Forgotten 4

Feeling a little better, I trick my brain into thinking about other things. The annoying doctor this morning; Jamie flirting with Jason; Jamie flirting with Anthony. White shoes, red boots, silly slippers, black shoes, brown sneakers…

Wham!

My eyes are open wide once more.

I try shaking my head. I try thinking of the shoes again. I even try thinking of other unpleasant thoughts, like Jamie’s upcoming… situation.

Nothing works.

Exhaling loudly, I decide to let my mind go. Trying not to think about it is only making it worse.

I pull the blankets up to my chin and blink into the pitch-black bedroom.

And suddenly, I’m in a cemetery.

Being there makes me shiver now.

I’m at a funeral. At least I think I am.

I can’t distinguish much except for hazy black shapes that could be people, and neutral stone beyond them in every direction. In my nostrils: the unmistakable scent of fresh-cut grass. It could be 8:30 AM or 3:14 PM. It’s overcast: I can’t tell.

I don’t understand the scene, but it makes me feel heavy just the same.

And alone.

And afraid.

I consider whether to turn on the lamp and add details of this memory to today’s note—right underneath musings about the “weirdo” that Jamie mentioned—but, ultimately, I stay where I am.

It’s obvious that the mourners today triggered this particular memory. But knowing why doesn’t soften the blow of the harsh underlying reality.

I remember forward.

I remember forward, and forget backward.

My memories, bad, boring, or good, haven’t happened yet.

So, like it or not—and like it I don’t—I will remember standing in the fresh-cut grass with the black-clad figures surrounded by stone until I do it for real. I will remember the funeral until it happens—until someone dies.

And after that, it will be forgotten.

6

I’m early to study hall.

I changed out of my gym clothes quickly in order to dodge Page Thomas’s simple request, which is silly, because I remember when it’ll happen… not today. But still, I rushed. I skipped the pointless trip to my locker near the math corridor and, voilà! Here I am.

Early.

This must be out of character for me, because Ms. Mason is eyeing me like I’m something disgusting she’s been asked to ingest. I smile at her, and she looks away.

More students arrive. I take the Pre-calc. textbook and workbook from my bag, as well as a red mechanical pencil. Thankfully, none of the other students sit at my table, so I can spread out.

I begin the homework that this morning’s note said I neglected to do last night. The other students are chatting among themselves, getting in those last bits of gossip before the bell rings.

“We meet again,” says a smooth male voice out of nowhere.

I figure he’s talking to someone at the next table, but I look up from my work anyway.

Then I suck in my breath.

The boy standing there across the table, looking like he’s going to sit down with me, is flat-out gorgeous.

“Hi?” I say, more question than greeting.

“I didn’t know you had study hall this period,” the boy says, casually dropping his bag onto a chair and pulling out the one beside it. He sits down, his eyes never leaving mine.

Do I know him?

“Obviously,” I say back, which comes out sounding a little snippy because I’m preoccupied.

Am I in the right place?

I scan the faces of my classmates. Andy Bernstein. Check. Hannah Wright. Check.

Tomorrow is Wednesday, so today is Tuesday. Check.

Second period?

Yep, I just had PE.

The boy is talking again.

“… because after the fire drill I had to finish orientation, and it took up all of second period, too. But you weren’t here yesterday. Where were you?”

I’m tapping my pencil on my notebook now. This conversation is making me anxious. I think back to my notes before answering.

“At a doctor’s appointment,” I say, adding no additional clarification.

“Oh, sorry,” the boy says, glancing down at the table for a moment. “I didn’t mean to pry.”

He looks embarrassed. It’s cute.

“It’s okay,” I say, still tapping my pencil. “I tripped over a ball in gym. My mom thought my ankle was sprained.”

“Was it?”

“Nope, just bruised,” I say.

I’m tapping faster now.

He’s still looking right at me.

Right into me.

Seriously, do I know him?

“That’s good,” he says. The bell rings and we’re still staring at each other, him looking amused and me probably looking like I’m going to explode. At least that’s how I feel.

“You okay?” he asks, with the slightest nod in the direction of my furiously tapping pencil. The acknowledgment of my nervous energy makes me fumble; I lose my grip, and the pencil launches into the air and then falls onto the floor. Feeling like a complete idiot, I scoot back in my chair and bend over to retrieve it. I grab the pencil, and, on my way back up, I spy something interesting.

Chocolate brown Converse All Stars.

My heart leaps as I remember this morning’s note. This boy is my weirdo.

My weirdo is hot.

Somehow I manage to sit straight and scoot back to the table without completely humiliating myself. I smile at him. He smiles back, and I smile more.

“So, you stole my sweatshirt, you know,” he says with a glint in his eye. “You can borrow it for a while, as long as you…”

“Shhh.” Evil Eye Mason interrupts with a sharp whisper from her perch.

“… promise to…” Weirdo attempts to continue in a whisper before Ms. Mason smacks her palm on her desk.

“Mr. Henry!” she shouts. Weirdo’s mouth slams shut, and he grudgingly looks her way. I’m happy to know at least part of his name.

“Sorry,” he says.

“I should hope so. You’re new, so I’ll give you a pass this one time. But understand, son, there is no talking in my classroom. This is a time for studying. Quietly. This is not social hour.”

A couple of the other girls giggle softly. Ms. Mason kills their giggles with a glance. She reminds me of a bird. A very mean bird.

“Sorry,” the boy says again before pulling a pad and some charcoal pencils from his bag.

I’m happy for all the information I’m getting. His last name is Henry. He’s new to school. And he’s an artist.

Before going to work, the boy smiles at me once more. While I’m left gooey from the sentiment, he opens his drawing pad and flips through a few sketches in search of a blank page. I can’t help but notice both that he’s talented and that his subject of choice is… intriguing.

Ears?

As if he can hear my thoughts, Mr. Weirdo Henry brushes a stray wave from his eyes and glances at me one final time. He shrugs and smiles slyly, as if to say, “So what? I like ears.”

I shrug and smile back. What I’m trying to say without words, and what I hope he understands, is, “Hey, we all have our things.”

He’s back to drawing before I can give it another thought, and I’m forced to continue my math homework in silence. But halfway through problem number 3, something dawns on me: the boy’s sweatshirt in my room has to be the one Weirdo Henry is talking about. Apparently it’s not from the reject pile, like my note said.