Mrs. Birch gave the class a one minute warning while I was still finishing the second to last essay question on our test and hadn't even read the last question yet. One minute wasn't going to cut it. The digital wall clock read 12:33pm.

I clenched my cramping hand into a tight fist and stretched my fingers out as I read the last question.

"Describe the fluid-mosaic model of a plasma membrane. Discuss the role of the membrane in the movement of materials through it by active transport and passive transport."

I would have to write as much as I could in the time I had and give up on the rest. The room had become completely silent other than the sound of my pencil scratching away on the test packet. How did everyone finish before me? Were they all quietly watching me panic? Somehow I finished what I had to say about the plasma membrane's role in passive transport and finally exhaled. When I set my pencil down and looked around, everyone else in the room was frozen. The clock still said it was 12:33.

I cheated. And I didn't even mean to do it.

Everyone else sprung back into action and I spent the actual last minute of class reading over my answers. Later, once the test was turned in, I thought I probably should have spent that time erasing my illegitimate answer, but by then it was too late to do the right thing.

~~~~~~

Later that night, at the end of a busy Friday night shift at the Shipyard, I checked my phone and found a missed call and four texts from my mom.

I got in a little fender bender today

I'm okay, but the car is not

You're coming back to my house after work, right?

Just warning you, my face is not pretty

I texted her to let her know I was on my way home, but it didn't matter because when I got there, she was asleep. She was in her usual spot on the couch in the den, with her neck bent at an uncomfortable looking angle. Even in the dim light of the table lamp, the left side of her face looked bad, like it had the worst rug burn in the world. I sat next to her and tapped her shoulder until her eyes fluttered open.

"Hey Mom, why don't you go to bed?"

"But it's not my bedtime," she mumbled.

"Where's Chris? Shouldn't someone be monitoring you for concussion symptoms or something?"

"He's upstairs. I'm fine, really." She stretched and yawned. "Nothing that time and a couple extra chiropractor visits can't fix."

"What happened?"

"I went out to lunch with some coworkers, then someone braked unexpectedly in front of me when I was on my way to visit one of the factories. Luckily the airbag went off." She smiled weakly and grimaced. "Oh, that hurts."

"The airbag did that to you?"

"Better my face than my brain," she said defensively.

"What time did it happen?"

"After lunch. Like twelve-something."

My stomach dropped. "What time exactly?"

"I can tell you that, because I was reading a text when it happened," she admitted. "Let this be a lesson to you. Stay off of your phone while you're driving." She picked up her phone and adjusted her reading glasses that were still askew from when she dozed off. "Let's see. Twelve thirty-four."

"Mom," I whimpered. I buried my face in her shoulder and started quietly sobbing.

When I reversed time, was I only messing with the people around me, or with everyone, everywhere? Did I cause some kind of time hiccup that contributed to my mom's accident?

She patted my head for a minute or so, and eventually said, "You smell like fried onions."

"Sorry. I'll go shower."

When I leaned away from her and got another look at her worried face, I thought I might start crying all over again. Why did she look worried about me?

"Is it really that bad?" she asked, lightly tapping her fingertips to her cheekbone. "Would it help if I got a half-mask like the Phantom of the Opera?"

"It's not your face, Mom. It's that you could have been hurt way worse."

"But I wasn't," she chirped. "Thanks to a brilliant engineer." She snickered and then said, "Ow. Dang it."

Up until the test that day, when the clock hadn't changed for what felt like far longer than one minute, I really couldn't confirm that I actually had been reversing or pausing time. But maybe I really knew my plasma membranes and wrote lightning fast under pressure.

Sometimes I wondered if it was all in my head. Maybe I had a very active imagination that saw what could happen in different scenarios. And if I really did have the power to mess with time, would that go away along with my time travel history?

~~~~~~

I had the next night off and I decided to stay home with my mom. She asked me no less than five times if I had plans, and when I said my plan was to make buttery popcorn and watch a movie with her, she seemed mildly disappointed.

So after the movie was over, when Eric texted, My friends are idiots. Wanna hang out? and I asked her if it would be okay if a friend came over, she perked up.

"Sure! Who?"

"Eric."

She looked surprised, but not in a bad way. In an impressed kind of way, before she caught herself and rearranged her face to look serious.

"Vanessa, is this a booty call?"

"No, he's just a friend."

"Right. And nobody has ever had sex with a friend." She pointed a warning finger at me. "No sex. There is no sex allowed in my house."

"That's a bummer for you and Chris."

"Ew! You know what I mean, no premarital sex in my house."

"Um..." I wasn't going to be the one to point out that she and Chris were not technically married.

