Unforgettable (16 page)

A Pi Contest

“Does anyone know who Daniel Tammet is?”

Mr. Feege's eyes scan the room quickly as though he doesn't expect an answer.

I've been reliving last night with Halle, the hot and sultry kiss that made me dizzy. I'm hoping that I can find a way, through reliving that kiss, to keep from feeling faint next time. But the memory is so raw, so fresh, and so sensory, that I still feel light-headed when I think of it. It's made me feel invincible. When Hunter stuck out two fingers toward me from across the hallway to let me know he was planning something, I wanted to go up and shake his hand and thank him for leaving last night. If there's a heaven, I'm in it.

And now I'm going to see Halle tomorrow evening at the football game to perform a task that proves my loyalty, and I don't want to risk passing out and missing the best part—the kissing part, if there happens to be one, from the girl I love.

I rushed to school this morning to see Halle for a few minutes before class, and she gave me some leftover taconite cookies from her locker. She smelled like hairspray and fruity lotion and I inhaled deeply before leaving her. Then I saw Bob in the hallway and spoke to him before running to class. I never knew life could be this busy or this full. The last three years haven't prepared me at all. Before that, elementary school was so structured. But high school is a completely different life. So many opportunities. So much freedom.

Now I find my hand rising in the air of its own accord when the teacher asks about Daniel Tammet. My voice comes from inside, from that place where you answer when you're sort of paying attention, but not really focused. “He recited pi to 22,514 decimal places.”

Mr. Feege's eyes widen. “That's right, Baxter.”

Is it weird to know that fact, or normal? The class murmurs appreciatively. Maybe it's okay to know math trivia. Maybe it makes me sound cool. My voice takes courage in this and I go on.

“The record holder is Chao Lu from China, who recited pi to 67,890 decimal places on November 20, 2005, although another man, Akira Haraguchi, supposedly recited 100,000 digits in 2006, but it was unverified.” I don't mention that Daniel Tammet is a high-functioning autistic savant. Okay, maybe that's a little over the top. Or way over.

I hate the giggling the worst. It always makes me feel like they're trying not to laugh, but can't help it because I'm such a loser. I look down at my book, feeling their eyes on me.

“Excellent,” Mr. Feege says.

But it's not excellent. It's careless. First the football team, then English, now math. Kids are looking at me differently. I wish I had a filter in my brain, one that would tell me when I'm revealing too much. I can't afford to get too comfortable in class or anywhere else, for that matter. Every moment with Halle is not only a chance to be near her, it's also an opportunity to mess up. She already remembered Mrs. Skrove's name. And then I confessed about Dink. What if she tries to look up Dink on the Internet? At least Dink is a nickname, one that wasn't used in news articles. And I didn't tell her Dink's last name. Chances are she'll have a hard time finding anything. But there's always the risk. The risk that I'll reveal too much. The risk that she'll remember me. Will it matter now?

“Baxter's abundance of information is a great segue into our class project,” Mr. Feege says. “We're going to have our own pi contest.”

The class moans in unison. Everyone except me, because I'm trying to melt into my desk, to become a blob of nothingness that can't raise its hand in class because blobs don't have hands.

“Hey, it's not that bad,” Mr. Feege says. “It just takes a little mental preparation and memorization. My college professor used to say that you should be as smart as the instruments you're using.”

“Looks like Baxter already is,” says a voice behind me that sounds like blackboard dust. It's Jeb Danner, the brother of Scott, aka the guy I pushed down in the hallway. Jeb already torments me in English, and when I turn around, he has the same sneer on his face as his brother had in the dean's office.

I want to tell Jeb to shove it because math is the one subject I have to work at. Math requires logic, and having a perfect memory doesn't make me smart or able to solve mathematical problems. Memorizing formulas doesn't mean I always use them correctly.

Of course, memorizing pi is another matter. I've never tried it before. I've only read about the men who memorized it because they had amazing memories, and I was searching for a connection. But there's no way I'll make the mistake of taking part in a pi contest. As much as I like school, I'm beginning to hate my classes; every minute is another opportunity to expose the real Baxter. I miss Dr. Anderson's vibrant voice, a calm port in the choppy sea of words and voices. Life was a lot easier in his lab. But as he often reminded me, I'm not a lab rat.

