Tag: adventure

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

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The next morning, I awoke in Mendips and stared at the ceiling for a good, long while. Would I still have to come back to this room after I was married? Or would we run away together and skip the country. Everything had happened so fast and we hadn’t made any real plans. Now we would have to figure things out under the watchful eye of trigger-finger Thorne.

I pulled the covers off and swung my legs over the bed. Anxiety filled every inch of me, but there was nothing left to do besides get ready for my elopement with John Lennon. 

I picked through my 1950s clothes. Everything was so ugly and dumpy. The only one I could think of was the one red dress that I had already worn for John several dozen times. I ached for this gown I had in 2109. Custom fitted iridescent fabric, body tight all the way to the knees and then puddled into this gorgeous train. It even had these LED-infused sequins that sparkled off and on in the dark. Wearing that to the 1958 registrar’s office would have absolutely blown John’s mind to little bits.

The thought of him never seeing me in that gown made me feel so disappointed and heavy that I slung that red dress over my head and didn’t even bother to smooth it.

Under my clothes in my suitcase were stacks of time-appropriate cash. I didn’t know where we were running off to after the elopement, so I took each stack and stuffed them into my purse. Best to have too much than not enough.

Worry lines and dark circles splotched my reflection in the mirror. Not at all how I had imagined my “big day”. Or my “future groom”. I had a funny little spark inside of me. A tickle of happiness. I really did love that boy. And now that he was in on the secret, everything would be alright, wouldn’t it?

I clenched my purse a little tighter, hoping that John was going to be able to keep up the act for the rest of his life.

The happiness flickered off and my stomach churned. What was I doing? Committing fifty years of my life to staying here? Living as an eternal teenager, watching my husband grow old and die without me? I would be wearing weird pointy bras for another fifteen years or something. Ugh. I missed my iridescent dress. I missed that dress.

I miss drinking a paper can of Shorty-Hash. I miss the ceramic cat that used to sit on my desk. I miss feeling clean. What happens if one of my body modifications breaks? What if Thorne decides things aren’t working as well as he thought and he comes around to kill John? Would he always be in danger? What would happen to Paul and George? Would Ringo be okay?

I left my room. Each step was a reality into 1958. How could I spend fifty years here building a whole life with John and then poof back to the future expected to start an entirely new life?

I knocked on his door. My chest in knots.

“John?”

Silence. No time for a groom to sleep in on his wedding day. I checked my shoulder for Mimi and opened the door.

Empty.

My face dropped. He was gone. I stared at his room in disbelief. We were supposed to be heading to the registrar’s office right then. Maybe things hadn’t gone like I had hoped. Maybe Thorne knew all along. 

Then I saw on his bed a second empty spot. Where his Gallotone Champion Acoustic usually sat. Missing. Ice ran through my veins.

I tore down the stairs, frightening the gray cat off his usual step. I dashed from room to room searching for my fiancée until finally, I found Mimi cross-legged in the front room with a cup of tea.

“Do you know where John is?” I asked frantically.

She gave me a disapproving eye. “I thought you would know,” she said.

I relaxed. Her coldness reflected all the disapproving of a guardian with a teenager about to get married. “Is he getting the license?” I guessed.

Her disapproving eye blinked into confusion. “He left an hour ago with that McCartney boy. Going to some silly audition in town.”

I think every ounce of blood drained from the top of my head to my feet. “What?” I asked hoarsely.

“He didn’t get my permission of course,” she huffed. “I’d have told him not to waste his valuable time.”

I couldn’t respond. My knees went weak. Thorne had promised he would be watching every moment of the day. He had just seen John essentially leave me at the alter for the very thing I told him not to do. But why? I didn’t understand. I thought I had explained everything so well. And now he was going to get shot. My John was going to die.

I stumbled out the front door. I was closer to The Cavern than Thorne. I could beat him there.

I hardly looked at the stranger’s car I jumped into.

“Take me to The Cavern downtown! As quick as you can go!” I yelled.

“Now hold on a minute young lady,” said the driver, a bristle-mustached man in a black hat.  I turned my purse and let the cash rain into his lap. He cleared his throat. “The Cavern you said, alright.”

We took off. I calculated how many precious minutes we were ahead of Thorne. Not more than five or six. Why had John done this? Did he have it in his mind the whole time to ditch the wedding? My heart would have been broken if it weren’t beating like wild out of my chest. Please, Galactica, don’t die. John, please don’t die.

