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.