The Memory Book

by Lara Avery

  “Oh!” I said again, and got out, leaning on the open door. I thought I knew what Coop was saying, but I wasn’t sure, so I said, “Well, damn, Coop. I’m sorry.”

  He shook his head, laughing it off. “It’s fine. I was just remembering that. Trip down memory lane.”

  Mom had opened our front door, waiting.

  “See you soon?” I asked, because we were both uncomfortable.

  “See you soon,” he answered.

  OOOOOOHHHHHH

  Oh. Coop had been asking me on a date! Oh my god, that’s adorable. If only you could have seen what Coop was like then. The kid wore a different color sweat suit every day of the week. Like, he was that guy. The guy who wears sweat suits. As we all were. I mean, but Coop grew out of it ha ha ha and I did not. But anyway, I had no idea. I’ll tease him for it later.

  Or maybe I won’t tease him. I don’t like the idea of making him embarrassed. I don’t like seeing him, you know, hurt.

  But between you and me, that is so funny. I didn’t know he could have ever had those kinds of feelings for me. Probably because I was the only person with a vagina that talked to him on a regular basis. As National Geographic tells us, those kinds of feelings develop when you put two heterosexual people who aren’t related to each other in the same room, and Coop and I were in the same room a lot.

  Then he went into the same room with a lot of other vaginas and got over it.

  Is it weird to put Cooper Lind and vagina in the same sentence?

  But yeah, even if I had noticed then, I don’t think I could have gone on a date with Cooper Lind. I was too busy smashing my face into pillows and reading about Druid Wars.

  God, I am remembering the whole thing now. How strange I thought it was that he would call me and ask me to go to Molly’s, rather than just coming over and opening the fridge and putting two hot dogs in the microwave, like he normally did.

  MRS. TOWNSEND: THE SEQUEL

  Mrs. Townsend appeared from out of nowhere from behind the fish tank at Dr. Clarkington’s office today, this time in a blue sundress, and at first I thought I was imagining her. But no, it was the real Mrs. Townsend, with her every-good-clean-smell, her hair now woven into long black braids. When we hugged, a belly emerged.

  “Baby Mrs. T?” I almost screamed, because I have the tact of a fired circus clown.

  “Baby Mrs. T,” she said, laughing. “His name will be Solomon.”

  “After Song of Solomon?”

  “The Toni Morrison book, not the Bible.”

  “Good.”

  “I promise you, he won’t turn into a snobby New York kid. So help me god I will make sure that he eats gluten like the rest of the world.”

  “Why would he be a snobby New York kid?”

  “Greg and I are headed to Manhattan. He’s getting his PhD at Hunter.”

  Everyone I like goes to New York. I decided to be okay with that. “And what are you gonna do?”

  Mrs. T looked around her in fake panic. “Oh no, I won’t have a Sammie to mentor. What will I do?”

  “Yeah, who—who—who’s going to send you emails at three in the morning asking for a letter of reference?” I finally got out. I had started not to get so embarrassed about my choppy speech. You just kind of have to plow through it.

  Mrs. Townsend leaned her elbow on the betta tank, tapping at the swimming forms. “I’ll tell you what I’m going to do, I’m going to have this baby, then I’m going to work in the Admissions department. And then I’m going to raise this baby, and then I’m going to retire. That is, unless, the climate changes as drastically as they say it will in the next twenty years. In that case, Greg and I are going to move back to the top of the Green Mountains, and we’re going to raise orange trees.”

  “Orange trees in New England?”

  “You’re going to want to get above sea level, believe me.”

  “Can I come?”

  Mrs. T took me by both shoulders. “If you have a useful skill, yes.”

  “I can drink an entire gallon of chocolate milk in one sitting.”

  “You’re in,” she said, and we laughed.

  TEXTS FROM STUART SHAH, NPC EDITION

  You have to hand it to him, the man is a natural writer. Though he asks the same question every morning, I have never received the same text from Stuart twice.

  Stuart: how are you feeling today?

