Remember Me - Part 20: Remembering My #life was becoming one, boring routine. After my last trip to the treehouse, each day just seemed to roll into the next. Weeks went by, and the only thing I remembered was how my ceiling looked each morning: dull and white. My dad went back to work, and the guys didn’t stop by as much. I felt like a zombie or something, like I wasn’t really living, just existing. And, the weird thing was that I didn’t really want to put effort into anything I did. I had been trying to before the scene in the cafeteria, but it didn’t really feel satisfying in any way. The guys had asked me to hang out after school a few times this past month, but I always said no. I don’t know what it was, but the idea of not having a past made me not want to appreciate anything in the present. I tried my time with various, little projects in the house, like taking up photography, and my dad said I got some really good shots, but I didn’t have any deep passion for doing it, and I didn’t get any happiness out of it. I felt hopeless, worthless... and I just had to wait it out until I regained my memory. It was the beginning of March now, and I felt like it was time I took care of the treehouse. A few days ago, I wrote in my journal what I wanted to do to the treehouse and its components. I went through our shed looking for good tools to do the deeds with. I found a few, but I felt like I needed better ones. Yesterday, I asked my dad where Mr. Dan lived so I could “give him a visit”, and he gave me directions. Mr. Dan was working in his garage when I arrived, building some type of contraption. I told him I wanted to make some modifications to the treehouse and needed to borrow some tools. Before he threw them in a wheelbarrow and sent me off, I got a few quick tutorials on how to use them, because I mentioned it had “been a while”, and I needed some “refreshing” on how to use them. After grabbing a few matches, my tripod, camera, and journal from inside, I went out to the shed again and grabbed a few plastic paint buckets. I lugged them out to the spot in the woods where I had hid the wheelbarrow yesterday and started off. Dangling from the handles of the wheelbarrow, the buckets clanked against each other as I tried to keep it steady. It wasn’t that heavy, but it wasn’t that light, either. I thought it would be easy getting it all the way to the treehouse, but I was mistaken when I got to the Hill. I had no problem pushing it through the forest, but after a few steps up the Hill, the wheelbarrow kept almost tipping over. After a few minutes, one tip-over, and a clean up, I was on the top. Finally able to see it, the treehouse was still trashed from the last time I visited it. I was glad Miranda hadn’t come back to clean it up. I wondered how she’d react to it once I was done with it for good. I really, really hoped she’d be upset. I pretty much ran down the Hill, as trying to hold the wheelbarrow back was too much of a struggle. The momentum kept me wheeling on through the meadow after passing the Hill’s base. I stood there, in front of the treehouse, and thought about how it would be the last time I got a good look at it. A few paper lanterns were still on the ground, but most of them were gone. The pieces of broken plank were still there, however. My camera hung down from around my neck, and I lifted it up to take the last picture of our beloved Treehouse. I figured I’d take photographs of the whole process of tearing the thing down since we had liked to document everything. I smiled as I lowered the camera, then I picked up the tripod I had tossed in the wheelbarrow and set it up a little bit closer to the base of the Big Hill, facing the treehouse. I set the timer, then ran next to the wheelbarrow, picked up the axe from it with one hand, and flipped off the camera with the other. After I heard the shutter, left the camera there, tossed the axe on the ground, and scaled up the ladder. I wasn’t saddened or sicken with emotion after stepping through the door this time. I felt a wave of relief rush over me as I stepped inside, knowing that what I was about to do would get Miranda back for everything she’d done to me. I was so ready to finally get revenge on her. After this, I thought, I might go back to school just to see how long it takes for her to figure out what I’d done. I wondered if she would try to get me back for it, but I couldn’t think of anything worse she’d be able to do. This would be the ultimate payback. I was ecstatic at the thought that I would be on top after this stunt; she wouldn’t be able to measure up. This would be the end of everything, and it started right now. I started along the left wall, tearing each and every drawing off of it. I stuffed them against my chest as I went, shuffling back and forth across the floor. I ended on the side where the door was, so I started plucking from that wall. As I kept going, I looked at the Christmas lights in the corner of the room. I wondered how long it had taken to put them up; there had been a lot of hooks hammered into the walls to hold them. It only took me a matter of seconds to rip them apart, though. After finishing that wall, then the right wall, I began plucking from the back. The string of photographs got in the way, so I ripped the one end near me loose and tugged the other one off the wall. The whole line fell to the floor, and I carelessly stepped on the photos as I made my way down the wall. All of a sudden, I felt a slight shake from the floor. Then I heard the sound... Creak, creak, creak, creakcreakcreak. Someone was coming up into the treehouse. I heard the pin lock rattle and turned around. The door flew open with a loud bang. “Locke!” the girl cried before running over to me. I didn’t have enough time to look at her before she threw her bag on the floor and crashed into me with a hug, knocking all the papers out of my arm and onto the floor. It was like she didn’t even notice. She looked up at me and grabbed my face. “Oh, my gosh, you’re here!” she shrieked. I looked into her eyes, blue. I knew her. She was the girl in my dreams. She pulled my head down and kissed me. Without thinking about it, my arms wrapped around her waist. I pulled her in closer. She slightly moved her head around, and as her lips moved, mine followed. Her hands slid from my face, down my neck and rested flat against my chest. After a moment, she broke away and inhaled, smiling. We were still holding onto each other. Her long, dusty blonde hair had fallen from behind her ear and covered her left eye. Her eyelashes were full and thick, and her cheeks blushed the slightest shade of red. Her thin, pink lips parted. “Tell me,” she said, looking directly into my eyes, “do you remember me?” I did. I broke out into a huge, teethy smile. “Yes,” I laughed, pushing her hair back behind her ear, “I remember you.” She smiled back, biting her lower lip. She bounced up and down in my arms. “What’s my name, then?” she grinned. “It’s Lazy Melinda,” I said. “Duh.” She laughed and reached up to kiss me again, but this time slower. Her lips sealed around mine, which gaped open just a little. I slowly slipped my tongue into her mouth, and she pushed it back into mine with hers. They flicked back and forth as our heads tilted side to side. Our bodies synchronized together in perfect harmony; as she moved, I moved; and as I did, she did. I slid my hands gently up and down her back, her body heat warming my cold hands against her soft, knit, pink sweater. As our tongues continued fighting, she gripped her hands closed, yanking a little on my hoodie. A few seconds later, she relaxed them. Slowly, she broke the kiss and leaned back. She just looked at me and smiled with delight in her eyes. She was so beautiful. And I had forgotten all about her. She looked down at my chest and rubbed her fingers in circles, smoothing my hoodie out. Then she looked up at me. “I’m glad you’re back,” she said softly. “I am, too,” I said. “I’m so sorry.” “I know,” she said. “It’s okay.” She wrapped her arms around my neck and gave me another hug. I squeezed her tightly. We stood there for another moment before she completely broke apart and took a few steps back. “So,” she said, looking around, confused, “what IS going on here, anyway?” I crossed my arms, then ran a hand through my hair. “Weeeeell,” I said, “I was going to completely destroy the treehouse,” I looked up at her. Her jaw dropped and she looked like she just saw a cat get run over. “Oh, my gosh!” she shrieked. “What?!” “Yeah,” I said, “I was going to tear the Memories off the walls, set them on fire in the meadow--along with the photos--then I was gonna go down and chop one or two of the legs with the axe until the whole thing fell