I was in the middle of schoolwork when the dorm phone rang.

"Hello?"

"Hey Riley?"

It was Claire.

"Hey, Claire."

"Guess where I am?"

"Duh, in your dorm."

"Nope. I’m outside your window."

"...What do you mean? That makes no sense."

"I'm on a mobile phone. Just like in Clueless."

I blinked and turned toward the window. And yep — there she was, standing on the sidewalk below, waving like she’d just reinvented the future.

She held up the brick-sized phone like it was a prize from a game show.

Maya looked up from her psych notes on the other bed. “Is that Claire?”

“She’s on a mobile phone.”

Maya blinked. “Who does she think she is, Cher Horowitz?”

"You should get one too."

"I don't know," I said, looking down at her from the window. "Aren’t they, like… really expensive?"

I felt kind of ridiculous — talking on the phone while literally watching her from above, like some weird modern-day Rapunzel moment.

"Yeah, they are," she said, grinning. "In fact, it's costing me minutes just talking to you right now."

She gave me a wave. "I'll see you inside."

The line went dead.

Costing her minutes? What does that even mean?

She’s costing me minutes of my work time just calling me on the phone.

I watched her head inside, phone still in hand like it was some kind of time bomb.

I hung up the dorm phone and sat back down at my desk, staring at my half-finished worksheet like it had betrayed me.

Costing her minutes. What even was that? Did the phone charge her like a long-distance call every time she opened her mouth?

Maya raised an eyebrow from across the room. “She’s going full ‘rich girl in a teen movie,’ huh?”

“I think the mobile phone is melting her brain.”

I tried to refocus — pencil in hand, book open, highlighter uncapped and already drying out — when the door flung open like it owed Claire money.

She burst in, slightly out of breath and full of purpose, her mobile phone still in hand and her sunglasses inexplicably on indoors.

“I have a plan,” she announced.

Maya and I exchanged a look.

“Do we want to know?” I asked cautiously.

Claire ignored me and threw herself dramatically onto Maya’s bed. “There is a record store downtown. They’re doing a one-day sale on used CDs and old concert tees. Like, vintage. Nirvana. L7. Hole. And I need backup.”

Maya blinked. “This is the emergency?”

Claire pointed the mobile phone at us like it was a wand. “This glorious piece of overpriced plastic has told me it’s a sign. We’re going. Now.”

I raised an eyebrow. “I doubt those things will ever become popular with the price of it.”

Claire gasped like I’d insulted her future children. “Blasphemy.”

Maya snorted. “She’s not wrong. You could buy a semester’s worth of ramen for what that thing probably costs for batteries..”

Claire rolled her eyes. “Mock me now. But one day, everyone’s gonna have one of these in their pocket.”

“Sure,” I said. “Right next to our flying cars and laser backpacks.”

****

The mall was already buzzing by the time we got to Southdale — teenagers everywhere, loitering by the fountains, couples holding hands, someone blasting TLC from a boombox balanced on a bench like they were auditioning for a low-budget music video.

Claire walked ten feet ahead of us like she was on a mission. She had her mobile phone in one hand and her sunglasses perched unnecessarily on top of her head, radiating chaotic mall queen energy.

“We hit the record store first,” she declared, weaving through a group of middle schoolers in matching windbreakers. “Then pretzels. Then... possibly the photo booth, if I’m feeling sentimental.”

“Is that the same photo booth that printed your face on one of those ‘Best Friends Forever’ strips with that girl you dated for like four days?” Maya asked.

“Her name was Carly, and it was six days,” Claire said without turning around.

We passed the escalators and the directory map, dodging a kiosk guy trying to sell us knockoff sunglasses.

That’s when Claire stopped.

Mid-stride.

Right in front of Radio Shack.

The sliding doors didn’t open automatically — you had to tug them. But that didn’t stop the fluorescent lighting from practically buzzing through the glass.

Rows of camcorders, giant remote controls, walkie-talkies, and a wall of tangled cords filled the window like some kind of tech museum curated by a very excitable uncle.

Claire took one slow step toward the entrance, then another.

Maya and I exchanged a look.

“Oh no,” I said. “She’s doing the thing.”

“She’s absolutely doing the thing,” Maya said.

Claire turned back to us, eyes wide. “Do you think they’ll let me test a pager?”

We decided to go in.

The door gave a sad little jingle as it opened, and the whole store smelled like plastic packaging and battery acid. Rows of wall clocks blinked out of sync. A shelf of floppy disks sagged near the corner, and someone had stacked car phone adapters like they were exciting.

Claire made a beeline toward a rotating display of cassette-to-CD converters, but I got distracted by something glowing in the back.

A display table — front and center — featured a brand-new Windows 95 setup, the monitor so boxy it looked like it had its own seatbelt. A white sign read WELCOME TO THE FUTURE in bold red marker.

