by Jaime Reed
“What up, Dory!” I plopped down on a beanbag next to him.
He looked at me, his dark eyes canvassing my face in recollection. “Well, if it isn’t Jason Bourne. How’s it going?”
“Good.” I told him about my session with Denise, but he seemed distracted. His stare kept veering toward the window. “What’s wrong?” I asked.
“Just came back from the doctors for my test results.”
I waited for more details, but none came. “And?”
“I still have amnesia,” he replied on a flat note.
“For real? Say it ain’t so!” I gasped in fake surprise. “Is there any improvement?”
“Nothing I haven’t heard before. My hippo is repairing itself. It’s gonna take a while to recover. Yadda, yadda.”
Among the many technical terms I’d learned, one of them was a thing called hippocampus, the hub of both of our problems. It was this seahorse-looking gland inside the bottom-middle part of the brain that turned short-term memories into long-term ones. From what Cody told me, his “hippo” looked like a dried-up piece of shrimp, so any word of improvement was hopeful. He could try to have a normal life, but it would take some time. That was another thing I discovered about my condition—the brain did its own thing and would not be rushed.
“You’re making mad strides, Dory. You can recognize my face and my name and not once this week did you ask me if I had a boyfriend. This is progress! This is revolutionary!” I cheered.
A smile peeked around the corners of his mouth. Cody had a great smile, childlike and sweet, not like the pearly white blaze of swoon that Liam boasted. God, just thinking about it made me sigh, but I didn’t want to compare and contrast the two boys in my life.
We talked for a few more minutes before I had to leave. I told him about the Decades Celebration and my struggle to assemble the best costume.
“You tried the thrift store?” Cody asked. “You might find something that’s already made. I got this awesome T-shirt there.” He stretched the front of his shirt so I could see the caption. It was a drawing of a boxy Japanese robot that had hearts for eyes. The words I’M JUST A LOVE MACHINE stood out in big sixties sci-fi movie font. Cody collected T-shirts the way some guys I knew collected sneakers.
However, the thrift store idea was a good one. Stacey and the girls had put me on a tight budget, and hitting the bargain rack could save money on fabric. “I think I’ll do that,” I told him.
“Be sure they don’t try to stiff you on the prices,” he warned me. “Vintage stuff is mad trendy these days.”
“Yeah, all the hipsters around town have taken over.” I slapped myself on the forehead as soon as the words escaped. Did Liam have to leak into every conversation I had? What was wrong with me? I needed a new topic. Fast.
“Why don’t you come to the dance with me next Friday?” I blurted out. “It’s going on at my old school, but my friends can get us tickets.”
He placed a hand over his chest as though scandalized. “Are you asking me on a date, Jason Bourne? I gotta tell ya, this is all so sudden. Why, I wouldn’t know what to do. Will there be dinner before the dancing?”
I gave him the best annoyed stare I could muster. “Are you finished?”
“No,” he replied, and then fanned himself with his hands. “Oh my god! What am I gonna wear? Should I wear my hair up or leave it down?” He pulled the brown waves from his forehead and gathered them in a ponytail at the back of his head. “How’s it look?”
“Boy, you stupid.” I walked away and headed to the elevators.
He caught up with me when the doors opened and joined me inside. “So, should I meet you there? Or do you need a ride?”
“Nah, I got a ride,” I said.
“You still can’t drive?”
My head whipped in his direction. “How did you—”
He showed me the entry on his phone. His finger pointed to the note:
Jason Bourne’s written driving exam = epic fail typed in bold with a row of crying emoji faces next to it.
I rushed to defend myself. “That wasn’t my fault. I got played! That DMV lady had nothing but attitude as soon as I walked through the door.”
Cody cut his eyes at me. “Uh-huh.”
“Now I gotta wait two weeks to take it over again. Two weeks!”
Cody shook his head. “The nerve of some people.”
I bumped him with my hip. “Anyway, back to the dance. It’s happening next Friday at León High School. You should come. It’ll be fun. There’ll be cute girls there and food and a ton of nineties references. Do you own any flannel shirts?”
