Actions

Work Header

You Must Have Been Looking For Me

Summary:

“Is this some kind of… A Christmas Carol, dream-ghost bullshit?” Zoe demands. She’s so not interested in some kind of supernatural hallucination right now. She really, really needs to wake up. She is an adult. Zoe is an adult, she is thirty years old, she is not seventeen. She is not in high school. She cannot be back in high school.

Dr. Sherman laughs. “Of course not. In those stories someone watches their past. I’m asking you to reimagine it.”

 

Inspired by Being Erica, season 1.

Notes:

Hello!

So this story is very heavily inspired by (and premise lovingly ripped off from) first season of the Canadian show Being Erica. The title comes from Phoebe Bridgers's song, "Smoke Signals."

It is largely canon-compliant.

Many thanks to vinegar-and-glitter for her support, willingness to let me bounce ideas around, and help deciding on a title. And also shoutout to charactershoes who (in my humble opinion) wrote the ULTIMATE do-over/fix it/time travel related fic in this whole fandom, Come and Go.

Chapter Text

Zoe taps a pen to a pad of paper, trying desperately to force herself to focus. This meeting was another dry financial update that could have been an email. This job isn’t where she pictured herself when she imagined turning thirty. 

When she used to imagine being thirty as a kid, she pictured a sort of fantasy, heavily inspired by shows she wasn’t supposed to be watching on HBO. She imagined a sexy and fabulous future like the women in Sex and the City or a quirky, struggling but fun life like the people on Girls. 

She never pictured being up to her eyes in graduate school debt and working for the corporate office of a struggling online retailer because she never managed to finish her master’s degree in social work. 

Social work was… she doesn’t know what it was. A manifestation of her constant feeling like she needed to make up for the shit she’d enabled as a teenager. Or something. 

A total failure on all counts. 

Regardless, she sits in this stupid meeting, trying to pay attention (or at least appear semi-conscious), despite the fact that her brain is far too preoccupied. 

She knows it’s stupid. To be hung up on a tinder match that had turned sour. She knows. She’s thirty for fuck’s sake. She’s too old, far too grown up to find herself in the throes of “why doesn’t he like me?”

But really… he didn’t like her.  

The conversation had been light and easy and fun at first. It had been good. But then this guy - Tyler- had asked her if she’d ever been on TV or something. 

And Zoe froze. Immediately said no. 

And he said that she looked weirdly familiar. 

And she… got defensive. 

She gets defensive, still, over ten years later. The sting of “Zoe’s a stuck up bitch” and “fuck the Murphys” never fades. 

She asked him how long he’d known. Who she was. What his plan was. How he intended to embarrass her. 

He called her paranoid and unmatched her. 

She knows why he doesn’t like her. The problem isn’t the people who chat her up on tinder. It’s her. She’s a mess. 

“Zoe?”

She glances over at Alison, the closest thing she has to a work friend these days. More like… a work neighbor. A more successful one. A twenty five year old business manager, while Zoe was nothing more than somebody’s assistant. 

“The meeting’s over.”

Zoe glances up and looks around her. People are on their feet, not really dispersing like normal. Someone burst into tears. 

“God I totally spaced out,” she tells Alison. “What did I miss?”

Alison looks down at her feet. “Oh. It’s. It’s bad news. We’re… we’re out of business. Closing everything down by the end of the month.”

Zoe feels like she’s been caught under the ribs by something hard and cold. “What?”

“Did you know?” Alison asks. “You’re the secretary in Bob’s office, did you know?”

Zoe shakes her head. Bob might be the CFO, and she might technically be his assistant, but she had no idea the situation was that bad. “I didn’t… I didn’t… everyone is going to lose their jobs?” Zoe tries desperately. Maybe she misheard. Misunderstood. 

Alison frowns. “Yeah. We are.” She shakes her head. “I’m going to start packing my desk.” 

Zoe watches her go. Slowly makes her way back to her own cubicle. Reads her email, brand new from HR, outlining how she’ll be offered a severance for the next month’s wages but that she’s not expected to report to the office anymore after next week. 

They’ve all been released for the rest of the day. 

Zoe slowly makes her way to her car. Puts her keys in the ignition and sits there for a long moment with her head resting on the steering wheel, marveling at how truly fucked up her life has become. 

No job. No partner. No master’s degree. 

Fuck. 

She lifts her head eventually. The station she has playing in her car announces a throwback hour and starts playing something by My Chemical Romance. 

A memory flickers very briefly across her mind. Her brother’s middle school obsession with the band. The way she used to hear their music blaring from the headphones of his iPod on long car rides. 

Zoe frowns. 

She doesn’t like to think about it. She just… doesn’t like to think about it. 

So she doesn’t think about it. 

It’s easiest just not to think about it. 

Zoe starts her drive home. Her head hurts. It’s pouring. She’s really struggling to figure out her next move. Should she start applying for jobs? Is she even qualified to do anything other than fetch coffee and send a thousand outlook invites? She thinks about calling her parents but decides it’s not worth worrying them. They always overreact. 

Her dad will immediately try to solve it. Get her a new job pronto. 

Her mom will worry that Zoe is suicidal because… that’s just always where her mom’s mind goes. It’s maddening. 

Zoe’s mulling over the disaster it would be to tell her parents about this when she is blindsided. 

It takes a moment to realize what’s happened. She realizes her car is spinning and she tries to slam on her brakes to no avail. The car comes to a shuddering stop when it crashes into a streetlight post. Glass falls over her like rain and her airbag detonates. 

She blinks. Blinks and blinks. 

Her first thought is that she’s dead. She’s definitely dead. 