Mr. Feege holds up a finger. “I'm handing out a sheet that lists the pi digits to one thousand places. Of course, I don't expect you to memorize all thousand, but you should be able to do thirty to fifty, and if you use the mnemonic devices listed on the other side, you could do twice that many. I'm getting something good for a prize, so take this seriously, class.”

The bell rings early for a pep rally in the gym. As I exit the room I'm pushed from behind and I fly out into the crowded hallway. Amazingly, this time I don't knock anyone down. I don't see who pushed me, but I hear Jeb laugh and yell, “Watch out for the flying nerd.” Great. Time to show support for the jerks who want to slam me into the ground.

I'm following the crowd to the gym when Mr. Jackson's voice stops me. “Mr. Green.”

I turn around to see him standing with his arms folded in the middle of the hallway. The flow of students makes a wide berth around him.

“You have an appointment with me on Monday. Twelve o'clock sharp. Don't forget.”

We face each other like we're scheduled for a high noon showdown, except the only thing that's loaded is my memory. But I'm ready for him. I read the stupid rules.

I'd tip my hat if I were wearing one. I nod at him and join the swarm pouring into the gym. The band is playing a school anthem that sounds like every other school anthem. Cheerleaders wave their orange-and-black pom-poms and jump up and down. The first eight rows of the bleachers are taken by the football teams, in descending order from the ninth-grade team to the varsity team that fills the first two rows.

The last thing I need is to see football players. I hug the railing and hide behind other students until I reach the second level.

“Baxter,” Halle calls from the upper stands. “Over here.”

“Going to the game tomorrow night isn't a good idea,” I say after I've squeezed past five people to sit next to her. “The whole football team wants to drop kick me.”

“But I'll be there, and so will Gina and Roxie. Wouldn't you take on the whole football team just to be with me?”

“Well, maybe the JV team.”

“I'm not into the whole sports thing, Baxter.
You
have to go to complete your very important task. I'm only there for emotional support.”

“You still haven't told me anything about it. How am I supposed to complete it if I don't know what it is?”

“It's so top secret that we can only reveal it at the right moment, Baxter. At tomorrow night's football game.”

“Is it something you've all done before, or did you conjure it up just for me?”

She puts her arm through mine. “We made it up for you. And no, Gina and Roxie never had to perform a special task, but that's because they were with me when I found the tunnel. And Eddie is our driver, so we can't make him do anything. But you're the first person who's ever seen the tunnel other than us, so you should have to do something to prove your loyalty. Besides, it will be fun and will promote the Mental Club's goals and ethics.”

I try to imagine what kind of prank would promote the Environmental Club at a football game. Hopefully it isn't one that will make me even more of a target for the team.

The varsity football coach's voice echoes in the gym as he praises the moral fiber of his players. The filled bleachers cheer his comments.

I think of Mr. Jackson and our meeting on Monday. “This isn't something that will get me in trouble, is it?”

Halle frowns. “That depends on what you mean by ‘trouble.' ”

“Trouble, as in the definition that my dean already hates me and another infraction could get me suspended.”

She squeezes my arm. “Don't worry. I wouldn't do that to you, Baxter.”

God help me, I believe her. So I relax and enjoy her company. I even clap a few times, caught up in the spirit of the mob mentality. I'm eager to go to the game, to see Halle away from school, to be with her for a few more hours. I haven't yet asked Mom if I can go. But a football game is a teenage ritual, and Mom wants me to fit in. How can she possibly say no?

A Note from My Past

The yellow manila envelope is perched against the screen door, but I don't notice it right away. It's only when I'm closing the door behind me that it falls down and I see it. The first thing that strikes me is that it's addressed to me. It can't be from the Mesothelioma Research Association already. Besides, Eddie's the contact person for that.

The return address is in California. Maybe it's from Dr. Anderson or Coyote. I look at the scrawled letters on the front and feel the blood drain from my face. It's Dink's handwriting.
How?

In the two seconds it takes me to slam the door and secure the lock I'm sure he'll grab me from behind, but he doesn't. I drop to the floor and push the envelope away from me as though it's full of toxic dust that's set to explode or kill me with fumes when I open it. The idea doesn't seem all that implausible. I'm out of window range, but the phone is on the opposite counter. Should I call the police? I've got to tell someone.

I do a belly squirm across the floor and pick up the phone, but my hand stops on the buttons. The fact that he sent an envelope from California doesn't mean he's here in Minnesota. He'd have to break parole to travel here. Would that be enough to scare him away?

