Twist

by Roni Teson

  “What’s the big issue with that?” I ask.

  “Her father’s in prison, and, well . . .”

  “A local scandal that went viral, that’s all,” Mom says. “Rumor is that her dad had something to do with your accident. But the FBI verified differently.”

  They still call it an accident. Will told me I was beaten.

  “She lived with George and Charlotte back then,” Dad says. “She’s with a friend in Seattle now.”

  “Beatrice Malcolm,” Dad says, but then he stops and looks at me like I’ve just robbed a bank because my entire body went slack when I heard her name. I thought I was going to shed my skin or something. I had absolutely no control over my physical reaction.

  “What’s wrong?” Mom says.

  “Do you remember her?” Dad asks.

  “I . . . I . . . did they call her by the letter?”

  “I don’t know what you’re asking,” Mom says.

  “B. Does she go by, B?”

  Mom and Dad look at each other and then they say at the same time, “Yes.”

  “I . . . I’m not sure,” I say.

  Both of them plead with their eyes, begging me to remember something. Mom holds her breath, but then she lets it out when I shake my head no. Dad puts his hand on her back, and I feel like shit again.

  As they talk more about the Sage, which I think is Luke’s high school—not Louie’s—I don’t listen. I’ve got this gnawing thing picking at my brain and it’s something about B. Now, I want to know about Beatrice Malcolm. She’s under my skin, and for some reason my cheeks are burning.

  “Louie?” Dad says.

  “I’m right here,” I snap. He winces as if I’d slapped him. “What, Dad?”

  “Tone, Lou, that’s all.” He shakes his head.

  I know he’s thinking that the perfect Lucas Drake would never be so rude to his parents. I can’t stand that guy, Luke.

  Chapter 18

  Abby smiles when she sees me and then she seems blue.

  “What’s going on?” I ask.

  “We’ve spent so much time together. I’m going to miss you,” she says.

  “Why? Where are you going?”

  “You’re done. Super genius student, Louie.”

  I follow her eyes as she scans me from head to toe and then says, “Ninety days and you are back!”

  “I don’t feel . . . back,” I say.

  “Let’s call you the improved package. Lou Drake—mature, debonair, handsome, calm guy.” She hugs me. “When do you return to school?”

  “I feel like I’ve already been there. Mom’s been bringing me books and assignments,” I say.

  But I did notice that my writing was slightly different, because I saw some samples in the margins from before the accident. My homework was coming back from my teachers with comments like Excellent! Tremendous! Can’t wait to see you . . .

  Abby sits across the table from me. I wonder if I’ll ever see her again.

  “Have you seen any of your friends?” she asks.

  “Nope. My parents won’t let me—worried it’s still too soon. I’ve heard Mom talking on the phone about this big tragedy. Drama, drama, drama,” I say.

  She grins. “Lou, you said that so well. Two months ago that string of ‘dramas’ would have been ‘damas’ or ‘tamas’.”

  We laugh. I touch her hand and the moment our skin connects a zap, like electricity, runs through my body. No filter, no time to think—the words fly out of my mouth. “Have I ever kissed your hand?”

  “You’re nuts,” she says with a giggle.

  We both freeze and stare at each other.

  A memory?

  Abby clears her throat and says, “Let’s say you did. Close your eyes and tell me what happens next.”

  I shut my eyes and she grabs both of my hands.

  My head swirls. The ocean waves crash on the shore and I feel sand under my feet.

  “What are you seeing,” she whispers.

  “The beach,” I say.

  “Describe it to me,” she says.

  “We’re walking, holding hands, and the waves are chasing us.”

  “What beach is it?”

  “The one with the pier.” And I feel great. I’m in the back seat of a car and a younger version of Abby is on top of me.

  “What’s that grin about?” she says.

  I pull my hand away, open my eyes, and jump up in one swift move. My body physically reacts to this vision. I hope she keeps eye contact and doesn’t notice.

  “Your cheeks are red,” she says.

  She stands abruptly too, causing the chair to slide back, making a loud screeching noise against the linoleum, which is horrible, but it helps me to cool down.