She narrowed her eyes as she read my mind. "No underage sex in my house. There."

"Define sex?"

"Pants stay on. In my house."

"Got it. Your house is a pants on zone. Shirts optional."

"Well, you are eighteen. As much as it horrifies me, it would be unrealistic to think you've never had someone under your shirt before."

"Oh my God, Mom! Wait, I am eighteen, so I could argue that I'm not actually underage."

She slowly turned to shoot a fierce glare in my direction.

"Doesn't matter!" I said with my hands in the air. "He's just a friend, anyway."

"Famous last words," she said, as she hoisted herself from her spot on the couch. "I'm going to hide in my candlelit labyrinth beneath the opera house."

When Eric swept in through the front door in a cloud of a pungent herbal scent, his eyes darted around the foyer. At the sound of the door opening, Tommy bounded over and nudged her wet nose into Eric's palm. He ruffled the fluffy white fur on the top of her head.

"Have I been here before? I feel like I've been here before."

"No, you definitely haven't. Are you high?"

"No, but Tyler and Drew were and it makes them boring and stupid, so I peaced out." His agitated gaze landed on me and his face softened as it broke into a warm smile. "And I missed you."

"Okay, well, come in, I guess."

I was not about to sink into the couch next to him when he was in whatever state he was in. If he wasn't high, he was full of reckless energy or something. So I led him past the den to the kitchen where we'd be illuminated by unflattering bright lights and safely surrounded by hard surfaces. We sat across from each other on the tall chairs and Eric rapped his knuckles against the countertop. Unfortunately, the light was not as unflattering on him as I'd hoped.

"So what's up?" he asked.

"My mom got into a bit of a car accident yesterday. So I was hanging out with her tonight."

"Oh crap, I'm sorry. Should I go?"

"It's okay. I think she was annoyed. She gets overly concerned about the state of my social life."

My heart was banging against my ribcage. This was awkward. I shouldn't have invited him over. Mom was probably right. I was socially inept and had probably misread this entirely. I was ready to send him home and apologize for wasting his time when I had an idea.

"Can I try an experiment on you?"

"Yes?" he agreed with a suspicious side-eyed expression.

I ripped a piece of paper from a notepad, grabbed a pen and set them in front of him.

"Um, write something down. Just whatever comes to mind."

He wrote "I want" and then looked up at me, raised his eyebrows and completed the sentence with "nachos".

"Actually, write something about you that I'd never guess. It doesn't have to be some big secret."

Then he cupped his hand over the paper as he scribbled.

"Sign it," I said. "And write the date and time on it and fold it up."

He did as I asked and I took the folded paper from him and held it tight in my sweaty palm. Would this work if I actually wanted it to happen? Eric watched me curiously. Feathery shadows flickered beneath his eyes as he slowly blinked. Too distracting.

"Don't look at me for a minute," I said.

He closed his eyes. I clenched my fists and pictured the last minute or so reversing and then there was that prickling feeling of a disturbance in the atmosphere, like rubbing a balloon on your arm and watching the hairs stand on end. Then I saw it happening in front of me. Eric opened his eyes and went through the motions of handing me the paper and writing on it, but the paper remained in my hand. I was the eye of a storm, unchanging and calm while everything swirled and changed around me.

When it was over, Eric looked from the hand that held the pen and then at the other which was empty.

I unfolded the paper under the countertop and out of his sight. "Your tape allergy is a lie?"

His face scrunched up in confusion. "My tape allergy? Yeah, why?"

"Why would you lie about being allergic to tape?"

"I don't like things sticking to my skin! Band-Aids, stickers, whatever, they make me sick to my stomach, so if it ever comes up I say I'm allergic to adhesive. Why are we talking about this?" He glanced at the floor and back at his hand. "Where did that paper go? You asked me to write something down."

I pushed the paper across the countertop, followed by my phone, so he could compare the time he'd written on the paper to the actual time.

"You already wrote something, actually."

"But I don't remember..." He ran his fingertips over his writing, then held the slip of paper up to the light. Then he tossed it back on the countertop. "I feel weird. I don't know what that was, but don't do it to me again, okay?"

"I'll try not to. But sometimes it happens and I can't help it."

"What exactly is it?"

"I can reverse time. By a little bit. I think. It seems to be a package deal along with the other thing."

"The time travel thing," he said calmly.

"Yeah, that."

He raked his hands through his hair and grinned. "You are so weird, Ness."