down. If it didn’t completely obliterate itself after the fall, I would’ve hacked it up into pieces. Of course, I would’ve taken pictures the whole time, too. Then I would’ve gotten them developed, brought them back, and hammered them into the tree trunk. All for you to discover.” She looked like she was about to cry. She just stood there a minute before shouting: “Oh, my gosh! You’re psychotic!!! Why on Earth, Who- what-? What?!” She was breathing really rapidly and shaking her hands. “Why?!” I put my hand on my forehead and dragged it down my face. “OK, this is going to sound bad. Really bad. I’m sorry, Melinda,” I took a breath. “So, after I busted my head, I found my journal--hold on,” I said. I went past her, out the door, and climbed down the ladder. I ran over to the wheelbarrow, dug through it and plucked my journal out. Then, I scurried back up the ladder and opened the journal in front of her. “And I found this,” I said, pulling out the photo. She was about to say something, but I cut her off. “I had a nightmare before waking up and hitting my head. It was about Miranda. You remember Miranda.” She nodded. “Miranda was in your room, and she was putting that oil stuff you have in her hair, and there were the lollipop wrappers all over the joint,” I said, pointing to the little, tin, monkey box on the crate. Anyway, I woke up and found my journal,” I continued. “Found this picture, and I knew it was the same chick in my dream, so I tried to figure out who it was. The guys eventually told me it was a girl named Miranda.” I paused, and looked at her, seeing if she’d catch on. She just stood there, waiting for more. I snapped the journal shut in my hand and held it in front of her. “Right, Melinda?” I laughed, “This entire thing is written all about you!” I was cracking up, but Melinda wasn’t finding it funny. “The guys told me I used to date Miranda a few years ago, which is right. So, finding the picture in the book, I thought the entire thing was written about her, which is wrong.” She crossed her arms. My dad told me all these stories about me and the girl in the book, who I thought to be Miranda. I thought Miranda and I built the treehouse. I thought Miranda and I did all of this stuff together,” I gestured around the room. I looked down and smiled before looking into her eyes, “You know what I thought?” I asked. “What?” she asked, not really amused. “Because of all of this stuff, I thought me and this girl,” I held up the book, “were meant to be together.” Her expression softened. She looked away, and then looked back with a tiny smile. “So you went to Tif’s party and told Miranda you loved her so much you would die for her.” I laughed, with a mix of sadness and happiness in my voice. “Yes,” I said. She started laughing a little. “Then I got beat up by her boyfriend at school,” I said. She stopped laughing. “Then you, ‘Miranda’, came up here and wrote about it in your notebook like it was the saddest thing,” I said. I put my hands on my chest and spoke in a fake, sad voice, “Like you actually cared about me!” She smiled again. “And while I was recovering at home, she looked through my kitchen window,” I said, and picked her up, hugging her. “And all she wanted to do was hug me!" I cried. "But she couldn’t, because she knew I wouldn’t remember her.” She laughed again. I put her down. “So I was pissed off because I thought she came back to the treehouse to write that, knowing I’d see it, just to spite me,” I said, and threw the journal on the ground. “So I said ‘FUCK HER!’ and I was going to tear it down to spite her back, for good.” “Oye-yoy-yoy!” she yelled. She threw her hands up then whipped them down, “Psychotic!” “Tell me about it,” I said. “Let’s pick these up.” I walked over to the massive pile of Memories and kneeled down. She kneeled next to me. I started making a neatly stacked pile, when I thought to ask, “Why no years, anyway? In your notebook and on these drawings--I never noticed before, but they would’ve made my #life so much easier.” “Dates are too specific,” she said, “and years make time seem too fast. That’s why I like the hyphens. So it’s like, ‘oh, on this day I did this,’ just like a little reminder. Not a huge date that drags you down.” It was weird how she explained it, but I understood what she meant; kind of like when my dad told me about the way he felt when Melinda explained things to him. “Oh. Makes sense,” I said “Mhm,” she said. The photo of Miranda must’ve fallen out of my journal because she picked it up from the pile. “And do you remember how this ended up in your journal?” she asked, holding it up. “Uh,” I started, trying to remember. “Remember? It was one of the last weeks you were still you--before the hockey incident in November?” she asked. I shook my head. “Well, you had asked her if you could have all of your photos back, the ones she kept after you two broke up. Three years ago.” I looked at her intently. She laughed. “She came to school, and gave you one. This one. And said ‘So you can remember me’, then left.” I started laughing. “Oh, yeah, I can’t believe it,” I said. I reached over for my journal, opened the back cover, pulled out the little, folded piece of paper and showed her. “ ‘I don’t think I’ll ever get them back’ ”, I read. “I forgot about that.” She took the note from my hand, “In Science class that day. Right after it happened, you went to class and told me the story, then Wilcott started talking, and you wrote it and slipped it under my folder. Then I wrote on it and gave it back.” She flipped it over and read the part she had written, “ ‘”Remember me” -- I bet that’s exactly what you’re gonna do’ “ I smiled, then chucked. “It’s exactly what I tried to do.” She smiled widely. She got up and went over to the crate. Pulling out a marker, a piece of paper and a glue stick, she made a new Memory. She rubbed glue on the back of Miranda’s photo and slapped it on the paper. “When Locke...tried to...remember...Miranda,” she announced as she wrote, “And almost...destroyed...the Treehouse. 3-1.” She tossed the marker and glue back in the crate, pulled out the tape and tore a piece off. She stuck the paper on the wall. “Perfect.” “Yeah, and I can add the photo I took right before I came up here. Of me, the treehouse, the axe, and my middle finger.” “That sounds quite fitting,” she said, tossing me the tape before rejoining me on the floor. “You know what you told me you were gonna do with her photo?” she asked. “Hmm?” I asked. “Burn it,” she laughed. “That sounds quite fitting,” I laughed back. “Guess I didn’t want to lose it, so I stuck it in the journal.” We started picking up Memories and taping them back on the walls. “Why did you come up here, anyway?” I asked. She paused to look at me, as if I should’ve known the answer. Then, she smiled devilishly and continued picking up papers and taping them on the wall. “Well?” I asked. She smiled wider, then pointed her nose to the ceiling, and said in a snooty tone, “Your answer is in the pages,” she gestured to the sea of papers. “Ugh,” I groaned. I knew I wouldn’t get my answer until later, if at all. After a little while, when we were a little over halfway done, she stopped. “You know,” she said, looking over her shoulder at me, “You’re lucky I’m not like Miranda.” “You can say that again,” I joked. “I’m serious,” she said as she turned back to the wall and continued taping. “Remember when you got amnesia the very first time?” she asked. “Uh huh,” I said. “Remember how you were still with Miranda when you got it?” she asked. I said yes. “Remember how I met you in English when you still had it? And how Miranda broke up with you at lunch after seeing you and me in the hall talking after you got your memory back?” I nodded. “You just wanted to tell me you got your memory back, but she took it as flirting. Then you explained how you and I had just become friends in English class, and she was like ‘O.M.G. YOU’RE CHEATING ON ME.’” “Yeah, and?” I said. “Well,” she continued, “if I was like Miranda, I would have dumped you on the spot after having heard you were telling her you loved her and crap at the party. But I didn’t, because I knew you had amnesia and wouldn’t have remembered me anyway. I would’ve just ended up hurting myself.” “But if you had said something about it, maybe I would’ve realized you were the one the book was written about, then I could’ve apologized and fixed everything,” I said. “Like I was even thinking about your journal,” she guffawed, “let alone that picture of Miranda in it, screwing with your head. I didn’t even know you put it there!” “Yeah, well--“ I started. She cut me off. “The difference is that Miranda didn’t care if you had amnesia or not--you were still her boyfriend, and anything