Her next thought is that she really doesn’t want to be dead. If she’s dead, if she’s dead and there’s an afterlife, she’s so fucked. Zoe doesn’t want to see…

Things snap back into place. Her face and hands hurt. There’s honking and blurry lights all around. 

She’s alive. 

Thank goodness. Her parents would be such basket cases if she was dead. 

It all happens very quickly. An ambulance and a fire truck are there so fast. She wonders if her sense of time has been fucked up somehow. 

Someone explains that the car turning from another lane hydroplaned and lost control, hitting her car. She’s put in a c-collar and loaded into the ambulance. They press gauze to some of her cuts and tell her she seems stable but needs a full work up before she can be cleared to go home. She probably needs stitches. 

It’s all a huge blur. 

A neuro work up. An X-ray of her collarbone. Examination of the cuts on her arms and hands. 

She’s fine. Has a concussion and needs some stitches but she’s okay. 

But then the doctors say her parents are on their way. 

“You called them?” Zoe yelps. 

“You need to be monitored overnight and ‘home’ is the emergency contact in your phone.”

“God, you have no idea how much harder you just made my life,” Zoe gripes. 

Zoe waits, frowning, on the cot in the ER. She doesn’t want to deal with her parents tonight. Not right after she got fired and in a car accident. It’s not fair. The universe clearly hates her. She doesn’t need her parents thinking she’s more of a mess than she already does. She just… doesn’t need this. 

Zoe’s still sitting there, clutching her bag and trying to brace herself for the impact of her parents showing up to make this situation a hundred times more dramatic when another doctor appears at the foot of the bed. She’s tall with long dark hair in box braids and a warm smile. Around her neck, Zoe sees that she’s wearing an hourglass on a necklace. Weird. 

“Everyone has already checked me out,” Zoe mutters. “I’m just waiting on a ride.”

The doctor smiles. “My name is Dr. Lindy Sherman.”

Zoe blinks. “Okay?”

“I wanted to talk to you about how you’re feeling.”

“Like some jackass sideswiped me into a pole,” She says. “You know. Not great?”

Dr. Sherman nods. “Of course. But how are you feeling ?”

Zoe laughs. She laughs . “They did not send a psych consult. No way, my car got hit, I didn’t hit anybody. You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.”

Dr. Sherman smiles benignly. “I just overheard you saying how much harder the other doctors have apparently made your life by calling your parents. So I wanted to check in. See if I can help.”

“I don’t need a shrink, thanks,” Zoe replies coldly. 

Dr. Sherman keeps smiling that benign smile. “I think I could really help you,” she says. “Take my card.”

“I’m good, really,” Zoe says. 

Dr. Sherman holds the card out anyway. “Take it. Humor me a little. I really think I can help you.” 

Zoe takes it in the hopes that this doctor will just fucking leave. 

“I hope I’ll hear from you soon,” Dr. Sherman says. 

Weird. 

Whatever. 

Her parents show up within the hour. Her mom is a wreck, of course. Shaking and crying and hugging Zoe super tightly even though she’s sore all over. Now Zoe officially has blood, sweat, and tears on her clothes. Also snot. Not even hers . It’s gross. 

Her dad is stoic. He’s always stoic. 

He didn’t even cry at the funeral. 

Zoe blinks. 

No. Not today. 

“You’re alright?” He says, almost curtly. 

Zoe nods. “I’m fine. It wasn’t my fault. Guy hydroplaned into me.”

Her dad nods and mentions something about calling her insurance adjuster and blah blah blah. She tunes him out. She knows what he’s saying is important, that, really, she should be listening to him because she’s thirty years old and doesn’t even know how to file an insurance claim. But she’s tired and she knows her dad will just… handle it. It’s how he prefers to operate. If she were to insist he talk her through how to do it, he’ll get frustrated and snappish and annoyed at her questions. 

Better just not to bother. 

Instead, Zoe focuses on her crying mother. “I’m fine. Really. It’s a mild concussion and some stitches. It’s nothing.”

“It’s not nothing,” her mom protests with a wobbly lip. “You could have died!”

“I mean, yeah, but I didn’t,” Zoe says lamely. “I’m really fine. I was lucky. Please don’t cry mom.” 

Her mom continues crying anyway. 

Zoe finds herself looking across the emergency, as if breaking the proverbial fourth wall, thinking she wished those doctors had seen the situation they put her in by calling her parents. Her dad is on hold with a personal injury attorney already. Her mom is hysterical. Can’t Zoe catch a fucking break?

Of course, this is when she locks eyes with Dr. Sherman, passing through the emergency room again. Dr. Sherman smiles while Zoe’s mother sobs into her shoulder, holds up her hand in the shape of an old school phone. She mouths, “Call me.”

Yeah right. 


 

The next morning, Zoe wakes up exhausted. Her head is killing her. Her parents took turns watching her all night, waking her up and making sure she wasn’t brain dead. 

Nothing makes you feel more pathetic than realizing that there’s nobody else in your life who’d look after you when you’re not okay than your panicky, divorced parents. 

When Zoe is positive she’s not going to get any more sleep, she trudges out of her childhood bedroom and down the stairs to the kitchen. 

She finds her parents waiting for her at the table. Her dad is dressed for work; a fresh suit and tie, freshly shaved, freshly pressed shirt and freshly shined shoes. Her mom is dressed for being a recluse; she’s in her pajamas and a bathrobe still. Zoe spies the familiar ripped collar of a graying old Nirvana t-shirt. The lame kind you’d get from Target or whatever, ages after the band faded from popularity and was relegated to appearances on the wardrobes of teenagers who wanted to appear alternative. 

It’s so morbid. 

That she wears his clothes. 

“Zoe, sweetheart, please sit down,” her mom says, her voice gentle. The ever present wobble in her voice is absent. It confuses her. 

