Stuck in the 70's (3 page)

I hide the bills under Tyler’s mattress and return the pitcher to the back of the closet. To keep my mind off my guilt, I look through the closet again. I pick up an old junior high yearbook from 1976. Not my school, but a feeder to my high school. If it really were 1978 now, Tyler’s picture could be in the book.

I leaf through the yearbook, telling myself it’s only because there’s nothing else to do. The boys have hangdog hair. The girls wear theirs either long and droopy, or cropped to stick out like a wedge of hard cheese. Both sexes wear wide, clownish collars.

There are handwritten notes, though not anywhere near as many as in my middle school yearbook.
Tyler, Thanks for all your help in geometry. From, Cindy; To Tyler Gray, one of the smartest guys I know. Louise; Tyler, Sorry about the spitwads. Thanks for the science tutoring. I hope I’m in more classes with you next year. Larry.

His picture’s with the n inth-g rade class, captioned
Tyler Gray
.

I’m getting even more freaked out.

Computer trick
, I tell myself. Clever. Or maybe that’s his dad. The Tyler I met might really be Tyler Gray, Jr. Or Tyler Gray the Second. Whatever. It’s not his picture.

Or I could be on
Punk’d.
A new, n on-c elebrity version. I look around for cameras. Maybe t hey’re hidden in that oversized computer. “Is this a trick?” I whisper into the computer. “It’s getting old.”

No response.

A camera lens on the ceiling?

No. Just that ugly popcorn stuff which is probably crawling with asbestos.

“Jake? Mariel?” I call out softly.

Nothing.

I take three deep breaths, clutch the yearbook to my chest, and return to Tyler’s bed.

I flip through the book for more Tyler sightings. He was in Honor Society and backgammon club. There’s a long note next to a picture of a grinning,flat-c hested, skinny girl holding up a trophy. The sloppy handwriting is in orange ink.
Here’s to lots more backgammon championships,
it says. It lists all these geeky memories like
I ’ll never forget that 7-hour backgammon marathon we played, or that time we snuck into the computer lab.
Blah blah blah.
Love, your best friend, Evie.

I c an’t believe I’m reading all this.I’d never hang with the guy, normally. But in this situation, whatever it is, I guess it’s better to end up at a semi-d ork’s house than, like, a felon’s. He even trusts me in his bedroom. Dumb of him.

5

“ You’d be a fool
to cut classes for a girl,” Evie says as we walk to English class.

“Normally, I’d agree. But this girl is gorgeous. Need I remind you I saw her naked?”

“You needn’t. Please.”

I elbow her. “Oh, sheesh, look who’s coming.”

Plowing down the hallway is Rick The Dick, next to a guy who looks like a giant Weeble.

Evie shrugs. “I’m not worried.”

“Watch out!”

The Weeble’s globular leg sticks out in front of us. I stop walking just in time, but Evie topples onto her face.

I pull her up and hand her glasses to her. Then I glare at the laughing Weeble. “Be careful.”

“Sorry,” The Dick says as he and his friend continue down the hallway.

“Sure he’s sorry. It wasn’t even his leg sticking out. I bet The Dick’s friend weighs two and a half times as much as you,” I tell Evie.

She examines her glasses. “I’d rather be smart than big. I bet my IQ is fifty points higher than his.”

“You’re a genius. I know, I know.”

She punches my arm playfully. Not that she could have packed any power even if she’d wanted to. To Evie’s annoyance, she’s never broken five feet or a hundred pounds. I’m not sure what’s worse for her social life: her small size, her intelligence, or the fact that she doesn’t seem to mind being in the out crowd.

“High IQs don’t help us in the school hallways,” I tell her. “We should try to fit in better so the jerks won’t pick on us so much.”

“It’s mostly me they pick on.” She puts on her glasses and resumes walking. “I have no inclination to fit in.”

“You should. This is our last year here, Evie, our last chance for popularity. When I look back on my high school years, I want to remember at least a few parties and girls, not just physics class and backgammon.” I nudge her. “Look at that foxy girl walking toward us. I think she’s actually staring at me.”

