This is the last moment I step into this house.
As the heavy wooden doors close behind me, I take a moment to let this fact sink in. I haven't lived here all of my life but I have lived in this house for a long time. I remember the first time I walked through those doors when I was seven. I was young but I still remember. Dad stopped in the doorway, crouched down in front of me, kneeling and looking at me earnestly through red rimmed eyes.
"We're going to have a good life," He promised, then, placing his hands on my shoulder. "We'll start over. It's what she wants."
I had nodded. I believed him. That was my first mistake. And now, eleven years later, there's no other choice. I have to leave.
"Rosa!" I call as I head towards the stairs. Rosa used to come by everyday to clean the house, cook for us and check on me and generally act as a babysitter until I pointed out to my father that I am in my late teens and basically able to take care of myself. He doesn't know this. He doesn't know me at all. So now Rosa only comes for half days, generally in the morning, but sometimes she's still around in the afternoon when I come home from school. She didn't answer me. I am alone.
My room is the whole west wing of the second floor of the house. Dad gave me a check for 20,000 dollars and told me do what I wanted. It's a work in progress but I blew the money mostly on electronics, my computers, my TVs, my game playing and virtual reality systems, my MP3 stereo system and portable music devices, my cellphones. my recording equipment and all of my instruments. I don't know how I'm going to take all of that with me. I'll have to pick and choose. Then again, freedom has always taken sacrifice.
The door to my main bedroom opens as soon as I step up to the door and everything turns on automatically, sensing my presence, as the electronics have been programmed to do. The screensaver runs across my computer monitor, a flat clear surface mounted in the blue walls. It says February 20th, 2025. This is supposed to be a special day.
It's my birthday. My eighteenth birthday to be exact.
This is the perfect time to leave. I'm legal, I'm able. I need to get away. Nothing is going right for me here in LA, in California. It's all a joke. This isn't who I am. I don't know who I am but I do know that I'm never going to be what my father wants me to be. So I have to leave. I'm not sad. I'm not upset at all. This is a cold hard fact. There's no need to get emotional. I just need to pack a bag.
I point open the closet door and watch it swing wide. There's the duffel bag I want and the pack, the one with the big wide thick padded straps. The conveyor belt from the closet brings those items forward. I point open the drawers one by one and quickly choose some clothes. It doesn't matter what clothes or how many clothes. I just need clothes. I'm not trying to be stylish, I'm not trying to start a clothing revolution. I pick up my Organizer, a handy device, and throw that into my duffel . Can't leave without that. I add my saxophone after a moment. That's the only instrument I'll be able to take.
Clothes and shoes. That's all I need. The small comforts, my Organizer, my sax, my current cellphone of choice, my portable VR Matrix, in case I need to just unwind and relax, I can play it and listen to music too. Not my father's music. My own music.
Music. That's something else Dad will never understand about me. He works all the time with other artists and he still writes and performs his old stuff. He likes pop music and R&B. Those aren't the most popular types of music right now but Dad doesn't understand that. He still thinks he's living in the early 21st century or some time long ago. So he doesn't care about the kind of music I like to listen to, the kind of music I like to create. If you aren't singing, if you aren't dancing, if you aren't performing like a fucking monkey next to a windup box, the music ain't worth shit.
According to him.
It's the music that gets me off track. I wish I had absolutely no interest in it. I would make my life so much easier. But I do love music in my own way and I just want to feel calm for one second. To feel in control. Then I'll leave. I'm ready to go.
It's an old song I put on. Coltrane. I spell out the artist name and the name of the track until the computer knows what I'm looking for and puts it on. This was way back, a time before computers and grass fuel and fingerprint security checkpoints while I take the limo to school. Way back in a simpler time. Back in the day.
School. Reality hits me like an electric storm, the kind that's becoming more and more common as the Ozone layer thins and global warming increasing. It's shocking and painful but ends quickly. I have to get over that whole school thing. It's not part of my life anymore. I'm on my own.
The song is ending. I finish packing my duffel and zip it up quickly. I grab my wallet and stuff it into the back pocket of my jeans, another reason I got called to the office today. My prep school has a strict dress code that I violate daily. Or I used to. Since I don't go to that school anymore.
When the fridge opens, a cold blast of air swirls around my legs. I throw in all my Gatorade and energy drinks into the pack and then add a few 40s, but not too many because I don't want my pack to be too heavy. I move to my nightstand and take out my bag of pot, my rolling paper and pipes, my collection of various pills and throw them in the pack and then I'm zipping it up, I'm leaving, I'm on my way to my new life. I turn around for the door.
