Unforgettable (3 page)

The Sound of Daffodils

The bus pulls up three minutes early today. There are usually four of us at the corner—the two girls who laughed at me and a sophomore guy with short-cropped hair, but the girls aren't here yet.

“I'm getting my license in a couple months,” the guy tells me as he rocks back and forth on his heels. It's become a mantra. He says it every day, as though he's ashamed to be riding the bus.

I tug at my jeans, which are too loose because I've grown three inches this summer and it's either wear them too big in the waist or walk around in high-water jeans. I tower over the guy and I wonder if that's why he keeps reminding me he's older.

Since today is my first meeting with Halle, I sit in the fifth seat from the front on the left-hand side, just like I did in kindergarten. Maybe it will bring me good luck. The guy sits in the back with the other sophomores. The driver peers around for the two girls and revs the engine. He has a gray beard and a permanent scowl on his face.

“We're missing two. They're late. Hope they didn't sleep in or they'll be walking today.”

“You're three minutes early,” I say. “Yesterday you came at 7:38.”

The driver lifts the bill of his cap and stares back at me through the mirror. “Is that so? I was here the exact same time yesterday. Maybe your watch is slow.”

I shake my head. “Not possible.”

His eyes become slits. “I don't make mistakes with time, kid.”

I open my mouth and close it. The guy doesn't understand. Time is important. Or rather, the keeping of time. I may not be able to control the flood of memories, but I can at least make sure they're accurate. I want to inform him that there's no way my watch is slow, that it receives daily time-calibration radio signals and is accurate to less than a second a day. I want to tell him that he's wrong and he's probably left kids stranded at bus stops all over town because of his inability to keep accurate time.

The old Baxter would have told him all that. The old Baxter also would have gotten kicked off the bus. Instead I jab my pencil into the vinyl seat in front of me when the driver isn't looking. Blurting out random information has always been a problem for me. But the Memory Boy persona is not what I'm aiming for at my new school.

Ninety seconds later, which always seems longer when you're sitting on a bus with the driver shooting daggered looks back at you, two figures hurry down the road, waving their arms and jostling backpacks.

“You're late,” the driver says when they finally make it to the bus. “Next time I might not be here waiting.”

I just shake my head. The driver's voice is sour milk.

“Sorry,” the girls say in unison, but they're smiling. The bus lurches forward and the girl in the white jacket almost falls on top of me. The bus driver smirks in the mirror as they land in the seat behind me.

“That guy is such a jerk,” one of them says.

“I hate riding the bus,” the other one says.

I turn around. “He wanted to leave you, but I made him wait.”

“Thanks,” white jacket says. “You're new, aren't you?”

“Yeah.”

“You're a freshman, right?” the other one asks. Both of them have straight, brown hair and identical jackets, but her jacket is black.

“Yeah.” I want to say that I'm from California because that might impress them and God knows I need to say something impressive to make up for yesterday, but then they might ask what school I went to before or why I moved here and pretty soon I'd be telling lies upon lies, and I hate lying. I'd have to remember the lie forever and that goes against my grain of remembering things accurately.

“Cool. I like your tan,” she says, then they start talking to each other like I don't exist. After feeling awkward for fifteen seconds, I turn back around. I could tell them that the bus was three minutes early today and that they might need to start out earlier tomorrow or the same thing will happen again, but I don't say anything. Being a know-it-all never helped me win a lot of friends back at Pascal Elementary.

I haven't made a ton of friends yet, but it's only the third day of school. Brad Soberg sat with me at lunch the first day, and yesterday a guy I remember from Geometry roll call as Bennet comma Kevin sat across from me. “How's it going?” he said, then ate the rest of his chicken sandwich in silence.

It's not like I thought I'd be one of the cool kids. Well, maybe that possibility made a cameo in my mind when I imagined this new life in a town that's less than a hundred miles from the Canadian border. I thought that being from the land of movie stars and beaches might make me at least appear to be cool. But the first day of school erased any hopes of that happening when I saw the football and hockey jocks pushing freshmen guys in the hallway, and some of those freshmen guys had forty pounds on me and wore letter jackets.

