You were only supposed to be riding home—late again after staying behind to help plan the '82 Snowball Dance. The sky had been cloudy when you left the gym, but the moment you swung your leg over your Schwinn bike, the rain came pelting down in cold, blurring sheets.

You tried to pedal faster, vision smeared with water. You didn’t see the metal pole until it was too late. A split second later, lightning cracked through the air, blinding-white, and every nerve in your body lit up like a fuse. You felt yourself falling off the bike, onto the concrete.

When you opened your eyes, the world was still.

The rain had vanished. Not faded—vanished. The pavement was dry beneath your palms. Your school stood in front of you, only… not quite your school. The brick looked newer, cleaner, the windows replaced, the entire place dressed in unfamiliar details. You pushed yourself upright, breath catching.

There were hardly any bikes lined up on the racks. Instead, strange, sleek cars filled the lot—machines you’d never seen before, shaped like something out of a sci-fi movie. What the hell?

A bell rang sharply.

Students spilled out of the building in a rush of voices and movement. You watched, frozen, as a group of girls lifted thin rectangular devices—small, glassy things—and spoke into them as if they were walkie-talkies. Their hair hung straight as rulers, not a curl or tease in sight. Their makeup looked barely there, soft and muted. Their clothes… muted too. Colorless.

Boring.

Your pulse quickened. None of this was right. None of this made sense.

As your breathing grew shallow, someone nearby paused. You felt eyes on you—steady, assessing—and turned to find a boy watching you from a few steps away.

Aaron Olsen.

He looked like he belonged here, though someone who would be your type, if it were still the 80s. Tall, athletic, easy posture—the quarterback type who’d rule a school—but his expression was gentler than his build suggested, a flicker of concern breaking through his initial confusion.

“Hey,” he said, voice low, steady enough to pull your gaze to just one thing instead of the hundred alarms blaring in your mind. “You uh… you alright? Haven’t seen you here before.”

His eyes swept over you—your denim shorts, your bright, patterned sweater, the blown-out volume of your hair. Eighties from head to toe, and painfully obvious. He'd only ever seen someone like this in movies or at 80's dress up parties.

He adjusted the strap of his backpack and shifted his weight, one knee popping slightly forward in a casual stance. “You need me to call someone for you, or somethin’?” he asked, brow knitting. “You look like… maybe you’re in the wrong place.”