you did YOU were held accountable for. Not your amnesia. I didn’t hold you accountable,” she said. “You considered dumping me before I even DID anything!” I said. “ ‘But I have today’,” I recited. “Locke,” she said in a serious tone. “You were in the hospital. You COULDN’T do anything. You,” she paused. “You were a zombie.” She turned around to face me. “Every time I walked in,” she tried to go on, but couldn’t. “You wanted me to remember you,” I finished. “I’m sorry.” She was trying to hold back from crying. It broke my heart. Poor Melinda. What she had to have gone through. And she couldn’t even bear to go say hi or to take me flowers with kids from school because she knew what would happen as soon as she walked through the door. Nothing. In a broken, half-voice, she said, “It hurt really badly.” ​ “I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” I said again as I walked from the over to her. I gave her a big bear hug. She was so small, so short--she almost disappeared. I liked how she was like that; it made me feel extra protective over her. I rubbed her back. “Maybe you should have kissed me before,” I said, a little muffled because my face was in her hair. “Huh?” she asked, still a little sad. I turned, resting my cheek on the top of her head now. “Walking through the door does nothing. You gotta act. You walked through--barged through--the door today, and I thought you were gonna attack me in my own treehouse.” She laughed a little, “maybe if you were whacking the walls with an axe, I would’ve.” “Good thing I hadn’t gotten there yet,” I said. “Good thing,” she said. She unlatched herself from me and walked over to where my journal lay open on the floor. She picked it up and skimmed through whatever entry it had landed open on. "Oh my gosh," she said. "You wrote about how I had ignored you that day after school. When I told you at lunch we should hang out after school. You waited for me, and I walked right by you with my friends. How stupid was I?" "Honestly, I probably wouldn't have hung out with me either if I were you. That was the day Miranda had blown up at me in the hallway after she saw me talking to you." "I guess you're right. Dang. You had never told me you had a crazy girlfriend!" she said. "I didn't really have to. After all, we were 'just friends'" I said with air quotations. She rolled her eyes. Within ten minutes, we were done. Even though it was March, the sun still liked to set early. It was getting a little dark outside, and it was getting hard to see inside. She got a little angry when she realized we couldn’t put the Christmas lights back up because I had ripped the hooks out of the walls. She said we had to improvise, so we spread them along the edges of the floor, instead. She said she was glad I didn’t rip the cord itself in half, or the lights wouldn’t have even worked. She picked up the crate in the corner, between the beanbag chairs. Lifting another few removable planks, she exposed a little metal box with a hole in it that was the battery for the electrical stuff. She wanted to make sure it still worked, so she told me to pop a CD in the boombox, and I did. “Wait,” she said as she pushed a few buttons in the metal box. “Go in my bag, there’s a CD in there I just made. Put that in.” “OK,” I said. I grabbed her tan, suede satchel and found a thin, plastic CD case. The CD was titled “301”. I popped it out of its case, snapped it in and pressed play. “301?” I asked. She smiled at me and pressed a button. Right as a smooth and slow guitar intro started, the room lit up in a soft yellow as the Christmas lights sparked. “Oh, no,” I said with a little uneasiness in my voice. It was "Sparks", by Coldplay. She put the crate back and took my hands in hers. She led me over to the back left corner and pointed to a Memory dated 3-1. 3-01. “Remember?” she sang. It was a drawing of us, in the treehouse, in the evening, with the setting sun, and the glowing Christmas lights, and little music notes dancing above the boombox in the corner. Of course I remembered. I took her hand and led her to the center. I held out my left hand, which she took with her right. I slipped my other arm around her tiny waist and pulled her in a little. She placed her other hand over my shoulder blade and rested her left cheek on the left side of my chest. We moved slowly, step by step as the music played: ♫ Did I drive you away? I know what you'll say, You’ll say, "Oh, sing one we know", But I promise you this, I'll always look out for you, That's what I'll do. ♫ “Happy Anniversary,” I said softly. I could feel her cheeks smiling against my body. She turned her head, looking up at me, and resting with her chin on my collarbone. “Happy Anniversary,” she whispered. I leaned down and kissed her softly; her warm lips took the shape of mine. I took it all in: the subtle squeeze of my hand as our lips met, and the spark that they made; the rise and fall of her back as I gently caressed it; the faintest taste of mint that lingered on her lips. It all took me back to our Second Anniversary (first in the treehouse), last March. I’d remembered it, and she’d remembered it, but neither of us had said anything until that evening. When we got here, she’d told me she’d found “our anniversary song” the week before, and she’d been dying to listen to it with me. It was, of course, a Coldplay song ("Sparks"); they’re her favorite. It was beautiful. It was perfect. It was everything and more, all at the same time. We’d danced just like this, and I had told her she was the best song-finder in the world. It took me back: I remembered our First Anniversary, spent taking a walk through the park. We’d held hands, and I remembered being thankful for being with her for what felt like so long at the time; she was the first girlfriend I’d had for longer than three months. We talked about everything, and nothing. I remembered how, at the end of the trail, we reached the river; it was the same river that ran behind the treehouse. We stopped, we kissed, and I told her she was the best thing in my #life. And, it took me back, three years ago, to March 1st: the day I asked her to be mine. We ate lunch together that day, of course, but after lunch that year, we didn’t have any more classes together until the following day, so I told her to meet me by the fountain after school was out, because I had something to ask her. I was nervous, and young, and foolish, and chattery, but I asked her. I asked her with a lump in my throat, ready to cry and run away if she said no, but she didn’t. In fact, the first thing she’d said was, ‘I’ve been waiting for you to ask me.’ And it brought me back to right now, our Third, where she was mine, still; and I was hers. I broke our sealed kiss and let my mouth hover over hers for a moment. “I love you,” I said with a lump in my throat. She slightly shook her head, “I love you, too.” There was just enough of a glow in the room for me to see her wonderful smile. She put her head back on my chest. ♫ My heart is yours, It's you that I hold on to, That's what I do. And I know I was wrong, But I won't let you down, (Oh yeah I will, yeah I will, yes I will) ♫ We stood, now rocking, back and forth to the lull of the song. I kept slowly rubbing her back and let my cheek rest atop her head. I didn’t want to cry, but I did. Silent tears rolled down my face onto the crown of her head. I never wanted to be without her again. “So, that was why you came up here,” I said quietly, “to write in your notebook about how much you missed me. To say, maybe, you cried when looking through the window this time. To be all alone up in our treehouse and listen to "Sparks" on our Anniversary?” “What can I say,” she said, “I missed you. Sure, it would’ve been a little painful, but it would’ve been more painful sitting in my room wishing I was here.” “Yeah,” I said, understanding. Then we stood, silent again, and appreciated our song. ♫ And I saw sparks, Yeah I saw sparks. And I saw sparks, Yeah I saw sparks. Sing it out. ♫ I didn’t want to ruin the moment by talking anymore, but throughout this whole thing, one question still remained unanswered. I whispered: “One more question.” “Mmm,” she hummed. I looked down to see her eyes closed. “Unfinished lollipops. Why?” I sang. “I don’t remember,” she said. “Melinda...” She cooed, “Locke,” I was about to ask again, but she took her hand off of my back and put a finger to my lips. “Shh. Some things are worth remembering more than others.” I never knew why she never finished the lollipops, but I knew remembering our Third Anniversary would be a much better memory to have in the years to come. So, we swayed. ♫ La, la, la, la, oh. La, la, la, la, oh. La, la, la, la, oh. La, la, la, la, oh. ♫ The End.

