I grab my own stuff and join her outside. As I throw her backpack over my free shoulder, I practically drop to the ground. “What have you got in here—bricks?”

  “Yeah, it’s kind of heavy,” she admits. “It’s a wallpaper roll of spinning clock hands. It’s for—”

  “I know what it’s for,” I cut her off, starting down the walk. I take big steps so I won’t have to talk to her.

  No such luck. She catches up anyway and she’s determined to make conversation. “When I bid on you, I didn’t realize I was going to get the hero of the whole football game.”

  “I’m not the hero,” I tell her stubbornly. “I fumbled. That’s like the worst thing you can do. It was pure luck that Miggy picked up the ball and scored.”

  She shrugs. “If it wasn’t for you, we would have lost. That’s what people are saying.”

  “I didn’t think you’d care about football,” I put in. “You being a big science kid and all that.”

  “It’s possible to like science and other things too,” she lectures me. “Sports are really just science, you know. Take a home run. It’s the speed of the ball, and the speed of the bat, and the distance to the fence . . .”

  I’ve tuned her out because I see Ty approaching from the rear, coming up fast. There’s no actual steam puffing out of his ears, but I can tell from his posture that he’s ticked off that I’m with Ava, who he wants all to himself. No matter how hard I try to do everything differently from last time, it always ends up the same—Ava and me, me and Ava, with Ty jealous and angry.

  I speak first, before Ty can start yelling at me. “It’s not my fault. I have no choice. I’m her butler.”

  “Yeah, I hear you’re a football star now,” Ty says, almost like it’s an insult. “Congratulations.”

  Ty tries to pull Ava’s pink backpack off my shoulder, but she stops him. “That’s not how it works,” she explains. “Mason has to carry it. It’s his job.”

  The smile never leaves her face. She obviously has no clue that we’re both on the verge of throwing punches. She’s so well-meaning and flat-out nice that she can’t imagine us fighting over her. It’s just like last time, when the two of us needed a whole treaty about her. And here we are again!

  “But we’ve got work to do on our project,” Ty complains.

  She unzips the backpack and hands him the giant wallpaper roll. I immediately stand up a lot straighter.

  “You get started on the display,” she tells him. “I’ll catch up with you later. How often am I ever going to get to have my own butler? I’m not going to waste a minute of it.”

  Ty scrambles to keep pace with us, fuming over the wallpaper.

  Ava might have unwittingly ruined my life, but one thing I can’t accuse her of is being unprepared. She’s thought a lot about how today is going to go. “I’ve only got a butler for one day,” she explains. “So I have to make the most of it. I call it the MLP—Maximum Labor Plan.”

  “You mean Maximum Humiliation Plan,” I retort.

  “There’s nothing humiliating about doing the job you’ve agreed to do,” she lectures as we walk into the school. “Honest work is empowering.”

  Task one is cleaning out her locker.

  I always thought of girls as much neater than guys. I think it came from the time in elementary school when Dominic and Miggy shoved Ty and me inside the girls’ bathroom and we realized how much less disgusting it was than the boys’. But Ava’s locker is a dumpster.

  “I’m a slob,” she admits with a mixture of embarrassment and a kind of defiant pride. “Every project I get back, every paper—I don’t take the time to make a place for it. I’m too anxious to move on to the next thing. So I just jam it in there and force the door shut. And after a few weeks—well, you see the end product.”

  I sneeze from a faceful of dust. “Got it.”

  So I pull out all her junk, forming a mini-mountain on the floor. Next, I wipe down the locker with rubbing alcohol, which she brought from home—another reason why the backpack was so heavy.

  As the opening bell approaches, every kid in Pasco Middle School gets to see me on my hands and knees, sweating over Ava’s locker. And every single one of them has a comment to make about it. I’m tempted to squeeze myself into the locker, close the door behind me, and wait to die from the alcohol fumes.

  The other football players are the worst. “That’s why he’s Spaceman,” Dominic comments loudly at the sight of my hind end sticking out of Ava’s locker. “Because his butt points to outer space!”

