by Liv Leighton
Great.
“Now’s not a good time, Brien,” I could feel the tears welling up once more and I was not about to cry in front of him. “Could you just, leave me alone please?”
“What’s wrong? Why haven’t you even looked at me today?” His expression appeared genuinely hurt as he said it. “Did I say something to offend you yesterday? I thought we’d left on pretty good terms.” Damn his green eyes, luscious hair and overall gorgeous appearance. I was stronger than this. I didn’t need him looming over me, asking me to explain myself; I needed to get home.
“Please, tell me,” he said, “what did I do?”
Every ounce of frustration, confusion, and doubt within me deflated. It wasn’t about being strong, I realized. It was about so much more. “It’s not you,” I said. “It’s…me. I don’t know who I am; and frankly, I can’t decide if you just feel sorry for me, or you’re actually interested, or-”
“I am,” Brien said, cutting me off.
“What? Sorry for me?” I said, suddenly laughing as I ran a hand down my face only to pull it away, realizing I’d just smeared clay everywhere. “Ugh,” I sighed, balling my hand into a fist and pressing it against my forehead.
“Interested,” I heard Brien say as a cool, wet hand wrapped around my wrist. I let him pull my fist away from my face and looked up into his eyes. “But you’re kind of-”
“Don’t you dare say intimidating,” I said, pointing a finger at him; his clay-covered hand still clasped around my arm. And then Brien was laughing.
“I was going to say, covered in clay,” he said, holding up his free hand in surrender; and then I was laughing too.
“Oh.”
...
As I pulled into the driveway during lunch to change my clothes, I smiled. If all Monday’s were like this, I could understand why everyone hated them. But even with that in mind, I couldn’t help myself from wondering: would Tuesday bring further embarrassment or would the knowledge that Brien was actually interested in getting to know me make for a slightly better day? I couldn’t wait to see Maisy during calculus and tell her all about it.
Six
Knowing I had less than an hour to clean myself up, change, and get back to school before fifth period, I ran into the house and bolted up the stairs. I’d yet to fully unpack so I found myself rummaging through boxes of clothes for something else to wear. Most everything I found was too warm for today’s weather: tank tops, shorts, short sleeved tops. I dug to the very bottom of the box and withdrew a lace, long sleeve shirt. Absolutely not.
One problem with not having any memory of who you were…was not remembering why you’d ever purchased and/or had a specific taste for certain things. Like lace, I thought, letting the piece of clothing fall to the floor. There had to be something else to wear. Anything. I threw off my clay-speckled sweater and dug through a few more boxes coming up with a white V-neck and long sleeve flannel. Good enough. Paired with skinny jeans and converse shoes, the look wasn’t so bad. A bit skater/hipster chic but that was in style anyways; or at least, I hoped it was. I threw my hair into a low ponytail, brushing out the clay as best I could, and walked quietly down the stairs.
Both of my parents were usually home during the day, due to their graveyard shift schedules. But as I passed by their bedroom, I noticed that the door was wide open. Maybe they were running errands. Checking the garage before heading back to school I saw that the Lexus was missing. They were certainly both gone.
As I re-entered the kitchen, there were several boxes I’d missed on my way in; it looked as if my mother had started to unpack all our family photos. Lying on top of the kitchen counter was a black, leather folder. I flipped absentmindedly through the pages contained within, and saw that it was, indeed a family photo album. So many memories I’d forgotten. I smiled as I browsed them.
Several clippings from our recent road trip across the states were piled atop one another, still waiting for Mom to organize them. Photos of my parents, Nate; photos of Nate as a baby and then—I lingered upon a page in the middle of the album. The photo was of Nate and I standing in front of a gorgeous, red brick building. The sky behind us was overcast, creating a darkened, filmy look over the picture. It had obviously been taken before the car accident; because I had absolutely zero recollection of the moment.