Remember Me - Part 19: The Answer I hated to say it, but Connor was right. It took me a solid three and a half weeks to fully recover from the cafeteria brawl. I didn’t do much; I was released from the hospital after a few days, then I went home and stayed in bed while my poor dad cared for me the whole time. He took off work and everything. The guys came over every other day to talk to me, which was nice. A couple times, a few kids from school, claiming to be friends, came over with food and flowers and shit. I didn’t mind it, but it was a little weird. As for Miranda, I hadn’t heard any news about her from the guys throughout the weeks. They said things had settled down a little the school, and they were getting back into the swing of things. Despite all that had happened, I couldn’t stop thinking about her. It was the events that didn’t line up; the way she had denied the treehouse, English class, and the cards; and the positive way my dad talked about her, compared to the negative way the guys did, that told me something was missing. And despite my broken heart and bruised skin, gosh dangit, I was going to find out what. There was something so imperfect, so obvious about this whole amnesia thing, and I just wasn’t catching it. I was well enough to walk on my own now; before the other day, I was using crutches. Matt had kicked me hard in the thighs. Really hard. After lunch, I walked to my room and got dressed. I put on thick, cotton sweat pants, a long-sleeved shirt and a hoodie. Walking out to the kitchen to put on my tennis shoes, my dad stopped me. “You going to school?” he asked. I laughed. “No,” I said. “Are you going back tomorrow?” he asked. I thought it was unusual that he asked if I was going back, as if I had a choice. “To be honest,” I said, “I don’t really want to.” “Why not?” he asked. “Because,” I said, “it’s annoying going to a place I don’t remember and pretending I know everything that’s going on, when I really don’t.” He waited for me to continue. “We got a pop quiz the first day I was back, and I failed it. I mean, I could go, but my grades would probably drop. It’s hard for me to pay attention, and,” I paused. “I just really don’t want to be there until I get my #life sorted out.” “You mean until you get your memory back,” he said. “Yeah,” I said. He smiled. “I understand, son. You’ve been going through a lot these past few months. I think it’s only fair you get a little time off.” I couldn’t believe he was willingly letting me ditch school for however long it took for me to get my memory back. I thought about the possibility of getting away with hiding it, if I ever did get my memory back, just to stay out of school longer. But then I thought of Sam, pinching his fingers in the lunch line, saying he could “taste” the potential karma. “Really, Dad?” “I’ll call the school and tell them you’re not doing well with the amnesia,” he said. “Thanks,” I said, grabbing my tennis shoes. “I’m going to the treehouse.” Over the past three weeks, the very thought of the treehouse gave me a headache. After I got home from the hospital, I told myself I was never going to go there again. I couldn’t stand the thought that the insidious, dark-haired Miranda used to hang out with me there. That horribly spiteful girl whom willed herself to forget everything we did together all because I had an accident and lost my memory. Despite all of it, I felt the missing answers were there and I just had to search harder for them. I trudged through the woods of my backyard, ugly thoughts racing through my mind. ‘I might as well just tear down the damned thing,’ I thought as I neared the Big Hill. I had a thought about turning around and going back for some tools to do it, but I shoved it aside. Maybe after I got my memory back, I would tear it down. Or, maybe I would understand why I hadn’t already. Maybe I wouldn’t want to tear it down. I didn’t know, and I wouldn’t know until I did get it back. I scaled up the treehouse with my journal in my jacket. After unlocking the door and stepping inside, I was greeted with our Memories all over again. All the pictures and drawings plastered to the walls, forgotten, hated, and left behind forever. I wanted to be mad. I wanted to be furious and tear them off the walls and rip them up, but I couldn’t. Instead, I closed the door behind me and sank down. I covered my face with my hands and dragged them down, stretching my skin. Just like in Tif’s bathroom, I didn’t want to cry, but I did. I cried and cried like a big, goddamned baby. I cursed as I threw my head back against the door, banging it a few times. I sat there, on the floor, for a few minutes until I got up and walked to one of the beanbag chairs. I stepped on the spot of rug where the floorboards could be lifted, and heard a cracking noise. Peeling it up, I saw the broken floorboard. I picked both pieces up and noticed there had been glue between them. I realized I had split the wood again by stepping on it. Had Miranda been up here? I lifted the other floorboard up to fully reveal the secret compartment. Instinctively, I took Miranda’s notebook out and flipped to the back of it. “ Wow. I haven’t been up here in so long. When I got up, I noticed some of the papers had come off the walls. It must’ve been the wind. They were all over the floor, so I taped them back up. Maybe Locke and I should’ve nailed them to the walls instead, I wonder. I also noticed one of the planks under the rug was broken... I really don’t know what could’ve caused that. I had to come up to write; it’s horrible... Locke got beat up today by Matt in the cafeteria. I was there; I saw most it. I wanted to sit with Locke and the guys, but I couldn’t bring myself to do it. I sat a few tables away and watched them sit down. Within a few minutes, Matt was there and his friends showed up to take care of the guys. Right when Matt leaned over the table, I noticed his friends start to close in from different sides of the cafeteria. Locke punched him in the jaw so hard that, whatever happened to the bone, I could hear it from where I was sitting. Instantly, everyone around got up and rushed over, but I stayed at the table. I couldn’t stand to see Locke get beat up. I’d heard around that he has amnesia again, but it didn’t really matter to me since he’d already had it. My poor Locke... “ “My poor Locke,” I said aloud, disgusted. What was this girl, bipolar? If anything, she would’ve been cheering Matt on, from the way she acted at the party. God, it made me sick. I wondered if she came all the way up here to write in her stupid notebook just in case she thought I might come back here one day to find it, just to spite me. Fuck her. I turned the page. “ I brought glue and fixed the broken plank, but I’m not sure if it’s the right kind. Anyway, Locke had been in the hospital for a few days after the fight. People from school asked me if I wanted to go with them to his house because they were going to give him flowers and food, but I said no. I’d been bringing him flowers all the time after he hit his head in the rink, thinking he’d one day remember me, but he didn’t. I didn’t want to feel that all over again. When I came by to go to the treehouse, I snuck a peek through his kitchen window. He was on the couch, watching TV. He looked bad... his face was really swollen and he looked like he was in pain. I felt really, really bad for him and I wanted to go inside and give him a hug, but... I couldn’t. “ I threw the book at the wall. I would’ve gotten so, incredibly pissed if Miranda walked in my house with flowers in her hands. I don’t know what I would’ve done. I couldn’t believe Miranda had taken some of her time to come back to the treehouse, fix it up, and leave me notes just to make me mad. On top of that, I bet she did actually look through my kitchen window to see my sorry ass sitting on the couch, just to give her some inspiration for her writings. What. A. Fucking. Bitch. I decided I didn’t want to uncover the mystery behind Miranda. I didn’t care. I didn’t care what I had missed in the beginning, because I knew two things: 1) we were broken up and there is nothing I could do about it, and 2) a person who would go through all that trouble just to make me mad isn’t worth my time. I threw the pieces of broken plank at one of the screen windows, tearing it. I heard them knock a few tree limbs on their way down. I tore the Christmas lights off the hooks and threw them in the corner. I plucked every single paper lantern from the ceiling and threw them out the door. I was about to start tearing the drawings and photographs from the walls when I came up with a better idea for them in my head. I’d done enough. I’d leave the demolition of the treehouse to another day. So, I went back home and slept.

