Unforgettable (12 page)

How Confrontation Leads to Kissing

We decide to get an unlisted phone number. It's not a real solution, but it makes us both feel better. Mom is positive that Dink doesn't know where we live, that even if he looks up our area code it will only give a general vicinity, and he's prohibited from leaving the county or the state. None of that makes me feel better.

I retreat to my bedroom. I hate how Dink is still affecting our lives after we moved two thousand miles away. I hate that I can't escape the memories of him and that I have to worry about him every day. I shouldn't have stolen the money. But it's too late to do anything with it now. And even if it's not too late, I don't want to give it to Dink.

I'm not going to let him ruin my life. I'm not going to spend it looking over my shoulder. I repeat this to myself until I believe it. Then I do my math homework, all of it, even showing my work on the problems like Mr. Feege wanted.

After that, I read two chapters of Science and analyze the relationship between the structural characteristics of atoms and how atoms bond to form molecules. The whole time I'm working on my other homework, the copy of
Gatsby
stares up at me, patiently waiting its turn. I have to read the ending tonight so I can take the test tomorrow. I decide that no matter what happens in the book, I'll take it like a man. After all, Jay Gatsby is a fictional character and I'm real. That should be enough to put aside all the similarities I find between myself and the lonely rich man who changed his name in order to transform his dreams into reality.

I'm beginning to know what it's like to have a secret identity. Mine's not as mysterious as Gatsby's, but it's just as fake and just as hard to keep up. The memories are intruding more often. The stress continues to build. And today I lost it. I let my emotions loose like a rolling barrel onto the defensive end of the football team. It wasn't a pretty sight. My elbow smarts from the memory.

I have to keep it together. I have to be whatever Halle Phillips wants in a boyfriend, and I'm pretty sure that she wants a boyfriend who does his homework, who isn't a slacker, and who doesn't get in fights at school.

That's why I'm going in to school early on Monday to learn about editing and filming. And it's why I have to finish reading
Gatsby
. I'll do anything to please Halle.

So I finally pick up the book, kick off my shoes, and settle back against the grainy headboard of my bed to finish the last thirty-three pages.

Forty-five minutes later I throw the book against the wall.

“Fitzgerald is a crappy, immature coward!” I flop back on my pillow. It isn't fair. Books are supposed to see the possibilities that life doesn't offer, to give us happy, fairy-tale endings.

But that didn't work out for Gatsby and Daisy. I think of Dink, who used us and threw us away because of his greed. I think of all the people who rejected me because I wasn't like them. Are people today different than the ones in this book? Has society changed at all since 1920?

Halle is different. She has to be. But I wonder if I mean anything at all to her, or if she's just flirting with me to get even with Hunter. I have to find out. I want to know if she'll reject me in the end, even if I spend sixty-five thousand dollars trying to impress her.

At 10:08 I put on my shoes and a hooded sweatshirt and sneak out the back door into the cold darkness. It's creepy dark out, and I'm afraid I'll see Dink around every corner, but I keep walking purposefully toward Halle's house without any thought of what I'll say when I get there, except to confront her with the book in my hand, the one that foretells her betrayal.

It's 10:43 when I turn down Willow Way, the winding street with manicured lawns that remind me of the ones in
Gatsby
. The thought spurs me onward, until I'm standing in front of the turreted mansion, pounding on her door. When Halle opens it, the sight of her takes my breath away. Her hair is pulled into two short pigtails and she has on an oversized T-shirt that ends at her thighs.

“Baxter, what are you doing here?” she asks.

She's beautiful, but it's her irresistible voice that draws me in like a Pied Piper. The sound flutters in the air as though a field of daffodils is waving in the wind, thousands of them dancing in my head. I've never had alcohol before, but this is how I imagine being drunk feels.

“Um.” I can barely think. Why had I come?

She shivers and pulls me into the entryway, then closes the door.

“I'd invite you in, but I'm not supposed to have people over when my parents are gone. So why are you here? Can't this wait until our meeting on Monday?”

Her shirt is white except for a large, yellow target in the middle. Yellow, her favorite color. The color of her voice. The middle of the target centers on a spot that I estimate is her belly button.

“Yeah, well, the thing is … I can't make the meeting. I have detention. For a week.”

“A whole week? I wanted to start filming
this
week.”

“I'm really sorry. I had this misunderstanding with some seniors …”

“Hold on. Maybe I can get Mr. Shaw to count our movie as extra credit for English. I mean, I am tutoring you for free. He's pretty cool about that kind of stuff. I can get him to bail you out of detention.”

“Get me out of detention?” She would do that for me?

