Forgotten

Page 35

I unbuckle my seat belt and open the door, ready to go inside.
“I feel like I owe it to him,” I say quietly. “To remember him today and every other day.” I’m quoting myself from the note I read this morning, but it’s how I feel.
My mother sighs deeply. A car beeps behind us and I know I need to get out. I know I need to go have my normal day at school.
My mom glares at the impatient parent in the car behind us, then looks back at me. Her hand is still on mine.
“Why, London?” she asks. “Why do you owe it to him?”
I pull back my hand and open the car door. With one foot out on the pavement, school bag in hand, I say to my mother, “Because I’m alive and he’s not.”
*   *   *
“Ms. Lane? Uh, Ms. Lane? Excuse me? London Lane, are you in there?”
I look up to find two rows of gawking students and a slightly agitated Mr. Hoffman staring at me expectantly.
I completely missed the question, but after a quick glance at the board, I know what he asked.
“F prime,” I mutter, thankful that I managed to remember the benign parts of this morning’s briefing in addition to those very, very cancerous ones that were distracting me in the first place.
“Very good, Ms. Lane. Feel free to zone out again,” Mr. Hoffman says, with a wink that tries too hard to be cool.
Poor Mr. Hoffman. He will never succeed.
A girl with poodle hair in front of me leans back so far in her creaky, overused chair that her locks rest on the pages of my open notebook. The tangled tresses obscure nothing, since I’ve taken no notes. My blank notepad and mechanical pencil are props, like the backpack in the basket below my seat and, quite frankly, the schoolbooks inside of it.
I brush her hair off my paper anyway, and she twists around with a stern look on her face. She combs her fingers through her hair as the bell rings.
I gather my things and head toward the door of the classroom, then merge into the swarm of students buzzing from this class to that one.
When I make it to my locker, I see Jamie across the hallway, standing on her own. I adjust the metal door so I can see her reflection in the mirror.
Jamie shuffles a few books around, then sets her bag on the floor and grabs a lip gloss off the top shelf. After carefully applying it, she hoists her bag on her shoulder and slams her locker shut.
She turns in my direction and hesitates. Just as I think she’s going to come talk to me, she turns on her heels and walks off down the hall. When she’s gone, I slam my own locker shut and follow her, twenty paces behind, wishing all the way we were arm in arm.
Jamie is eyeing me suspiciously across our desk island. We’re supposed to be working together to create a fictitious travel itinerary for a two-week vacation in Mexico. It’s busywork, and normally I’d be all for it.
Later in life, I’ll do a lot of traveling. But today, I’m not interested.
“What?” I hiss at her. I’m not in the mood.
“Nothing,” she says, taken aback by my atypically harsh response.
I pull the Mexico travel guide toward me and randomly open it to the section on Isla de Mujeres. I can’t help but laugh. I remember being there. With Jamie. A slightly more weathered but still gorgeous Jamie.
Flipping through the hotels section, I come across photos that give me the sense of déjà vu. A hotel on a private island, surrounded by the clearest, bluest ocean imaginable.
It reminds me of Luke’s eyes, staring into me this morning in study hall.
I can’t help but smile more broadly.
“What’s so funny?” Jamie asks bitingly.
“Nothing, this hotel just looks nice,” I say, turning the book to show her.
I wonder whether right now I’m planting our getaway idea deep in my subconscious. I wonder whether somehow a little piece of me will remember today when Jamie and I finally do plan the trip.
“I guess.” Jamie is shrugging, looking at the glorious hotel. “I’ve seen better.”
I take back the book and start working on our assignment. Jamie sits quietly for a few seconds, then surprises me with a question.
“Are you okay?” she asks.
I look up at her.
“I’m fine, why?”
“You look like you’ve been crying,” she practically whispers, checking to make sure no one else is eavesdropping. I like that she’s concerned about embarrassing me.
“Yeah,” I say, shrugging myself this time. “I’ve had some stuff going on.”
“Oh,” Jamie says, looking down at her lap. For a moment, I think my memory is wrong, that it won’t take another few weeks for us to make up. But then, as quick as it was there, Jamie’s compassion is gone.
“The period is halfway over. Give me that. I’ll do it,” she says, grabbing the book from me. Immediately, she goes to work on a faux itinerary for a trip that she doesn’t know she’ll eventually take… with me.
As I watch my best friend work on our joint assignment alone, I feel strangely invigorated. I know she wants to ask me what’s wrong. I know she cares that I’m upset. I know she misses me.
And knowing all that motivates me.
I’ll get my best friend back.
But first, I’ll break up the relationship that will do nothing but cause her heartache.
38
“Where are we going?” Luke asks.
“Just drive,” I say. “Turn left at the light.”
Luke does as I instruct, and then protests. “I thought you wanted to hang out after school. Not go on a stakeout.”
“Funny,” I say. I point as I command, “Turn right and then slow down. I need to look for the house number.”
Written on a scrap of paper is 1553 Mountain Street. It’s amazing what you can find in the phone book.
“There it is,” I say, reflexively ducking down in my seat. “The white one on the right. The one with the black shutters. Pass it and park down the street.”
Luke shakes his head but does as I ask. He pulls the van into a spot and puts it in park. I reach over and turn down the radio, even though it’s already low. Then I turn it off.
“They’d have to have bionic ears to have heard that, you know,” Luke laughs.
“Shhh,” I say to him, craning my neck to see the house behind us.
“Here, try this,” Luke says, flipping down the passenger-side visor and revealing a mirror. I adjust it and see the house without turning my head.
“Thanks,” I say quietly.
“Sure,” he says, looking at me curiously. “So, what now? What are we doing?”
“Watching the house,” I say.
“For what?” Luke asks.
“The Messenger,” I reply.
“The Messenger,” he repeats flatly, leaning back in his seat and staring out the window at nothing.
A car pulls into a driveway a few houses in front of us, and a woman struggles to carry two armfuls of bags inside. The wind doesn’t want her to make it. It blinds her with her own hair and presses against her shoulders.
I try to explain the situation to Luke.
“I need to figure out who Mr. Rice’s wife tutors,” I say.
“How do you know she’s a tutor?” Luke asks.
I roll my eyes at him and reply, “Because I do. Jesse Henson will tell me next year that Mrs. Rice is a better math tutor than Ms. Hanover is a teacher.”