#queue. this is heavy.

[timechange]

MCFLY JULY ‘24 — pepsi free.

88 (1989)

1:15 AM

Sunshine Girl

Recent History

Strangerland

Erasure

Continuum

Wipe Out

In Flux

FUTURE BOY (1991)

Lightning

Goofy Foot

No Roads, All Roads

Unheard

Lost Memory

Lovestruck

Second Chance, California

City Limits

[timechange]

MCFLY JULY ‘24 — blind spot.

JANUARY 11, 1986

The key turns in the front door, the winter chill rushing into the house. A moment later, the hall light turns on.

“Mom? You awake?” 

Sylvia smiles at the sound of her son’s voice, putting down her crochet things on the end table.  

“We’re in here, Georgie!” 

Carefully, she stands, easing her grandson’s head off her lap and tucking a pillow underneath. She’s pretty sure the kid must’ve been an acrobat in another life; there’s no way he’d be able to sleep all twisted up like a pretzel otherwise. She readjusts the blanket she’d put over him, smoothing down his hair, before meeting her son and daughter-in-law halfway.

“Well, how was the party?” she asks, leaning up against the breakfast bar as George and Lorraine hang up their coats. “You two crazy kids have fun hobnobbin’ with the head honchos at Simon & Schuster?” 

“It was nice, Mom, thanks,” George answers, way too dismissively for a party he’d been talking about for weeks, full of editors and publishers and everything he’d always dreamed of, “but–”

“How was Marty?” Lorraine interrupts, urgently.

Here we go. Finally, some answers.

“Lorrie, honey, you know Artie and I always love bein’ with the kids,” Sylvia begins, and she meant it, even though Artie had called it a night about three hours ago and was now snoring loud enough to shake the walls, “but seventeen goin’ on eighteen’s a little old for a babysitter, don’t you think?” 

“Oh, we’ve just been so worried about him, Sylvia,” Lorraine pleads, eyes wide. “We… we didn’t think it would be a good idea to leave him alone.” 

“For the last few months,” George elaborates, wrapping an arm around his wife and holding her close, “he hasn’t been himself. He doesn’t sleep, he’s been having nightmares… he’s been having memory problems, too, and I know he’s a teenager, but sometimes he’ll get in his own head and it’s like… he’s not even here, like he goes somewhere else instead.”

“He’ll get so confused,” Lorraine agrees, “and-and he used to love thunderstorms but now he’s just so afraid of them and... other things… sometimes it even feels like he's afraid of us…” She bites her lip and buries herself into George. 

It breaks Sylvia’s heart to see them like this; in mourning for the boy who’s alive and breathing and fast asleep on the couch. Just a few hours ago her and Marty were singing along to the radio while making dinner and laughing until they cried trying to play games on his Nintendo while eating Lucky Charms by the bowlful.

“We must’ve missed something,” George murmurs, “something must’ve happened to him and we missed it somehow.”

“We’ve just been so busy,” Lorraine laments, “too busy. I-I thought it was the stress… with college applications and everything changing… but even Jennifer and Doctor Brown don’t know what’s wrong.”  

Sylvia isn’t quite sure she buys that. 

She may not know a lot of things, but she does know that Carl Sagan from 1931 certainly doesn’t look like that nice young man on PBS from a couple years back but did look a whole lot like that whiz kid Emmett and even more like her grandson’s best friend, that nice Doctor Brown, that Emmett grew up to be. 

She also knows that Sonny Crockett (who is pretty much all they talked about at dinner tonight) is from one of Marty’s favorite shows, not that kid from 1931 with her grandson’s sweet blue eyes and a fake mustache.

She even remembers George begging her and Artie to help him get all dolled up for some dance at the last minute and talking all about how he wasn’t going with a date but he was going to meet up with his new friend Marty there.

Not to mention the date on that Bubble Bobble game of his is two years from now.

When you grow up around liars and cheats, you get to be really good at noticing things. 

“So how was he tonight?” George asks again. “Really?”

“Georgie, sweetheart, he was fine,” Sylvia emphasizes. “We had a great time. As for the other stuff… Remember what you were like when you were his age? I sure do. Any time your dad and I got near ya we’d have to promise we weren’t tryin’ to look in your journals. Even if we were just givin’ you a hug!”

They crack a smile at this, George at least having the decency to look sheepish.

