Yesterday by C. K. Kelly Martin Page A

looking over at him but doesn’t wave. I bet he doesn’t know it’s me.
    This is my life now, I tell myself. Being new wave Freya with the black hair and scary eyes and recognizing my biology teacher in a restaurant.
There’s nothing but this moment
.
    If a person tells themselves something often enough, will they begin to believe it?
    Back at home after dinner, my mom and Nancy sit in the kitchen drinking tea while I return to my closet to pick out an outfit to wear to school tomorrow—a hunter-green top and black pants. Somber but not that different to what I’d normally wear. The main thing is to avoid anything that looks remotely cheerful.
    At school on Monday morning Christine agrees to head straight for the mall with me after class to replenish my wardrobe with similarly somber and androgynous attire. Derrick approves of my new look and I notice some of the other new wavers checking me out at lunch and in the halls (especially a tall guy with a Flock of Seagulls–inspired haircut thatcompletely obscures one of his eyes, so technically I can only see
one
eye checking me out). Surprise registers in several other faces, including Seth’s and Terry’s, but the only other person who really says anything to me about my appearance is Kyle from my English class who, despite me turning him down last week, tells me he likes my hair.
    I could be imagining it (I’ve been imagining so many things lately that one more would hardly be a surprise) but for the most part it seems as if people—the guys especially—have pretty much quit staring at me by Wednesday. I make it through the first part of Wednesday feeling okay, successfully pushing thoughts of the green-eyed boy from Walmer Road to the back of my mind. But it’s impossible to avoid the fact that it was a week ago today that I trailed him home. Would he follow the same schedule and route today?
    At the end of math class, I edge over to Christine and ask whether she still thinks I should talk to the guy from my déjà vu if I see him again. She raises one eyebrow and asks, “Is that a hypothetical question or have you already seen him again?”
    I pick at my thumbnail and glance down at the Doc Martens boots Christine helped me pick out on Monday night. “I haven’t seen him but I think I know where to find him.”
    Christine frowns, her eyes flashing in alarm or surprise—I can’t tell which. She must’ve just been humoring me the other day when she mentioned past lives and toldme that I should try to make contact with the guy if I see him again.
    “Okay,” I say quietly. “You think I’m being crazy.” I know I am. I just can’t seem to help it.
    “I don’t think you’re crazy,” Christine says as we troop out of math class together and forge a path through the hallway. “It’s just a”—she sighs lightly as she searches for a more sympathetic word—“kind of an obsessive thing. Like, you’ve gotten this idea in your head and are running wild with it.”
    I continue my assault on my fingernail. “No. It’s crazy.” Crazy is when your past doesn’t feel real. Your grandfather doesn’t feel like your grandfather but you dream of a boy you don’t know and follow another home in the street. Crazy is thinking your sister isn’t your …
    Stop it, Freya. Don’t think. You’ll burn out
.
    Christine knocks her elbow against my arm. The action reminds me of the boy from my dream. She says, “Let’s think it through. If you
do
approach him, what are you going to say? And if he tells you that you’ve never met, where are you going to take it from there? If you’re really going to do this you have to be prepared for anything.”
    I’m so not. Obviously.
    Christine’s eyes bug out. “He could be mental for all you know and see this as a good opportunity to take someone home and chop them up into little pieces.”
    “Jesus, Christine,” I mutter.
    Christine tosses her head back. “Okay, so he’s probablynot psychotic but I’m just