“Of course. We can't have the next Scorsese stuck in detention when he's supposed to be making great movies, can we? I mean, our project won't work without you, Baxter. We need everyone involved in this and …”

I lean closer and find my lips pressed against hers. It isn't a matter of courage—I'd never have the guts to do it if I thought for a second about what I was doing. I don't have a choice in the matter. Her daffodil voice is too strong, and I can think of nothing but kissing her, a deep urgency that overtakes me and won't let go until my lips have touched hers.

As soon as I do it, though, I feel bewildered, like someone else is in control of my actions. I'm kissing Halle, who is beautiful and smart and confident and interesting and everything that I'm not. I have no right to be kissing her, but I can't stop. Her lips are soft and moist and she smells of lavender and tastes like strawberries. It's only when she leans into me, into the kiss, that I feel lightheaded and I drop my copy of
Gatsby
on the floor.

She pulls back then. I take in a deep breath, afraid I'll pass out from the sheer idea of what I've just done. I stand with my arms down at my sides, my head still swimming as I stare into her eyes for a hint of what she's thinking. She's everything to me, the girl I've loved since kindergarten. But right now I feel like a bug under her shoe. One harsh word will crush me in a hundred pieces.

What have I gotten myself into?

A Voice Full of Money

Her eyes smile at me. “That was unexpected,” she says, “but nice. Where'd you learn to kiss?”

I can barely think. I still taste the strawberries on my lips. “The movies.”

“You mean I'm the first?”

I flinch. I so hadn't wanted her to know that.

“That's so sweet.”

No, that's so lame, but I can't lie to her now.

She bends down and picks up the book.

“Is this why you came over? You finished reading it?”

I nod weakly.

“Oh,” she says and tilts her head. “I know. Don't you just love this book? I mean, it has everything; romance, mystery, the temptations of wealth, the importance of honesty, and the struggle to escape the past. Plus Jay Gatsby is my favorite scoundrel.”

I look around the spacious foyer with marbled floors and think of Gatsby's mansion, and then I remember why I came in the first place. I remember what Gatsby said about Daisy, that “her voice is full of money.” Is that what I hear in Halle's voice? Are the daffodils just an illusion?

“He's not a scoundrel. He's a victim,” I insist.

Halle makes a
tsk
sound and rolls her eyes. “Gatsby not a scoundrel? Believe me, I know a lot about them. My father is one. People think he's some sort of hero around here because he employs so many people. But he doesn't really care about anyone except himself. It's the same with Gatsby. Everything he did was fake.”

“His love wasn't fake. He cared about Daisy.”

“Did he? Wasn't she just part of the plan? I mean, did he really even know her? She was more of an idea, a girl he romanticized. And years later, he didn't want to admit that she'd changed, that she was someone else entirely.”

“How can you say that? He judged everything he had through her eyes. He bought a house across the bay from her. He never stopped loving her,” I say, even though my throat constricts. I want to get it out, to tell her. “You can love someone for an eternity. Even someone you met in kindergarten.”

She lets out a small laugh. “Isn't that stretching it a bit? You might have a crush in kindergarten. But fall in love?”

“Why can't you meet your soul mate in kindergarten?”

She reaches up and kisses me on the cheek. “You're a hopeless romantic, Baxter. But no one meets their soul mate in kindergarten.”

I look into her eyes, wishing I could reach inside and ignite the memories of how we once were. Inseparable. Living to see each other every day. “Are you sure about that?”

Something registers in her eyes, but she frowns, as though she doesn't trust the memory. “I barely even remember kindergarten.”

My voice trembles. “What do you remember? From kindergarten?”

“Not much. I had a crush on a boy. He could recite entire movies. But I think I was his only friend. He was kind of weird.”

I stand there, frozen by what she just said. My voice quivers. “That's what you remember?”

“I was five. It was so long ago. I can't even remember his name.”

My head is spinning. “This is bullshit!” Suddenly, I have to get away. I turn and escape out the door. I hear Halle's voice calling me back, but I keep running.

Two blocks later I stop, out of breath, and kick at a large rock on the edge of the street. It strikes the curb and shoots back, hitting me in the shin. “Ouch! Damn it!” I look around. The street is dark and empty. I never swear; it reminds me too much of Dink. But I'm pissed. Did she know I was the boy from kindergarten? Was Halle messing with my head?

I wasn't as bad as she made me out to be. I had friends, other boys I played with. I just liked her better. Why did she think I was weird? Because I memorized movies? Because I was different from her?

A cool breeze rushes through my sweatshirt and I shiver and limp the rest of the way home. The memories flood my brain: how Halle volunteered to be my partner in every activity, how I'd tried to impress her by memorizing her favorite song, how she'd laughed at my impersonation of SpongeBob. I'd thought she liked me. Was she just being nice because she felt sorry for me? Is that how she remembers it?

