Blank

by Trina St. Jean

  “Dude.” A male voice carries from nearby, amid the trees. I suck in my breath. “Over here. I think we’re ready to start building.”

  Harrison walks toward the voice, and then his buddy comes into view. I sink as low as I can and sit perfectly still.

  “Yeah, probably,” Harrison says. “Let’s make this thing stellar. We’ve got to win, or we’ll never hear the end of it.”

  Harrison’s friend picks up another branch and heaves it onto his shoulder. “What’d you think of Jessie? She looks good, hey?”

  “Yeah, she does,” Harrison answers. “Really good. Normal, I’d say.”

  I smile. A girl will take whatever compliment she can get.

  “I can’t believe she was in a coma, like, only a month ago. Crazy shit.”

  “Do you think it’s true?” Harrison says. I suck in my breath and steady myself on the log.

  “What, the coma? I think that’d be pretty hard to make up.”

  Harrison clears his throat, then spits on the ground. “No, bonehead. I mean the amnesia thing. She looked at me like she knew me.”

  “What are you saying? That she’s faking? Why would she do that?”

  It’s quiet for a second. “Whatever, man. Forget it. Let’s go kick some ass.”

  They’re off, carrying branches for their man cave. And I sit there, shocked and unmoving, my fingernails digging deep into the log.

  I am a total moron. My dream man wasn’t checking me out at all. He was doubting my performance. A twig snaps behind me, and I turn to see Megan walking toward me. When she gets closer, she offers me a hand.

  “Did we tire you out?” she asks, but she doesn’t wait for an answer. She pulls me up from the log.

  “We need you!” she says. “The guys are in the lead.” She practically drags me through the woods, back to the field.

  I’m seething, humiliated, and Megan’s frantic energy pumps me up even more.

  Faking? I’ll show that jerk.

  My heart races while we drag the branches to our spot, tie them together with twine into a teepee shape and hang plastic sheets on the sides. The boys call to us as they build, saying we are welcome to come and seek shelter when ours falls apart, that in phase two they’re going to add a hot tub. Cybil gives them the finger, but they laugh, taking it as the spirit of competition.

  “Whoa, you’re on fire,” Kerry says as I yank and pull at a plastic sheet, trying to get it to fit perfectly. “I’d want you with me any day in the wilds.”

  Megan, though, has finally clued in that something is off. She looks me in the eye. “You all right?”

  I nod and tug harder, and suddenly there’s a loud creaking sound. I reach up to the point of our teepee, but it’s too late: the twine has come untied, and our frame is tilting to one side. Kerry screeches and tries to hold it together, but everything comes down in one dramatic crash. We stand there, helpless, staring at our hard work turned into a pile of plastic and wood.

  Applause erupts across the field, and Harrison’s buddy yells, “Yes!”

  Megan is watching me, and I can imagine what Mother has told her: She doesn’t handle stress well; she might lash out in anger; she’s unpredictable. My body is almost vibrating, so I take deep breaths and count to ten in my mind as we take stock of the rubble of our shelter. Kerry lifts the biggest branch, struggling to prop it back up, but Megan’s eyes stay on me.

  She grabs my arm and pulls me aside. “What’s going on?” she says. Kerry and Cybil are frantically picking up the pieces of our shelter, yelling directions at each other.

  I don’t answer, but she leans in closer. “You could always tell me everything, Jess. I know you. You look pissed.”

  She’s right, and even if she doesn’t know the Me of right now, Mother has told me that Megan has been my best friend since kindergarten. Maybe it’s time I let her in. “Harrison,” I say. “He thinks I’m faking.”

  Her eyes open wide. “What? Seriously? That’s ridiculous. You want me to talk to him?”

  “No!” I say, a little too loudly.

  Kerry glances our way. She and Cybil have the shelter halfway up and are retying some of the branches. Our faces must show that Megan and I are in the middle of a serious chat, because Kerry doesn’t ask us to pick up the slack.

  “No,” I whisper. “I want to punch his lights out, but I don’t want to make a scene. He’s a royal asshole, and I was obviously an imbecile for ever liking him.”