Zoe sits, looking between her mom and dad. “What’s up?” She asks, guarded. This is feeling distinctly reminiscent of the time her mom found weed in her bedroom her senior year. Or when they told her they were splitting up her junior year of college. Like it’s bad news. Very bad news. 

“Zoe,” her dad begins. “This morning I called your office to let them know why you would be out today, and your supervisor informed me that calling out was unnecessary because the company is closing.”

Fuck. 

This is precisely what she wanted to avoid. 

“Why didn’t you tell us about your job, sweetheart?” Her mom asks softly. 

Zoe frowns. “I mean. It literally just happened. There was a lot going on yesterday. It wasn’t a top priority.”

“We didn’t even know this was a possibility,” her dad says, shaking his head. “Do you have enough emergency money to cover your rent? What’s your plan to find a new job?”

Zoe laughs hollowly. “Slow down, jeez, I just found out yesterday. I’m fine on money, don’t worry. It’s going to be fine. I just haven’t had a chance to figure it all out yet.”

“We’re very worried about you, sweetheart,” her mom says. Her eyes regain their now familiar glassy quality. Zoe thinks her mom has spent the last fourteen years on the verge of tears. “You’re thirty years old. You just lost your job, your car… you haven’t been seeing anyone. You don’t ever mention friends. We’re worried that you’re struggling.”

“Your mother and I think it’s best if you move back in here,” her dad announces. “Stay at home while you work out your next steps. My assistant is out on maternity leave starting next month, so you can come work for me while you’re getting back on your feet-”

“What? No. Definitely no, hard pass,” Zoe says, laughing in disbelief. “That’s not happening.”

Her parents freeze. “Zoe, this situation is serious,” her dad says. “You lost your job.”

“Like I don’t already know that,” she says. “I’ll get another job. Can’t I have twenty four hours before I dive into the search?”

“You were at that company for three years,” Larry tells her. “And there was no room for growth… and it was like you didn’t care. You used to have all of these goals, aspirations.”

“You had such big dreams honey,” her mom interjects. “And it seems like you’ve just. Given those up.”

Zoe can’t believe this. “I grew up,” she says harshly. “They weren’t realistic. I… look I appreciate that you care or whatever, but I don’t need help. I’m fine. I just need one day to get my head around it.”

“Cynthia, do you hear this?” Her dad says in disbelief. “Zoe m, honey I know you don’t want to hear this but your mother and I are worried that you.. that you’ve… stalled out. It’s not normal to be your age and content to be going nowhere.”

“Excuse you?” Zoe says, her hackles raising. How fucking dare he say that to her. 

“We’re very worried about you,” her mom reiterates. “You don’t seem… happy recently. You’ve been… distant and irritable and just. Not like yourself.”

“Who the fuck ever said I was happy?” Zoe demands. 

Her parents both fall quiet. 

“I’m not doing this,” Zoe says. “This bullshit… intervention or whatever. I’m fine. I’ll be fine. I just need to figure some stuff out. Just, god, you are completely overreacting.”

Her dad crosses his arms over his chest. “Zoe you are thirty years old. You have no career. No real prospects. You never finished your master’s, you’re divorced. From where I’m standing, your future is in serious jeopardy if you keep going like this.”

“No. I’m not doing this,” Zoe says standing up. “And fuck you for bringing Nick into this.” 

She walks as quickly as her wobbly legs will carry her up to her bedroom, calling a ride share as she goes. She throws on some old clothes - grateful that somehow she’s still got things that fit her at her parents - grabs her things and heads out the door. 

She hears her mom calling after her, but Zoe ignores it. She doesn’t miss the way her mom says, “Damn it, Larry, that was not the way we talked about!”

Zoe climbs into the car that pulls into her parents’ driveway. Sinks into the backseat and looks at her phone.

She has all of one text waiting for her. And her heart sinks when she sees it’s not even from a person. It’s a coupon code for hair dye that she keeps forgetting to unsubscribe from. 

When she’s dropped at her apartment building, Zoe takes the rickety old elevator up to the eighth floor. Steps inside of the one bedroom she had fallen in love with when she and Nick split up. It looks far less appealing three years on. The bright floor with all of its natural sunlight is dreary today because of the clouds outside.

Her shit is… over where. Just strewn all over the place. Clothes and books and papers, unfinished attempts at fixing her resume and at painting the walls any color but eggshell abandoned part way through, packages from Amazon that she ordered late at night and never even managed to open because the rush of trying to find the right moisturizer to finally fix her life had faded moments after ordering it. 

Her life is a mess. Her parents aren’t wrong about that. But it’s not up to them to fix it. It’s up to her. 

And that’s… the fucking problem. 

Zoe is no good at fixing things. Never has been. The leaky sink in her kitchen is proof. The unfinished projects, the stalled out career, the fact that she’s still single and barely has people she’d call friends anymore. She’s just shit at fixing things. 

Zoe sits down on her sofa and sighs. She reaches into her purse for her phone and instead finds her fingers closing on the card from that doctor yesterday. 

She stares at it. 

Dr. Lindy Sherman 

Psychotherapist 

125 Spruce Street 

 

And suddenly Zoe is. 

Exhausted. 

She saw a psychologist for a while, at the end of high school and for a bit in college. It had helped a lot, honestly. Helped her get her head on straight after everything that happened. 

It’s why she went for the masters. She thought… maybe she could do for other people what her shrink Norah had done for her as a kid. 

It was a bust, of course. 

She and Nick had very briefly attended couples’ therapy too. Before it went to shit. Before she ruined it all. 

Zoe stares at this card in her hand. 

Maybe her parents aren’t totally delusional. She is struggling. She is unhappy. And she doesn’t really know how to not be unhappy these days. 