Now I've readjusted the dream to just fitting in and having a few friends and not thinking about Dink, if that's even possible. And not letting anyone find out about my past or my memory. Reinventing yourself is harder than I thought, especially when you don't like to lie about your past. And especially when the past keeps getting in the way.

But hope springs eternal, and today I'm seeing Halle Phillips again.

Halle Phillips, who once brought a shark tooth for Show and Tell from her trip to Florida, then a postcard from that same place the next day, and the following week she brought a picture of her grandpa, and after that her favorite candy—green jelly beans, which she shared with our class; and … my head swims as more memories fight their way up. I focus on my watch, staring at the dials like Dr. Anderson taught me until I can push the memories back down. Sometimes it works. Other times it's like trying to turn off a running faucet by using a broken spigot.

When I look up I'm the last one on the bus. The driver is glaring back at me. “You going in or do you plan on spending your whole day here?”

I grab my backpack and leap out of the bus without touching the steps. The door closes immediately behind me and I'm standing in front of a three-story building with a faded brick exterior the color of ash. As far away as we are from California, I still have this sick feeling that I'm going to turn around and see Dink standing behind me. Or maybe he'll be waiting in the parking lot with a loaded pistol. I feel safer in large groups, so I join the flow of students into the school, being careful to stay in the middle, and I have just enough time to go to my locker before the first bell rings.

We haven't had any assignments yet in Science class; we've just spent the past two days taking notes from the overhead projector. I open my five-subject notebook and copy the outline, although it's a pain to do. I mean, what's the point? But I'd look like a slacker if I didn't, so I scribble away like everyone else. At least taking notes helps kill time until I see Halle and keeps me from getting too anxious. Once I tried an exercise with Dr. Anderson where I wrote down my memories and then burned the paper as a means of getting rid of them. It didn't work.

I have two more classes after Science, and the morning drags by. The clocks are slow in all the classrooms and that bugs me, so I avoid looking at them or I'll be tempted to get up on a chair and adjust the time.

At 11:06 I hurry from homeroom, a twenty-five minute study hall that most students use for catching up with friends. I show Mrs. Algren my pass and wait at a small table in the middle of the library, which is also the computer center.

I have an empty piece of paper in front of me, a sharpened number-two pencil, and my copy of
Gatsby
open facedown. To say that I'm nervous is an understatement.

I size up every girl who enters the library; first, a thin girl with glasses and long, blond hair. She's laughing and clinging to a guy so I doubt that's Halle. Another girl with black hair and black lipstick and red streaks in her hair. She passes me without making eye contact.

I hold my book in the air as two more girls enter the library. They smile at me in a friendly way but walk by. At 11:12 another girl enters. She zones in on the book at my table and walks purposefully toward me. I focus on her face for any hint of recognition. Nothing is familiar in any obvious way. She has light brown hair instead of blond pigtails like the Halle Phillips I used to know. A red barrette holds back her bangs. The ends of her hair brush the top of her shoulders. She's way too beautiful to be the girl I remember. The Halle Phillips I knew had a button nose and her knee socks kept falling down. This girl has a sloped nose that turns up at the end, high cheekbones, and a curvy waist. In fact, she has far more curves than the Halle Phillips I knew, but then again, kindergartners don't have curves. She's wearing a short skirt and her long legs are sockless.

“I'm Halle,” she says.

It's the same girl but everything about her is different. For one thing, she's hot. But it's her voice that makes me lean forward. She still sounds like yellow daffodils, sweet and creamy and fresh. My own voice catches and I creak out a small “Hi, I'm Baxter.”

She sits down across from me and points at my book. “One thing you need to know is that everyone says Shaw's class is hard, but he's one of the most respected teachers here. And once you figure out how to take his tests, you won't have a problem. So don't freak out that you got a bad score on the first one.”

