REWIND
CHAPTER ONE
“GET BACK TO WHERE YOU ONCE BELONGED”

OCTOBER 2nd, 2007

I sat in my bed, in my tiny apartment, wondering where it had all gone off track. I’d been doing that a lot lately. I was 42 years old, and I couldn’t help but think they were 42 wasted years.

It hadn’t always been so. I was an academic prodigy. I blew it--I didn’t even have a college degree. I had no social skills as a kid, and while things were better in adulthood, they weren’t great. All I really had going for me was my brains--and I’d squandered them.

I was, as I said, 42. Living by myself after my wife had left me for another woman. Working in retail, of all things. Management, yes, but retail. 1400 on my SAT’s and I was a retail manager. As a kid, people had predicted great things for Ed Bovilas. They were wrong.

I thought things were looking up when I got married. I was wrong. Things were fine at first, better than fine--I thought I had finally found a woman that could live with my complete lack of social skills. But things were never perfect. We couldn’t have children. Our sex life was frequent and passionate, but there were problems. She found out what they were when she had a lesbian ‘fling’--the problem was that I was a man. The breakup was amicable. And I’d had a couple flings myself since she left, so I did find out that I was a perfectly decent lover when I was with a woman who wasn’t a closet lesbian, so that was good--but love seemed out of my reach.

I mean, who would want me? 42, overweight, a smoker, I live in a hole, my job sucks…what did I have to offer?

I lay there, thinking about all this, pretending to read, when I felt it. At first, I thought it was heartburn, something I get regularly. Then, I realized it might not be.

The pain started on the left side of my chest, and traveled down my left arm. I started having trouble breathing.

A heart attack? Well, what did I expect? I was in horrible shape. My diet sucked. I smoked two packs a day. I was a heart attack waiting to happen.

I was still with it. I could call 911, get some help. Then I thought, what would be the point? I mean, who would miss me? My parents, maybe, but they’re getting up there themselves. My brother? Yes, but he lived cross-country. My sister and I didn’t get along. 

Maybe it would be better this way. Maybe it was time to go. I closed my eyes, and even as the pain increased, managed to drift off. Finally, the end of this miserable life.
 
OCTOBER 3rd

I woke up.

OK, so maybe it was just heartburn. I guess it wasn’t my time after all. I opened my eyes, and looked around--and realized I wasn’t in my room.

Well, I was in my room, but it was my old room. My childhood bedroom--that drafty attic room at the old house on Hereford Street, in Cabot, Massachusetts. What the hell?

I’d never believed in any sort of afterlife or anything like that. I didn’t believe in God. I believed that when you were dead, you were dead. So what the hell was this?

I looked around. It still looked like it did when I lived here, not how it does now. But there were no Beatles posters on the wall, those had been there since eighth grade. And the LP collection seemed a bit threadbare. 

I looked down--and JESUS!!! I was skinny! I’d only been skinny for a couple years in my life--the couple years immediately following my major puberty growth spurt. I had baby fat before then, and pudged out again after I ‘caught up’ to the extreme height change.

This had to be a dream. Didn’t it?

I heard the door open down at the foot of the stairs leading from the third floor. “Eddie!” I heard. “Get up, you don’t want to miss the bus to school!”

“OK, Mom,” I grumbled, almost automatically. School? Mom?

Where the hell was I? Or, more accurately, when the hell was I? A part of my brain supplied the answer: October 3rd, 1977, a Monday. Jesus Christ, that was 30 years ago!!! I got up, stumbled over to the mirror in my room, and took a look.

What looked back was me-when I was about 12. Yup, late ’77, that’s exactly what I’d be-12. 

This had to be a dream. It just had to. I tried slapping myself, pinching myself, anything to wake myself up. Didn’t work. Fine, then--I’ll just go back to sleep. When I wake up, everything will be fine.

I drifted back to sleep…..

….the alarm went off. “Eddie! Get up! Breakfast is almost ready!” Mom yelled up the stairs.

Well, if this was a dream, I was still in it.

I got up, found some clothes, and chucked ‘em on. Gathered up my school books. 77, what grade was I in? Eighth, a part of my brain supplied. Eighth grade. Oh shit. 

