Angela and I took on Paul and Kendra, with team horror heckling from the sidelines. Pool was not Angela’s thing. She was more about getting volleyballs over nets than billiard balls into pockets.

“You’re never gonna sink a ball if you hold the cue like that,” Leo told her.

“Will you shut up? Losers don’t get to give advice,” she told him.

“It’s not how she’s holding the cue,” I offered, then turned to her. “You’re just not lining up your eye. Here, I’ll show you.”

I put my arm around her to help her line up the shot, and the instant I came in contact with her, it was like I got zapped with an electric shock that only I could feel. I pulled away suddenly . . .

. . . Because I knew.

Beyond a shadow of a doubt, I knew. And all from that brief moment of contact. Angela looked at me funny. “What’s up with you?”

“Nothing,” I said. “I just . . . I gotta use the bathroom,” I said, and I bailed out of there, nearly tackling Norris on the way out.

“Hey, I’m standin’ here!” Norris yelled after me.

I locked the door to the bathroom. I splashed cold water on my face, again and again, not caring that it soaked my shirt.

In the world where I came from—in the world where I belonged—Angela, being Leo’s younger sister, made her like a sister to me. I would never put moves on her. But in this world, we had secretly hooked up last spring. And we were the only ones who knew.

Who are we, really? Science would tell us that we are nothing more than the sum of our experiences. Faith would tell us that we are a spark that exists separate from the drama of our lives. I’ve never thought about these things much. On those late nights when friends would get all metaphysical and would start talking about how the universe might be just a crushed bug on the floor of a much bigger universe, I never got involved. The way I always saw it, the stuff that’s impossible to figure out was pointless to think about. That attitude left me at a distinct disadvantage now that I was smack in the middle of a metaphysical crisis.

I thought that all possible versions of myself would still be me. But they’re not. It was a cold and very rude awakening to discover that the me of this world was not a guy I liked at all. Not that I was anything close to perfect before. I’ve cheated on tests, and lied my way out of bad behavior plenty of times. But the me that I knew wouldn’t deal drugs, and would never, ever, in a million years, hook up with his best friend’s sister behind his back.