Arnesto Modesto

by Darren Johnson

  He stared in disbelief at the ball in his glove for a moment, but then became aware of the multiple people yelling at him. Snapping back to reality, he started to throw the ball to the second baseman — who wasn’t there. Becoming only the third player to recognize his team didn’t have anyone covering second — after Todd and Jon — he had no choice but to run for second himself. Todd realized he wasn’t going to make it and tried to turn around to return to first, but couldn’t reverse in time and Arnesto tagged him out.

  “Good out,” the coach yelled. He enjoyed throwing praise to students he felt seldom deserved any. “Alright, let’s bring it in. Somebody grab those bats.”

  “Who won?” a kid named Josh asked.

  “You did,” the coach said. “Only you though, nobody else.”

  “Sweet,” Josh said.

  Arnesto sauntered inside the school to his locker, still mulling over what had just happened.

  “Golden Glove Boy!” Josh yelled at Arnesto while strutting by. Arnesto’s best friend Pete Morgan was at his own locker a few feet away. Pete looked at Josh then at Arnesto.

  “What was that about?” Pete asked.

  “I made a good play in softball,” Arnesto said.

  “Wow, what’s that like?”

  “Kinda weird actually. I’ll tell you about it after school,” Arnesto said, shutting his locker.

  “Wait,” Pete called after him. “We’re playing softball today? It’s freezing out there!”

  ***

  “You’ve got five red lines in a row coming up,” Pete said.

  “Good,” Arnesto replied. Having enjoyed a nice dinner at Pete’s house, the boys had retired to the basement, where they waxed philosophical while playing split screen Tetris. It was always a friendly competition to see who could survive the longest. Pete, being better at the game, got ahead of Arnesto, meaning he could warn his less skilled friend about upcoming tetrominoes. In this case, the news was quite welcome, as the series of straight, red line pieces would help Arnesto clear out some of his uncomfortably high tower.

  “So you made a good play in gym?” Pete asked.

  “Dude, it was weird. I was playing short, and Jon Kelley used me as a cutoff from left.”

  “What happened?”

  “I tagged out Shea.”

  “Ooh,” Pete winced. “I wouldn’t piss off Shea.”

  “The weird part is I never saw Jon throw the ball. I saw him start to, but I looked away, he hummed the ball right at my head, and I caught it,” Arnesto said.

  “That’s cool. All this video game playing must have given you good reflexes.”

  “No, Pete,” Arnesto said, pausing the game. “I never saw the ball. The crazy thing is I don’t think I was supposed to catch Jon’s throw. I think — I think I was supposed to get hit.”

  “What do you mean? Is that why you’ve been rubbing your nose all night?”

  “Yeah. I think it hit me right here,” Arnesto said, rubbing his index finger down the bridge of his nose.

  “But it didn’t. You caught it. Can we unpause the game now? I was in the zone.”

  “Yeah, sorry,” Arnesto said and unpaused. “Don’t think I’m crazy, but it’s like I saw it happen. Well, I never saw the ball hit me, but I saw the aftermath. Being on the ground, blood on my shirt, my nose hurting like hell, somebody helping me to the nurse’s office… Also, the ridge of my nose gets permanently flattened. Not a lot, but if you saw it in before and after pictures, you could tell the difference.”

  “So, you had a vision? Damn it. Seven squares in a row. Seven fucking squares,” Pete moaned.

  “I don’t think so. It’s more like... like I remembered it.”

  “How is that different from a vision?” Pete asked.

  “Because I still remember it.” Arnesto looked over at Pete, who quickly glanced over and then back at the television with a concerned face.

  “You’re looking at me like I’m crazy,” Arnesto said.

  “I’m not looking at you. I’m looking at all the squares building up on your side.”

  “Shit.” Arnesto was already in trouble, and the square pieces put the final nail in the coffin. He finished with 392 lines, while Pete was still going strong at 405. Knowing there wouldn’t be time for him to start a new game, Arnesto put down the controller and leaned back against the couch. They both watched Pete’s side of the screen for a while until Pete finally broke the silence.