“Whatever’s going on with Marty,” she continues, “he’ll tell ya when he’s good and ready. And remember: you’re great parents. He loves you. He’d do anything for you. Just be there for him until then and let him know that you love him too. No matter what.”

Sylvia looks over her shoulder at her sleeping grandson, a fond smile and a mischievous look in her eye.

We got a lot to talk about, kiddo. I’m ready when you are.

[timechange]

MCFLY JULY ‘24 — roll with me, henry.

MAY 12, 1956

Prom is so much bigger and so much louder than George had been expecting. 

Balloons and decorations are everywhere, the band is in full swing, and the whole country club is alive with dancing and movement. 

He finds himself drawn to the outskirts of the party, nursing a glass of water he’d gone to get five minutes ago as he runs a hand through his hair, straightening his suit and boutonniere. He keeps his eyes on Lorraine, and, as always, she’s lighting up the room with her dazzling smile, dancing with her friends in her beautiful blue dress that matches his tie. Even though it’s been months since they’d been going steady, he still finds himself wondering what in the world she’s doing with him, marveling at how out of everyone in the whole school she’d picked him. 

She meets his gaze and his heart stops for a moment when she raises her gloved, corsaged hand and waves to him, her gorgeous eyes sparkling in the lights.

He manages an awkward wave, pink dusting his cheeks, wondering if he’d be missed if he ducked into the bathroom and didn’t come out for an hour or so.  

‘George, buddy,’ Marty’s voice pops into his head again. It’s been happening more and more frequently lately, with the protagonists in his stories always managing to have a best friend who knows just what to say at just the right time. It’s some kind of narrative shadow, like a ghost creeping in through the pages, that he just can’t shake. ‘You’re not seriously gonna be a wallflower at your own prom, are ya?’ 

He can almost see him, too, leaning up against the wall like he’s the coolest guy in school. While George is in baby blue, Marty would be in pink, maybe, giving him one of those mysterious and oddly familiar smiles.  

“No,” he defends, weakly. “I needed a minute, that’s all. It’s hot in here and there’s so many people, I just…”

‘I thought we talked about this,’ Marty would respond, squeezing his shoulder. ‘You gotta stop freaking yourself out.’

“I have to stop what?” 

‘You gotta get out of your head, George,’ his inner Marty continues. ‘Look. You love that girl, right?’

“More than anything in the whole world,” George sighs. “No. In the whole universe.”

‘Right, okay. So, if you need a break, why don’t you tell her you’re overwhelmed and you need to get some air? And take her with you this time, got it?’ 

“But… she’s with her friends, I… I wouldn’t want to get in her way…”

‘George.’ Marty gives him a pointed look that reminds George way too much of his mother. ‘She came to the dance with you. She wants to be with you and she wants you to have a good time. She’s not gonna want you to be miserable.’  

“...Okay,” George acquiesces, sighing. “Okay, you’re right, as usual.”

‘Can I get that in writing?’

“What?”

‘Never mind. Now go on, get outta here.’ 

He almost can feel the playful shove forward Marty would give him, but when he looks back at the wall, there’s nobody there. 

Gently, he takes Lorraine’s hand, giving a smile to Helen and Margaret and asking them to excuse them a moment. The two girls giggle and gladly disappear into the crowd.

“...I think I need some air,” he tells her. “I-is that okay?”

“You know, I was just thinking the same thing,” Lorraine reaches up to cup his cheek, thumbing over his cheekbone and giving him her sweetest smile, the one she saves just for him. 

The two walk hand in hand out to the porch, closing the French doors behind them, and the relief George feels is overwhelming and immediate as he leans against the porch railing, looking up at the sky. 

“Are you okay?” Lorraine asks, rubbing his back. 

“I am now,” George returns, smiling. “I-I just… I know it sounds silly but I get overwhelmed, sometimes, in big crowds.”

“It doesn’t sound silly at all!” Lorraine exclaims, “I understand. Ever since… that night… I don’t really like small spaces, or feeling trapped... So I’m really glad you said what you did.” 

George is pretty convinced Marty was right; this has to be destiny, it just has to be. 

“Me too,” he agrees. “I’d much rather be out here with you.”

“I would, too.” After a moment, Lorraine continues. “You know… you can still hear the music pretty well.”

“That’s right, you can.” George extends his hand and Lorraine takes it.

