October 12, 1990 [2]

Red and golden leaves crinkled under Martha's feet as she and three other seventh grade girls walked to school. Tiana, Martha's best friend for the next year and a half, was in mid-ramble. "So my mom said she'd get me a poster of Danny for my birthday which would be totally awesome because I've got everybody else. Not that he's my favorite – he's actually my least favorite but then I'd have all five on my wall-" She stopped as she noticed the other two girls, Carla and Becky, snickering. "What?"

"Nobody listens to New Kids on the Block anymore," Carla said with a cruel smile.

"They don't?" Tiana asked.

"Nuh-uh," Becky added. "Everybody listens to Bel Biv Devoe, now. They're all that – and a bag of chips!"

"Mmm-hmm," Carla agreed. "BBD's slammin. It's drivin me outta my mind!" she sang with Becky joining in.

"You still like New Kids, right?" Tiana asked Martha under the singing.

Martha didn't care. She liked neither. Or both. Or whatever. Regardless, her thoughts and feelings after ninety six years of sentience were irrelevant. In this life, she was twelve and she needed to act her age.

"Uh... no. New Kids are whack. Sorry," Martha tried to recite. Her memory of this period of time from her first life was as clear as if it were happening beside her. She had liked New Kids on the Block. But first and foremost, she had been a follower, dead set on avoiding ridicule.

At Martha's words, Tiana's face sank. "Oh... okay."

Martha felt bad for the girl. Who cares what they think? Like what you like! As much as she wanted to help, however, Martha understood that committing to her role in this surreal reenactment was more important. She could encourage independent thought and self-confidence with the next Tiana in the next life. In this, she needed to get to James and that meant steering a path as close to the status quo as possible.

And yet she knew that she'd affected change. Her performance had been clumsy and every time she'd let her maturity, intelligence, or perspective slip, a chaotic ripple spread out to the world.

Sometimes there was a clear line from her misstep to the change – Jessica Murphy had left her alone for the rest of their time in elementary school. Other times the connection was a mystery. In her first life, Carla and Becky were bitter enemies. In this, they were best friends. To her knowledge, Martha hadn't done anything in either life to pit them against one another or broker peace. But she was the only variable in the grand equation; the single mutant gene corrupting the sequence – this side of the Mississippi, at least.

The girls turned a corner and headed for a T-intersection and beyond that, the Grover Cleveland Middle School. It was smaller, physically, than what Martha remembered, but it never failed to strike in her an irrational and disproportionate fear. From the tiled walkway to the Spanish Mission architecture to the palm trees flanking its entrance to the sounds and the smells and still more sensations less tangible; this building was more than the sum of its parts. This was the building that had killed Martha's childhood and its sight induced a Pavlovian sense of dread.

As they reached the intersection, Tiana gasped and pointed at Martha's feet. "Martha! Your pants!"

Martha looked down to see the bottom of her right pant leg unrolled. A burst of anxiety slammed her to one knee. Her fingers moved as if disarming a bomb with seconds on the timer – unfold the cuff, pinch it to the side, wrap it tight enough to cut off blood flow, roll it up three times, exhale.

What the hell is wrong with me?!

It was as if an unseen passenger had grabbed the wheel and yanked it down. Though it wasn't the first time she'd felt this kind of flash possession – a visit from The Ghost of Marthas Past – it was a frightening experience, nevertheless. These fits of panic were exhausting and becoming more and more frequent as she progressed into puberty, but at least they yielded believable performances.

"Thanks," Martha said, still catching her breath.

"Yeah, that was close," Tiana said, smiling proudly.

Carla and Becky had crossed the street without them during the pant-cuff near-disaster. The white WALK sign turned to an orange flashing DON'T WALK meaning the girls had to hurry to make it across in time.

"So if I don't see you after school, we'll pick you up at six?" Tiana asked as they hopped the curb.

"Six," Martha agreed.

"Did you figure out what you're going to wear?"

"Yeah, I remember. I mean... I know what I'm going to wear."

"You okay?" Tiana asked.

"Oh, yeah. You know me," Martha said and forced a laugh. You know me. She'd made a habit of using the phrase as a catch-all excuse for her gaffes.

The two girls walked into the school. The sound of chattering students and slamming lockers careened off the walls and down the hallway in a helter-skelter cacophony. At the first intersection, the girls waved goodbye as Tiana took a left while Martha continued ahead.

She weaved through the crowd of students and her gag reflex quivered. While she had a crystal recollection of most of her childhood, one detail she'd apparently blocked out was the smell of middle school hallways. So many hormones. So little understanding of hygiene. Her only respite from the body odor was an occasional assault of excessive Drakkar Noir. She wasn't sure which was worse. The frying pan and the fire have nothing on this pair.

Martha made it to her locker and dropped her backpack, then spun the combination on the dial. It had taken her two frustrating weeks to learn the sequence, owing to another of her blind spots – numbers.

'If I clear my mind and wait for the numbers to come to me, they usually do,' James had told her. To that end, she'd spent the first years of her second life performing a nightly ritual of meditation to loosen her mind or free her mind or empty her mind... or whatever the hell I need to do to remember his damn phone number!!

But night after night it refused.

She'd considered other methods. On a trip to the library, she'd found a reference book with a listing of area codes across the country. Upon sight, she remembered his was 708. Three down, seven to go...

But the math on what remained was dispiriting – seven digits, first digit can't be a zero or a one and excluding the 20,000 that start with 911 or 411 leaves me with a mere 7,980,000 combinations! Furthermore, if she had the stamina and could keep the calls under a minute at 19 cents per, it would cost her comically hopeless $1,516,200 to run the list, assuming her father wouldn't have her committed half way through.

Back in the present, Martha began to unload her backpack. Her first class of the day was social studies, so she took out the textbook and her note binder covered with New Kids on the Block stickers – going to have to scrape those off soon. She stacked the rest of her books in a cubby at the top of the locker, hung the backpack on a hook just beneath, then shut the door.

She dropped her head, closed her eyes, and traveled to Illinois. He was in the 8th grade. Did his school have a dance that night? How many barely pubescent girls were pining over him? Was he thinking about her?

Suddenly, her face and throat constricted as she started to cry. Martha inhaled sharply. No! Keep it together! She wiped her cheeks with her shirt sleeve, took a deep breath, then attempted to fan her face dry with her hand. After one last, slow exhale, Martha felt relatively centered.

She glanced right then left. No one appeared to have noticed. She smiled timidly, as twelve year old Martha would, then headed off to class.

Author's note:

Oh boy.  Middle school...  Puberty...  If I had a choice between Martha's predicament and waking up inside a 'Saw' movie, I'd choose...  I'll have to think about that.

P.S.  Anyone out there actually a New Kids fan?  If so, please, please give me your band member rankings 1-5.  Pretty please??