Memoirs of a Teenage Amnesiac

by Gabrielle Zevin

  I looked across the cafeteria. Gable caught my eye. What happened next is somewhat blurry to me. He would later claim that he hadn’t, but I thought he sneered at me, then whispered something to the girl sitting to the left of him—she was a sophomore, maybe even a freshman, so I didn’t know who she was—and they both laughed, and in response, I lifted my plate with the uneaten, though still scalding-hot lasagna (all food was required by law to be heated to 176°F to avoid the bacterial epidemics that were so pervasive), and then I was running diagonally across the black-and-white linoleum floor like a bishop gone mad and just like that Gable’s head was covered with ricotta and tomato sauce.

  Gable stood, and his chair toppled over. We were face-to-face, and it was like everyone else in the dining hall had disappeared. Gable started to yell, calling me a string of names that I won’t bother to repeat here. I’d rather not type a whole long list of curse words.

  “I accept your condemnation,” I said.

  He moved to punch me but then he stopped himself. “You’re not worth it, Balanchine. You’re scum like your dead parents,” he said. “I’d rather just get you suspended.” As he left the dining hall, he tried to wipe off some of the sauce with his hand, but it didn’t do any good. The sauce was everywhere. I smiled.

  At the end of eighth period, I was delivered a summons to appear in Headmaster’s office after school.

  Most everyone managed to avoid getting into trouble on the first day of school so there weren’t that many people waiting. The door was closed which meant someone was already in the office, and a long-legged guy I didn’t know waited on the love seat in the foyer. The secretary told me I should have a seat.

  The boy was wearing a gray wool hat that he took off as I passed. He nodded, and I nodded back. He looked at me sidelong. “Food fight, right?”

  “Yeah, you could call it that.” I wasn’t in the mood for making new friends. He crossed his hands on his lap. He had calluses on his fingers and despite myself, I found this interesting.

  He must have seen me staring because he asked me what I was looking at.

  “Your hands,” I replied. “They’re kind of rough for a city boy.”

  He laughed and said, “I’m from upstate. We used to grow our own food. Most of the calluses are from that. A couple are from my guitar. I’m no good; I just like to play. The rest I can’t explain.”

  “Interesting,” I said.

  “Interesting,” he repeated. “I’m Win, by the way,” he said.

  I turned to look at him. So, this was Scarlet’s new boy? She was right. He certainly wasn’t hard to look at. Tall and thin. Tanned skin and toned arms which must have come from the farming he’d mentioned. Soft blue eyes and a mouth that seemed more inclined to smile than to frown. Not my usual type at all.

  He offered me his hand to shake, and I accepted it. “An—” I started to say.

  “Anya Balanchine, I know. Everyone can’t seem to stop talking about you today.”

  “Hmmph,” I said. I could feel my face getting flushed. “Then you probably think that I’m crazy and a slut and an addict and a mafiya princess so I don’t even know why you’re bothering to talk to me!”

  “I don’t know about here, but where I’m from, we come to our own conclusions about people.”

  “Why are you here?” I asked him.

  “That’s an awfully big question, Anya.”

  “No, I meant here outside this office. What did you do wrong?”

  “Multiple choice,” he said. “A. A few pointed comments I made in Theology. B. Headmaster wants to have a chat with the new kid about wearing hats in school. C. My schedule. I’m just too darn smart for my classes. D. My eyewitness account of the girl who poured lasagna over her boyfriend’s head. E. Headmaster’s leaving her husband and wants to run away with me. F. None of the above. G. All of the above.”

  “Ex-boyfriend,” I mumbled.

  “Good to know,” he said.

  At that moment, Headmaster’s door opened, and out came Gable. His face was pink and splotchy from where the sauce had hit him. His white dress shirt was covered in sauce, which I knew was probably bothering the heck out of him.

  Gable scowled at me and whispered, “Not worth it.”

  Headmaster poked her head out the door. “Mr. Delacroix,” she said to Win, “would it prove a terrible inconvenience to you if I saw Ms. Balanchine first?”

  He consented, and I went into the office. Headmaster shut the door behind us.

