Level 2 (Memory Chronicles)

by Lenore Appelhans

  I duck my head, but Beckah catches my chin with her steady fingers and lifts it so I’m staring into her faded blue irises. “I hope we find him, Felicia. You deserve to be happy.”

  Maybe I should tell her that happiness is not exactly what a girl with my checkered past deserves, but the words stick in my throat. A strange mist swirls around Beckah’s head, causing her mouth to go slack, her eyes to go glassy. The mist seems to permeate the room and to sink into my skin, making my limbs feel heavy. I want nothing more than to lie down. The three of us pick ourselves up slowly and wander off to our separate chambers.

  I climb in, my thoughts jumbled. What was it I wanted to do? Look for a book? No, something more urgent than that. The name tugs at the edge of my consciousness. Julian. I need to look for him. Figure out what he wants with me. Figure out if he can really get us out of here so I can look for Neil. Once I position my hands correctly, the familiar glow of the hologram screen greets me. I scroll through my Julian memories, so unvisited that I wouldn’t be surprised to find them collecting cobwebs. I decide on our first meeting and push play.

  Ward, Felicia. Memory #31125

  Tags: Germany, Autumn, Julian, Sushi, The Three Seasons

  Number of Views: 5

  Owner Rating: Not rated

  User Rating: Not shared

  Autumn and I have commandeered a table at our favorite sushi restaurant near Eschenheimer Tor. We haven’t been here long, but I’ve already downed my second cup of espresso, burning my tongue in the process. Autumn’s not paying attention to me, or her steaming cup of green tea. She’s got her notebook out and she’s focused on the couple sitting next to us, who are arguing over who should pay the bill. As I tear open the paper covering my wooden chopsticks, I stifle a yawn.

  “Should we get two orders of California rolls or one?” I ask Autumn. I split my chopsticks and place them carefully on my chopstick holder, a lacquered green stone.

  Autumn lifts up her hand to shush me. She scrawls notes into her notebook with her purple glitter pen. The feathers on top of it bob back and forth, and I bite back my annoyance. After a few moments of harsh remarks in German, the woman next to us reaches into her purse, pulls out some euros, and slaps them into the black plastic folder provided with the bill. The couple gets up to leave. The woman strides to the door without a backward glance, and the man shuffles behind her. The door dings once, closes, and then dings again.

  “How hungry are you?” I ask. Neither of us has bothered to open our menus. It’s never a question of what we’ll get, just how much.

  “Let’s do two orders,” Autumn says. She stacks her menu on top of mine, and then tucks her notebook and pen back into her bag.

  “So, what was that all about?”

  “Something I learned from Mr. Bennett,” she gushes. “Eavesdropping is the best way to develop an ear for authentic dialogue, which is going to help us so much with our novel.”

  For our latest in a string of half-completed writing projects, Autumn has come up with an idea for a book about three friends all fighting over the same guy. It’s called The Three Seasons because each of the friends has a season as part of her name. Autumn will tackle two of the points of view: Autumn Hooper, “the long-suffering friend,” and Chelsy Winters, “the mentally unstable one.” Autumn has charged me with writing the point of view of Bethanne Summer Chandler, “the guy magnet.” I think it’s her passive-aggressive way of trying to tell me something.

  I groan. “Why do we have to work on another novel? Can’t we try a screenplay this time?”

  “Maybe I’d rather be the cliché of the starving writer than the waitressing screenwriter.” Autumn tucks an errant strand of her short blond hair behind her ear. “Movies are more your thing anyway. I’m not the one who spends my entire allowance on cinema tickets and downloads.”

  “I read as many novels as you do. Maybe more. I’m just not sure I want to write one. And I think you’re so into this because you want to impress Mr. Bennett.” I don’t add that I doubt our tweed-wearing, classics-loving English teacher, as relatively young and sexy as he is, will be all that likely to praise our teen melodrama.

  Autumn blushes. “Don’t be a dream crusher,” she retorts. “Have you even started on your first chapter yet?”

  “Tell me again why I am involved in this project.”