I was beginning to realize something strange, as I did all these tasks that almost seemed automatic. It was almost like I had two sets of memories. The first one, the prominent one, was the memories of the life I had been living up until that day, the memories of my 42 years on earth. The other memories were in the background, ones that I could access almost like a database or something--the memories that this body must have. Stuff that I wouldn’t be able to remember over 30 years’ difference, like where I kept my clothes. What day it was. I sat and thought, and was able to remember my class schedule. Stuff like that. 

I sat in my bed for a while, thinking. And wanting a cigarette. This was all psychological, of course This body had never had a cigarette at 12 years old, so it wasn’t a physical craving. I was just used to it. I was determined not to go looking for a cigarette, though. This body didn’t smoke, and I aimed to keep it that way. I could deal with the psychological cravings. I hoped.

I headed downstairs.

Mom and Dad were there. I took one look at Dad, and realized that this was before he lost the eye. I didn’t remember exactly when that had happened, but knew it was in eighth grade. Mom looked--well, young. She would’ve only been, what, 34? And I was looking at her with eyes that had been 42 since yesterday. No, not that way. I hadn’t ever been one of those guys with a hard--on for my mother, and that hadn’t changed. Nope, it was just her youth that smacked me upside the head. Dad, too--he was actually not gray. He’d been gray for as long as I could remember. 

I saw my brother, Declan, who’d be, what, 9? Yeah. And my sister Erin, who was six. Mom was spooning out bacon and eggs.

That ‘other memories’ database seemed to keep me running on autopilot throughout breakfast. I instinctively knew how to act, what to say, what the current jokes were passing through the family. 

After breakfast, I trudged down to the bus stop to catch the bus to school. I instinctively remembered where that was, too. This was so weird. I mean, I kept asking myself--how can this be real?

Quite honestly, if someone had decided to send me to hell, this might be a reasonable facsimile, plonking me down back at the beginning of eighth grade at Cabot East JHS. Now understand, grammar school--which had been grades one through six--had been no picnic. But junior high was when it really started to go downhill--and eighth grade was the worst. A lot of the shit I’d put myself through in my life, had started in eighth grade. A lot of it I couldn’t even pick out distinctly in my memories--it was all just one big unhappy blur.

As I stood there waiting for the bus, a lot of it came back to me. The loneliness. The isolation. The fear. Eighth grade was the year I went to school every day knowing I had about a fifty-fifty shot of getting the living daylights beaten out of me. I had few friends. Though I wasn’t as small as I had been, due to that growth spurt the past summer, now I was skinny. I wasn’t physical, I was uncoordinated. I also wrecked the curve in all my classes. I was a complete geek with absolutely no social skills. It had led to a whole lot of pain throughout my schooling, but eighth grade was the worst.

I sat there on that bus, by myself, and it came back to me. I felt thirty years of despair creeping in. I remembered how horrific this year had been. And I was going to have to live it all over again? Whose idea of a sick joke was this? 

As I thought about it, I started to get angry--really angry. Angry at having been put in this position. Angry at these little shits that were going to torment me. I was a 42-year-old man, not a 12-year-old boy! Well now, I guess I was a little bit of both--but the 42-year-old man was bitter and resentful. 

I didn’t get beat up that day, but I got pushed around a little bit. I also got taunted. But the pushing around really opened my eyes. I hadn’t really realized it when I went through this for the first time, but I was very weak. I mean physically. I had really filled out in college, and didn’t get pushed around any more after that. But here, back being 12, I was confronted with my weakness. 

You know, you can do something about that, the grown-up part of my brain supplied. It was right. I could. Thinking about it, I realized I could also do something to stave off the weight problems that were in my future. Hmmm, that would take some thought.

Anyhow, I went through my classes, reminding me how bone-numbingly boring they were. They were boring the first time, and now I could teach most of them so you can imagine the boredom increased exponentially. Health class--which is where sex ed was taught--was just laughable. I mean, the things they tell kids about sex, no wonder kids are so screwed up. It was so damn clinical. 

After lunch--eaten alone--I got to English. Now, English in eighth grade was a decidedly mixed blessing.

The bad part was the teacher, Mrs. Sinclair. She was the most incompetent excuse for a teacher I encountered throughout my entire school career. She was also a blatant sexist. Her idea of grading compositions was to give all the girls A’s and all the boys C’s. I went from my sixth grade teacher thinking my writing was good enough to be published; to this bitch giving me a C on it. If things held true to form, there was a run-in coming between her and me; futile, but satisfying.

