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.
o;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