The envelope. It's waiting for me. I reach down with trembling hands and open it and peer inside. A single piece of paper. I remove it and read the numbers printed on it, the numbers I wrote down for Dink three years ago. This piece of paper hadn't made it into Dink's desk. I wonder where he kept it all this time. I can still recite the numbers in my head.

The paper is a message from Dink to me. He knows where I live. He's coming to get me.

I spend the next two hours on the floor waiting for Mom to come home. By the time she's due, though, I've had time to think. And one thing I think about is the fact that if Dink wanted to get me, he could have waited at the back door and grabbed me when I came home.

But he didn't. He's trying to scare me, like the time when he showed me his gargoyle tattoo and I spent hours hiding under my bed. He's playing mind games. He wants me to get so scared that I'll hand over the money the second I see him. But I don't have the money anymore, and I wouldn't give it to him anyway.

So I drag myself up off the floor and call Brad because I'm supposed to work tomorrow. I make up an excuse for why I can't come. I'm not sure Dink would approach me at the farm, and with Brad there beside me, I'd feel kind of safe. But what if Dink is carrying a gun or some other kind of weapon? I don't want Brad or his family to get hurt.

Then there's the football game tomorrow night. I can't even think of canceling that. Halle would hate me if I did. But how can I go if there's even a remote possibility that Dink is in town? If I tell Mom about the envelope, will she even let me go?

I slump back down on the floor. I'm trapped in my own house.

Forgetting

Mom has to work on Saturday. I lock the door the instant she leaves and I don't open the curtains. But the phone doesn't ring all day, and I'm too scared to check the mail. I peek out the door once and I don't see any sign of Dink or envelopes stuck in the door.

I didn't say anything to Mom. Despite my fear, I have to go to that game, and if I tell her that Dink knows where we live, she might not let me go. I'll tell her tonight after the football game. Then we can deal with it. Besides, I'm beginning to think that I overreacted. I mean, if Dink actually showed up at our house and we called the police, he'd go back to prison. Maybe Dink is still in California, trying to think of ways to get at me from there.

By the time Mom comes home, I've convinced myself that I'll be safe at the game tonight. I'll be surrounded by hundreds of other people and security guards. Dink wouldn't approach me there.

At 5:47 Mom brings home takeout, but not from the Tin Cup. She picked up fried rice and lo mein from the restaurant down the street. I'm too nervous to eat, but not just because of Dink. I'm seeing Halle tonight and pulling a school prank. I have money for nachos and Cokes during halftime, in memory of our first unofficial date. But what if I get too hungry before halftime? I can't leave anything to chance tonight, so I eat some of the fried rice straight from the box.

Mom splits open a fortune cookie and eats half before she reads her fortune. “You will find romance in an unexpected place.”

She smiles and pops the rest of the cookie in her mouth, then sticks the white paper fortune into her pocket. She believes in that kind of stuff. That a printed saying stuck in a cookie can bring her good luck in relationships. I want to ask if she read one like that the day she met Dink.

“I need a ride to school at seven-eighteen,” I say. “I'm going to the football game.” I figured out how long it would take to get there. I want to arrive ahead of Halle but not too early. That way I can stake out a place inside the fence where they take tickets and wait for her.

Mom's picking up a loose noodle from the edge of the box. “But I have a date with my boss tonight. Did you forget?” She stops mid-noodle, as soon as the words leave her mouth. She stares at me, open mouthed, her eyes wide as the realization hits her. I imagine that's how Daniel Tammet's mom might have felt if he'd missed his recitation of pi on the third decimal point. Daniel Tammet would have been even more shocked.

And that's pretty much how I feel. Baxter Green, the boy who remembers everything, forgot all about Mom's date. She told me on Monday at 5:53 p.m. But between filming Halle's speech and the visit to the tunnel and the editing work and Halle asking me to the football game and finding the envelope from Dink, I somehow … forgot. The word is like a razor in my throat. I actually forgot.

It feels weird, like I messed up big time, like something is terribly wrong. I set down the box of fried rice, feeling suddenly nauseous.

“What's wrong with me, Mom?”

Mom reaches over and feels my head, then she recovers and scrapes the noodle back into the box. “Nothing's wrong. You're just so involved in your new life that you're experiencing what everyone else does on a daily basis. That's perfectly normal, Baxter.”