The good thing about the class was the students. Well, there was Christine Seneca, and that turned out to be not-so-good, but it started as good. Chris was smarter than I was, which immediately made me like her. We’d had a little romance--which, my ‘current-life’ memory told me had just ended. So I knew that now she was going to start trying to avoid me. But the month we spent together was fun. She was my first girlfriend. It never went anywhere, but I liked her. We were both insecure geeks, so it probably wasn’t a good match, but I never forgot her. 

Also in that English class was Stan Murvetsin, a guy who was about to become one of my few friends. I think the time was right--Stan was about to do something for me that would change my life, and in a good way. 

And then there was Kara Pocharsky. Sigh.

Kara Pocharsky. I’d known her since kindergarten, but it was in sixth grade that she became the object of my affection. I was infatuated with her from sixth to eighth grade. I asked her out twice in eighth grade. One, my memory told me, had just happened--she turned me down because she was going out with this guy named Don Nixon. The other one would happen later, and I’d get turned down just because. Of course, none of this stopped me from mooning over her. Damn, it all came back to me like that. After eighth grade, I never saw her again--I went to North Shore Prep, a local Catholic high school. Kara went to Andrews Academy, a ritzy boarding school that she got into on merit--Kara was a smart cookie herself. So, eighth grade would be the last time I’d spend any time with her. 

Damn, I had to relive all this!

I made it through the school day relatively unscathed, and got on the bus to go home. Kara took that bus, too. Sitting with her was just not going to happen, of course, but I got to see her walk in with her friends. 

I got home knowing I had something to do--and then I saw the papers stacked on the porch. That’s right, I had a paper route. So, I said hi to my mom, dumped my books, and headed back out.

I was towards the end of my route, and realized that there was another person I was looking forward to seeing--Cyndi Gagnon.

Cyndi and I had also known each other all through grammar school. If things went the way they went before, we were about to start dating--which was an exercise in frustration. Cyndi gave a whole new meaning to the word ‘prude’. We’re talking about a girl who swore she wasn’t going to kiss a guy until she was sixteen! That was beyond the pale even in 1977. But I liked her, we dated for three months or so. I was allowed to hold her hand and put my arm around her but that was it--until I finally broke it up in sheer frustration. 

Cyndi was on my route, and she invited me in for a bit, as she often did. I was chatting with her. I had been considering not asking her out this time. But, chatting with her, I realized something--I really liked her, just as I had back then. And she really liked me.

Of course, something I had always suspected back then was even more apparent this time. Her little sister Dina, who was a year younger, really liked me.

Maybe I should change what Gagnon sister I asked out! Nah, that would just be opening up a whole new can of worms, wouldn’t it? 

Anyhow, I left and headed off for the rest of my paper route, and then home. Did some homework before supper. Not that I had to do much--I got straight A’s the first time around without cracking a book. I did that the first eight years of my schooling--something that later came back to haunt me. 

After that, I looked around the room.

I checked out my record albums--ugh. This was when I was in my wimpy period. John Denver? The freakin’ Partridge Family? The beginning of eighth grade was before I became a rock and roller. Damn, I needed some tunes. Of course, I realized with a laugh, a lot of stuff I liked to listen to hadn’t been released yet! But a good deal of it had. 

I put on the radio, good ol’ WBCN, before it went downhill in the late 80’s. One of the first things I heard on it was Born To Run. There’s an album to buy! 

I decided to read something. To my delight, I found this book--one of my favorites in my childhood--a large history of the National Hockey League. I hadn’t seen it in years. It was a lot of fun to read it again.

Then I went to sleep, wondering where--or, more accurately, when--I’d wake up

OCTOBER 6th, 1977

It was a Thursday, my fourth day ‘back’. I think, by this time, it had sunk into me that this was real--or as real as reality gets, anyway--and I was stuck here.

This day, the 6th, started out very interesting. I re-lived an episode that, at the time, had just been another bit in my long line of humiliations.

It happened in Mechanical Drawing, a class I hated. I hated all those ‘shop’ classes-wood shop, metal shop, that crap. I would’ve much preferred to take Home Ec, but I would’ve been the first male ever at Cabot East JHS to take it. Since I was already getting teased and beaten for being a ‘fag’, that wouldn’t have helped, so my parents convinced me to drop the idea. I just didn’t conform to a lot of expectations for ‘masculinity’, and that was even more apparent in 1977, when the gender lines were drawn more rigidly. In my ‘time’, everybody, boys and girls, would take a little of everything--but not in 1977. Girls learned to cook and guys learned to build stuff, period. Forget the little fact that I’d much rather have learned how to cook (which my mother was teaching me, anyway).