  I already knew what would happen. I was put on probation and assigned lunch duty for the rest of the week. All things considered, pouring the lasagna on Gable’s head had still been completely worth it.

  “You must learn to resolve these little relationship problems outside of Holy Trinity, Ms. Balanchine,” Headmaster said.

  “Yes, Headmaster.”

  It somehow seemed beside the point to mention that Gable had tried to date-rape me the night before.

  “I considered calling your grandmother Galina, but I know she’s been in poor health. No need to worry her.”

  “Thank you, Headmaster. I appreciate it.”

  “Honestly, Anya, I worry for you. This kind of behavior, if it becomes a pattern, could be damaging to your reputation.”

  As if she didn’t know that I’d been born with a bad reputation.

  When I left the office, my twelve-year-old sister, Natty, was sitting next to Win. Scarlet must have told her where to find me. Or maybe Natty had guessed—I was no stranger to the headmaster’s office. Natty was wearing Win’s hat. They’d obviously been introduced. What a little flirt she was! Natty was cute, too. She had long, shiny black hair. Like mine, except hers was stick-straight while I was stuck with untamable waves.

  “Sorry about stealing your place in line,” I said to Win.

  He shrugged.

  “Give Win back his hat,” I told Natty.

  “It looks good on me,” she said, batting her eyelashes.

  I took it off her head and handed it to Win. “Thanks for babysitting,” I said.

  “Stop infantilizing me,” Natty protested.

  “That’s a very good word,” Win commented.

  “Thank you,” Natty replied. “I happen to know lots of them.”

  Just to annoy Natty, I took her by the hand. We were almost to the hallway when I turned around and said, “My bet’s on C. You’re probably too smart for your schedule.”

  He winked—who winked? “I’ll never tell.”

  Natty actually sighed. “Oh,” she said. “I like that.”

  I rolled my eyes as we went out the door. “Don’t even think about it. He’s way too old for you.”

  “Only four years,” Natty said. “I asked.”

  “Well, that’s a lot when you’re twelve.”

  We had missed our regular crosstown bus and, due to MTA budget cuts, the next one wasn’t for another hour. I liked to try to be home when Leo got back from work and I decided that it would take less time for us to walk across the park back to our apartment. Daddy once told me how the park used to be when he was a kid: trees and flowers and squirrels, and lakes where people could canoe, and vendors selling every kind of food imaginable, and a zoo and hot-air balloon rides and in the summer, concerts and plays, and in the winter, ice skating and sledding. It wasn’t like that anymore.

  The lakes had dried up or been drained, and most of the surrounding vegetation had died. There were still a few graffiti-covered statues, broken park benches, and abandoned buildings, but I couldn’t imagine anyone willingly spending time there. For Natty and me, the park was a half mile to be gotten across as quickly as possible, preferably before nightfall when it became a gathering place for just about every undesirable in the city. Incidentally, I’m not entirely sure how it got so bad, but I imagine it was like everything else in the city—lack of money, lack of water, lack of leadership.

  Natty was pissed at me for making the crack about babysitting in front of Win, so she refused to walk with me
. We were just across the Great Lawn (which, I suppose, must have had grass at some point) when she ran ahead about twenty-five feet.

  Then fifty.

  Then one hundred.

  “Come on, Natty,” I yelled. “It’s not safe! You’ve got to stay with me!”

  “Stop calling me Natty. My name is Nataliya, and for your information, Anya Pavlova Balanchine, I can take care of myself!”

  I ran to catch up with her but by then she’d put even more distance between us. I could barely see her anymore; she was a tiny dot in a schoolgirl uniform. I ran even faster.

  Natty was behind the glass section of the enormous building that used to be an art museum (now a nightclub) and she wasn’t alone.

  An incredibly skinny child, dressed in rags and, coincidentally, a decades-old Balanchine Chocolate Factory T-shirt, was holding a gun to my sister’s head. “Now your shoes,” he said in a squeak of a voice.

  Natty sniffled as she bent down to unlace her shoes.