  “Keep scrubbing!” Miggy encourages me. “Put some back into it!”

  “Your turn will come,” I warn him. “You’re a butler, too, remember?”

  He shrugs. “Brittany gave me a pass. Nobody takes it seriously, you know. Just Ava. It helps to hook a big sucker like you.”

  Clarisse shoots me a resentful look that I can’t quite read. Maybe she’s ticked off that I’m not working on our infinity mirror. But considering that she wouldn’t let me touch it from day one, I don’t know why she’d start complaining now.

  “Good work,” Ava praises me. “Now put it all back.”

  I take in the pile on the floor. “But it’s just a bunch of old homework, and pop quizzes, and review sheets. What do you need it for?”

  “If good grades are worth the effort,” she explains, “so is keeping the rewards of all my hard work.”

  I can vouch for the good grades. I mean, Ty and I are pretty smart, but Ava is wall-to-wall A-pluses. She even gets extra points for neatness, which we never do. She’s that rare student who’s just as beloved by the other kids as she is by her teachers.

  You can learn a lot about a person by the contents of her locker. For example, Ava has no movie star or teen heartthrob photos in there. Instead, she has pictures of famous scientists, like Galileo and Albert Einstein. She has a labeled diagram of a DNA double helix, a pamphlet on starting your own alpaca farm, and a menu from a New York City restaurant called TNT.

  “It was my favorite place,” she explains, her blue-green eyes far away. “Their mild sauce is hotter than everybody else’s hot sauce, their hot sauce is hotter than everybody else’s blazing; and their thermonuclear sauce has been banned in seventeen states.”

  Answering Ava’s phone is another one of my responsibilities. I figured that wouldn’t be an issue during the school day, but no. She has too many friends, and she’s arranged with somebody to call during every single class change. Whenever I hear her ringtone—the opening chords of “New York, New York”—I have to answer, “Ava’s phone, Mason the butler speaking, service with a smile. How may I direct you?”

  Lunch is Ava’s finest hour, condensed to twenty-four minutes. She’s brought a linen tablecloth, a bud vase with a yellow rose, and a candle that Assistant Principal Grabenstein won’t let me light. She even has a little silver bell that she rings very delicately when she requires service—which is about every fifteen seconds. She sends me running for napkins, ketchup packets, salt, an extra chocolate milk, a pat of butter, a macadamia-nut cookie, and a replacement for her fruit cup, which has a hair in it.

  We are the center of attention in the cafeteria. You can hear a pin drop, except when Ava rings that little bell. That brings on a thunderous ovation.

  I’m embarrassed, but I feel something else too—special. When Coach Gallo read out my name during the auction, no one had any idea who I was, but everybody sure knows me now. The next time Ava rings for me, I take a bow and the lunchroom resounds with cheers. I have no idea why, but for some reason, I’m having more fun than I’ve had ever since I woke up in the lab and found myself twelve again. It might be the most fun I’ve had going back all the way to when I was twelve the first time. One thing that’s true in both timelines: Ava is really something.

  There’s a chorus of boos when lunch is over. I’m not sure I want it to end, either. As I escort Ava out of the cafeteria, my teammates on the Panthers line up and high-five me, even the eighth graders. A few of them had to do a handful of butler-y things, but I was the star of the show—thanks to Ava.

  When the final bell rings at three thirty, I figure I’m off the hook. Guess again. Ava makes me carry her backpack to the edge of school property. I almost give her an argument, but what’s the point?

  When we reach the road, she slips the pink bag over her own shoulder. “Thanks for today, Mason. You were a really good sport.”

  My first impulse is to exclaim: Are you kidding? It was the best day ever!

  But I can’t say that. Ty is about forty feet away on the sidewalk, and if looks could kill, I’d be a little pile of ash on the cement. Besides, I have to stick to my purpose, which is to avoid what happened between Ava and me the first time around. Today was a wake-up call. I don’t have a crush on her like last time—I’m still seventeen inside. But there’s something about her—it’s impossible not to like her. I can’t let my guard down when it comes to keeping my distance.