Anyhow, Roger Herren--a complete asshole who I’d have a run-in with later on in the year--decided to add to my humiliation. Grinning along with his chuckling buddies, he asked, “Hey, Ed. You ever have a woman’s cunt over your face?”

When this had happened the first time, I had absolutely no idea what a ‘cunt’ was, and despite my bluffing attempt, it was obvious. Just more ammunition for them. Of course, now, I knew better. “Nope,” I said nonchalantly, “not yet, unfortunately.”

“What about when you were born?” he asked.

I grinned. “Well, if you’re going to count that. I don’t quite remember it. And actually, that wouldn’t quite be true--I was a C-section baby.”

“Ah, you don’t even know what a cunt is,” he accused, just as he had the first time around.

“Sure I do,” I said mildly. “Though that’s not my favorite word for it. Pussy is better. Even cunny is better. Then again, there’s honeypot….” They looked at me in amazement.

“You ever see one?” Roger asked.

I laughed. “Not unless you’re counting my Dad’s Playboy collection.” They laughed at that. One thing I’d learned in adulthood is that self-depreciating humor, delivered right, always got people to accept you better.

“Well,” one of Roger’s acolytes said, “I heard you were taking Cyndi Gagnon to the dance tomorrow.” I nodded. “Maybe she’ll show you.”

I laughed. “Boy, you don’t know Cyndi very well, do you? Nope, Cyndi’s a Good Girl. If I get a good-night peck on the cheek, I’ll consider it a major victory.” 

“You might get lucky,” Roger said.

“There’s a difference between lucky and miraculous,” I grinned, walking away to them laughing--with me, not at me. Jesus, what a difference. That’s when I first had a glimmer--maybe I could change some things. Maybe I was being given a second chance.

And then there was Cyndi. I had decided to ask her out again. I had seen her yesterday, and asked her to the dance tomorrow, Friday night. She had happily said yes. Just like it happened before. I knew I was about to get the ‘no kissing’ lecture. I wondered what I’d do about that.

At lunch that day, I ate with Stan Murvetsin. He invited me to his house after school. The day I remembered. This day I’d happily revisit.

Afterwards, later that afternoon, I got an unwelcome reminder of my status. I got punched. One of the school bullies whacked me in the chest.

In analyzing what had happened afterwards, I was able to see things that I didn’t see the first time around. I saw him coming, knew who it was, and cowered. It was like waving a red flag in front of a bull. That’s when I discovered the biggest problem I’d had in those days--I was scared. Of everything. Now, I knew at least part of that was how I’d been treated by my so-called peers. Some of the fear was because I had good reason to be scared. But, that was a vicious circle. They fed off my fear.

And it wasn’t just fear of being beaten--it was fear of everything. The one single area of my life I had any confidence in was academics. 

One thing I realized about that incident with the bully punching me is that I reacted like my 12-year-old self. My memories were of the 42-year-old man, and I had experiences I could draw on, but my first instinct was as a 12-year-old. 

But, like I said, I did know better, not actually being 12 years old. If I had to relive this hell, it was time to make a few changes.

Not this afternoon, though. Stan had invited me over, and this day, I wanted to re-live. I was able to do it since it was Thursday and I didn’t have a paper route to do. The Cabot Gazette, the paper I delivered, only published three days a week-Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. So, today being Thursday, I was available to head over to Stan’s.

Y’see, this was the day that Stan was going to introduce me to his favorite musical group-The Beatles. It was a day that was etched on my memory with perfect clarity.

Discovering the Beatles, courtesy of Stan, changed my life. Music ended up being the only good thing--certainly, the only good constant--that I had. The Beatles started it all, and Stan did that. Because of what happened on this day, I started playing guitar, singing, writing songs. I never did anything with it, but it was a constant source of solace. And The Beatles led me to all sorts of other things. When I ‘came back’, my CD collection filled a rack that took up an entire wall of my bedroom. And that doesn’t count the MP3s I had on my computer.

Shit, I missed computers. For that matter, I missed CDs.

Anyhow, I went over Stan’s and just let it happen--all over again. I didn’t try to remember it, I tried to experience it for a second time. It was great. When I heard that guitar intro to Ticket To Ride, the hair on the back of my neck stood up on end--just like the first time.