His smile came into full bloom, and I could tell that he was warming up to the idea. “So when does this shindig start?” he asked as he typed notes on his phone.
He walked with me to the lobby, and I gave him all the vital info, including my number. We passed through the revolving door and stepped into blinding sunlight. It was then I realized that all of our encounters ended at the curb. This wouldn’t do at all.
“Don’t go flaking out at the last minute,” I told him. “We never see each other outside this stuffy building. I don’t like those limits.”
“Agreed. We must hang. Hanging must happen.” He used his hands to block the sun from his eyes. “You said something about a boyfriend. Is that still a thing or what?”
I should have guessed that was coming. “I don’t have a boyfriend. I have complications. Trust me, you don’t want any of this.” I gestured to myself.
“So you’re damaged goods, huh? Pity. We could’ve had something special.” He wiped an imaginary tear from his eye. “Anyway, I’m off to the beach.”
“You better not be surfing again,” I called after him. “That’s how you got here in the first place.”
“I gotta live life, chica. I can’t let this stop me. Besides, if not for my accident, how would I’ve met you?” He turned around and walked to his car parked in the handicap spot in front of the building. His easy stride spoke of a light mood, which meant his earlier upset was probably fading from memory.
A black town car pulled up next to me on the curb, and it took several blinks and a double take to realize that it was Dad’s car. Mom usually picked me up after my appointments, so something had to be wrong. I climbed in to the passenger seat.
Before the door shut, I asked, “Where’s Mom? What happened? Is she dead?”
Dad recoiled. “What? No. Sweetie, I’m picking you up today.”
Dad was starting to gray around the ears and sideburns, but not one wrinkle marked his dark skin. The man was in his late forties yet he looked ten years younger. Grandma had a saying for that, something along the lines of black don’t crack. The motto was true, in my family at least. It didn’t crack; it just sagged and got a lot of moles. These thoughts kept me entertained as I stared upside Dad’s head, waiting for him to come clean.
When we pulled out of the parking lot, he asked, “What? Can’t I pick up my daughter from her doctor appointment?”
“You were never involved with my sessions before. Mom did all the therapy stuff with me.”
He lowered his head and nodded. “I know. And I’m sorry. It’s been brought to my attention that I haven’t been very supportive with your recovery.”
Translation: Mom had told him off for spending all his time locked in his office.
“The last thing I want is for you to feel ignored or feel that you have to deal with this alone,” Dad went on solemnly. “So I promise from now on I’ll be more involved with everything going on with you.”
Whoa. That would actually make matters worse. His involvement meant a complete and hostile takeover, and I didn’t need any more micromanagement in my life. Hopefully, this sudden motivation would only last a couple of weeks.
“So … I wanted to stop by the thrift store on the way home,” I said, and suddenly Dad looked horrified.
“The thrift store? What could you possibly want at a thrift store?”
He stressed
the last part in a sneaky whisper old women at our church used while spreading gossip. Oh, Sister So-and-So is back in the hospital again—cancer. Deacon What’s-His-Name is giving his wife all kinds of problems—gambling. Did you hear about Gerald Dawson’s girl? Poor thing busted her head wide open and has to go to therapy—amnesia. I loved my dad, but he could be so uptight and bougie.
“I’m making costumes for Stacey and the girls, so I need something cheap and retro,” I explained. “Can you take me? I’m on the clock and I really want to get this project done.”
“That fashion thing you were telling me about? Not this again.” Dad stopped at the red light and turned to me. “Ellia, this little hobby has been taking up a lot of your time lately. Are you keeping up with your courses?”
“Yes. In fact, my grades have improved.”
He sighed heavily. “I don’t think it’s a good idea for you to be so distracted with these extra activities. You don’t attend León anymore and there’s no reason to participate in any of this Decades foolishness.”
