Remember Me Read online

  but it was automatic.

  Now I cling

  to every memory of him,

  not letting his leaf

  fall from its branch.

  I close my eyes and

  smell apple pie.

  I see Dad’s strong arms

  reaching in the oven and

  unveiling his

  freshly baked pastry.

  I sketch him cutting

  imperfect slices of dough

  for the woven top crust

  in the old kitchen

  of our apartment in Ohio,

  before Mom was successful

  and Dad was still with us.

  I redraw his face

  several times,

  scraping pencil and eraser over

  the same area,

  trying,

  failing

  to make it perfect.

  My cell phone rings.

  A steady BEEP, BEEP, BEEP

  cuts through

  my focus.

  Hey J

  Meet me in Wonderland

  Second semester

  Erica and I

  were assigned as partners

  for a psychology project.

  It was about family relationships.

  Go figure.

  I’m from the

  rich side of town.

  I was supposed to hang out with

  the overprivileged preps,

  but they drifted away

  when I met

  Erica

  when we found friendship through

  our families’ dysfunction.

  She repelled the others

  with cynicism.

  I isolated myself

  from the crowd.

  Wildflower Park

  has a run-down Wonderland essence.

  It’s the perfect place

  to dream up a better life

  or fend off a miserable one.

  I spot the metal gate.

  She’s left it slightly open

  like a private invitation.

  When I walk inside,

  I see her sitting on the gravel.

  The sun gleams off her

  skin like a spotlight.

  She’s staring at

  an open notebook,

  holding a pen in her hand

  like a dagger

  waiting to attack.

  I sit across from her.

  She doesn’t look up,

  just stares at

  the first blank page.

  “Jamie,” she says.

  It’s a statement, a fact.

  She told me to come, I came.

  I always do.

  She holds out her arms.

  I scoot next to her.

  She rests her head on my shoulder.

  I feel

  the familiar sensation

  of a thousand nerves

  exploding throughout my body.

  A side effect

  of her touch.

  “I have this crazy idea,”

  she says.

  Her hot breath

  traces my neck.

  She swallows,

  squeezes her eyes shut,

  blinks them open,

  and lights her cigarette.

  She takes a drag

  and begins again.

  “I have this crazy idea

  to write seventy pages

  of poetry and prose

  over the summer.”

  Words climb up my throat,

  I want to know more,

  but before I can say a thing,

  she puts out her cigarette

  and stands up.

  “I’ve got to call Chris.”

  She walks away

  and doesn’t look back

  or even say

  good-bye.

  He never went to Gym or Pre-Calc

  so he has to repeat his junior year.

  He looks like one of the Beatles

  with his brown bowl of hair.

  He’ll bum a cigarette off her

  if there’s an audience.

  He criticizes classics.

  He says man and like

  too much.

  I have no idea what Erica sees

  in wannabe ’60s hippie

  Chris Rush.

  It was Chris’s idea

  to visit Virginia Beach.

  “It’s only, like, a couple of hours away,”

  he gushed

  not even bothering

  to check the weather report

  or give us more than

  a day’s worth of warning.

  Erica, Asher,

  Asher’s girlfriend, Grace, and I

  pile into Chris’s truck.

  I’m surprised he doesn’t own

  a freakin’ punch buggy.

  Erica rides shotgun.

  She runs her fingers through Chris’s hair.

  I look out the window

  and at my feet,

  anywhere but

  at them

  together.

  It’s too cold

  for swimming and tans.

  I pull my

  Greenwood High School sweatshirt

  over my swimsuit

  and sit in the sand.

  I expect Erica

  to lie down beside me,

  quiet,

  unblinking,

  and read a novel

  as thick as her arm

  or maybe work

  on her seventy-page project.

  Instead I shiver

  and watch

  as Chris spins her around on his shoulders

  and they dive into

  the ice-cold water.

  Asher makes his way

  out of the ocean

  and across the sheet of sand.

  “What’s wrong?”

  He crouches beside me.

  “Nothing.”

  I plaster on a smile.

  Asher looks skeptical,

  and I remember

  I’ve never been good

  at hiding my emotions.

  “Come join us.”

  He smiles and

  there’s no question that he is genuine.

  His hair is

  dripping with salt water.

  Goose bumps and sand

  sprinkle his skin.

  He couldn’t look happier.

  Grace calls his name

  in her thick Puerto Rican accent.

  I look over and see her

  waving to her boyfriend.

  I spot Erica and Chris

  kissing in the water.

  Asher stands up.

  “Are you coming?”

  Erica wraps her arms

  around Chris’s neck.

  Their bodies pull closer together.

  “I think I’ll sit this one out.”

  He frowns,

  then yells back to Grace,

  “Hold on, babe, I’ll be there in a second.”

  He sits down

  and folds his legs like he’s

  meditating.

  “So, Jamie,” he says.

  Erica and Chris are kissing.

  kissing.

  kissing.

  “Does this antisocial behavior

  have anything to do with

  the crush you have

  on my sister?”

  For a moment,

  I can’t think.

  My body feels

  coated with ice.

  Frozen solid,

  all I can move

  is my mouth

  when I nervously shout,

  “I uh, I um…I do not!”

  Asher laughs.

  “Oh please. You can’t deny it.

  You’re brick red.”

  I bury my head

  between my knees.

  Damn.

  Could I be any more

  obvious?

  “Don’t worry,” he says.

&
nbsp; “I’m not going to out you

  or judge you or anything.

  I just…”

  He looks out at the ocean.

  “I know my sister, and

  please, be careful.”

  Can you really be careful

  when it comes to your feelings?

