Memoirs of a Teenage Amnesiac

by Gabrielle Zevin

  “You sure you’re ready?”

  I wasn’t necessarily, but it didn’t seem particularly appealing to have my dad driving me everywhere either.

  “It’s only been about three weeks, kid. I’m just not sure it’s safe.”

  But I had to start figuring these things out, you know?

  We went out to the car. I put the key in the ignition and turned it. The movement seemed familiar enough.

  I was about to step on the gas when Dad said, “You need to shift the car into reverse.”

  “Oh, right,” I said as I did it.

  I was about to step on the gas for the second time when Dad said, “You’ll want to look in the rearview mirror to see who’s coming. Then over your shoulder to check the blind spot.”

  “Right. Right.” The road was empty in both directions.

  I started to back up the car. I had just eased my bumper out of the driveway when a horn blasted three times. I slammed on the brakes as an SUV raced by, barely missing us.

  “Moron!” Dad yelled, though surely no one could hear him except me. “A lot of people speed through this area. Don’t worry about it.”

  But I was worried about it. I didn’t feel at all confident that I knew how to drive anymore. “I should know how to do this!” I banged my fist on the dashboard. Of all the things that had happened, this struck me as particularly humiliating. I felt childish and helpless and weak and stupid and suffocated. I hated that Dad or anyone else had to watch me be so pathetic. I needed to get the hell out of that car.

  I didn’t even turn off the ignition. I just slammed the door and ran straight to my room.

  Dad followed me. “Naomi, wait! I want to talk for a second!”

  I turned slowly. “What?”

  “I’m…You’ll drive when you’re ready. We can try again next week. No rush.”

  Dad’s eyes were bloodshot. He looked like he hadn’t been sleeping, and he never slept much to begin with. “You look kind of tired, Dad.”

  Dad sighed. “I stayed up late watching a nature program. It was about lemmings. You know how people used to think they all committed suicide when the population got too big?”

  “Sort of.”

  “Turns out they have really bad eyesight.”

  “Since when do you watch those?” I asked. My dad was not really a “nature” guy.

  Dad shook his head. “Not sure. Since the divorce, I guess. I’ll drive you to school tomorrow, okay?”

  I hadn’t been dreading school, but only because I hadn’t been thinking about it.

  In the hospital, they had tested my cognitive skills and concluded that my brain was, aside from the memory loss, normal. Whatever normal meant. (Or as Dad had joked, “No more weird than it was before.”) I could remember math and science, but had forgotten entire books I had read and most of history, world and, of course, personal. I still had the ability to learn new things, and everything before seventh grade, so, all things considered, it could have been far worse. Some people with head traumas end up having months or even years of physical therapy where they have to be taught everything all over again—reading, writing, talking, walking, even bathing and going to the bathroom. Some people end up with their heads shaved or having to wear a helmet. I’m sure either would have gone over really well at my high school.

  The main thing that worried me about school was not the work, but the kids. To look at me, no one would even think anything much had happened—all I had were bruises and some stitches—but inside, I felt different. I worried about not recognizing people and not acting the right way. I worried about having to explain things when I barely understood them myself. I worried about everyone staring at me and what they would say. This was why I’d tried not to think about school at all.

  The next morning at Tom Purdue, most of the kids who were getting dropped off looked young, like freshmen or sophomores. Sitting in the passenger seat of Dad’s car, I felt more than a little melancholy that I hadn’t driven myself.

  “You ready?” Dad asked.

  “No,” I replied.

  I had written my schedule on my hand the previous night; I had a map of the school; I knew the combination to my locker; Dad had called all my teachers. Why was it so hard to open the car door?

  Dad pulled a small, rectangular black box out of his jacket pocket. “Your mom wanted me to give this to you. It came last Friday.”

  “I don’t want anything from her,” I said.

  “Fine by me. I’m just the messenger,” Dad said.

