“Yoo-hoo, Ms. Silverthorn!” Oh my god, even I’m not gay enough to say “yoo-hoo” but that’s what comes out, and it works. He turns to see how close his English teacher is and, at that moment, I sprint for it.

Athletic, I am not, but speedy, I am. I have always had absurdly long legs, and fear makes me a jackrabbit. Gordo looks more muscular here than I remember him from growing up, but he’s always been stocky and broad-chested. No one this bulky is going to be able to catch me. (I just now realize his name is funny—what Cuban would do that to their kid?)

I race uphill toward Faculty Row, where the teachers live in mirror-image split-level homes. When I hazard a glance backward, Gordo isn’t following me. In fact, he’s nowhere in sight. It occurs to me that he won this fight: I did just what he wanted. Instead of feeling relieved, I’m a little pissed that he got his way.

Flight no longer necessary, I double over, holding both knees to brace myself. This is not a concussion. This is something all at once much worse and, like, kind of amazing.

I know just what to do. The next-to-last last home on Faculty Row is Ms. Silverthorn’s. If there is any door in all the world to knock on when you’ve come from the future, it’s hers. Or, at least, I hope it is because I have no plan B.

Seriously, I’m kinda proud of myself. I’ve only been here for minutes, and I’m already working it. I don’t know if that is a mental flaw or a testament to my fierceness. But there it is.

I’m here, I’m queer, it’s 1985—get used to it.

Careful What You Wish For

Careful What You Wish For

Ms. Silverthorn’s house, which would be new to her in this time, is where we hold all the drama club cast parties. I have fallen asleep on her sectional more times than I can count, and I’ve even cooked in her kitchen (an ill-fated attempt at a big Cuban feast, for which I was, um, underprepared).

I feel better—until I knock on her door.

It swings open to an empty house. The layout is eerily familiar, but it is freshly painted and unoccupied. The fireplace where we made indoor s’mores is pristine, and the mantel above it begs for artwork. I could cry. Except, the view from her window is wrong. This isn’t her house.

I step onto the lawn and count. One, two, three, four, five—ohhh. In my time, there are seven houses on Faculty Row, but here are only six. Though Silverthorn’s house is second-to-last in my time, it’s the last one here, and when I knock at its door, she answers.