  Stuart: feeling chipper this morning?

  Stuart: good day today?

  Stuart: how’s my baby?

  Stuart: is today a good day?

  Stuart: how’s the health?

  Stuart: feeling dapper?

  Stuart: is the sun treating you well this morning?

  Stuart: need anything from me this morning?

  Stuart: how’s it shakin’?

  Stuart: how’s the baby girl?

  Stuart: what’s good this morning lady?

  Stuart: how’s life on this rainy day?

  Stuart: how’s sammie?

  Stuart: how’s my girl?

  Stuart: ok?

  Stuart: ca va?

  Stuart: doing well?

  THAT MONSTER WOMAN THEY KEEP IN THE ATTIC IN THAT ONE BOOK

  Today is not a great day brain-wise. My hands are not good at typing. My mouth is doing the twist. And it was not fun to be a person today. But I have this idea.

  I have to do this to make it okay that the other day I forgot the word for stove and that I woke up in the middle of the night and thought I needed to get ready for school. Like the other day I could have sworn I saw Grandma and Grandpa in the yard. I didn’t tell you because there’s not a whole lot more to say and it’s not great for me to think about those times. They’re just strange. Like I answered Stuart’s daily check-in with “never been better” because when I tell him the truth he gets very sad and comes over and strokes my hair.

  And most of the time it’s good. Like don’t worry I’ll always tell you when it’s good. Or when things are bad enough that you should know. You should also know that I haven’t deleted anything from here. I’m pretty sure I told you that. Because I like reading back and that makes it more exciting. But as I said I’m not feeling the best today.

  I always told you how I thought I would end up, so I’m going to tell you how I think my brother and sisters will end up, too. They’ve got much more… I don’t know… time. They’ve got a lot more ahead of them.

  Also, I am not going to use the Internet to look things up anymore when I forget the word, because this is my book and Google is not my brain and this book is supposed to be a part of my brain. You know what I mean? I want this book to have MY WORDS even if they are the wrong words.

  So here it goes. We’ll start with Harry.

  THE MCCOY SIBLINGS: AN UNOFFICIAL BIOGRAPHY

  CHAPTER 1: HARRISON

  Harrison George McCoy was born on a dark day in December, but many would say his cries rang like the bells of Christmas. Actually, no one said that, but he was born around Christmas. As a child, Harrison was obsessed with old coins. Whenever Mom visited her mom in Canada, she brought back Canadian coins, and coins from France, and sometimes coins from England and coins from Spain. Stuart also brought him coins from India the other day and I can’t remember what they’re called but that was so nice of Stuart.

  Anyway, where was I? One important day however Harrison went over to his friend Blake’s house and discovered the exciting never-ending world of video games. At first I was not happy about this, having been a child of my parents, who do not like screens. But after watching the way his face lights up when he plays them and how if you ask him one question about Minecraft he will talk more to you than he will ever talk about his own life, I changed my mind.

  All this to say Harrison McCoy found his calling with the movement of digital blocks onto other blocks. With this knowledge Harrison will excel in geometry and physics. He will make it through high school with many friends who also have his interests. Oh, like a video game club! Harrison McCoy will join a vi
deo game club in let’s say ninth grade.

  Soon this video game club became less of a club and more like a collection. No, collective! They mushed their ideas about video games together and created their own video game. Called Geoblock not bad, huh? I should tell him about this idea.

  As they got older all their different personalities came together in a perfect balanced way, and they started a company to sell their game. Harrison will be the major video game maker. The boss. And because of his quietness yet also his passion for Geoblock he will be a great leader. The business will succeed beyond his wildest dreams.

  One of the members of the collective will be a woman or man that Harrison will always disagree with but respect a lot, because their arguments always find a good answer. After they have taken care of all their business stuff and are full human beings, they will realize they can be perfect life partners as well. They will adopt a puppy and name it Puppy, after the original Puppy. And they will live long after that as a happy family.

