From What I Remember

by Stacy Kramer, Valerie Thomas

  “Yeah, okay. I’ll be right back,” Kylie says.

  As Kylie gets into the line, I take a seat at a table and see Lacey Garson and Sonia Smithson walking over. They’re both wearing green and blue, Freiburg’s colors, which is another last-day tradition. Unlike carving my name on the tree, I’m not warming to this one.

  “Hey, Max. Can we join you?” Lacey asks.

  “I’m kinda here with someone,” I say, feeling weird because it’s Kylie.

  “Oh, right, Lily…” Sonia smiles at me. “We’ll give you your privacy.”

  “Actually, I’m here with Kylie Flores. We’re doing Murphy’s assignment,” I add quickly.

  “Seriously?” Lacey says. She and Sonia laugh.

  “I know. Kylie wouldn’t stop hassling me until I agreed. She’s doing both papers.”

  “I’m sure she just wanted to hang with you,” Lacey says, winking at me. Lacey is always winking at me. It’s kinda freaky. It looks more like an eye tic than anything sexy. Lacey has had a crush on me since seventh grade. I considered making out with her once, in ninth grade. I was pretty buzzed, but still couldn’t pull the trigger. There’s just too much going on with all that dyed blond hair, makeup, and jewelry. And all she ever talks about is clothes.

  Kylie returns with coffee. Lacey and Sonia walk off, ignoring Kylie completely. They whisper to each other and giggle as they stand in line, glancing over at us. It’s obvious they’re talking about Kylie. Man, girls can be brutal.

  Kylie looks uncomfortable. She lives somewhere around the seventh layer of social hell. It’s got to be a drag.

  “You know what I don’t get about Lacey and Sonia?” Kylie asks me.

  “What?”

  “Lacey must spend more time with personal grooming than any other girl at Freiburg. Her hair is bleached to within an inch of its life. Her makeup is caked on so thick she probably has to remove it with an ice pick. So you’d think she would have turned her attention to Sonia and plucked that animal tail between her eyes.”

  I bust out laughing. Kylie nailed it. Sonia does have a freaky unibrow.

  “Okay. Let’s get started,” Kylie says, suddenly all business.

  She pulls out a notebook and pen. I don’t take out anything. This is her show.

  “So, uh, the book that most impacted you?” Kylie says. I can tell by the look on her face that she’s not expecting much from me.

  “I guess, maybe Catcher in the Rye,” I say, though I don’t mean it. It’s just an easy answer.

  Kylie smiles, biting her lower lip, like she’s holding back laughter.

  “What?” I say.

  “I just figured you’d say something like that.”

  I’m not loving the smirk on her face or the condescension in her voice. She thinks she knows me. She doesn’t have a clue.

  “And I figured you’d say something like that,” I respond, looking her in the eye. “Actually, it’s not really true. I just said it so we could be done. That was the first thing that came to mind.”

  “If we’re going to do this, let’s do it right. I mean, we’re here.”

  She’s right. Why am I hedging? Because I don’t do books with people. It’s not my thing. I talk sports and shit. It’s who I am. It’s what people expect from me. No one cares what I think of T. S. Eliot. Even though the truth is, I like him. I just don’t really want to talk about it.

  “Pick something else. Impress me,” Kylie adds.

  Yeah. Right. She should try impressing me. Like I need to prove something to her. And yet, here I am, thinking about what I’m going to say. Fine. Let’s play.

  “‘Death is always the same, but each man dies in his own way.’ You guess the book,” I say. “C’mon, impress me.”

  Kylie doesn’t say anything for a minute. I’ve totally stumped her. She looks so shocked, I have to laugh.

  “What?” She says.

  “You don’t have a clue and that’s kinda funny.”

  “Why’s that so funny?”

  “I don’t know. It’s just, you usually have all the answers in English, so I would have figured you’d know this.”

  “Yeah, well, I don’t.”

  Kylie’s not used to being caught off guard like this. She’s used to being the smartest person in the room. She’s not amused.

  “Maybe I’m not as predictable as you thought,” I say.

  “Okay. What I said before was bitchy,” Kylie admits.