Before the car could roll to a complete stop, I swung the door opened and bailed, then dashed through a crowd of young men tuning their instruments and smoking cigarettes.

“Hey, you can’t go in there,” one of them said to me as I thrust through the door of The Cavern.

Inside was nothing but a set of concrete narrow steps leading into the dark club. I scurried down them one foot after another, skipping as many steps as I could. Then I skid around the corner.

The main room was a giant and dank cellar with a great domed ceiling and a small stage raised only a couple of feet off the ground. The entire place was so muggy and hot that even the greyish bricks were sweating. One table had been set up in the audience and sat two men with greasy comb overs writing on papers and clearing their throats. 

“Be with you in a moment, lads,” one said.

I spun around the room until I saw the Quarrymen, leaning against the wall with their guitars at their sides. John had on an upturned leather jacket and his thick-rimmed glasses, when he saw me, he narrowed his eyes and turned away. 

I shook my head in disbelief.

“John!” I hissed as I walked up to him.

He flickered his eyes at me with that heavy dipping brow. His mouth a flat little line.

“What are you doing?” I asked through my teeth.

“What does it look like?” he asked dryly.

“Excuse us,” I said to Paul and George, grabbing John by the elbow and pulling him to a secluded corner. “Are you kidding me? What is going on with you? We’re supposed to be getting married right now.”

He crossed his arms tight.

“Couldn’t sleep last night,” he said shortly. “Everything got me to thinking. Really thinking.”

He was speaking in harsh little jabs. Not the kind of nice little voice you would have for your doting bride on your fake but also maybe real wedding day.

“I don’t understand—”

“You know everything about me. And my life, right? Front to back,” he said, arms still crossed tight.

“John.” I shook my head and gestured that my IND was recording. He glared at me with narrow brown eyes.

“Did you know that my mum was going to get killed by the off-duty policeman?”

Good, holy Galactica. I stood there as dumb as ever, trying to put two words together.

“Did you know?” he pressed again.

I rubbed my lips together, thinking of what to say. Nothing I could think of would sufficiently appease both John and Thorne. If I played dumb, John would explode. And he was very good at exploding. Although, if I explained things to John over my IND, Thorne would be livid and there would be no hope of talking him out of the kill.

John’s honey brown eyes were shimmery. I hated when they shimmered like that. I had lied too many times to him already.

“I tried to save her,” I said.

Those shimmery eyes flashed with anger.

“See?” he said. “Because all this time, I thought I had this nice little imaginary friend named God that I could blame. Or the policeman. Or even myself. But instead, I find out, that someone knew that this horrific thing was going to happen. And yet, it happened. That’s a crock of shit right there.”

“I really did try to save her,” I said, the words clawing out of my throat. “I tried! But Thorne wouldn’t let me go. He said he would have killed you if I went!”

“So, let him then,” he said, through angry tears. “You should have… you should have let him.”

He wiped his nose with the sleeve from his leather jacket and tried to walk away, but I stood in his path.

“He pulled a gun on me!” I said, my voice was high-pitched and strained. “I used my technology to call the house, but it was so weak. Mimi didn’t hear the phone ringing until Julia had already left.”

“It’s a lie.”

“I swear!”

“Why should I believe anything you say? Hmm? You’ve done nothing but lie to me from the beginning.”

“This isn’t a lie!” I said. “He’s going to shoot you if you step on that stage!”

“We’re ready,” the same man from before called from the table.

John shoulder-checked me as he moved for the stage. I grabbed ahold of his arm, keeping him back.

“Wait, no! Don’t!” I yelled as he pulled from my grasp. I stomped my foot.

Then to my horror, he hopped onto the stage to join Paul and George.

“No drummer?” the club owner asked.

“Don’t need one,” John said slipping under his guitar strap. “Yet.”

I clawed down my face. I had to stop this audition from happening. I had to get these kids to safety somehow.

“Alright then…” The owner checked the sheet on his clipboard. “The Quarrymen?”

“The name’s outdated,” John announced rolling his sleeve. “We’re going by The Beatles from now on. Gotta feeling about that name,” he added while giving me a dirty glare from behind his glasses.

Paul and George both gave each other an incredulous look but seemed like they were too focused on the audition to debate the name change.

