From What I Remember

by Stacy Kramer, Valerie Thomas

  No woman is an island, but together, Will and I are a very tiny atoll, floating peacefully off the Southern California coast. Sure, it can get lonely. And maybe in a different place, at a different time, we’ll visit the mainland. But for now, island living suits us just fine, thank you very much.

  I yank open the door to the sports center and march down the stairs, toward the squash courts. Will takes a step, his heel gives, and he tumbles down the stairs, landing in a heap outside the court.

  Lily looks down at Will and snickers. “Maybe that’s why men don’t wear heels, William.” Lily’s two BFFs, Stokely Eagleton and Jemma Pembolt, sitting at her side, giggle on cue.

  If this were some kick-ass action movie, the main character—that being me—would yank up her pencil skirt and, with one long sweep of her leg, incapacitate all three of these girls with a swift kick to their heads. Then she’d straighten her skirt, freshen her lipstick, brush a little lint off her sleeve, and saunter off with a wink and a smile. But this is not a movie. This is my dismal life. And I’m no hero.

  So I glare at Lily and company, and then look down at Will and ask, “You okay?” Hardly Oscar-worthy.

  “Never better.”

  I help Will up and onto the bench. He bites his lower lip and rubs his leg.

  “You sure?” I ask again.

  “I’ll be fine. Don’t stop the show on my account. You know how I live for the climactic second act break,” Will says to me.

  I leave Will and march onto the squash court, where Max is in the middle of a heated match with Charlie. I know this is such a bad idea, but I’m so over it. Max Langston and his crew do whatever they want, whenever they please, to whomever they choose. Enough already.

  I’m so caught up in my fight for justice, I am completely oblivious to the squash ball flying around the court until it smacks me in the butt.

  I hear Lily and her harpies laugh hysterically.

  “Kylie, what the hell are you doing?” Charlie asks. He and Max continue to whack at the ball as if I’m not there.

  For the second time today, Max looks at me and rolls his eyes.

  I feel naked and ridiculous standing in the middle of the court, the ball whizzing around me.

  “Max and I were supposed to meet forty minutes ago,” I say, holding my ground in what is increasingly becoming one of my worst ideas ever.

  “Oops, my bad. The game went long. Obviously we’re not going to do it now. So can you get off the court?” Max asks.

  “No. I cannot get off the court. You are so unbelievably rude it’s mind-blowing. I mean, were you raised in a barn?” I know this is an odd comment, but, as usual, I’m not on my game with these people.

  “No, Max wasn’t, but a barn is better than a trailer. Or do you people call them double-wides these days?” Charlie says.

  Charlie is referring to the fact that I live in Logan Heights, not exactly the posh part of town. It’s twenty miles outside of La Jolla, but more like worlds away. My family’s shabby little rental house could be shoehorned into Charlie’s guest bathroom. I’m guessing, of course, since I’ve never seen any part of his house and never will.

  Charlie’s comment sends me into the stratosphere. I go from angry to apoplectic in a split second, losing my pride, my dignity, and all sense of decorum in the process. Sure, I’ve got a temper and it flares up at inopportune times, resulting in verbal fireworks, but I’ve never gone completely postal. Until now. Maybe it’s graduation jitters or anxiety about my speech. Whatever it is, my fury has come to a rolling boil and just bubbled over onto the court. I can’t control my urge to pummel Charlie. I haul off and kick him in the shin. I swear I can hear Will gasp from outside the court. Charlie grabs his leg and yelps in pain. What a drama queen. It wasn’t that hard, was it? I am embarrassed by my slide into violence, but at least I’ve got their attention.

  “What the hell?” Charlie says.

  “What is your problem, Kylie?” Max adds.

  “You are my problem, Max.”

  A few other students have wandered over and are watching the show. I’m turning bright red. But I’m not putting my tail between my legs and backing away now. I’ve already gone too far; might as well go all the way. Right is might. I think. I hope.

  “Actually, now is a perfect time for us to talk,” I say, whipping out my notebook. I poise my pen above the page. “You’re here. I’m here. What could be better?”

