Think I Want to Twist the Plot This Time

Part 1

Isn't that part of why she became human in the first place, to venture out into those uncomfortable territories? To learn everything about creating and making her own path? What's the harm of seeing the world as it used to be, just for a night? Dance with someone new, lose herself and see how the past can shape her future? Besides, she loves the leg warmers from the 80s, the jumpsuits from the 70s, the big hair from the 60s. Can she go to a time... before Barbie, even?

Before she can think herself out of it, Barbie steps up to drive the buggy, and the mare takes off with a calm snort. Barbie notices her clothes shift to gladiator heels and a blazer after a minute, and thinks about where she should stop. She's lived through all these styles, the Juicy Couture sweats and low rise jeans. She can keep going, so she lets her mind wander. She likes this drive, against cool pink brick, the mare's rhythmic footsteps luring her into a state of tranquility.

Barbie thinks about Sasha, how her report is going. She once tried to read about this war she's studying, World War II, but started crying the moment she read just how many people were herded up and killed by an evil man, how many evil atrocities people from all sides committed. It's another one of those painful truths she's had to swallow about the real world, that make existence oh so complicated. She even wipes a tear from her eye just thinking about how she once thought about it.

Instead, Barbie focuses on something happier: how over the summer, Ryan and Gloria drove her and Sasha up the California coast to San Francisco, stopping along the way in Monterey Bay, Cambria, Santa Cruz. She and Sasha must have ridden the old, wooden roller coaster at the pier a dozen times, screaming their heads off down every hill. In the city proper, Barbie took in the ringing of the old trolleys, the smell of clam chowder and sourdough from Pier 39. How the chocolate in Ghirardelli Square melted seamlessly on her tongue. The Golden Gate Bridge, towering over it all. Gloria printed out the family picture they took overlooking the bridge, and now it's hanging up in the house, right before the staircase. The highs and happiness on that one trip topple every perfect day she's ever had in Barbie Land.

Looking down, Barbie takes in her new wardrobe and gasps, bringing her buggy to an abrupt stop. She's never really worn anything like this before on the daily: stockings and t-strap pink heels, a pink swing skirt instead of her jeans and Birkenstocks. She's even wearing dainty pink gloves. Oh God. She's probably gone too far, after being so lost in thought.

Should she turn around? Try to find another decade that's more comfortable, where she has a few passing memories? Swallowing, Barbie instead dismounts the buggy, patting the mare on her nose a few times so they both calm down. She did this, put herself here for the chance at something new. If it's really that awful, she can turn around and go home. She at least has that comforting thought, tucked away in the back of her mind.

Barbie steps out from her venturing world into the real world of this time, noting the alleyway. She looks up, taking in the crossroads. When she reaches into the pocket of her now double breasted pink coat, she sighs in relief to find her phone is still her phone. No signal, of course, but she takes down the street names in her Notes app so she won't forget it, then quickly stuffs it away. Barbie also takes out her wallet, smiling when she sees her bills have changed to reflect the time, so she can get something to eat, perhaps. Now... when exactly is she?

It's nighttime, stars littering the black sky in ways she can't fathom, having lived in LA for a year. Barbie Land stars look like glowing lights twinkling in rhythmic patterns against a black ceiling. LA stars shine for the Little Dipper, Orion's Belt, and anything else that looks like a star ends up being a plane instead as it blinks across the sky. There's more here—probably not too much more since the plentiful buildings around her tell her she's in a city—but enough to see a few more constellations. The twinkling, less rhythmic and more arbitrary, with some stars brighter, some barely discernible. Barbie shifts her gaze to the street, walking out into public. Couples line the hilled streets dressed in nice coats, women in stockings, men with hats. But she's seen these hills before, this building, even. It still exists, years from now, with its art deco windows cascading floors up and down the block. And just in the distance past the hills, towering over the water: The Golden Gate Bridge.

She'd been thinking about San Francisco, and here she stands. Barbie watches someone throw a newspaper into a nearby trash can, and she dashes toward it. She plucks it out, but before she reads the headline, she manages to catch a glimpse of herself fully in a window under a street lamp.

Barbie's hair, instead of haphazardly flung over her shoulders and falling limply down her back, is curled in perfect finger waves, effortlessly cascading. Her makeup is perfect and set in place, and not just two coats of mascara and balm quickly swiped over her eyes and lips. She's got that double breasted pink coat draped over her shoulders, her pink gloves holding the newspaper. Underneath, she's wearing a gorgeous pink button down with puffed sleeves, the notch collar embroidered with delicate pink flowers. A pink belt holds her pink skirt to her waist, flowing nicely in the breeze. Her stockings have pink stitching lining the back of her calves. Though she's been acclimated to her flat feet, now she's wearing pink t-strap heels, and Barbie remembers just how nicely they compliment her legs.

She feels like Barbie again.

Faintly, she hears the allure of jazz music coming from the doorway about fifty feet in front of her as someone stumbles out. The neon light above reads "The Dawn Club."

Barbie finally looks down at the newspaper, reading the date.

July 21, 1942.