I decided to reclaim prom night from its past horror by replicating the Duckie outfit I never got to dance in, with a few significant twists: the same style jacket, but now in a really hot shade of fuchsia with a flawless DeLorean pin at my collar. At the formal wear shop, I convinced Cheng to rent a tux in tangerine, he calls it orange, which I let slide, so together we’re like a walking sunset. And my god, he’s so gorgeous, I could jump him right here on the school lawn where everyone is taking photos.

We’re posing, at my insistence, in front of the amazing (and new-to-me) “Wilson-Gale Center for the Arts.” Improved in every way from the arts building of my original timeline, this one boasts a plaque in Chaz’s honor, thanking him and his husband Ernie for funding the project. Cheng thinks it’s the wrong spot for photos; there’s a tree up front that’s prettier. But I remind him that I saved their lives and, in turn, he and I get to go to prom together.

His response? “Okay.”

Whatever he thinks of my time traveling, he looks gorgeous tonight as Mrs. Somboon-Fox herself takes our prom photo. She has heard our exchange and chortles. “Are you on that story again? You’re hilarious.” Days ago, I tried to talk to her about what happened, thinking she was like Mom and Ms. Silverthorn, a witness who’d back me up. But it was as if the decades had erased the memory that we’d ever met.

I try again now. “It’s not just a ‘story,’ and you should know because you were there!”

She pats my arm, quoting the Wizard of Oz. “And YOU were there, Scarecrow!” I start to argue, but she won’t hear it. “I didn’t even GO to this school. I was on campus three or four times, always delivering flowers.”

“I know. I’ve seen the van!”

She moves on to take pictures of Bryce and his date, a starry-eyed freshman, chuckling. “You kids are so WACK!” Ugh. In any timeline, her 2020s self always knows just the wrong word.

What’s wild is that everyone thinks that an inclusive prom was her idea. She has a reputation for being nearly as accepting as Ms. Silverthorn, and no one has a clue that her openness was made possible by two boys being true to themselves in 1985. She can’t really picture how much the truth once cost. A week ago, you could’ve said the same about me.

Prom flies by too fast. I built up this night for years, years, and it only lasts a few hours. But what hours!