The high school loomed ahead, three floors of red brick with the auditorium wing on one end and the gym wing on the other. I thought maybe I could find a good place there to hide out for a couple of hours. My feet were dragging, I was dizzy and not sure I could make it much further without passing out. But because it was summer, the doors were definitely going to be locked. And I remembered that because I couldn't open them, whether doors were locked was irrelevant. So I was surprised to find a window wide open, right on the first floor leading into a hallway.

I hoisted myself up over the windowsill and dropped onto the floor. I was near the auditorium, which would be a perfect place to nap. My wet shoes squished as I walked down the empty hall. Suddenly a class bell rang, doors flung open and students began pouring out of the classrooms. They swept through the hall in skirts and short-sleeved blouses, the guys in button-up shirts, dress pants and shiny shoes.

"Did ya fall in?" a guy in a letterman sweater asked loudly as he passed me, then snickered.

I tried to blend in with the crowd as I made my way to the auditorium. I ran past the rows of seats and up the stairs to the balcony. My eyes adjusted to the dim light, and I navigated my way down the wide steps hoping to find a couch.

During Sophomore year Kaitlyn convinced me to join the school theater tech crew. It was perfect because it wasn't a sport, and only involved a couple weeks of actual work for each production. I operated a spotlight, and spent hours in the balcony sitting on a comfy, broken-in leather couch. I hated the idea of being in the spotlight, but enjoyed the power of controlling where the audience looked.

This time there wasn't a couch, or even a comfortable chair, so I laid down on the wood floor and fanned out my skirt to help it to dry. In spite of my racing pulse from navigating an unexpected hallway full of people, I immediately fell asleep.

                                     ~~~~~~

When I woke up my mouth was dry, my limbs were heavy, and I had no clue where I was. Even though I had experienced it before, there was no growing accustomed to the disoriented, unsettling feeling of waking in an unfamiliar place.

I quickly sat up and looked down at the stage as I patted my clothes and hair. My dress was dry and stiff. Falling asleep on my wet hair had turned it into a frizzy mess. I tied my hair back into a knot and cautiously left the quiet shelter of the balcony and ventured into the hallway. The first classroom that I peeked into was empty, and so was the second. At the other end of the hall, the window I entered through- my planned escape route- was closed.

I panicked as I ran around the entire first floor of the school, checking for open doors or windows. I tried and failed to open every single one. Even throwing all my body weight into pushing open the main door did nothing. It was heavy and hard for me to open even when I had all my strength.

Would I be stuck in the eerily empty school all night? What if it was Friday and I was stuck here all weekend? Would I be able to raid the cafeteria for food? What were they doing in school in July anyway? Then a thought crossed my mind: I could have skipped July and gone straight to September. School was in session and the pool was drained. Was summer over?

Every classroom, hallway and stairwell was silent, until I turned a corner and reached a computer lab. A high-pitched grinding noise and the smell of freshly cut lumber poured into the hallway from the open door. The rows of computers were replaced by rows of metal workbenches, and near the back of the room there was a man engulfed in a cloud of sawdust operating a table saw.

Afraid he'd catch me staring at him, I darted into the darkened classroom next door and squeezed my eyes shut to think. I decided I'd have to wait for him to leave and follow him out, which I probably couldn't do without having to talk to him. He was older, probably a teacher. What excuse did I have to be in the building after everyone else had left? Studying? I didn't have any books.

I opened my eyes to a room packed with three junky old cars and workbenches scattered with auto parts and tools. There was a garage door at the back of the room. Light poured through a wide crack at the bottom and I did a little happy dance once I'd identified my path to freedom. I crept between the cars, laid on the cement floor and wiggled under the garage door to freedom.

I started to cross the parking lot behind the school toward the pool, but hesitated when I heard the sound of brass instruments rising in the distance. I peered down the street in the other direction where there was a small crowd gathered two blocks away. I decided going home could wait a few more minutes and I wedged myself into the crowd.