  Max and Will gape at me like I’m some kind of creature from a horror movie.

  “So, what’s your favorite book?” I ask Max.

  “Kylie, let’s do this later. I’ll be done in half an hour.” He sounds almost conciliatory.

  “Screw you, Max. You’re such an asshole. You’ve wasted enough of my time today. We’re doing it now.”

  Jesus. Who says this kind of stuff in real life? Me, apparently. I’m not filtering. I’ve gone completely off the edge. I just wish I could have waited until after I delivered my valedictorian speech. I’m going to be standing at the podium, the laughingstock of Freiburg. Will anyone even want to listen to a speech I’ve labored over for months? Too late to worry about that now.

  Max’s expression switches from placating to pissed. “You know what, Kylie, screw you. The deal is off. You’re on your own because you’re the only idiot who cares about doing the assignment. I was trying to be nice, but fuck it. And I’m in the middle of a game. So get the hell off the court.”

  At this point, Max whips the ball at the wall, missing my head by only a few inches. He’s a very good player, so I have to assume that was on purpose. I’ve lost the battle and the war. I skulk off the court. I’m still livid, but my anger is now mixed with the sour taste of humiliation. I keep my head down and hurry toward the exit, ignoring the peanut gallery.

  Will catches up with me outside. He loops his arm through mine. “You had me at ‘Screw you, Max.’ You were brilliant!”

  I don’t say anything. I’m too busy beating myself up. Why can’t I just let go for once and kick Murphy’s stupid assignment to the curb? Will can tell I’m in the middle of round five of one of my self-boxing matches. He’s been ringside many times before.

  “His ass isn’t what it used to be. Freshman year, it was tight and sweet. He’s getting soft. Doesn’t bode well for middle age,” Will says, trying to cheer me up.

  “You know that’s not true.”

  “I know. He’s got an amazing ass, not to mention his six-pack abs and those guns—”

  “Is this supposed to help?”

  “Sorry. Sorry.”

  “I’m getting worse. That was ridiculous.”

  “They deserved it. No one else stands up to them.”

  “I hate this place.”

  “Me too. But you’re gonna kill at NYU.”

  I love Will for trying to prop me up. But I worry I’ll be just the same at NYU, or anywhere else I go, for that matter. What if it’s not Freiburg? What if it’s me? What if I just don’t fit in anywhere, like my brother, Jake? Don’t get me wrong: Freiburg sucks and has, rightly, been an endless source of blame for most of my social shortcomings. There’s very little here for me besides Will. But I can’t help wondering if, at a certain point, it’s partly my fault.

  “Yeah. Whatever…” I say to Will, my insecurity creeping across my skin like a bad rash.

  “Stop it. Do not let these people make you feel less than extraordinary. You are one amazing human. Don’t forget it,” Will insists.

  “I don’t know. It’s just, I can’t believe I lost it like that. It was totally mortifying.”

  “It was inspiring. You’re my hero.” Will pulls me into a hug. “Wanna go to Pinkberry? My treat.”

  “Can’t. Gotta watch Jake,” I say, unhitching myself from Will and heading toward the street.

  “‘Loser,’” Will calls to me.

  “‘Blow me.’”

  “‘Call me later?’” Will finishes the line from Cruel Intentions. He waves and disappears into the quad.


  I need to get home. I’m already running late. But before I get on the bus, I’ve got to pee. So I hustle my way to the arts center. Everybody has their favorite bathroom at school, and this one is mine. It hasn’t been modernized like the rest of Freiburg. It’s shabby and creaky, with deep sinks and rusty metal doors on the stalls. And no one’s ever there. It’s a great place to hide away from the world, unlike Freiburg’s other bathrooms, most of which have been commandeered by various social groups. The bathroom in the basement, beneath the cafeteria, is where all the smokers go because, not surprisingly, the smell of institutional food overwhelms the smell of smoke, and no one ever gets caught. The bathroom in the main hall, near the lockers, is controlled by Lily and company. They freeze people out with old-school mean-girl tactics—staring, giggling, and whispering—which are somehow always in vogue and ever effective. I avoid that bathroom like the plague.