“Foolishness?” I repeated. “I’m doing my friend a favor. I’m being social and trying to put my life together. This foolishness gives me something to do that doesn’t require an appointment. I told Dr. Kavanagh about it and she agrees that keeping me active will help the process.”
That got him quiet. My folks could argue with me, but not the opinion of a professional.
When the car started moving again, he said, “I understand that it’s hard being away from your friends, but your mother and I pulled you out of school for a reason. You’re doing so well lately and I don’t want you falling into that bad crowd again.”
“You mean Liam?” I guessed.
The very sound of his name made Dad clench up around the shoulders. It was subtle, but I definitely saw it.
“For starters, yes,” he said and held a death grip on the steering wheel.
Okay, I was sick of walking on eggshells and tiptoeing around issues nobody felt like talking about. I needed to figure this out once and for all. “What did Liam do that was so horrible?”
“He’s a bit too involved with you for my taste.”
Vagueness: one of Dad’s many talents. Oldie slow jams piped through the speakers while we cruised along the interstate in silence. Glancing out my window, I thought of all the possible reasons anyone would disapprove of Liam. The obvious conclusion made my eyes roll in disgust and glare at the driver’s seat.
“Daddy? Are you hating on him because he’s white?” Now I was doing the church whisper, as if Liam could hear me from across town.
“Of course not. You’ve seen the family photo albums—the Dawsons come in all colors, sweetheart,” he said, much to my relief. “However, that boy doesn’t seem to know the meaning of the word no.”
My anxiety spiked back up again. “What does that mean?” I asked, my voice a little shaky. “Are you talking about the accident?”
“The accident was the last in a long list of rebellious behavior,” he said with eyes trained on the road.
I didn’t like this feeling at all. “He saved my life. If it wasn’t for him, I would’ve died.”
“True. But have you ever stopped to wonder why you were out on a cold, abandoned beach at six in the morning? He’s the only one who knows what really happened. You ran, tripped, and fell on the rocks, but what were you running from? Better yet, who were you running from? It really makes you think, doesn’t it?”
No further words were spoken for the rest of the ride home. Needless to say, my trip to the thrift store would have to be postponed. That was fine by me, because all ideas and creative passion had been sucked out of me.
I had a nagging feeling that I was being lied to. Not exactly a fib, but a lie by omission, which, if you asked me, was even worse. The other person had knowledge, leverage, that they could hold over your head or use to manipulate you. This was where the paranoia came in. Next came the fear, then the anger.
I’d dealt with this a lot when I first woke up at the hospital, so I knew exactly what to look for when someone wasn’t being up front. The question was, who was withholding the truth? My parents, or Liam?
Ow!”
I squeezed my eyes shut.
“If you’d stop squirming, you wouldn’t get poked,” Stacey told me without pity.
I dabbed my runny eye with my finger and checked for blood. Thank god, it was only tears. “It’s called blinking. It’s a reflex,” I said over the sound of noisy gum-smacking in my ear.
The chomping grew louder as Stacey leaned over me again with an instrument of doom braced between her fingers. “You’re gonna have to get over that.”
Stacey and I were at the table in my kitchen, surrounded by more cosmetics than any drugstore aisle could hold, getting ready for Seventies Day at school. Stacey was going as one of Charlie’s Angels. The curls of her feathered blond wig fanned away from her face and bounced with every disapproving shake of her head.
I was dead set on not dressing up this year, but Stacey and co. kept bugging me about school spirit and supporting the cause. So I was going as Alex from A Clockwork Orange: white shirt and pants, suspenders, and a bowler hat. The only person I trusted to do the eye makeup was Stacey, but I was praying to not go blind in the process.
So far, the first two days of Decades week had been fairly uneventful. On Fifties Day, a fight broke out in the cafeteria when the seniors showed up as the cast from Grease. Though the movie was set in the fifties, it was filmed in the seventies, and the underclassmen felt that was reason enough to start a riot. The skirmish and a wardrobe malfunction with a poodle skirt had disqualified the freshmen. The juniors were still in the running for the class prize, thanks to a very convincing Beatles impersonation by the drama club on Sixties Day. The only real competition was the seniors, who seemed to win every year.