"Yeahhh, haha." He thought I was joking. He thought the whole thing was a joke. I could feel adrenaline coursing through me as my fight or flight response was kicking in. But it was my house so he was going to have to be the one to fly. I stared at my hands as I said, "I'm sorry. I think you should go actually. I don't know why I-"

Eric reached over and squeezed my forearm. "Hey, what I mean is you can do these unreal things, and you act like it's nothing. This is big. What other times did it happen?"

"At the Homecoming game, one of the cheerleaders got dropped. On her head, in a very disturbing way. And then the second time she didn't."

"Is that why you puked?"

"Yeah. It was really awful to watch. And then knowing I was the only one who saw it. Or imagined it? And what's wrong with my brain if I'm imagining things like that? Whenever it happens I think it could have been my imagination or some kind of brain glitch. No one knows what's happening except me, so I can't actually verify it." I finally raised my eyes. "Or I couldn't, until just now."

"So that's why you wanted to do that experiment? To know it wasn't only your imagination?"

I nodded. "Sorry to make you my guinea pig."

"It was worth it then." He slowly shook his head in amazement. "This is so cool. You have superpowers."

I was flooded with relief and I jumped up to rifle through the pantry. I emerged with a bag of tortilla chips in one hand and a can of nacho cheese in the other.

"Do you still want nachos?" I asked.

His face lit up. "Oh my gosh, Ness, I love you."

I felt my face heat up even though I knew what he said was basically meaningless. He'd say those three words to anyone who gave him food. I'd overheard him say "I love you" to the servers in the cafeteria on more than one occasion.

"I just mind fucked you pretty hard and you're still here. You deserve some nachos."

He scrunched up his face. "Now you're making me feel dirty for accepting the nachos. I'm very confused."

I laughed. "Don't worry, these nachos won't be loaded. Liquid cheese or shredded cheese, melted?"

"Both. Obviously."

"There's something wrong with you."

I dumped some tortilla chips on a plate, added generous amounts of both types of cheese and stuck the plate in the microwave.

"You got a text." Eric pushed my phone across the counter. He was smirking while directing his gaze away from the screen as if he hadn't already read it.

It was my mom: Put your shirts on!!! I'm coming downstairs!!!

"Ugh, she's wildly inappropriate."

"I can't wait to meet her."

I set the hot plate in front of him and he rubbed his hands together.

"I'm gonna focus on these nachos for now, but don't think you've distracted me with food. I have a ton of questions. Hm, I don't want to get cheese on my shirt. Maybe I should take it off? Would your mom think that's funny or not?"

"Feel free to find out."

"Is that a dare?" His eyes were bright with humor and I was afraid he might actually do it.

"I can get you a napkin or an apron or something," I said. I turned my back to him to get a cloth napkin from the drawer. "I should warn you, her face is all messed up from the accident."

When I turned around Eric Anderson was sitting there in the kitchen at my house, late at night, eating nachos half-naked. He looked just as good as he had that summer, hanging around the harbor on his boat. Maybe better. I tried not to overreact. That would only encourage his behavior.

"Are you sure you're not high?" I asked.

Mom shuffled around the corner in her slippers and flannel robe over her pajamas, saw Eric sitting there shirtless and immediately made a one-eighty turn and walked away. Eric's face reddened as he suppressed a laugh while he pulled his sweatshirt back on. After Mom regained her composure, she came back into the kitchen.

"Hilarious, you two," she said.

"Hi Ms...Vanessa's mom, I'm Eric," he reached out for a handshake.

"You can call me Suzanne. It's nice to meet you, Eric."

She opened a cupboard and said, "Don't mind me, I just need to grab my medicine. Vanessa, offer Eric a beverage for Pete's sake."

Even though it was a common expression, my heart still fluttered at the sound of his name. And hearing it in the same sentence as Eric's name made me feel lightheaded and like I might drop to the floor.

Four more days, I reminded myself. Four more days and Pete would be out of my head.

Once Eric finished his nachos, we decided to go for a walk. I brought Tommy with us for comic relief because I had a feeling the conversation might get heavy. Knowing I'd be walking beside him in the dark, the likelihood was high that I'd confess more than I ever thought I would.

"I think I might've screwed things up for you and Sophie."

He chuckled. "You're still worried about that?"

"I mean, I did the time reversal thing to you before. Not on purpose."

I explained what happened at the bonfire and with Laura's brother in the courtyard at lunch and the day before while I was taking the biology test. I left out the time it happened in the cemetery.

"I'm hoping it goes away along with the time travel part. I have a plan to kind of undo everything that happened this summer, so I can forget it all and finally feel normal again."

"How's that gonna work?"

"So, I met someone who can do the same thing."