  I am sitting on the toilet, peeing, when I hear someone enter.

  “What, Mom? This is, like, the tenth time you’ve called in the past hour.”

  It’s Lily. I’m surprised to find her here.

  “No. I can’t come home right now. We’re all going to Stokes’s and then out for dinner. We can talk later. Or tomorrow.”

  I don’t know what to do. Lily clearly doesn’t know I’m here. But the longer I stay, the more awkward it gets. I don’t want to appear like I’m eavesdropping, but any way you slice it, it’s not going to be good when I suddenly appear. The sooner I can get out of here, the better. I have no interest in Wentworth family drama.

  “What’s the big secret? Why can’t you just tell me now?” Lily barks into the phone.

  I flush and exit the stall. Lily glares at me. I keep my head down and pretend I haven’t heard a thing.

  “I’ve gotta go. I’ll call you back,” Lily says, hangs up, and turns her high beams on me. Ugh. I’m not in the mood. I’m worn out from my earlier outburst.

  We stare at each other for a beat, neither of us pleased to see each other, both for different reasons. Underneath Lily’s fierce bluster, I sense fear and embarrassment. It’s weird. So not Lily.

  “What the fuck, Kylie?” she says, as if she owns the whole damn place.

  “Sorry, I…” And my voice trails off. I’m thrown by the whole strange scenario. What I should say is, “What the fuck, Lily?” I mean, she’s the one yelling at her mother in the bathroom. Not me. But as usual, I’m on the defensive.

  “Were you spying on me?” Lily demands.

  “Of course not. I was going to the bathroom. I was here first. You walked in on me,” I remind her.

  “Why don’t you get a life instead of listening in on other people’s?” And with that, Lily turns and marches out before I can come up with a witty rejoinder.

  Bitch.

  Hopefully, this will be our very last exchange for the rest of our lives.

  hat was wack, bro,” Charlie says. “Girl’s a freak!” I say to Charlie. But what I don’t tell Charlie is that Kylie is right. I can be an asshole. It’s a role I’m pretty comfortable with. Bottom line, I get away with a lot of shit around here ’cause people let me. The thing is, everyone’s always wanting something from me. If I worried about everyone’s feelings, I’d never get anything done. I’ve got to take care of myself. I can’t be dealing with everybody’s junk all day long. And Murphy’s assignment is definitely Kylie’s junk. I should put it out of my head. Normally I would. But I made a promise to myself when my dad went into the hospital for the second time, that I would stop being such a selfish prick, because maybe that isn’t the way to go through life. It didn’t work out so well for my dad.

  “She kicked me. Hard. Chick has issues,” Charlie insists.

  “Totally,” I say. But I can’t help feeling sorry for Kylie. She takes everything so goddamned seriously. No one wants to hang with her, except for weird Will Bixby. I mean, who gets that worked up over an assignment? I can’t remember ever giving that much of a crap about any homework. Ever.

  Charlie gets another point off of me. He’s in the lead. It’s eight to seven. Kylie totally messed with my head. I don’t need that kind of distraction, with tryouts for UCLA coming up next week. That’s a whole lot more important than some stupid paper for Murphy.

  “Get your head in the game,” Charlie says.

  “I’m trying,” I say. But it’s easier said than done. Charlie serves and I miss. Twice. It’s not even a good serve. It bounces off the back wall and stays high. I could have easily scooped in and slammed it. Instead, I’m wasting brain space on Kylie.

  I jump up and down a few times. Shake my head. Okay. Moving on.

