Rewound {PTX}

Dog Days

I'm in the wrong bed. I guess that means I'm on tour. I could have sworn tour ended a week ago, but I'm too tired to figure that out right now. I clutch my vaguely familiar hotel pillow closer and squeeze my eyes against the morning light. My arms feel small. My whole body seems wrong, like the gap from a missing tooth. My alarm sounds and I jab at my iPhone. Eight in the morning, the little screen proclaims. What happened to my phone? Why am I using my old one? How did I even get here? I must have blacked out massively. No hangover, though, thankfully. Maybe I slept through it.

"Good morning, Matilda," Scott yawns, sitting up in his bed and stretching.

"Good morning, Solange. Nice haircut! It makes you look younger. Total fetus teas." It's startling how many years disappeared with his trim.

"Huh?"

"Hey, can you fill me in on the past... however long it was since I got hammered?" I don't even remember my first drink. Blackouts aren't supposed to work like that. The alcohol stops you from forming new memories, but it doesn't erase old ones until you've completely fried your brain. Maybe some of it will come back to me. I only remember tossing and turning all night.

"Hammered? You don't drink. Not that I know of, anyway, and I think I'd know. You're not twenty-one." Did he get a haircut, book our hotel from the Sing-Off, and dig up my old phone just for a prank? At a time like this?

"No, not twenty-one. Last I checked, I was twenty-two. What year is it supposed to be? 2011? I guess that makes me nineteen." I can play along.

"What year? It's 1805, obviously." Cute. He's really in character.

"Yeah? And what week is it? Radio Star? Love Lockdown?"

"Wake up, Mitch. We're singing Dog Days tonight." I haven't performed Dog Days Are Over in two solid years. We sang it so much after the Sing-Off that we all got sick of it. I don't remember the choreography. I've probably forgotten half the words. I'm not even sure I remember my part.

"Oh, okay. Cool." I don't have enough caffeine in me for Scott to be messing with my head. He's already up and getting dressed. "I need coffee."

Twenty minutes later, he's back with Starbucks, and I'm still in bed with my eyes shut. I've given up hope of falling asleep again. I'm not uncomfortable per se, but I feel misshapen, simultaneously too big and too small.

"You're sweet," I purr as he rests a caramel macchiato in my hands. He even remembered my old, saccharine coffee order. I take a few sips and find the strength to open my eyes a little more and appreciate his masterpiece. My old glasses are on the bedside table next to my old phone. He's wearing clothes from 2011. Even our old luggage is here. "This is so surreal. How did you get me here without my noticing?"

"Don't give me too much credit. You got yourself here. It is surreal. It's terrifying. It's a good arrangement, though, right? And we've rehearsed it a million times. They're gonna like it. They'll love it. I'm just scared it won't be enough. The other groups are so good, and they're gonna go all out."

"We're better. We're going to win, Scott." It's the same reply I gave four years ago, but this time, there's real assurance behind it, and a bit of a smirk. We're not just going to win. We're going to tour the world and get a Grammy. We'll have a platinum album and a... what am I thinking? We do have a Grammy and a platinum album. I set down my coffee cup and almost spill it when I notice my forearm. "WHERE ARE MY CRYSTALS?" I rub at my skin, but my tattoo doesn't appear. My cicada is gone too. Spongebob is gone. Aphex Twin and Jiji are gone! There isn't even the slightest trace of them- no light spots, no faded ink, not even the tiniest scar. Only Deadmau5 is left.

"Your crystals? I don't follow. Do you mean sugar?" He takes a sip of my drink. "Tastes fine to me, but you can try mine if you prefer." I trip out of bed and knock over a chair on my way to the bathroom mirror. "Are you okay, Mitch?" The very young man looking back at me is more horrified than I've ever seen him. Little, baby-faced, spiky-haired Scott walks in and stares at my reflection in confusion. "What crystals, Mitch? What's the matter?" He claps his hand over his mouth. "You don't mean crystal—"

"Ew! No, I'm not a junkie." He probably thinks I'm high, though, with the way I'm acting. I turn away from the unsettling mirror and try to calm down. "Forget about it. I'm just disoriented." By "disoriented," I mean "asleep." There's no way I'm nineteen again. There's no way this is 2011. I pinch myself. I pull out my super-short hair. Ow. I guess the idea that you can't feel pain in a dream is just plain wrong; it hurts, but there's still no way this is real.

It definitely feels real, though... Maybe I can enjoy this while it lasts. If I can feel pain, what else can I feel? I shut my eyes and take a little step toward Scott. I imagine him coming closer. He leans in until his forehead is resting against mine. I imagine him reaching for my hand, and... nothing.

"You're not running a fever." He stands upright abruptly. "If anything, your forehead is a little cooler than mine. Maybe some water would help, or maybe it's just all the pressure. It's overwhelming, and I'm probably not helping by being so high-strung. I'm sure you're right. It'll be enough. I really hope it will. And even if it isn't, we've given it everything, so we can't regret not doing our best. Your best is enough to blow my mind on a regular basis. We must have sung Dog Days more this week than we sang everything in an entire year of choir, but I still get chills every time you do your solo. Every. Single. Time. Twice. First on the extended note, and then all over again ten seconds later when you belt 'run.' It's going to be amazing, okay?" I give him a little nod and he squeezes me tight. "We've got this. Now put on a shirt so we can get to practice. Just ten more hours until our performance!" I have ten hours, minus hair and makeup and panicking, to relearn everything.