That night, as I climb into the softest bed I ever could have imagined, my mind is in turmoil. “Fugue Amnesia,” I say out loud, repeating the doctor’s diagnosis. He’d said the condition was the result of too much stress, but I haven’t seen anything stressful about my old life. As far as I can tell, I was living a fairy tale before I woke up in the park. I live in a gorgeous mansion with wealthy parents who work in the movie industry, and I’d caught a glimpse of my sweet red BMW convertible earlier. We even have a private pool. Obviously, I have caring friends, a stud of a boyfriend, and I must to be popular; I’m captain of the cheerleaders, of all things!
What could have been so stressful that it had brought on this amnesia?
It makes no sense. Nothing does.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Sun streams into my bedroom, warming my eyelids and welcoming me to a new day. Then I remember what kind of new day this is going to be. A tremor of unease passes through me. School. Kids, teachers, classes . . . things every girl should know like the back of her hand. Not me. This is going to be tough, and I know it. Still, there’s no sense in staying in bed all day.
I throw back the sheets and plod into my bathroom. I turn on the shower and let the hot water wake me more fully.
“I’m going to be just fine,” I declare as I step out and wrap myself in towels.
My closet is not helping. I wander through the racks, peeking at blouses and dresses, frowning at ridiculously high skirt lengths and low necklines. How am I supposed to go out like that? I frown at the selection. I’d found a slightly more modest shirt yesterday, but now I can’t remember where I put it. In the end, I pull on a pair of pink jeans and a snug white t-shirt edged with pink sequins. I frown at the dozens of high-heeled shoes and boots on display in their own shelves. Luckily, I spy a pair of pink sneakers hidden away. Pink sneakers. Apparently, I’d had a thing for pink.
It’s not that I’ve developed a dislike for pink. It’s just that I haven’t really had time to decide on a new favorite color yet. And I think I stand a chance of overdosing on all the pink in my closet.
“Sia! Breakfast!”
I glance in the mirror, give my wet hair another quick brush, then head downstairs. My parents are already seated at the table. They look up when I come in.
“Good morning, sweetheart,” my father says, rising.
Still unsure, I let him lean in and give me a kiss on the cheek. “Good morning, Dad,” I say.
“See?” Mom says, smiling at her husband. “She called you ‘Dad.’”
One dark eyebrow lifts and he shrugs. “I kinda like that.”
My mother isn’t convinced. “Yeah, well, she has to call you Ray if she calls me Janet.”
I guess she hasn’t noticed that I can’t quite get my mouth to say “Janet.” They’re just going to have to get used to being called Mom and Dad.
“Whatever Sia wants is fine with me.” He turns back to me. “How did you sleep? Does it feel like home yet?” he asks, his eyes shining with hope.
I hate to disappoint him, but I shake my head. “I slept wonderfully, but I still don’t remember anything.”
“Oh well,” he says. “Soon. Have a seat. Breakfast is on its way.”
“Mmm. Smells great.” I glance at my mother, but she is tapping on an iPad, oblivious. I turn back to Dad. “You know what I keep thinking?”
“What?” he asks.
“That if I hadn’t gotten hit by a car, I’d be lined up at a soup kitchen right now.”
He lets out a quick breath and checks to make sure Mom isn’t listening. “Your mother told me. What an experience you must have had. I’m so sorry we weren’t there for you.”
I shrug. “It wasn’t so bad. At least I met some really interesting people.”
My mother clears her throat delicately.
Dad’s mood changes. “I’m sure you did, but now that you’re home, you won’t have to think about all that anymore. Are you looking forward to school?”
“Not really,” I admit. “I’m actually kind of scared.”
“Maybe it’ll help your memory.”
“I hope so. It’s really weird, living in a whole new world like this. Especially going from the street to pure heaven in this house.”
Beatriz appears, carrying a silver tray.
I inhale the sweet spice of French cinnamon crêpes. “Thank you, Beatriz. This looks great.”
The maid’s mouth quirks in a half smile, but she doesn’t say anything. She sets the last plate in front of my father and disappears back into the kitchen.
