CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Clocked Out

Saturday, November 12, 1955
7:46 PM

In the hour since nightfall had come to rest on the Baines Residence, its windows lent themselves to the softly staggered display of evening domesticity tucked into the off-street shadows. And though the porch light touched the front door in welcome, the sight of it made every part of Marty want to run again.

Had his very existence not been at stake, he very well may have. He'd been incredibly bold and felt somewhat invincible since baring himself to Emma, never mind that his sentiments were reciprocated. He almost wanted to channel that confidence into chance, but he knew standing up his mother rather than using it to suck it up and go through with his own last-ditch effort would not be the best course of action.

Marty shut the car door, wringing the end of his tie briefly as he walked around to the sidewalk. He watched layers of his younger self ghost the front yard – playing tee ball with Dave, helping Grandpa change the oil in his car, his grandmother helping him inside after that nasty beef on his first skateboard. His mind made to shut down at the bizarreness of it all, but he shook the stale air from his lungs, shrugged his jacket straight, and tried to pretend he was in 1985 about to pick up Emma for their dance.

He made it through the knocks on the door, the ensuing silence, even the lock turning out of place with kindling confidence.

But it was not Doc greeting him, nor the lab beyond the threshold. The dusty scent of burnt rust and propane didn't rush into his sinuses. His eyes didn't need to adjust to the struggle of cool and soft fluorescents in the same room, but they still subconsciously searched for the flash of white hair. Instead, heavenly swirls of hamburger stroganoff and apple pie received him into a warmly lit Norman Rockwell.

There was a shout up the stairs and a shout back down. Marty hadn't even registered the name or the small talk that followed; he couldn't tell you a word of it. All he could tell you was, in that moment, Doc's voice blindsided him.

Can't you just find a nice girl here?

The memory materialized: Doc hunched in the chair before him, offering up feeble suggestions to soothe the short-lived reality of never returning home as his head fell to the side, considering the solace he found in having Emma on the sofa behind him.

His eyes dropped just before cresting his shoulder as they had a week ago.

I'm not going to settle down in 1955!

…And with that, Marty was vehemently bargaining in vain with the universe, swearing he would shut up, settle down in 1955, and sleep peacefully each night so long as it was Emma that came down those stairs instead of his mother.

At the steady knock of footfalls overhead, Marty's eyes shot to the top of the staircase, certain his heart would give out at any moment.

Please; God.

He'd accept every ounce of it if she would just come down the stairs.

Much to his dismay, the white heels and underskirt fluff were enough to get his hopes up, but the lacey blush of polka-dot peach that flounced above the exposed stretch of calf was clearly not the floral sea foam he'd longed for. Short, dark curls and baby's breath rather than blonde tresses and pearls.

Lorraine stopped on the landing for him to get a good look, her bright smile practically mocking him on the universe's behalf.

"Hi, Marty."

His smile didn't reach his eyes. His mind was imploding, and he hadn't even gotten to the part that was permanently going to scar him for life yet.

"Hi. Lorraine."

Maybe someday, he mused, after years of patience and possibly the targeting and removal of certain memories via another strange science experiment, he'd have some semblance of a normal relationship with Emma only because she knew what he'd had to do to ensure his existence. And regardless of who said what or what happened this week, she'd had his back the whole damn way, so was it really so wrong of him to assume she'd have it further down the line?

It was if he didn't go through with this.

Lorraine descended the stairs, the flared hem of her dress innocently asserting itself against his thigh. She caught his gaze, lingering long enough for him to warrant taking a step back. In an effort to recover, Marty began guiding her to the front door whilst referring to his watch. Stella swooped in in from the side, quickly kissing Lorraine's cheek.

"Have a good time, sweetheart."

"Thanks, Mom." She looped her arm through Marty's. "I will. Can I stay out until 9:30?"

Marty exhaled shakily as they stepped outside, rubbing the back of his head. Sam consulted his own watch, but Stella swatted at her husband's arm, chuckling.