  So I mumble, “Whatever,” and jog back toward the field house for football practice.

  Coach Gallo makes a point of telling me that, even though my interception helped us get the win against Clara Barton, I shouldn’t expect any more playing time going forward.

  I’m not insulted. I’m still the smallest, the slowest, the weakest, and the worst. Still, there’s a subtle change in the air. I’m one of the guys now. I belong on this team.

  Dominic is the only player who doesn’t think so. “Can’t you take a hint, Spaceman? Nobody wants you on the Panthers.”

  It hurts, but not a single voice in the locker room backs him up. That has to count as progress.

  After practice, I come out of the field house to find Clarisse waiting for me. She’s got the same aggrieved expression she’s been wearing all day.

  I take a stab at the reason behind it. “I know,” I tell her. “I haven’t exactly been pulling my weight on our science-fair project.”

  But that’s not what’s on her mind. “How come everybody loves Ava and nobody likes me?” she blurts suddenly.

  “What are you talking about? Everybody likes you!”

  “No, they don’t,” she says sadly. “Not the way they like her. It’s not fair. I’ve lived in this town my whole life. She shows up and, five minutes later, the whole school’s eating out of her hand.”

  “That’s not true,” I protest.

  “Oh, yeah? How about the way you followed her around like an adoring puppy all day?”

  I try to laugh. “That was my job. The charity auction thing.”

  “You were loving it,” she accuses.

  Uh-oh. I hope Ava didn’t notice.

  “But it’s not just you,” Clarisse presses on. “Ty is in love with her. The other girls all want to hang out with her. She’s friends with Emma and Kennedy and that whole crowd. Even Dominic, Miggy, Austin, the popular guys—they can’t wait for her to ditch Ty so she can join the beautiful people. Why her and not me?”

  “You hate those people,” I remind her. “You wouldn’t want to be a part of that crew anyway.”

  “Don’t change the subject,” she admonishes me. “What is it about Ava? What’s she got that I don’t?”

  She has a point. Ava and Clarisse are actually a lot alike. Off the top of my head, I’m tempted to say Clarisse is a little obsessed with school stuff. Thinking back to the contents of Ava’s locker, though—the way she keeps every homework assignment and quiz—the two of them are pretty similar. Straight-A students. Science kids.

  But when I was twelve—legit twelve—I had a crush on Ava probably before I even knew it. And Clarisse, who I’ve known all my life—no crush, no nothing. And now that I’m looking at it with seventeen-year-old eyes, I know that Ty and I didn’t treat her right. When kids made fun of us and called us dweebs, she always stuck up for us. When Dominic and Miggy and other bullies targeted us, she got right in their faces, even though she understood that she’d be targeted too. She should have been one of our best friends—smart, supportive, and absolutely fearless! And what did she get from us? Ignored.

  I see it. I just can’t explain it.

  Clarisse interprets my silence as stalling. “I should have known better than to try to talk about this with you. As if you have any clue how it feels to be me.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” I picture myself through eighth grade, through high school, enemies with Ty, alienated from Ava. Through losing my dog and my parents splitting up—if there’s ever stuff you don’t want to go through alone, it’s that. Yeah, I know how it feels to be her, on the outside looking in.

  “You heard me,” she snaps back. “What would you know about it? The big football star. You’re almost as popular as Ava!”

  I laugh out loud at that one. It’s the wrong thing to do. Enraged, Clarisse storms away.

  I follow her. “I wasn’t making fun of you! It’s just that I stink at football!”

  She breaks into a run. I speed up too, following her across the schoolyard. “Come on, Clarisse! Don’t be like that!”

  The next thing I know, I’m running flat out just to keep pace with her. These past weeks of football practice have gotten me in the best shape of my life, and still she’s pulling away from me.

  I stare after her. There’s always been an awkwardness to Clarisse, a stiffness to her motion, almost like her entire body is magnetically charged, and she’s attracting and repelling herself at the same time. But when she runs, she’s a different person. Her long legs fall into an open, easy stride. She’s relaxed, graceful, and— I realize as I fall farther and farther behind—super fast. She’s a natural. It’s the only thing she’s natural at!