While I had been thinking of things to change this go-round; this was when I realized that there were at least some things I did not want to change.

It occurred to me that this might be my biggest balancing act--telling one from the other.

OCTOBER 7th, 1977

My first date to a school dance.

I’d had a pretty decent memory of Cyndi, and it was pretty accurate. Cyndi was as much of a geek as I was, but in a cute sort of way. She had curly dark blonde hair. She was quite skinny, still built more like a boy than a girl, though the curves had started some. She had little beginnings of breasts, and the slight swelling of hips. 

It was her personality I had been attracted to, and still was. She was a nice counterbalance for me--I was manic, fearful, your basic spaz. Cyndi was calmer, sweet, a steadying influence. She saw things in me that I didn’t quite see at that time, I realized that afterwards. It was a very sweet twelve-year-old romance that didn’t work out in the end because of a lot of things, but her fear to let me get close was the big one.

Anyhow, we went to the dance. This was a Big Step for both of us, and we both knew it--hell, I knew it the first time. I wasn’t much of a dancer even in adulthood, but I was better than I had been at 12. And now, 12 again, I drew on some of that knowledge. I think Cyndi was surprised that I was, at least, competent.

Sitting in chairs on the sideline, I put my arm around her. She stiffened.

“Is this OK?” she said.

“Yes, but…well, we’ll talk later.” This was a definite re-run. As was the talk we had later, outside, waiting to get picked up.

“I like you,” she said, “and I think we should, you know, be boyfriend and girlfriend. And you can put your arm around me and hold my hand. But I don’t think we should kiss until we’re sixteen.” 

Ah, yes, déjà vu all over again. I could’ve almost recited that speech thirty years down the road, and I here I was, reliving it. No wonder I spent my entire adolescence not ever getting laid, I couldn’t even get kissed.

The first time around, I took it meekly. This time, the adult part of me decided to challenge it a bit. Cyndi had turned 13 over the summer, I knew that. So, I said, “Sixteen? Cyndi, if I have to wait three years to get a kiss from you, I won’t be around to get it.”

She looked strangely at me--she wasn’t happy. “Well, maybe we should call this off right now,” she said.

“Maybe we should,” I agreed easily.

That shocked her. “I thought you liked me!” she said.

“I do. A lot. But I don’t like setting limits, especially limits that sound a bit out of it to me.”

“I don’t want to move too fast!” she said.

“Neither do I. But waiting three years for a kiss isn’t slow, it’s glacial.”

“If you liked me, you’d wait.”

“And I will,” I told her. “I just can’t tell you how long I’ll wait. I can predict with some confidence that three years isn’t it.”

“But what if I don’t want to?”

“Then you’ll have a decision to make. I’ll never force you, you know that.”

“I don’t know anything anymore!” she gasped. “This isn’t the discussion I expected to have,” she admitted.

“You expected me to roll over like a puppy,” I said with a wry grin. She looked at me, shocked. “You expected Eddie Bovilas, the well-known nerd outcast, to accept any conditions you came up with, because I’d be so grateful just to have a girlfriend.” I’d guessed that a long time ago. The expression on her face told me I was right.

She tried to get out of it, though. “Eddie, it’s not like that…”

“It seems like it to me, bringing this up on our first date, and setting limits.”

“I thought you’d understand,” she said.

“Well, I’d understand if you told me you didn’t want to have sex until you were sixteen. But kissing?”

“SEX!” she gasped. “I’m not doing that until my wedding night!”

“Well, then we’re going to break up sooner or later anyway, so we might as well stop now. My mom will take you home, I’ll tell you I had a good time--which I did--and that’ll be the end of it.”

All right. I know. It wasn’t nice, or fair, or good. That was the ‘experienced’ guy talking--I barely even thought about sex at that age, the first time around. Kissing, I thought of, yeah. I spent most of the relationship with Cyndi wanting to kiss her. But sex? Wasn’t thinking of it, I’d barely entered puberty. It was way out of character for me at 12 to be having this conversation. Poor Cyndi was shocked. I shouldn’t have done it, I know that.

“I thought you were Catholic,” she gasped. Cyndi was Baptist, which was worse!

“I’m Catholic because my mother forces me to go to church.” Which was the truth, but something I wouldn’t have admitted--even to myself--back then the first time around. “I don’t believe in it.”

“So you want to have sex with me?” she gasped.