  (NOT) THE END

  HOT, STILL, AMERICAN INDEPENDENCE DAY

  Just like every year, they blocked off all the streets in Hanover and people walked around without much clothing, getting sunburned, drinking out of bottles of water or bottles of beer. It was a good day for me, brain-wise and body-wise and otherwise-wise, so while Mom and Dad and the kids went to ride on the rides, I met up with Stuart.

  “My little American,” he said, rubbing my shoulders when I found him on the main road. I kissed him. He tasted bitter and sweet. “Having some beers?”

  “Yeah, I just…” He rubbed his face with his hand. “Sometimes I just need a break.”

  “Good! Yes! You should relax.” He had come over almost every day this week, helping to do the dishes, taking Puppy for long walks, driving Bette and Davy to camp.

  “How’s the writing?” I asked.

  “Blah,” he said. “America!” he shouted instead, and put his arm around my shoulders.

  I laughed. “Fair enough!”

  I told him about the biographies. He told me about a regular who had come into the Canoe Club that reminded him of a short story. When we arrived at his house, I could hear people’s voices, but couldn’t see them. I tried to look up, but my eyeballs don’t really do that these days, so I just listened.

  “Stu-ey’s back!” I heard Ross Nervig shout.

  “Are they on the roof?” I asked Stuart.

  “Yep!”

  Inside the garage I squeezed my hands in and out of fists, and craned my neck to look upward so my eyeballs didn’t have to.

  “Oh!” Stuart said. “We don’t have to go up there. I’ll tell them to come down here.”

  “You don’t have to do that,” I said.

  “No, baby,” he said, putting his hands on my cheeks. “They should come down here. I’m so stupid. I will not let you strain yourself.”

  “It’s fine,” I told him, and added I don’t like the language, “I will not let you…” to a long list of things that I had not said to Stuart. The list included the following:

  Please don’t call me “baby.”

  Please don’t remind me to take my medication. If I forget, I would rather my family did that.

  Please don’t stroke my hair and become sad, because that makes me sad.

  I didn’t like this part of myself, this part that censored, and Stuart did everything out of love, and he did so much. He would never hold it above my head, but I would. Every time I repeated myself, every time I forgot where I had put my phone, every time I couldn’t take Puppy for a walk, it hung above my head.

  But I could still do most things. Most everything. Just not all the time. See, Stu?

  I swallowed. I thought of myself just a couple of months ago, flitting around like no big deal, thinking I was going to live on my own in New York.

  But it’s not that you don’t fall, it’s that you get back up, right? Right. Stuart waited while I psyched myself up, a little encouraging smile on his face.

  “Are you sure?” he asked.

  “I want to do this.”

  I gripped the rungs like I was hanging off a cliff. Stuart asked if I wanted help, his hands floating around my calves. I said no, and though I had to wait a moment after each step, I pushed off strong. I made it up both ladders, and by the time I sat down on the flat, warm tar, I was breathing and happy like I had won a marathon. I realized I would do it all over again just for that feeling, like I was back in the world and the world was good. Even if it made me tired.

  Stuart went to a cooler that sat in the center and cracked opened a beer.

  “My friend Sammie!” Coop was lounging next to a girl in an American flag bikini. He was wearing his favorite THAT GOOD GOOD tank top. I looked around a circle of people I was probably supposed to know, their heads in red, white, and blue bandannas and plumes of cigarette smoke, and goddamn, it was great to see Coop. It’s hard to describe the feeling of relief I had, Future Sam, really knowing someone else up there on the roof. He was just so, I don’t know, nonblurry. Then I realized the last time I had felt that out-in-the-world feeling was at the Potholes, with Coop. So it made sense.

  “Hey, Coop,” I said, still taking deep breaths. I pointed to the opening in the roof. “I made it up both ladders.”

  “Well, cheers to you!” he said, tilting his head, holding up a beer. He swigged it and set down the empty bottle.

  “Yes, cheers to you!” Stuart called from the cooler, and turned back to Ross Nervig, who had pulled him into a discussion about poetry.

  “Anyone want a water?” Coop asked, getting up. “I’m going to switch to water.”