Zoe doesn’t know how the hell she’s meant to pay for therapy now that she’s lost her job, but figures maybe she could get a few sessions under her belt before her insurance lapses. 

Deciding that, fuck it, her day literally can’t get worse, Zoe dials the number on the card. 

“Good morning, Dr. Sherman’s office,” a receptionist greets her. 

“Uh. Hi. I was wondering if I could schedule an appointment?”

The receptionist laughs. Weird. “Is this your first time visiting our office?”

“Uh. Yeah?

“May I have your name please?”

“Zoe Murphy,” Zoe answers. She’s still trying to get her head around that laugh. 

“Oh wonderful. She was hoping you’d call today,” The receptionist says. 

Zoe is starting to feel distinctly wigged out. 

“Dr. Sherman actually has a free spot in two hours. Would that work for you?”

“Why does she have a free appointment today?” Zoe says suspiciously. “She doesn’t have other clients?”

“Cancellation. She prefers not to have people wait for their intake. Does that time work?”

Zoe breathes through her nose. “Yeah. Sure. I can be there in two hours.”

“Marvelous. We’ll see you then.”

“Don’t you need my insurance card?” Zoe asks, lost. 

“We prefer to collect billing information in the office.”

“But what if Dr. Sherman is out of network for me?” Zoe protests. 

Another laugh. “Trust me. That never happens.”  

Zoe continues to be weirded out once she hands up. 

She gets off the couch. Drags herself through a shower. Looks up the bus schedule to get herself to Spruce Street since her car is… she doesn’t know where her car is. 

And it’s probably totaled. 

Zoe gets dressed like she’s going to work, determined not to look like a mess. She does her hair and makeup and then takes the bus across town to Dr. Sherman’s office. 

She’s greeted by that laughing receptionist again. The receptionist looks like some goth college kid. Zoe worries she’s not going to file her insurance paperwork properly. 

Zoe fills out the intake form. It’s pretty standard stuff, asking for a full medical and mental health history. 

But the last question stops her in her tracks. 

 

Do you have any regrets? Y/N

 

Zoe circles yes. Hands the clipboard to the receptionist. 

“Zoe?” 

She looks up to see Dr. Sherman striding out of her office. “Come on in.”

Zoe follows her into her office. Inside looks… like a therapist’s office. Light blue gray walls. Minimal art. A lot of books on a shelf behind a desk. Two arm chairs and a sofa. A door at the back of the room, like a closet. 

“Please make yourself comfortable.”

Zoe picks a seat on the sofa. 

“This is weird,” she says immediately. 

Dr. Sherman smiles. “I won’t deny that,” she says. “Let’s get started, shall we?”

Zoe nods apprehensively. 

“Why did you call me today? What made you decide to come in?”

Zoe takes a breath. “My parents think my life is falling apart,” she admits quietly. “And it really pissed me off.”

“Why’s that?”

“Because… they’re right.”

“I see,” Dr. Sherman says. She writes something down on a clipboard. 

“They want to take over my life and… fix it,” Zoe says. “And honestly, like. It’s my own damn fault for letting them think that was okay for so long. I’m thirty years old. I have some shit to figure out but… it’s my shit, you know? Mommy and daddy swooping in isn’t going to actually make things better. Make me feel more capable.”

“So why let them?”

Zoe sucks in a breath. “I… I guess because I don’t want to hurt them.”

“And asserting your boundaries would hurt them?” Dr. Sherman asks. 

“Yes,” Zoe says emphatically. 

“Why?”

“Because… because of my brother.” Dr. Sherman raises her eyebrows. “He died when I was a teenager. And things were really hard after, so when shit went wrong for me… I let them take care of it. Because they’re scared all the time of losing another kid. It’s easier to just… let them handle stuff.”

Dr. Sherman nods. “Can you think of a moment when you wish you hadn’t let them take care of things for you?”

Zoe laughs. “How long have you got?”

Dr. Sherman gives her a smile. “How about just one moment. An early one, where you might have made a different decision. What would you do differently?”

Zoe sucks in a breath. 

She can picture it so clearly. Almost like magic. 

“When I quit jazz band in high school,” Zoe says. 

“Tell me more.”

Zoe nods. “I was in the middle of my junior year. My brother died at the beginning of the year. And I.. loved jazz band. I loved it. I played the guitar. And I was good too. Not a brag, just a fact. I was good. But people in my band class… were awful. There were rumors going around about me… and I told my parents I wanted to quit. And they let me. Called up the school and signed off on the drop form, all that. Didn’t even make me finish the semester.”

“And you regret that?”

“Of course,” Zoe says. “I gave up something I loved because… kids were mean? That’s stupid. And I realized how childish it was to let them pull me out of class, but by then it was too late.”

Dr. Sherman smiles. “What if it wasn’t?”

Zoe laughs. “I mean. I was sixteen. Trust me. It’s too late.”

Dr. Sherman nods. “Zoe, I should tell you. My approach to therapy is… unconventional. But I think it could really help you. I believe very much in second chances. In people having agency over their own lives.”

“What, are you offering me a do over?” Zoe laughs. “How hard did I fucking hit my head?”

Dr. Sherman smiles again. “Perhaps trying to explain is… not the best idea. Maybe I can just show you.” 

“Show me?”

Dr. Sherman nods. “Yes.”

“What do you mean?”

“I want to try an exercise,” Dr. Sherman says. “See that door over there?” 

Zoe nods. 

“I want you to walk through that door. And when you emerge, I want you to be sixteen. And I want you to tell your parents you don’t actually want to quit jazz band.”

“Like a role play?” Zoe says, her brows knitting together. 