He's in the doorway.
I stare. I'm not breathing.
I don't know how he opened the door or got up here. Everything is password protected, it's heat sensitive, body sensor sensitive, my body, my body only. It doesn't make sense. The smartest thing I did with the 20,000 bucks he gave me was to find various ways to keep him out of my space.
But it didn't work. There he is.
I wonder how he knows. Did the school call him? Well, they call all the time. He doesn't pick up. He's busy. With everyone else, never me.
I wonder what he's thinking. His face is neutral, as always. I think my father used to smile and show different kinds of emotions, from the videos I've seen, but not so much anymore. He keeps that same look on his face so he's impossible to read. He keeps himself far away from me and I keep myself far away from him.
I think I remind him of her too much. That's not my fault.
"What are you doing?" Dad says from the doorway. His blue eyes are staring at me.
"I'm leaving," I say. Then I add boldly, "I'm 18. You can't stop me."
Dad blinks, like he was unaware of this information.
"It's my birthday today!" I blurt. Dad glances over my shoulder, at the screensaver. The date scrolls past again. Dad closes his eyes briefly.
"Thanks for forgetting," I say. I want to move. But I don't. I'm standing in the middle of the bedroom. Dad is in the doorway. The door is open, trying to close, then realizing the presence of someone in the way, it hovers back to it's wide open position.
"I didn't forget," Dad says quietly. "Will, please sit down."
"Jez," I say automatically. Dad is caught off guard .
"What?" He asks.
"My name is Jez!" I say loudly.
"William," Dad starts.
"You can't respect one thing about me," I say hotly. "Call me Jez."
"I need to talk to you," Dad says, totally ignoring my request. He ignores everything about me. To him I will always be William Justin Timberlake. A name I never asked for. I don't even know where Jez came from. A few kids at one of my old schools started to call me that and it stuck. Maybe Jez isn't the best name in the world, but it sure is a hell of a lot better than William. I am named after my dad's grandfather for some reason.
"So talk," I say.
"What are you going to do?" Dad says. We will not sit. We will just stand. We will not regard each other as equals or even as father and son. We are strangers and Dad doesn't know what to do.
"I'm leaving!" I point at my duffel bag, at the pack on my shoulders. "So... got that all figured out!"
"Second semester of your senior year and you got expelled from the fourth prep school you've been in. They called me, William." Something changed in Dad then. His face begins to get red. He clenches his jaw in a way I've never seen before. "What are you going to do about college?"
"I'm not going to college!" I say. "You didn't go to college."
"SIT DOWN!" My dad roars and inexplicably , I immediately sit on one of the comfort chairs in my room.
"You're going to college," Dad finally steps in the room and the door whooshes closed behind him. "That's not an option. That's not a discussion. You're going to college."
"Oh, I'm going to college," I say sarcastically, a desperate laugh bubbling in the back of my throat . "Hey Harvard, Justin Timberlake here. Yeah, you know. I was in a boy band back in 1998. That's right, I broke that record. Well anyway... any chance that you can admit my delinquent son into your fine institution even though he has gotten kicked out of four schools for truancy, bad grades, bad attitude, alcohol and pot possession among other things, just because I'm an old has been from thirty years ago!"
"That's enough," Dad says sharply.
"Sorry, Justin," I sneer. "I don't think it's going to work. So you'd better get over your little dream. I'm a loser. Let me go."
Dad pauses. He doesn't say anything. He doesn't disagree with me. That's what he thinks. I'm a loser. His only son. Justin Timberlake's only son. A loser. The kind of kid that nobody wishes before. Especially not if they used to be very famous and if they are still very rich.
Dad knows other kids are successful. He produces songs for Uncle Joey's daughter, Brianna, who is the only one making a killing in the pop market right now because most people are more into Techno and Country. Britney Spears' son Sean is one of the best water polo players in the country and he will be going to the Olympics for the third time in 2026. Uncle Lance's Korean adopted daughter, Mia, just graduated from Harvard's medical school and his Chinese adopted daughter, Jin, is traveling the world playing the piano in different symphonies. Everyone wants her for a one night engagement. Uncle Trace's twin sons are both starting players on their high school football teams in Tennessee and they are only sophomores. I could go on and on... these are my peers. Only Uncle JC doesn't have any kids. That's why he's my favorite.
Compared to all the other kids, I'm a failure. Dad doesn't know about that. He doesn't know what it's like. To fail.
