* * *
We make it through dinner without talking about the game.
My dad is a science professor at Vassar College and my mom is a doctor with her own practice, so dinner is always full of interesting things to talk about. TV shows make it seem like family meal conversations are torturous, but ours are the complete opposite, especially after the accident. Now we make a point to come together for dinner. No phones. No distractions. Tonight, Ashley sets the table with our molcajete in the middle, filled with guacamole.
When my dad tells a funny story about one of his students, we all laugh, and my mom smiles at him, eyes glistening.
Not to be sappy, but whenever my mom looks at my dad like that, I know love is real.
They met back in college at the dining hall. My mom wrote her number on a napkin and handed it to him. He called her that same night, and they’ve been inseparable ever since. I know this because they love telling the story of how they first met. My mom remembers every detail, from the blue collared shirt my dad was wearing to the chocolate milkshake he was drinking with his fries. When asked the same question, my dad always says he’ll never forget one thing: my mom’s smile. He still has that napkin, so I guess you can say romantic hoarding runs in the family.
Chapter 4
After dinner I dash upstairs to my room. Everything about it looks like it came from a Pinterest board, from my bookshelf organized by color to the floating shelves on my walls decorated with plants and photos of me and my friends. It’s spotless too. Every morning I make sure to line up all the pillows on the bed so they’re stacked like it is a magazine shoot, which my sister loves to point out is just another type A thing about me.
But today has been a day, so as soon as I enter my room, I fling myself into my pile of pillows, scattering them everywhere, and toss my phone to the side. It’s been buzzing since school ended, but I’ve been ignoring it. I know they’re texts from Carmen, Jess, and Katie. We’ve had a group chat called Brat Chat since the summer before high school, when we promised each other we’d be best friends forever.
But on days like this, it’s hard to believe we’re best friends anymore. I hate the way they were mean to Sarah Chang for no reason this morning. I hate even more that I don’t know how to stand up to them.
Things between us have been different lately. I can’t pinpoint why. But if I’m being honest with myself, the only thing that bonds us is this group chat that I don’t even feel like responding to on most days.
The thought makes me frown. We used to do everything together. Sleepovers with Sephora face masks. Hibachi dinners where the chefs would throw food into our mouths. Tie-dye bagels on weekends after spin class. I was always the one who would rally the troops, but I haven’t planned anything fun since before the accident.
That’s because before the accident I was always trying to appeal to my friends. Organizing things that they liked to do, instead of thinking about what I found fun. And sure, I love hanging out with my friends, but sometimes I prefer to be alone.
Sometimes I make lists just so I can practice my hand lettering. Other times I underline my favorite passages in books and doodle those. My friends appreciate this hobby of mine when it benefits them—like when I make them really great signs for a big game or when I write them the best birthday cards—but most times when they catch me doodling, they say things like are you even paying attention to me? Or worse, it’s cute that you still do that.
I know cute isn’t a bad word per se, but sometimes when people use it, it comes off as patronizing. Nobody ever tells a boy he’s cute for doing something he likes doing. That’s why I know that’s cute isn’t a compliment.
I reach for my phone and start scrolling through all the texts I’ve missed. There are photos of different outfits my friends are trying on for tonight. Carmen has sent one of her in jeans and a halter top. She looks like she’s going to be freezing to me, but Jess ironically typed three fire emojis underneath it. Anthony isn’t going to be able to look away, Katie texted next.
My heart sinks. Katie already knows about Anthony? Carmen just told me about him this morning. Has this been going on with everyone else noticing but me?
I keep scrolling back through my text messages, wishing I could scroll back through time too. There are inside jokes I don’t recognize.
Maybe Carmen’s right. Maybe I have been missing everything.
One of the more frustrating things to find out is that I changed my password for a lot of log-ins before the accident: TikTok, Instagram, Snapchat, etc. The only things I can access are Twitter and Facebook. Apparently, before the accident, I changed my password for the apps I actually used. I always used to use Carmen’s birthday, but I have no idea what I changed it to.
It doesn’t really matter—it’s not like I’ve had the urge to post anything lately anyway. I can still see photos I grammed because I’m public. There are only a few I don’t remember taking, like the one where I’m at the diner with my friends sipping milkshakes, and the one of me in a hoodie with my bookshelf in the background. My last photo was just of me about to go ice-skating at one of my favorite spots, but after the accident it was flooded with get-well-soon comments and hearts.
I roll off my bed onto the floor and peel back the fuzzy rug that protects my secrets. After I lift the loose floorboard, I reach in and grab the three mysterious items—the dried rose, the Polaroid, and the key.
They’re right on top because I’ve been staring at them a lot lately, like if I stare long enough, I’ll suddenly remember my forgotten memories. But as many times as I’ve looked at them, I still have no recollection of receiving that rose or of someone taking my photograph. On the back of the Polaroid, it says NYC 2/8 in my handwriting. Who on earth did I go to New York City with? It must have been an odd day weather-wise. There’s snow in the background, but I’m only wearing a tie-dyed sweatshirt. Maybe I took my coat off? I reluctantly do that all the time when my friends want to pose for photos, so it’s possible. But I’ve shown them the Polaroid and they all say they weren’t with me that day.
As I stare at the photo now, the colorful sweatshirt reminds me of my watercolored paper heart. Then my fingertips run along the little brass key. The most confusing item I saved. What does it open?
When I ask my family what happened during those forgotten eleven weeks, they tell me I was busy with All Things College. Over winter break I made a pros-and-cons list for each school I was interested in, trying to narrow down where to apply. I was also buried in my intense study schedule, with cross-outs every day as proof that it actually happened. I ended up doing really well on the ACT, better than anyone I know. But it’s weird to feel proud of something you don’t remember doing—it’s almost like it didn’t really happen.