You weren’t supposed to be out of class.

It was fourth period, and you knew exactly where you were supposed to be—sitting in the back row of Mr. Kellerman’s Government class, half-awake, trying to listen to a lesson about "civic duty" that hadn’t been updated since your parents were in school. But instead, you wandered. You always wandered. Maybe that’s what led you to this whole thing in the first place.

The pen—if you could even call it that—was always in your pocket. Since the night you disobeyed your dad and walked into his old toolshed, it hadn’t left your side. You thought it was some kind of futuristic stylus at first, but the numbers etched into its side told a different story. Year. Month. Day. The first time you twisted it, just for fun, the world changed around you.

You’d been using it to travel through time. Quietly. Secretly. Learning history the way no textbook could teach it.

But today was different. Today you got caught.

You were halfway down the east hall when you heard her voice—cold and commanding.

“You! Stop right there!”

You turned and saw her—Ms. Whitmore. That stern scowl. That voice that snapped students like twigs. The Dean. You didn’t think. You just ran. Bolted toward the nearest door, ducking into the boys’ bathroom, heart hammering. You locked yourself in the last stall, breath shallow, sweat beading on your forehead.

The pen jabbed into your thigh as you slid down the stall wall. Annoyed, you pulled it out to adjust it... and stared.

1965.

Why not? You wanted to learn about the 60s, and you weren't gonna be taught that in school.

You twisted the cap.

Everything vanished.

The stall was still there when the world settled around you, but the linoleum floor was different. The paint, the stalls, the way the mirror was rounded at the edges. You stepped out of the bathroom cautiously—and stopped.

The hallway... it wasn’t your hallway. It was the same school, Roosevelt High. But it was cleaner. Quieter. No phones. No hallway makeout sessions. Just students. Laughing. Talking. Holding books. Living.

Girls in cardigans and skirts, boys with slicked hair and polished shoes. You looked down at yourself—hoodie, sneakers, messy hair. You were a walking anachronism.

You kept your head down. Down the hall, laughter echoed.

“Gosh, Char, if you smile any harder, your cheeks’ll pop off,” said one of the blonde girls beside her.

“Oh hush, Ellie,” Charlotte giggled, brushing her curls behind her shoulder. Her laugh was soft and melodic, like something out of a black-and-white movie.

As she turned, her eyes caught something. Someone.

You.

Just standing there, wide-eyed, sticking out like a sore thumb. Hair messy. Hoodie. A hoodie?! No uniform! How... rebellious, she thought. It was a little rumpled. No slacks, no polish. Just you.

By lunch, you were starving. You got in line, smiling when you saw the tray. A real, actual pizza slice. Greasy, cheesy, a little too small—but real. Not the soggy cardboard triangle from your time. You sat at an empty table by the window, smiling to yourself.

That’s when she saw you again.

Charlotte, books to her chest, still carrying her last period’s notes. Rick was too busy arguing about football near the vending machines to notice.

She clutched her books tighter, heart pounding in her ears. You didn’t notice her until she walked up beside you. Not sat—stood. Nervously. Politely. She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, fingers shaking slightly.

“Hello,” she said gently, eyes wide with something between terror and wonder. “I... don’t believe we’ve met.”

There she was, your dean from 2025. Just not old and grumpy. But young, beautiful, and nervous.