  “Do you remember the lottery numbers?” he asked, joking.

  “It hurt like hell!” Arnesto said. “You know what, forget I said anything. I must be losing it.”

  “Okay,” Pete said, still focused on the game.

  ***

  The next day, Arnesto was still troubled by his good softball play that he felt shouldn’t have happened. He stopped by the nurse’s station after his last class and peered in from the doorway. His eyes scoured the room, looking for something, anything that would help him remember. This would have been the first place he would have gone with a smooshed nose, and he felt like he had come there. So why couldn’t he remember anything new? Was it possible he had an overactive imagination?

  “Can I help you?” the nurse asked.

  “Just browsing,” Arnesto said as he turned around and headed for his locker. He was starting to realize how absurd it all sounded and regretted mentioning it to Pete. When he reached his locker, he saw Pete was already there. They had gone the whole day without broaching the topic and Arnesto hoped it would stay that way.

  “Hey,” Arnesto said.

  “Hey,” Pete said. “I almost forgot, how was gym class today?”

  “Fine,” Arnesto said dryly. “How was your gym class?”

  “You know why I’m asking.”

  “Look, about what I said last night, I was messing with you,” lied Arnesto. “Can we pretend we never had that conversation?”

  “I don’t think you were lying,” Pete said.

  “So, you believe me?”

  “Do I believe you had a... precognition? Hell no. But I believe something happened. Nothing supernatural — probably a crossed wire in your brain — but you sure sounded sincere when you were telling me.” Arnesto looked mildly uncomfortable but didn’t say anything, so Pete continued. “You said you still remembered being hit by that softball. Wouldn’t that mean you have two memories? To make it easier, let’s say we’re making up a story for writing class.”

  “So, hypothetically?” Arnesto asked. Pete nodded. “Well, in this hypothetical world, my amazing friend… Blarnesto had this odd experience — this one time.” He held up his index finger for emphasis. “And yes, he has both memories.”

  Pete chuckled. “Then my amazing friend, Blete, asks him what else is different about the memories besides the obvious hit/no-hit action.”

  “Well,” Arnesto said, “Blarnesto clearly remembers making the catch. But while he also remembers getting hit and the ensuing aftermath, it’s not as clear.”

  “Is it more fuzzy, like a dream?” Pete asked.

  “More like... faded. Like the memory is old.”

  “Very interesting. Oh, look, it’s Blosh,” Pete said, motioning toward an oblivious Josh walking by. By now the increased jocularity had dissolved any tension Arnesto felt. “Blete requests Blarnesto inform him should any further incidents occur.”

  “Blarnesto agrees as long as Blete promises to never mention this to anyone. Ever.”

  “Fine, Blete promises,” Pete said.

  “Okay. Wait, I think I’m having another one now.” Arnesto put his hand to his temple. “Yes. See Stephanie Summers over there?” He motioned toward their attractive classmate gathering her things from her locker across the hall. “I’m going to go ask her out and she’s going to say — hold on, I’m remembering it now — yes, she’s going to say, ‘Piss off, loser.'" Arnesto looked her up and down but otherwise remained motionless. A few moments later, she shut her locker and walked away.

  “Well, why didn’t you talk to h
er?” Pete asked.

  “I obviously knew what she was going to say. I’m not going to let her reject me twice.”

  “Ha ha, well damn, I’m convinced!” Pete said.

  Arnesto spent the next few days trying to see if he could have any more flashes of memory, but none came. He would look at someone and think, She’s going to say this! or He’s going to do that! But he was always wrong. One time he thought he predicted the exchange student arguing with the teacher, but as he couldn’t recall any details, he quickly dismissed the idea. Besides, she was generally argumentative.

  No recalled conversations, no more surprise athletic plays in gym, nothing. Arnesto gave up. High school reverted to its usual boring state, though perhaps not for Clarence Hudson, who was holding his girlfriend Jamie Mann at her locker and moving in for the kiss.