Together, underneath the blanket of stars, they start to dance.

[timechange]

MCFLY JULY ‘24 — 24-hour scientific services.

SEPTEMBER 15, 1983

“Listen, Mrs. Springer, I’m fine. Promise.”

He knows his English teacher probably isn’t going to appreciate the ‘cross my heart’ gesture, but he feels it’s necessary to really convey how totally, completely, one hundred percent fine he is. 

“We’re almost to the office,” is all she says in response. Her expression is gentle, so’s her voice, but by her tone Marty recognizes that she means business. She almost looks… angry?

“Are you… mad at me?” he asks, eyes squinting to try to get a better look at her.

“What? Oh, honey, no,” she’s quick to reassure, and he feels so shitty that he almost doesn’t mind how she’s talking to him like he’s still in elementary school. “No, of course I’m not mad at you. You’re sick!”

That, he’s not going to argue with. 

“But, y’know, I-I can stay, really–” he tries to protest. He’s totally okay to just sit and listen to everyone talk about… whatever book they were reading. To Kill A Mockingbird, probably? Or Inherit the Wind. Something about some trial or whatever. Yeah, he was totally getting it, even if he did kind of almost fall trying to get up and use the pencil sharpener. But it was no big deal.  

“No, you’re going home to bed,” Mrs. Springer says definitively, sitting him down on a chair that’s in the hallway for some reason? No, they’re in the office now, he recognizes the big desk and the lady behind it. Mrs. Springer puts her hands on his shoulders. “Now, I have to go back to class, but Marjorie’s here and she’ll take good care of you. She’ll get someone to come and pick you up, okay? And if you need a ride, I can take you back home after school, but I don’t want you waiting that–”

“No, it’s… it’s okay, Mrs. S. Thanks.” He offers a half smile her way. It’s nice that she cares so much, but he’d be okay just to skate home, really. He didn’t want anybody to bother Mom and Dad or Dave but he also didn’t want them to freak out if he climbed into bed and didn’t climb back out for a solid two weeks.

Mrs. Springer and the desk lady– Marjorie, he guesses– exchange a look before Mrs. Springer goes back down the hall. Marjorie smiles at him. 

“Hang tight, Marty,” she assures, cheerfully, “let me just call home for you, okay?”

He nods, letting his eyes shut for just a second–

“--Hi, sweetheart.”

Marty starts. Since when was Marjorie right in front of him? 

“Nobody’s picking up at home,” she continues, “is there someone else we could try?”

He nods. 

“Can I do it?” he asks.

“Sure, honey, go ahead.”

He stands, scuffing his shoes on the floor the way Mom always hates. He doesn’t mean to do it, but he’s pretty sure somebody tied weights around his legs while he wasn’t looking. 

He squints again, trying to make sense of the jumble of letters, numbers, and squares. Eventually, he manages to punch in the right number, hearing @doctorbrown ‘s voice at the other end. 

“Yo, Doc,” Marty begins. “Wait… you’re not your answering machine, right?... You’re you?... ‘Cause I, um, I kinda need a favor…” He rubs the back of his neck, his hair damp, fighting for words to describe his situation that just aren’t coming. “... I don’t feel good,” he eventually settles on, barely registering a wince at how babyish it sounds.  “They’re sendin’ me home but Mom and Dad aren’t, uh, aren’t home, so is it okay if you pick me up?... I keep telling ‘em I’m cool and I’ll be good to skate back but…”

[timechange]

MCFLY JULY ‘24 — dave’s night off.

DECEMBER 14, 1985, 7:46 PM

“Okay, McFly, focus. You got this.”

Marty’s staring at the pristine living room wall, hands drumming his thighs. The familiar motions help him to think, be calm.

“Nobody knows what happened to the boat that Grandpa Artie gave Mom and Dad,” he begins, like he’s studying for a history test in the garage, “but that doesn’t mean it’s gone, it’s just… in storage… somewhere. Uh… Grandma Sylvia’s crochet blanket is in your room. It smells like her perfume, not popcorn, and that’s okay, ‘cause you miss her anyway and you need to call her soon. Nobody knows what the hell happened to Grandpa Sam’s scratchy plaid couch with the busted up cushions and Grandma Stella’s quilt’s in Mom’s hope chest… she thinks.”