I nod, still taking in the scent of her voice.

“My sister had him, and he doesn't ask the mundane questions like ‘What color is Daisy's hair?' or ‘How big is Gatsby's pool?' So don't stress out on memorizing trivial details. I mean, he might ask how Nick is related to Daisy, something fundamental, but the rest of the test will be essay questions that make you think about what you read. So you should be reading for comprehension and looking at the meaning behind the words.”

She stops and studies me like she's trying to place me. It's suddenly hot in here. A drop of sweat cascades down the inside of my shirt and settles in my navel.

The look is replaced by a frown. “You did read the first three chapters, didn't you? Because I'm not wasting my time helping you if you're a jock who thinks I'm going to be doing all your work while you dribble a ball down the court or practice your tennis serve.”

“I read it,” I assure her, although I'm flattered that she thinks I might be a jock. She obviously doesn't remember me from Pascal Elementary. Even in kindergarten I couldn't hold on to a ball.

She crinkles her nose. “Sorry, bad experience with my ex. I don't mean to take it out on you. Anyway, the important thing is to take good notes during Shaw's discussions. And read the chapters. If you get stuck, we can find a quiet spot to read out loud, but I'd prefer you read it ahead of time. Does this time work for you?”

“It's perfect.” She's perfect.

“Mr. Shaw said you're new. Where did you move from?”

My heart quickens at the thought of how to answer. If I say California, will that be enough to connect the dots in her head? But my teachers know that I'm from California, and I don't want to start our first meeting by lying outright to her. In the end I decide to take a chance. California is a big state, after all.

“I'm from California.”

“Really? I used to live in California when I was little. But seriously, you should know that surviving Shaw's class will be nothing compared to surviving the winter in northern Minnesota. It's freaking cold here and we get a ton of snow.”

“Fifty-six inches, on average.”

Her eyes widen.

“Um … I looked it up,” I say with a nervous laugh.

She stands and picks up her books. “You're going to lose that bronze tan, you know, and then you'll look just like the rest of us albinos from the North Country. We'll start tomorrow. Same time, same place.”

And then she's gone, like a swift breeze moving through the California heat, leaving me refreshed and wanting more.

I'm still swimming in the scent of her voice, strong and lasting. As much as I hate the constant refrain of memories that play like a marathon in my head, there are some moments worth remembering. This is one of them.

How I Measure Up

The meeting with Halle is a break from worrying about Dink, who hovers like an invisible cloud in my life. Seeing her again and hearing her voice lets loose the rampant memories of kindergarten. After she leaves I let them flow: how I missed my mom and held on to her leg the first day of school, those feelings of anxiety before I made a friend, every hurt and fear as well as every moment of joy and excitement. There's my teacher Mrs. Skrove giving me a hug; she smelled like glue sticks and she smiled at me and nodded when I recited lines of conversation I'd heard on the bus.

“You have an amazing memory,” she told me.

“I appreciate you remembering that it's Patrick's turn to go first,” she said the next day, not even getting mad that I interrupted her.

I'm still reliving my kindergarten days when I realize that the library has emptied and lunch period is half over. My stomach lets out a disappointed growl so I jog down to the lunchroom and grab a plate of nachos, then sit next to Brad Soberg from Lit class. He asks, “Hey, can I have a few?” and even though I don't want to share, I do anyway because Brad doesn't leave me stranded after he's finished eating his hamburger and fries.

“Do you know Halle Phillips?” I ask him.

“You bet,” he says. “Why? You like her?”

I avoid his question. “She's my tutor.”

He picks up a chip and a line of cheese stretches down to the plate. “Lucky dude. How'd you manage that? She and her boyfriend broke up just before school started.”

“Mr. Shaw assigned her to me.”

He laughs. “That almost makes it worth failing his class. She is kinda out there, though.”

“What do you mean?”