It wasn't a very celebratory Independence Day parade, if that's what it was. I wasn't sure of the date anymore. There were rows of men in uniform walking behind a few olive green military trucks. They marched with flags and guns and solemn faces. The people lining the sidewalk spilled onto the street and followed the end of the parade as it passed. I moved with the herd of people until everybody gathered around a stage in the park in front of the city hall that was decorated with red, white and blue banners.

A man looking uncomfortably warm in his suit approached the microphone and introduced a woman who sang the national anthem. The entire crowd sang along with their right hands over their hearts. Moved by a swell of patriotism I wasn't used to experiencing, or maybe imagined social pressure, I placed my hand over my heart and mouthed the words.

The mayor dabbed at his sweaty forehead with a handkerchief and began speaking. "On this Memorial Day, we pay tribute to our fallen soldiers, the fathers, brothers and sons who have given the ultimate sacrifice to maintain our freedom. As we approach eight years since the conclusion of the Second World War, we continue to mourn the loss of our fallen soldiers..."

I never thought I would need to recall anything from U.S. History class unless I was playing a trivia game. Nineteen forty-five sounded right. Plus eight years. Nineteen fifty-three. I shivered. A young woman beside me sniffled, and I noticed that more than a few people in the crowd were shedding quiet tears. To me, Memorial Day meant an extra day off of school, getting out my summer clothes and eating chips with various dips. The guilt I felt showed in the flush that crept up my neck and cheeks.

Then it hit me that Memorial Day was at the end of May, which was why school was still in session and the pool wasn't open yet. If it was May, and I met Pete on the last day of school in June, then there was no reason for him to recognize me. I'd have to come back sometime after the middle of June, but I had no idea how to do that. It no longer occurred to me that I shouldn't try it, that maybe I shouldn't cross paths with Pete again, or that it could even be dangerous. For some reason it was obvious to me: I had to try to see him again.

The crowd scattered after the Memorial Day ceremony. Every store that I walked by on Main Street was closed in observance of the holiday. There was no one around when I got back to the pool. As quickly as possible, I climbed the fence, jumped into the shallow end and waded into the murky water, trying my best not to smell it or even look at it. I slipped below the water and the rush hit me. The whole time travel thing had simultaneously become easier and much more difficult than I had anticipated.

                                   ~~~~~~

Leaning against the counter in my mom's kitchen, I watched as she held a serving platter against a hot metal pan, preparing to flip a pineapple upside-down cake. If it went poorly, she would erupt into a hilarious string of swear words, and I wasn't about to miss it. My mother had a special gift for cursing, yet every time I swore in front of her she scolded me.

She was not a cook; before Chris was around, most of our dinners were pre-prepared food that came from a bag in the freezer, or if she was feeling ambitious we'd have "Salad Bar!" which consisted of lettuce and a bunch of chopped up veggies in little bowls. When she had a bad commute home we had cereal for dinner and ate on the couch in front of the television. But she loved baking, and that Saturday afternoon Mom was whipping up my grandpa's favorite.

A few years after my parents divorced, Grandpa Walt had made a comment at Christmas dinner about how he missed my mom's shortbread cookies. It was awkward because I think Jackie's feelings were hurt, but I told my mom what he'd said anyway. Ever since then my grandpa regularly received deliveries of cookies, cakes, and pies from my mom.

She held her breath, flipped the pan onto the plate, and lifted it to reveal pineapple rings with maraschino cherry centers lined up in perfect rows across the top of the glistening cake.

"Success!" she exclaimed as she wiped her hands on her apron.

"It looks like rows of zombie eyeballs."

She scoffed. "Fine, then I guess you don't want any."

"Nope."

As she carefully placed a huge chunk of the cake in a plastic container, she asked, "What is wrong with you lately?"

"What do you mean 'lately'? You ask me that all the time."

It was true. According to my mom, there was always something wrong with me: my attitude, my laziness, my "warped" sense of humor. But this time she was right. I'd been living inside my own head for days; preoccupied with figuring out how to time my visits to the summer of 1953 and coming up with no logical ideas. But then what could be logical about something as illogical as travelling to the past?

