10/19 (Tues.)
Horrible memory popped into my head as I was falling asleep tonight. Worst I can remember, really. Can’t see much… just know I’m in a crowd of people wearing black. Their faces are muddy, and someone is dead. At first, I thought it might be Mom’s funeral, but then I remembered hearing her sobs. She’s there, too. Alive.
Can hear the occasional bird, and weeping. The weeping is terrible so I focus on the birds. I think it’s morning, but it’s gray so I’m not sure.
Terrifying statue of a saintly woman (maybe an angel?) one plot over to the left… carved of green stone and looking like she’s watching us.
I finish typing and save the file on my computer desktop, naming it, appropriately, Dark Memory.
I print the page and then place the typed note under the handwritten one; hearts and flowers over the black-and-white account of dark days ahead.
I climb back into bed and turn off the lights for the second time tonight, thinking of the boy whose first name I don’t know, feeling guilty for thinking of him when there are bigger things ahead.
Somehow, amid all the conflicting emotions, sleep grabs my hand and pulls me under.
And then everything unwritten is gone.
7
On the way to school, I consider telling my mom about the funeral memory, until I realize that it might scare her. Not everyone needs to know what’s coming.
After she drops me off, I head straight for the library. It’s an even-block day, so I have periods 2, 4, 6, and 8: I’ll never be so happy to miss first-period PE. The warning bell hasn’t sounded yet, but I want to arrive early and compose myself for the guy from my notes.
Mr. Henry.
I make my way toward the tables at the back of the library and retrieve a compact mirror from my bag. I use my sleeve to fix my eye makeup and then exchange the compact for my Spanish book.
I don’t hear him approach. Then, without warning, he’s across from me, leaning on the table, eyes fixed on my face.
“Hey.”
I lower the book and my jaw drops. I thought I was prepared, but no. Not for this.
“Hi,” I manage.
“Good day so far?” he asks.
“Not really,” I answer truthfully.
Concern crosses his face, and it warms me. “What happened?” he asks.
“Oh, nothing,” I answer. “Just overslept and my mom was annoying and… nothing. Not worth talking about.”
The bell rings, and he and I are eye-locked. When the shrill tone stops, he whispers, “Okay, but if you decide you do want to talk, you can tell me.”
“Thank you,” I say, meaning it.
“You’re welcome,” he says back in an intimate whisper, before he’s hushed by Ms. Mason.
“Luke Henry and London Lane, this is your final warning. No talking!”
Warmth washes over me at the sound of his name next to mine, and as he searches through his crowded bag for schoolwork, I breathe his name so softly that I can barely hear it myself.
“Luke.”
We can’t speak the rest of the ninety-minute period, but his presence makes me feel better. It allows me to forget the frenzied morning and, more important, this morning’s note.
Halfway through the period, my fingers accidentally brush Luke’s across the table. It feels like someone shot adrenaline directly into my heart; I inhale sharply and quickly move my hand to my lap. Luke glances up at me and smiles, which makes me blush and look away. I hear him chuckle a little under his breath and then turn a page.