“Eventually. Some day. If we’re still together. Not right now,” I grinned. “That I will admit I’m not any more ready for than you are. But, I’ll tell you something. Remember, I want to be a doctor. That’s high school, and college, and med school. That’s a long time. If you think I’m waiting until my wedding night--when I won’t even think about marriage until after med school--you’re dreaming.”

“Oh.”

“Kissing, I’ll admit, I’m thinking about right now,” I grinned. She blushed bright red!

“What do you want from me?” she squeaked.

“No limitations. No deadlines. No dates. Go with the flow. If it feels right, we’ll do it. If it doesn’t, we won’t.”

“My deadlines, as you call them, are a way for me to keep control,” she said tightly.

“I know, and I reject that,” I told her. “Because you’re trying to control both of us.”

“I have to think about this,” she said.

“Take all the time you need.”

We sat there in silence for a while, waiting for our ride. One thing I noticed, though, is that when I put my arm around her--she didn’t stiffen up. Which she did do the first time, and had been doing all night this time. It’s almost like my surprising diatribe relaxed her.

Hmmm. Who woulda thunk it?

OCTOBER 11th, 1977

A Monday, one week after my ‘recycling’.

I’d thought all weekend about what I had said to Cyndi. I determined one thing for sure--I owed her an apology. I went too far, and I knew it.

The other thing I’d thought about all weekend is just exactly what I was doing. Because my brain was getting away from me.

It was almost like I was a split personality. I’d determined I mostly acted like a 12 year old boy. I thought, quite a bit, like a 12 year old boy. I was naturally attracted to Cyndi, who was 13. If I was thinking like the 42-year-old that part of me was, I would’ve been slightly disgusted by that--I was no pedophile. I thought about that quite a bit over the weekend. I was at the mall, and checking out women ‘my own age’. You know, 42, the age I really was--and even younger--late twenties to early thirties--and I felt nothing. Wasn’t attracted to them at all, even though that’s the age range I was attracted to before I got ‘sent back’. My last liaison in my old life was with a 33 year old, and she was something else. Now, after being ‘sent back’ and living in a 12-year-old body, women that age had no appeal to me whatsoever. Even my mother, 8 years younger than I really was, seemed so impossibly old to me. I was, basically, 12.

But I had the memories of 42 years on earth, and that was the ‘line’, so to speak, I was living in. One week and one day ago, I was 42. Then I woke up 12. It was like I regressed, but those 42 years of memory were still my memories, and experiences. 

And those memories and experiences--well, in my conversation with Cyndi on Friday night, they had popped out like the monster under the bed. 

I needed a way to harness this. Look, I wasn’t a typical 12 year old, I know that. That was impossible, with my experiences. But I certainly wasn’t 42 any more. The way I reacted with Cyndi was as a man with a wealth of sexual experiences and a 10-year marriage under his belt--but with the self control of a 12 year old. That was damn dangerous.

What I needed to do was be 12--but use those experience and memories for me. Despite the rut I had fallen into before I got sent back, I was, in most ways, a far better person at 42 than I was a 12. I was rather charming, witty, eloquent, and good company. I wasn’t the stuttering, stammering geek afraid of his own shadow that I had been. I needed to be what I was, a 12 year old boy, and draw on that, use it for me, not against me.

I started looking on this as a chance to change. There were things I could do, right now--but things I could do to prepare for the future, too.

On Saturday, I had asked my dad about the possibility of purchasing a weight set. He was shocked that his lazy, bookworm son wanted to lift weights--but he was all for the idea. We went right out and found one. I was going to lift weights and I was going to start running. That should stave off the inevitable creeping flab that would start some time in high school.

I needed to learn how to study, so I didn’t wash out of college again.

And, OK, yeah. I admit it--I had no intention of being a virgin until I was 22, like I did the first go-round. But the way to do that, I’d decided, was to make myself more attractive. And, shit, I was only twelve--I had plenty of time. I should be setting ground work, not scaring poor Cyndi to death with my 42-year-old memories combined with my 12-year-old raging hormones.

Like I said, this was all very, very confusing.

I didn’t see Cyndi in school that day--that wasn’t unusual, we had no classes together that year. I knew I’d be stopping in while I was doing my paper route. As it turned out, I didn’t have to--she was sitting on her front steps, waiting for me.

“Hi,” she said as she saw me approach.

