The Memory Book

by Lara Avery

  I hope the rest of my life is like this, I remember thinking. Just hanging out with famous writers, having conversations about books and politics.

  “I want to be a writer like Mariana,” he said after some silence.

  The sun had gone behind the trees then. We paused in the middle of a tiny side street, his street.

  “I bet you will be,” I said.

  “Yeah, that’s not… whatever. I lose focus. I have trouble… finishing things. I just want to be a writer who writes all the time, who writes these full, rich, deep stories. Not little flashes in the pan.”

  “You’ll get there,” I told him, and touched his arm in what I hoped was an encouraging way.

  “I better,” he said. Up until this point, he’d been hopeful—longing, yes, but hopeful. Now he sounded tense.

  “What do you mean?”

  He held up his hands. “I gave up everything to do this. I didn’t go to college. I can live at my parents’ place now, sure, but not for long. I have to succeed. Like, what we were talking about last time we hung out. My own definition of success. I just want to finish.”

  We kept walking until we reached an old cream-yellow house with white trim.

  “Yeah.” I touched the place between my ribs, near my sternum. “It’s like, here. This constant pressure coming from inside, not outside.”

  “I can sense that in you,” Stuart said. “You’ve got this drive. It’s so nice to be around.”

  “It’s nice to be around you, too,” I said, quiet and soft. So unlike myself. Because it was the kind of thing I’d never said before. And that would have been enough for me, for him to say he liked my ambition.

  “So, what are you doing right now?” Stuart glanced behind him at his parents’ house, folding his sunglasses in his hand. “You want to come inside?”

  “I want to,” I said. I looked at my phone. My mom had texted me, asking if she should pick me up at the Canoe Club on her way home from work. “But I can’t. I’m sorry. I want to…”

  “Of course,” he said, and got closer to me, looking at me with his black eyes kind of sleepy.

  He put his hands on my waist, pressing through my sweatshirt. “Is this okay?” he asked.

  “Yeah, but I’ve never…” I didn’t know how to phrase it. So I just said it. “I don’t really know how to do this.”

  Stuart smiled. “Do you want to try?”

  In answer, I lifted my lips to his, where they stayed, and his lips moved a little, soft at first, and then more solid, unlike any touch I’d ever had. I felt his tongue, so I opened my mouth a little. Humans have been doing this for centuries, I remember thinking, and then not thinking at all, because his mouth was warm and wet and tasted like limes.

  Then it was like someone dumped warm water on me, slowly, and it made me want to hold him tighter. I brushed my hands down his arms, then up again, across his shoulders, to his face.

  I wanted to keep going.

  My phone buzzed in my pocket. I let go. He let go.

  “Bye,” I said, and tried to keep my mouth closed because my breaths were coming heavy.

  “Bye,” he said, and closed his mouth, too, like he wanted to say something else but couldn’t.

  I walked back to the Canoe Club, got in the car with Mom, and pretended like everything was normal.

  But I can’t stop thinking about it. I didn’t know I wanted such a feeling until it happened. I just made out with Stuart Shah. I just made out with Stuart Shah.

  I feel I am a different person than I was twelve hours ago, like my hard, cracked skin is falling off to a new layer of pink raw skin, like I am making the transformation. Like Mrs. Whatsit in A Wrinkle in Time, when she left Earth through different dimensions, for a purple-gray planet with two moons. She was a bundle of rags and boots on Earth, and on the new planet, she became a brilliant creature with a powerful body and wings, almost beyond description. I’m still wearing my clogs and sweatshirt, still smelling the night on it, but I look different. I am different.

  I know how love works, Future Sam, I read about it in National Geographic. It’s a firing of neurons and a release of dopamine, what neuroscientists call “attachment chemicals,” and this combined with the evolutionary imperative to reproduce creates a conditioned pattern of behavior. You seek out your love object for the same reason you seek out another piece of candy: because you want those sweet feelings again.

