Parallel

panel closest to me, pulling it to one side. The sky is bright blue, dotted with puffy cotton-ball clouds. I guess the weatherman was wrong.
    I slide the curtains closed and snuggle down under my sheets. I’m supposed to meet Caitlin and Tyler for brunch at Commons before his flight back to Michigan (all the talk of impermanent realities convinced Caitlin to let him come visit), but that’s not until ten, giving me at least another hour of sleep. The delicious, semiconscious, edge-of-wonderland kind of sleep, where I’m awake enough to control my dreams but asleep enough to forget that I’m doing it.
    “Abby?” I peer out from under my covers. Marissa is at my doorway, dressed in yoga gear and holding a yoga mat. “It’s quarter till. Aren’t you going to be late?”
    Late? Late for what?
    It is at this moment that I realize the previously overlooked flaw in my morning ritual. Just because the events I’ve photographed haven’t been overwritten doesn’t mean my reality hasn’t changed in other, undocumented ways.
    I feign sleepy confusion. “Wait, what day is it?” Fingers crossed that whatever I’m late for isn’t an everyday thing.
    Marissa looks at me like I’m crazy. “It’s Sunday. Don’t you have to be at the boathouse at eight?”
    The boathouse?
    “Oh, right . . . Yeah. Thanks for reminding me! I’d better get up.” I flash a smile and throw off the covers.
    “Okay, well, I guess I’ll see you later, then,” she says, still eyeing me. “I have Bikram at eight, then I’ll probably head to the library for a couple hours.” She makes a face. “I have two chapters of Ulysses to finish before tomorrow.”
    I nod distractedly. “Good luck with that.” I’m anxious for her to leave so I can call Caitlin. As soon as the door clicks shut, I lunge for my phone.
    My call goes straight to voicemail. I start talking before the beep.
    “Why is your phone off?!? When your best friend is suffering from some freaky astrophysical phenomenon—is astrophysical even a word?—you’re supposed to keep your phone on. At all times. Who else can tell me why I’m supposed to be at the boathouse at eight in the freaking morning on a Sunday? I didn’t even know Yale had a boathouse. Call me as soon as you get this.”
    I toss my phone on the bed and sit down in front of my computer. According to the Yale website, Gilder Boathouse is in Derby, nearly ten miles from campus.
    I contemplate bagging the whole thing, but know that I can’t. Not if I’m committed to keeping up the appearance of normalcy. What if it’s something important? What if it’s class-related? What if I’m writing a story on the sailing team for the YDN and I’m supposed to meet someone for an interview? Usually freshmen have to go through a semester-long “heeling” process before they can become full-fledged reporters for the Yale Daily News , but since I—okay, my parallel—wrote more than half of the articles published in the Oracle last year, I got to skip that step and last week became the YDN ’s newest staff reporter, an opportunity I’m not about to screw up.
    Ooh. Could that be it? Could my parallel self have done something to earn me a spot on the coveted sports beat? That would rock. I need to learn how to cover sports. Plus, it’d give me an excuse to go to Michael’s lacrosse games without feeling like a stalker.
    Newly motivated, I fly out of my chair and start getting dressed. Since I’m going to a boathouse, I opt for sporty layers, figuring that if I’m underdressed, I’ll just pretend I’m on my way to the gym. As I’m lacing up my running shoes, I realize with a start that these aren’t, in fact, my running shoes. Yes, they’re running shoes, and yes, they were in my closet, but they’re not mine. Mine are old and worn in, practically falling apart from use. These fit, but they’re a different brand, and they look like they’ve barely been worn. Where is my old pair? I glance at the clock on my computer screen: 7:51. Boathouse now, shoe mystery later.
    Outside, the sun is blindingly bright, making me wish I’d brought my sunglasses. I squint at my campus map, trying to pinpoint the closest shuttle stop. There’s a little blue S on the corner of College and Elm, two blocks from where I’m standing.
    Jogging down the sidewalk, I rack my brain for my newest memory. If something has changed today in our world, then that means Parallel Abby must have done something yesterday in her world to