"Ten o'clock is just fine with us. You two just have fun and be safe."

Marty nodded involuntarily. Ten o'clock.

Doc needed him back by a quarter of at the latest.

Marty opened the car door for Lorraine. Her getting home was not even on his radar until two seconds ago; he was hopefully getting walloped by the best punch his father'd ever throw and having Lorraine see him as such a creep that she'd refuse to be near him ever again. Shutting her door, he kept trying to ignore the impish look in her eye as she peered up at him through the passenger window that would suggest otherwise.

Man up, dude.

"Drive carefully, young man!"

Marty gave Sam and Stella a halfhearted wave as he circled to his door. Face numb and stomach trembling, he dropped into the driver's seat and locked his eyes on the road as he pulled into the street.

Emma only had one block between the Packard and the school to process what had transpired in the past six minutes. There weren't many times in life thus far she could say she had a "stupid girl grin" on her face, but it happened as she turned her back on the car, wrapping her arms around herself and tucking her chin to her chest. As she walked up the street, Marty drove past her to the intersection, and she caught her own reflection in the side view mirror, grinning ever wider.

Her mindset had shifted back to their mission as she reached the school grounds, however. A brief shower had apparently passed over not long before the doors opened, and the grey remnants of rainwater pooled here and there threw a few splashes onto the backs of her legs as she crossed the lot. The outdoor lights bent in the colorful lines of vehicles flanking the main entrance, a few bright glints winking from their chrome bumpers and mirrors. Emma eyed the surrounding trees for a breath of wind as she went inside, but they all remained stalwart in their silence, oblivious to the impending storm.

Emma steered herself around a pack of students, following the bleating saxophone into the gymnasium. The grandiose of the decor caught her off guard momentarily; they had really taken the "enchantment under the sea" thing to heart. The corner of her mouth tugged into an admirable smile, weaving through the couples on the outskirts of the dance floor.

Giant statues and backlit fabrics layered against the walls. Tiered, seashell-shaped appetizer trays. Bubble machines and giant branches of coral strung with multicolor lights and that man is playing a white upright bass, Emma gawked, eyes widening at the instrument. She didn't know whether she loved that it was so different or was insulted that someone had defaced a perfectly good upright bass. Never mind that it went well with their shimmery, aquamarine suit jackets.

Somehow closer to the stage than she remembered wandering, Emma turned away from Marvin Berry and his Starlighters to survey the overwhelming majority of the student body that had shown up. She sighed, folded her arms, and did a double-take of the deep sea diver looming just over her right shoulder. Ultimately deciding to befriend the mute mannequin, Emma settled in next to him, narrowed her eyes at the crowd, and quirked her lips to the side.

"See him anywhere, Siebe?"

A stray bubble floated in from afar, popping on his copper helmet. Emma threw him a look and wiped a tiny soap droplet from the side of her neck.

"Your lack of peripheral vision is tragic, yes," she deadpanned, "but it's your attitude that is really hindering this process."

"Emma?"

Her eyes snapped up. George himself stood ten feet away, skeptically glancing between her and her new friend. She lit up at the sight of him, uncrossing her arms as her shoulders relaxed with a great sigh. Even after returning his name with gusto, George hunched slightly at her side, throwing a nod back at the mannequin.

"You know there's nobody in there, right? It's just a prop."

His genuine concern coaxed a laugh from her. "I kind of guessed." She bid Deep Sea Siebe ado with a light knock on the base of his helmet before leading George toward the nearby punch table.

Grandly poised above said table was a makeshift mermaid - a topless mannequin seated on a green, sequined pillow whose long, blonde tresses nearly touched the ladle lazing on the crystal punch bowl's rim. Emma eyed the pink-orange pool for rogue wig hairs, unable to find any by the time George extended her a glass.

With all the confidence that comes with a white suit jacket and giant Neptune statue towering behind oneself, George was still slightly hunched, but the fluidity of his speech was improving.