My IND hiccupped. I blurted a cuss word under my breath.

 “Alright, lads, whenever you’re ready.”

 With a nod the three put their fingers to their guitars and began playing In Spite of All the Danger.

I had to do something, and I had to do something quick. A power chord ran from the stage to the back of the room. I squinted to find the outlet or power source. Maybe one of those old-timey boxes where you could flip a switch. The underground cellar club was too dark. I felt along the wall with my hands, frantically tracing the bricks hoping to find where that dang power chord ended. My shin knocked into a bucket with a sharp pain. I looked down to see a pail full of rags and old squeeze bottles. PCMX cleaner. I stopped in my tracks. That was a close one.

 Loud and angry footsteps echoed from the staircase.

“John!” I screamed, but to no avail, the game was up.

 “Stay right where you are!” Thorne barked.

He flashed his gun around the room. The two club owners at the table stood and threw their hands in the air.

Paul and George both dove to each corner beside the stage. John didn’t, he hugged his guitar to his chest with a pale expression. I would have said, ‘I told you so’ if I wasn’t so horrified or sick.

What could I do? I couldn’t overpower him; he had the body armor same as me. No cop would be able to stop him. It was happening, right before my eyes and there was nothing I could do about it.

I felt helpless and angry. Angry at Thorne for being so set on termination. If only we were in the year 2109, he’d have no power to gun people down like this.

Suddenly there was a light from the entrance stairwell. A young kid with a pair of drumsticks hopped into the doorway.

“Have Rory and the Hurricanes already auditioned?” Ringo asked, then as soon as he saw Thorne with the gun his eyes bulged. “Sorry, wrong room,” he whispered and backed away.

I closed my eyes and slapped my forehead. Are you kidding me? Of all the worst possible timings ever.

“You!” Thorne pointed his gun in Ringo’s direction. “Get over here.”

Ringo clutched his drumsticks and slowly walked toward the stage with the others. Well, now he had all four of them.

Thorne turned his gun at the owners. “You two. Leave. I have no need to disrupt your timelines.”

The chairs pitched and squealed as the owners fled The Cavern with their hands above their heads. I bent down and carefully plucked one of the squeeze bottles from the bucket.

“All of you,” Thorne barked at them. “On stage. In a line.”

I leapt in front of Thorne’s gun. The cold barrel pressed hard into my chest.

“Em, don’t!” John screamed from the stage.

“Move!” Thorne shouted at me and tried to push past me, but I grabbed the gun by the barrel and held it in place, nestled into the body armor on my chest.

“No,” I said firmly. “I couldn’t save Julia, but I can save the boys.”

Thorne curled his upper lip in fury. “You’re rogue,” he said.

“You’re right.”

I pulled the bottle of cleaner from behind my back and squirted four or five good shots right into his eyes.

“Aarrrrrgghhh!”

POP. The gun went off right into my chest. The bullet clinked onto the ground between my feet. The armor had stopped it, but it still hurt. Like when Que and I used to play Astro Shooters with those rubber balls that would 3D print on demand. Galactica. It felt just like that.

I stumbled, dizzy from the PCMX. The gun clattered to the floor, followed by the loud thump of Thorne’s body.

I braced myself for the hard floor, but instead found myself in a pair of warm arms.

“Em, hold on, hold on!”

I shook my head trying not to inhale any more of the PCMX. I could see Thorne twitching and reaching for the gun.

“Get out of here, we have to get out of here,” I said as loudly as I could muster.

As well as I can remember, the boys helped me up the stairs and out of the building. The dank Cavern faded but the adrenaline carried me through. When I awoke, I was half lying on the pavement, half in John’s lap. His hand was rattling my chin. The other boys circled around and leaned in.

“I’m fine, I’m fine,” I reassured them by pulling the neck of my shirt so they could see the welt of the bullet that had not penetrated me.

John’s face relaxed in complete relief. “I thought I lost you,” he said with a wavery voice.

I grabbed him by the opening of his leather jacket and pulled him in close. “I told you so.” There. Now I could say it.

“I’m sorry, Em. I didn’t—” He ran a hand through his hair so panicky he almost knocked his glasses off. “I’ll marry you! I won’t touch another guitar again, I swear!”

The other boys exchanged confused and uneasy glances.

I swallowed painfully. “It’s too late,” I said.

“What do we do?” George asked. “Should we go for a policeman?”