“Hi. I’m glad you’re here. We have to talk.” It was a pretty nice day for mid-October, so we just took a seat on her steps. “First of all, I owe you an apology,” I told her. “I was out of line Friday night.”

“Funny, I was going to say the same thing to you,” she said quietly.

“Huh? Why on earth?”

“Because you were right. I did think you’d just roll over. That was wrong.”

“Ah. OK, but I shouldn’t have talked to you like I did. I didn’t mean to scare you,” I said.

“You didn’t,” she said with a little smile. “Look, I still want to go out with you. I don’t want to kiss you. Today. We’ll see if that changes.”

“Fair enough. I won’t force or coerce you, but I’m going to try to change your mind.”

“Fair enough,” she grinned. “Hugging’s perfectly fine, you know.” So I took her in my arms and hugged her. The 12 year old part of me thought that this was just fine!

Amazing. She didn’t act at all like I thought she was going to. “You surprised me,” she said after we broke the hug.

“I’m trying to make some changes,” I told her, truthfully. “I’ll try not to take them out on you anymore, though.”

“I’m glad. About both of that,” she grinned.

OCTOBER 23rd, 1977

The next couple of weeks went fine. I was still sort of experimenting with how I reacted to things. Just little subtle changes. But I was trying to gradually change my attitude. I’d noticed a few situations where I didn’t react the way I would have the first time around. And I tried to walk around with more confidence. It seemed to be working, somewhat. I hadn’t gotten beaten up, and that was a thrice-weekly occurrence the first time around. I’m sure a challenge or two was coming, still, but I was trying to get myself in a better place to deal with it.

I’d realized something. I was reading, in the Boston Globe, a recap of the Red Sox season, and a preview for 1978. That’s when it hit me, I was going to have to relive that season!

Jesus. That’s when all the things I was going to have to relive came rushing back. Shit. I was going to have to relive Bucky Bleepin’ Dent! Bill Buckner! The Reagan Presidency! THE MONKEES REUNION!!! Jesus, maybe I was in hell.

Of course, I’d get some good stuff to relive, too. Hmmm. That’s when I got a thought. I could make money off this!!

Hey, I knew what stocks were going to do well, right? I could keep my eyes open. Of course, I’d need money to buy them. And if things went the way they did the first time, my family was about to head for financial disaster.

I’d have to figure out a way to do something about that, too.

Anyhow--besides stocks, there were sporting events, right? My dad knew enough bookies. I’d bet I could make a pretty penny on some stuff that I knew about.

Anyhow, I’d been doing OK. I found the guitar that my aunt had bought me a few years back, a nice acoustic. This was about the time I’d started playing the first time around. I ‘caught on’ much faster this time, though--no big surprise, since I’d been playing for thirty years! 

I’d also gotten right to work on the weightlifting and running. My parents were mighty impressed. Even after a few weeks, I’d already seen a difference.

This day, a Saturday, was a running day. I alternated. I went for a couple miles in a loop, heading through the neighborhoods of the east end of Cabot. I was heading through Morris Park, a neighborhood about a half mile from my house. 

A lot of kids I knew lived in Morris Park. One of them was Kara Pocharsky. I didn’t run down her street, Lee Rd., but I ran down the adjacent street, Williams Rd. One of her best friends, Kelly Cullinane, lived there.

I’d known Kelly--and her twin brother, Patrick--since first grade. Kelly was actually my first ‘crush’, back in third and fourth grade. I still liked her, though Kara had replaced her in my affections. Then again, Cyndi had replaced both of them--but I didn’t know how long that was going to last. And the torch I was carrying for Kara wasn’t going to go away that easily. Of course, Kara was going out with Don Nixon, but I knew that wasn’t going to last, either.

As I ran up Williams Rd., there they were, Kara and Kelly, coming down the street. “Eddie?” Kara said as I ran towards them.

Be cool, I said to myself. You know better. Don’t turn into the stammering, scared geek. “Hi girls.” I came to a stop by them.

“You’ve taken up running?” Kelly said.

“Yeah. And lifting weights. I’m sick of not being in shape,” I told them.

“Good for you!” Kara said with genuine enthusiasm. 

“Thanks,” I smiled. “I just started. I alternate running and lifting.”

“You’re not fat, though,” Kelly said.

“Remember what I looked like last year, or in sixth grade?” I laughed. “I was pretty pudgy. I just had a growth spurt this past year. When everything catches up--well, pudgy runs in my family. I’m trying to stave it off.”