"You look lovely this evening. By the way."

"George," – Emma took her punch from him, grounding him with direct eye contact – "thank you."

Thankfully, that was all it took for him to huff out a nervous laugh and stand a little taller.

Emma smirked inwardly. Marty may have been smoother about complimenting her tonight, but she was going to have a field day watching him squirm when she told him that George's delivery was way cuter.

Emma led him a few steps to the left and into the shadow of Neptune he had previously occupied. She sipped her drink, raising an eyebrow as he folded his hands behind his back, chanced a hesitant smile, and then sent his eyes darting over the room. The kid had never looked more like a lamb about to bolt, and she had seen him bail right after Marty had been hit by his grandfather's car. He wasn't going to be able to deliver a fraction of the blow they needed him to if he continued giving off such pronounced waves of dread.

"It's okay to be nervous."

George didn't look at her immediately.

"No, it's not. But I can't help it."

Emma sighed, sitting her punch down and turning to him. "George, Marty and I are asking a lot of you. We are," she professed, nodding when he finally looked at her. "And it's strange because you've literally known us less than a week, and we've come on really hard and fast with all this."

"And you're leaving." George averted his gaze to the scuffed floor, and Emma shrunk somewhat, unexpectedly seeing him work through a bout of frustrating disappointment. The pang of guilt hit fully as he murmured lowly, "Why do you guys have to leave now?"

"George, I told you –"

"I know what you told me," he interrupted gently, "but that doesn't make it easier."

Emma swallowed. They truly had put George through a lot, and they hadn't even called him to the stage for the big finale yet. And here was Marty's father, not only out of sorts by everything they've asked him to do, but distraught by their inevitable departure. It was almost cruel.

"No. It doesn't."

There was an unmistakable heat in George's tone. "It's not fair that you and Marty come into my life and demand all this…stuff of me and tell me over and over again that I can do it when I know I can't –"

"I kn—"

"—but you make me want to prove myself wrong," George asserted, gesticulating through his anxiety. Emma watched him cautiously as the momentum of his monologue drove him to say more. "I don't want to lose that feeling. I want to win Lorraine, but what if our fight isn't convincing or Marty decides to hit me back? Or if I'm really in a fight one da—"

"George, George. Look at me," Emma said, gripping his upper arms.

"I don't think I can do this, Emma. But I want to."

"George, if you want something bad enough, it will happen, but only if you put your mind to it," she told him matter-of-factly. "And that does not change, whether Marty and I are standing next to you or halfway around the world from you. Do you understand me?"

George conceded with a nod, glad to see her smile reemerge.

"Now," – she released her hold on his arms and glanced up at the clock, preparing to move into the next phase of their plan – "I want you to go to the restroom, freshen up, and give yourself another pep talk. I'm going to go outside and see if Marty's here yet. I'll see you out there at nine o'clock sharp, right?"

"Right."

"Good." She patted him on the shoulder with a reassuring smile. "I'll be rooting for you."

"Really?"

"Really."

An effortless smile came to George, and in that moment, Emma sensed a shift in him she couldn't quite place. It didn't look like an epiphany, but it didn't lack significance. Then, to her surprise, George took her hand, encasing it in both of his tenderly.

"Thank you, Emma. For being so kind to me."

Emma felt her mouth go a bit dry. She could hear Marty mocking her through the cosmos: you big sissy.

Reaching up on her tiptoes, Emma pulled George into a hug with her free arm. When he released her hand and carefully moved to reciprocate her hug, she flung her other arm up to join the first, holding him tightly a few seconds more.

"Knock him dead, George."

He chuckled, slipping from their embrace. "I'd be fortunate to actually hit him instead of the car door. Besides, I don't actually want to hurt him."

"Trust me," Emma said, straightening his lapels, "you'd hurt him more by not doing this."

"What?"