  “Yeah, a little.”

  “So, what’s the book?”

  “Clock Without Hands by Carson McCullers.”

  “Wow, I could barely make it through that book. I thought it was really depressing.”

  “I liked it. I thought it was…hopeful. In a weird way.”

  “Really? Why?”

  “I don’t know.…I guess because it’s about coping with, you know, dark shit, stuff no one wants to talk about. The lies we tell ourselves to get by.” It’s stuff I can relate to. But I’m not going to admit that to Kylie. She doesn’t need to know my business. Instead, I just say, “Yeah. I guess it’s depressing. But, you know, we gotta deal with it. None of us are getting out alive.”

  “That’s deep. Did you steal that line from Taylor Lautner?”

  “Actually, Clint Eastwood. Give me a little credit. Taylor Lautner?”

  Kylie laughs. “Good point. Too deep for Taylor. But I still don’t get it. What’s the hopeful part?”

  “I guess just that there’s dignity in death. That if you live your life right, maybe it makes the dying part not so bad. It’s comforting, somehow. It made me less afraid of death.”

  “Intense. I never figured you for a Carson McCullers fan,” Kylie says.

  “Why? Because I’m a dumb jock?”

  “I’m not saying you’re a dumb jock. I don’t even really know you. It’s just, you don’t say much in English. I assumed you weren’t into reading. But you obviously got more out of the book than I did. I mean, I didn’t get any of that.” Kylie grins. She’s got a sexy smile with her big, full lips. I don’t think I’ve ever seen her smile in school. “It’s just…not what I expected you to say. At all.”

  People are rarely what they seem, babe.

  “This is great. I figured I was going to have to do all the heavy lifting, but you gave me some stuff to work with. The only thing I remember about Carson McCullers is that her best friend was Truman Capote, which is the coolest thing ever. That guy had more style and wit than anyone, ever,” Kylie says.

  I’ve actually read Truman Capote. I loved In Cold Blood. But I’m not going to mention it. That could take up a whole lot of time. Kylie seems a little too eager to talk about books. We don’t need to start bonding all over the place. I’m just here to get the job done.

  “So, one more book,” Kylie says. “And then you never have to talk to me again.”

  “Promise?” I’m just messing with her.

  “Trust me, I’m as psyched about it as you.”

  “Infinite Jest,” I say, without pausing to think.

  “Okay. Why? I haven’t read it.”

  “It’s about addiction, tennis, escaping life. I don’t know. I can relate.”

  “Why would you want to escape life?” Kylie asks.

  “No one’s life is perfect,” I say. I want to leave it at that, but Kylie looks like she’s dying to ask me more questions. “I have my stuff, like everyone else. Anyway, those are my books. That’s my deal. Are you still cool with writing both papers?”

  “Uh, yeah. Sure…I’ll just do it during study. I should be able to get them both done by class today. I guess…” Kylie doesn’t seem super into it anymore, but it was her idea. I’m sure not writing the paper. I’m already in deeper than I need to be. It’s time to get back to the last day of school.

  I stand up, ready to blow out of here, when I see Kylie looking up at me, all puppy dog eyes.

  “Don’t you want to know what book had the biggest impact on me?” she asks.

  Not really. I though
t we were done. I was walking out the door, in my mind. “Uh, sure.” I sit back down, not wanting to be a total dick.

  “Well, if I had to choose…” Kylie looks like she’s about to give some kind of major speech. I’m wondering what Charlie and Lily are up to. Doughnuts and coffee on the front steps? Frisbee on the lawn? “It’s a hard choice, but I guess I’d say The Stranger by Camus, because it felt so true to me. It’s about understanding that no one cares, but once you accept that, you can actually move on and be happy.”

  “That’s depressing.”

  “Right back at you.”

  Girl’s got a point. We both like bleak shit. Who’d have thought I’d have anything in common with Kylie Flores?

  “And then I loved this book Disgrace, by a South African author named Coetzee. I read it last year. I think it’s the most perfect book ever written. Every single word in that book should be there. It’s so honest. And real. It’s about racial oppression, which I don’t think we ever escape.”