“Tell me about your work, Dad. What kinds of movies have you produced?”
My parents exchange a quick glance.
“Mostly dramas and action films,” he replies. He smiles. “A few years ago, Dinner at Eight came out. That actually won an Oscar for cinematography. Which reminds me. I oughtta give Frank a call and invite him for lunch sometime.” His attention drops to his iPad. He swipes across a few pages and starts tapping notes to himself.
“Crossbones also did well,” Mom muses, then narrows her eyes at Dad, sitting across the table from her. “But that was ten years ago.”
He doesn’t seem to notice, having been sucked into his iPad. He gives a noncommittal nod and sips on his coffee.
“Sia,” my mother says, “I thought you might want to leave your car at home today.” She smiles warmly. “If you can’t remember your family, I’m sure you can’t remember the route to school.”
I grin. “That’s a good guess. I’m still having trouble finding my own bedroom.”
“Well, it’ll all come back. We all just have to believe that.” She grabs a cell phone on the table between us and holds it out. “This is yours, Sia.” She taps on it. “Here’s our number in case you need anything.” From out of her wallet, she hands me a wad of twenty-dollar bills. “Here’s for lunch. I think that’s everything. Am I missing anything that you can think of?”
I count ten of the bills. “Mom, this is two hundred dollars. That’s way more than I need.” That could have fed me for a month when I was homeless. I try to hand back all the bills but one, but she stops me.
“It doesn’t matter, Sia. Just spend it on lunch or whatever.” She looks up, and we both spot Beatriz by the door, holding my backpack. “Looks like your ride’s leaving.”
Amber and Stacy are waiting at the school’s entrance when my driver, John, pulls up. Behind them swarms a group of a dozen or so girls, all bouncing and hugging and squealing. The cheerleader squad, I assume. The sight of them waiting there, the knowledge that I am the source of all this excitement, almost overwhelms me. I stare out the window, both terrified and entranced. What kind of person had I been to earn so much love? I must have been something really special.
“Thanks, John,” I say, leaning forward.
The reflection of his eyes in his rearview mirror shows surprise. “Uh . . . you’re welcome, Miss Holloway.”
Then I step from the car, excitement and dread whirling through me. Amber is the first to greet me, but her face is tight with disapproval. “Sia, what are you doing?” she whispers. “Did you forget your makeup?”
“Sia!” someone screams. “Yay! You’re here!”
“Remember what I said, girls,” Amber commands. “Tell her your name when you say hi. She doesn’t remember any of you.”
One by one, the girls come up to hug me, tell me their names, and gush in my ear about how much they’ve missed me, how worried they’ve been, and how glad they are that I’m back.
“The squad just wasn’t the same without you,” one girl whispers. “I mean, Amber’s good, but she’s not you!”
“Oh my God. I love those pink jeans, Sia. They’re so you.”
“I really like your hair like that, Sia,” chirps another. “Trying to bring back the grunge, huh? You’re always such a trendsetter!”
“All right, ladies, show’s over,” Amber declares, waving the group away. “Stacy, you and Kim take Sia inside and make her a littl
e more . . . presentable.”
I frown. “But—”
“Don’t argue, Sia. I can’t believe you’d show up here like this. Really. Makeup, hair . . . I guess we can’t do much with those shoes, but I have some earrings you can borrow.”
She’s gotta be kidding.
She looks up at the girls still hovering around us and demands, “Anyone got size eight shoes Sia can borrow for today?”
“Amber!” I exclaim, then shake my head at the girls, some of whom are already taking their shoes off. “No thanks. Really. I’m fine like this.”
Paying no attention, Amber accepts a pair of tall white heels from a buxom redhead, then glares at the group. After they quickly disperse, Amber hands me the shoes.
“Put these on.”
This is ridiculous. The shoes dangle from my fingertips. “I don’t need these.”
Amber tilts her head and blinks prettily, her plump red lips spreading into a slow, sexy smile. She speaks slowly, as if she needs to explain it carefully to me. “Nonsense, honey. We can’t have Duke—and the rest of the school—seeing you like this.”