  “I’ll have a water,” I said.

  Coop brought me a sweating bottle and sat back down next to Hot Katie. Hot Katie who he was supposedly not dating.

  After a minute, I noticed a dark shape land on her leg. She screamed and stood. Coop turned from the girl he was talking to on his other side.

  “Get away from him!” I screamed at Katie.

  “What?” she shouted, taken aback, still whacking the air.

  “Please move!” I motioned her away from Coop.

  Coop realized what was happening and scrambled to the other side of the roof.

  “He’s allergic to bees,” I said, quieter.

  “Is it gone?” Coop asked me.

  “It’s gone,” I told him.

  Thanks, he mouthed.

  For the next hour or so I tried out my newfound small-talking on a few people, trying to remember things about them.

  At every quiet moment, I quizzed myself: Becca is in Washington, DC, Lynn decided against taking that internship after all, Jeff is working at Ross Nervig’s dad’s contracting business. Becca: DC, Lynn: no internship, Jeff: Nervig’s dad.

  Soon I was feeling bleary. I had taken my pain meds after I came up the ladder, and the sleepiness crept in.

  When Stuart swooped down to kiss me, I whispered, “Hey.”

  “Hey,” he said. His eyes were sleepy, too, but for a different reason.

  “I think I gotta go,” I said.

  “No,” he said, frowning.

  “My—what’s the thing, with the gas—my tank is low,” I said.

  “Okay, well, just wait one second and we’ll go home.”

  “You are home!”

  Stuart talked warm and soft in my ear. “You can stay here. I’ll bring you some water.”

  I lifted my hand to his shirt and pulled him closer. “No. You stay with your friends. You relax. I mean it.”

  “How about I just kiss you?” he said, and planted his lips on mine, sloppy and salty until I had to laugh.

  “Stu-ey, now!” Ross was yelling, pointing at the sky, a book in his hands like a Viking conqueror with his ax.

  The fireworks had started.

  “One second, baby, I promised Ross I would read this Ginsberg,” he said, slurring a bit, and scrambled over to his friend. I laughed again to myself. Coop was looking at me. I shrugged and smiled.

 
; “Everyone! I wanna read this,” Stuart yelled as the golden strips of light popped behind him. He looked at the book. He looked at the book, and lines from “America” rumbled out of his gut with great intensity. Verses about hopelessness, about giving it one’s all but still having nothing.

  Stuart was silhouetted by the colors, all eyes on him. His arms flailed wildly as he read, and Ross stood beside him nodding, clapping his hands at parts he liked. I wondered what he was working on, if he would read his own work like this someday, as if he felt every word. Stuart was majestic. Stuart was drunk.

  I thought about five summers ago, the first and only time I got drunk like that. Coop at that party in April, telling me that he had wanted to “get drunk with me his whole life,” but actually we had, once.

  The summer before freshman year, before the whole “date” incident, he and some of his baseball player buddies had stolen someone’s parents’ whiskey, and Coop convinced me to try it if he mixed it with Cherry Vanilla Dr Pepper. This was, of course, before I knew I wanted to get out of the Upper Valley, before I discovered debate, before I wanted NYU, before I wanted Stuart.

  It had been fun at first, and I gulped it down like I was drinking a soda.

  Coop and I kept pushing each other and giggling. He had taken my glasses and ran around with them, and I chased him and hopped on his back. Then he had given me a piggyback ride into the trees, where I slid off him, and after I swayed for a second, I began to vomit.

  Coop had held my hair as I puked and kept saying, “Oh no, oh no.”

  I had started laughing, even as I was wiping puke from my mouth, and said, “I’m never doing this again!”

  “You’re never going to puke again?” Coop had asked, and by then we were both laughing. It was such stupid, happy laughing.

  I remembered him bending beside me, not afraid to be next to me when something so gross was happening. I remembered the feeling of his hand on my back, holding my curls in a bunch.

  I watched the girl in the American flag bikini pass Coop a joint, but he waved it off.