  She goes into lecture mode. “You know it has always been our dream to be published by the time we’re twenty. And I read online that multiple-point-of-view novels are hot right now. Finding the right voice for each character is essential.”

  I roll my eyes. “We made that pact when we were eight. How long are you going to torture me with it?”

  “And, you owe me.” Her tone hardens. “Everything’s not always about you, you know.”

  “I know.” I gulp. I suspect she’s referring to my getting a highly coveted spot in Mr. Bennett’s advanced writing seminar. She’s the one who convinced me to go for it in the first place, and now she’s angry that Mr. Bennett chose me over her, and that I refused to quit and let her take my place. I know I should give on this book project of hers, let her have her way for once, especially since she seems so envious of me sometimes. In the grand scheme of things, it’s so minor. But the espresso has finally kicked in, and I feel jittery and argumentative. “Well, if we have to write something, couldn’t it be a little more . . . epic?”

  “C’mon, Felicia. We’ve discussed this.” Her exasperation with me is loud and clear. “Mr. Bennett says it’s important to focus on one project at a time.” Autumn juts out her chin and fixes me with her steely gaze. “And besides, you need an awesome idea first. Do you have one of those?”

  I take a deep breath, ready to fight this out if I have to. “I’m sure I could come up with one. How about . . .”

  But my words die on my lips, because the door has dinged again, and Autumn looks like she’s been hit by lightning. She lunges at me and grabs my arm. “Dibs,” she whispers under her breath, pinching me with her fingernails and shooting me a warning look. Then she pulls back with a radiant smile.

  Though I want to tell her calling dibs doesn’t magically make a person like you instead of someone else, I refrain. Instead I turn around to check out the latest object of Autumn’s affection. My body stiffens with recognition. The boy walking in is achingly beautiful, too model perfect with his high cheekbones and strong jaw to be someone I’d know, but he looks familiar all the same. He scans the restaurant, reaching up casually to brush shaggy blond bangs across his forehead. When his dark eyes meet mine, the force makes me physically shrink back. He heads over to our table.

  “Ist hier frei?” he asks in German. He pulls out the chair at the table next to us and sits down without waiting for an answer, never letting go of my gaze.

  “Yes, this seat is free,” Autumn answers in English, her voice tinged with a sweetness that makes me want to gag.

  “Excellent,” he says, easily switching to an English as unaccented as his German. “I knew today was my lucky day.” He plucks one of our menus off our table with a large, pale hand and opens it. “What’s good here, ladies?”

  “The California rolls. That’s what we’re getting.” Autumn leans over to point it out on the menu, though he doesn’t stop staring directly into my eyes. “They make it with tamago here. Really tasty.”

  “Great.” He snaps the menu closed and lets it fall onto his table. “I’ll get those too, then.” He waves his arm to summon the waitress. She comes over, and he finally breaks his eye contact, setting me free. I let out my breath. Had I been holding it the entire time?

  Autumn addresses the stranger. “Is one order okay for you . . .” She trails off.

  “Julian,” he supplies, extending his hand in her direction, a charming smile on his lips.

  “Autumn.” She shakes his hand, lingering longer than strictly necessary before letting go. “And this is Felicia.” She gestures at me as though I am no more than an afterthought.

  I reach o
ver to shake his hand too, to be polite, but my movement is jerky, and I knock the second menu to the floor.

  I bend down to retrieve it at the same time as the waitress. She whisks it away, and as I straighten, Julian’s hand grasps mine. His touch ignites a longing—and a pang of fear—that burns through my veins. I pull away instinctively.

  “Hi.” I look up at him through my long hair and then reach up with my hands to smooth it back into place. “Is it possible we’ve met before? Do I know you from somewhere?”

  Julian chuckles. “Have you ever been to rural Kansas? The stretch of Highway 54 between Greensburg and Wichita?”

  “No.” So he’s from Kansas? He doesn’t look like a farm boy.

  Autumn clears her throat and kicks me under the table. “Is one order enough for you, Julian?” Her eyes slide with naked admiration from his face down his imposing frame.

  “Just a snack. One order is more than enough.” He’s tapping his foot, drawing my attention to his black Converse.

