The Square Root of Summer by Harriet Reuter Hapgood

Book Barn, almost five years ago. The one of Mum. I’d lost it almost immediately afterwards, and I never told him. Now it’s here, in my hand.
    When am I?
    I put my head between my knees, trying to breathe. I can cope with the collapse of spacetime. Seeing my grandfather again, I can’t. My whole body hurts. I don’t understand how I’m supposed to get through this. I don’t understand how anyone is. I’m counting to ten and still hanging on to the phone when a boy’s voice answers with a, “Yeah?”
    I stare across the kitchen. Outside the window, peach roses; beyond them, the lawn is shaggy. Ned’s fur coat is slung on a chair, and there’s a trifle on the table. Next to it is a pile of party paraphernalia—piñatas, packs of balloons. Yet another message for Thomas on the blackboard, to call his mum when he gets back from the bookshop. This is now.
    It’s not exactly a stab in the dark when I croak: “Jason?”
    â€œYeah…” he says. “Who’s this?”
    â€œAaargh,” I cough. “Aaargot. Margot. I mean … me. Hey,” I finish up, smooth as a cucumber (Papa’s phrase).
    â€œGottie?” he says in his teasing voice, as though he knows more than one Margot and needs to clarify with the nickname he never used to use. “What’s up?”
    I remember what I need to ask—what happened when I disappeared into the wormhole. All my split-screen theories collapse if it turns out I disappeared in a puff of smoke. But I can’t form the question. My brain’s still catching up with my body, and the complexity of what I have to say is beyond me right now.
    â€œCan we meet up? It’s important,” I say instead. “Sorry.”
    â€œMaaaybe,” he drawls, and then adds, “You sound kind of strange. You okay?”
    I lean my head on the wall, drowning in his question. In all the things I want it to mean. That I can find my way home.
    â€œIt’s about the party,” I lie. “I want to surprise Ned.”
    I hate myself for using this stupid party as an excuse. But perhaps I can persuade Jason to persuade Ned to cancel.
    â€œWhat about a coffee at the café, a week from Saturday? Ned’s busy that day,” he adds. “I’ll text a time.”
    Ned chooses this moment to strut in from the garden. I garble, “Okayseeyouthengottagobye,” and yank the receiver away from my head before I can mention that my mobile isn’t working.
    â€œYou’re meant to put it up to your ear,” Ned says, demonstrating with his hand. Then, because he’s Ned, he adds a phone gesture with his other hand, segues into devil’s horns, then flashes a Vulcan salute. At least he’s acting normal.
    â€œFixed your bike, by the way,” he adds. “Want to go for a ride this weekend?”
    â€œNed—what day is it? The date, I mean.”
    â€œThe phone?” he reminds me, shimmying across to the fridge and peering inside, bottom waggling in purple paisley Lycra. “Tuesday. Fifteenth of July in the year of Our Satan two thousand and—”
    â€œThank you,” I say. Then, “Oh.” And slam the receiver down.
    Ned kicks the fridge door shut and hops up to sit on the windowsill, swigging milk straight from the carton.
    â€œWrong number?” he asks.
    â€œHeavy breather,” I lie. The amount that Ned knows about me and Jason is zero, and I want to keep it that way. “What you up to, Freddie Mercury?”
    Ned wipes off his milk mustache before answering.
    â€œGarage. Did your bike, then planned my set for the party. My guitar solo’s going to be like”—air guitar, tongue between teeth— “whoa.”
    I smile, despite the party reference and the photograph in my hand, despite seeing Grey in the wormhole and the way Ned seems back to normal while I’m anything but. Because making that phone call,