I sat up on the sidewalk. The Cavern was four or five buildings away, where we had left Thorne’s twitching body.

“He’s like me. He can’t be killed,” I said, rubbing the purple welt on my chest. “And I can’t hide you forever. He’ll spend the next fifty years hunting you down.”

I cupped my chin with my fingers. There was only one place I could take them that would stop Thorne from trying to kill them. One place that would secure a timeline without The Beatles. It’s true, I was rogue. Nothing was off the table. Including this.

I had to take all four of them through the portal.

“The only way you can all be truly safe is if I take you back home,” I said.

“Well, who’s to say he won’t follow us straight to America?” Paul asked.

“No,” I said. I raised my brow at John. “All the way home.”

His mouth parted in shock. “How?” he asked.

Then I saw it. The unmistakable grey hood of a meat truck puttering down the street. The driver stopped to unload boxes from the back. The car idled with the keys still in the ignition. My eyes widened. I knew those headlights. I knew that front grill. I had seen it before.

“That’s how,” I said, pointing to the truck.

CHAPTER TWENTY TWO

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“I want a straight answer,” Thorne swallowed his anger as he sat across from me. “Leading John away from music would get rid of The Beatles, yes or no?”

“The Beatles, yeah,” I said, curling my fingers on the edge of the hotel’s dingy bed.

“But you’re saying it’s possible that Paul could be successful without him and still bring those songs to light.”

My knee bounced wildly. “I’m saying that I don’t know.”

Thorne pursed his lips so tight the skin around them turned white. “You were the one who should have studied this subject closely. And you’re the one who drafted this proposal.”

“I know,” I said pinching my lip.

“Well, which one is the driving force behind The Beatles. John or Paul?”

“I don’t know.”

Thorne looked as if he were about to implode. He couldn’t even find the words for me as he rubbed his hand over his mouth and sighed heavily. In my heart, I knew this was the beginning of something bad. At any point he could declare that the mission was a bust. And if the mission were a bust, he would expect me to kill.

“Listen,” I said, trying to salvage things. “I know you didn’t like the idea of changing things around for Julia. But, this kind of stuff comes up, right? Maybe we could change things around for this situation?”

“We don’t have a choice,” he spat at me. The dark angry gleam in his eye sent shivers down my spine. He rubbed his bottom lip and stared at me with his death glare. “We’ll have to adjust. Make McCartney the subject. Get the proposal from him instead.”

What? I blinked, processing what he was suggesting. “He’s just a kid,” I said.

“He’s only a year and a half younger than Lennon.”

“Yeah, but he feels a lot younger,” I said. “Marriage isn’t on the table here. And I have, what? Three weeks?”

“Killing him would be the easiest,” Thorne said, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees. “But if you’re still so intent on not shedding a single drop of blood on this mission. This could work for our advantage. If we could get Paul involved in this, use him as some sort of a triangle. We could create friction between Lennon and McCartney and break them off permanently.”

“I can’t do that! After I’ve started to make such a stride with Lennon. I mean I finally got him! I can’t ruin that! And going after Paul? John will be crushed, he’ll be…” My eyes stretched wider. “He’ll be furious! Haven’t you heard the song, I’m a Jealous Guy?  Haven’t you heard the lyrics to Run for Your Life for Galactica sakes?!”

“Then let him self-destruct and ruin his own chances for success,” Thorne said.

I shook my head slowly, regretting every inch of the moment I opened Paul’s notebook.

“I’m not sure if I can do it,” I said honestly. “This whole thing. This manipulative thing. I feel like this is worse than shooting him.”

“Since you clearly don’t understand the gravity of the situation, let me make it perfectly clear,” he said tenting his fingers. “You have two options. Option one. You trade McCartney for Lennon and you split the famous duo. Option two. You terminate both Lennon and McCartney. And you terminate Harrison and that other one they call Ringo, to ensure that not a single Beatle does anything to change this timeline. Now do you understand?” 

Killing four teenagers. That was not the mission I had agreed to. George was still a schoolboy. Ringo had nothing to do with them at this point in history. And Paul. Paul was prolific and I couldn’t deny that after seeing his songs. But how could I get him to fall in love with me after everything? I didn’t know a thing about McCartney, I had spent all my time researching John. And John…

If I said no, Thorne would kill them. It would be better for them to live a life hating me, hating each other, then not to live.