  I can’t believe we’re still talking about books. I’ve never talked about books with anyone outside of class. It’s weird. I’m not sure what I’m supposed to say next. I don’t really have the time or the interest to get into a whole long thing about literature. I’ve got places to go. People to see.

  “Anything else you need from me?” I ask. I’m feeling kind of bad, but what am I going to do, offer to write it myself? Miss out on the last day of school? No thanks.

  “I think I have enough,” Kylie says.

  I stand up again. “Okay, then, I guess we’re good to go.” I’m about to head out when I realize that Kylie is looking around in a panic. Oh no. Now what?

  “What’s up?” I ask her.

  “My backpack’s gone.…” Kylie jumps out of her seat and races toward the exit, nearly knocking down two old women in the process.

  I rush after her because…well, I’m not really sure why. I feel like I should, somehow.

  Kylie bolts out the door and runs down the street. I’m right behind her.

  “Where are you going?”

  “That guy stole my backpack.” Kylie points to a small figure in a black leather jacket racing down the sidewalk a few feet in front of us.

  “Don’t follow him,” I pant as I try to keep pace with Kylie. “He’s a criminal. Why don’t we call the cops?”

  “No time. I need my computer.…It has my life in it.” And with that, Kylie sprints around the corner, chasing some thug who most likely has a gun. I stop and watch her go. While death may be part of life, it has no part in mine at the moment.

  ’m running for my life. Because that’s what’s in the computer. My screenplay, my valedictorian speech, my journal—my life. And nothing’s backed up. What can I say? I know there’s no excuse, and yet…I didn’t do it. This would be funny if it weren’t so tragic, which is kind of the story of my life. I look back and realize Max must have given up. Not like I expected his help or anything. The thief is wiry and fast. He looks younger than me. What is he doing stealing backpacks from Starbucks? He should be in school. I push with everything I’ve got. I’m gaining on him. Just a few more feet and I’ll be able to grab it. I’m closing in. I reach out for my backpack, which swings around on his arm like a monkey. I miss. I try again. This time, my hand latches on to the strap. But he tugs and the backpack slips from my grip. I stretch forward as far as I can, trying to catch the strap in my fingers, but I lose my balance and crash to the sidewalk. I’m going at such a fast clip, I roll over a few times before coming to a stop on the pavement, my jeans, wrist, and elbow etched with cuts and scrapes.

  I watch helplessly as he jumps onto a dirt bike parked at the curb, and peels out. He must be one of those street kids who hangs around the beach and spins on his bike all day long. San Diego is crawling with them. I’ve never given them much thought. Now I understand how they afford their designer sweatshirts and tricked-out bikes. I fall back onto the sidewalk, defeated. I am so royally screwed.

  “Hey, get in,” a voice calls out.

  I lift my head to see a car pulling up to the curb. Max stares at me from inside a sparkling new Beemer.

  I don’t respond at first. I’m too stunned that Max is actually here.

  “C’mon, Kylie. I’ll take you to school.”

  “I’m not going to school. I’ve got to get my computer back. There’s no point to anything without it.”

  “Don’t you think you’re being a little melodramatic?”

  “No! I need my computer.…” And then I burst into tears. So humiliating.

  “Okay. Fine.”

  “Fine what?”

  Max gets out of the car and helps me up.

  “Shit, you’re bleeding.”

  “It’s just a scrape.” I take a few deep breaths and try to pull it together.

  Max puts his arm around my waist and helps me into the car. I hurt all over from the fall. I’m completely embarrassed from my emotional outburst, and yet the only thing occupying my mind is Max’s proximity. He’s really close. Close enough to make me flush. His touch is soothing—warm and firm. He smells like coconut shampoo and coffee. I can feel the blood rushing up my spine. This is too strange. Max Langston has his arm around me. Even stranger, Max Langston is going to help me.

  “For the record, I think this is a terrible idea,” Max says as he gets into the car.

  I don’t say anything, because Max is right. Still, the fact remains that I’ve got to get my computer back. There really is no alternative. Max guns the engine and the car shoots forward. I guess it’s a good thing he’s got a Beemer, because my Mom’s old Honda takes about an hour to gather speed.