  Attached to the box was a gift card in her distinctive, artistic scrawl: “Cupcake, Dad said you could use these. Have a good first day back. I love you, Mom.” But I wasn’t her cupcake or anyone else’s, and I hated being bribed. I didn’t even care what was inside the box. I wouldn’t like it on principle.

  Then again, it’s really difficult to resist opening a present once it’s already right there on your lap.

  So I lifted the lid. Inside was an extremely expensive-looking pair of silver-framed sunglasses.

  I looked at Dad. “You told her about the light?”

  “She’s still your mother, kid.”

  A “fun” side effect of my accident was that I felt like I was living in the North Pole. Everything seemed incredibly bright (like I imagine the polar caps probably are in person) and I was usually freezing, even though it was still September. I guess this sort of thing can happen with head injuries. As it was explained to me, the wires in your brain have to reroute, and sometimes they send out incorrect or too much information. The upshot was that I was cold when it was warm and weirdly sensitive to light, even when it really wasn’t all that bright.

  Despite this, I was still going to toss Mom’s present out the window onto the school driveway. I wanted someone to run over them with a car.

  It was probably a reflex more than anything, but I made the mistake of putting them on.

  The morning was bright—whether it was uncommonly so, I could not say for certain—and my head did throb less behind the lenses. When I looked in the passenger mirror, I saw that they also had the considerable merit of covering most of what was left of the bruising and even some of the scar that had formed over where my stitches had been.

  I’ll admit it. What truly sold me was completely shallow. I felt the tiniest bit cool.

  Maybe it was because she was an artist, but my mom had good taste. I had to give her that. The woman always knew exactly what a person should wear.

  “You look good, kid,” Dad said.

  I ripped the note in half, handing that and the box to him. “Would you mind throwing these out for me?”

  I pushed the car door open and got out of Dad’s car. I left the sunglasses on. Just because my mom was a gigantic slut was no reason to pass up a perfectly good pair of shades.

  4

  PEOPLE WERE EITHER STARING AT ME OR AVOIDING my gaze entirely. I was glad for the sunglasses because no one knew which way I was looking. I thought I heard kids whispering my name, but I couldn’t make out what they were saying. Maybe I didn’t even want to know what they were saying. Maybe they weren’t saying anything. Maybe it was all in my head.

  I hadn’t mentioned to Will or Ace that I was coming back to school that day. I hadn’t wanted to make a big deal of it. Walking up the steps of Tom Purdue, I sort of wished I had told someone.

  Once I was inside the main hallway, I scanned the crowd for a familiar face—James, Will, Ace—but I didn’t see anyone I knew. Kids and even a few teachers said hello to me. I smiled in return. I had no idea who any of them were.

  We had moved to Tarrytown the year I turned twelve. I had gone to Tarrytown Elementary for sixth grade before switching to Tom Purdue for junior and senior high. Unfortunately, that’s where my memory stopped. All these people were strangers to me. I felt like the new girl. Actually, it was worse than that. I’d been the new kid before, and at least then everyone knows where you stand. They know they don’t know you.

  I walked down t
he hallway to where my locker supposedly was, number 13002. I tried the combination that Will had given me in the packet with my schedule and assignments, but it didn’t work. I tried it again. Still nothing. In frustration, I banged on the locker with my fist. Someone tapped me on the shoulder.

  “You have to make an extra clockwise turn before stopping at the final number,” said a very pale girl with dyed cranberry-red hair. She had on black worker boots with her kilt, and I could see rainbow-striped socks barely peeking out over the top of the boots.

  I took her advice and the locker opened. “Thanks,” I said.

  “No problem, Nomi.”

  The girl looked familiar, though I couldn’t quite place her at first.

  “I know you,” I said. She had been in my class at Tarrytown Elementary. Back then, Alice Leeds had had long blond hair that she often wore parted in braids. “Alice?” I asked.

  “I didn’t know if you’d remember me. Everyone’s heard about your head.”

  I explained how I could remember everything before seventh grade, which included Mrs. Bloomfield’s sixth-grade class.

