“You seem to have survived without your cell phone. Anything interesting happen?” She drives us out of the school lot and turns toward home.
Shrugging, I say, “A new guy started today.”
My mom glances in my direction, then faces forward. I can tell she’s trying not to smile, but her efforts aren’t working.
“A cute guy?” she asks. I can’t help but smile, too.
“Yes.”
“What’s his name?”
“Luke.”
“Did you talk to him?” she asks.
“A little. We had a fire drill and we ended up standing near each other. He’s pretty cool.”
My mom is quiet a moment, probably sensing that I’m about to put an end to the conversation. But then, nosy as she will always be, she can’t resist one more question.
“Was he in your notes this morning?” she asks casually. I consider changing the subject or cranking up the radio even louder, but since she’s one of two people I can talk to about my condition, I turn to face her in my seat and answer.
“That’s what’s weird!” I say.
“What do you mean?” she asks excitedly.
“Well, he wasn’t in my notes this morning, but I had this whole conversation with him and everything,” I say. “It was bizarre.”
“Maybe you just forgot to mention him,” Mom offers. We’re turning into our development now. I shake my head.
“Maybe,” I say, not wanting to discuss him anymore. In truth, I know there’s no way I would forget to mention Luke Henry.
We’re almost home when my mom’s cell phone rings from the center compartment. “Sorry, honey, I’ve got to grab this.”
“No problem,” I say, happy to be left alone to daydream.
In the middle of the night, pen in hand, the hope seeps out of me. Luke’s hoodie is in the laundry, but his face is almost gone. For three hours, I’ve tried to attach him to my forward memories. I’ve quizzed myself: Do we share a class? Will we go out? Will I know him for years to come? But with the clock counting down to 4:33 AM—the time when my mind resets and my memory is wiped clean—I have to admit that Luke Henry is nowhere to be found.
He’s not in my memory, which means he’s not in my future.
When I finally accept it, the truth stings. But there’s no time to dwell on it, and there are only two choices: I can remind myself about someone who is not a part of my life, or I can leave him out of my notes to save myself from going through this all over again tomorrow.
This late, with my mind just minutes from “reset,” it doesn’t seem much of a choice at all. I grit my teeth and grip the pen and do what I have to do.
I lie to myself.
3
The house is still; it’s early.
I check out the bedroom, trying to pinpoint differences between two nearly identical pictures: the one I remember from tomorrow and the scene before me now.
There’s an empty mug with a used tea bag wound around the handle on a coaster on the desk. There’s a sweatshirt hanging over the edge of the hamper like it’s trying to get out. Tomorrow, the mug will be gone. There will be textbooks on the desk; the hamper will be empty.
I hold a note that explains what I’ve missed. Well, at least the highlights.
10/17 (Sun.)
Outfit:
—Supersoft boy’s hoodie (Fri. note said I got it from the reject pile at school)
—Black leggings
—Sherpa boots
School:
—Bring Band-Aids for almost-healed blister
—Bring yoga pants, T-shirt for gym (had to borrow awful clothes from Page Fri.)
—CELL PHONE (Mom has it in the car)
Other stuff:
—J was in L.A. this weekend w/her dad
—Avoid Page this week
—Doctor this morning (tripped Fri. in PE)
I set aside the note and read through similar messages from the past week, paying particular attention to Friday’s comments on clothes and school stuff. Then, still feeling like I’m walking into the world partially blind, I haul myself from bed and start the day.
On the way to the doctor’s office, Mom takes Hudson Avenue, which cuts through the city cemetery. At the intersection of Hudson and Washington, we get caught at the light.
“We’re going to be late,” my mom mutters under her breath. She drums her hands on the wheel, and I wonder if she’s missing a meeting to drive me.
I loll my head to the right side and scan the graves. They stand in formation, lines running straight away from me and then curving slightly in the distance.
The light turns green, and as the car speeds up, a movement catches my eye. Two people, a man and a boy, stop before a tombstone. In my rational brain, I know they’re visiting a lost loved one. Nothing scary. But something about the mourners makes my shoulders tense and sends a shot of electricity through my body. I shiver in my seat; my mother doesn’t notice.
“Do you remember what you’re going to say when the doctor asks how this happened?” Mom asks, interrupting my thoughts.
“Yes,” I reply, grateful for the distraction. “I tripped over a ball in gym class.”
“Good,” she says as we turn into the parking lot. She finds a space and we rush inside. We clear the lobby quickly and then ride the elevator up two floors in silence. All the while, my mind is still in the graveyard.
4
“Doctor’s appointment?”
“Yep,” I say, smiling my most innocent smile at Henne Fassbinder, school secretary and obvious lover of cats.
She frowns in response as she types something into my computer file with nails so long they’d have to open a soda can sideways.
I hop a little, hoping she’ll hurry up. I want to get to my locker before class lets out—fewer opportunities for mistakes that way.
“In a hurry?” Henne asks.
“Nope,” I say, trying another smile. She frowns again.
Finally, Ms. Fassbinder finishes typing and shoves back in her swivel chair. She opens a cabinet and easily locates the file with my name on it and then inserts the note my mom wrote just minutes ago.
I assume that Ms. Fassbinder will wait until I’m gone to compare today’s handwriting with that from previous days.
Turning around, I check the industrial clock mounted on the wall behind me. It’s 9:52 AM. The bell will ring in three minutes, and I’m nervous about that, for some reason. I’ve missed PE, study hall, and Pre-calc. Not bad.
Finally, the secretary offers me a hall pass and I take it, but not before noticing the tiny decorative cats affixed to her nails. It looks like they were innocently walking through bright red cement when it set and trapped them forever.
Poor cats.
I hoist my bag onto my right shoulder and bolt from the office. I speed walk across the commons—ignoring the “badly bruised” ankle noted on my doctor’s excuse—and start up the main hallway bordering the library. Halfway there, the end-of-third-period bell rings and I’m swimming upstream through distracted students, hand-holding couples, and ironclad cliques.
I try to avoid eye contact with everyone, but sometimes it’s impossible. Page Thomas, looking like a D-list celebrity on her stylist’s day off, approaches from the opposite direction and waves at me with what I consider to be a little too much enthusiasm. For a beat, I have no idea why she’s so happy to see me. I shift my bag to my left arm so that I can cordially wave back as we pass.