"Quit slouching," she said as she jabbed her finger between my shoulder blades.

I rolled my shoulders forward and hunched my back to irritate her, then pulled in my chin and curled my lips back to create an exaggerated overbite. She slid the plastic container into a zippered plastic bag for extra waterproofing, then glanced up at me and rolled her eyes.

"Kin I go naw?" I asked in my best hillbilly voice.

"Give Grandpa Walt a hug for me," she said as she handed over the cake.

I knew I probably wouldn't do that, because neither of us were huggers. To me, pineapple upside-down cake seemed like a good enough symbolic hug from my mom.

On my way to the dock, I took off the oversized t-shirt I had on over my swimsuit and waved it at a seagull to shoo it away. I watched the seagull fly away cawing while I buckled up my life jacket, then climbed down the ladder into the waist-deep water and shivered. The river always felt cold. I waded through the grey-green water to the jet ski and untied it, then lifted the seat to place the cake in the storage compartment. Once I'd shimmied to the front of the seat, I pressed the button to start the jet-ski, inhaled the gasoline smell and wondered how many brain cells I'd killed in that moment.

My mom lived on a sheltered inlet of the river, where the water was shallow and slow-moving. The waterfront was cluttered with docks, boat hoists, and clusters of wooden pilings tied together with thick rope to break up the ice floes in the winter. Grandpa Walt lived on Deere Island, which was only a few minutes away by boat. The rolling waves were smooth and wide and I skipped across them easily as water sprayed my legs and my hair whipped around my face.

The canal to my grandpa's house was partially obscured by the feathery branches of weeping willow trees skimming the surface of the water.  I steered between the branches, idled up to the break wall in front of the white cottage and tied off next to his aluminum fishing boat. Grandpa always liked to say he lived in "The Venice of America", which apparently was what they used to call this cluster of islands back when it was a major resort destination for Detroiters, before it was easy to buy a plane ticket and fly somewhere better.

Grandpa Walt was napping in a chair on the screened-in porch with a book open on his lap, which was to be expected. As far as I could tell, my grandpa spent his days fishing, smoking, reading and napping, often simultaneously. I knocked gently on the door and could already smell the cherry pipe tobacco scent that had permeated the room.

"Well! Hello, Vanessa," he said as he stirred to life, trying to play it off as if he'd been awake. "Come on in." His voice was deep and rumbling like distant thunder.

"Hi, Grandpa. Pineapple upside-down cake from Mom."

"Is your mother trying to clog my arteries and give me a heart attack? I hope she knows she's not getting any inheritance from me."

"Oh, that's too bad. She's always had her eye on your 1974 Encyclopedia Brittanica."

"She has, huh?"

"No. Why do you even have a thirty volume Encyclopedia when you can just use the internet?"

This was our routine, with other items standing in for the encyclopedia: fishing lure collection, assortment of painted wooden ducks, creaky wicker porch furniture.

"I don't trust the internet," he growled with disapproval. "There's too much garbage online."

He leaned forward with his palms on his knees, heaved himself out of the sinking chair and ambled rigidly into the kitchen with the cake. My grandpa was tanned, tall and angular; sharp elbows, knobby knees, straight pointed nose. He lived in threadbare short-sleeved button up shirts that were probably at least thirty years old and Dickies Original work pants that he probably bought at Meijer.

"You want a piece?" he asked.

"Yes, please."

We sat at the table, silently enjoying our cake. Beyond the usual banter about my mom's lack of inheritance, we didn't talk very much. I scanned the bookshelves against the wall. They were full of history books, with the occasional legal thriller, and picture frames scattered throughout. My grandparents on their wedding day looked out from a tarnished silver frame right at my eye level. I got a chill, thinking of my run-in with Grandma Rose in May of 1953. Even though I remembered it as clear as could be, it didn't seem real.

"Have you started visiting colleges?" he asked as he placed his fork on the empty plate.

"Not yet. I have tours of State and U of M at the beginning of August."

"You know what you're going to study yet?"