“Not exactly,” Dr. Sherman says. “Just. Trust me. Just once. And if you find it helpful, we can continue to pursue treatment.”

Zoe laughs. 

What the hell. 

So she makes an idiot of herself going into a closet in front of a weird therapist. Her week has already been a humiliating shitshow. Might as well roleplay being sixteen again with some wingbat therapist. “Alright,” Zoe says with a laugh, standing up from the couch. “Let’s try it. Why the hell not, right? I’ve got nothing to lose.” 

Dr. Sherman smiles. “Now the rules are simple: You can change your decisions, and your decisions only. Everyone else maintains their free will.” 

Zoe rolls her eyes. Sure. Because she’s going to be able to control how Dr. Sherman plays her mom. 

“Now, if you wouldn’t mind stepping through the door.” 

 Zoe stands up. “Is this really necessary? Couldn’t we just, like, say action or whatever?”

“Trust me. Go through the door.” 

Zoe shakes her head. She definitely doesn’t see how this could be at all a vital part of the role play. She studied to be a clinical social worker and she sure as hell doesn’t remember hiding in a closet as an essential part of the therapeutic experience. 

But she straightens her shoulders and stands up. Nods at Dr. Sherman, trying to seem game for this truly weird concept, and steps into the closet. 

Only to step out into the crowded hallway of her high school. 

Zoe blinks a few times. 

This can’t be right. It can’t be right. 

She looks down, at her feet. Sees she’s wearing a pair of jeans with stars drawn on the cuffs. There’s stars on her sneakers too. On her back is a bag full of books. 

Zoe takes a step forward, uncertain and convinced she’s dreaming, and bumps into someone’s shoulder. 

“Jesus watch where you’re going,” The other kid snaps. 

“I’m s-sorry -”

”Stuck up bitch,” The kid sneers and walks off. 

Zoe stares after him for a long moment. 

This is a dream, she thinks to herself. A really weird and specific dream with a convoluted plot. And I need to wake up. 

Zoe turns and heads back through the door where she came. Obviously that’s the key to the whole thing, right? She dreamed of a magical door, and if she goes back through it, she’ll be back. Like… Narnia or whatever. 

She steps through the door. 

But she’s not in Dr. Sherman’s office, or even in her bed waking up. 

No, instead she’s face to face in the door of a classroom with someone she hoped she’d never see again. 

Evan Hansen looks exactly like he does in her memories, from the tendency toward horizontal striped shirts right down to the moderately dorky sneakers and way his fingers compulsively pull at the hem of his shirt. 

“Zoe,” He says. Wheezes, really. He looks mortified “What are you - um, I mean - are you -?”

Zoe shoots a nasty look his way and turns on her heel. 

She forgot. 

In high school, Zoe had Mrs. VanKamp for pre-calculus during sixth period. Evan had her for AP calculus in seventh period. 

Sometimes they’d stand by their lockers and talk during that passing period. Talk and smile at each other. Sometimes passing each other notes because many of their teachers had started to collect phones during class. So they went old school, passing notes. Finding more and more complicated ways to fold them before they handed them off. Zoe’s favorite was the time Evan folded a note to her into a little origami frog.

What the actual fuck is happening here? 

How hard had she hit her head that she genuinely thinks she’s back in high school?

What the fuck what the fuck what the fuck. 

Zoe gropes her memory for an escape route. She needs… the bathroom. She needs to hide out until she can figure out what the fresh hell is happening to her. 

Inside the bathroom, it’s worse. 

So much worse. 

To see the familiar pink and blue flannel, the skinny jeans with the stars on the cuffs, the blonde in her hair from when the blue streaks faded away. 

How fucking young she looks. 

How young and how… tired. 

 Zoe looks exhausted. There’s huge bags under her eyes. Her hair is limp and greasy. She looks like she hasn’t slept properly in months. 

Because she hasn’t, Zoe thinks. Because from September to March of that school year, she was plagued by nightmares and intense anxiety. 

Zoe splashes water on her face. 

Wake up. This isn’t real. Wake up. 

“That’s not how this works,” Says a voice behind her. Zoe jumps nearly a foot. 

There’s Dr. Sherman, stepping out of a stall to wash her hands calmly in the sink. 

“What the fuck did you do to me?” Zoe demands. 

“You said, if you could do it again, you wouldn’t have quit jazz band. Right?”

Zoe nods.

“Well here’s your chance. Don’t quit jazz band. Stick it out. Talk to your parents about it,” Dr. Sherman says. “Don’t you want to know what might be?”

“But this… this is insane. This is impossible.”

Dr. Sherman shrugs. “Maybe. But I did tell you my approach was unconventional.” 

“Is this some kind of… A Christmas Carol, dream-ghost kind of bullshit?” Zoe demands. She’s so not interested in some kind of supernatural hallucination right now. She really, really needs to wake up. She is an adult. Zoe is an adult, she is not seventeen. She is not in high school. She cannot be back in high school. 

Dr. Sherman laughs. “Of course not. In those stories someone watches their past. I’m asking you to reimagine it.”

Zoe blinks a few more times. Trying to wake up. When that doesn’t work, she glances over at Dr. Sherman again, defeated.  “How does this… what do I do?”

Dr. Sherman smiles. “You go! You change what you set out to change. You get a second chance, to do it over, live with fewer regrets.” 

“But… how does this work?”

“There are a few rules, basic time travel stuff. You can’t cheat the system to win the lottery or anything like that. You can’t play god. But you can alter your own choices.”

“But what about the butterfly effect?” Zoe says. 

Dr. Sherman smiles. “It’s smaller than you might think when you stick to your own life,” She says. “Now, go on. Today is the day you decided to quit the jazz band. Go and see it with fresh eyes, and then speak with your parents.” 