My knee had stopped bouncing, it became too heavy to even twitch. I took a deep breath and closed my eyes.

“Alright,” I said. “I’ll make Paul the new subject.”

***

That night I returned to Mendips, wishing the portal would malfunction and suck me back through. As I passed the living room, Mimi called to me. I slunk over to her. She sat in the glow of the little TV which lit her sharp nose and cheekbones.

“John was asking for you,” she said. “I said you were out, but I didn’t know where you had been.”

“Oh.” I rung my fingers together keeping in my nervous shuttering breath. Weird, that she was admitting she had a friendly conversation to John about me. Or maybe she didn’t. Maybe she was already planting the seeds of jealousy and distrust. Which was good, right? Ugh. I wanted to cry and hide away.

“I’ll talk to John tomorrow or whenever I see him next,” I said.

Aunt Mimi gazed at the television set with a stone expression. “You know, John is a lot smarter than he puts on.”

“I know.”

She finally looked directly at me, her face half lit with the black and white glow of the TV. “He puts on airs that he’s a certain way, but he really is very intelligent. He had a story published in his school paper.”

“I thought he started the school paper,” I said.

“Hmm?”

“I thought John started his own paper during school,” I said.

Aunt Mimi blinked in the glowing light. “You know, you think you can get to know a person in a couple of months, but you really can’t. You could take years and years and never truly know a person.”

“Sure, that makes sense.” It didn’t. It was pretty out of left field, but okay.

Mimi scratched the back of her hand. “The thing with John is that he’s been hurt. The death of his mother—” Her own voice crackled, and she cleared her throat. “I don’t want to see him hurt again. He doesn’t deserve it. He doesn’t need it.”

That one felt like a dagger through the heart. All I could do was give her a small little nod and then leave to go to my room. I pushed her words deep down inside and walked past the empty bedroom of the mouse I had in my claws.

***

I woke the next morning with a notification from Thorne on my IND.

‘Tell John about Paul. Today.’

I groaned and pulled the covers over my head. I was aching to see John, forget about the mission for point three seconds and enjoy a boy who loved me. I closed my eyes, trying to imagine how that conversation would go. ‘Hey, John, I decide I like Paul now, so awkward.’ And he would say, ‘Oh, okay. Cool. Go for it. You were dumb anyway and I’ll just focus tenfold on my music now. Thanks very much.’

I groaned and rolled my tongue out of my mouth. Then I threw my covers off and bounded for the door. I hadn’t even stepped out before I ran into John.

“Hello!” he said cheerfully. “I wanted to see you last night. Where did you go?”

“I’m so sorry,” I said, fixing my bed head and keeping an appropriate distance as per my morning breath. “Last night I was… I had to work late for my work study thing. I wanted to see you too.”

He gave a small little smile and nodded. “Alright, well look, I have a prezzie for you. So now, be a good girl and close your eyes.” He covered my eyes, and I pressed my hand over his. “No peeking now,” he said.

Finally, he let go of his hand and I opened my eyes. Half an inch from my nose was a flier with a colorful Ferris wheel. John made a big sweeping demonstration with it as if he were on a game show or something.

“What is it?” I asked.

“The fun fair in Brighton. And I want to take my girl.”

My hands curled by my cheeks. I had been dying to do something like this since I had gotten there. Explore the past, have fun, and forget about my horrible, terrible mission. John put the flier under his chin and gave me the most stretching childlike grin possible, which made my heart twang.

“I’d love to go! Thank you!”

I deserved at least one last hurrah with John. I needed it. I ran to my room and put on my best outfit that I could find. A black sweater with a pencil skirt, tight to match. Then John and I walked to catch the good old “seventy-two” that would take us to the boating dock in Downtown Liverpool.

We jumped on the ferry just before it left the dock. On board were hundreds of people all talking and chattering at once. A part of me felt jealous of the atmosphere. Hardly anyone gathered like this in 2109. Usually everyone gathered online or in cyber cafes or virtual worlds. I longed for the physical human connection of the past.

We joked nonstop with each other the entire journey. I couldn’t help noticing the way his mouth curled when he laughed. I loved it. It’s dumb, but I loved his teeth in particular. They were nearly perfect except for the way his two front teeth slightly folded in.