She shook her head to clear the clutter. "Let me rephrase: as his sister, I can vouch that he has done plenty to merit a heavy right hook."

George smiled at her wink, nodding to build his confidence. With that, Emma turned him by the shoulders, pushing him toward the restrooms.

"Ten minutes! Make his nose bleed!"

Maneuvering through and around the masses, Emma made her way outside. The scent of damp earth on the air was welcome after being suffocated by countless colognes and hair products in a large, warm room. She almost felt bad for sending George to the restroom before his big debut; Lord knew the concentration of fumes in there would be enough to knock Marty out without George lifting a finger.

Speak of the devil…

Her father's Packard was just at the end of the lot by a tree. A quick scan of the surrounding vehicles confirmed it was the only one of its type there, so it was, in all likelihood, Marty. That and it was the only Packard there with someone approaching it. She raised her eyebrows, questioning just how long it had taken her to get through the gym if George was already B-lining for the car.

Well, that was fast.

Emma took a step down the stone stairs, driven by a perverse excitement to witness the event. Something sparked a smile in the corner of her mouth as she hit the second step, but it vanished before the other foot dropped.

A group of three guys was following George over to the car. Except-

That's not George.

The hair was the wrong color. The height. The stride, the gait, the saunter.

George wasn't wearing a black shirt or tie. And a group of three guys didn't follow George around like that.

The car door opened, and Marty was all but ripped from the driver's seat.

They follow Biff around.

"Shit," she whispered harshly as Marty took a hit to the abdomen. He doubled over in his captors' arms, Biff slammed the car door shut, and Emma pushed off from the rail after a spilt-second debate, racing in Marty's direction.

"Shit, shit, shit."

Emma nearly tripped at the bottom of the stairs, her white pumps suffering a series of incredulous scuffs and, her ankle, a light twist. She swore again and hopped on her other foot twice to regain her balance before acclimating it back into a full run over the course of several strides.

How did we not account for this variable?

A few curls were freed from their pins. She slowed to round the corner, the stutter step of her heels echoing off the beige cement exterior of the gymnasium. It was met with the heavy thud of Marty being unceremoniously thrown in the trunk of the car before her, and she could have sworn she made eye contact with him in that brief second before it closed.

"Hey!"

Matchstick, Skinhead, and 3-D whirled around but quickly met Emma's scowl with dismissive chuckles upon recognizing her.

"Heeey," Skinhead drawled in a sing-song voice. "Sweeeeet cheeeeeeks."

Their laughter rang off the walls and pillars as Skinhead made smooching noises at her. Emma's scowl deepened and she marched toward them, fists at her side.

"Yeah, come on, baby. Get you some of this –"

"What the hell are you doing to my car?"

The three boys spun at the voice of the band's drummer, 3-D's show of bravado cut off with a yelp as Emma drove the rough heel of her shoe into the back of his Achilles' tendon. All eyes grew; Matchstick and Skinhead in fear, Marvin and his Starlighters' in humor.

"Who you calling' 'spook', peckerwood?"

"Hey, hey, listen, guys." Skinhead started backing away from the band and Emma. "Look, I don't wanna mess with no reefer addicts, okay?"

The band closed in on them, and Emma took great pleasure in swiftly tripping Skinhead to the point that he knocked himself and Matchstick into the cement pillar before being chased away. They took the clamor all the way to the other corner before the band retreated, one of them inquiring after Emma's wellbeing.

"Hey, you okay? Did they hurt you?"

Emma was shaking her head when Marvin laughed. "Were you looking the other way, Lorenzo? This girl's alright in my book. Now, where's your keys?"

A muffled shout came from within the locked trunk. Marvin glanced between Lorenzo and Emma as they leaned in, Marvin slowly removing the cigarette from his mouth.

"Say that again?"

"I said the keys are in here."

Marvin and Lorenzo straightened as Emma openly groaned.

"Only you, McFly!" she shouted at the trunk.