Page 10 of Life Out of Order

“Yeah, kind of. Um, how does this work? I mean, aren’t you not supposed to cross your own timeline?” I turn to look at him. He seems delighted with the whole thing, as though he’s Lucy emerging from the wardrobe into Narnia for the first time. I like him, tremendously.

Max and Joe look bored with Zach’s question, but Alba replies seriously, “You have to forget all the stuff you’ve read in books. Forget the grandfather paradox and Groundhog Day. Everything happens once, nothing can be changed.”

“Causal loops?”

“Those are fine. Loop with abandon.” She’s unmistakably hitting on him. She raises her eyebrows at me and smiles. I want to punch her.

“I’d love to,” Zach says.

“We’re in one now,” I say, “right?”

“Right,” says my other self.

“Anything you need to tell me?” My hands are sweating. I hate causal loops; they make me feel stupid and powerless.

“No, you’re doing fine. Carry on. Anything you need to ask?”

I glance at Lucinda, so asleep. Other Alba says, “No? Good. Listen, could you go downstairs and bring me some clothes? You can borrow them from C-lora. Max and Joe can go with you.”

She obviously wants to speak with Zach alone, so we file out of the bedroom obediently and find the stairway. Music surges at us as we open the door to the second floor. They are playing “Blue Christmas,” and I wish I was down there dancing with Zach. I wonder what my older self wanted to say to him? I lead the way to Caralora’s bedroom, which is locked. Joe hands me a set of picklocks, and in less than a minute we are in. “I love watching you do that,” Joe says. I shrug. It feels like cheating to have picklocks when I could almost as easily have done it without; this is an old house, and the locks are meager.

The room is cold and smells of talcum powder and pot. I’m afraid I might start crying—the bedroom is just as transformed as its owner. I rummage through drawers and find a pair of jeans, a brown turtleneck sweater, pink panties and some purple socks. Joe disappears to steal some footwear from the pile at the bottom of the stairs because Caralora’s feet are several sizes bigger than mine.

I turn to go back upstairs, but Max beckons me over. I am still wearing Zach’s jacket, and Max holds out his hand and gestures at my torso. I don’t get it, so he carefully removes Zach’s jacket from my shoulders and dangles it as Joe runs his fingers along the hem of the jacket and up the side, around the lapel. He steps back and shakes his head, no wire. Max removes Zach’s wallet from an inside pocket and starts rifling through the contents: an Oklahoma driver’s license under the name Zachary A. Purcell, a credit card, a U of C student ID, twenty dollars in cash.

Max returns the wallet and takes out Zach’s phone. I frown. Max hands the jacket back to me. As I put it on he takes out a breakerprong and plugs it into the phone. It turns red. We all grimace: someone is listening. Joe takes the phone, walks to the bathroom down the hall, and shuts the door. Max and I go halfway down the stairs and stop.

“Rosa says Zach’s okay,” Max whispers, “and you like him. I mean, your older self was very keen. He must be okay if older Alba is giving him her blessing. But he came with Junior, so I dunno? Make sure you’re not in harm’s way, come morning.”

“Why is Lucinda here?” I ask him.

“Nobody told her not to come.” Max shrugs.

“Why is she asleep?”

Max looks pained. “We couldn’t send her home because of curfew; we couldn’t explain the agenda, or let her be a witness to anything—she thinks this is our traditional party. We couldn’t let her participate—she would attract attention, she’d be the only Black person here—so we uh, sedated her.”

“Are you fucking kidding me? You roofied Lucinda?”

“No, of course not. I gave her tramadol.” Max is as annoyed with me as I am with him. “Do not worry. We’re watching over her, she’ll be fine.”

“She has asthma.”

“She will be fine, according to your older self.”

I can’t argue with that, but I’m still unhappy. The toilet flushes, and Joe reappears. We go up to meet him. He hands me Zach’s phone and I put it back in its pocket. Max takes out his own phone and types, So? Joe types, I don’t know, couldn’t trace it. Proceed with care. They each kiss me silently, swift smacks on my cheek, and then lumber down the stairs without a backward glance.

Zach: I watch Alba walk out of the room with my jacket on and have an urge to go after her and grab it. I’m not too worried about her, but I don’t know her friends. The girl on the bed whimpers in her sleep.

“It’s okay, don’t fret,” says the other Alba. She gets up and shuts the door quietly. I am alone with . . . who, exactly? Alba. She looks older, wilder: her hair is loose and tangled, she’s not wearing makeup, she’s wrapped in a bedspread. We look like we’re about to have way more fun than we actually are having. She offers me the thermos; I decline.

“Have a seat,” she says, indicating the bed. I situate myself next to the girl’s feet. Alba sits in the chair. I feel as though I’m interviewing for a job. “How are you?”

“Fine,” I say. “Never better. Who’s that?” I indicate the sleeping girl.

“Our friend Lucinda. She’s like my younger sister. My mother would kill me if she knew Lucinda was anywhere near this extravaganza. She’s here by mistake.”

“What’s the plan, then? Just pop her downstairs in the morning . . . ?”