There I was, standing with my arm around Nate, only, something looked…off. Very off. I pulled the photo from the album and turned it over in my hands. It’d been captured on a polaroid; one of those super old looking photos with the flimsy white frame surrounding it. The film itself was quite shiny, however, the photo didn’t look right. Maybe someone at school would be able to tell me what was wrong with it.
An Instagram page full of artistic photos flashed through my mind. Of course. Brien would know; he was into photography, surely, he’d be able to tell me.
I pocketed the photograph and checked my phone. Crap. I was going to be late for calculus. I ran to my car and, somehow, managed to make it to school with three minutes to spare before the bell rang. I sprinted through the hallways, backpack jumping heavily against me as I did so. I skidded around the corner of the 1000 hall and smacked right into someone.
Books and paper went flying everywhere. My heavy calculus textbook threw me off balance, sending me and my backpack flying backwards after bouncing off whomever I’d just crashed into. The back of my head started pounding immediately, each pulse radiating between panicked mumbles of “I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry”.
When I finally opened my eyes, I saw, hovering over me, the unmistakable face of Brock Spellman, from pottery. He helped me to my feet, continuing to repeat “I’m so sorry” as he dusted off my backpack. The late bell rang out through the hallways.
So much for making it to class on time.
“No, it’s okay,” I said, feeling around the back of my head for any sign of blood, only to discover a massive bump forming at the base of my skull. “I ran into you.” I gathered up a few of my things. “Why aren’t you in class?”
He looked over his shoulder, then turned back to me. His facial hair had grown beyond the point of shadowed, and now, he simply looked like a massive, blond, lumberjack. “I’m hiding from Olivia,” he said. “We got in a huge fight during pottery.”
“Oh. I’m…sorry?” I offered. I must have looked amused because Brock’s face quickly became very serious.
“It’s not funny, Mary,” he said, “have you ever been chased down by an angry cheerleader before?”
“Can’t say that I have,” I said, suppressing a laugh. “Anyways, what did you do to make her so angry?”
“Me? Right, cause it’s always the guy’s fault.”
“Okay, I’m sorry,” I said, throwing up my free hand in surrender, trying not to laugh. “What happened, then?”
And the strangest thing occurred. Brock’s eyes went all misty as he stared down at me; and then he was leaning over, with his lips pushed out ever so slightly. What? Was he trying to kiss me?
“What are you doing?” I nearly yelled but managed to say in a horrified whisper. He went rigid as if he’d completely misread whatever sign had encouraged him to lean forward and try to kiss me in the middle of the hallways.
He looked mortified as he stared down at me, “I-,” he stammered, “I’m sorry, I don’t know what came over me.”
“I mean, really,” I said, backing away from him slowly, “you can’t just run around kissing people.” As we stood there: me, whisper-yelling at him, him, looking like a scolded puppy dog. “Next time ask me.”
“Can I-,”
I waved my hand up to stop him. “Are you serious?”
He stared.
“Absolutely not,” I said. Never mind that I wasn’t interested, but I suspected his interest in me had something to do with Olivia’s fury. As far as I could tell, they were sort of an item, whether he thought so or not.
I shook my head and finished picking up my stuff. What was with today? Brock creeped me out enough a
s it was.
“Okay, but what if I-,”
“I’m late, goodbye Brock,” I said waving behind me as I went around the corner. The last thing I needed was Olivia, who was clearly interested in Brock, hunting me down between class periods.
“Where were you?” Maisy mouthed as I slid into the desk next to her. Mr. Nelson merely paused his lecture, made a couple notes on his clipboard (probably making note of my tardiness), and continued lecturing the class. I was already three chapters ahead of everyone else, thanks to my free period, and hoped Maisy wouldn’t mind the detour I was about to take us down. I’d help her study later.
“I made a complete mess of myself in pottery, had to go home and change,” I said quietly. “That’s when I found this. Does it look strange to you?” I pulled the polaroid from my back pocket and handed it over to her. Dragging the weight of my calculus book out from the depths of my backpack, I opened to a random page and pretended to follow along with the lecture.
