|photo by Damir Kopezhanov from Unsplash|
I drive, stupid fast, until I get onto I-95 where the traffic is stop-and-go because of the rain. Now sitting in my car feels like doing nothing. Nothing to see, nothing to hear. Nothing to distract me from the weight in my chest.
Ally doesn't remember anything about Virginia except for my face.
My smiling face at the pool and nothing else.
Dammit, Dodge, why'd you say you'd go back up there? She's going to want details—the whole damned story—and what am I going to do, tell her no?
I crack my window for fresh air but my brother's "breathing technique" isn't working because it's not the same. The only reason I let him teach it to me that summer was so I could jump into a pool that looked like a postage stamp. The asshole who used to carry me around the house by my underwear told me to take a thirty-three foot leap off the highest dive platform. So yeah, I had to accept the challenge because he didn't think I would.
Climbing the ladder wasn't so bad. But from that height, the water looked like it was maybe three feet deep—four at the most. I refused to climb back down but I couldn't take that leap until Michael showed me how he got through it the first time.
When I started learning the dives, he taught me to combine the breathing with visualization: picture the moves I wanted to make on the way down, the position I'd be in when I hit the water. By the end of the summer, I could generate that dive-platform calm any time I needed it, which was every time I thought about what Ally said to me on the phone that day.
Why can't I make it work for me now?
The car in front of me brakes and my wipers slash through red-tinted rain—which seems to be getting heavier. I ease the car to a stop and glance at my phone. Maybe I should call the pro shop. If it's raining this hard at the club, they may not even want me to come in and then I could go the The Y and lift or run. Or something.
I slide my thumb across the lock. There's a message from Ally: Did you text me from the parking lot?
Huh. Busted.
I drop the phone on the seat and mess with the radio but it doesn't stop me from wondering how she knows I was there. The more I try not to think about it... Dammit. I grab the phone and type a quick: Yes. How'd you know?
Her reply comes back—long as shit and full of question marks—but the traffic's starting to move so I dig my ear buds out of the door pocket, plug them into my phone and God help me, I call her. "I can't really text while I'm driving," I say.
"Oh, I... I didn't think about... I don't... I'm sorry. Should I—"
"Ally, it's all right. I can talk. I have my headphones on. Both hands on the wheel."
She's quiet for a long moment and then she says, "When you say wheel, I'm picturing your car's tires but I know that's not right."
"No, I'm talking about the steering wheel. Sorry, that was sort of a joke. But I guess you don't remember Driver's Ed."
No, dumbass, she doesn't.
"Driver's Education was a class at school," I tell her. "They teach you about driving safety and stuff."
"Oh. I don't drive."
"Yeah, okay." I guess that makes sense. "How did you know I texted you from the parking lot?"
"I recognized your car. From that day. And from before that day because I can see the parking lot from the window in my room. And your car...it stands out. Because of the odd-colored door. How many times have you been here?"
"A few," I admit.
"Did you see me out by the fountain?" she asks.
I know that tone, the hesitation and the dread. She's hoping like hell I'm going to say no, and I probably should, but I can't help myself. "You mean when you jumped up and down like a little kid?" I ask.
"You saw that?"
She's mortified—I remember that tone, too—and now I can't help but smile.
"Yeah," I say. "You reminded me of a girl I knew back in middle school."
She's reminding me of that girl right now and it's a good distraction from that weight in my chest.
"You're talking about me, right?"
"Yes," I say, smiling wider. This could be all right, telling Ally about the good parts, reliving it. This could be great.
"What happened to us?" she asks. "To our friendship?"
And then there's that.
I should probably tell her. Just get it out—right here, right now. While I don't have to see the disappointment on her face.
Nope.
"I think if I'm going to fill in the details, I'd like to start with the good ones."
"Okay," she says, eager. "How did we meet?"
"I was drawing on my notebook, working on an idea for something I was going to build. You tapped it with your pencil and said the word, table, in French—because we were in French class. I said yes, even though it wasn't a table I was drawing. You introduced yourself and told me I was the new kid. I agreed with that too and told you my name."
"I still know how to speak French," she says. "Well, maybe not the speaking part. I can see the words in my head but getting them to come out of my mouth is..."
She sighs. "I guess that sounds..." She stops again and maybe she's just waiting for me to say something but I don't think so. I think she's looking at the words in her head and it's my fault they're stuck there.
"I can understand French," she says. "And I might be able to write it down. I'm better there. The writing part. Verbal communication is harder. But I'm okay. I'm improving."
I swallow hard, tighten my grip on the steering wheel. "That's great," I say, willing myself to sound like I mean it. And I do. I thank God she's improving but it shouldn't be like this and it's my fault. Allyson Clark has a damaged brain because of me.