Stacy hooks one arm through mine and leads me inside the school. “Come on, Sia. Let’s go play,” she says, obviously taking her role as caretaker seriously. Along the way, she points and gestures, whispering noisily behind her hand or calling out a cheery greeting to someone. Her wide brown eyes constantly flit from person to person, dancing with more gossip she’s dying to share.
I can’t help smiling at her. She’s adorable.
We gather in the bathroom, where the walls echo with shrill exclamations.
Stacy takes charge, leads me to a chair, and tells me to sit. “Close your eyes,” she says before applying the basics.
“Stacy, you don’t have to trouble yourself. Really.”
“Don’t worry about it, hon. You know I—” She straightens, looking horrified. “I’m so sorry! I totally forgot that you don’t know anything! My parents are makeup artists. Cool, huh? They do makeup for all the stars, and they taught me everything they know. You’re in good hands.”
“Stacy’s the best,” says the girl Amber had introduced earlier. She’s chewing a pink wad of gum with enthusiasm, popping it with annoying regularity.
What’s her name again? I grope around in my mind for it, but it’s nowhere to be found.
Fortunately, Stacy saves the day. “Thanks, Kim.”
A flat iron magically appears from Kim’s bag, and she begins twisting my hair into fat ringlets. When she’s done, she sprays a thick cloud of product around my head.
I touch a crispy curl skeptically, but my stylist smacks my hand away.
“Don’t touch.” She adjusts my bangs. “I'm going to make you look fierce.”
“Here. Slide these on,” Amber says, pulling a pair of sparkling earrings and bangles from her purse. “Rock em’, girl! They’re Gucci.” She glances at her watch. “Oh, I gotta go.”
“Look way up,” Stacy says, applying mascara to my lower lashes. “That’s right.”
I can’t see what’s going on, but I hear the bathroom door creak closed behind Amber. Craving some kind of normalcy amongst the flurry of activity, I clear my throat. “So I had an interesting talk with Duke yesterday. He told me about how we started dating. He seems like such a sweet guy . . . and a hero, too. He saved me from drowning.”
Stacy giggles. “I remember that. We played him good!”
“Played him? What do you mean?”
“Well, you weren’t really drowning, silly. It was all an act. And, girl, it worked like a charm. You really should be an actress.”
My mouth drops. “So that was all a lie?”
“Sort of. It was your idea. I mean, you had to have him. Duke Holton was the hottest, most popular guy in school. When Kim found out he was going to ask Amber out, she told us, and you took action—with my help, of course.”
It was all planned? I can’t believe this. Could I have really done something that manipulative? “Does Amber know any of this?” I ask.
“Let’s hope not,” Stacy says.
Kim nods. “Yeah, I wanna be alive for graduation.”
“Anyway, who cares?” Stacy exclaims, her brown eyes gleaming. “You two were meant to be together, despite how your relationship began. You both totally rule the school, Sia. You’re like Ken and Barbie. Only way cooler, you know?”
“Yeah,” Kim says. “Your love is eternal and magical, on a Romeo and Juliet level. Right, Stace?”
“Sooo magical,” Stacy sighs. “And he’s going to love seeing you like this. Hold up. . . ” She frowns at my white t-shirt, then tugs it out of my waistband. She knots the bottom so it ties halfway up my torso, which makes Stacy smile and me blush. She squats, twists off the offending sneakers, and slides the four-inch heels onto my bare feet. “There. Much better. Okay. Well, we’d better head to history class or Mr. Barrow will lose it again.” She looks at Kim, and both of them giggle. “Though you have to admit, it’s pretty entertaining when it happens.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
Mr. Barrow is fairly young and handsome, with intelligent eyes that study each student as we come in. “Ah, Miss Holloway,” he says when I enter the room. “Are we all recovered then?”
“Mr. Barrow,” Stacy says, walking to his desk with me. “She can’t remember anything.”
“So I hear.” He narrows his eyes at me. “Really?”
“Really.”
“Hmm. This could be interesting,” he muses, albeit not unkindly. “All right. Let’s see what we can do, shall we? Take your seat. It’s the one beside Amber.”
