by Cat Patrick
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.
So apparently I lied.
At midnight, I boot up my laptop. I can type faster than I can scribble. Besides, the note by my bedside is already cluttered with hearts in the margins and flowery words about a boy I just met today.
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.
Aware that I can’t seem to remember Luke from tomorrow or the future, all I want to do right now is ditch class and spend the rest of the day getting to know him before he disappears again. Instead, I sit, grabbing glimpses of him every so often, and try my best to act normal.
I answer the phone before my mom hears the ringtone and scolds me for being up so late.
“What’s up?” I whisper.
“Were you asleep?” Jamie asks, more surprised than concerned that she might have woken me.
“No, but my mom thinks I am.”
“Didn’t you know I was going to call?” she asks.
“You know I don’t remember today, only tomorrow on,” I say, rolling my eyes at her, even though she can’t see it.
“I know, I’m just kidding.”
“Oh,” I say, tired. “What’s up?”
“I need to borrow that supercute green shirt you bought that time your mom took us to the city for your birthday.”
I am silent. Of course I have no idea what trip she’s talking about from the past, but I think forward to what she’ll wear tomorrow.
“Hello?” Jamie asks.
“Sorry, I’m here; sure, it’s fine,” I say in a low tone. “You’re coming over before school to get it, right?”
“Yes, but remember I have detention, so it’s going to be…”
“Shhh!” I interrupt. The floorboards are creaking outside my room. “My mom’s coming. Gotta go!”
I hang up and toss the phone on the nightstand just as my mom peeks into the room.
“Honey, it’s late,” she says.
“I know, I was just going to sleep.”
Mom gives me a look.
“What?” I ask.
“Are you sure you weren’t talking on the phone?” She smiles in that way that tells me I’ve been caught. And yet, for no particular reason, I deny it.
“I’m sure,” I say, inching under
the covers. “Will you turn off the light?” I ask. She does.
“Night, Mom,” I say, yawning for effect but meaning it, too.
“Good night, London,” she says, and before I hear her own bedroom door click shut, I’m asleep.
8
I’m shivering in my closet, wearing only a bra, tank top, and underwear, wet hair dripping down my back, when Jamie scares the crap out of me by appearing in the doorway.
“Morning,” she says, with no warning whatsoever.
“What the hell!” I shout, jumping farther into the closet.
“Uptight much?” Jamie teases, taking in the clothes hanging neatly on the racks. “Wear this one,” she says, pointing to a plaid miniskirt.
“That’s way too short,” I protest. “I have no idea why I own that.”
“I made you buy it,” she says proudly. “I love that skirt.”
“You can have it,” I say, turning away from her and continuing my clothes fit. “What are you doing here so early?” I ask casually.
“You are so mental,” Jamie says. “We talked last night. I’m borrowing…” She moves to a row of shirts and quickly looks through them. She locates the sleeve she seeks and yanks the item off the hanger. “… this green shirt today.”
“Cute,” I say.
“I know,” Jamie agrees. She drops her bag and coat to the floor, swaps her own shirt for the green one, then puts herself back together, leaving her shirt in a heap on my closet floor.
“Don’t you want this?” I ask, picking it up.
Jamie shrugs. “I’ll get it later. See you in Spanish.”
And with that, she is gone.
“Leaving already?” Page Thomas asks anxiously as I slam my PE locker shut. “Man, you’re fast.”
“Yeah, I need to get going,” I say over my shoulder to her. “See you tomorrow.”
“Monday,” Page corrects me, her voice raining disappointment.
“Oh, right, Monday,” I reply loudly, now all the way to the heavy locker room doors. Page is following me.
“Wait, London?” she asks. “Can I talk to you for a minute?” I sigh, knowing what’s coming.
“Sure,” I say, with as much enthusiasm as I can muster through my utter disappointment. I want to leave and go meet him.
“Thanks,” Page says, beaming. I notice that her icy blue eyes are so light they nearly match the whites. With those and her almost silvery blonde hair, she looks like an ice princess.
An ice princess who wears outdated glasses and baggy, mismatched clothes that could one day land her on a makeover show.
I stare at Page until she speaks.
“Okay, so I feel a little silly asking you this,” she begins, “but that day when I was on office duty and delivered that note from your mom to your math class, I noticed that Brad Thomas sits next to you and I was wondering if you know if he has a girlfriend?”
Brad Thomas. I’ll sit next to him in math for the rest of the year. His handwriting looks like a third grader’s; I know from sneaking a peek at his test to see his score in a couple weeks. Beyond that, he’s definitely not a math genius, either.
Stalling, I look around to see if anyone’s watching us. My eyes land on Page’s backpack: her name is embroidered there. Page Thomas.
“You like a guy with the same last name as you?” I ask randomly.
“Yep,” Page admits freely, like she planned it that way. “Convenient.”
More like gross.
Now Page is the one staring. Expectantly. I know I need to say something, but I’m not sure what. I can’t tell her that I remember what happens to her—that Brad will break her heart—but I need to go. The clock is ticking, and, beyond the fact that I desperately want to meet Luke Henry, I also can’t be late to class. Detention with Jamie and her train wreck is not something I want to witness firsthand.
“Page, I have to go. I’m going to be late,” I say. Her smile slides off her face, but she doesn’t speak.