He reached over and held my hand as we slogged through the water, the boat rocking and churning through. There was something extra special about holding hands with John. He could be so cynical and wild, but I felt calm and secure with his warm hand on mine. I accidentally caught myself humming I Want to Hold Your Hand, which made me grin wildly and wish I could have let him in on my little joke.

As we were getting off the boat dock, swarms of people all pushed past each other, bumping, and grinding. It was impossible not to slam around into the hundreds of other people clamoring for the fun fair. John accidentally bumped into a shorter guy in front of him.

“Sorry, mate,” John said to him.

The shorter guy turned around and I almost swallowed my gum. He had large blue eyes and a recognizable bigger nose. It was Ringo Starr. The drummer John wasn’t supposed to meet.

“No need to be killing anyone now,” he said. “It’s just a fun fair.”

My stomach rolled. Ringo slipped into the crowd and I lost sight of him, but our chance run in brought the nightmare flooding back. He could be at the end of his life. And young Paul. And younger George. If I didn’t break John’s heart, it would stop beating. My hand slipped out of John’s.

CHAPTER SEVEN

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I had the surgery. It was extensive, they made little cuts all over my body and put a flexible unbreakable material under my skin. There was this old 2D movie I saw once. What was it called? The Terminator? Okay, yeah, like that more or less. And I guess that’s what they wanted all along.

The recovery wasn’t great. I mean, it was nothing abnormal or horrific or anything. Mostly it consisted of me not wanting to move a single pinky finger because every inch of me ached so much. And the doctors told me not to move an inch because the armor plates had to “settle”. Whatever that meant.

My mom brought meals in and out of my room. Each time was the same exact routine. She would pick up the plates, shake her head, and sigh heavily. “I can’t believe my daughter has a job that would require this kind of modification. I never would have allowed you to go if I knew.”

“It’s okay,” I would say. “It’s an extra precaution for all time travelers.”

Which was obviously a big lie. But I could only imagine the intense fretting my mom would have knowing that her daughter’s future fiancée was an anger issue poster child.

The first week after the operation, I regretted not opting for a virtual resort during recovery. I didn’t even know how boring life could possibly be. A mind-numbing melt into a giant goopy puddle kind of boring.

During the second week, I delved into The Beatles. I listened to each and every song John had ever produced, twice. And that was hundreds and hundreds of songs. How can someone die at forty and still have accomplished so much? And so much brilliant stuff? To be honest, as a songwriter, I felt pretty intimated trying to get inside this prolific brain of his.

Week four I had seen every documentary, read every book, and loved every song. Admittedly, I really loved the music. I did. I remember one day feeling like I was never going to be the same Emmeline ever again. A steel-plated robot who couldn’t even move. What if they had botched the surgery? What if the opposite effect took place and I was super fragile now? What if John sneezed on me and broke my arm or something? That was the day that I stumbled onto ‘Across the Universe’. And I cried. Frankly, I wept. I had no idea why.

Week five I was almost back to normal and anxious as ever to finish training and just move on with it. And by week six, I basically ignored the fact that I was still recovering and skipped into the time-altering department.

After seeing me all recovered and prancing around, the council probably realized that they had nothing else to hold me back. Finally, I got the message that I would be leaving on schedule. May 3rd. The very next day. I was both giddy and horrified. I read the notification, sank to my knees, and squealed so loudly that I think I heard my neighbor’s dog bark in reply.

I had to get ready. And not just ready in an about-to-change-history kind of way, but in an about-to-catch-a-man way. I called my hair girl, Marty, to get me an emergency appointment ASAP. I asked her to install a golden floofy hairdo onto my scalp port mod. One that would turn me into Bridgit Bardot, the European sex goddess of the late 50s.

When I sent the pictures of the messy blonde bun with long shaggy bangs, her reply was kind of hesitant. She said words like “unattractive” and “ratted” and “outdated”. Well, duh, Marty, I don’t want anything modern, that would probably scare them half to death. I wanted her to model me into John’s perfect girl.

It was going to be a while at the salon since she had to remove each piece of my artificial hair and install the new blonde ones. Ugh. Can you imagine getting this look at a fifties salon? Only having your natural birth-given hair to destroy as you did it. That sounded like a nightmare to me and I’m glad we didn’t have that inconvenience anymore.

I sat in a pleather low-back seat, overpowered by the perfume fragrances of the artificial hair. Hundreds of beautiful current-age hairstyles blinked on and off the walls. My chest tightened. I would not be walking out of there with any of those.

