Chapter 9: Back To School

August 1980

The summer began to wind down, and the countdown until the first day of school began. I found myself a job. I washed dishes at a nearby diner during the dinner shift, which was from 5p.m. to 10p.m. I worked three nights a week, and all day on Saturday. It was a fairly long walk from home, but I got used to it. Many times, either Mom or Dad picked me up at the end of the shift. Not exactly the type of work I’d grown accustomed to in my other life, but I was a teenager now, and I had to start over at the bottom. I always had a strong work ethic. I believed that if I wanted anything in life, I had to work for it.

I did some calculations to gauge when I’d have enough money saved up to buy a car. I took pleasure spending into account, figuring I’d have to minimize that as much as possible. I ran the numbers, and I estimated that it would be December or January before I could get a set of wheels. Oh well, at least I’d have the car for the second half of senior year, and I could bring it to college with me. That’s when I would really need it.

By now, my life in the other timeline seemed almost as if it was a figment of my imagination. I knew I’d lived that life, and I had full possession of the memories. But often, I would wonder if I really had been 44 years old. I’d wonder if I had really been in a hot “adult” relationship with a gold-digger named Shannon. I’d wonder if an ugly bitch named Inez Trujillo had really spit in my face. I had no tangible indications that any of those things had really happened, even though, of course, I knew that they had.

I’d come to accept – almost – that I was stuck here in this timeline, and that I’d have to make do with the hand I’d been dealt. But my mindset was changing. Some new goals had emerged. What I now wanted was to re-create my old life in this new reality. So I couldn’t go back to the old timeline? Fine. I’d spend the next 27 years attempting to reach the same point in life. Which meant that I’d follow the same path, both academically and professionally. I knew that soon, I’d have to decide on a college. That one was easy. I went to Rutgers last time; I’d go to Rutgers this time. No matter how much my parents tried to sway me in another direction.

Relationships with women were another thing; again, I wanted to walk the same path. I wanted nothing to stand in the way of my reaching wealthy, happily single status in 2007. That meant a station-to-station existence, exactly as I lived before. I wanted no part of marriage or children; they’d prevent me from pursuing my goal.

I realized that was why my current relationship with Diana was so appealing to me. It was very rewarding in the present, but I was certain it wouldn’t last. I also realized that in that respect, it was pretty much identical to what I’d had with Shannon in the other timeline.

With Diana, that day at the beach had indeed been a major step forward. Our relationship was now much more fulfilling than it had been in the other life. She no longer went off on me over every little thing. Oh, don’t get me wrong, there were the occasional disagreements, like the time I got called in to work early, disrupting one of our afternoon get-togethers. But we dealt with it in a mature manner; I apologized the next day, and she apologized as well, agreeing that it was something I probably couldn’t have avoided. We did things together that we’d rarely done in the other timeline; we went to movies, went out for ice cream, and became regular visitors in each other’s homes, even when our families were present.

The afternoon encounters were now more sizzling than ever. We stopped limiting ourselves to the bedroom, and had sex everywhere in her empty house; on one memorable occasion, we did it on top of her parents’ expensive dining room table, in broad daylight, with no curtains drawn. Diana found the possibility of getting caught to be a huge turn-on. In mid-August, my parents and siblings spent a few days vacationing down in the Outer Banks of North Carolina. Since I had to work, I didn’t go with them, feigning disappointment. It afforded me the chance to provide the home field for Diana and I during the afternoon. We were finally able to give my bed a proper breaking in, and also tried out various locales within my dwelling. Once, we headed into the shower in my parents’ room, where I ate her to a series of shrieking orgasms with water cascading down over us both.

Within the family, my sister and I were getting closer. We talked freely about our mutual love, music. We’d spend long blocks of time in front of the piano. Often, I would play and she would sing, combining our best talents. All of this, naturally, tickled Mom and Dad to no end.

As for Seamus, he did in fact take quite well to karate lessons. At least so far. He’d stopped bugging Eileen, and there were no more bowling balls being hurled down the stairs. He did enjoy practicing his newly-learned moves in the house, quite loudly, to Dad’s occasional consternation. The real test for Seamus would come during the upcoming school year. I fervently hoped he’d be able to avoid the behavior problems Mom had spoken of.

As September approached, I grew apprehensive. I had a few more talks with Dave about the whole St. James experience. I had discussions with Diana of the same nature; she was sympathetic to my plight. But I didn’t know how things would play out. Truth be told, until I actually lived through it, I couldn’t know what to expect.

September 3, 1980

I slammed my hand down on the beeping alarm clock and shut it off.

“Ugggh,” I groaned. Today, I’d begin my tenure as a high school senior in this life. After a tortuous, sleepless night, I’d finally fallen into a deep slumber about twenty minutes previously. I got up and wobbled into the shower. Though I suspected that disagreements with Eileen about shower use in the morning would be forthcoming, there would be none today. It was quite early, and my sister was still asleep. But I wanted to get to school as early as possible, for obvious reasons. I was able to be up front with my parents about this.

“Can you drop me off at school about thirty minutes early?” I asked Dad. “My amnesia is going away, but you know ... first day of school and all.”

“I’ll take you,” Mom volunteered, understanding the situation. “Jim, you can drop Eileen off later.”

On a typical school day, the plans were for Dad to drop off my sister and I on his way in to work. Mom would pick up Eileen at the end of chorus practice after school. I, however, planned go over to Diana’s house right after the bell rang at the close of the school day. We intended to bum a ride from a mutual friend, which Diana had arranged. It was someone I knew, but yet didn’t know, if you get my drift. My parents had grown to like Diana and raised no objection to this plan. I, of course, mollified any concerns of theirs by assuring them that “we’ll do our homework together.” Later in the afternoon, I would walk home from Diana’s house. On days I had to work, I could walk straight to the restaurant if I wanted to.