Maisy inspected the photograph. “Cute,” she whispered, “is that your little brother?” she asked. I nodded. Shifting it this way and that, Maisy finally handed it back to me, “Looks pretty normal to me. What’s wrong?”
I was tapping the end of my pencil nervously against my mouth. “I don’t know,” I replied quietly, “something just looks…off?” Maybe ‘off’ wasn’t the best way to describe it. “Look at my shadow; my outline,” I prompted.
Maisy pulled the polaroid as close to her face as possible without going cross-eyed, “I don’t know what you mean. Sorry,” she shrugged, handing the photo back. “How did pottery go, other than making a complete mess of yourself?” Bless Maisy and her wonderfully upbeat attitude.
“If certain students in the back,” came the booming voice of our teacher, “would like to continue their conversations after class, that would be most appreciated. Some of us do not easily obtain exceptional grades.”
It wasn’t us getting in trouble, per say; Mr. Nelson had always seemed a rather reasonable teacher, still, Maisy and I exchanged a silent look and I knew, we’d continue our discussion later.
“Okay, so what happened?” Maisy asked, pulling me aside in the hallway after calculus. “You had to change—cute outfit, by the way—but what else?” I could tell she was eager to hear whether I’d spoken to Brien today.
“Well, I’m pretty sure Brien likes me…” I said. It felt like such an awkward thing to say; we weren’t exactly six-year-olds talking about our crushes on the playground. “And Brock tried to kiss me in the hallway.”
“What?” Maisy’s voice echoed through the halls, and several students turned to stare, though, this time it was with more of a glare than anything else.
I nodded.
“What did you do?”
“Freaked out, of course,” I said, laughing. “I don’t know what got into him. Anyways, that’s not what’s really bothering me. It’s that photograph.” I closed my eyes, realizing just how frustrated I felt about it.
“You’re really upset, aren’t you?” Maisy reached out a heavily braceleted arm, and gently wrapped her hand around my wrist. “What’s the matter?”
“Remember how I told you about the…accident…,” I said. I still didn’t like saying it out loud or, quite frankly, acknowledging that it’d even happened to me. “Well, I found this photo album at my house and I can’t remember having taken any of the pictures in there. And then this one shows up,” I point to my back pocket, containing the polaroid, “and something about it just seems so…odd. I don’t know, am I even making any sense?”
Maisy nodded her head in understanding. “You just want to remember.” Her eyes were full of warmth, as if she really understood what I was going through. “Well, I can’t help you with the past-,” she said, taking a deep breath and gathering herself up, “But, what if you come over on Friday for a sleepover…and I’ll do a Tarot reading! Bring that photograph with you, I’ll have my mother look at it. She’s a graphic designer with a very detailed eye,” she said closing one eye for dramatic effect.
“You’re the best!” I said, flinging my arms around her neck before I could stop myself. Maisy squeezed tight, before letting me go. “Friday.” I nodded.
“Friday,” she echoed. “I’ll text you the address.”
...
As per usual, I picked up Nate after school; only this time, Tommy was with him. The two of them were talking excitedly in the backseat of the station wagon—looking over video footage on Nate’s camera that I had zero interest in seeing. I barely had to say two words to either of them as I drove us all home. Pulling into the driveway, I wondered if Brien would be picking up Tommy tonight, and whether that meant I’d get to see him.
My only plans for the evening so far were to retreat to my bedroom and begin to organize my mess of a closet, maybe. But before I’d gone halfway up the stairs, Mom’s voice called from the kitchen, “Mary will you come here for a minute, please?”
We still hadn’t discussed everything that’d taken place on Saturday: specifically, my dramatic coma of a nap after discovering that I wasn’t allowed to go to the mall. And although I wasn’t ready to open that box again, it seemed I’d have no choice. I dropped my backpack on the stairs and walked to the kitchen, where my mother and father sat at the counter; obviously eager—by their smiling faces—to tell me something.