As Marty worked on my hair, she asked me about my mission, with her usual Southern drawl.

“So, you’re going all the way back to 1958 to date this guy?” she asked, chewing bubble gum loudly and snapping it as she talked.

“Yes and no?” Really no, but I didn’t want to hurt her feelings for asking me something so dumb. “I’m just trying to alter history.”

“So, this beetle guy,” she continued. “What’s he like?”

“John Lennon? He’s um…” Wow, that was a loaded question. “He’s just this British guy. I don’t know. I haven’t met him yet.”

“Well, sure. But you must have picked up something reading all that stuff about him.” Marty flashed me a toothy grin in the reflection as she threaded another piece of blonde hair into my scalp.

“Well, he’s a genius for one. There’s no denying that,” I said. “And he’s, well he’s known for being… I don’t know how to say this. Like… feisty?” 

“Feisty?” Marty laughed, her drawl really hitting that word.

“Rebellious, I guess?” I asked, squinting. “Anti-establishment. Stay in bed and grow your hair out.” I laughed.

“Grow your hair?” Marty asked as she threaded another lock in my scalp.

“Never mind.”

Marty blew a giant bubble with her gum. Pop! “Is he cute though?”

“Um.” I scrunched my eyebrows together and doubled back. Kinda weird thinking of a historical figure like that, but I guess everything about the mission was kinda weird. “In the beginning he… I guess, sure. It’s not like here, where everyone modifies their bodies to look perfect.”

“Well, do you have anything in common with him?”

“Uh…” Gee, Marty. Thanks for instilling such great confidence in me the night before I meet him. I now, feel totally prepared to bait my feminine trap with every allure of my bland personality.

“We both like music and songwriting,” I said. “But that’s not really going to help me with convincing him to give it up.”

“Hey, well, you gave it up!” she said adding the last piece of hair. “So, there ya go!”

“Right. Yeah.” I sank a few inches in the chair. Grateful to have that last bit of hair installed because I was ready to stop talking to Marty.

I transferred the money into her IND and left. The dim red sun dipped past the horizon. Six o’clock. In just twelve hours, I would be standing in front of a burning open portal.

As soon as I walked in the door of my house and Que saw me, all hell broke loose.

“What is that?” Que rested his arm on the banister of the stairs. “Wow. Did you get your money back at least?”

“Shut up! You little micro virus!” I said through clenched teeth.

“That’s alright, Emmie,” Que said, looking at his nailbed. “It’s not like your whole mission revolves around you attracting a guy or something.”

“Do you want a set of missing teeth? Because it sounds like you want a whole mouthful of knocked-out teeth.” I pushed past him on the stairs to go worry in private. But Que followed me to my bedroom where I slumped on my protein mesh bed.

“Am I stupid for doing this?” I asked him, although I knew the answer. “I mean, how am I really going to get this guy to propose to me?”

He shrugged and leaned against the doorframe. “You could always fake a pregnancy.”

“I’m not doing that.”

“It’s the 1950’s they don’t have a good way to double-check that.”

“Yeah, when nine months goes by and no baby comes out,” I said, rolling my eyes.

“So, alright, don’t fake it. Go through with the pregnancy then.”

“Come ON,” I said flopping forward on the bed. “Isn’t there some kind of male insight you can give me or what?”

Que gave me a curt nod. “Okay. Alright. Look. If you’re unsure whether he’s into you, just wait for the ‘twist and lean’.”

“The what?” I asked with squinted eyes.

“Twist and leeeeean,” Que sang to the tune of The Beatles’ Twist and Shout. Which probably would have been a great joke if it weren’t wasted on my blank stare.

“When a guy’s all smoked for you and he twists toward you and leans in,” he explained with hand gestures. My eyes shifted awkwardly and he took an incredulous step into the room. “You don’t know what a ‘twist and lean’ is?”

“I know this isn’t going to shock you or anything, but uh,” I swept my hands out and gestured at my body. “I don’t have a lot of guys twisting and leaning at me.” 

Que stepped up to me and put his hands on his hips.

“So, let’s say this Beatles guy is sitting next to you like this…” He sat next to me on the bed all stiffly and awkward with his hands tucked between his knees. “And you start talking to him and he does this…”

Suddenly Que pulled his shoulder back until his torso was squarely facing me, then he leaned in a little too close.