  I looked at the child. The boy, despite being emaciated, seemed sturdy, but I was pretty sure I could take him. I scanned the area to see if he had any accomplices. No. We were alone. The real problem was the gun and so I considered the gun.

  Now, what I did next might sound reckless to you.

  I stepped between my sister and the boy.

  “Anya! No!” my baby sister screamed.

  My dad, you see, had taught me a thing or two about guns, and this kid’s handgun didn’t have a clip. In other words, no bullets unless there was one in the chamber, and I was betting that there wasn’t.

  “Why don’t you pick on someone your own size?” I asked the boy. In point of fact, the boy was three inches shorter than Natty. Up close, I could see he was younger than I had thought—maybe eight or nine years old.

  “I’ll shoot you,” the boy said. “I’ll do it.”

  “Yeah?” I asked. “I’d like to see you try.”

  I grabbed his gun by the barrel. I thought about tossing it into the bushes, but I decided I didn’t want him terrorizing any more people. I put it in my bag. It was a nice weapon. Would have done a heck of a job killing my sister and me. Had it been functional, that is.

  “Come on, Natty. Get your stuff back from the kid.”

  “He hadn’t taken anything yet,” Natty said. She was still a bit teary.

  I nodded. I handed Natty my pocket handkerchief and told her to blow her nose.

  At this point, the would-be mugger had started to cry, too. “Gimme back my gun!” He lunged at me, but the kid was weak with hunger, I’d guess, and I barely felt him.

  “Look, I’m sorry, but you’re gonna get yourself killed waving that broken gun around.” This was true. I wouldn’t be the only person who would notice he didn’t have a clip and, likely as not, the type of person who noticed such a thing would shoot the kid between the eyes without a second thought. I felt a bit bad about taking his gun, so I gave him what money I had on me. Not much, but it’d keep the kid in pizza for a night.

  Without even a moment’s reflection, he took my offerings. Then he yelled an obscene name at me and disappeared into the park.

  Natty gave me her hand, and we walked in silence until we were in the relative safety of Fifth Avenue.

  “Why’d you do that, Annie?” she whispered as we were waiting for a walk signal. I could barely hear her above the city noise. “Why’d you give him all that stuff after he tried to rob me?”

  “Because he was less fortunate than us, Natty. And Daddy always said that we have to be mindful of those who are less fortunate.”

  “But Daddy killed people, didn’t he?”

  “Yes,” I admitted. “Daddy was complex.”

  “Sometimes, I can’t even remember what he looked like,” Natty said.

  “He looked like Leo,” I said. “Same height. Same black hair. Same blue eyes. But Daddy’s eyes were hard and Leo’s are soft.”

  Back at the apartment, Natty went into her bedroom, and I scrounged around for something for dinner. I was an uninspired chef but if I didn’t cook, we’d all starve. Except for Nana. Her meals were delivered to her via tube by a home-health-care worker named Imogen.

  I boiled exactly six cups of water per the package’s instructions and then threw in the macaroni. At least Leo would be happy. Macaroni and cheese was his favorite.

  I went to knock on his door to tell him the good news. There was no answer, so I opened it. He should have been home from his part-time job at the veterinary clinic for at least two hours, but his room was empty aside from his collection of stuffed lions. The lions looked at me questioningly with their dull plastic eyes.

  I went into Nana’s room. She was asleep, but I woke her up anyway.

  “Nana, did Leo say if he was going anywhere?”

  Nana reached for the rifle she kept under her bed, and then she saw that it was me. “Oh, Anya, it’s only you. You scared me, devochka.”

  “Sorry, Nana.” I kissed her on the cheek. “It’s just Leo’s not in his room. I was wondering if he said he was going anywhere.”

  Nana thought about this. “No,” she said finally.

  “Did he come home from work?” I asked, trying not to sound impatient. Clearly, Nana was having one of her less cogent days.

  Nana considered this for about a million years. “Yes.” She paused. “No.” She paused again. “I’m not sure.” Another pause. “What day of the week is this, devochka? I lose track of time.”

  “Monday,” I told her. “The first day of school, remember?”

  “Monday still?”