Dad and I are nothing alike. When he was my age, he was already touring the country. He had blonde hair and large hands. He was tall and lanky and fit and loved. He sang with his little boyband and made money and he worked hard every day. He didn't go to school. He had friends, the kind of friends I will never know about, probably. He had girls, so many girls. That's the part of my dad's former life that is so insane to me. I look back at the videos of their performances and to see that many girls going nuts for him, screaming and crying and jumping up and down, jiggling and panting and sweating and probably soaking their panties, just for my dad. It's unbelievable. Unimaginable. There has never been anything like it since.
And that's what my dad, Justin Timberlake, was doing when he was my age.
Me, I'm different, way different. I'm a pretty good pot smoker and sometimes I'll re-sell a bit, but that's no talent and doesn't give me any kind of reputation at school. I'm a slacker mostly. I like school, maybe, but what is it going to do for me? I'm not interested in academics enough to go to college for another whole four years of my life. I just want to see what's out there. I want to live my life.
Girls have never screamed for me. I'm not tall and lanky. I stopped growing around 5'8 and once Dad yelled at me for stunting my growth because I drank too much Starbucks or something. That's a myth that was debunking 15 years ago, but of course, Dad doesn't know. I'm not fat but I'm not skinny. Maybe I'm a bit pudgy. I'm out of shape, that's for sure. Dad tried to hire me a personal trainer but I fired him before he could even tell me to do one push up. I'm just not into that. Dad's into all that image stuff. He still works out and preens and goes on TV and stuff. That's not me.
Dad has blue eyes and light brown hair that's starting to go gray in some places, but he dyes it. I have brown eyes and dark hair that isn't even curly like his, if he let his hair grow out like he used to. It's a weird sort of wavy and I don't know what to do with it exactly but I grow it out because it annoys him. Dad is pale and loses any sort of a tan easily. My skin is a toasty cinnamon brown and oftentimes I'm glad for this because nobody knows right away that we're related and sometimes I can pretend that I don't have to live up to this image of Justin Timberlake at all.
But they find out. They always find out who my dad is.
I think that's another thing Dad hates about me. That we don't look alike at all. If Mom was still around, she would make that easier for him. They could really see where I came from.
I could make this whole thing easier for him right now. I could leave. I stand up. Dad is still staring at me.
"You know what?" Dad says suddenly. "Will..." I shoot him a look. Dad clears his throat. "Jez... I... I only want the best for you."
"Then let me go," I say steadily.
"I don't know what to do," Dad says quietly, like he's talking to himself.
"You have never known what to do with me," I say. This is the first time I've truly told him what is on my mind. Dad regards me carefully. Then he nods, slightly, just once.
"This is true," Dad says and I hate him for admitting it. I hate him for not trying. I hate him for not loving me. And then we both know that he's going to let me leave. I pick up my duffel from the floor.
"Jez, just... call me." Dad is standing over to the side. He looks so weary. He looks older than his 44 years. I almost feel sorry for him for a moment and I don't know why. "When you get to where you're going."
"Sure," I say. I don't know if I'll call. I don't know where I'm going. I want to say something more. But I just repeat myself. "Sure."
I walk out of the room without a backwards glance. I run down the stairs like he will try to stop me after all. I rush for my car and put my bags in the back. I start it up, back out of the driveway.
I'm gone. Away. Never going home again.
I thumb through the radio stations on my digital satellite radio. The search feature sticks on an oldies station, playing the hits from the early 2000s. They are playing a song by Dad's old group. I can hear his voice. I can always pick out his high pitched, whiny sound of his younger years. I'm glad he matured with his singing. And then everyone is singing the chorus, the guys that Dad is still tight with.
Bye Bye Bye.
After realizing the radio has froze, I don't turn it off or anything. I listen to the song, the simple melody, the banal lyrics. I think about how big of a hit it was. It's a part of my Dad's life I'll never be a part of. He never talks about Nsync with me.
I stop at a stop light and wait for my turn. For some reason, I glance at the clock on the dashboard. It says 4:44. This is the time to make a wish. It is also the exact time I was born on February 20th, 2007.
For some reason, I close my eyes. The light is just about to turn green, but I close my eyes. I make my wish.
I wish that I could fix my life so me and my dad could be happy.
I open my eyes, surprised. Where did that come from? I feel so silly, making that wish in my head. It doesn't even make sense. What could I do? I'm just Jez, I'm nobody. I think I'll just drop the Timberlake from my name. Jez, that's all I am.
