Forgotten

The house is still; it’s early.

I check out the bedroom, trying to pinpoint differences between two nearly identical pictures: the one I remember from tomorrow and the scene before me now.

There’s an empty mug with a used tea bag wound around the handle on a coaster on the desk. There’s a sweatshirt hanging over the edge of the hamper like it’s trying to get out. Tomorrow, the mug will be gone. There will be textbooks on the desk; the hamper will be empty.

I hold a note that explains what I’ve missed. Well, at least the highlights.

10/17 (Sun.)

Outfit:

—Supersoft boy’s hoodie (Fri. note said I got it from the reject pile at school)

—Black leggings

—Sherpa boots

School:

—Bring Band-Aids for almost-healed blister

—Bring yoga pants, T-shirt for gym (had to borrow awful clothes from Page Fri.)

—CELL PHONE (Mom has it in the car)

Other stuff:

—J was in L.A. this weekend w/her dad

—Avoid Page this week

—Doctor this morning (tripped Fri. in PE)

I set aside the note and read through similar messages from the past week, paying particular attention to Friday’s comments on clothes and school stuff. Then, still feeling like I’m walking into the world partially blind, I haul myself from bed and start the day.

On the way to the doctor’s office, Mom takes Hudson Avenue, which cuts through the city cemetery. At the intersection of Hudson and Washington, we get caught at the light.

“We’re going to be late,” my mom mutters under her breath. She drums her hands on the wheel, and I wonder if she’s missing a meeting to drive me.

I loll my head to the right side and scan the graves. They stand in formation, lines running straight away from me and then curving slightly in the distance.

The light turns green, and as the car speeds up, a movement catches my eye. Two people, a man and a boy, stop before a tombstone. In my rational brain, I know they’re visiting a lost loved one. Nothing scary. But something about the mourners makes my shoulders tense and sends a shot of electricity through my body. I shiver in my seat; my mother doesn’t notice.

“Do you remember what you’re going to say when the doctor asks how this happened?” Mom asks, interrupting my thoughts.

“Yes,” I reply, grateful for the distraction. “I tripped over a ball in gym class.”

“Good,” she says as we turn into the parking lot. She finds a space and we rush inside. We clear the lobby quickly and then ride the elevator up two floors in silence. All the while, my mind is still in the graveyard.

4

“Doctor’s appointment?”

“Yep,” I say, smiling my most innocent smile at Henne Fassbinder, school secretary and obvious lover of cats.

She frowns in response as she types something into my computer file with nails so long they’d have to open a soda can sideways.

I hop a little, hoping she’ll hurry up. I want to get to my locker before class lets out—fewer opportunities for mistakes that way.