The girl points to Evie’s ankles. “Waiting for a flood?”

“Okay, maybe she wasn’t staring at me,” I say.

“We’ll never be cool,” Evie says. “Not in a googolplex years.”

“We’ve got to try. Hey, maybe I should grow a moustache like Burt Reynolds and my dad. They’re both pretty cool.”

“You should concentrate on growing your GPA. You look cute as you are, Tyler.”

“Cute? Hardly. Even if I am, mere cuteness won’t make me popular. Evie, I don’t want that girl in my house finding out about my poor social ranking.”

“She probably already knows. I bet someone just planted her in your bathtub as a sick joke to make an Honors Society student ditch school.”

I shake my head and picture the girl in my room, waiting for me, still braless.

“Eighty to one odds she won’t be there when you get home,” Evie says. “Probably as we speak, she and her friends are laughing about the stunt they pulled. Do you think it’s one of the cheerleaders? Last week, this cheer-leader—”

“I hope she isn’t going through my stuff.”

“Tyler?”

“What if she finds my teddy bear?”

“Earth to Tyler.”

“Did you say something?”

Evie shakes her head. “She’s got you, hook, line, and sinker.”

I smile. “I want to be scaled, boned, and eaten.”

Huh? Why is Robin Williams staring at me?

It’s a poster, and oh my gawd, I’m still in this weird house. I must have fallen asleep.

The giant digital alarm clock says it’s already 11:06. Tyler’s mom should be gone by now. Time to get out of here.

I pull down Tyler’s robe from the hook on the closet door and wrap it around me. It has a nice musky smell. I head to the bathroom.

Damn. Same bathroom as early this morning. Why c an’t this be just a bad dream? Splashing water on my face does nothing but get me wet. At least I haven’t lost my looks here, according to the mirror.

I flee the bathroom and tiptoe down the stairs, passing more of that red flocked wallpaper. The carpet downstairs is gold and shaggy. In the tiny living room is one of those L a- Z-B oys or Barcaloungers or whatever, with a newspaper on it.

It’s the
Los Angeles Times
, dated September 27, 1978. On the front page: “The Bee Gees Storm the States” and “President Carter Urges Energy Conservation.” Ads show the grand opening of a new Typewriter City and $60,000 houses for sale in L.A. Someone’s pulled out all the stops for this joke. The newspaper pages a ren’t even yellowed.

“Good one! But I’m so onto you!” My voice trembles.

There’s no response. I look for camera lenses again, but come up empty.

I walk into the little kitchen, ugly and dated with its olive green counters and floor of g old tinged linoleum or vinyl or something equally awful. The room is spotless. On the counter is an o ld-f ashioned phone with a curly cord and a dial.

I call my house.

“Hello?” Some man answers.

Mom has a new guy? “Is Camelia Saunders there?”

“You got the wrong number.”

“How about Shay Saunders?”

“I never heard of no Saunders,” he says and hangs up. I put the phone on the cradle. Then I pick it up again, hear a dial tone, bite my lip, and redial my number.

“Hello?” Same guy.

“Is my mom there? It’s Shay, her daughter. Shay Saunders.”

“I told you. There’s no Saunders here.”

“Is this 448-0475?”

“Yeah, but there’s no Saunders here. Stop calling.”

So I hang up, then dial my number one more time.

“Yeah?”

“Sorry to bother—”

“Knock it off, you crazy bitch.” He hangs up on me.

What the hell is going on? Has my whole family been kidnapped? If you can call me and my mom a whole family. Did my mom decide to get rid of me?

Wandering into the living room d oesn’t give me any answers. The TV has a dial on it too. I push the
On
button and change channels. Bizarre versions of
That ’70s Show
play on every station. There are only five of them.
The Price Is Right
is hosted by a young Bob Barker in a bright orange suit and fat tie, and an ancient
General Hospital
features skinny ladies in miniskirts and moustached men with permed hair.