  If I can play a sport I’m no good at and have zero interest in, then maybe . . .

  Since I’m never going to catch up with her, I have to find another way to capture her attention. I trip myself up on purpose, hit the ground like a ton of bricks, and roll twenty feet before I come to a shuddering halt.

  A moment later, she’s standing over me, as I knew she would be. That’s something to like about Clarisse—she’s a good person. I don’t know if I appreciated it the first time I was twelve, but I do now.

  “Mason, are you okay?” She isn’t even breathing hard.

  “You”—I gasp, struggling for air—“are going out for the track team!”

  She’s bewildered. “Why would I? I don’t care about sports.”

  “Trust me.”

  23

  Twelve Years Old

  OCTOBER 19

  Another thing I forgot about my old life—how annoying it is to try to make a phone call when Rufus is around.

  Basically, the sheepdog can’t stand the fact that you’re paying attention to something other than him. So he does everything in his power to distract you. And his power, as I’ve mentioned, is not small.

  First he tries the affection angle, licking my face as I struggle to hold the phone to my ear. I can barely hear over the licking and slobbering.

  “Get out of here!” I hiss, shoving him away. “This is important!”

  I’m on hold with the real estate company that’s trying to rent out Madame Zeynab’s old store. I got the number from the sign in the tea-shop window. It’s the only clue I have that might help me reconnect with the fortune-teller. I’ve got to find out what she knows about me—about my “two futures,” as she put it.

  Rufus starts in on some insulted whining, but when that doesn’t get enough of a rise from me, he turns up the volume to a full-throated howl. Next comes the whack-whack-whack of Dad downstairs, banging on the ceiling with a broomstick. Uh-oh—this always knocks down little pieces of popcorn plaster, which makes my mother furious. I’ve got to find a way to shut up my dog.

  So I sit cross-legged on the carpet and pat my lap invitingly. Rufus leaps aboard, knocking me flat. By the time the receptionist comes on the line, I’m buried under 120 pounds of dog.

  “Sir, are you still there?”

  My first response is muffled by a mouthful of fur, but I’m able to wrestle myself free enough to exclaim, “Yes! I’m here!”

  “The only forwarding information I have for that address is a company called Rappaport Holdings,” the woman informs me.

  I’m devastated. “That’s not right! This person is an old lady! Madame Zeynab!”

  Rufus’s stomach lets out a loud gurgle in sympathy with my complaint.

  “I beg your pardon, sir?”

  “Are you totally sure?” I plead.

  “Not at all sure,” the receptionist replies. “But it’s the only number I have. Would you like it?”

  I’ve lost my notepad, so I have to write the number on my arm. Rufus finds this fascinating and tries to lick at it, smudging the ink.

  A quick Google search confirms what I already suspected: There is no such company as Rappaport Holdings in Pasco or anywhere around here.

  So I don’t have much hope when I try the number.

  I wait through eleven rings, and then a voice-mail message begins to play: “Hi, you’ve reached Zelda. Leave a message at the beep.”

  Zelda? Who’s Zelda?

  At school, I’m still doing my best to avoid Ava. It’s going so-so.

  On the plus side, I don’t have to be her butler anymore. But after such a great day, it’s almost impossible to go back to being cold to her. That leaves avoiding her, which is hard, considering we’re in the same homeroom and several of the same classes.

  “Oh, wow!” she exclaims. “This looks cool!”

  She’s pointing at a new poster on the school’s main bulletin board. By new, I mean new to her. I’ve seen it before—five years ago. It’s advertising Harvest Festival, which begins on October 28.

  The sucking sound I hear is my heart sinking below my abdomen. It’s happening again. I knew it would, but I’m still not ready.

  “It’s boring,” I say quickly. “I wouldn’t be caught dead in that dump.” For example, right behind the Tilt-A-Whirl when the storm hits.