  “Whew.” I make a low whistle.

  “What?” she says.

  “I think Luke had game.”

  “Huh?”

  “Never mind, I can’t completely piece it together,” I say.

  Abby motions for me to sit. She takes her seat and says, “Let’s have our last session now.”

  My crush on Abby has only grown. She’s tiny with thick, dark hair and bright blue eyes. And the way she puts her tongue on her upper lip when she’s teaching me how to articulate makes me want to . . . do things I shouldn’t be thinking about with a teacher.

  She’s only in her twenties. If I were a few years older, the age difference wouldn’t matter.

  “Hello, Louie? Are you in there?” She’s watching me, waiting for eye contact.

  “Abby, if it were another time, I’d . . .”

  She ignores me and hands me the syllable cards. “Let’s plow through this deck and then you can read the ultimate tongue-twister sheet, real fast.”

  I get through the syllables and then we laugh as we both read the twisters and try to do a few at the same time. When we finish, Abby hands me a card and hugs me, and my head starts twirling again.

  In my mind, I’m spinning her and it’s only natural that I follow that with a kiss. My stomach is flip-flopping, so I grab her cheeks and plant a wet one on her—and for a split second she responds. But then she shoves me away.

  “What was that?” she says.

  “I . . . I don’t know. We were connected . . . I saw lockers. I thought I was at school,” I say as I stumble. I put my hands on my legs and bend over and a vision fills my head—a girl my age who makes my heart pound.

  “Lou?” Abby says, and I feel her hand on my back.

  I lift my upper torso, too fast, so I wait a few seconds for the dizziness to end. “I’m sorry.”

  She stares at me.

  “It really did happen like that with someone . . . I’m sure it was that girl, B,” I say. “I gotta go, I’m sure my dad’s waiting.”

  “Take care, Louie,” she says as she guides me to the parking lot. “You’ll remember everything, soon. I can tell.”

  Dad waves to Abby, and when I get in the car he says, “How’d it go?”

  “I’m going to miss her,” I say.

  “She’s a sweetheart,” Dad says. “What’s the strange look on your face about?”

  I shake my head. I don’t want to get his hopes up. I just want to be alone. He starts the car and we drive home in silence.

  Chapter 19

  I carry my books in Luke’s backpack. Dad walks me to the office, stealing glances of my face along the way. I know he’s waiting for me to remember. I act like I don’t notice him as we shuffle through a sea of bodies.

  “Luke!” A guy yells, and slams into me. “You’re back.”

  I look at Dad, who responds by saying, “That’s Simon.”

  “I don’t remember,” I say to Simon, as I continue walking.

  “I’ll catch you up,” Simon says, trailing behind me.

  I don’t like the look of this guy. Dark curly hair, shifty eyes, and he is pushy. “Call me Lou,” I say. We stop in front of the office.

  “That’s cool, Lou,” he responds, and then he just stares at me.

  I
sigh. “Okay, catch me up.”

  He looks around and says, “Not here, first bell’s about to ring. See you in second period. And lunch, the oak tree, remember?” Then Simon takes off.

  I don’t know where the flippin’ oak tree is.

  Whatever.

  Dad pushes the door open and we wait for the counselor. The office seems strangely familiar, but that might be because it’s just like all the other waiting rooms I’ve waited in over the past three months.

  Finally, a man approaches. “Hello, Lou. I’m Henry Sars, your counselor. Come on back, I have a map and a list of your classes.”

  Dad and I move in sync. As if it’s a daily event—the angry amnesiac son and his faithful father traipsing along behind a counselor, finding our way.

  “Where’s the oak tree?” I ask, just in case I want to meet Simon.

  “Right there,” he says as we enter his office and I see this massive tree outside of his window.

  “Oh.”

  Dad smiles. I know he’s been talking to Henry because the guy keeps calling me Lou. But that’s fine. I’ll play good. I’m tired of sitting around the house anyway.

  “What about Physical Education?” Mr. Sars asks. “Any restrictions?”