Around 7:25, a full fifty minutes before classes started, Mom dropped me off in front of the school.

“Good luck,” she bade me as I headed off. Only a handful of students could be seen shuffling into the school. I entered the building itself. I’d been inside the nearby church many, many times. But inside the school? Very few times indeed, and none at all in this life.

The hallways looked completely unfamiliar. As I wandered along, trying my best not to look lost, a guy I didn’t recognize, had never seen before in either life, greeted me.

“Hey, how’s it going, Pat?”

I murmured a quick greeting in return, then continued on. I had a piece of paper in my hand, which had come in the mail the previous week. On it was my class schedule, my locker number, and its lock combination. Thankfully – thankfully – we were assigned new lockers each school year at St. James. That had not been the case at Fairfield the first time around. It was my locker that I was now scoping the halls for.

After a long search (there appeared to be no rhyme or reason to the locker numbers, they were scattered in groups all over the school), I finally located it. I continued to exchange hellos with strangers I’d never laid eyes on. I wondered if they’d heard about my little lightning encounter; I suspected it had long since made the rounds. I opened the lock with no problem, and threw my belongings inside. Home base was now secured, so to speak.

I still had twenty minutes before class started. My first period was, of all things, a required religious education class. Room 202, I said to myself. I guess that must be on the second floor?

By now, the hall was full of arriving students. And here’s where the questioning started. They began to swarm around me in front of my locker.

“Hey, dude,” one guy asked curiously. “Did you really get zapped by lightning?”

“Look! It’s Patrick O’Malley, the Human Lightning Rod!” another joker chortled.

“You poor thing,” said a cute brunette, affectionately rubbing my arm. “Did it hurt?”

It was getting just a little overwhelming. But before things really got out of hand, along came Dave, who stepped in and saved the day.

“Cut the man a break,” he asserted, loud enough for all to hear, as he forced his way through the crowd. “He’s had a rough summer.” I shot him a look of gratitude.

“Thanks. I owe you one.”

And then, just to seal the deal, here was Diana. She sauntered up to me and delivered a scorching kiss on the mouth.

“I have to drop something off in the office, but I’ll see you at lunch,” she smiled, and then scurried off. Everyone began hooting and whistling. I was grateful to have such good friends. Dave had taken charge and broken the tension. And Diana had applied the coup de grace, deftly switching the topic of conversation from my accident to the fact that she and I were once again An Item. Both understood that I needed help, although of course, neither had the slightest inkling about what had really happened to me.

“Where’s your first class?” Dave asked me, out of earshot of the others.

“Room 202.”

“I’m headed up in that general direction, too. Follow me.”

Inside the classroom, I found a seat near the back, adjacent to the window, trying to be as inconspicuous as possible. I was greeted a few more times by classmates, but no one took an interest in starting up a conversation.

Soon, the teacher entered the room, and class got underway. He was a priest – this was, after all, a religious education class – but he was relatively amiable and good-humored. As he gave a general overview of the class material, the ins and outs of Catholic morality, he attempted to enhance his dialogue with corny puns and other low-quality, G-rated humor. He laughed harder at his own jokes than his audience did.

I told myself, this class will be a walk in the park.

About halfway through the period, the door opened, and a messenger handed a note to the teacher. He read the note, then glanced upward, looking in my direction.

“Patrick O’Malley? Please report immediately to the office.”

Uh-oh! Had I screwed up somehow? But my fears were unfounded. It turned out that it was nothing more than a summons to the infirmary, where the school nurse had heard about my accident. She just wanted to make sure I was okay, and up to the challenges of the beginning of the school year.

“Sorry to pull you out of class like that,” she said sincerely. She was a short, chubby, middle-aged woman, wearing a name tag that informed me she was Mrs. Reilly. It was also apparent that she knew me quite well. “But it’s a routine matter whenever a student has a serious accident during summer break. I understand you have amnesia?”

I related the same story I’d given many, many times already; it was an old habit by now. She appeared satisfied with my account, and sent me on my way. I made it back to religion class before the end of the period.

I found my second period class with no problem. It was an English composition course. I’d always been an excellent writer. But this teacher – a woman who spoke in the most uninteresting monotone imaginable – was simply insufferable, and I knew I’d get little, if anything, from this class. I’d just have to muddle through it.

Negotiating the halls to my third period class was a snap. I no longer worried about finding my way around the building; I was confident that I had the entire place mapped out in my mind. This was the toughest course I’d chosen: AP calculus. I had one advanced placement class, and this was it.

Why, oh why, did I sign up for this class? I chided myself as the instructor outlined the material we’d cover during the school year. Of course, I’d picked my courses last May, before this adult version of me had inhabited this teenage body. I’d had four semesters of college calculus the first time around, but I’d long since forgotten it all. Unless you’re a mathematician or a physicist, you don’t use calculus in the real world. I figured if I did well, and got a good score on the AP exam in the spring, I might be able to place out of one semester of college calculus next year. But I doubted whether that possibility would motivate me enough to do the amount of studying it would take to accomplish that goal.

My fourth period class was one I was looking forward to, in a strange, twisted manner. Which class was it? Introduction to Modern Computing. Ha ha ha! I seriously wondered if someone had stuck the word “modern” in there just for my own amusement. I knew there would be no talk of the programming techniques that were in place in 2007. No mention of Windows or even the Internet. This class would hearken back to the Stone Age of computer technology, and the introductory leaflet handed to us by the teacher confirmed that. We’d be learning about Basic, Fortran, and other primitive topics. I wondered if I’d be able to maintain a straight face through all of that.