  Megan glances in the direction of Harrison’s team. They are sitting cross-legged inside their shelter, pretending to smoke pipes made out of sticks.

  “Well,” she says, “don’t get too worked up about it. He’s a good guy, actually.”

  They’re only words, but it feels like she’s punched me in the gut—hard. Worked up? Good guy? And she’s supposed to be my best friend? My expression obviously says it all, because she reaches for my arm, talking fast. “Dumb thing to say, for sure. You should be mad, of course. But sometimes we don’t know how to act around you, Jess. We’re trying our best.”

  Dr. K. would be proud, I think, when I say, in what I hope sounds like a calm voice, “I’m going home now.” And I walk away across the field, toward the school doors.

  Part III:

  SURRENDER

  Man stands in his own shadow and wonders why it’s dark.

  —Zen Proverb

  Pen Pals

  I sit on a chair outside the principal’s office and wait until Mother comes marching down the hall toward me, her face scrunched in worry.

  “What happened?” she asks. “Are you okay?”

  I shrug and follow her to the car. As we pull out of the parking lot, she sighs loudly a few times. “Seriously, Jessica. Are you going to tell me what’s going on?”

  “It’s no big deal,” I say. “I got tired.” She doesn’t look convinced, but when we get home she doesn’t stop me from heading straight to my room.

  I am living a lie, trying to pretend to be someone I am not. And when I think I understand the Girl even a little, I get it wrong. This guy, Harrison. How could she like such a jerk? I stand in the middle of the room and look around at all the things the Girl chose to put here: the books, the posters, the fuzzy pillows. What I see on the shelves catches me by surprise.

  All those little frogs I smashed on the night of the party look fine, staring up at me like nothing happened. I step closer and study the fine cracks and the clear blobs of glue keeping the damaged parts together. Whoever fixed them must have spent hours. I should be touched. But somehow I’m not convinced they did it for me, exactly—more for the Girl or the memory of her.

  I’m living in a museum dedicated to a beloved daughter, sister and friend. One who no longer exists. I march over to the mirror and stare the Girl down.

  “You,” I say. “Who are you anyway? I’m getting tired of all this. Can’t you help me out a little?”

  She peers back at me, and I detect a slight twinkle in her eyes. I lean closer, shaking a finger. “You’re not faking, are you? Like Harrison said? You wouldn’t hide from me on purpose?”

  No answer and no reaction. I could reach out and smack that face, punch the glass until it shatters into pieces. But what’s the point? I’ve been down that road, and it never brings me any closer to understanding her. I get so close to the glass that my breathing makes a small circle of fog. “Are you even listening to anything I say?”

  And it hits me all of a sudden how this would look if someone saw me talking to my reflection. Totally demented. But then again, Dr. K. did ask me to write the Girl a letter. Is that really any different?

  “Fine,” I say to the Girl, backing up. I swipe the haze from the glass. “I’ll write to you then. You better read it!”

  I walk over to my desk and pull out a sheet of paper and a pen.

  Dear Jessie,

  Hi.

  I chew the end of the ballpoint pen. What is it I want her to know, exactly?

  You don’t know me, but I am the new you
. The person who has taken over your life.

  As soon as I put ink to paper again, my hand picks up speed, the ideas coming without any thinking at all.

  I feel awkward writing this, and to be honest I don’t see the point, but hey, I have to do my homework.

  I’ll cut to the chase. I’m getting pretty frustrated with you. You know everything I need to know, but you are not letting me in at all. What happened on that Very Bad Day? Why did you go in the bison pen when you knew you weren’t supposed to? Why did you get us in this fix? It doesn’t sound like something you would do, breaking the rules like that.

  Deep down, though, I don’t blame you. Really, all I want is to know you.

  How are you? Are you lonely where you are? Where are you anyway? Do you feel trapped, like there’s a huge wall blocking you, keeping you out? Do you watch me screwing things up and wish you could jump back in and take control? I bet you do. Cause I am seriously a mess.