“Good plan,” Kara agreed.

“Plus, the weightlifting--well, I’m sick of being the school punching bag,” I admitted.

“Yeah,” Kara agreed, with what seemed like sympathy.

“I hope I don’t get fat, because I can’t do much of anything right now, not with this thing on,” Kelly said disgustedly, pointing at the large brace on her back. Kelly had a bad case of scoliosis, and they’d put her in the brace.

“Just don’t eat,” I laughed. “How long you in that thing, anyway?”

“Six months to a year.”

“Which sucks,” I said, “but at least you’re avoiding the fate of Quasimodo, right?” They both laughed at that. “Anyhow, back to the running. See you later, ladies.”

“Bye, Eddie,” Kara said. I trotted off, and I heard Kara say, “Damn, I think that’s the first time Ed Bovilas ever talked to me without blushing and stuttering!” I grinned to myself as I ran up the street. Score one for me!

NOVEMBER 3rd, 1977

I’d been ‘back’ exactly a month and things had gone fairly well. I was still setting some groundwork, but I was making headway.

I’d realized that this wasn’t a dream, and I wasn’t going to wake up and be 42 again. This was my life now, and I had to deal with that. 

One thing I was struggling with was how much to change. I really didn’t want this life to go like the last one, and I thought I could do a lot to stave that off. I was trying to figure out exactly what.

Even after only a few weeks, the running and weightlifting was showing results. I just felt better. I hadn’t had a chance to test it--I hadn’t really been beaten on lately--and I was hoping to get a little stronger before I tested it anyhow.

Otherwise, things were going well. I’d already amazed my parents with my ‘quick’ acquisition of some guitar prowess. I’d taken my paper route money and upgraded the record collection a bit--as well as the wardrobe. I’d never be gorgeous, but I could dress better. I also got a new pair of glasses. I couldn’t get contacts--contacts for people with astigmatism hadn’t been invented yet--but I could get glasses that weren’t so damn geeky. I needed an eye checkup anyhow, so, when I got a new prescription, I picked more flattering frames. And it was noticed--even by Kara. “Hey, those are nice,” she said to me in English. Just a little thing like that! Boy, I had been so hopeless the first time around.

Cyndi and I had gone out a few times. Things were different. We still hadn’t kissed, but, in other ways, she was far looser. When I put my arm around her, she’d snuggle in and put her head on my shoulder. That did not happen the first time around. She was more relaxed. I think a lot of that was that I was more relaxed. I wasn’t the nervous geek I was the first time. We had an easy, fun relationship so far. The only problem was that she shied away from holding hands or anything at school. She was still uneasy about that stuff. There wasn’t any kind of no-PDA rule at Cabot East JHS--believe me, there wasn’t. You’d see people making out between classes. But Cyndi wasn’t ready for anything like that. I could live with it. I just decided to go with the flow. I didn’t think Cyndi was the love of my life or anything like that, even in hindsight, but I had fun with her.

I’d taken the entrance exam to North Shore Prep the previous Saturday. That was another thing I had to think about. I’m not sure I wanted to do the Prep on this go-round. That surprised even me, and I had to think about it harder, but I just had the feeling that it might be a mistake.

I was starting to feel good about all this. I felt like I was in control. It really was feeling like a second chance, that I could do good, that I could fix all the problems that had plagued me all of my life.

Of course, I was wrong--because I forgot. I fucking forgot, God help me.

November third was a Wednesday. I sat in the lunchroom eating lunch, with Stan Murvetsin and some of his friends, when I felt a hand on my shoulder. I looked up, and it was Beth Trovini, my very best friend since I was born.

“Beffy!” I said, calling her by my nickname for her--that’s as close as I could get when we were toddlers, and it stuck.

“Hi, Eddie!”

Why hadn’t I seen her? I’d been back a month, where had she been? Then, my brain supplied the answer. “You’re back? Out of the hospital?” I asked.

“Yup! Chemo’s over and I’m in remission. Cross your fingers,” she said, smiling, as she walked away.

That’s when the roof fell in on my head. I had forgotten. SHIT! I hastily made an excuse about having to go to the bathroom to Stan and the gang, and took off. I did go into the bathroom, but only to be alone. Luckily, there was nobody there. I went into a stall, and felt the tears start almost immediately.

Beth Trovini. Oh my God.

I had forgotten.

I was going to have to watch my best friend die all over again.