Forgotten

“I made you buy it,” she says proudly. “I love that skirt.”

“You can have it,” I say, turning away from her and continuing my clothes fit. “What are you doing here so early?” I ask casually.

“You are so mental,” Jamie says. “We talked last night. I’m borrowing…” She moves to a row of shirts and quickly looks through them. She locates the sleeve she seeks and yanks the item off the hanger. “… this green shirt today.”

“Cute,” I say.

“I know,” Jamie agrees. She drops her bag and coat to the floor, swaps her own shirt for the green one, then puts herself back together, leaving her shirt in a heap on my closet floor.

“Don’t you want this?” I ask, picking it up.

>So apparently I lied.

At midnight, I boot up my laptop. I can type faster than I can scribble. Besides, the note by my bedside is already cluttered with hearts in the margins and flowery words about a boy I just met today.

10/19 (Tues.)

Horrible memory popped into my head as I was falling asleep tonight. Worst I can remember, really. Can’t see much… just know I’m in a crowd of people wearing black. Their faces are muddy, and someone is dead. At first, I thought it might be Mom’s funeral, but then I remembered hearing her sobs. She’s there, too. Alive.

Can hear the occasional bird, and weeping. The weeping is terrible so I focus on the birds. I think it’s morning, but it’s gray so I’m not sure.

Terrifying statue of a saintly woman (maybe an angel?) one plot over to the left… carved of green stone and looking like she’s watching us.

I finish typing and save the file on my computer desktop, naming it, appropriately, Dark Memory.

I print the page and then place the typed note under the handwritten one; hearts and flowers over the black-and-white account of dark days ahead.

I climb back into bed and turn off the lights for the second time tonight, thinking of the boy whose first name I don’t know, feeling guilty for thinking of him when there are bigger things ahead.

Somehow, amid all the conflicting emotions, sleep grabs my hand and pulls me under.

And then everything unwritten is gone.

7

On the way to school, I consider telling my mom about the funeral memory, until I realize that it might scare her. Not everyone needs to know what’s coming.

After she drops me off, I head straight for the library. It’s an even-block day, so I have periods 2, 4, 6, and 8: I’ll never be so happy to miss first-period PE. The warning bell hasn’t sounded yet, but I want to arrive early and compose myself for the guy from my notes.

Mr. Henry.

I make my way toward the tables at the back of the library and retrieve a compact mirror from my bag. I use my sleeve to fix my eye makeup and then exchange the compact for my Spanish book.

I don’t hear him approach. Then, without warning, he’s across from me, leaning on the table, eyes fixed on my face.

“Hey.”

I lower the book and my jaw drops. I thought I was prepared, but no. Not for this.

“Hi,” I manage.

“Good day so far?” he asks.

“Not really,” I answer truthfully.

Concern crosses his face, and it warms me. “What happened?” he asks.

“Oh, nothing,” I answer. “Just overslept and my mom was annoying and… nothing. Not worth talking about.”