  “No contact sports,” Dad says.

  “Can I sign up for swimming?” I ask.

  Henry looks at his computer and taps on the keyboard. “You’ve been surfing since—”

  “The accident,” Dad interrupts.

  “He doesn’t want to call it a beating,” I say. “No surfing, but I’ve been swimming—a lot.”

  “Will, his physical therapist, got him into the pool,” Dad says. “They still work out together, sometimes. Does the school have a swim team?”

  Mr. Sars nods, but he’s busy on his computer. Then he hands me a map of the school and points to the lines he’s drawn—the routes to my classes. “I’ve written down the names of your teachers on this list, with each class. Talk to Coach Hammond, he’s in charge of the swim team and your P.E. teacher, fourth period.”

  Dad hands Mr. Sars a paper. “Here’s the doctor’s note.” Then Dad stands, so I stand, too. He hugs me and it feels awkward. “Have a good day,” he says.

  I’ve been such an ass to him, I feel bad. So as he’s leaving, I yell, “Kyle!”

  He turns and grins.

  “I’m good as gold,” I say, because I know he’s nervous. Funny, he’s crazy anxious and yet I have no emotions surrounding this place. So I poke fun at him and his smile brightens. “Daddy-o, it’s all going to be okay. Ain’t nothing but a day at school.”

  Even Henry Sars is snickering, hearing this.

  “Go!” I push him down the hall. “I’ve got this!”

  And then I realize Luke is coming home. He’s pushing Lou out and that is frightening. I shiver as I pick-up my map and my backpack and find my way to first period.

  When I open the door, the teacher’s in midsentence, so I wait for a second. He then waves at a vacant seat near the back and I sit down. The whole class is staring at me. I ignore them and focus on the teacher. But he can’t capture their attention. So he stops and says, “Lucas Drake, welcome back.” He motions to the class. “Now, eyes up front, please.”

  And the kids in the room abide.

  I run my hands across the desktop. It’s familiar. I halfway listen to some political-science stuff, but mostly I’m looking at the kids in the class, seeing if I recognize anyone. I’ve been an island for over three months, but it didn’t bother me until now. I want something to ring a bell.

  Funny, right when I’m thinking that, the bell rings.

  A guy comes up to me and pops my knuckles with his fist. “Dude, glad you’re back.”

  Another guy says, “How’s your head, Drake?”

  “Better!” I yell, and a few kids laugh.

  As we file out of the classroom, a girl taps me on the arm. “I missed you, Luke.” She flips her long, stringy blonde hair from side to side. I get swept up in a crowd before I can even respond. But I hear her friend call her Erica. I think she’s cute.

  I walk into my next class and Simon’s waving at me. I sit down next to him. “Your mom and dad wouldn’t let me near you. I’ve been trying to talk to you for months.” He’s speaking so fast I stare at his face.

  He freezes. “What are you staring at?”

  “You talk fast.”

  “Come on, Drake. Keep up. It’s what we’ve always done. Listen, I gotta tell you, some weird shit went down that day you took my car, and since.”

  “I took your car?”

  He scowls.

  “Start at the beginning. I don’t remember anything,” I say.

  He’s watching me speak and his eyes are glued to my mouth. I’m afraid to ask him why, because he’s staring so rudely. “Is something on my teeth?” I say.

  Simon sits up quickly and looks away, like I caught him doing something.

  “You gotta tell me, now,” I say.

  His head swings back and he tips his chin. “You’re different.”

  Already? I think, and then I say, “So?”

  The stupid black curls bounce around his face when he laughs. He lobs a soft punch at my arm. “That’s funny.”

  I don’t see the humor, nor do I want this jerk touching me. I slide my desk away from him.

  The teacher clears his throat. “Anytime you’re ready, Simon—can I start class?”

  Chapter 20

  I think that second class was a super-smart math class, but I didn’t care. I couldn’t concentrate. When it’s time to go to the next one, Simon’s at my side, running his mouth.

  “Do you remember the third grade? When we used to shoot spitballs at that girl?”