  But no one ever told me how easy it would be, how good it would be. I mean, they did, they tried, Shakespeare tried, the Beatles tried, but I still didn’t know it would be like this.

  COOPER LIND’S GUIDE TO ALTERNATIVE RESOURCES

  Went over to Coop’s backyard to get his “guide to alternative resources,” which was mostly just an old legal pad from middle school full of doodles of Garfield doing slam dunks, occasionally interspersed with ideas, but there was good stuff in there. We sat on the fence between our properties like we used to. I wrote more notes and Coop pitched a football at a nearby tree, trying to hit the center.

  Okay, and if this is the official record, let it be known I will only be using these as necessary. Necessary is defined as only at risk of failure. Failing grades on finals could bring Bs and Cs in overall grades, which could threaten my valedictory status. Otherwise, I will be shooting straight all the way to the end.

  (List edited heavily to exclude seducing people in my classes and having them give me all the answers)

  • “the printer smudged this, can’t read it,” while teacher is looking at the paper, glance at neighbor’s test; especially effective for math tests. [USE FOR CALC FINAL]

  • go to the bathroom immediately before and as soon as people start turning in their tests, as to avoid suspicion, but when there, check phone for refreshers. [USE FOR AP LIT QUIZZES, esp. multiple-choice section]

  • evade test dates in order to take the actual exams in “alternative situations,” aka alone after school, when textbook can be accessed. [AP EURO]

  After I copied everything down worth using, I said that phrase to myself, Well, I have everything worth using, and what Maddie said the other day popped into my head, so I said, “Coop, I’m not using you, am I?”

  “Like… wait, what?”

  “Like taking too much from you and not giving back.”

  “No! No,” he said quickly, running to get the football from in front of the tree.

  When he came back, he said, “Trust me, I’ve been used before, and this is not using. You asked for what you wanted directly, and I said yes.”

  “Who used you?”

  Coop shrugged. “Girls.”

  I hopped off the fence. “Yeah, right.”

  He threw the ball again. “They flirt with me to get into parties, get booze, drugs, new friends. It’s the way it goes.”

  “It’s not just that.”

  “Sometimes it’s not.”

  I held up the pad. “They flirt with you for your Garfield drawings.”

  Coop snorted. “You used to draw those Lord of the Rings characters that looked like turds. I’m surprised you don’t have a boyfriend by now with those skills.”

  I smiled, staring at my hands, thinking of Stuart’s lips on mine.

  “What the hell is that look?” Coop was staring at me, eyes wide.

  “I don’t have a look.”

  His voice got lower. “You have a boyfriend?”

  “No…”

  “Who is it?”

  “No one.”

  Coop ran to get the ball. As he ran back, faster this time, he asked, “Who is it not?”

  It was hard to resist telling him. It was also hard to keep out a tone of see, I’m not a loser, ha-ha. “It’s not Stuart Shah.”

  “Oh,” Coop said, and looked away. “Cool.”

  That time the football sailed beyond the tree, and the next one, too.

  As he ran, he yelled over his shoulder, “See you.”

  “I wasn’t—” I began, but I remembered he used to do that a lot, when he
wanted to be alone. He’d always say good-bye before you’d ever thought about leaving.

  LOOK, TEXTS FROM STUART SHAH

  Holy shit, this is crazy. I accidentally shampooed my hair three times yesterday, just thinking about him and, yeah. Doing what we did again.

  Stuart: Mariana’s reading tonight at the Dartmouth library and she asked me to read with her!!!

  Me: OMG. Congratulations!

  Stuart: It’s at 5. Come?

  Me: If I can finish the Blindness essay due tomorrow, yes.

  Stuart: Well, what are you doing still texting me? Write write write!

  Me: hahaha

  Stuart: See you at 5. ;)

  Me: God willing

  Stuart: I didn’t know you were religious.

  Me: I’m sorry, I meant dog willing.

  Stuart: GO WRITE SO I CAN SEE YOU!

