Rewind (Teen Fiction Collection) (2 page)

And then there was Becky Lane,
blocking the door in front of me. Her expression was dark.

“What the hell do you think you’re
doing?” she said. It was almost a snarl, and it turned her face ugly.

“Trying to leave,” I said politely.

“Look, I don’t know who you think
you are, or why you think you can throw yourself all over my boyfriend, but
stay the hell away, ok?”

I wish I could say that what I
did next I did because of years of bullying, teasing, being downtrodden and
treated badly. It would have been better, I suppose, as the culmination of
long-harboured resentment, rather than spontaneous recklessness. But the truth
is, Becky Lane didn't have a history of bullying me, not even the odd snide
comment as I passed. She'd never said anything to me, nor I to her. She wasn’t
the nicest person, if you believed the gossip in the corridors, but the two of
us, we'd never had anything to do with each other.

But when else was I going to get
the chance to do this with no consequences? I’d always wondered what it'd be
like to hit someone.

I slapped Becky Lane, open handed,
across the face.

I suppose I wasn't thinking
straight. I was drunk on power, on freedom. While she was still staring at me,
agog, I was thinking, 'that didn't feel right, it wasn't satisfying enough',
and wanting to know what it was like to punch someone. And then my hand was
curling into a fist and I had done it, I had punched her in the stomach. For
absolutely no reason.

I was aghast. I was shocked and
appalled with myself. I had never considered myself a violent person, and here
I was, feeling  good. Yes It had felt good, in a bad, powerful find of way. I
was ashamed. When the teachers came and dragged me to the principal, I let
them. I listened to him rant, I agreed with everything he said. I had no excuse
for why I’d done it.

It’s all going to go away
,
I told myself.
In less than 12 hours this never happened, I never hit Becky
Lane for no reason.

As I walked to detention, I felt
the stares and whispers following me. I had become infamous. I would have felt
uncomfortable, but it wasn't going to last. Just this once, I would revel in
it, and then I’d go back to normality, to quiet, inconsequential little me.

I felt my back straighten ever so
slightly as I walked.

Don't get me wrong, I'm not a
heartless person. I wasn't proud of hitting Becky Lane, it’s just that it
wasn't real. In a few hours, it never happened, so why worry about it? It’s not
like I’d do it again if it was for real.

I felt exhilarated, to tell you
the truth. I still had my cloak of invincibility on, and I felt like I could
take on anything. Me, who was apt to get teary if anyone raised their voice,
staring down the chastising teachers with my chin raised, sitting here in
detention like it didn't matter a whit.

And then I grew discontented. Why
was I sitting here in detention, when I only had a few hours left? I glanced at
the clocks. Less than 8 hours. I had to use them, I couldn't waste them sitting
here in detention, being punished for something that I wouldn't have ever done
- tenses got a bit muddled that day.

I stood up. I had found out what
it was like to hit someone. There was so much else to find out. What was there
that I’d never do in real life that I could try out now? Nothing in here, that's
for sure. I had to get out of here.

I strode boldly towards the door.
The supervising teacher stood up, and asked me where I thought I was going. I
smiled brightly at him.

“Sorry, Mr Denver, I have to
leave now.”

“You can’t just walk out of here,
you're in detention.”

Oh it was glorious to be able to
do and say exactly what you wanted. No repercussions, no consequences - none
that stuck, anyway. Just a completely free reign.

“Yeah, sorry, I'm kind of over
that,” I said. “I have places to be.”

I don't blame him for getting
riled up at my tone. It’s not a way I would have spoken to anyone, especially a
teacher, in normal circumstances. He stepped right in front of me and his face
was slowly turning an attractive shade of puce.

“Excuse me, young lady,” he said,
“but I will not be spoken to like that. Return to your seat immediately.”