  “No,” I say.

  “Are you ever going to remember?”

  He grabs my arm because I’m walking so fast. I realize I’m trying to get away from him, because this is not my normal pace. I can’t stand that everyone makes my memory issue so personal. Simon acts like I’ve tried to completely wipe him out of my life. “Look, I don’t know this guy, Luke. He’s in here, trying to get out. Sometimes, maybe I feel like he’s coming back. But not right now.”

  “How can you be talking and walking and not know other things?” he asks.

  “How can you not think before you speak, douche bag?” I say. And the words echo in my mind. Douche bag. Douche bag.

  He grins.

  I suck in my gut. I remember something but I can’t fully grasp it.

  Douche bags.

  “Oh no, Drake.” He sticks his finger in my face. “You called us that on your last day. That was about Bea.”

  B. The letter B.

  “Hey,” Erica says as she bumps up against me.

  Simon frowns. “Get outta here,” he says to her.

  “No, no,” I say.

  She angles her body toward Simon and her eyes slant down. I’m waiting for her to slap him. Then she moves to me and it’s like Glinda the Good Witch suddenly appears. “I was worried about you,” she says, all smiles and lightness.

  And I just want to touch her. I grab her and she hugs me. Parts of me come alive—yikes! Our bodies are locked together as I squeeze her tighter. Over her shoulder Simon is signaling no. I ignore him and rub up against Erica in an impolite way. My hand swipes across her breast when we separate.

  “You always were a tiger. Some things never change.” Then she whispers, “Meet me after school. I have my mom’s car.”

  I’m wondering if that’s a good idea, and I think it shows on my face because she quickly says, “No strings attached, I promise.” And then she puts her tongue in my ear and I know I’m going to meet her later. I can’t wait.

  Simon pulls me away. “We’re late.”

  I wave at Erica.

  “You don’t like her anymore,” he says. “You have standards—or you used to? Besides, she’s a bitch.”

  Who cares, as long as she can ring my bell.

  “She’s nice,” I say.
r />   “Only when she wants something,” he says. “But you were really into that other chick . . . Bea.”

  A flash of a girl on top of me enters my mind, but that just makes my desire for Erica stronger.

  “You two were hot after each other, remember? You went to the beach after lunch on your last day . . . didn’t come back until after the last bell. Then you wouldn’t shut up about her. Bea this . . . Bea that . . .”

  We go into another classroom and I’m immediately surrounded. Guys are clapping me on the back. “Windell,” a wild kid says, as he hands me a baggie. “This one’s on the house. Let’s catch some waves later.”

  “Windell?” I mumble as he’s walking away.

  “Yeah, man.” He backpedals and stands in front of me. “You used to call me Wind. Because when the heat was on, I always found wind.”

  I finally figure out that Windell is his name. He spins his finger in a dance like move then walks to the back of the room with a goofy grin on his face.

  Inside the baggie is a pinch of weed. And that makes me wonder about what Simon was asking. How do I know things, like what weed is, but I don’t know about Luke?

  The class is social studies, but it seems more like U.S. history, and I even know all of these obscure dates, but not Luke? Like Nevada became a state in 1864, and in 1876 there was an unclear presidential result, Rutherford Hayes eventually won. What about the lightbulb being developed in 1879—why do I need to know that?

  After class I catch up to Simon and I ask him about it.

  “You used to look at stuff and remember it when you needed to—that teacher makes everyone study timelines. You were smart,” he says.

  “I still am,” I mumble, and walk away without saying another word to him.

  I go to the locker room and it takes me a few minutes to find Coach Hammond.

  “Lucas Drake!” Coach Hammond yells. I can’t take my eyes off his thick silver hair and rawhide skin. His handshake is forceful. “Good to see you, kiddo. Sars tells me you want to swim.” He’s tall, and even though he’s thin, his loud voice is bowling me over. I’m cautious. I blink a few times because I can smell spaghetti. He must have eaten lunch early. He’s still gripping my hand as if we’re wrestling or something. “Looks like you put on a few L. B.s.”