  He’s a lucky guy, thought Arnesto, though not that lucky. She’s going to turn her head away each time he tries to kiss her then laugh uncomfortably before saying, ‘Get out of here!’ Ugh, why am I still trying to remember future events— Before he could finish his thought, it happened.

  First dodging right then left, Jamie denied Clarence a kiss, then laughed and said, “Not here!” Arnesto froze, his mouth fell open. Jamie noticed Arnesto watching them and led her boyfriend away. Arnesto felt embarrassed that they had caught him watching, and gave them a head start before following them to Trigonometry.

  Arnesto sat in the middle of the back row where he could observe everyone, thinking about what he had just witnessed. Fate seemed to be teasing him. The scene had almost played out the way he imagined, but the wording was off. He felt sure she had said, “Get out of here!” He wished he could get close enough to a girl to be told, “Get out of here!”

  He tried paying attention to the lecture. Mr. Massey was a great teacher and friendly with the students, but that day, Arnesto couldn’t focus. He was lucky that math came easy enough to him that he could get away with not paying attention, but he would gladly trade in some of that skill for better luck with the ladies. He looked at Jamie seated at the right side of the class then at Clarence in the front row talking to his friend next to him. Hold on, the guy has a girlfriend and doesn’t even sit with her? Get out of here, Clarence!

  “Get out of here!” Mr. Massey yelled at Clarence, in a voice loud enough that most of the class jumped. Nobody moved, not even Clarence, who was as dumbfounded as everyone else. Mr. Massey pointed a finger at him, flicked it toward the door, and said, “Go.”

  The teacher everybody liked had yelled at — and kicked out — a student in Honors Trig. People started looking around to verify that everyone was witnessing the same thing. But that wasn’t Arnesto’s focus. All he could think about was how Mr. Massey had used the exact words from his memory. Somehow the two memories had mixed.

  Mr. Massey reverted to his usual self like nothing happened. “Can anyone tell me what this is?” Nobody volunteered, either because they were still in shock or they didn’t know the answer, or a combination of the two. Arnesto felt a sense of foreboding. Sure enough, Mr. Massey called on the one student he could usually count on to answer questions that eluded the rest of the class. “Arnesto?”

  Arnesto panicked. He didn’t want to disappoint his teacher by being another student not paying attention. He hastily scanned the blackboard but found no clues. What had Mr. Massey been talking about? He couldn’t remember, and he didn’t even know what “this” meant. He was taking too long. Quick! Say, “I don’t know.”

  Arnesto opened his mouth, but he did not say, “I don’t know.” Instead, he asked in a strained voice, “The Fibonacci sequence?”

  Mr. Massey laughed, “Very good” and resumed his lecture as every other student in class turned their head at Arnesto in unison.

  Arnesto was even more incapable of focusing now; his mind was all aflutter. Did all that really happen?! Jamie’s head-turning, “Get out of here!”, Fibonacci. Sure, I got some of the details wrong, but I couldn’t have guessed the rest. But did I remember them before they happened, or am I only remembering them after the fact? The former isn’t possible, though I still remember my nose getting flattened. He decided he wouldn’t tell Pete about this. He wouldn’t mention anything to anyone until he had hard evidence of what was happening to him, which he had no idea how to collect.

  Arnesto resumed trying to remember things, but his efforts were again in vain. Still, Arnesto remained ever vigilant. The problem was high school was boring. Sure, there were a few moments here and there that seemed familiar. But there was nothing as strong as Clarence’s rejection/ejection combo and even that feeling was flimsier every time he thought about it.

  A few weeks passed without any results, and Arnesto had again all but given up. That was until the powderpuff game between the junior and senior girls.

  It was a cold November night, and Arnesto and Pete were shivering in the stands. Pete suggested they walk around to warm up a little. As they walked amongst the crowd watching from the track surrounding the football field, they steered clear of a group of senior boys carrying an inflated crocodile balloon for some reason.