I sighed. I hated talking about college. I'd looked forward to it for years, but once it started to get real and I was on the cusp of making actual life-changing decisions, I freaked out and shut down every time I thought about it. It didn't help that I was spending the summer preoccupied with living part of my life in the past.

"What did you do after you graduated, Grandpa?"

"I joined the Army."

"Like, right away?"

"That's right."

"When did you and Grandma start dating?"

He took his glasses off and leaned back in his chair. "Oh, I don't know."

"Were you high school sweethearts?" I teased.

"Not quite." A hint of a grin ticked at the corner of his mouth.

"Well?"

"I always admired her. But she had her own high school sweetheart. I remember hearing that they had split up, a few weeks before graduation. It sure made my day. But I didn't have the courage to ask her out."

"Until when?"

"Until I thought I was a few weeks away from being sent to Korea." I waited for further explanation as he inspected the lenses of his glasses, grimaced and pulled a hanky from his back pocket to clean them. "One day you realize that you really are going to die at some point."

"Well, yeah, I know that." I shifted uncomfortably in my chair.

"Sure. But you probably think of dying as something that happens to old people. I did too, until the first time it really hit me:  that it's inevitable and sometimes unpredictable. For all of us, there's a day in the future that will be our last." I leaned forward, engrossed and hardly believing my gruff, quiet grandfather was having a sort of heart-to-heart with me. "When I found out my cousin, Harry, was killed in Korea. Twenty years old. I went straight to the city pool, where your grandmother worked that summer, and asked her out on a date."

Then I envisioned the scene as if it were my own memory. Walter, with urgency in his gait, approached the pool and interrupted a swim class to ask Rose a question. They spoke through the chain link fence, his fingers wrapped in the metal loops, she blushed and quickly accepted.

Maybe it was my memory somehow.

"What was the date?" I asked.

"Oh, only dinner and a movie. We went to see-"

"I mean, the date, date. When was it?"

The faint smile he had on his face fell and he suddenly looked very grave. His eyes briefly studied my face and behind them I could almost see his brain quickly processing thoughts like he was making a decision.  Or maybe he simply couldn't remember.  What a stupid question to ask about something that happened decades ago.

"It was around the end of June, I think." He hesitated for a moment, and then continued, "Your grandmother was teaching swimming classes and sometimes working at the entrance, collecting admission fees. I spent that summer before basic training working for the city; doing odd jobs, maintenance and repairs. One day a step on one of the ladders at the pool broke, and while I fixed it that was the first time I really got to talking with her, without anybody else around." He cleared his throat and went on, "After that day, I noticed a lot of strange work orders coming in from the pool." He smiled. "I'd show up to fix a leaky showerhead in the locker room and find no leak, things like that. I'd always end up talking with her, but I couldn't take a hint."

"So, then what?"

"Once I finally got the nerve to ask her out, I knew on our first date that I had to marry her. Early on, we went together to a dance at the summer carnival. Dancing with Rosemary Durand in front of all those people was the proudest moment of my life at the time. We saw a lot of each other that summer. I wasn't about to waste any of the time I had, just in case."

Suddenly he turned to cough into his shoulder.

"So, how's your new job going?" he asked as he turned back. His eyes were shining and my throat tightened. I felt sorry for making him remember happy moments he'd never have back with someone who was gone forever.

                                 ~~~~~~

That night I laid awake in bed listening to the low hum of a freighter passing through the river. The huge cargo-carrying ships caused gentle pulsations in the ground that went unnoticed during the day, but in the quiet stillness of the night the humming usually helped lull me to sleep when my mind was racing.

But I wasn't even close to drifting off. All I could think about was that summer long ago that by some miraculous glitch I'd visited twice. I couldn't fall asleep until I rationalized why I needed to try to go back a third time.

Maybe it was because I'd discovered something that I could do, that as far as I knew, other people couldn't, and I wanted to get better at it. It might have been like the feeling that athletes got when they first put a basketball through a hoop or threw a touchdown pass or did some other sports thing. If it was the same spark I felt, then I finally understood why they got up at five in the morning to train before school and subjected themselves to