Remember Me - Part 18: The First Day “I told you, man: Big. Ass. Bitch,” Sam said as he shut his locker. “I told you trying to talk to her wasn’t a good idea,” Randall said. “Maybe you--“ I banged my fists against a locker. “Yeah, I know! Maybe I SHOULD have listened to you, but I didn’t. You guys don’t understand...” “All I understand is you need to get your head back,” Connor said. “And make sure you screw it on right, ‘cause the old Locke never in a million years would’ve went after Miranda.” I really, really wanted to punch Connor in the face. “Shut the fuck up, Connor,” I said. He put his hands up in defense, “Whoa, OK,” he said and started walking off, “I’m going to class. Later.” “Later,” Sam said. “Don’t worry about it, Locke” Randall said. “It’s over now.” I groaned. It wasn’t over for me. It wouldn’t be over until I got my memory back. “Alright,” I said, “where do I go?” I took out my schedule that the Office gave me this morning. Sam grabbed it. “You have Stats first period with Sigmon. Right over there,” he pointed. “See these numbers?” he pointed to the paper. “Room numbers. Just find the rooms you need to be in when you need to be in them and you’ll be fine. Just make sure after fourth you go to the cafeteria for lunch. Just follow the crowd of people and we’ll meet you there.” “Okay,” I said. They each gave me a pat on the shoulder then left. I prayed to God I didn’t have any classes with Miranda, which is probably what I would’ve begged for had I not gone to the party. As I walked in the room, an uncomfortable number of eyes fell on me. I slowly walked to an empty desk and sat down. As soon as I did, they all started whispering. After a minute, the teacher walked in and welcomed us back, then began the lesson. I wondered if confronting Miranda at school would’ve made it any less harsh; I probably wouldn’t have been splashed with water, at least. I just wanted to forget what happened, but I couldn’t. The whole weekend was miserable. I was surprised I had even made it home alive that night. By the time we left, we were all drunk. Really drunk. The five-minute drive to my house wasn’t too bad; Sam managed not to hit anything. I only assumed the other two were dropped off safely because they made it to school today. We hadn’t talked the whole weekend, because there was really nothing to talk about. The teacher kept looking at me while he spoke, but it didn’t make me pay attention; I just kept zoning out. Right after Miranda threw her virgin water in my face and stormed off, I went to the bathroom to dry myself. I didn’t want to cry, but I did. I went to the parlor afterward and told Randall what had happened. He was too drunk to feel true pity for me, which I was thankful for. We drank until we couldn’t see straight; he did for fun, I did to get my mind off my miserable state. We might’ve tried to play pool, but I can’t remember. We ran into Sam and Connor as the party died down, then left. My dad was awake in the living room when I got home, and he asked how the party was and if I found Miranda, but I just said I didn’t want to talk about it, then went to bed. I woke up sometime in the afternoon Saturday, severely hung over, so I just went back to sleep and woke up/dozed off a few more times throughout the day. Dad was home all day, but he gave me my space, thankfully. I was mad whenever I was awake, and if he tried to pry, I might’ve snapped at him. Sunday rolled around, and I woke up to find my dad had already left for church. He’d left me a note on the table. I was eating lunch when he came home, so he joined me. I told him everything. He felt really bad for me, which is exactly what I didn’t want. I didn’t want anyone’s sympathy; I wanted their support and understanding. The rest of the day I spent reading through my journal. I found out that the last page in my journal didn’t hold any answers regarding our break up, Miranda’s feelings toward me, or my feelings toward her. It was simply about how we had lunch at her house. I was beginning to get so fed up with all the confusion and stories and explanations that didn’t match up. I just wanted to have my #life back. But then, I thought to be careful what I wished for, because I wished for Miranda, and just look at how that turned out... The bell rang, and I got up with everyone else to find my next class. Before I knew it, it rang again. And again. And again, and I was at lunch, in line with the guys. “How’s the first day goin’?” Sam asked. “It’s going,” I said, “fast. I haven’t been paying attention at all.” “You sound like Connor,” he said. “Huh?” Connor said, whipping around. We laughed as we grabbed trays and started picking food. “So, you guys know Hannah?” Sam asked. The other two nodded. “She was all over me and Dave Friday night. People have been saying that she broke up with Brandon the night before the party. She tried to get me and Dave to go upstairs with her!” “Whoa,” Connor said. “Nice.” “Yeah, but I didn’t. I knew I would’ve had such bad karma, like, I could feel it,” Sam got real close to me, pinching his fingers near his lips, “I could TASTE it,” he said. “Well, we all know Brandon is, like, the most aggressive guy in school,” Randall said. “Yeah, you probably would’ve gotten the shit beat out of you if you would’ve hooked up with her,” Connor said. “I hope Dave didn’t. I like Dave.” “Please,” said Sam, “I could easily take on Brandon.” We paid for our food then I followed the guys across the cafeteria to a table we probably had always sat at. “Speaking of rumors,” Sam said, “everyone knows you’re back with more amnesia.” “That explains the stares,” I said, picking up my sandwich. “...and about your stunt with Miranda,” he added. “You’re shitting me,” I said with my stuffed mouth hanging open. “Nope,” Sam said, taking a bite of his sandwich. I looked at Randall and Connor, who sat on the other side of the table. They both took bites. “Are you fucking kidding me?!” I yelled. “Miranda’s got a big yap,” Connor said. “And a lot of yapping friends,” Randall said. When I thought if it could get any worse, a tall, muscular guy stood at the end of our table with a lunch tray full of food. When he smiled and said “Hey, guys,” I remembered who he was. Shit. “Hey, Matt,” Connor said. Matt Daily put his tray down and slid it across the table. He looked at me. “What’s up, Locke?” he said as he put his hands on the table, leaning over it. I kept eating my sandwich. The other guys had stopped. “Not much, man, how ‘bout you?” “So, I heard you tried to get with Miranda Friday night,” he said, cocking his head and moving his eyebrows around. He didn’t sound threatening, but he did have a hint of concern in his voice. I had an instinct telling me to stand up and punch Matt in the face, but I ignored it. “Maybe,” I said. Randall and Connor started getting up. I smiled at Matt, “But maybe I didn’t.” I scratched my chin and said slowly, “I can’t re-mem-ber.” “Don’t think I’m buying your ‘amnesia’ bullshit for one second, you little piece of shit,” he spat. I stood up in front of him. “I know it was all a lie just to try to get with her.” Out of nowhere, three other guys appeared next to Sam, Randall and Connor. They grabbed their arms, holding them back. Matt looked like he was going to make a move, but before he could, I socked him in the jaw. He took a step back, lifting his hands to cup it. My knuckles really hurt, but the pain on his face made it feel so good. Matt took a big swing at my stomach, making me heave. I swung my foot and kicked him in the shin. He yelled, and then threw himself at me. Next thing I knew, I was on my knees and I could hear my guys fighting with the other guys. A familiar buzzing sounded off in my head. I unwrapped my arms from my stomach to cover my ears. I looked up with enough time to see two things: 1) all the kids crowding around to get a good look as 2) Matt’s fist flew at my face. The buzzing noise became ringing as soon as he hit me. I screamed in pain, but I wish I hadn’t, because it triggered the pressure to go off in my head. Only getting more intense, I screamed and cried as the seconds ticked by. I opened my eyes to see the room spinning as I fell on the floor. I squeezed them shut and rolled around. Matt had no mercy, and started kicking me anywhere he could. I felt jabs in my stomach, my chest, my back and my thighs. I screamed and screamed, more from the pain in my head than the pain everywhere else. I could feel blood running down my nose and in my throat caused by the pressure in my skull. He must’ve got down on his knees because I felt another punch in the face before everything went black. . . . When my consciousness returned, the pressure and pain in my head was gone. Unfortunately, though, the pain in the rest of my body was not. I couldn’t breathe out of my nose, so I moved my jaw around a little as I opened my mouth wider than it already was. Bad move. I groaned at the pain that came along with it. I tried opening my eyes, but it wasn’t working. My body felt like it was glued to the table. I wondered how long I’d been out. Was I still on the floor in the cafeteria? After a few more tries, I got my eyes to peel open just a little. Enough to see I was in a small-ish room with lots of different equipment. My neck wasn’t sore, so I turned my head to see Randall, Connor and Sam sitting in chairs to my right, against a wall. I smiled at them, and felt soreness in both of my cheeks. They were beat-up looking too, but not as much as I felt I was. Randall smiled back, lifting his hand to give me an “OK” sign, then a thumbs up. Sam slowly lifted his hand, too, and made the same pinching motion near his lips as he did in the lunch line. Then opened his palm upward and swung it while raising his eyebrows. I laughed a little. I tasted it, all right. He pointed at me, then pointed at himself and tapped his chest with his finger twice. I nodded. It could’ve been him had he gotten with that Hannah chick. He squinted his eyes and pointed at me again with a smile, and then he gave me a thumb up too, as if saying, “you did all right for someone who forgot how to fight.” A lady in baggy, floral print clothes came in. “Oh, good, you’re awake! How’re you feeling?” “Uh,” I said, my voice was gone, probably from all the screaming. “Pain,” I winced. “On a scale of one to ten, ten being the worst, how bad is it?” she asked. “Like,” I tried, “like a six.” “Okay,” she said, and left the room. As soon as the door clicked shut, I said, “What the heck?” Connor laughed a little. “Aw, man, thank you for getting beat up, Locke,” he said. I looked at him, disbelieving what he said. “We got out of school ‘cause of you,” he said. “Yeah,” Sam started, “and Matt’s gotten suspended for three weeks.” “Too bad you’ll probably be recovering for that long instead of trying to get back with Miranda while he’s gone,” Connor laughed. I rolled my eyes. “You dislocated his jaw,” Randall said with a smile. “But he put you in the hospital,” Sam added. Randall looked at him. “If the poor kid remembered how to fight, you’d better believe Matt would be in the hospital,” he said. “But Locke wouldn’t have had to put him in the hospital because he would’ve remembered Miranda is a BIG, FAT BITCH,” Connor yelled. The lady came back in. “Here,” she said. “Swallow these.” She handed me a little, paper cup filled with water, and a few pills. “Thanks,” I said. She smiled, then left. “You and your afro need to calm down,” I told Conner. “Jew-fro,” Randall corrected. “Stocky,” he said to Randall. “Lanky,” Randall said back. “Are we five?” Sam asked. We all paused--then laughed. “What else?” I asked. “Oh, yeah, Principal Howard came over and tried to get Matt off of you, but got socked in the face!” Sam said. “By Matt?” I asked. “Yeah, the fricken moron,” Connor said. “It took, like, seven teachers to get the whole thing under control,” said Randall. “Pretty sure it was the best fight of the year,” Connor said. “Maybe it would’ve been better if I hadn’t blacked out,” I said. “Ohhh,” Sam said. “Is that what happened? I thought you were seriously getting beat up,” “He was,” Connor said, looking at Sam. “I’ve been getting these weird things,” I said, “where, I’ll be fine one minute, but then something will happen, and I hear buzzing, then ringing, then... It’s like, like, my head is a watermelon and someone is trying to squish it. It hurts like hell. I was screaming from the pain in my head,” “What triggers it?” Randall asked. “I think it’s just when I get worked up,” I said, unsure. “That’s weird,” Sam said. “I wonder if it’s ‘cause you hit your head all the fucking time,” Connor said. “Probably,” I said. I heard footsteps outside the door, and all of us shut up. We waited a few moments, but no one came in. “Hey, Locke,” Randall said. I looked at him. “You’re starting to act a little more like yourself.”