“And do I… am I stuck here? Do I have to repeat my whole life from the time I was sixteen?”

Dr. Sherman smiles. “No, of course not. When you’ve changed what you sought changing, you’ll return to your regularly scheduled life as an adult. Now go. You’re about to make yourself late for class.” 

Zoe hurries off to her second to last class of the day, a bit shocked at how easily she seems to remember the route to the classroom. She sits through her final class of the day, sort of half assing her way through a group discussion on The Scarlet Letter, which she hadn’t read as a junior in high school and never bothered picking up after. 

When class finally ends, the teacher asks her to hang back for a moment. “I need to get to jazz band,” Zoe says, staring at her toes. 

“I just wanted to see how you were doing,” Mrs. Bunch asks. “I know things have been… very difficult, since your brother…” 

“I’m fine,” Zoe says immediately. 

Mrs. Bunch frowns a little. “I’ve noticed your performance in class hasn’t been… up to your usual standard,” She says. “I’m trying to be understanding, but you have to meet me halfway here. Honestly. Are you alright?” 

Zoe doesn’t know what to say. 

She knows what she did say, on this day all those years ago. 

She said she was fine, she didn’t need help. Then she quit jazz band and finished the semester with a C- and her dad had flipped. 

“I…”

“I’ve heard the things people have been saying,” Mrs. Bunch says. “About your family. About your brother’s…” 

Zoe flinches. “Yeah. They’ve been… it hasn’t been great.” 

Mrs. Bunch gives her a tentative smile. “Well. If you ever need an extension on an assignment or some extra credit, I’m here. And you can always ask me for a pass to the guidance counselor’s office too. Whatever I can do to help.” 

“Thanks,” Zoe murmurs. 

She walks into the band room cautiously. Kids are getting ready for class. There’s fluttering sheet music, kids overzealously sucking on reeds for their instruments. Zoe smiles a bit. She's missed the flurry of the moments before practice began. 

She heads to the storage locker where she kept her guitar during the week. Zoe realizes she’s lucky she remembers the combination; she’d be stuck asking for help otherwise. She uses the numbers for passwords all the time now. 

Her guitar in hand, Zoe heads into the classroom. Plugs the electric guitar into the amplifier, turning the volume down low. She strums experimentally. 

It’s been so long. Her fingers feel unsure pressing against the frets. Can she even still play? She gave it up entirely after she quit jazz band. It’s been almost fifteen years. 

Mercifully her younger fingers still know their way across the strings. She warms up a little, glancing over the sheet music, trying to remember. 

She knows she struggled with this song the chord progression was more complicated than she was accustomed to, but the band teacher seemed sure she could handle it. 

Mr. Rojas sweeps into the room in his very typical fashion, dramatic and vaguely wizard-like with his long hair and beard. He held his conductor's baton like a magic wand. She used to joke with her friend Keith, who played bass, that he ought to wear robes like Dumbledore in Harry Potter to match his long silvery hair and overall weirdness. 

“And a hush falls over the crowd,” he commands. And the whole class echos “hush,” drawing out the sh until it grew quiet, all of the squeaks and twangs of tuning over. 

“Let’s warm up with Blue Eggs,” he says. Zoe forgot how weird the names of the songs were. 

They begin to play. Zoe marvels at her own ability to keep up. At the volume of sound of all of these instruments playing at once, of being part of this wall of sound. 

“Good.” He asks the horns to tune a bit, then the saxophones. Tells Zoe to turn her amp up just a little. 

They move into another song. They’re barely five bars in when Mr. Rojas sweeps his hands down to stop them. 

“I hear laughing. What’s so funny?”

There’s more stifled giggling. More laughter that kids hide their faces and cover their mouths to quiet. 

“Murphy, what’s so funny?” Mr. Rojas asks. 

Zoe honestly has no clue. But everyone is looking at her. “I don’t know.”

He sighs. Turns to keyboardist, Jackie, who is giggling helplessly. “You. Strife. What’s funny?”

“I’m sorry, Mr. Rojas. It’s just a dumb meme.”

He tries to call the class to order. Beside Zoe, Keith is still giggling. “What’s the meme?”

Keith stops laughing abruptly. “Oh just. An inside joke.”

“Show me,” Zoe says. 

Keith hesitates. “I don’t think you’ll get it.” 

“Show me the damn meme Keith,” Zoe grinds out as the whole class continues to laugh. He turns his phone around. 

It’s two pictures. Of Zoe. One from the background of the viral video from the memorial, showing Zoe with her arms crossed on the stage, looking bored, that’s labeled “treat ur brother like shit”. The other, a selfie Evan and Zoe had posted back when they were dating, captioned “fuck w/ his only friend.” The top line reads: “get you a girl who can do both.”

Below the picture it says “srly cant believe that bitch dumped him.”

Zoe feels her face heating up  

She forgot. The meme format has fallen out of fashion. She had forgotten all about it. All about the exact reason she left jazz band. 

Zoe’s eyes sting. She stands up. Unplugs her guitar. 

People start laughing harder. 

“Aww come on, it’s just a joke,” Someone calls out. 

“Hey Zoe, I was in a group project with Connor last year, can I get in on the action?”

“What kind of a slut sleeps with her dead brother’s best friend and then dumps him only a couple months after the funeral,” someone mutters loudly enough for her to hear. 

“Cold hearted bitch. I bet she doesn’t even care that her brother died.”

“Fuck you,” Zoe says to the girl who said that. “You don’t know anything.”

“Careful, Maisie, she might convince you to kill yourself next,” some asshole on sax says. 

“That’s enough,” Mr. Rojas tries. 