I told him everything. I told him about Liz and Paul and how Rose had disappeared and how I'd brought her back to 1953. I found myself editing Pete out of the story, and was surprised by how easily my narrative flowed without him.

I told him how I'd accidentally traveled to 1933 and had my head stitched up. I described the plan that Liz and I crafted in 1953 and carried out in 1969. At first he seemed shocked that his house had such a strong effect on me, but after considering its extensive history, he understood how it made sense.

I was surprised by the overwhelming relief I felt by telling him everything. And by how he listened without judgment or suspicion and without cracking jokes or making light of the whole thing.

Tommy was slowing down and she stopped in the glow of one of the streetlights that were few and far between on our street. She sat and gazed up at me with her pleading, "Can we go home now?" expression.

"Tommy's wiped. Let's turn around," I said.

"So, you're completely serious?" Eric asked. "Everything you just told me is one-hundred percent true?"

"To my knowledge, yes. I'm dead serious."

When I glanced over at him he was looking at me with concern and awe and something else that I couldn't identify that made my stomach flip. Not long ago I'd sworn he was never going to hear my fantastical story and I'd gone and spilled the entire thing. What was I thinking?

"Shit," I said. "I shouldn't have told you all that. Oh shit." There was a weight crushing my chest. I took in a big gulp of air and held it in my lungs. I started walking faster toward home.

He caught up and stopped me and I looked into his eyes, and thought, I'm going to erase it. If I could reverse time, I could remove everything I'd just said from his memory. If Liz could do it, I probably could, too.

I pictured all the images he'd probably formed in his mind while listening to my story being vacuumed out. Right through his eyeballs. Out of his brain and back into mine where'd they stay and never come out again.

"Come here," Eric said softly as he pulled me into a hug.

With his arms wrapped around me, the tightness in my chest began to lift and I started taking slow, deep breaths. I felt confident that I'd erased it all. Eric probably had no idea why I was upset, he still held me anyway.

He smelled warm and sunny and out of place on that cold night and a little part of me wanted to stay right there for awhile.

"Are you sure you want to go back to normal?" I heard him say. "It sounds like you got mixed up in some scary stuff once, but maybe it's not all bad. Think about it. You could really make changes for the better. You did it for Lexi and Laura's brother."

Well, that didn't work. I let out a disappointed sigh. Eric released me and we continued walking.

"It feels wrong," I said. "I don't like messing with what's supposed to happen."

"You think Lexi was supposed to fall on her head?"

"Well, no, not that specifically."

"If not that, then what? What exactly is supposed to happen?"

"I don't know," I admitted.

"I don't think anything bad that happens is meant to happen. 'Everything happens for a reason' is bullshit. And the idea of fate is cruel, especially to people who've had terrible things happen to them."

"That's part of what I can't stand about all this. I feel guilty about not changing things for the better."

"Let's say you start with one thing. Besides bringing back those two sisters. What would you change or fix?"

"The world is so messed up, where would I even begin? Generations before us set us up with all these problems and we're the ones who are supposed to fix everything. And then add the pressure of maybe having the ability to change the past for a better future? But wait, it's possible that the changes you make will actually backfire and be catastrophic? Forget it."

"I guess when you put it that way, it's kind of overwhelming."

"There's too much pressure on us as it is. My mom is always sending me articles about girls our age and younger who like, discover a process using a cardboard toilet paper tube, a paper clip and leaf to turn a cool breeze into safe, drinkable water in developing nations, and it's like hint hint hint. She works on airbags that save people, and I know she wants me to follow in her footsteps somehow, and I'll probably never live up to her expectations."

"I feel that. And my parents are both doctors, how am I supposed to top that?"

"Why do you think you're supposed to top it? I'm afraid I won't come anywhere close, let alone top being an engineer."

"I don't know. To prove to them that I'm not a lazy piece of garbage."

"But you're not. Obviously."

"I'm not sure it's that obvious to them."

What kind of freaks could think Eric Anderson; three-sport athlete, future valedictorian, and student government president, had a shred of laziness in him? My heart broke for him.

"So, do you need to use my house?" he asked. "To get to 1993?"

"It might be easiest. If it's okay with you."

"It's not like you needed my permission before," he pointed out. "And then what? If everything goes according to your plan, will I forget this conversation ever happened?

"What conversation?" I asked with a sly grin.

"Funny."

He nudged my shoulder with his and we walked the rest of the way home in a comfortable silence. It occurred to me then that an unintended consequence of erasing the events of that summer might also wipe out whatever this was with Eric. And if it did, that was fine, because it was probably never meant to be, anyway. But there that question was again, What was meant to be?