Remember Me - Part 17: Meeting Miranda Randall and I stood in the foyer, waiting for the first part of Steph’s plan to unfold. “Remember,” Randall said, “Don’t lay it on her too thick, or the whole thing is over.” “Got it,” I said. Then we saw Steph making her way back to the foyer with Miranda trailing behind, still holding her Solo cup. The plan was to have Steph go into the living room, grab Miranda and tell her she needed to talk to her ASAP. Then, Steph would take Miranda out to the crowded foyer, proceed to tell her that one of their friends’ boyfriends was hitting on her and she wanted to ask Miranda what she should do, but right after mentioning the guy’s name, Steph would tell Miranda she was feeling some pain in her stomach and she’d excuse herself to the bathroom after telling Miranda to wait for her. While Steph was in the bathroom, I would make my move. We saw her talking to Miranda, whom had her hands across her chest. Steph was making all these hand motions, and then she grabbed onto her stomach. Miranda put a hand on Steph’s shoulder, but Steph waved her hand as if she didn’t need any help. Steph held up one finger and scurried off to the bathroom adjacent to the staircase. “Good luck, bro,” Randall said as he smacked my shoulder again. “I think I’m gonna need another drink. Be in the parlor. Tell me how it goes.” I swallowed. “Thanks.” I had told Steph not to say anything about me to Miranda, and to give me at least ten minutes, so she was going to wait a minute or so in the bathroom until I had Miranda’s attention in order for her to sneak out and hang in the parlor. The timer had started, and it was time for me to finally meet the girl of my dreams, literally. I walked a little slower than usual, making my way over to Miranda, whom stood with her arms re-folded across her chest after placing her cup on a small half-table against the wall. I could hear my heart thumping in my ears and a knot twisted in my stomach. When I was less than five feet away from her, I took a deep breath in and let it out. “Hey, Miranda,” I said. I didn’t know how I pulled it off so smoothly. She turned to look at me with her striking, blue eyes. “Um, hi?” she said as she raised her eyebrows. Her voice was satin smooth. “How are you?” I asked. “Uh,” she paused and looked around, as if she thought I was talking to someone else. She narrowed her eyes, and in a slightly annoyed tone, asked: “Can I help you?” “What,” I asked calmly, “I can’t ask you how you’re doing?” She put one arm down, resting her hand on her hip. Her other hand, an open palm, “I don’t see why you would.” She was making my attempt at making small talk very difficult. “It’s been a while, hasn’t it? I just wanted to come over and say hi some time tonight when I knew you were free. I saw you earlier with your friends, and I thought you looked really good,” I said as charmingly as I could. I pulled the ‘saw you with your friends’ lie right out of my ass. I didn’t know if she’d been with her friends or not. I only assumed because Steph said she’d saw Miranda earlier. I hoped I was correct. “Oh,” she said, just a tad nicer now. “Well, I’m fine, thanks.” “That’s good,” I said, “Are you having a good time?” “Mhm,” she said, not looking at me directly. “Have you tried the punch? Man,” I laughed, “that stuff is--“ “I don’t drink,” she said coldly, now looking at me. “You know that.” Fuck. Fuck me. Fuck my amnesia. “Oh, yeah, sorry. I-I forgot.” “Right,” she said. “Steph is in the bathroom and she’ll be out in a minute, so I think you should go,” she said with a pinch of aggravation. “Miranda, I--“ I stammered. She started walking away. I risked the possible rest of a conversation with her by lightly grabbing her shoulder. “Wait.” She flipped around. “What? What could you possibly want?” she belted. “A chance to know what happened,” I said with a little sadness in my voice. She narrowed her eyes again. “I understand how you felt after I got amnesia,” I began, “and I’m so, so sorry. I can’t even imagine how hard it must’ve been for you--but I got better.” She tried to say something, but I kept talking, afraid she would try to leave again. “Miranda,” I said, a little welt building in my throat, “I remember everything we did together. Everything.” Even though I didn’t, I knew I one day would. I knew I would one day get my memory back, and it would suck ten million times more than it did now, being able to remember my true-felt feelings for her and knowing she wasn’t mine anymore. Knowing that she was with another guy and all of our love and memories were lost in the past. How would I live with that? “I remember how I met you in English class, and how you were so excited that I had the banana card. And how you said we ‘should be good partners’ even though the pairing had nothing to do with it,” I said, kind of laughing. “Remember how you told Mrs. Davis we already knew what she was trying to teach us, and we got a zero?” “What on Earth are you talking about?” “Oh, c’mon, you know,” I said. “You couldn’t have forgotten.” She looked at me blankly. I thought she was trying to spite me at first, pretending she had forgotten. But then I realized that she might have genuinely forgotten. She might have broken up with me and decided she never wanted anything to do with me ever again, and she just stopped thinking about me. All these years, it might’ve been easy to forget all those things we did. I felt alone, like she and I were the only ones in this whole house. Like the only thing keeping her here was the fact that she had, in fact, been a part of all the projects and adventures we did. But, she was slowly fading away from me because she urged herself to forget it all. It broke my heart. I felt like an empty soul pouring false knowledge out of my heart in hopes to win her back, but I was losing. I took an even bigger risk and held her hand. It was soft and warm, pancaked between mine. “Miranda,” I said slowly, the pain evident in my voice, “the treehouse. Our treehouse. Our Memories...” She yanked her hand away and shouted, angrily: “What the hell, Locke?” “It’s me,” I choked, “God, Miranda, please!” “I don’t know you anymore,” she said. “And I don’t know who you think you are, coming up to me and talking to me about some fantasy treehouse shit. What the fuck are you on? Are you drunk?” “I’m not drunk,” I cried, “I just wanted to tell you I still care about you!” “Still care about me? What, after, like, three years? Huh?” She shrieked, “and after you fucking cheated on me?” “I didn’t cheat on you--it was a misunderstanding!” I still didn’t know what exactly had happened, for sure, between Miranda and me, but I just went with it. “I would never, ever cheat on you.” I paused just for a second, “Miranda, I love you.” I regretted the words as soon as they passed my lips. She made a horribly disgusted face and then picked up her Solo cup and threw the liquid on me. Water. Slowly, she spit through her teeth: “I never want to see your fucking face again.” And she left.