  Everyone wants me to be you, but I’m not. The crazy thing is, I don’t feel like you, but I’m not me either. I guess I’m nobody. I’m truly sorry that you’ve been replaced by such a nobody.

  Things are not so great here in your life. I don’t know if you used to like being here. Probably you did. Because you got to choose your friends and what you did and where you went and what you wore and what you put in your room. Not me. I’ve shown up here, and I have to live with the choices you made and pretend to like it all. Well, most of it is lame. No insult. I’m sure it was all fine for you, but to me it’s pure fluff.

  More than anything, I wish you would come back and take over. Just slip back into this body and start being yourself, and everyone would be so happy. Yeah, they would say, that dumb cow is gone. You’re back! Our nice normal sweet Jessie. No more temper tantrums and messy room and hanging out on the couch all day.

  Trying to be you is a real bitch.

  Love,

  Your new self

  I read the letter once, then again. It felt sort of good to write it, but where does it leave me? It’s not like the Girl is actually going to write me back.

  Snapping

  Stephen does not tell his usual jokes at dinner, nor does he fill us in on his science experiments. He nibbles at his spaghetti until Dad asks me how my first day of school went.

  “I survived,” I say.

  “So you get to take the bus with me now, right?” Stephen asks.

  I shrug and he looks back at me, confused. The poor kid is still reeling from the farm being up for sale. I don’t have the heart to tell him that we won’t be going to school together anytime soon either.

  After loading the dishwasher, we all sit in the living room watching TV, but the mood is somber. I feel like I’m suffocating. “I need fresh air,” I say, and I march to the front closet and grab my coat. I open the door and step onto the front steps, letting the door swing shut behind me.

  The air is slightly cool and filled with the musky smell of fresh-cut wood—Dad must have been cutting logs for the fireplace. I whistle, and Ginger comes scurrying to my side. She rubs against my leg and looks up at me with her soft brown eyes.

  “Hey, girl,” I say.

  A ding comes from my pocket, and I find a new text on my cell. Sorry about today. Please call me. It’s Megan. No way am I ready to forgive her yet.

  I reach down and rub Ginger’s ears. “You love me, don’t you?”

  Her tongue tickles when she licks my hand. Now this is a real best friend.

  “All right, all right. Take it easy.” I step off the deck and she trots ahead of me, picking up a stick on the lawn and bringing it back to me. Squirrels chatter in the trees, and an airplane hums in the distance.

  I’m probably overreacting with Megan. But I didn’t expect that she would actually defend Mr. Hot Shit Harrison. I am here now, though, and I’m not going to waste my time thinking about them. Mother and Dad have said that Jessica loved being outdoors, connecting with nature or whatever. And in that eulogy she wrote, she talked about being a country girl at heart. Maybe if I give it a chance it can put me in a happy place too.

  I breathe deeply and look around at the trees and the endless sky, and at Ginger sitting at my feet. What made the Girl love this place so much? Was it the crazy squirrels diving from branch to branch, the wisps of cloud above the treetops, the smell of the air?

  “It doesn’t matter,” I say out loud. “Live in the now.”

  I’m starting to sound like a shrink.

  An idea comes to me. Maybe I can take my own photos, add to the Girl’s albums or maybe even hang a few on the wall. Things seen through my eyes, not hers. I click on the camera icon on my phone and walk toward the pines, holding the phone in front of me to see the world on its screen. Every few steps I pause to admire the framed art I’ve created: branches jutting out into the sky, clumps of moss. Halfway into the strip of trees lining the backyard, something grabs my attention. A weathered picnic table, sitting forgotten among the pines, enters my little oblong world. Before I have a chance to think about it, my finger pushes the button and a soft click breaks the stillness.

  I walk over to the table, brush aside the leaves on the seat and sit down. My photo of the picnic table is somehow better than the real thing—there’s nothing else to detract from it, no world to swallow it up and make it invisible.

  It’s only a pathetic piece of yard furniture, I know, but my throat feels tight, like I might cry. A squirrel chatters above me, sending me leaping up from the table, and I laugh out loud.

  “Lunatic,” I say—about myself, not the squirrel.