  “Thanks. I really appreciate this,” I say.

  “Yeah, well, if we make it out alive, you can buy me a drink or something.”

  We power down the street, hugging the road. Before long, we catch sight of the guy on his bike, expertly weaving in and out of traffic. Max is on him in minutes, but he’s elusive. First we see him, then we don’t, as he darts around cars and through lights. He’s obviously done this before. Max is switching lanes like crazy, trying to keep pace.

  “So what’s on the computer that’s so important?”

  “For one, my valedictorian speech for Saturday…”

  “But you backed it up, didn’t you?”

  “No. I didn’t back it up. I have a ton of stuff on my plate. So, no. I messed up. Okay?” Max is helping me out and I’m yelling at him. What is wrong with me? This is so not the way normal people behave. Then again, I’m a little stressed at the moment. Hopefully, I can chalk it up to that. Though I doubt it. More likely, I can blame it on my extreme lack of social skills.

  Max doesn’t say anything. There’s an awkward silence as we trail the bike for a few blocks. I’ve got to learn to edit myself. If I get my computer back, I vow to try.

  “Sorry, I didn’t mean to bite your head off,” I say. It’s the second time I’ve apologized for being a bitch. At a certain point, if it walks like a bitch and talks like a bitch…“It’s just, I spent five months writing my speech, and then I’ve got a screenplay I’ve been working on for two years, and it’s…it’s kind of a big deal—”

  “Also not backed up, I’m guessing.” Max smiles. He’s got a really beautiful smile. Perfect white teeth, dimples. No wonder every girl at Freiburg has a crush on him.

  The bike makes a sudden turn off on Kearney Villa Road, maneuvering through three lanes of cars.

  “Quick, he’s turning,” I cry out.

  “Yeah, I see. It’s gonna be kinda hard to get out of here. There are cars everywhere.”

  There’s a lot of honking as Max snakes his way through five lanes of traffic, nearly colliding with several cars. At one point, I shut my eyes, not wanting to see what I’ve wrought.

  But then, miraculously, we’re on the exit ramp, unscathed.

  “Impressive,” I say.

  “Yeah, I’ve got mad driving skills. Don’t know shit about American history though.”
<
br />   Unfortunately, we’re about thirty seconds too late.

  As we turn onto Kearney Villa Road, the bike pulls up to the side of an orange-and-white U-Haul truck. Two guys climb out of the truck and approach the biker. They look exactly like the kind of guys you don’t want to mess with. Muscled up, bald, badass. They almost look like twins except that one is crazy tall, maybe over six-three, and the other one is at least a head shorter. Kind of a Mini-Me. If they weren’t so scary looking, it would actually be kind of a funny sight gag.

  The biker pulls stuff, and more stuff, from his seemingly bottomless backpack and hands it off to the men. iPods, small electronics, and my backpack are among the stash. One of the men presses a wad of cash into the biker’s hand. And then, as fast as it all began, it ends, and the biker disappears down the deserted street.

  All we can do is pull over and watch.

  “That is some serious shit going down,” Max says.

  “It feels like we’re in a Michael Mann movie or something. I didn’t think this kind of thing happened in real life.”

  “Welcome to the other side of the tracks.”

  “Ah, news flash, I live on the other side of the tracks and I’ve never seen anything like this.”

  We watch as the two men load their newly acquired goods into the back of their truck, jump into the front, and drive off. Forget the Michael Mann movie. That’s too good for these guys. It’s more like some cheesy action movie on TNT. Except it’s real. It’s happening to me. And it sucks.

  Max starts up the car and makes a left turn. “What are you doing? Where are we going?” I demand.

  “Back to Freiburg. This thing has just blown up. This is not some kid on a bike anymore. He’s working with other people. Probably very bad people. We don’t want to get involved. And we’re missing the last day of school. This is actually the one day this year I didn’t want to miss.”

  “Stop the car. I want to get out.”

  “No way. Are you kidding me?”

  “Maybe you didn’t hear me, but my valedictorian speech is on that computer.”