January 6th, 1986

You're probably wondering just how this happened. Doc and I are in the principal's office this fine morning, enrolling me, for the second time (or is this the first time?) at Hill Valley High School.

Fuck.

My.

Life.

I should be enjoying my Winter Break right now, damn it.

In 2016, this totally wouldn't fly. No proof of ID, no birth certificate, no proof that Doc is my legal guardian, or that he has custody of me. Doc floats his loony cover story about how he's my uncle, my parents are missionaries, etc., etc., and the principal buys it, and signs me up. Moron.

I keep trying to remind myself that he doesn't know me (yet) and there's really no reason that he should be eyeing me with that hateful expression, already, but I don't think I'm imagining it.

Dude pretty much hated my guts on sight the first time around, too.

Yeah. So it's off to the school secretary with me, to pick up my schedule.

Right. I should backtrack a little bit. So Doc and I retrieved the Delorean late Thursday night. Drove it back to Doc's place and stashed it in his workshop out back. Doc was a little bit (okay, a lot) dismayed to discover that his future self had made things so difficult.

He was completely unfamiliar with hydrazine and its production and forms, and worse, there's not really any easy and fast way for him to research it, either. I don't know enough about it to help, really, because while the chemical formula for hydrazine is pretty damn simple (N2H4) the production of it is not. And it's not like this information does not exist, it's just that it's not readily available. Regular people have no need to know it, it's not common knowledge, there's no Google, and therefore, we're kind of screwed.

The only reason that I know anything about it, at all, is because of Mindy and her NASA fascination. NASA uses hydrazine as rocket fuel.

So getting a hold of that formula is not going to be as easy as it would be, in 2016. Not impossible, but it might take us a while.

And then, we found an even bigger problem.

Scary problem.

One minute, we're joking around about whether I'm old enough to drive, considering that I haven't been born yet, and the next minute, I was staring in horror at my driver's license from 2016.

It's blurry.

I've seen my license a hundred times since I got it, nearly two years ago. I know what it ought to look like.

The photograph of me is all blurred and indistinct, now. Even my name and address are a little fuzzy. I dropped it like it was on fire, because it just didn't make any fucking sense.

It was Doc that figured out what had happened.

Apparently, I have inadvertently put my future birth into jeopardy. Because I must have interrupted my parent's meet-cute the other day. My mom never got to witness my dad's vandalous, scandalous ways, and he never got backed into by Grandpa's car.

I've heard the story at least a dozen times, when I was growing up. Not the part about Dad egging Tiffany's house. But the fact that they'd met when Grandpa tagged him with the car. It always sort of sounded to me like it was a pity thing.

How could I have been so stupid?

Don't answer that.

So anyway, the only thing that's left to do now?

I'm going to have to play Cupid.

Simply put, I'm going to totally suck at this.

Me. A nearly eighteen-year-old virgin that has never been on a date. The guy who took two years to finally spill his guts and make the first move (such as it was) on his best friend. I'm going to have to make it my business to fix up my parents, or else I'm never going to get born. And I'm strongly, strongly in favor of me getting born someday.

So here we are. Hill Valley High School looks a little less grim and grimy these days, and I'm looking a little different these days, myself, after a trip to Twin Pines Mall. My 2016 clothes do kind of stand out, a little bit.

But oh dear God, eighties clothes. Just shoot me right now. I'm wearing jeans that are so tapered past the knees that I could barely fit my foot through them, and the rolled cuffs actually chafe my ankles. Like leg irons.

I had my choice between high-top sneakers that look like they escaped from the music video for Beat It, boat shoes, or loafers. They're hideous, but I went with the sneakers. T-shirts haven't changed much if at all in thirty years, but the style is to wear them underneath a button-down monstrosity with wide, tapered sleeves and a huge collar. Yay.

So now that I look like a boy band reject, I'm right back in my least favorite place on planet Earth, and once again trying to avoid detention, as I play time-traveling pimp. Hooray! It's time to try to get my parents to hook up.

I feel so gross.

I finally spot Dad-Ray! I have to think of him as Ray, so that I don't accidentally slip-at lunchtime, but not because he's heading towards the lunchroom. He's headed away from it, actually. I follow him to a classroom, and before I have even the slightest idea of what he's doing or why he's there, he's opened the door and he's gone.

What the hell, Ray. Finally, my curiosity gets the better of me and I crack open the door to take a peek, and what I see should probably not come as a total shock, but it totally does.

It's the Chess Club. You have got to be fucking kidding me.

I guess it makes sense that they meet during lunch, because these guys are probably afraid of getting their collective asses kicked in the general population.

Anyway, I've still got to talk with Ray. Might as well join the nerd herd.

I can't believe I'm really doing this. I might be a bit of a nerd in my own era, but I do it on my own terms. This sort of organized, sponsored, self-aware nerdery is just plain beneath my dignity.

Whatever. I can't help but overhear part of a conversation about Dungeons & Dragons. Maybe these are my peeps, after all. Hmm. Ray is at a different table, however, setting up one side of a chessboard. The teacher (chess coach?) notices a new face, and greets me.

He was setting up the other side of the board to play a game with Ray, but after I introduce myself, he offers me his seat. Ray gives me a suspicious look; clearly he remembers me from the events of a few days ago.

Probably thinks I'm following him.

Ray puts both his hands behind his back, and then brings them back out, both hands clenched shut.

Uh. What?

"Pick one," he rolls his eyes at me.

Okay…

I point to the left.

He drops a white pawn in front of me.

Oh. Gotcha. I go first.

I haven't played chess with my dad in years. He tried to teach me when I was a kid, sure, but once we'd got past the basic rules and he'd started talking about King's Indian something, and Sicilian something else, my eyes had kind of glazed over and I guess my lack of aptitude for it, plus my lack of interest had hurt his feelings. He'd been disappointed in me. Never brought the chessboard out again. I remember that now.

It's a given that he's going to kick my ass today, but he still pauses for a long time to think over his moves. He's a methodical player, writing down the notation between moves, and flipping the time clock over, with a well-practiced snap. It gives me some time to look around and get my bearings and listen to the interesting D&D chatter from the other table. There's a chess tournament in progress, posted on the wall.

Ray Watney has won nearly all of his matches, so far. Huh. Who knew?

I'm a little embarrassed by how quickly he takes down my defense and has me checkmated just two moves later.

"Good game," he mutters, standing up.

"Wait. Ray?"

He pauses, eyebrow raised.

"Who taught you to play chess like that?"

"I play online. To practice."

Wait. What?