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.