  “We’ll take three orders of California rolls,” Autumn tells the waitress. The waitress nods and stalks off. They’re never very talkative here.

  Julian looks us over. “I take it you’re Americans?”

  “Our parents work for the U.S. State Department,” I say. “You?”

  “I’m taking a year off.” He shifts in his chair and then rises. “We can shove these tables together and get a bit cozier.” He pushes his table until it’s lined up with ours, and then sits back down, satisfied. “Germany is my first stop. I want to explore the world, you know?” he says. “Been trapped way too long in one place.”

  “Well, join the State Department, then.” Autumn laughs, a little too loudly. “We’ve been all over. Africa, Asia, South America.”

  “See, now that’s impressive. To be so young and to have experienced so much already.” He looks contemplative. “If you died right now, you’d still be so rich.”

  A shiver runs down my spine.

  Autumn laughs again and places a hand on his arm flirtatiously. “Oh, we’re not ready to kick the bucket yet, Julian. We still have to give you the grand tour of Frankfurt.” She counts out the attractions of Germany’s banking capital. “The Old Opera, the botanical garden, Nidda Park . . .” She pauses. “Well, anyway. There is a lot to see.”

  Julian cocks his head and regards us for a long moment. “I’d be honored to have you two as my guides.”

  I shake off my dread and look over at Autumn. She’s stretching like a bloom aching for the sun’s attention. “We’d love to!” she squeals, bouncing in her chair, the color high on her cheeks. She bends over and extracts the feather pen from her bag again, and then offers it to him. “Write down your number for us.”

  He waves her pen away. “Actually, maybe we can meet here again tomorrow? Same time? I still need to get a phone.”

  “Right, of course.” Autumn reaches down with one hand, takes out her pad, and places it on the table. She opens it up to one of the last pages and starts writing with her garish feathered pen, forming the loops of her name and her mobile phone number with a flourish. She sets down the pen and starts to rip out the page.

  “Wait. Can you give me Felicia’s number too?” Julian shrugs, and shuffles in his seat. “You never know. I may not be able to reach you.”

  “Uh . . . sure.” She pauses. “Felicia? Is that okay with you?”

  I don’t know exactly why, but I don’t want Julian to have my phone number. “Actually, my phone battery died. I have to get a new one,” I lie. “Call Autumn for now.”

  Autumn grins. “That’s right! No phone problems here!” She finishes ripping out the page and hands it to Julian. He nods, folds it, and shimmies it into the back pocket of his jeans.

  There’s an uncomfortable silence then, broken only by the waitress returning with our tray of sushi. She places it on the table, and then distributes three tiny plates, one for each of us. I reach for the bottle of soy sauce as she walks away. I am in the middle of pouring when a flapping motion outside attracts my attention.

  We all turn toward the window. “Whoa—what was that?” exclaims Autumn.

  “Something must have spooked all those pigeons on that old medieval tower out front. I saw them earlier.” Julian looks casually at his watch, and then gets up. “Sorry, ladies,” he says, flashing us an apologetic smile. “Looks like I am going to have to cut our conversation short. Can we meet up tomorrow?”

  “But what about your sushi?” Autumn bites her lip. “Can’t you stay to finish it?”

  “No, darling. Almost forgot about an appointment.” He reaches into his back pocket. “How much do I owe you?”

  “Don’t worry about it.” Autumn jumps to her feet. “We’ll let you get the check next time.”

  “Good deal.” He bends down and pecks Autumn on one cheek and then the other. “That is the custom here, right?”

  “Right.” Autumn giggles. “On your way to being a native already.”

  Julian crosses over to my side of the table, and I get up, too fast, knocking my forehead against his chin. He reaches out his hands to steady me, and I look up at him. He leans over and brushes his lips against the cheek that’s hidden from Autumn’s view. “See you soon,” he whispers into my ear, and then pulls away abruptly. His promise thrills me as much as it frightens me.

  He walks to the door. He pulls it open with one hand and waves to us with the other. And then he’s gone.

  “Oh, I’m in love!” Autumn crams a roll into her mouth and chews.