"Would you tell me something else about us?" she asks.
I shake my head so hard one of my earbuds falls out. I can't smile and talk nice and pretend I'm not the dumbass who wrecked Ally's life. Right now, all I really want to do is pull off on the side of the road and find a deep hole to crawl in so I can cover myself up and stop breathing. Stop feeling.
"Noah?"
"Yeah."
"My mom said we were best friends in middle school."
Her is tone light. Hopeful. "We were," I say.
"You sound...distracted. Or..."
I'm a douche. Sitting here feeling sorry for my own dumb ass instead of giving Ally anything she wants. Everything I owe her.
"I'm good," I say, looking at the road around me, desperate for inspiration. There's nothing alongside the interstate but waterlogged grass and droopy-limbed trees. Nothing but blurry headlights in the northbound lane. I lift my eyes to the rearview mirror and I almost smile at the yellow bus. Almost.
"I used to ride your school bus home sometimes," I tell her. "Your mom was always home in the afternoons. That's one of the reasons I did it. She'd make us cheese toast and iced tea—sweet, like the kind I was used to. Eventually, she started making peanut butter cookies because somehow, she found out they were my favorite."
"How did she find out?" she asks. Like it's the most amazing thing she's ever heard.
"You told her," I say. "You knew I was homesick and you wanted to help me."
"Why were you homesick?" she asks.
"I'd just moved to Virginia to live with my dad. My parents are divorced. So my mom still lives back in Georgia. Those afternoons with Mrs. Clark...they sort of helped me adjust."
"Mmm. This is so much better than chocolate cake," she says.
"What?"
"The Raisinets. They're incredible."
"Okay," I say, smiling. "That's good to know. I'll bring more when I come back."
My stomach twists. The way it did when I left Faircrest. Like I'm making a promise I might not be able to keep. Then Ally says something else, but I don't understand a word of it because her mouth is full. It's easy to picture her cramming a whole handful of chocolate raisins in her mouth because I've seen her do it a hundred times.
I take a breath and tell the bad feeling to piss off.
"Can you say that again after you swallow?" I ask her.
"Mmf. Sowwy."
I move three yards with the traffic and stop again. A few unidentifiable noises come through my ear buds and then, running water, the clank of glass against something hard. "Sorry," she says again. "You said my mom was one of the reasons you rode my bus home. I was asking about the other one."
"Oh."
Okay, Dodge, here's your chance. Tell her what you didn't have the balls to say four years ago. "Uh..."
Do it, dumbass.
"I liked you," I say. "Like, really liked you. But I was too shy to do anything about it, so we became good friends. But I always hoped for more."
"What about now?" she asks.
"Uh, wow. That's direct."
"I'm sorry. Is that wrong?"
"No, just different." But then I guess I'm different too. I'm not shy anymore. "I never stopped liking you, Ally. Not even when things were difficult between us."
"Were you ever a man-whore?" she asks.
I breathe in so quick I choke on my own spit.
"I'm sorry," Ally says. "I have all these questions and Dr. Dabney says it's good that I say what's on my mind but then Grace said I need to re-learn what to say and what not to say and...I'm sorry if that was too direct."
"Who is Grace?" I ask, stalling.
"She's another resident here, a new friend. She's been helping me figure out how to use my phone and there were these conversations, text messages, between teenaged Allyson and her friends."
Teenaged Allyson?
"Do you know Samantha Zhao?" she asks.
"Yeah, I know her. Apparently, she's been calling me a man-whore?"
"She didn't say your name. But based on what my mom told me, it seemed like she might be referring to you."
"Yeah, she probably was. I went through a—like a phase."
Ally wasn't the only girl who responded to the way I changed that summer, to my new manly proportions. The offers kept coming—even after word got out that I started the rumor—and I kept on saying yes, hoping one of those girls might help me forget. But it didn't happen. All I managed to do was earn the very same reputation I gave Ally.
"Have you talked to Samantha?" I ask. My left leg is jumping so hard it's shaking the whole damned car.
"I almost sent her a text message," she says. "But it felt...I don't know, wrong? She hasn't contacted Allyson since the accident."
Is it normal for people with amnesia to talk about themselves in third person?
I blow out a breath and turn up the speed on my windshield wipers. "Hey, I should probably hang up," I say. "It's raining pretty hard right now and I should get off the phone and drive."
She's quiet for a moment and then she says, "You're coming back on Wednesday, right?"
Her voice is hesitant, almost shaky. So I say, "Yes," with a confidence I don't feel. Then I add, "I just have to double check my work schedule," because I'm the Douche King.
"I thought you said you had the whole day."
"Yeah, I do. But I have to make sure my dad doesn't have any chores planned for me. I'll text you Wednesday morning."