“The weird modern art thing Mom and Dad picked up on… their honeymoon?...” He smacks his forehead, running a hand through his hair. “Dammit, no, not their honeymoon, it was their anniversary, their tenth anniversary. Dad replaces the flowers in the vase with fresh ones every week for Mom. There’s a million throw pillows on the couch so I guess nobody sits there anymore?…”

He rubs the back of his neck.

“Uh… kitchen. Right. We got the good chips and the good cereal, not the store brand, but... only one box ‘cause I’m the only one that still eats that junk. Everybody else has… bran and muesli and shit.”

He sighs.

“Photos…” Marty picks up an immaculate frame. “This is from Dave’s tenth birthday trip to Disneyland but you were five so it’s okay you don’t remember anything.” He stares at the family in the photo; a happy mom, a charming dad, three beautiful kids, the littlest one with a grin that looks like it’s about to break his tiny face in half. He thumbs over the glass. “I’m sorry, kid. It wasn’t supposed to be like this. I hope you’re okay… whenever you are.” He sets the photo back down.

“We’ve been to Knott’s Berry Farm, Florida, New York…” They keep asking him where he wants to go after graduation and he’s beginning to run out of ways to stall.

“At least Long Beach still happened,” Marty continues. “Jen remembers, so do the guys. And you got the album and the poster and the t-shirt to prove it, so—“

“What the hell?”

“Jesus Christ!” Marty jumps, whirling around to meet his older brother’s eyes. “Dave, you scared the shit out of me! What are you doin’ home? It’s Saturday! You’re supposed to be out with the guys from the office!”

He’d had it all planned: Dave was supposed to be out, Linda was working late and then had a date, and his parents were off at the Baxters’ Christmas party. He thought it was safe.

“Oh, I scared the shit out of you?” Dave retaliates. “And yeah, it’s Saturday, but it’s the week before Christmas, genius! Maybe I’m supposed to, I don’t know, hang out with my kid brother!”

“I-I’m sorry, Dave,” Marty sighs, deflating, hanging his head and sticking his hands in his pockets. “I just…”

“You gonna tell me what that was all about?” Dave asks, putting his hands on his shoulders. Even without looking up, Marty can feel his brother’s eyes on him, searching.

There’s a long moment of silence.

“‘At least Long Beach still happened?’” Dave prompts. “Of course it happened! That stupid concert was all you talked about for months!”

Marty manages a smile, before it falls.

“You ever feel like you’re goin’ crazy, Dave?” he ventures. “Or maybe… like the world is? I-I know it doesn’t make sense, but…”

“Of course it makes sense,” Dave cuts him off with a sigh. “I was seventeen too, y’know.”

“Yeah, I remember,” Marty laughs, “you were kinda the worst.”

“Sure I was, I was a pain in the ass,” Dave agrees. He tilts Marty’s head up with his finger like their mom used to and gives him a smile. “You’re not crazy, Marty. I’ll tell you what’s happening. Senior year is makin’ you screwy and I know you haven’t been sleeping.”

“I-I haven’t,” Marty admits.

“So, here’s what we’re gonna do. We’re gonna order pizza, you’re gonna kick my ass at Nintendo while we wait, and then we’re gonna watch a movie. Okay?”

“…Pepperoni with extra cheese?”

“Duh. What am I, a monster?”

“Okay.” Marty smiles as Dave ducks into the kitchen to order. “Hey, Dave…?”

“Yeah?” He sticks his head out, receiver already up to his ear.

“…Thanks.”

Dave winks.

“Anytime, Marty. Anytime.”

DECEMBER 14, 1985, 11:29 PM

Dave turns the volume on the TV down, opting to watch the rest of the VHS on as close to mute as possible. He sets the remote down, turning his attention to his sleeping brother, curled into his side like a little kid. He ruffles his hair, sighing.

Normally, he’d tease Marty when he’d wake up about how he took photos or something stupid like that, or he’d just carry him up to bed, but things hadn’t been normal for months now. Something happened, he didn’t know what, and at least if he was right here he could watch him and make sure he was okay.

The front door opens and he recognizes his sister’s footsteps, the way she slips off her heels and the jingle of her keys and handbag as she sets them on the counter. She walks into the living room, about to say something, but Dave raises his free hand to his lips in a shushing motion.

Linda takes in the scene, then sits down on Dave’s other side. She grabs the remote, starts rewinding White Christmas, then leans her head on Dave’s shoulder as the movie starts to play.