  “What about Mr. Bennett?” I ask, settling back into my chair. I use my chopsticks to pick up a roll, but my throat feels dry. I put it back.

  “Please!” Autumn slaps the table. “Seriously. You saw Julian. He’s, like, everything I’ve ever wanted in a man.”

  “You don’t know anything about him,” I point out. “Except he’s hot.”

  “Extremely hot,” Autumn corrects. “And I’m meeting him again tomorrow!” She scoops up her bag, tosses her notepad into it, and pulls out her cell phone all in one smooth motion.

  “Shall we take this to go?” Autumn asks. But she flags down the waitress for a box without waiting for my answer, and begins texting furiously. She’s likely bragging to Nicole and her minions about her new conquest.

  I slide the plate of sushi farther away from me and take a deep breath to fight the nausea rising up in my stomach. The feeling of déjà vu threatens to suffocate me.

  I pull out of the memory, and then systematically revisit others from those early days of our acquaintance. There’s the one when Autumn chatted animatedly for hours about Frankfurt’s history as we guided Julian around Old Town. I hung a couple of steps behind, trying to avoid his pointed looks. And then there’s one from the week after that, when Autumn invited him to go with us to a classmate’s party. She got drunk on white wine and the envious stares of all the girls, and some of the guys, in attendance. And of course, the day we met in Nidda Park for a picnic. Autumn tried to impress Julian by bringing a blanket and a vintage bottle of port, and clenched her teeth when Julian refused both and instead sprawled out on the freshly mown grass. I asked him when he planned to move on to his next adventure. He winked at me and said he was having too much fun with us.

  I scroll down to the next Julian memory on my list, my finger hovering over the play button. A high-pitched wail sounds from below me, breaking my concentration. I sit up and peer out of my chamber just in time to see Virginia running up the stairs toward me.

  “Come quick! It’s Beckah. She keeps saying she’s dying.”

  CHAPTER 3

  I FOLLOW VIRGINIA to Beckah’s memory chamber and have to push through the drones that have gathered there, like rubberneckers at a car wreck. Beckah’s chamber is at ground level, so there are two exits—one at her feet next to the stairs and one from the side, facing into the hive. I bend down and peek in. Though her hands are no longer in her control grooves, Beckah’s hologram screen is still on, blinking like an al
arm in a way I’ve never seen before. Beckah’s eyes are squeezed shut, and she’s shaking her head back and forth, mumbling unintelligibly.

  “Beckah? Can you hear me?” I caress her forehead, wishing my touch could be a comfort.

  “She hasn’t responded to any of us.” Virginia bends down, her face close to mine as we look Beckah over. “It’s obvious she’s been traumatized by something. Maybe she was accessing the memory of her death?”

  It’s unlikely that any of us would willingly revisit our deaths. I know I haven’t. In fact, the details of my death have so faded away over the eons of reliving other memories that the accident is merely the dullest of aches, and I’d like to keep it that way. In any case Beckah has always been especially reticent about what happened to her. She’s not someone who would purposely relive the fire that destroyed the group home her drunk of a mother dumped her at before disappearing from her life forever. If we can’t even talk about our deaths with one another, why would we be brave enough to relive them again all alone?

  I shake my head. “Would you access your death? Have you?”

  Virginia purses her lips and starts rubbing the back of her neck, a habit she’s developed whenever the subject of death comes up. Probably has a phantom pain from the cheerleading stunt that landed her here. “We’re not talking about me.” She turns back to Beckah. “And, no. I haven’t. I’m pretty damn bored, but not that bored. Yet.”

  “Let’s pull her out,” I say. “Grab her under her shoulders, and I’ll get her feet.”

  Virginia looks skeptical, but she doesn’t argue. We slide her out, and lay her on the smooth floor.

  “You keep trying to get her to talk, and I’ll check out her console, see if I can figure out what she was accessing,” I say.

  Virginia sits down, crosses her legs, and arranges Beckah’s head on her lap. “It’s not going to work, you know. We can only access our own consoles.” We have tried switching chambers numerous times in an attempt to access different memories without having to pay credits for them—to no avail.