When I get home, I open the back door as quietly as possible, but the hinges squeak. I almost make it through the kitchen when Mom turns on the light.

“Baxter! I thought you were asleep. It's almost midnight!”

“I know.”

She shakes her head. “You'd better have a good explanation for being out this late.”

Her hair is pulled back into a messy ponytail. She has sleep lines on her face. My best memory of Mom is when I was three and a half years old and she was painting. She'd pulled her long hair into a ponytail that day, too. But she was young and so pretty. She'd taken off my pants and let me walk in pie pans filled with paint. Then I'd walked across a large white canvas. Mom put on my favorite song: “John Jacob Jingleheimer Schmidt,” which started out slow but kept getting faster and faster. Soon I was jumping and hopping and dancing across the canvas, leaving messy footprints in my wake. Mom joined me and we both danced around the canvas, laughing until we fell down. It was before I'd realized that I was different from everyone else; an anomaly like the horse with two heads that Halle drew in kindergarten.

“Mom, am I really strange?”

“Where did this come from? And how does it have anything to do with you being out at midnight?”

“There was this girl in kindergarten. She was my best friend. At least I thought she was. Maybe she was just feeling sorry for me because I was strange and didn't have any other friends.”

Mom sighs and sits down at the table. “No, that wasn't it. Sit down, Baxter.”

I sit opposite her and fiddle with the salt shaker on the table. Mom has always been straight-up with me. Even when Dad died, she didn't sugarcoat it and say he fell asleep or was up in the sky watching over me.

Mom stares at my hands for a moment, then looks me in the eye. “I know you have an amazing memory, but you still remember people and incidents through your own perceptions. There was a little girl in kindergarten you had the hugest crush on. Her name was Hayley or something like that. You talked about her nonstop. And you followed her around like a lost puppy.”

So far my memory seems accurate. That's the way I remember it, too. “It was Halle.”

Mom puts her hand on mine. “Right. But she was the one who was different.”

I pull my hand out from under hers. “No, she wasn't.”

“Yes, she was. Halle was the one who didn't have any friends. The teacher told me that until you became her friend, she spent all her time alone in a little cardboard castle. She wouldn't come out the entire day. You were the only one who could coax her out.”

“I would have known that.”

“But you didn't. You saw what you wanted to see. What you needed to see.”

“No!” My chest feels tight, like my breath is trapped inside. I remember everything, every detail. I would have known if Halle had social problems.

“It's okay, Baxter. That doesn't make your memory of her less valid. When she moved, you were heartbroken. But a month after, her mother called me. She said Halle missed you so much that she would barely eat, and she hadn't made any other friends at her new school. She was lost without you. You, on the other hand, had made friends with another boy in your class, and even though you missed Halle, you were happy.”

“Why didn't you ever tell me?”

“Because I didn't want to upset you. You were adjusting well, at least better than Halle.”

So my memory has limitations, just like everyone else's. I let it sink in, the imperfection, the messiness of it. All the memories of Halle change in this new view of her. I followed her around, but I was the one who got her to go outside to the playground. I was the one who volunteered to be Halle's partner, not the other way around. I was the one who initiated the game of tag in which our whole class joined. The data shifts and makes new connections. I can almost feel it moving around inside my head.

I let out a long sigh. I'd always assumed that my memories were correct. I hadn't thought of the fact that they might be tainted by my own perspective. What other memories were flawed?

“I guess my memory isn't perfect after all,” I say.

She reaches over and squeezes my hand. “No one's is.”

“But … I thought mine was.”

“When it comes to facts, maybe. But when it comes to feelings, you can only see things through your own eyes. I certainly learned that lesson with Dink. Why are you thinking about that little girl now, after all these years?”

“Because there's this girl I really like at school.”

Mom's face lights up. “That's wonderful, Baxter.”

Yeah. Too bad she's the same girl. “So, I'm not too weird to have a girlfriend?”

“Do you know when I first realized you had an amazing memory?”

I shake my head. Mom never told me before.

“It was when you were five years old, two years after Dad died. I was looking at pictures of him because the anniversary of his death was coming up. I didn't think you remembered him because you were so young when he died, even though I showed you pictures all the time. And you asked me why I was so sad, and I said, ‘Because I miss Daddy and I'm afraid I'm forgetting him.' And you said, ‘Daddy had a laugh like an escalator.' And then you told me exactly what he said the day we went to the zoo, about how he told me I had a laugh like a hyena. I was shocked, but oh, so comforted. You gave him back to me for a few minutes more.”

I remembered telling her about Dad. I just didn't know that it was so significant.

Mom has a wistful look in her eyes. “So even though I know your almost perfect memory sometimes feels like a curse to you, it's also a wonderful gift. Remember that. You've always seemed perfect to me.”