  Arnesto looked back at the crocodile and stared. Then his mouth fell open.

  “Pete! Do you have a piece of paper and a pen?”

  “Why would I bring those to a football game?”

  “I’ll be right back. I need to get something from my locker. Don’t move!” Arnesto shouted as he ran down the hill to the school. Five minutes later, Arnesto returned out of breath.

  “Did you get what you needed?” Pete asked.

  “Oh yeah. Keep your eye on that balloon crocodile.”

  “Why?”

  “You’ll see soon enough.”

  “Whatever.”

  Halftime ended. The third quarter came and went. Arnesto grew restless. Finally, a few minutes into the fourth quarter, he saw it.

  “Watch!” Arnesto yelled at Pete, pointing at one of the junior boys who had stolen the crocodile and was now sprinting across the field in their direction with an angry senior close behind and gaining. A few feet in front of Pete, there was a mom with her son, who looked to be around eleven.

  “Kid, watch out!” Arnesto said as he nudged the young boy out of the way, making sure to also keep clear himself. A split second later, the senior caught up to the junior and tackled him. On the way down, the junior’s free hand went whizzing by where the young boy’s face had been a moment before.

  “Thank you, that was kind of you,” the boy’s mom said to Arnesto before walking her son away.

  “You’re welcome,” Arnesto called after them. He reached into his back pocket, pulled out a folded sheet of paper, and handed it to Pete.

  “Don’t freak out and remember you promised not to tell anyone,” Arnesto said as Pete unfolded the paper.

  Some of the color left Pete’s face as he read the note to himself:

  After a junior steals the crocodile, a senior tackles him right in front of us. During the tackle, the junior’s hand breaks the boy’s nose. The seniors then proudly carry their deflated crocodile back to their side of the field.

  “That’s freaky. But you only got one out of three. The boy’s nose is fine,” Pete said.

  “Yeah, at the last second, I decided I couldn’t let them smash the kid’s face. Partly for him, but partly because I didn’t want to watch it happen again. It was gross.”

  “That’s quasi-noble of you, though it doesn’t help your credibility.” He read the note again. “What about the last item? I don’t see the seniors carrying—”

  “Look,” Arnesto interrupted. Pete looked up and saw the seniors carrying away the damaged crocodile, their fists triumphantly punching the air.

  “Well… shit.”

  Spoiler Alert

  Morgan Residence

  Sunday, February 7, 1988

  Early Afternoon

  Pete still wasn’t convinced of Arnesto’s power. Arnesto must have set the whole thing up. Somehow. Yes, he must have convi
nced the junior to steal the crocodile, knowing this would anger the seniors, aim for the boy, then allow himself to be tackled. On the track. Which probably hurt like hell. Maybe Arnesto paid the junior a good sum of money. There had to be a logical explanation.

  They wouldn’t get much opportunity to argue about it as Pete became bedridden with mono. While he was laid up, he received a letter from Arnesto, which Pete’s mom left in his room for him. He didn’t open it; he didn’t have the energy. All he could do day after day was lie on the couch and play Contra. In fact, it wasn’t until two weeks later when his energy finally started coming back that he even thought of the letter again.

  He opened the envelope and saw another sealed envelope inside. The inner envelope had written on it in big letters, “DO NOT OPEN until you’re feeling better!” Pete sighed and opened it. Inside was a note:

  Hey, slacker, glad you’re feeling better. I can’t believe you beat Contra in one life, very impressive! Now quit faking and get back to class!

  P.S. ¡Bienvenido, Pedro!

  Great, now Arnesto was spying on him. How else could he know that he beat Contra in one life? Pete shivered. How did he know? Pete hadn’t told anyone about it. The only one who would care was Arnesto.

  He walked downstairs and sat on the couch where he had spent almost every waking hour of the last two weeks. There was no window through which one could see the television screen. He looked around but didn’t see a hidden camera anywhere. Arnesto wouldn’t cross the line like that anyway. He walked into the kitchen where his mom was drinking coffee.