  Charlie serves. I rush in, power driving the ball down the line. Charlie dives for it. Misses. My serve. I slam the ball. It hits the back, then the side wall, and dies on the floor. Ace. An impossible return. There’s nothing Charlie can do but appreciate my mad skills. I’m back. Kylie Flores is gone.

  opefully, Kylie is getting on the 3:13 right now at the corner of Buchwald and Center. Otherwise, she’s going to be late, and Mom will be mad. The bus will stop fourteen times before she gets off. The ride is fifty-two minutes long. Unless the bus hits all the green lights; then the ride is forty-one minutes. But this only happens five times a year. Just like me, Kylie likes to sit by the window and look out as the bus cruises toward Logan Heights. There are 186 buildings downtown. More than twenty-nine of them stand taller than three hundred feet. The tallest building in the city is thirty-four stories. One America Plaza. It may not sound very tall if you’ve been to Chicago or New York. I haven’t. So One America Plaza seems really tall to me.

  Kylie puts in her earbuds and listens to music so she doesn’t have to talk to anyone. I like to talk to people when I’m on the bus. Sometimes they get up and change seats. Mom says not to be upset, people just don’t like to talk to strangers. Lately, I’ve tried not to talk as much. But when Mom or Kylie aren’t in the mood to talk, it’s hard to know what to do with all the words. There’s always something interesting to talk about, like why certain cacti lean way over but don’t fall to the ground (I suspect this has to do with the moisture content in the cactus fiber), or how the labels on most soda bottles are exactly the same size as the labels on ketchup bottles, almost all of which are manufactured in Malaysia.

  I wish I were on the bus right now with Kylie. She always likes listening to me. We could talk about the Great Pacific Garbage Patch that I read about in school today.

  I hear a key in the lock. Kylie’s home.

  ctober 1972,” I say to Jake as I enter the house and see him waiting for me on the maroon chair next to the couch, a bowl of carrots on his lap. I hang up my backpack and step over the enormous pile of laundry deposited at the bottom of the stairs, wondering if it’s clean or dirty. Jake smiles at me like it’s been ten years since we’ve seen each other. Still, it’s nice to be greeted every single day with such enthusiasm. Even if Jake’s brain is a little scrambled from Asperger’s, it feels good to be loved this much. There aren’t a lot of people who feel so positively inclined toward me. “Hurricane Dimitri,” he yells out triumphantly. “Seven people died in Galveston, Texas, and there was twelve inches of precipitation over two days.” Jake eyes shine with excitement.

  “Okay…December 1956.”

  “Hurricane Meredith. Jamaica lost power for six days. Winds up to 146 miles an hour.” Jake jumps up. His carrots spill across the floor. At thirteen, he’s my height, his jagged energy bouncing off him like electric currents. On the heels of my enormously bad day, I am feeling irritated by Jake, which I try to hide.

  “Pick up the carrots, Jakie,” I say.

  Jake scowls at me. “No. I won’t.”

  I soften my tone. “Please pick up the carrots. And then we’ll keep playing.” I wrap my arms around his hulking frame and pull him close. “Did you have a good day?”

  “Yeah. We learned about the Great Pacific Garbage Patch,” Jake responds, eager to tell me more.

  I smile. No matt
er how bad my day is, Jake can always make me smile. His passion for minutiae is infectious. Until it gets annoying.

  “Did you have a good day, Kylie?” Jake asks. He’s been learning about manners and empathy at school, things that don’t come naturally to him. It seems like it’s finally sinking in. Jake is usually so immersed in his own world, he forgets to ask me about mine. Not that I mind. It’s a relief to spend some time in someone else’s reality.

  “My day was great,” I lie. I know the truth will only confuse and depress him, just as it does me. He has a limited capacity to understand complicated social interactions, and my life is chock-full of them.

  “Me too.” Jake smiles, genuinely pleased. “I like when we both have good days.”

  I point to the carrots on the floor. “How about those carrots?”

  Jake reluctantly gets down on all fours and gathers up a few carrots. He flicks one under the couch, for fun. He watches to see what I’ll do. I pretend not to see. I’m too wiped to care.

  Jake stands up and looks at me expectantly.

  “Okay. November 1932,” I say.

  “There was no hurricane that month. Just a tropical storm. That’s boring.” Jake peers at me, eager. Too eager. “Give me another one.”

  Just once, I’d love to come home, disappear into my room, listen to some Arcade Fire, and spend some quality time writing.