A guy in a red Radio Shack polo stood beside it, explaining something to a college-aged couple. He gestured at the monitor like he was unveiling a spaceship.

“It’s all connected now,” he said. “Computers talking to each other across the country. Some folks are calling it the World Wide Web. You can send messages. Get news. Even shop from home.”

Claire blinked. “Shop. From home.”

“With the right modem and a subscription to one of the online services,” he added. “Like CompuServe. America Online. Prodigy.”

“What’s a modem?” I asked.

“It hooks your computer up to your phone line,” he said proudly. “You dial in, hear that buzzing sound — then boom. You’re online.”

Maya frowned. “What happens if someone picks up the phone while you’re using it?”

He hesitated. “It, uh… disconnects you.”

We all just stared at him.

Claire crossed her arms. “So it’s slow, expensive, and gets ruined by a phone call. Wow. The future kinda sucks.”

The sales guy gave a stiff little nod, like he wasn’t sure if we were impressed or just mocking him.

(We were definitely mocking him.)

Claire tapped the side of the monitor. “Call me when I can print pizza through this thing.”

He didn’t even blink. “You joke, but they’re already talking about ordering food online.”

Maya muttered, “Next you’ll say we can meet people through it.”

“People do meet through it,” he said, sounding almost hurt. “There are message boards. Chatrooms.”

I squinted at the screen, where a clunky gray window with black text was open. “This whole thing looks like a toaster that learned how to type.”

Claire turned away with a dramatic sigh. “Okay. I’ve seen the future. It’s beige and full of disappointment.”

We made our way back to the mall walkway, past a kiosk selling mood rings and another one pushing hair crimpers like it was still 1989.

As we rounded the corner toward the record store, Claire shook her head. “Can you imagine, being on a computer and listening to music from.. was it… The World Wide Web?”

Maya laughed. “Or where you could share photos. Or talk about movies.”

I scoffed. “Yeah. And maybe someday, we’ll all have our own pages. With glitter fonts and song lyrics and—wait. No. That’s ridiculous.”

Claire grinned. “God, I hope not. That sounds like the end of society.”

“And what about that modem thingy?” I said, shaking my head as we passed a rack of glitter chokers and velvet scrunchies. “You have to dial in just to read the news? What happens if your mom picks up the phone in the middle of it?”

Maya gave me a side glance. “Then your global network of... whatever crashes and burns, obviously.”

Claire snorted. “Technology is wild. First they got phones in cars, now they want us reading books on computers. What’s next, TV on a floppy disk?”

I laughed. “Yeah, sure. And maybe we’ll have mini televisions in our pockets too.”

Maya raised her eyebrows. “Okay, now that’s just science fiction.”

I grinned. “I have a feeling the machines in Terminator would happen before all these even take off.”

That made all three of us laugh — maybe too loud for the mall, but we didn’t care.

We were heading to the record store, when Claire stopped halfway to the escalator, practically vibrating with an idea. “Screw it. We’re going to Electric Fetus.”

Maya blinked. “Downtown?”

Claire nodded. “Yes. Grimy floors, incense smell, actual used CDs with character. No pastel displays. No overlit jewel case walls. Just real music. Weird music.”

I hesitated. “Didn’t we see a guy smoking a clove cigarette in there last time?”

“Yes. And he was singing Björk lyrics in Icelandic. It’s a vibe.”

Maya rolled her eyes. “Fine. But if someone tries to sell me a bootleg of The Cure recorded in a basement, I’m blaming you.”

Claire tossed her mobile phone in her bag and grinned. “Come on. Time to touch some dusty jewel cases and breathe in patchouli until our souls reset.”

****

The door to Electric Fetus creaked like it hadn’t been oiled since the 70s.

Inside, the air was thick with the scent of patchouli, vinyl sleeves, and maybe... dryer sheets? Someone had tied a bandana to the overhead fan, and it flapped lazily as music played — something raw and echoey that might’ve been Mazzy Star or a bootleg of Siouxsie and the Banshees.

The lighting was low and moody, and the carpet looked like it had survived a few acid trips.

Claire made a delighted noise. “Home.”

We split off instinctively — Maya headed toward the tapes and zines, Claire went straight to the wall of Imports and Rarities, and I wandered to a bin labeled Local + Unsigned.

A handwritten sign above it read: Touch With Respect. Some of these are your classmates.

I flipped through cracked plastic jewel cases, pausing at a CD with a Sharpie label that just said No Hope in February. Very Minneapolis.

Nearby, Claire was holding up a scratched Babes in Toyland CD like it was treasure. “Only three bucks! That’s like... one vending machine heartbreak.”

Maya didn’t even look up. “You still owe me five dollars from the last one.”

Claire waved a hand. “Semantics.”

