All of a sudden, fine tremors roll along my skin like choppy ocean waves. For my birthday last year, Archie bought me the autographed tank from eBay…and a pair of earplugs for himself. Can’t really blame him. I might have been singing about not throwing away my shot from dawn to dusk. But more than the prospect of my nearly ruined shirt, I’m freaked out because of what this vision implies. About the Voice, about its presence in my head.

“Who are you?” I ask again.

The Voice takes a breath, a fluttering of air inside my brain. Or maybe that’s me. Or the both of us together. I have this eerie sensation of breathing with this being, of our lungs (if she has them) rising and falling as one. Me, on this floor. And her…wherever she happens to be.

“I always loved that top,” she says musingly. “Maybe it was silly to pick this moment to prove a point, but I might as well save our favorite shirt, if I could.”

I shake my head. “What…what are you saying?”

“It’s nice to meet you, Alice,” she says gently. “I’m you from the future. Ten years older.”

Chapter 4

Chapter 4

My mouth drops. Air wheezes in and out, but it’s like I’ve grown gills in place of lungs. The room dips and spins so violently, it’s all I can do to hang on to the doorjamb and not slide across the linoleum.

She… Me… Well, flaming monkeys. We. Us.

Is it possible? The Voice is me? An older Alice Sherman?

“Ticktock,” the Voice says. Or maybe I should refer to her as “me.” But I can’t. Not yet. I can’t wrap my head around this new reality so soon. If ever. “We only have a short amount of time. Our consciousness can travel for a few minutes during each visit. Go ahead. Ask your questions.”

“What questions?” I croak. It’s a wonder I can still talk.

“All the things you’ve never told a single soul. The answers to which only you—or your older self—would know. My knowledge of the wine spill should tell you I’m from the future. The questions will prove that the rest of it is true. I am you, and you will one day become me.”

A puff of oxygen slides into my chest, and the room begins to right itself. She knows me so well. She knows exactly what I need to get over this shock. Exactly what will push me into the realm of believing.

Proof. In the only form available to me.

“Who did I crush on in the first grade?” The question spills out of me like a geyser.

“Easy. Steven Chu. You pretended you thought he was disgusting, but you were giddy every time he pulled one of your braids.”