just start over from here? Will I be redoing my entire life from this point onward? A jittery feeling settles over me. This is horrifying, but also a little thrilling.

“Oh shit,” I blurt out suddenly.

“What?” Pilot responds with concern.

“I don’t have any money on me!”
I whisper.

“Shit,” Pilot pats his pockets. His face relaxes as he pulls out a wallet. “My old wallet is just chilling in my pocket.”

I lean back against the seat. “Thank god.” The last thing I want to do right now is dine and dash.

“Maybe my old purse is back in the kitchen near my old computer? Jeez.” I press my head into my hands for a second. “This is so weird.”

When we’re finished with
our burgers, we sit in silence until someone finally comes over with the check. It’s a redheaded lady this time. Wearing a waitress outfit.

I do a double take as she puts the check on our table and quickly retreats.

“Are you kidding me?” I yelp in disbelief. I spring from the table and fumble after her.

“What is it?” I hear Pilot call after me.

The woman has stopped at a table with two older
people at the back of the room. The room is divided into two different tiers, and I almost go flying as I fall up the four steps into the second tier. But I save myself, twisting in an unstable circle, and jump to a standstill beside her.

“What is going on?” I blurt in disbelief. She doesn’t look at me, just continues talking to the table she’s waiting on.

Pilot stops short next to me. “Shane!”

I nudge him in the side and angle my head toward the waitress. He surveys her quizzically.

“I recommend the Byron Burger,” Potential Spirit Guide concludes before turning to look at me. I take in a breath to speak, but she beats me to the punch. “Now, dear, there was no need to run after me. I’ll be back at your table in a moment to speak with you two.”

It’s definitely her. I can’t believe this.
Has she been a spirit guide this entire time?

“Go sit back at your table. I’ll be there in a moment,” she says.

“How can we trust that’s true?” I exclaim.

“Shane,” Pilot urges.

“Dear, there’s no need to be rude. I’ll be there in a moment,” she repeats.

Pilot takes my wrist and starts slowly pulling me toward our table. I walk backward, afraid to lose visual. I’ve watched too many movies to
make that kind of idiotic mistake. She’s talking to the old couple again, taking down their burger orders.

“Shane, what are you doing?” Pilot whispers from over my shoulder when we get farther away.

“Pilot, that’s her. That’s our spirit guide!”

“What?” His eyes snap back to her. “Why would you think that?”

“That’s the woman from the caf
é
! She served us our tea; she told us to have fun when
we were leaving. And now she’s here. That’s her! And I’ve seen her before, just in random places. She was in Paris back when we were there. I thought I was going crazy!”

“Wha—?” Pilot breathes. We’re now standing in front of our table, staring at the woman in the back of the room. She suddenly pivots to look at us.

I rip my gaze away. “Oh my god, she’s looking. Sit down.”

“Why does it matter
that she’s looking?”

I scramble back into my seat. “Sit down!”

“She’s coming over.”

“Sit down, Pilot. She said to sit down.” Pilot gracefully slides back into his seat as she approaches.

My heart thrashes around. What’s she going to say? What’s she going to do? She comes to a stop in front of our table and smiles.

“Having fun?” she asks sweetly.

Pilot and I share a look.

“What did you do
to us?” he asks in a shaky voice.

She answers swiftly, “This is what you wanted.”

I blurt out the first thing that comes to mind: “Are you a wizard?”

Pilot’s gaze whips over to me. He looks angry again. Why is he angry at me?

“Rewrite your past,” says the woman.

“What do you mean? Are you saying this is real? We’re in two thousand fucking eleven?” Pilot demands.

“
Deathly Hallows Part Two
hasn’t been released yet,” I add.

“You had no right to do that!” Pilot yells.

“There’s a reset option if you so desire.” She smiles at him.

“What?” He juts his head forward toward her for emphasis.

Airplane Lady/Starbucks barista/waitress/spirit guide continues calmly, “If in three days you don’t want to continue down this path, a reset button can be found during your Rome venture.”

“And
Miley Cyrus hasn’t released ‘Wrecking Ball,’” I say.

“What do you mean, a reset button?” Pilot inquires skeptically.

She folds her hands together. “A portable button. If you choose to push it, you’ll go back to the elevator. This opportunity will be lost and forgotten.”

I swallow hard. “That sounds awfully magical. Is this magic or is this science?”

“It is what you make it.” She smiles again.

“Where will the button be?” Pilot demands.

“It will be placed in Rome this weekend.”

“But where?”

“You’ll have to find it.”

“Like a treasure hunt?” I sound like a curious seven-year-old asking her parents a question.

“We’ll have to find it? Are you kidding? What is this, a game to you?”

“Have fun on your journey.” She leans over to pick up our check and some cash that Pilot must have thrown
on the table when I went running after her.

I catch her hand, placing my own over it. “Wait, will you be here to talk when we need you? Are you going to disappear in a minute? Are you technically our spirit guide?”

She heaves a great breath and looks me straight in the eyes. “Child, this isn’t a film; this is reality.”

Chills run down my spine. She pulls her hand out from under mine and walks
away.

“That’s not an answer at all!” I yell after her. I make to jump from my seat, but I can’t get up. It’s like I’m glued down. My ass is stuck. The chair won’t move. I’m stuck. I yank and squirm.

Pilot tries to leap from his own seat, but it would appear he’s found himself in a similar situation.

“What the hell?” he blurts.

We watch helplessly as she disappears into what I can only assume
is the kitchen at the back of the restaurant. And then I fall sideways from my chair onto the cold tile floor, and Pilot flies up to his feet.