  “It’s almost over, Nana.”

  “Good. Good.” Nana smiled. “If it’s still Monday, that bastard Jakov came to see me today.” She meant bastard literally. Jakov (pronounced Ya-koff) Pirozhki was my father’s half brother’s illegitimate son. Jakov, who called himself Jacks, was four years older than Leo, and I had never much liked him since the time he’d had too much Smirnoff at a family wedding and tried to touch my breast. I’d been thirteen; he’d been almost twenty. Disgusting. Despite this, I’d always felt a little sorry for Jacks because of the way everyone in my family looked down on him.

  “What did Pirozhki want?”

  “To see if I was dead yet,” Nana said. She laughed and pointed to the cheap pink carnations that were sitting in a shallowly filled vase on the windowsill. I hadn’t noticed them. “Ugly, aren’t they? Flowers are so hard to come by these days, and that’s what he brings? I suppose it’s the thought that counts. Maybe Leo’s with the bastard?”

  “That’s not nice, Nana,” I said.

  “Oh, Anyaschka, I would never say it in front of him!” she protested.

  “What would Jacks want with Leo?” I had only ever known Jacks to ignore or show outright contempt for my brother.

  Nana shrugged, which was difficult for her to do considering how little mobility she had. I could see that her eyelids had begun to flutter shut. I squeezed her hand.

  Without opening her eyes, she said, “Let me know when you find Leonyd.”

  I went back into the kitchen to tend to the macaroni. I called Leo’s job to see if he was still there. They said he’d left at four as usual. I didn’t like not knowing where my brother was. He might be nineteen, three years my senior, but he was and would always be my responsibility.

  Not long before my father was killed, Daddy made me promise that if anything ever happened to him, I would take care of Leo. I’d only been nine years old at the time, roughly the same age as that little mugger, and too young to really know what I was agreeing to. “Leo is a gentle soul,” Daddy had said. “He isn’t fit for our world, devochka. We must do everything we can to protect him.” I’d nodded, not quite understanding that Daddy had sworn me to a lifelong commitment.

  Leo hadn’t been born “special.” He had been like any kid, if not, from my father’s point of view, better. Smart, the spitting image of Daddy, and best of all, the first born son. Daddy had even given him his name. Leo was actually Leonyd B
alanchine, Jr.

  The year Leo was nine, he and my mother had been driving out to Long Island to visit my maternal grandmother. My sister and I (ages two and six) had strep throat and had to stay behind. Daddy had agreed to stay with us, though I doubt it was much of a sacrifice as he’d never been able to tolerate Grandma Phoebe.

  The hit had been meant for Daddy, of course.

  My mother was killed instantly. Two shots through the windshield and straight through her lovely forehead and honey-scented chestnut curls.

  The car my mother had been driving slammed into a tree as did Leo’s head.

  He lived, but he couldn’t talk anymore. Or read. Or walk. My father had him sent to the best rehabilitation center followed by the best school for learning disabilities. And Leo certainly got a lot better, but he would never be the same. They said my brother would always have the intellect of an eight-year-old. They said my brother was lucky. And he was. Though I knew his limitations frustrated him, Leo managed a lot with the intellect he had. He had a job where everyone thought he was a hard worker, and he was a good brother to Natty and me. When Nana died, Leo would become our guardian—just until I turned eighteen.

  I had added the cheese sauce and was considering calling the cops (for all the good that would do) when I heard the front door open.

  Leo bounded into the kitchen. “You’re making macaroni, Annie!” He threw his arms around me. “I have the best sister!”

  I pushed Leo gently away. “Where were you? I was crazy worried. If you’re going out, you’re supposed to either tell Nana or write me a note.”

  Leo’s face fell. “Don’t be mad, Annie. I was with our family. You said it was okay as long as I was with family.”

  I shook my head. “I only meant Nana, Natty, or me. Immediate family. That means—”

  Leo interrupted me. “I know what that means. You didn’t say immediate.”

  I was pretty sure I had, but what ever.

  “Jacks told me you wouldn’t mind,” Leo continued. “He said he was family, and you wouldn’t mind.”