Zoe doesn’t hear the rest. She packs up her guitar and hurries out of the band room before her tears fall. 

It hurts. Hearing his name. Seeing how everyone holds her responsible for what happened. It’s like a punch. 

She sits in her old car - her sixteen year old self’s car - and cries. 

Zoe just cries. She has pushed down how pain this year was for her. She went from the girl with a dead brother to the girl who had killed her brother, broke his best friend, almost overnight. People hated her. 

No wonder she went running to her parents to drop jazz band. 

This is torture. She’s surprised she didn’t ask to be homeschooled. 

Zoe drives home. Lets herself into the empty house. She has no idea where her mom has gone. 

She heads up to her bedroom and cries. Obsessively looks through social media, even though she’s deleted all of her accounts. The meme is all over - Instagram, Facebook, tumblr. The comments get worse and worse. 

Even after he died, Zoe couldn’t let Connor have anything.”

It’s not true. It’s not true. He had everything. All the attention from their parents. All of their support and worry. All of their attention. She only got it now because he was gone. 

It’s not fair. 

She hears the door open sometime around six and heads downstairs. Her parents walk in together. They look miserable. Weary, like they just went ten rounds in the boxing ring. 

Oh. Right. They’re in couple’s therapy during this time.

It’s not going well. 

They’d be divorced in a few years time. 

Her mom gives her this pale smile. “I hope you don’t mind that we picked up pizza while we were out,” she says. 

Funny really. They never used to be allowed to eat pizza. Once, when she was fifteen, their parents left them home alone for a night and they covertly ordered a double pepperoni pizza with garlic knots. Devoured the whole thing and then her brother left the house in the middle of the night to hide the evidence in a neighbor’s garbage can. 

Zoe shrugs about the pizza. Sits down to eat with her mom while her dad grabs plates and then pours himself a drink. 

“How was your day, honey?” He asks her. 

“Awful,” Zoe mutters around a slice of margarita. 

Her mom looks on the verge of tears. Like always. “What happened now?”

Zoe shrugs. “Oh the usual. Some meme in jazz band. Apparently I broke Evan’s heart and am a heartless bitch,” she says bluntly. 

Her mom flinches. Her dad’s face goes red. 

“I don’t understand why we’re not telling people the truth,” Zoe blurts out. 

She doesn’t mean to. She doesn’t. But it just spills out of her. 

Her parents trade a look. “We just… how would that help anyone?” Her dad says. “Evan messed up, but he’s… clearly he’s a messed up kid. And The Connor Project… it did a lot of good for people. I don’t see how ruining that would help.”

“It would help me! ” Zoe shouts. “Everyone hates me!”

“People don’t hate you,” her dad says. 

“Yes they do,” Zoe insists. “You should see the shit they write about me. Hear the crap said at school. My own friends won’t talk to me anymore. You know what happened when I told Mel that Evan and I weren’t going out anymore? She said it wasn’t okay because he was the weaker kid. That I should have known better.”

Her mom bursts into tears. 

Zoe feels like she might explode. 

“It’ll all calm down,” Her dad says firmly. “I’m sure of it.”

“It’s not fair,” Zoe says, her eyes stinging.

“Jazz band was my thing. It’s something I’m good at and now everyone hates me, laughs at me.”

“Zoe, that’s not true,” her dad says sternly. 

“It is! Everyone hates me. I can’t stand being in that room with all of their staring eyes. Almost all of them were in the stupid fucking Connor Project.”  She crosses her arms over her chest. “Maybe I should just quit.”

“You can’t quit,” Her dad says immediately. 

Her mom mops her eyes. “Zoe… do you really want to quit jazz band?” She looks so sad.

“Because if that’s really what you want… I can make some calls. I can help.”

Zoe holds her breath. This is it. The moment she wants to undo. Her parents thinking they can do this for her. 

“Because if you can’t handle being there, if you need a break…” her mom says. “There’s no shame in needing a break. You’ve had a really awful time. People would understand.”

“Cynthia, come on. What kind of message is that to send? That it’s okay to quit when things get hard?”

“Sometimes it is,” She says darkly. 

The table falls silent. 

Zoe is surprised at how hard it is. To say she doesn’t really want to quit. That she doesn’t want her parents endorsing this. Because it was so hard. So much harder than she even remembered. The idea of going back, of enduring that shit for another year? It’s awful. 

Zoe wipes her eyes. So does her mom. 

“I don’t want to quit,” Zoe finally manages after a while. 

Her parents look at her. 

“What do you want, Zoe? How can we help?” Her dad asks. 

She feels… vindicated. Maybe she can do this. “It is hard. And I hate it. I hate that this thing I love is all… twisted and ruined. But it’s… it’s still my thing. My thing that was… that was just mine. I don’t want to quit. I just want it to be better. And I want you guys to listen to me when I say things are bad without trying to… fix everything. This is a bullshit situation and I should be allowed to feel bad about it.”

“You’re right,” Her mom says. “We don’t want you to feel like you can’t talk to us.” 

“It’s been… hard,” her dad admits. 

“No kidding,” Zoe says. 

“The comments online,” her mom says in this brittle voice. “It’s hard to see that the whole internet thinks that I’m… a bad mother.”

Zoe swallows hard. That hurts to hear. Her mom shouldn’t be blamed.  “You’re not a bad mom.”

Her mom wipes her eyes again. “I feel like one. I couldn’t help your brother, and you’re in so much pain…Being attacked like that, online and in school. People blaming you. And Connor… I…  I feel like I’ve failed. I’ve failed to protect my kids.”

“Cynthia, you know that’s not true,” her dad says. His voice is rough. “If anyone has failed their children…”

His face crumples. 