[timechange]

MCFLY JULY ‘24 — playing hooky.

MARCH 8, 1983

“Hi Doc, sorry I’m late.”

The fourteen-year-old greets @doctorbrown as usual, sliding the key under the mat and leaving his skateboard by the door. Einstein immediately bounds over, tail wagging, and Marty scratches him behind the ears.

“What’s on the list for today?” the boy continues, completely oblivious to or deliberately ignoring the fact that it’s Tuesday at 12:03 PM and he should most definitely be in Mr. Johnston’s fourth period geometry class right now. “More welding, maybe some circuitry? Dreamin’ up some new schematics?”

As if sensing his best friend’s discontentment and knowing he’s been found out, he groans, flopping onto Einstein to give the canine an impromptu hug. The sheepdog, pleased at the attention, thumps his tail more vigorously and licks the teenager’s face.

“C’mon, Doc,” Marty wheedles. “Linda’s skipping today too! It’s not like I got any tests or anything. Anyway, I learn more from you. You know that.”

What he’s pretty sure the scientist also knows is that, other than Doc himself, nobody actually gives a shit if he’s at school or not. Not his parents, especially not after last night. They probably don’t even realize, and sure as hell don’t care, that he’s gone.

[timechange]

MCFLY JULY ‘24 — “i think about it all the time.”

The sound of the bullet bursts in his ears and it hits him square in the chest, pain blooming and bones shattering. It’s Mad Dog, no, it’s Biff, it’s Biff holding the gun, grinning and laughing and laughing, and he’s falling down, down, down as the ground comes closer, closer, closer.

He’ll catch me, he thinks, Doc’s coming, he’ll find me, he’ll catch me.

But he’s not because Doc is lying on the cold unfeeling asphalt of the parking lot of Twin Lone no Twin it’s Twin Pines Mall, dead eyes staring unseeing and unblinking, and he’s alone as the speedometer reads 84, 85, 86, 87 as the ravine gets closer and closer and he sees his grave and Doc’s grave and Dad’s grave and Clara’s grave and Dave and Linda are gone and he’s alone and he and he and he—

He gasps for air.

He runs a hand through his hair, rubbing the back of his neck. He’s covered in cold sweat, his chest is burning, and he’s shivering.

What the hell?

@doctorbrown ‘s face is in front of his.

They’re in the garage. It was a car backfiring.

That’s all.

“…Doc?…” Marty whispers. To his horror, his hands begin to shake, his vision blurring and colors smearing as his eyes fill up with hot, stinging tears. He tries to take a deep breath but it comes out as a sniffling sob and he wishes he could drop dead on the spot.

“Doc, what’s happening to me?…”

[timechange]

MCFLY JULY ‘24 — "duded-up, egg-suckin’, gutter trash."

 NOVEMBER 11, 1985

“Come on, McFly,” Needles’ jeer rudely interrupts Bruce Dickinson’s killer vocals and Marty’s even more annoyed than he was before. This is just what he needed today.

He doesn’t stop, turning up the volume on his Walkman. He just has to make it a little further; he’s almost there, almost to Doc and Einstein and safety. They wouldn’t follow him that far. They wouldn’t dare. They learned that lesson years ago.  

A hand roughly grabs onto his shoulder and Marty whirls around, glaring at Needles and the gang that’s circling him like a bunch of vultures. He straightens, hands balling into fists. 

“Look, I’m not interested, okay?” he repeats. “Lay off already. I’m not in the mood.”

“You’re no fun anymore, McFly, you know that?” Needles returns, “What’s ‘a matter… chicken?” 

His gang ‘oohs’ and ‘aahs,’ snickering, as if the guy just played his ace in the hole. 

Marty pauses his music, takes off his headphones, and stares at the other boys. 

“Seriously?” he asks, eyebrow raised. “Is that the best thing you can come up with? What, you just finish preschool?”

Needles’ face goes pale, fumbling for words. Even the rest of the group seems stunned, whispering among each other and backing away.

Marty shakes his head, shrugging off the hand on his shoulder, and puts his headphones back on. He crosses the street, pretty sure he’s never been so happy to see the garage in his life. 

To his surprise, @doctorbrown is waiting outside for him, looking equally shocked. 

“Doc?” Marty asks, immediately uneasy. “What is it? What’s wrong?” How did I screw up this time?