Now I don’t want you to think
that just because I was free of consequences for 24 hours that I turned into
some kind of violent hoodlum. I want to stress, I don’t like violence. I don’t
like hitting people and I don’t intend on doing it again anytime soon, or
indeed ever - it was merely an academic curiosity with Becky. With Mr Denver,
it was a matter of necessity. I was only going to get this chance once in my
lifetime and precious seconds were ticking past.

I put my hands firmly on Mr
Denver’s chest and pushed, hard. He stumbled backwards, taken by surprise, and
whacked his head on the side of the board. I didn’t stick around to watch him
fall under the desk or lie there groaning - I ran. I ran hard and I ran fast .
I kept telling myself that none of this was real, that it was all going to be
erased, but I was shaking. God, I was shaking like a leaf.

I ran out of the school gates,
not looking where I was going - I attacked a teacher,
oh Christ I attacked a
teacher
- and then suddenly the pavement fell away beneath me and I was
stumbling and a car horn was blaring and brakes were screeching -

I used my momentum to carry
myself to the other side of the road, and once I was there I clutched a tree,
feeling the bark scratch my forearms and not caring, needing the sensation,
needing something to feel real. My heart was pounding and all I could think was
that I might have died.

I looked behind me at the road,
and my stomach dropped through my shoes. The car that had honked and swerved to
avoid hitting me had mounted the kerb - and hit some other poor kid. He was
lying motionless on the ground, blood trickling out from under his hair, face
deathly white. The woman who had been driving the car got out and staggered,
like she’d lost control of her legs, her mouth wide open like she couldn’t
believe what had happened.

Everyone around was rushing
towards the kid, and from the shouts of those closest to him, it wasn’t looking
good. Someone was yelling at someone else to call an ambulance; another girl
was screaming that it was too late.

It was only a matter of time
before someone looked to me.

I ran. My own legs were shaking, but
I forced them to run. This wasn’t right, this wasn’t what I’d wanted. When this
had all started, I was going to use it to make careful, informed decisions. I’d
find out the consequence of a particular course of action, and decide based on
those consequences what I’d do the real time around. But now it was all
spiralling out of control, it was reckless, it was pushing me onwards and
turning me into someone I didn’t recognise, something I didn’t like. I had
punched Becky Lane. Oh god, I had killed some poor innocent kid!

It doesn’t count
, I told
myself
, it will all be erased, none of this is for real.
I told my legs
to keep pounding.
It doesn’t count, it will be erased, it’s not for real, it
doesn’t count.
The words didn’t mean anything anymore. Maybe it would all
be erased, but that didn’t change the fact that it was happening now. The bark
under my hands had been real. The screech of the car’s brakes, that had been
real. The kid was real, the blood was real, all of it was really happening.

I felt myself begin to sob, and
came to a shuddering halt. I slid down a wall and dropped my head into my
hands.
What is happening,
I whispered to myself.

That kid was dead. I knew it, I
just felt it in my bones. He was dead, and it was all my fault. What if he didn’t
come back to life when time reset? What if there was some sort of loophole? If
he did come back to life, would he remember being dead? Was it possible he
could forget ever having died? It seemed too huge to erase.

I kneaded my forehead with my
knuckles. Real or not, permanent or not, I couldn’t get over the fact that I
had directly caused someone to die.

To die!

I’d wanted to experience
something I wouldn’t experience otherwise. I’d wanted to know the consequences
of something I’d never try in real life. What greater question was there to
answer than this - what happens when you die?

The breath caught in my throat,
and my tears dried cold on my cheeks. I wasn’t really considering this. Was I?

But it was the strangest thing.
Now it had occurred to me, it was all I could think of. It seemed so obvious.
What else could I do with a chance like this? What else would come close to
being as meaningful as finding out the truth of what happened after death? Wasn’t
this the question that we had been asking ourselves for millennia? Wasn’t this
the question behind all religion and spiritual thought? The idea that there was
an afterlife - heaven, hell, nirvana, and reincarnation - the idea that death
wasn’t…isn’t the end - what if I could disprove that? I swallowed. What if I
could prove that?