“Listen, I don’t really know Brad,” I continue. “We’re not friends or anything, so I don’t have a clue if he’s dating anyone. I’m sorry.”
Her face is so low it might actually touch the ground. Apparently I’m her only hope, which is ironic, if you think about it. The person who can see the end is the one she’s counting on at the beginning.
All I want to do is leave, but I feel trapped by Page’s pleading eyes. With no apparent way out, I consider what she’s asking. Would she get over Brad if I told her he was going to humiliate her and break her heart? Probably not. She’d call me crazy and find another way to date him.
That thought in mind, I surrender.
“All right, I’ll try to strike up a conversation with him and get some information. Soon, okay?”
Page beams and hugs me with a squeal, then takes off. I follow her into the commons, then turn right when she goes straight. I race up the hallway that leads to the library, making a mental note as I go to include the promise in my end-of-the-day recap. I also make a mental note not to obsess about the wrongness of moving this forward.
Page may not know for sure what’s coming like I do, but every relationship has the potential to fail. Somewhere deep inside, she has to know that’s a possibility. And yet, she’s okay with it. That’s enough for me.
I try not to think of my own warning sign with Luke—the big flashing one that says YOU DON’T REMEMBER HIM!—but I ignore it for the possibility of a relationship. I guess that makes me a little like Page.
A boy I don’t recognize accidentally bumps me as he rushes by. He is decent-looking, and I can’t help but wonder: Was that Luke? I watch some of the other male faces blow past, all at once struck by the realization that I don’t have a clue what Luke looks like. He could be walking next to me right now and I wouldn’t know it. What if he thinks I’m a freak for not talking to him? What if he doesn’t like how I look?
I take cover in the girls’ bathroom to get my anxiety in check. Then, I scan myself in the mirror for anything that might turn Luke off. Thankfully, I’m completely alone as I fix a weird piece of hair and check my teeth, nose, and butt in the mirror.
The bell rings as I leave the bathroom; I run the rest of the way to the library.
“Tardiness is unacceptable,” Ms. Mason says to me without looking up from her magazine. I move toward the only open seat: the one across from a boy who looks very happy to see me.
Somehow I know: this is Luke.
As I sit down, he casually slides a piece of notebook paper across the table, then returns to whatever he was working on. I unpack my schoolwork before reading the page; the wait is excruciating, but I don’t want to seem too eager. When I do read what he’s written, I fight hard to keep my expression in check.
London,
It seems we have a problem chatting in class. How about you give me your number and we can try it later?
Luke
PS—You look nice today.
I press my cheek to my shoulder to stifle a snort. Luke wrote the note before I got here; he had no idea how I looked before I sat down.
For the remainder of the period, I daydream about a future with Luke like normal girls who can’t remember the future might do with a crush. At least that’s the bright side of forgetting him each night: I can wonder.
Two minutes before the bell, I scrawl my number on the bottom of Luke’s note and pass it back. I am surprised when he risks detention by pulling out his cell phone and saving my number right then and there. Thankfully, Ms. Mason doesn’t notice.
When the bell rings, Luke and I stand at the same time and walk together to the library doors, close but not touching. Hannah Wright leaves before us and holds the door so it doesn’t slam in our faces. She looks from me to Luke to me again, then smiles encouragingly before turning around. In the hallway, Luke and I turn to go in different directions.
“Talk to you soon,” he says.
“Sounds good,” I reply. I want to say more, but we are bottlenecking the main hallw
ay, and there is only so much time between classes. Instead, I wave and turn away, forcing myself to walk, not skip, to my locker.
Later, in World History, Mr. Ellis says he’s going to show a film about Nazi Germany.
“It’s disturbing, but I expect you all to act like mature adults. Anyone who cannot do that will be sent to the office.”
After study hall with Luke, I’m still feeling more like a giddy schoolgirl than a mature adult. I try to muzzle my permagrin, but it can’t be contained. I turn my head toward the window so Mr. Ellis doesn’t see me smiling and take it the wrong way.
I’m surprised to discover huge white flakes of snow drifting lazily from the sky. The snow blankets the courtyard like froth on the top of a perfect latte. It’s beautiful and untouched, and it calms me.
Giddiness now in check, I look back at Mr. Ellis, who is consulting a notebook on top of his desk. With his pointer finger as a guide, he scans a list. Then he looks up at me.
“London Lane, did you bring your permission slip today?” Everyone in the class turns to look at me. I can’t help but flush because of the attention. For the moment, my grin is gone.
“Oh, sorry,” I say, leaning over to snatch my bag from under my seat. Unless I put it there yesterday and forgot to remind myself, I know the permission slip isn’t inside. Yet I make a show of looking for it.
“Sorry,” I say after a few seconds. “I guess I forgot it again.”
“Then you’ll have to go to the library,” says Mr. Ellis.
“Okay,” I say, standing up, bag in hand. My face burns as I walk to the front to take the hall pass from Mr. Ellis’s outstretched hand. I leave the classroom, and in the hallway my embarrassment quickly subsides. For forever, this is the type of slipup that I will loathe: the little mistakes that make me seem spastic.
But not today.
Today there is snow on the courtyard.
Today there is Luke.