I ran my fingers along a row of faded concert T-shirts tacked to the wall: Sonic Youth, L7, The Breeders. They smelled faintly like laundry detergent and rebellion.

From the corner, a guy behind the counter shouted, “We’ve got new used in — left of the incense rack, behind the velvet Elvis.”

I turned just in time to see Maya hold up a cassette and call across the store, “Riley! You still like 10,000 Maniacs?”

I moved deeper into the aisles, past a rack of bootleg live shows and foreign-language soundtracks. The lighting was dimmer back here, dust motes dancing in the air like tiny ghosts.

My fingers skimmed over jewel cases and battered cassettes until one stuck out — not because it was flashy, but because it was familiar.

A scratched-up mix tape.

Not a store label. Not a band name. Just a piece of masking tape on the front with smudged black marker:
"RILEY’S ROAD TRIP MIX – SUMMER ‘89"

My heart did a weird, lurchy thing.

I picked it up slowly, turning it over in my hands like it might vanish. The handwriting looked like mine — no, was mine. Blocky, half-cursive. The A side listed songs I hadn’t thought about in years:
Tom Petty – Free Fallin’
Natalie Cole – Miss You Like Crazy
Cheap Trick – The Flame

I blinked hard.

This was the tape I’d made with my cousin the summer before we both started middle school. We’d played it in Dad’s old Ford during that long trip to Michigan.

Claire wandered over with a Bauhaus T-shirt draped around her arm. “Whoa. What’s that?”

I held it up, still stunned. “It’s mine. Like… actually mine. From when I was a kid.”

Maya appeared at my side, peeking at the label. “You sure?”

“I never made more than one of these. It even has that dumb doodle in the corner — see?” I pointed to the faint outline of a soccer ball with wings.

Claire whistled. “What are the odds?”

Maya gently touched my arm. “Maybe it’s a sign.”

“Of what?” I asked, voice smaller than I meant.

“I don’t know,” she said quietly. “But it made its way back to you.”

I turned the tape over in my hand again, just to be sure I wasn’t imagining it.
Same cracked corner. Same smudged doodle. Same exact order of songs — even down to the one that cut off halfway through because the boombox batteries had died. It was mine. No doubt.

“I’m gonna ask,” I said, already walking toward the counter.

Claire blinked. “Ask what?”

The guy behind the register looked up from a pile of flyers, eyebrow ring catching the overhead light. His T-shirt said Support Your Local Weirdos, and he looked like he meant it.

“Hey,” I said, holding up the cassette. “This… this is mine. Like, actually mine. I made this when I was a kid.”

He leaned over the counter and squinted at the label. “For real?”

“Yeah. Summer of ’89. I drew that dumb little soccer ball with wings. I remember every track on it. I must’ve played it a hundred times.”

He turned it over in his hands, nodding slowly. “Huh. That came in last month. Some guy dropped off a milk crate of old cassettes from his brother’s attic — most of them weren’t labeled. Said they were probably junk, but we put out a few anyway.”

Then he looked up at me again — really looked. His brow furrowed a little, like something had just clicked.

“Wait… you’re a girl?” he said, squinting slightly, like maybe the lights were too bright or he wasn’t sure if he was asking the right thing.

Maya stiffened next to me, just barely. Claire was already shifting forward like she might say something.

But I didn’t flinch. I just met his eyes.

“Yeah,” I said calmly.

He blinked. “Huh.”

He held the tape up again, looking at it, then back at me. “Wild. You just don’t expect that kind of full-circle thing, you know? Like… the universe sneezed and it landed back in your hands.”

I gave a half-smile. “Something like that.”

He handed it over with both hands, like it might break. “Well… welcome back, I guess.”

Maya touched my arm. Claire didn’t say a word, but her eyes were steady.

I tucked the tape gently into my jacket pocket. “Thanks.”

The guy just nodded, then leaned back against the counter and muttered, “Damn. I should probably stop smoking before work.”

**

The bell over the door jingled behind us as we stepped back into the sharp sunlight, cassette safely tucked in my pocket like a secret.

None of us said anything for a second.

Then Claire burst out laughing. “Okay but… did he seriously say ‘the universe sneezed’?”

Maya grinned. “I don’t think he’s seen the inside of a clear thought since Reagan was president.”

I snorted. “He sure didn’t pass the D.A.R.E. Program, did he?”

That got all three of us laughing — the real kind, the kind that echoes down the block and makes people turn their heads. The kind that doesn’t ask permission.

For a minute, it didn’t matter that the tape came from a different life. It didn’t matter what the guy saw — or thought he saw — when he looked at me.

All that mattered was this moment: the smell of city pavement after rain, the sound of Claire’s ridiculous snort-laugh, Maya’s hand brushing against mine as we walked.

And the little plastic tape in my pocket.

Like proof I was always meant to get here. Even if the road had no map.