I’ve never considered myself
particularly religious. If I had to I’d say I was Christian - I was christened,
at least - but we hadn’t been to church every Sunday since I was about 4, and
even now it was hit-and-miss whether we’d make it at Christmas. Did I believe
in heaven? It was a comforting thought, I reasoned, to have it there, even if
it might not be true. My heart thudded painfully. Was I brave enough to find
out?

I looked at my watch. It was
almost half past five. I stared at it for a while. It didn’t really matter what
time it was, if I was going to do this that would be the end of my little
adventure. I’d wake up again at
last
midnight like none of this had ever
happened - if I woke up at all.

I was still shaking. I got to my
feet, steadying myself against the wall. I walked a few streets until I
realised where I was.
Just go home
, I told myself.
Just go home and
wait for this all to be over.
I suddenly desperately wanted to make up with
my sister.

I knew I wasn’t going to go home.
I had to do it. I had to know. The idea repulsed me and it made me weak with
fear, but I had to know. I was the only person who was ever going to be able to
do this. I wouldn’t even be able to tell anyone what I knew without being
ridiculed. But I’d wanted power, wanted to do something life-changing and
world-rocking: this had to be it. I was going to face my own mortality.

It’s a strange feeling, being a
dead man walking. Especially when you’ve signed your own execution. Bizarrely,
I started thinking of things I’d miss, getting nostalgic and thinking of the
things I hadn’t done yet.
I’ll be back tomorrow
, I said.
Today, in
fact. It’ll be like it never happened.

As it turned out, I was pretty
near the office block where my mum worked. I walked towards it, praying I
wouldn’t bump into her. Sort of hoping I would. If I was going to die today,
even for a few hours, I’d like a hug before I went.

I went into Mum’s building and
pushed the button for the top floor. I knew how to get onto the roof; we - my
sister and I - had been friends with Mum’s assistant for years, and a couple of
times when we were little she’d left us with him for the odd few hours. Once he
took us on the roof of the building, and we thought it was just magical, the
streets laid out below us, the tiny cars and even tinier people. Milling
around, like ants. He’d laughed, and said it was where he came for a smoke. I’d
been up there once or twice since.

I was surprised nobody stopped
me. I think the trick is to look as though you’re supposed to be there, you
know exactly where you’re going and why, and people will believe it. I was
still in my school uniform - perhaps they thought I was here to visit a parent.
On another day, I could have been.

It was cold when I pushed open
the heavy door to the roof. The wind was up, whipping my hair and skirt and
raising the goose-pimples on my arms. I blinked and squinted through it. I
walked along the edge of the building, all the way around. The streets were
laid out below me just like they always were. I traced well-known routes with
my finger. That was the way to get home, there was my school, there was the
route the bus took to get to the cinema. I felt very calm. Pigeons fluttered
and took off around me.

I climbed up onto the parapet.

And then I panicked.

What the hell was I doing? I didn’t
want this. But I couldn’t move. I was being driven towards it. It felt like
something else was pushing me to do it, but it wasn’t - it was me. I was being
consumed by the desire to know. The desire to be able to do the unthinkable, to
cross to the other side and be able to return.

I looked down. I almost fainted.
I was a long way up. My heart thudded in my chest and my knees felt like water.
I looked at my watch. I had plenty of time. I could go home and come back and
do this later. What was the big rush?

And then I was falling.

I’ve never been one for
rollercoasters. That feeling like your stomach is flying upwards and being left
behind, that never appealed to me. This was different. There would be no swoop
as the carriage led me away from the ground, to safety. The ground was coming
up and there was nothing I could do to stop it.

I have never felt fear like I
felt right then. I was fear, I was nothing but terror. I thought of my parents,
my sister, my dog. I thought of my fifth birthday party and skiing for the
first time and Easter treasure hunts and picnics in the park. I thought of my
mum. God, I wanted my mum. The wind was rushing in my ears and I could feel my
arms flailing, and the scream of someone in the street seeing me, and the
ground was rushing up to meet me and -