Amber gives me a smug smile when I settle in beside her. “The girls did a good job on you. You look hot,” she says.
I don’t feel hot. I feel silly, like a clown wearing too much makeup, with funny clown shoes to match. And I know everyone is staring at me, waiting for me to either be myself—whoever that is—or to make a huge mistake and become the laughingstock of the school.
“History is so boring,” Amber mutters as Mr. Barrow gets to his feet. “At least I’ve got a nice view of Mr. Barrow’s tight butt. Makes this hellish class more bearable.”
Now I feel hot, but not in a good way. Blood rushes into my cheeks and I look anywhere but at Mr. Barrow’s backside. Fortunately, he’s facing the class, so I can watch his face instead. It’s awkward, because I’m also doing everything I can to avoid looking at Amber’s face. The reality that I lied to Duke and effectively stole him from Amber makes me feel awful, even if she doesn’t know.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” he says, addressing the room. “If I could have your attention, please.” He waits for the volume to go down. “I’m assuming everyone knows about Sia’s condition. It’s a tough time for her. No one really knows when she might regain her memory.”
My embarrassment stretches on into eternity. I stare at my teacher without blinking, well aware that every eye in the room is now on me.
“So I’m asking that you all help Sia through this difficult time. Can I get a commitment on that?”
Scattered sounds of assent bubble up around the room, some more positive than others.
“Good,” Mr. Barrow says. “Now, on to history! Yesterday we were discussing . . . ”
Slowly, my pulse returns to normal and my blush fades as class continues without me. It’s a strange, uncomfortable sensation, being in the spotlight like that. I know I need to figure out my place again, get back into the routine, but I’m painfully self-conscious, which only makes things harder. Perhaps returning to school so quickly wasn't the best idea.
When class is over, Mr. Barrow tucks his books under one arm and leaves the room quickly. The students are slower, packing up their things and shuffling toward the exit.
Amber is standing by her desk, watching everyone. As soon as she figures she can get everyone’s attention, she leads me to the front of the room and clamps her hands on my shoulders.
Blood surges back into my face, and I wonder if it's pos
sible to pass out from sheer embarrassment.
“Attention, everybody!” Amber announces. “Listen up. You all know what’s going on with Sia.” Her tone drops threateningly. “Treat her right . . . or you’ll answer to me. Understood?”
I close my eyes. This whole experience is mortifying. I want to disappear, to melt into the floor. No one says anything, but I hear them quickly shuffle out of the room.
When I can bear to open my eyes again, I see a familiar face, and I stare, incredulous. Standing by a desk in the back row is the boy from the soup kitchen. The one who had yelled at me before I was hit by the car. He is staring back at me, his expression soft. Remorseful? Does he actually feel bad about how he behaved that day?
“Who’s that?” I whisper to Amber.
The boy slings his pack over his shoulder and works his way up the aisle. Amber glances at him and shrugs. “Kyle Parker. He's just some loser. And he always smells like . . . ” She wrinkles her nose. “Bread.”
He doesn’t look like a loser to me. No, he isn’t wearing designer clothes, and his old backpack is patched with pictures of comic book heroes. But he seems normal enough. Who is he? Why was he so mean to me? From Amber’s description, we obviously don’t hang around in the same circles, so it makes no sense for him to hold anything against me.
When he reaches the front of the room where Amber and I are still standing with a few other girls, he hesitates. He looks like he wants to say something, but Amber rolls her eyes and drags me away.
“Come on, Sia. Algebra’s next, and we all soooo love algebra, don’t we?”
The other girls giggle, then follow us into the hallway. Amber hooks her arm through mine, and Stacy does the same on my other side. We stride purposefully down the corridor as if we’re modeling on a catwalk. It’s a ridiculous feeling. I try to untangle myself, but I’m anchored between the girls. I feel a rush of relief when we arrive and the girls are forced to let go.
As soon as I step into the room, Duke is there beside me. He looks extremely handsome, with his hair styled expertly, his clothes the peak of fashion. The guy radiates masculinity, and I have to put in some effort not to stare.
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