  “Are we still friends?” I asked her.

  “Mmm, not so much. We sort of drifted, I guess.” Alice shrugged. “See you around,” she said as she left.

  “See you.”

  I was wondering if we’d had a falling-out or if it was like she said, we’d just “drifted,” when the bell rang. I tossed a bunch of books inside the locker and slammed it shut. I looked down at my hand where I had written “Precalculus, Mrs. Tarkington, 203.”

  When something happens, by which I mean something big like illness or death, there are some people who prefer to act as if nothing has happened. My homeroom and precalculus teacher, Mrs. Tarkington, was one of those people. While I didn’t necessarily want anyone making a fuss, it was even more awkward when there was no mention at all.

  Although all my teachers had been informed of my condition, Mrs. Tarkington did not waste time asking how I was or anything like that. She did not feel the need to tell me where my seat was either. A friendly boy with round glasses whispered to me, “Naomi Porter. We sit alphabetically. You’re behind me. Patten, Roger.”

  “Thanks,” I said.

  I sat down, and he turned over his shoulder and shook my hand. “We’re also on yearbook together. I’m not a creative like you; I just sell the ads in the back. Landsman got everyone up to speed on your condition. We were going to send a card, but luckily you got back pretty fast. Awesome glasses—”

  “Mr. Patten, why do I hear whispering during the morning announcements?” Mrs. Tarkington asked.

  “Sorry,” I mouthed.

  Roger smiled and shrugged.

  As for the work, it was the beginning of the school year, so the class was still reviewing algebra II and trigonometry. Luckily, I remembered both.

  Less luckily, I had somehow left my math book in my locker. Mrs. Tarkington lent me a spare, but you could tell it really put her out.

  At the end of the class, Mrs. Tarkington pulled me aside. “Miss Porter, I let you get away with it today,” she said, “but it is not acceptable to wear sunglasses in the classroom.”

  I tried to explain about the wires in my brain and all that, but you could tell she thought it was just an excuse. Maybe it partially was, but I still wanted to wear my sunglasses. I felt safer behind them. She waved her hand to dismiss me. “Don’t do it again.”

  American history was second period, and none of it was particularly familiar. But then, it didn’t seem like anyone else knew much more than me. Plus, it was all written down in the book, so I didn’t think it would take much doing to catch up.

  I got lost going to third period, English, because it was held in a room just off the school library that wasn’t indicated on the map. When I finally got there, Mrs. Landsman embraced me as if I were her long-lost daughter. I took that to mean we were close.

  “Naomi Porter, we were so worried about you!” Her hold was surprisingly tight for such a small woman, and Mrs. Landsman couldn’t have been more than five feet one; I’ve been five feet seven since I was twelve, but with this little woman wrapped around my waist, I was suddenly very conscious of my height. She had Will’s bright blue eyes, crooked smile, and pale skin. Unlike Will, her hair was reddish blond and it rained down to her waist: long, straight, and parted in the middle. She had the kind of gossamer doll face where you could tell it would be incredibly easy to hurt her feelings. The nameplate on her desk said her first name was Molly, and the name suited her: girlish, but old-fashioned; sweet and open like an apple.

  “Will didn’t mention you were coming back today!”

  I confessed that I hadn’t told him.

  She wagged her finger at me. “My dear, he’s going to be absolutely outraged!” All of Mrs. Landsman’s sentences were whispery confessions ending in exclamation points. “He stayed home sick today—his stomach again—poor boy, he works too hard, but I have half a mind to call him right now!”

  Mrs. Landsman embraced me again before directing me to a seat near the front of the classroom. “Please do let me know if I can help you with anything. Anything at all!”

  Mrs. Landsman had begun the year with a drama unit, and the class was in the middle of reading Waiting for Godot aloud. All the parts had been divvied up during my absence, so I only had to listen to the other people read. The role of Estragon was read by a long-legged blond girl named Yvette Schumacher who was wearing maroon platform Mary Janes with kneesocks that had embroidered red hearts on them—in a school with uniforms, you spend a lot of time looking at the footwear for clues. I knew Yvette because she had also been in my sixth-grade class, along with Alice from the hallway. The role of Vladimir was played by Patten comma Roger from my precalc class.