Zoe feels like her heart is being squeezed so tightly it could burst. She isn’t expecting it. This never happened before. Her dad… he didn’t cry at the funeral. He barely showed emotion at the memorial service. He just… he pushes through. That’s his go to move. He puts on a brave face and carries on. Like his repressed Catholic white man tendencies just won’t allow him to break down, to lose it. 

And part of Zoe wonders if that’s genetic. If she’s inherited that. The ability to shove it all down, refuse to break. Refuse to bend to the emotion that overwhelms her. 

“You were right,” Larry says, his voice breaking as he looks at Zoe. “I did… I wanted to punish him. I wanted him to be sorry. For what he put us through, but I didn’t think. I couldn’t imagine what he was… I was so angry. I let it get in the way, I let it…”

Zoe’s heart plummets fast, like the floor just disappeared beneath her, realizing what he’s saying. Understanding that guilt he’s carrying, what he thinks of himself.  “You didn’t kill Connor, dad.”

It hurts to get out. The name. The words. The idea that her father blames himself, truly blames himself. 

“But I didn’t help him,” he rasps. “I didn’t help him.”

“We tried,” Her mom says, tears in her eyes. “We tried. We all tried.  It just… none of it worked.

They all sit there with that for a long moment. The silence is deafening. 

They all feel guilty, Zoe realizes. All three of them. They all feel guilty and the reaction from people online is making it worse. Convincing them that they are. Convincing them that the things they tried, the years of pain and desperation, those meant nothing because the result was that her brother died. It’s so unfair. 

It’s unfair. 

It’s so fucking unfair that they’re taking the blame for what he did. 

None of them put those pills in her brother’s hand. None of them made him swallow them. 

“I’ll call Mr. Rojas,” Her dad says after a moment. “See if we can come up with a game plan if something happens again in band class  Not to fix it,” he rushes to add. “Just so we can support you better.”

Zoe nods. “Thank you.”

Nobody seems to feel much like eating after that. Zoe feels exhausted. Just before she retreats back to her bedroom, her mom stops her. 

“I’m really proud of you,” She says softly. “For wanting to stick things out.”

Zoe shrugs. “Thanks, I guess.” 

“You’re right. We don’t… none of us talk about how everything has gotten to us. We should do it more.”

Zoe gives her a cautious smile. She doesn’t know what else to say. She wearily climbs the stairs. 

She opens the door to her bedroom. 

And finds herself stepping back into Dr. Sherman’s office. 

Dr. Sherman smiles at her. “Have a seat.”

Zoe sinks into the couch. She feels exhausted. All of the aches from yesterday’s car accident creep back in. 

“How was it?”

Zoe shakes her head. “Honestly? Kind of awful. I forgot how bad things were.”

Dr. Sherman nods. “But you decided not to quit jazz band.”

“I did.”

“How did that feel?”

Zoe sighs. “Good, I guess? To make them listen. But well. I mean. I don’t know what this means. I mean… nothing really feels all that different.”

“I guess that’s the next piece of work,” Dr. Sherman says. “Finding out.”

Zoe sighs. 

“I think this method of therapy could really help you, Zoe,” Dr. Sherman says brightly. “And if you’re willing, we can plan to keep working together. Seeing what parts of your life need adjusting.”

“What else could we adjust?” Zoe asks. 

“Whatever you want. Whatever you regret most,” Dr. Sherman says. “If you’re willing to move forward, then I have a homework assignment for you.”

Zoe waits. 

“Make a list. A list of regrets that you have, that you think have consequences that have impacted your life. Bring that list to me and we will work through them together.”

“Can I think about it?” Zoe asks. 

“Of course. You know where to find me,” Dr. Sherman says. “Just give Erica at the desk a call when you want to schedule our next session.”

Zoe nods. Dr. Sherman shows her the door. She steps out of the office and heads outside to wait for the bus. She feels like her head is spinning. 

Her phone rings as she is stepping off of the bus. She notices, as she hits the button to answer, that there are calluses on her fingers. 

Huh. 

“Hello?”

“It’s mom,” her mom says. Like always. As if Zoe couldn’t see that already. “Zoe I wanted to apologize.”

Zoe is surprised to do that. Her family isn’t big on those. 

“The way your father and I approached you this morning was wrong, and I’m very sorry. You’re an adult. You deserve the chance to figure out your next move however you see fit. And that’s what I should have said this morning. I’m your mom and I always want to make sure you have a soft place to land if things are bad. But you get to decide if or when you need it. Not your dad or me.”

“Thank you,” she chokes out. “That means… a lot.”

“Do you remember when you thought about quitting jazz band?” Her mom asks. 

“Vividly,” Zoe says drily. 

“I wanted to pull you out right away. I hated that you were in pain. But you insisted on going back, chin up, every day. Because you knew that you didn’t deserve how you were being treated. You’ve always known what you deserve, Zoe, and I admire that about you. You are the strongest person I know. And so I know, no matter what happens, that you will get through it.”

Zoe feels oddly moved by this sudden outpouring of support. “Thanks mom.” 

When she gets to her apartment, Zoe checks her email. There’s one from a guy named Greg, confirming her gig at a nearby coffee shop over the weekend. It’s paid - only about $200, but still paid - and Zoe finds herself smiling. 

She closes her email and dials the number for Dr. Sherman’s office. Unsurprisingly, when the receptionist Erica answers, she’s laughing. 

“I thought you’d call back soon,” She says. 

Zoe rolls her eyes. “Yeah, I guess you called it. Is there any chance you could find me an appointment again next week?”

Erica laughs again. “Truthfully? I already put a hold on Dr. Sherman’s calendar for Mondays at six. Hope that works for you. I just had a feeling.”

Zoe shakes her head. “Thanks, I guess.”