“Uh-uh, boo-boo. Not this year,” Stacey said with a roll of her neck. “Our nineties costumes are going to blow them out of the water.”
“I think the sophomores are doing the Spice Girls,” I told her.
“Oh, we changed the theme at the last minute. Ellia came up with the idea and I want it to be a surprise.” She leaned forward then stopped. “I can’t get a good angle. Here, stand up.” When I did, she poked out her bottom lip. “Why do you have to be so tall? Sit down again.”
I did, and she spent another minute contorting into the right position with pointy tweezers hovering dangerously close to my eyes.
“Let’s try this.” She sat long-ways across my lap with her legs dangling over mine. “That’s better. Now look upward and don’t blink or you’ll be wearing an eye patch to school.”
She glued fake lashes on my bottom lid with the shrewdness of a surgeon. Next, she filled in the water line with a pencil shade she called The Witching Hour. It looked like plain old black to me, but what did I know?
A golden-nailed finger smudged my top lid. Her face lingered so close that I was breathing in minty air from her gum. “Artistically speaking, you really are a beautiful boy.”
“Physical beauty is a perceptual bias to symmetry,” I replied while trying not to move.
The chomping stopped and her eyes met mine. “Dude, can you just take a compliment?”
“Thank you.” I smiled.
She released a loud breath, pushing more minty air in my face. “Ugh. You are so weird.”
“And my legs are going numb, so hurry up with this makeup.”
“You trying to say I’m fat?” she asked.
I grinned. “You said it, not me.”
Then the hitting and threats of impalement began until we were laughing. Stacey slipped and almost fell off my lap, but I caught her by the waist. She pushed the hair out of her face and watched me thoughtfully. Her gray eyes went wide and her hand touched my cheek as if to be sure I was real.
“Will you look at this? Aren’t you two adorable?” Wade stepped into the room with quaffed hair and a brown Anchorman Ron Burgundy leisure suit.
Wade lifted his hands in the air in a gesture of no hard feelings. “Hey, whatever. It’s none of my business. Are you done with Liam? I need some help gluing on these sideburns.”
“Sure.” She shooed me out of the chair and waved him over. “Step into my office.”
* * *
Seventies Day meant that disco balls hung in the halls, and afros, feathered hair, and polyester were on full display. The whole affair conjured up thoughts of Ellia because the seventies had been her favorite decade. We all texted her pictures and updates, since she had a doctor’s appointment today and couldn’t sneak in.
At lunchtime, the upperclassmen piled into the gym, which had been turned into a skating rink. I had a hard time keeping my balance, but Stacey helped me stay on my feet.
Between tumbles, I was on camera duty. I took pics of Stacey, Nina, and Trish, who each pointed finger guns in the air while doing the Charlie’s Angels pose. Then I took shots of Wade and Kendra, who said she was Foxy Brown, whoever that was. To avoid getting knocked down, I shuffled to the bleachers and sent the photos to Ellia. She hadn’t responded to the last set of pictures and this time I also got no response from her. A sinking feeling rose in my stomach. “Stop moping and get back on the floor.” Stacey skated over to me. She pulled me off the bench and out of my funk.
Holding my wrist, she shook her hips from side to side. Before I knew it, other kids latched on to me, creating a conga line on wheels. Stacey’s laughter rang out, honest and boisterous.
Together, the junior class glided in a wide zigzag across the gym floor to the worst music ever bestowed upon mankind. And I actually enjoyed myself, and felt an appreciation for Stacey. She was a brat, but she was also loyal—a rare trait in our school—and she didn’t put up with my mood swings. She was a good friend to Ellia, and as she held my hand as we skated, I knew that friendship extended to me, too.
As soon as school ended, the dark cloud returned. Ellia hadn’t replied to a single text or picture I’d sent her. Something seemed a bit off and this feeling in my gut wouldn’t leave me alone.