  Maybe if I had started the play from the beginning it would have been more interesting or made more sense. But without context or knowing the story, it was difficult even to know what the play was about. Were the main characters in love or just friends? It was hard to tell.

  I tried to concentrate, but even when I was a little kid I hadn’t particularly liked being read to. As soon as I learned how, I always preferred to do it myself. Plus, the language in the play was so circular that I found it extraordinarily difficult to follow out loud.

  The next thing I knew, Mrs. Landsman was gently shaking me.

  “Naomi, poor darling, wake up!”

  The classroom was empty, and for a moment I forgot where I was. “I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t apologize, dear. You can read the play later. It’s fifty-something years old and will certainly keep until tomorrow. You looked so peaceful. I was considering letting you sleep even longer. Would you like to go to the infirmary for a quick rest?”

  I really was exhausted, but I knew I’d better keep plowing through my schedule. It wasn’t going to get any easier. “That’s a really nice offer, but I should go,” I said reluctantly.

  “If you’re sure…” Mrs. Landsman studied me with concern. “I think of you like one of my own, dear,” she said. “I’ll write you a note. What’s your next class?”

  I checked my hand. “Physics with Dr. Pillar.”

  “He’s a lovely gentleman. One of my favorites!” As I was six inches taller than her, Mrs. Landsman had to reach up to put her arm around my shoulders. My dad and I weren’t much in the way of huggers, but it felt nice to be touched by someone who wasn’t either a doctor or trying to get in my pants. It felt nice to be mothered.

  “You may want to stop in the washroom. A little bit of your schedule seems to have transferred to your face,” she said.

  In the girls’ bathroom, I examined myself in the mirror. The backward stamp of my schedule was indeed on my right cheek. The soap was the rough, powdery kind you only ever find in schools. It was crap for cleaning. I had to basically rub my face raw to remove my schedule, and in the process of doing that, I smudged the part that was written on my hand.

  When I finally got to physics
the lights were off because the class was in the midst of watching a DVD: an introduction to subatomic particles and string theory. I handed Dr. Pillar my note, and he smiled and pointed me to a desk.

  I took off my sunglasses and watched the movie. It was actually very relaxing. The narrator had one of those silky PBS type voices, and there was quite a bit of New Age and Philip Glass-y music to accompany the images, which were a combination of talking-head interviews featuring very nerdy adults in lab coats and short-sleeved polyester dress shirts, and computer simulations of stars and planets, forming and breaking apart and forming again. It was sort of beautiful. All those stars and planets, they reminded me of something…

  Of being in an air-conditioned planetarium.

  The air was stale like a library, but also sweaty like the sea…

  Me in a flimsy white tank top.

  With goose bumps on my arm.

  Seventies rock.

  A boy with sweaty hands.

  This feeling…

  Like anything might happen.

  I wondered if this might be an actual memory, and if it was an actual memory, was it mine? Or was it something from a book I might have read or a movie I might have seen? Even when my brain had been perfectly functional, I had done that. Taken stories from books and sort of conflated them with actual events. Not lying exactly, though some might call it that. More like borrowing. It is hard to explain just what I mean unless you’re the type of person who does it, too.

  I turned my attention back to the program. One of the physicists in the program was saying something about how when scientists first started studying the universe, it was like being in a room in the dark. But now with the new theories, they realized it wasn’t a room, but a house. Not any old house either, but a mansion with an infinite number of rooms to stumble through. I was imagining these scientists groping around in this darkened mansion. I don’t know why but I pictured the scientists as a group of drunken women, like they’d just come from a frat party. “Oh hey,” one would say to the other, “does anyone remember how in the hell we got in here in the first place?” They were still trying to get out when I fell asleep for the second time that morning.