  I turn my lens toward the tree branches, the sky, everything around me, and click away. I take photo after photo, of birds and squirrels and branches and clouds and Ginger, until my arms grow tired. I shut off my phone and breathe in the air. Maybe the Girl was on to something with that nature kick of hers.

  Ginger puts her soft head in my lap, and a beautiful mellowness surrounds me. My head feels heavy, so I close my eyes and rest it on the tabletop. My breathing grows deep. In my mind I see birds swooping. And then a voice comes in my head.

  “Isn’t it incredible?”

  A scene tiptoes into my mind, like someone tapping me on the shoulder and gently turning me around to see.

  I am in a long hall that opens up into high glass ceilings. At the end of the vast room is a stone building with ancient-looking columns rising at its sides. “Amazing,” a soft voice says, and I turn to see a man, camera hanging from his neck, standing beside me. He wears a red plaid shirt and jeans, and his face is flushed with excitement. He has a beard, but I know who it is: it’s Dad.

  “Can we go in?” I say, and he smiles.

  “Of course, of course,” he says. “It’s like taking a step back in time, thousands of years.” We stroll toward the building, and as we get closer I see that another building, also faded a dusty gray, lies on the other side. “The Temple of Dendur.” Dad’s voice echoes off the walls. “All the way from Egypt.”

  “Wow,” I say and step through the columns.

  A loud chatter makes my eyes pop open, and when I sit up there is a squirrel right there on the edge of the picnic table, looking at me. Ginger perks up too and growls, sending the squirrel scurrying off the table and up the trunk of a tree.

  I wish I could go back to the memory, just close my eyes and transport myself to that room, that day with Dad. But the spell is broken.

  “That was so real,” I say to Ginger. “And”—it sinks in as I’m saying it—“not very long ago, I think.” I rub her ears and she looks up at me, her eyes so expressive I could swear she understands.

  This is a pretty big deal. A recent memory. Everything else up to now—what little there has been—has been childhood stuff.

  “Jess?” Mother calls. “You okay out there?”

  I shove the phone into my pocket and stroll back to the house. Mother holds the door open for me. “Megan called,” she says. “She’s been trying to reach you on your cell.” I nod an
d make my way up to my room, where I sit on the bed, unmoving. But I’m not thinking about Megan or Harrison. I play the scene in the temple over and over in my mind, letting the feeling of it wash over me. Was it an exhibit of some kind? A trip Dad and I took?

  Tonight I need to talk to Dad, to keep my promise to Stephen and to tell him that I remember the temple. For now, I will go downstairs and act normal. When I put my phone on my desk, something long and brown in the pencil holder catches my eye. I grab it and laugh out loud: it’s the fudge-bar stick, with Tarin’s phone number on it.

  I fiddle with the stick a minute, considering options. The old Jessie probably wouldn’t have liked Tarin, would have thought she was weird. But maybe the fresh air has gotten to my head, and I’m riding some kind of high from the temple memory and taking those photos. Because I don’t give a crap what the Girl would think.

  I pick up my phone and punch in Tarin’s number.

  Throw Me a Line

  Dad goes over to his friend’s house after dinner to help again with the calves, and I can’t keep my eyes open long enough to stay up for him. I need to keep my promise to Stephen, but now it’s morning, Dad is sleeping in, and Mother is taking me to my play date with Tarin.

  We’ve only driven a few minutes down the gravel road, clouds of dust billowing behind us, when Mother slows down and signals even though there’s no other car in sight. We turn into a bumpy driveway and there, on the edge of what isn’t exactly a yard but more of a field, is a tiny white house. There are a few sheds, the paint mostly peeled off, and a small dirt patch that must be a garden in the making.

  When I’d called Tarin, she said, “It’s about time! Get your butt over here already.”

  “We probably could have walked here,” Mother says. “It’s less than a mile. But I’ve got that soup on the stove to get back to.”

  She’s waiting, hands tight on the steering wheel, and it hits me: she wants me to go in. Alone. I look at that little place and suddenly my breakfast isn’t sitting so well in my stomach. What do I have in common with this girl other than a few random moments spent in a hospital lounge?