I can feel the blood drain from my face. “Not for me, it isn't.”

“You're reading too much into this. I'll see if Dan can drop you off on our way. I'm sure it's no bother. But how will you get home afterward?”

How will I get home? Have I forgotten that, too? “I can get a ride,” I say with uncertainty. I'm not really sure who would take me.

“Good. I'll call Dan.” She nudges me as she leaves the room. “Relax, Baxter. It's not that big a deal. Probably just stress.”

Stress? Then why didn't I forget something years ago when Dink slapped me in his office, or when I had to testify in front of the judge and Dink was there? No, it's probably more than stress. Much more, like a tumor or cancer of the brain—or worse, white noise filling up my mind forever.

I fumble in my pocket and pull out Dr. Anderson's number. I don't trust myself to remember it right now. I don't trust myself to remember anything. I recite page 167 of
The Great Gatsby
in my head, then I recite page 8 of
The Weekly Reader
, the one I read six years ago. Okay, maybe I haven't completely lost it yet.

I wait until I hear Mom get off the phone and retreat to her room to get ready for her date before I dial his number. It's two hours earlier in California. Will Dr. Anderson still be in his office? He answers on the third ring. Just the sound of his voice helps me breathe.

“Dr. Anderson. This is Baxter. Baxter Green.”

“Baxter. How nice to hear from you. How are things in Minnesota?”

“Not so good.”

“Are you okay?”

“I forgot that my mom has a date, I mean an engagement.” I'm still not admitting that Mom has a date. After all, she said he was just a friend. “She told me on Monday and I
forgot
.”

“Oh.” There's a pause on the phone. I imagine Dr. Anderson is thinking of a way to break the bad news that I'm doomed, that I'll soon be a ghost of the former Baxter who can't remember anything, as the tremendous amount of useless information fights for control with the important data until I no longer have any logical pattern of thought.

“Congratulations, Baxter.”

“What?”

“That's good to hear. Remember when we talked about the filtering of memory, how most people focus their attention on those bits of information that they deem relevant?”

“Yes. So the irrelevant details don't become a distraction. But this was an important detail that I should have remembered.”

“Perhaps. How do you feel about your mother's date?”

Like a thousand knots are squeezing down inside my stomach. “I don't know.”

His voice grows soft. “Is it something you might not want to remember?”

I shake my head. “That's never been a factor before. I always remember everything.”

“I know. You remember everything, even those details that are useless and can become detrimental. But you have to remember that the evolutionary purpose of memory is survival, to provide us with useful information and to avoid mistakes that we or others have made in the past. I'm wondering if forgetting this particular detail isn't perhaps a survival technique.”

“You mean I wanted to forget it?”

“Exactly. Listen, Baxter. I don't know why you carry all this detailed information with you, why you don't forget things. It's a mystery. If I knew the answer, I'd have the Nobel Prize on my desk right now. But I do know that forgetting one detail isn't as tragic as it seems to you right now.”

I press a hand to my forehead and close my eyes. “What if I keep forgetting?”

“Then you'll be like everyone else in the world. I wish I could tell you more, Baxter. We don't have the technology to image brain function with sufficient resolution. But we are doing more studies, and people like you help us understand more about human memory and brain function.”

His voice is calm. I feel the stress drain away, like water rushing from a sink that's been plugged up too long. It's always nice to hear his voice. Reassuring in a way I can't put into words.

I almost don't want to hang up. I'd never have made it these past three years if Dr. Anderson hadn't been in my life. He was a researcher, but he'd been a therapist as well. How would he feel about my attempt to reinvent myself? Do I dare tell him what I'm doing?

“I'm back in school again.” It's the most I feel comfortable saying.

“That's good news. How is it going?”

“Good.” Well, except for the Dink part.

“You know, if you've been practicing trying to forget the trivial details like we worked on, that could be part of the reason you forgot your mom's event. Plus, you have the added pressure of school now.”

“Maybe. Look, I have to leave for the football game in a few minutes. Dr. Anderson, can I call you again sometime?”

“Absolutely. I'd love to talk more. The phone number I gave you is my cell phone. Feel free to call at any time.”

“I will. And thanks.”

I hang up and sigh. Maybe he's right. Maybe it's not the beginning of the end. Maybe my brain won't disintegrate into white noise. Maybe I'll still remember my kindergarten teacher's name. Maybe.