He talks between mouthfuls. It's a good thing they're not skimpy on the chips or I'd starve today. “She's gone green.”

“Green?”

“She's all about global warming, recycling, saving the environment, that sort of stuff.”

Maybe it's because I'm from California, but that doesn't sound too “out there.” It makes her seem even hotter.

“Last year in junior high someone smashed open the pop machine and left a note that read, ‘Give us healthy drinks.' They never caught anyone, but we all knew it was her.”

He takes a long slurp of his milk. “But if you can get past all that, go for it. You should make good use of that private time with her. She won't be on the open market for long.”

Brad makes her sound like a piece of meat. But he's right. What great luck for me that she just broke up with her boyfriend and that I have her to myself for half an hour every day.

But is she out of my league? Am I the type of guy girls even think about? A girl who sits across from me in math wrote “possible prom date” with a question mark next to my name when she didn't know I was looking. I could ask Brad's opinion, but asking a guy I just met if he thinks I'm hot will probably get the crap beat out of me.

Halle thinks I'm too dumb to pass Lit class. Does Halle go for dumb guys? What if she likes smart guys? Could I risk exposing my memory? It's the third day of school and I'm already facing an inner struggle between wanting to impress Halle Phillips and keeping my memory secret.

“Speak of the devil.” Brad nods at a tall guy making his way across the lunchroom. The crowd parts like the Red Sea as he walks past, but he's carrying a math book instead of a staff. He has that athlete physique: buff and muscular, tall with blond hair and a confident smile.

“Hunter Austin, future hockey pro.”

“So he's Halle's ex. And he's smart?”

“Don't let the book fool you. It's more prop than anything. Not that he has to be smart.”

“Why not?”

“He's a hockey god. Hockey reigns supreme up here,” Brad informs me. “We learn to skate before we walk.”

“He doesn't seem like Halle's type.”

Brad smirks. “Yeah. Popular jock who's already being recruited by the pros. He's every girl's type.”

I make a small fist in a furtive attempt to check out my own pathetic biceps. Brad notices.

“You got the pretty boy thing going for you. Halle likes that. But if you want one of these,” he says, flexing a muscle the size of a fence post, “you come to my place.”

I have to admit I'm impressed. “You have a weight room at your house?”

“Don't need one. You get this from lifting bales of hay. We could use another hand this fall, if you're interested. Might give you an even playing field with Hunter.”

“But she broke up with him.”

Brad laughs. “Rumor has it that it was the other way around. Hunter broke up with Halle to date Jenna White but now he's having buyer's remorse. Jenna's a leech. She's already picking out wedding music. I give it a month.”

“Does that mean he'll try to get Halle back?”

Brad points a finger in the air. “Score one for the new guy. Question is, will Halle take him back after he dumped her? And of course he hasn't dumped Jenna yet. So you have a small window of opportunity, if you know what I mean.”

I never said I liked her, but I guess it's obvious. Why else would I be quizzing Brad about her life?

“So if you think she's hot, why aren't you going after her?” I ask him.

Brad shakes his head. “She's not the type to go for a farm boy who uses agricultural pesticides and is proud of it. Besides, I have a girlfriend. Alexis lives in Duluth with her mom but spends summers here with her dad.”

Even farm boy Brad has a girlfriend. I've never been remotely close to having one. If I'd stayed in school, would things have been different? Not that I had a lot of friends back at Pascal Elementary, where the last two years I got in trouble almost every week for correcting my teachers.

The running documentary of my life back at Pascal Elementary starts to play in my head. It runs for a few minutes and when I finally break free of it, Brad is gone. I didn't even hear him get up or say good-bye. My plate is empty, too.

Dr. Anderson has a quote on his door that reads, “If we remembered everything, we should on most occasions be as ill off as if we remembered nothing.” The quote is from William James, a famous psychologist who lived around the turn of the century. His brother was the novelist Henry James and his sister was Alice James, and … the bell rings. I'm late for class again.