“This came for you today, it’s from Andre,” from Andre. Even the way she said it made him sound so superior. I couldn’t wait for Andre to leave on the next jet out of this state. My mother held out a gold, wax stamped envelope. My father beamed as I peeled off the wax and opened the letter.
From within, I pulled one singular ticket stub. “The symphony?” I stared at my parents, unsure what all of this meant. “But there’s only one ticket.”
“Right, he’s got the other one,” said my father, encouragingly. “And because he was so impressed with your performance the other night, I’m guessing he’s rearranged his travel plans to take you to the Portland symphony.”
“Isn’t that a bit weird?” I asked, tucking the ticket stub back into it’s overzealous, accompanying envelope. “Just the two of us?”
My parents each sighed, as if they knew this was going to be a hard-sell. “Uncle Andre,” my father started, “see, he used to have a daughter.”
“Oh,” I said, suddenly curious. “What happened?”
“She died,” my mother said, “of terrible illness. And I think what your dad is trying to say, is, you probably remind Andre of his own daughter, and it might be a nice thing for you do.”
“Drive two hours with a stranger to Portland and then sit through the symphony with them, yes, that sounds exactly like the sort of thing I want to occupy my evening with,” I said flatly. “Especially after he treated the two of you so well.” If I could have rolled my eyes any harder, they’d have disappeared into the back of my skull.
“Sweetheart,” said my mother, “please do this for us.”
“Tonight?” I whined, thinking of the missed opportunity to see Brien again; assuming he’d be picking up Tommy later.
“He’s coming to pick you up at six,” my father said, “that is, if you say yes.”
“But I have nothing to wear,” I said.
“Yes, you do,” Mom replied, pulling out a white box.
...
Two hours later, I was standing in front of my mother’s mirror, looking into the eyes of a complete stranger. I barely recognized myself. Uncle Andre sent a dress for me. Lace, of course. And while I’d consented to the symphony, the two-hour drive, and the dress, I refused to let her curl my hair. I wasn’t going to dress up completely for someone who’d come into my home and treated my family like garbage, all because I reminded him of some long-lost daughter. I’d had enough of that energy in my life, what with my parents constantly worrying about me.
“He’s not so bad,” said my mother, brushing my hair as I stared into the mirror. “You two used to get along quite well. Of course, after
the accident, we’ve tried very hard—your father and I—to let you rebuild your own life, and not push the memories of the past upon you,”.
So long as I stay indoors under your watchful eyes, I thought to myself. I was trying to see the good in this…whatever it was. I was sure that I’d enjoy the symphony. Classical music meets history could never disappoint me, but, it was all so over the top. Why couldn’t Uncle Andre simply take me for ice cream, like a normal family member. Of course, Uncle Andre was anything but normal, with his designer wear and overly pretentious attitude.
When Uncle Andre did show up at—of course—six o’clock on the dot, I felt a sort of dread at the prospect of spending the next two hours in the car with him. He was wearing an extremely well-tailored vest and trousers, complete with pocket watch, chain, tie clip, and designer leather shoes. I felt utterly underdressed. When we’d said our goodbyes and stepped outside it was with shock and awe that I lowered myself into the interior of a brand-new, shining black Bentley. But the shock quickly wore off as two hours was beginning to feel like five.
“I figured Bach would be an appropriate choice for the evening,” Uncle Andre said, turning up the volume, and Bach’s Partita Number Two began playing over the speakers. Like some sort of sick joke; the memory of me storming upstairs after being unable to perform the piece of music played over again in my mind.
“So, uh, what brings you to Astoria?” I said, using up every ounce of politeness I had left in me to make small talk.
“Oh,” Uncle Andre said as if he hadn’t been expecting the question, “well I like to…check in on all of you now and again.”
“Why?” I asked flatly, folding my arms across my chest. This was not going to be a pleasant evening.
“Just to make sure everything is okay,” he said airily.
I wasn’t buying one word of this crap. If there was one thing that had remained consistent between pre-accident Mary and me: it was that we both couldn’t stand fake people. And Uncle Andre was working himself up to be the fakest person I had ever met.