Suddenly, a car behind me honks. I was alone at the intersection but suddenly I'm not. The light is green but I'm not moving. The car behind me is moving. I turn around desperately before I hear it. The crunch and whine of metal on metal. I am moving forward, not on my own will, the whole car spins at a wild angle and then there is another car coming straight toward me--
* * *
"Wake up. Hey." A voice. Vaguely familiar. It floats through my subconscious. I moan.
"Wake up!" Someone hits me on the shoulder. I expect pain to flood through me. Some car just plowed into the back of my car and then another car ran into my side. I must be so hurt. I can't open my eyes.
"We have to be there in 30 minutes." Someone else says.
"Chill, it's ten minutes away." The first voice says.
"Well, we don't want to be late!"
"We're not going to be late. God dammit." I am pushed in the chest and shaken. "Justin, wake up!"
My eyes fly open. "My name isn't Justin." I say automatically. "It's Jez."
I am surprised to be speaking so well. And my voice... sounds different. Nothing hurts. I look around, confused. I'm lying on a couch. I sit up quickly. Oh my god. It's a recording studio, I guess, but nothing like I've worked in. No, this is like one of those old-fashioned ones from TV. There's a very large wooden counter with all sorts of buttons and switches and then glass and a soundproof booth with microphones in it. They don't record like that anymore.
"Oookay," The voice says and I look at him finally. I gasp.
"Uncle Joey?" I say.
"Whoa," Uncle Joey holds up his hands. "This ain't Full House."
"They didn't call him Uncle," The other person says. I turn around. Uncle JC is standing behind the couch, leaning against a wall. "They called him Joey. It was just Uncle Jesse."
"Yeah, whatever!" Joey says.
"Get your facts straight," JC says casually.
I can't believe my eyes. "Where are we?" I look at both of them.
"Here," JC says.
"Planet Earth," Joey says at the same time.
I blink at both of them. Then I notice that they look different. Joey is different. His hair is dyed some reddish color and is thick and spikey. He's skinnier than I've ever known him. JC looks weird too. He has short brown hair, also spiked, wearing a t-shirt that says Vegans Do It Better and it ripped on one side, standing there with his arms crossed.
"No, seriously..." I say slowly.
"Seriously we have to go," JC says. The door opens. It has to be opened. It doesn't open automatically. This is so strange!
Uncle Lance pokes his head in. But not the Uncle Lance I know. His hair has lots of blonde streaks and even though his face is basically the same, he's not as fit and buff as he is now. He doesn't have the same laugh lines around his eyes. He just looks so young.
Then it hits me. They look so young. They all look so young! Maybe they discovered the fountain of youth or something while I was unconscious.
"How long was I out?" I ask, trying to get some information.
"Ten minutes," Lance says from the doorway. "We've got to go."
"Ten minutes, no way," I say quickly. "I was hit by two cars. And... I'm on this couch. In this place. No way was I out for ten minutes. It must have been hours. Days. Weeks and months even!"
JC, Joey and Lance all exchange looks.
"Justin is pretty funny when he goes crazy from lack of sleep," Joey finally says.
"No... I'm not crazy." I get off of the couch. I feel perfectly fine. No evidence of injuries anyway. Wow. I don't know how this is possible. I look myself over...
... Oh my god. My hands. Those are not my hands.
I quickly clasp my hands on top of my head.
Oh my god.
"This is stupid." JC is saying. "Why are we putting on the showcase? They should showcase for us."
"Show 'em whatcha got, JC!" Joey replies.
"I... I..." I stammer.
"The car. It's waiting outside," Lance says, pointing down the hallway. "Chris is already there."
"Coming!" Joey sing-songs.
"I..." I can't form a complete sentence. "Bathroom!"
I rush down the hallway. There has to be a bathroom... there has to be... finally, there it is. I wait for the door to open. I stomp my foot. I can't help it. Oh! It doesn't... I push the door open. Why is it so... I make my way to the mirror. All of the sinks have handles on the faucets. What's that about? Why...?
And then I look up.
Blue eyes stare back at me.
Large-ish nose with a bump.
Strong chin, lean face, proportional ears.
Curly brown hair rising a couple of inches from my head.
Slender fingers and wide palms, light brown fine hair traveling up my muscular arms.
Small waist, flat ass, skinny long legs, big feet.
Pale skin. Delicate creamy pink skin where I can see the veins in my hands.
I put my hand on my cheeks.
I can't think of anything else to think. I am still thinking, Oh My God.
Staring back at me in the mirror is not William Justin Timberlake. It's not me. It's not Jez.
No, staring back at me in the mirror is my father.
Justin Timberlake.
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