“Okay, ew. Get away,” I said pushing his face out of my bubble and scooting as far over on the bed as possible.

“If he does that,” he said. “He’s a poor smitten bastard.”

“It’s 1958, Que! He’s not some hyper boner from the Virtual-gasm.”

“The twist and lean is timeless! That is a universal man beg for ‘please have sex with me’.”

“Well, I need the man beg for ‘please marry me’.”

Que gave me a deep grimace. “Fake pregnancy,” he whispered.

I threw my pillow at him. “You are no help at all!”

I ran my fingers over my new locks of hair. Each strand seemed like a blade of grass it was so thick. I didn’t feel like myself. And I didn’t look like myself anymore. How could I ever fit into the 1950s? How could I pull off this whole ridiculous mission? 

“Que,” I said quietly. “I’m scared. What happens if this guy doesn’t like me?”

Que shrugged. “Well, what’s not to like?”

I tucked my hair behind my ear and smiled. “Thanks,” I said.

“Hey, wait, I got you something,” he said. “Something to take with you on your trip. Or mission thingy. Whatever.”

 “Really? You got me something.” I eyed him suspiciously. “Alright. Let’s see it.”

He grinned and flopped onto my bed, getting his dirty shoes all over my covers, thank you so much. He activated his IND. “I know they gave you a new IND and you might not have access to everything. So, I compiled some footage of our favorite memories. That way you have at least something to remember 2109 by.”

Que began the movie, which was of the two of us on hover jets over Big Bear lake. We were trying to tag each other with lasers. A stupid game we invented as kids.

I melted. “Que. That’s so sweet.” I grabbed him and gave him the tightest hug. He was a crazy brother who said rude things, but that was somehow part of his love-ableness. And I was going to miss him something terrible.

He downloaded the videos into my IND, and I had him with me. At least in video form.

Lying in bed that night, I felt sick. A slow-burning nausea that stayed with me and grew each hour that ticked by. Finally, sometime before sunrise, I sat in bed and opened my IND, determined to get my jitters out.

I opened a blank page and made two columns. PRO and CON.

“Okay,” I sighed to myself. “Here we go.”

PRO. I get to time travel.

I mean, obviously, this was the biggest carrot they were dangling in front of my face. How can anyone pass up an opportunity like this?

CON. I might have to murder someone.

I groaned. Yeah. I mean, pretty much. There it was in black and white. Was the adventure of time travel worth taking someone else’s life? I underlined the word “might” and moved on.

PRO. Whether or not I shoot someone I’ll get to keep my job.

I really did not want to spend every day slogging to Plate Tech, counting down the hours and the days of the weeks until I go home and sleep. I re-read this pro, grimaced, and added “Probably” at the end.

CON. If I fail to get the proposal, the council will keep killing people like it’s the right thing to do.

And let’s face it, there was no way I was actually getting a proposal.

PRO. If I do get the proposal though, the council will be forced to change their policies. I would be saving hundreds of lives.

 I would be changing this world and all the alternate worlds for the better. A real, honest-to-goodness change. It would be cowardly not to go forward with it, right?

CON. If I do get the proposal, I’ll have to figure out a way to break up with him that would somehow prevent him from returning to music. And CON, if I can’t, then I’ll actually have to follow through with the marriage.

I rubbed my hands down my face. “What in the actual hell am I doing?” I groaned.

CON. He could be ugly and smelly and rude, and a cynical ass and I’ll have to pretend to like him. I’m not that good of a liar.

I drew in a slow deep breath and hesitantly added another one.

CON. His anger issue thing is a thing. 

Okay, so far, a lot of cons.

But PRO. I get to witness real actual historical things! Musical ones!

Also CON. One time in a VR hunting simulation, I shot myself in the leg to get out of shooting a mother bear.

Not really related so I deleted it.

PRO. The council has already spent millions of dollars to calculate the exact coordinate to burn the portal and you kind of can’t chicken out at this point.

Was that even a pro?

CON. That other traveler didn’t come back that one time.

My spit tasted sour. Probably from the already forming ulcer burning through my stomach. My screen shut off and I climbed under my covers, staring at the soft swirling galaxies projected on my ceiling until the edge of sunlight displayed on the artificial windows. I got up, put on my tweed skirt, and got ready to face the portal.