It has to be a trick. “Who’s doing this? One of my friends?” I try to laugh like a good sport, but my high-p itched “ha” just sounds scared. “Come on out already.”

No one comes out.

It’s a big setup. Time travel is something you see in romance movies with fancy old costumes, or read about as a kid so the author can feed you history lessons. Time travel is not real.

“Great joke,” I announce. “Is this, like, s enior-c lass prank or an early surprise birthday party?”

Nothing but happy screams from the TV set. On
The Price Is Right
, a girl with a Farrah Fawcett haircut and bright green eyeshadow just won a brand-new King Cobra Mustang, valued at $6,803.

I need chocolate. Fast.

I go back to the kitchen. The cupboards are full of weird boxes and cans of food with no nutrition labels on them. A large bag of raisins is stamped “Best used before 12/28/78.” Behind it is a package of Oreos, stamped “Purchase before 1/8/79.” The Oreos taste fine. Except I like Double Stuf better.

At first I untwist each cookie, eat the filling, and gobble up the sandwich part. After the first few cookies, I start cramming them in my mouth, one after another, no longer tasting them, but feeling their fullness inside me. I use my fingernails to pick up the crumbs which fall on my legs. I eat the crumbs too. “Mariel? Jake? Mom!” I call out with my mouth stuffed, but no one answers.

6

I can’t believe it.
I’m ditching the last two periods of school. Me, who hasn’t even been tardy since last winter when Mike Kagey threw my binder in the mud. I’m walking quickly with my head up like I have confidence, just like the girl told me to do.

“Tyler!” Evie shouts. She’s coming down the hall from the other direction. She’s quick, especially considering her backpack probably weighs twenty pounds. “I thought you’re in Building G fifth period. Why are you walking that way?” she asks.

I put my finger to my lips. With my luck, a teacher will hear Evie and question me about my destination. Though I imagine I’d be the last person a teacher would suspect of ditching school. Actually, Evie would be the last person. I’d be second to last.

“Tyler Gray. Wait up, dude.”

Oh, no. Is that who I think it is? I stop and turn my head.

Yes, it is. Principal Shipper’s a few yards behind me. I instantly lose my display of fake confidence.

“Pat!” Evie runs over to us, waving her arms.

Even I know it’s the antithesis of cool to run
to
a principal. Principal Shipper wears bright bead necklaces, says “Keep on truckin” at the end of his morning P.A. announcements, and asks everyone to call him Pat. But he’s still a principal and therefore will never be cool.

“Hey, Pat.” Evie approaches us. “Thanks for restoring the budget for the Honor Society banquet.”

In front of me, Debbie M. says, “Dip and Drip,” to Debbie P., and they both giggle.

“So, Tyler, why are you heading this way?” Evie says.

I wonder if Principal Shipper suspects anything fishy. I wonder how red my face is right now.

“Don’t you have German class in Building G?” Evie asks.

I wonder how I’m going to answer this.

“Tyler? You still distracted by that girl?”

Oh, no. Now she’s bringing up the girl in my bedroom. “I . . . I’m walking this way to . . . to try to talk to someone.”

“A chick?” the principal asks.

I try not to roll my eyes. “Actually, I probably don’t have time, anyway.”

“Don’t be shy around the
chicas
,” he says. “They love the honor students.”

Now I do roll my eyes at that one.

“You should just go toward Building G,” Evie tells me. “Neither one of us has gotten so much as a tardy all year,” she tells the principal.

“Okay, I’m off to German class.” I turn around and rush off, keeping my perfect school record intact but breaking my promise to the girl.

After downing half the
package of Oreos, I lean back on the couch and try to figure things out. Everything in this house is decades old. Maybe Tyler’s family just wants to live like t hey’re in the 70’s, even though t hey’re not.

Wait! I ’ll go outside. Of course. I ’ll see Hummers, i n-l ine skates, tile roofs, and people with piercings carrying iPods. I ’ll borrow a cell phone so I can call for help. I ’d better get some clothes on first.

I find an ugly skirt in the master bedroom closet, then run toward the front door and pull it open.