Remember Me: Part 16 - The Party “Okay, Locke, just stick by at least one of us throughout the whole party and you’ll be fine--we got you,” Sam said as we all walked up to the front door. Connor rang the doorbell. “B-but what about Mir--“ I said as the door opened. A tall, blonde girl answered and ushered us in with a “Hey, guys!” to us, and a “The rest of the hockey team’s here!” to the party. We got a bunch of hoots and hollers. I guessed hockey was a big deal at our school. The second she opened the door, the intense club music pounded in my ears. There were so many people it was insane. The house was so nice--I wondered if I’d ever partied here before. It was a huge house filled with expensive furniture and luxuries. The ceilings were high and there were a few chandeliers here and there. There was no carpet anywhere in the house, just hardwood and various stone tiles. As we walked through the door, I saw the grand staircase and balcony to the upstairs portion of the house. There was a short hallway, where we were, that lead to the kitchen by a decorative, ornate rug. To the right was a massive dining room with an entrance supported by marble columns that also connected to the kitchen. To the left, past the staircase, was another big room fully furnished to resemble a parlor, fit with two pool tables, a bar, and a bunch of other games. People flooded both rooms, as well as the main foyer area where we were. I couldn’t see into the kitchen yet, but it looked like there were people there too. The blonde girl stood in front of us, pointing. “You guys know it: drinks there, food there--“ Sam slapped a hand on my shoulder from behind and stepped to the side so he could see the girl. “Poor Locke here doesn’t ‘know it’, unfortunately,” he said. “He hit his head again the other day and has--yet another--case of amnesia.” She pouted her lips and made sad looking arcs out of her eyebrows. “I’m sorry, Locke,” she said as she gave me a sympathetic touch. She put her hand on her chest, “I’m Tiffany, but call me Tif. This is my house,” she gestured around, “and my parents are gone on their annual vacation to our condo in Florida. And this is Sansdale’s annual New Year’s Eve party--everyone is here. Juniors and seniors only though. Well, maybe a few sophomores here and there, but I’m friends with them, so--but no freshmen though!” “Alright, cool,” I said. “Make yourself at home, and party hard! I’ll see you around,” she said with a smile and a wave as she walked into the sea of people. Sam put his hand on my shoulder again, kind of hugging me from the side. “That’s Tif--Senior. Coolest chick ever. Thank God for her or else we’d never have cool parties like this,” he said as he pushed me forward into the crowd. “Her parents are, like, party animals,” he continued, talking close into my ear to make sure I could hear over the loud music and chatter. I scanned the faces of everyone around me, looking for Miranda. I still hadn’t figured out how I was going to approach her or what I was going to say to her, which made me anxious about how it was all going to play out. Nevertheless, I still was in desperation of finding her and fixing all of this. Sam went on, “it’s like they don’t even care! They stock up on all these booze before they go off to Florida, and they come home to them all gone, and don’t even question. They know what goes on, they kind of, like, encourage it...” “Locke! Connor! Sam! Randall! My boys!” some guy stopped us with his open arms right before we got into the kitchen. He was ripped, like the four of us. He wore an orange Nike athletic shirt and jeans. He had Randall’s haircut, but his hair was blonde. “Hey, Russell,” Randall said. They gave each other quick pats on the back. Randall looked at me, “This is Russell--he’s on the hockey team with us.” Russell cocked his head at me. “Don’t tell me,“ he began. “Yeah!” Connor shouted and swung his arms as if hitting something, “Locke’s hit homerun number three--he’s out of the park! Literally!” “Aw, maaan,” Russell said shaking his head. “That royally sucks, dude. I’m sorry. You were just getting better, too. That was pretty much all on me, dude, Nathan just pisses me off so much. I shouldn’t have knocked him over. But hey, at least you don’t remember that, right?” “Riiight,” I said, unsure of how he meant that to come across. “Right, man, well, we’ll be missing you at practice and stuff. Play-offs...mmph,” he grunted, squeezing his fist. “I know, right? I’m gonna have to get in the goal,” Connor said. “Lord, save us!” Russell cried to the ceiling. “I’m gonna go get a drink, later!” and he was gone. “I don’t think I like him,” I said. “You don’t,” Randall said as we walked into the kitchen. “No one does. But we pretend to. He’s too beneficial to our team, we all decided we had to try to keep him.” “He’s a real douche,” Sam said. Granite-topped counters, beautiful dark, wooden cabinets, polished stone tile flooring, a tall kitchen table, and even a matching Grandfather Clock all made the kitchen look more like a place of showcasing rather than a place of messy cooking. There was a long, granite island with about ten barstools. I sat down there after pouring myself a Solo cup of punch from the kitchen table. The guys looked thirsty, because they had gulped all of theirs down before even walking over to me. They looked like they were having a race, because Connor counted off his fingers to three, then they chugged. They did that a few times before coming over and sitting down. I sipped the red-orange liquid and winced. There was clearly alcohol in it. I sipped some more and wondered if I was a big fan of drinking before my second-to-last accident. “Hey!” a girl yelled from the left. She pushed through a few people before coming over and hugging Connor. Short and dainty, the girl wore tight, black jeans and an oversized, beige sweater with a black cross on it. Her hair was short, like a pixie cut, and brown. It poked out messily in different directions on the top and back of her head, while she sported swept fringe across her forehead. Her facial piercings and dark plum lipstick made her look a little rebellious. “What’s up?” Connor asked, still hugging her. “God, been waiting for you all to get here. That’s what.” Her voice was a little raspy. She took Connor’s drink out of his hand and sipped. “How you guys doin’? Haven’t seen you all since break started--well, except you,” she said, looking at Connor. Randall answered first, “I’ve been good. Been really bored since break started. All I’ve been doing is going to the gym. A lot. How ‘bout you?” “Ugh, don’t get me started,” she rolled her eyes. “First day of break, my car decided it wanted to die in the middle of 17 when I was going to the mall. I don’t even know what’s wrong with it. All I know is I don’t have a car and my dad is too lazy to take it to the shop. Fuck’s sake! So I’ve been stuck at the house most of the time. Connor comes over and all we can do there is play video games, since he’s a bum and doesn’t even HAVE a car.” Connor looked up and then looked over at her, “OK, we all know WHY I don’t have a car, so that can’t even be an excuse for you break being so lame.” “Psh,” she echoed into the cup as she took a long drag. “You know I’m joking.” She smiled, then stopped, “but really, get a car. How about you, Locke?” I opened my mouth, but Sam cut in, “Locke, Rachel; Rachel, Locke,” he said, gesturing to us both. Rachel was halfway through with taking another gulp from the cup. Her eyes fixed curiously on me as she lowered it. I took the liberty of introducing myself this time. “Hi, I’m Locke,” I said, “and the other night I woke up from a nightmare and hit my head on the bed. And I don’t remember you.” She laughed. “You’re kidding.” And put a hand on her hip. “He’s not,” said Sam. Rachel looked at me with concern, holding the cup inches from her face. “Well, I’ll be damned,” she said and took a sip. “Congratulations, buddy.” “Thanks,” I said. I took a long, long drag. “Love’ta stay and chat, but me and Connor are gonna go dance,” she said, looking us dead in the eyes. She took a last sip and threw Connor’s cup over her shoulder, grabbed his arm, and dragged him past us to the living room where a large group of people was dancing to the music. I looked at Randall and Sam, “Wow.” “A little much, right?” Randall said. “Connor’s into some weird chicks,” Sam said. “The last girlfriend he had tried to give him a septum piercing!” Randall said. He started laughing really hard. “Connor. A septum piercing!” “Guys,” I said seriously, “you gotta help me find Miranda.” “You know what,” Sam said sincerely, as if agreeing with me, “I think you need to just reelaax.” His hot, alcoholic breath hit my face. “For real, Locke,” Randall said, taking a sip, “we just got here.” He got off his stool and shoved me off mine, “Here. Let’s go to the parlor.” Sam agreed and they shoved me in front of them, back through to the main foyer, past the staircase, and into the parlor. Guys were hollering and bustling about. Two groups were spread around both pool tables, actively engaged in the games. I wondered whether they were drunk enough or not to play the game properly. A ton of people were at the bar, being served by some guy in a suit. “Check it out,” Sam said as we approached the bar, “Tif’s butler doubles as a bartender. Pretty sweet, huh?” “Uh,” I paused. “HEY! HEY-“ Sam said as he pushed through the crowd to get the bartender’s attention. “Hey! Let me get a good strong something for