She left a message for her younger self to read. -- SongSpired
Time travel was a bitch. Sorting out the mistakes of life retroactively was never a fun thing. Making sure she would pay attention to her own warnings to herself had been the work of several journeys. And multiple encounters. She could not talk to herself. Both brains shut down for that sort of thing. Leaving notes, however, was perfect.
Her teenaged self was asleep in bed. Sleeping the sleep of the unaware.
She put her note in the jewelry box, where she had always left it. She had always had the only key. And then she left. Back to her own time and to the decompression suite where she would wait in isolation for time and her memories to resynchronise.
She woke up and realised that her locked jewelry box had been moved. Her other self had stopped by. Which meant she had a new foreboding. A new warning from a version of herself who felt compelled to warn her about dangers she could now avoid.
She unlocked the box. Took out the single sheet of colourful paper out of there. Re-locking it with the key she always hid in her locket.
We both know the dress code is an actual piece of shit, but don't flaunt it. Mr Sanders has been perving your boobs since last year and this is the year that he thinks he can get away with touching you. Nannycams are going to be your best friend.
Mister Sanders? Gross. She automatically started picking out all the stuff her Nanna bought her. And decided to tell Mom at least about how she thought he was perving on her. She would instantly figure out some way to smuggle a nanny cam into school.
There was more on the note. Jake Benderfass is going to tell you that you're cute.
"Omigod," she whispered.
He is twenty. You are fourteen. He is a skeev. Report him instantly and fight for him to be registered as a pedo. By the time he actually attempts statutory rape, he'll be able to grey-case his way out of it. Tell mom. Tell Nanna. Tell everyone how weirded out you are that a grown-ass man is hitting on a fourteen-year-old girl. It. Is. WRONG. Super wrong. Extreme doubleplus ungood. For that crap to be happening.
The note ended, as always, with Trust me on this.
Every time she had, things definitely turned out for the better.
[Image (c) Can Stock Photo / dtiberio]
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