  BLUE RASPBERRY

  I finished my essay at 4:45, and all the way to the library, I did that awkward thing between walking and jogging that people do when they cross the street in front of traffic. When I got there, the library was packed, rows of chairs in the lobby filled up with people spilling into the shelves, and Mariana stood behind a microphone, already reading.

  Stuart was in the front row, his head bent, staring intently at the floor, listening.

  Finally, Mariana looked at Stuart, and I followed her eyes. In profile, his long lashes curved toward his nose and his lips were open.

  “As any of you know who have seen me read before,” Mariana began, “I love to make two works converse with each other. For the last two sections, I want to bring up a young writer who sent some work to me the other night. I don’t think he expected me to read it…” The crowd chuckled. “But after keeping my beer glass full, it was the least I could do.” They laughed again. “And I was very impressed. So we’ll read short sections in conversation.”

  When Stuart cleared his throat and looked down at his printed page, I wanted to know everything about him I couldn’t see.

  What brand of toothpaste did he use?

  Did Stuart dream often?

  Were the dreams vivid?

  What was his favorite flavor of Jolly Rancher?

  His work was good. Everyone could tell it was good, because no one was fidgeting.

  I wanted to tell everyone around me, I know him. I kissed him, and when he began to read, my eyes were glued to him. But he didn’t look at me. Maybe he didn’t see me. Maybe the warmth I felt was made up, or a fever, and he didn’t actually want me to come.

  The reading concluded. I clapped as hard as I could, and everyone stood up around me.

  Future Sam, I had started to lie awake at night, thinking about our conversations, smiling to myself at things Stuart has said, and thinking about that opening-a-can-of-soda feeling that happens whenever I make him laugh. But ever since talking with Maddie, I wondered if I didn’t just put too much weight on the hours that we spent lying in the Dartmouth grass, throwing ideas up into the sky, taking the words out of each other’s mouths.

  Stuart moved behind the table where Mariana was set up to sign books, craning his neck. He was looking for someone. Maybe me, maybe not.

  Maybe he was biding his time until he could say something like Maddie said, something like, I can’t be the person to whom you bring all your woes and realizations about life, and he had just decided to kiss me in the meantime.

  A long lined formed. I moved between the bookshelves.

  But I didn’t want to bring all my woes to him. That’s the opposite of what I wanted to do. I wanted to listen to him, and sure, occasionally talk—okay, maybe talk a lot—but I wanted him to like what I said. I wanted to talk about ideas and books and things smart people talk about, things that people like Stuart talk about.

  Two Dartmouth students moved in line near my passage between shelves, saying, “… and Stuart Shah, wow. I read his piece in The Threepenny Review, too. Prodigy…”

  I was pretty sure I didn’t belong there. I was pretty sure someone who was banking her future on cheating on high school finals and the likelihood of a ten-minute graduation speech changing her fate wasn’t supposed to be there, next to Stuart Shah, and all the people who admired him.

  I heard his voice nearby, and a crowd of people laughing.

  I retreated to the Philosophy section and tried to slow down my heart rate by breathing slow and staring at the floor, like Dr. Clarkington taught me. This was awful. Caring about someone is awful, I was thinking. I should be locked back in the bell tower, where I can’t throw any emotional grenades, and suddenly I saw brown shoes.

  “There you are,” I heard Stuart say, and the words were so quiet it felt as if they were meant only for me.

  Hands took mine from where fists had formed on my waist, and Stuart bent to put his lips on my cheek. I couldn’t look at him.

  “Stuart.” I stepped out toward the floor. “You did a good job.”

  “Thank you,” he said. Then, “Are you all right?”

  “I just want to say…” I began, and took a step backward, meeting his eyes. “It’s okay if you don’t like me as much as I like you. You can just tell me.”

  “I mean…” he started, and tilted his head. “You never said how much you liked me.”

  I took in what I hoped would be the last in a string of deep breaths. “Can I tell you?”

  He smiled a slow smile. “Yes, I would like that.”