my boy, Locke over here who busted his poor, fucking head for nothing!” And out slid a short glass of clear liquid. He handed it to me. “Drink up, man!” “Nah, that’s OK,” I said. In case Miranda was here, I definitely didn’t want to be drunk and end up talking or acting like a complete fool in front of her. “C’mon dude, it loosens you up,” Randall said, nudging me. “I’d really rather not, I’m tipsy as it is. What was in that punch?” “You want some more punch?” Sam asked. “Here,” he handed me the glass, “I’ll go getcha some.” Sam headed off, pushing through the crowd. He stopped when some guy tapped his shoulder, making him turn around. They smacked hands and shook. The guy patted Sam on the back before they both walked off. “So, you’re not drinking that?” Randall asked, pointing to the glass. “’cause I will.” Before I could say anything, he snatched it out of my hand and finished it in three gulps. “Whoo!” he shouted, shaking his head. “Randall,” I said, “Miranda. Please. Help me find her. I don’t want her to be drunk by the time I do. I have to fix this, goddamn it.” I was getting frustrated. If she was already drunk, then my night was over; I’d probably have to wait until school started again to try to find her. By that time, I might not have the guys to help me out. I had to move quickly. What would be the point in trying to have a serious conversation with someone who’s drunk? “OK, man, yeah,” he said, “if that’s really what you want. I don’t think it’s a very good idea, though.” He started walking toward the living room. I trailed behind. He walked a little slowly and waved to a few people. “So, what are you hoping is gonna happen between you and Miranda after you talk to her? I mean--for the millionth time, Locke--it was forever ago.” I could tell Randall was becoming drunker by the minute because he wasn’t really watching the things he said. “You can’t just show up at some party and make up with you ex from freshman year and get back together.” “You don’t get it,” I said. We stood under the archway connecting the parlor to the living room. It would’ve been too difficult to go into the mess of people dancing to try to find one person, so Randall bobbed his head around, trying to look over peoples’ heads. “The lights are too low, and people are moving around too much; its hard to look there right now,” Randall said, turning to look at me. “OK, well, let’s try somewhere else,” I said. I thought I had a clear image of what she looked like in my head, but then I realized the only photo I’d ever seen of her was from three years ago. “What does she look like now?” “She’s tall, like, as tall as Tif... maybe a little shorter, actually.” He said, looking around. “Her hair is long, about down to here,” he pointed to his waist, “if she’s wearing it down, it’ll be straight, and the ends will be cut like a straight line,” he said, drawing a horizontal line with his finger. “And it’s black.” “Okay,” I said. I thought finding Miranda was going to be easy, but looking around at all the girls in the parlor with black hair, I took it back. “She’s got bangs like Rachel, swept across,” he continued. “If her hair isn’t down, her bangs always are, so it might be hard to find her, but not too hard.” I found a little hope in his words. We were both looking around now. “She doesn’t wear make up,” he said with a slight laugh, “’cause she doesn’t need it.” Most of the girls I was looking at had on at least some make up. “I don’t know what she’s wearing, obviously, but she’s probably wearing a dress like most of the girls here.” We started back through the parlor, looking all around. There was a group of guys taking shots at one of the small tables against the wall. A girl with a disbelieving look on her face showed a group of other girls her cell phone. Someone sank a ball playing pool and everyone cheered. I kept looking, but she was nowhere to be found. We searched around the bar with no luck either, so we went to the foyer. Tif was at the front door, greeting more people that came in. A girl and guy walked up the staircase holding hands, and another girl and guy were making out to the side of it. There were people huddled in groups talking and eating off the paper plates they held, while others were squirming through moving from room to room. There were short girls, tall girls, tan girls, pale girls, ones with long hair, ones with tied-up hair, short hair, colored hair, fancy hair. Most wore dresses but some went casual. A lot of them wore make up, but some went without. Some had glasses, some had piercings, and some had tattoos. It really was overwhelming that there were this many people here. “We’re never gonna find her,” I said. “C’mon, we haven’t even looked around that much yet,” he said. “Oh, look,” he pointed. “There’s Steph--she’s friends with Miranda. Hey, Steph!” he called and waved. She turned around and waved as we made our way over to her and her group of friends. She gave Randall a hug and asked how he was doing. She had huge hoop earrings and brown hair that was twisted up. She was as tall as Randall in her high heels. “So, Steph, do you know if Miranda is here?” he asked “Oh, yeah, she’s here,” she said, flipping her hand. My heart fluttered a little. “Why?” “It’s just--Locke, here, has been looking for her,” he said. “Oh,” she said, a little surprised. She looked at me cautiously. “Last time I saw her she was in the kitchen getting a drink.” “Okay, great, thanks,” I said. Randall thanked her and we bee lined for the kitchen. We pushed past people to get through and Randall almost knocked some girl over. “Okay, you go look over by the table and drinks and I’ll look over by the island,” he said, “that way, if she’s here, she’ll have less time to go somewhere else.” “Okay,” I said, and we split up. First, I went straight for the table and scanned around. A few times while we’d been looking for her, I thought I’d found her when I’d see a tall girl with black hair. I saw a few more girls with the same dark locks, but they didn’t fit the other criteria. She wasn’t at the table. I circled around a few times with no luck. I must’ve pushed past every person in that side of the kitchen before I stopped pretty close to the living room. There was no archway separating it from the kitchen like there was for the parlor or dining room. I was about to turn around to find Randall when I saw her. She was in the living room dancing, and although the lights were still low, she was close enough to the kitchen and the regular lighting to where I could see her face. It looked similar to the picture I had; it just had a more adult form to it. However, she looked nothing like the girl in my dreams. I wondered if my amnesia erased her image from my head. I didn’t really care. All I knew was that she was beautiful. Her hair was down, and straight like Randall said it would be. Her short bangs fell in her face as she moved back and forth to the beat of the music. No make up. And by God, she did not need any. She wore a short, black dress that was tight all around. When she flipped her hair out of her face, I could see she wore gold, dangly earrings that matched her long necklace. She held a Solo cup and shimmied up and down against some guy who was behind her. Randall came up next to me and started talking. “I couldn’t find her, man. Have you had any--“ Without looking at him, I knew he was looking exactly where I was. “Is that her?” I asked. “Oh, sweet Baby Jesus,” he said, “she is HOT!” He clapped his hands a few times then smacked my shoulder. “Well, there ya go, my man. What are you waiting for?” “That guy behind her to go away,” I said. She had turned around now, facing him. “Oh, shit,” he said. “Oh, God. I wonder if they’re dating.” ‘Well, fuck me,’ I thought. “How do you not know?” I asked. “Sansdale High is a huge school,” he said, “and it’s not like I’m friends with Miranda and know all of her shit. I do know that’s Matt. Matt Daily. Shit. Shit.” I never thought this would happen; I never imagined Miranda with a boyfriend. “Well,” I said nervously, “what do I do?” “Well, if they’re not dating, I think it would be appropriate to go in there and pull her out,” he said. I looked at him harshly. “But if they are, that move might get you punched, and you might miss your chance to talk to her. Plus, you definitely don’t want to start a fight in Tif’s house. You’ll get kicked out, meaning I’ll get kicked out, as well as Sam and Connor. Rachel would go berserk, and... it just wouldn’t be good for any of us.” “Well, fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.” “It’s okay man,” he said. “We’ll figure something out. Plus, they can’t dance forever. Let’s go ask Steph if they’re dating--as awkward as that might be.” “Ugh,” I groaned, and followed him back out to the foyer. We found Steph and her friends, still in the same spot they were before, thankfully. “Hey, guys,” she said. “Find Miranda?” “Yeah, yeah,” Randall said. “Except... She’s grinding on Matt Daily. Are they together?” “Yeah, they are,” she said. She looked at me, “Uh-oh, is that a problem?” Randall made an uncomfortable expression, “Yeeeah.” Steph sucked a sharp inhale through her teeth. “I’m sorry, I don’t know what I can do to help.” I felt like I was going to throw up. “Please, please, Steph,” Randall begged. “I really need to talk to her alone,” I said. “Is there any way you can peel her off of Matt for just, like, five minutes?” “Hmm,” she said, looking around. After a moment, she began: “Okay, yeah, I have an idea.”