  “I’m sorry if this is weird. God. I’ve got the social skills of… of a Neanderthal.”

  He laughed, his black eyes flashing at me and then upward, tossing his head back, which sent a wave of looseness through my whole body, on the whole Philosophy section, the whole library. The books got a little brighter. I laughed with him.

  “I like you a lot,” I said.

  “I like you a lot, too,” he said. “If you can’t tell.”

  “I can’t,” I said, shaking my head. “I can’t read social cues very well. I was just told that recently.”

  Then he kissed me deeply, and that was the perfect thing to do, because it felt good, yes, but also because I understood it fully, and to be honest, it was maybe the first time those two had gone together.

  ALTERNATIVE RESOURCES, PHASE TWO

  Lying in the nurse’s office, watching the clock. I “threw up” my breakfast in the classroom trash can with the help of a sip of a smoothie I held in my mouth for ten minutes. The school wanted to call my parents, but I told them it was an expected side effect of Zavesca, and began to list all of them until the nurse was disgusted, and she dropped it. All the rest of my classmates are taking their AP Euro final. When the final’s over, I’ll “recover” and take the test in the library later today, where no one will watch me consult my notes if (and ONLY IF) I need them.

  I probably could have done it, but I didn’t want to take any chances on drawing a blank, especially with my mind swinging back and forth from Stuart to school to Stuart again.

  After the reading, we had found a spot on the Dartmouth campus to kiss and talk and kiss some more. He tried to run his fingers through my hair and couldn’t, because my curls are so thick and tangled. We laughed and he kissed my neck, which sent horses through my stomach again—not just horses, Shadowfax, the Lord of all horses—and I put my hand under his shirt and, actually, never mind, it’s too weird to be typing about this in the nurse’s office.

  Almost over.

  Every time Mrs. Dooley, the nurse, looks at me I try to look forlorn and take a little sip of water.

  And who walks in but Cooper himself, employing his own method. I wave at him but he’s putting a finger to his lips, pointing at the nurse, and sitting down beside me with a big, fake-sick sigh.

  I’m pretending to type something important on this Word document.

  How’s it going, Coop?

  “fainted” in my comp sci final

  This system is nuts. My heart is beating so fast.

  it’s working though am i right

  I can’t bel
ieve it’s working.

  welcome to the last four years of my life

  LOL

  you’re sitting right beside me, you don’t have to type LOL, you can just laugh

  I’m afraid if I laugh they’ll think I’m not sick.

  whatever you do, don’t laugh right now

  GODDAMMIT now I’m laughing

  hahahahha :)

  BIKINI BOTTOM

  Watching SpongeBob with the family on Saturday night, because it’s Davy’s turn to pick what movie we watch. I pretended to complain with Harrison and Bette, but as you know, I secretly think this show is hilarious. And to be honest, Squidward reminds me a lot of myself.

  I texted Maddie, by the way. I told her I was sorry again and asked if she wanted to meet up. She just texted back, “It’s cool,” and ignored the second part. She’s probably really busy. Every time I see her at school, she is leaving with a group of screaming, happy people on their way somewhere. I wonder if she heard about me and Stuart being, like, a real thing. Then again, I don’t know if Stuart is telling anyone about us, or, if he is, what he’s saying.

  This makes me wonder.

  Me: You working?

  Stuart: Yeeessss what’s up?

  Me: Am I your girlfriend?

  Stuart: The title of your memoir will be “Sammie McCoy: Cutting to the Chase”

  Me: Seriously, though, am I?

  Stuart: Let’s talk about it in person. Later tonight when I get off?

  I look over at Mom and Dad, Davy sprawled on their laps, Bette between Mom’s knees as she brushes her hair. I remember how sad Mom’s eyes were when she asked me to spend more time with them. I remember my NPC Task Force, and how I am trying to be less selfish.

  Me: I can’t, I’m with my family tonight.

  Stuart: Ah, ok. Tomorrow?

  Me: Okay. But if you were to give a short answer now, what would it be?