  Is that even possible?

  Can someone please teach me?

  I nod anyway.

  This seems to reassure Asher.

  I relax when he says,

  “Do you want me to splash Chris for you?”

  LIST OF DRAWING EXERCISES

  13) Draw a portrait of somebody you love.

  I start with

  the outline of

  her heart-shaped face.

  I compose

  her crooked nose and

  re-create

  her acute eyes

  as she’s absorbed in a novel.

  I express

  every thick eyelash,

  the thin scar under her

  right eyebrow,

  leaving no detail behind,

  taking no artistic license

  when sketching Erica’s

  perfectly flawed features.

  “What are you drawing?” she asks,

  her eyes still pinned

  to the pages of her book.

  “Um…the forest.”

  She snorts.

  “Do you have some sort of

  obsession with trees?”

  I feel my cheeks burn

  as I dip my pencil

  into her rough lips.

  “There are millions of ways

  to draw the same thing, you know.”

  “Hmm, that sounds like something

  I would say.”

  I smile,

  feeling warm from

  her approval.

  Seventy pages.

  She works on them

  religiously.

  She tells me she

  sneaks off

  to Wildflower Park

  and writes until

  a page is full.

  “A page a day,”

  she says,

  “and it’s got to be

  perfect.”

  I want to know more,

  but I leave it at that

  because explanations

  are almost never offered,

  and if I pry for more,

  she’ll take the truth back

  in an instant.

  Mom has to travel for work.

  “It’s just a couple of days in New York,”

  she says while applying mascara.

  “Will you be all right on your own?”

  Sure. Yeah. Of course.

  Is there any other option?

  She kisses me on the cheek

  and says good-bye

  before leaving to live her

  briefcase, stiletto, fitted-suit life.

  The house grows

  when I’m alone.

  The walls pull apart and

  the floor stretches.

  I tiptoe into Mom’s closet.

  Even though no one is home,

  I’m scared that I’ll get caught

  holding on to a memory

  she’s forbidden from our thoughts,

  or at least

  that we don’t talk about.

  Under Gucci, Prada,

  Chanel, and Wang,

  I uncover an old hatbox

  that belonged to my grandma.

  I pull out

  years of photographs,

  each of them portraying

  my dad.

  Washing the car

  or toasting champagne at his wedding,

  he smiles in every picture.

  I could never draw his image.

  I could never capture that essence.

  I lie on the closet floor,

  the past pinched between my fingers,

  my dad and I

  building a sandcastle

  four summers ago.

  God, has it been that long?

  Hey, it’s Erica. Meet me at the library.

  When?

  Twelve o’clock tomorrow. I’m running low on stock.

  I don’t know if—

  It wasn’t a question. I’ve got to go, Chris is on the other line.

  Oh.

  Sunday is

  Mom’s mental health day.

  She usually

  combines Starbucks with reality TV

  in an attempt to

  take her mind off of

  the papers that need to be filed and

  the calls that must be made

  come Monday.

  I walk to the living room

  and ask her

  for her car keys.

  “Absolutely not.

  You’re only fifteen!”

  Why did I even ask?

  “Fine, then can you

  give me a ride to

  the library?”

  She sighs and

  takes a sip of her latte.

  “When?”

  “How about now?”

  She groans.

  “Jamie, I’m not even dressed.”

  “It’s not a fucking fashion show.”

  It just slipped out.

  No control.

  No conscience.

  If I were theatrical

  I would gasp,

  slap my hand over my mouth,

  beg for mercy.

  Coffee slams

  on the glass table.

  Milky brown liquid

  splashes from the rim

  of the steaming mug.

  “I’m not taking you anywhere!”

  I storm up to my room,

  then turn my head and see

  Mom pressing her palm

  against her forehead.

  Mental health day

  is officially over.

  I’m sorry, I can’t come.

  What? Dammit.

  You know I can’t go alone.

  What about Asher?

  He’s out with his friends.

  And Chris is at work. Fuck.

  Breathe, Erica.

  I was depending on you.

  I’m really sorry, but my mom—

  I need you, Jamie.

  …

  I’ll be there in half an hour.

  I used to bike

  with my dad.

  He was the

  outdoorsy type

  and I

  was eager for the wind

  against my skin,

  riding along

  the paved road to

  freedom.

  The closest Mom gets

  to nature

  is when she has her monthly

  mud mask.

  I pull

  my old bike

  from the shed.

  It’s covered in

  pink butterflies.

  I can’t believe

  I ever went through

  that phase.

  “It’s a piece of junk,

  a hunk of metal,

  a waste of space,”

  Mom says

  whenever we do our

  spring cleaning.

  “Let’s toss it, Jamie.”

  But whenever

  I see it,

  I see him.

  I think

  she does

  too.

  I don’t think

  of how I must look

  riding a

  child-sized bicycle.

  I ignore

  the sweat running

  down my back and

  my heavy

  breathing.

  Erica

  needs me.

  It’s rare

  she does.

  She laughs

  when she sees me.

  “Nice ride, J.”

  My cheeks burn

  as I toss my bike

  behind the bushes.

  She slides he
r hand

  into mine.

  “Come on,” she whispers

  in my ear,

  as if this simple trip

  is a secret adventure

  for just the two

  of us.

  She pushes the

  front door open

  and pulls me into

  her world.

  Erica

  is the bravest person I know,

  but even superheroes

  have their weaknesses.

  She loves

  all things literary,

  but she can’t stand

  to check out books herself.

  “It’s like buying condoms.”

  Erica pushes a stack of seven novels

  into my hands.

  “What I read is personal.

  No one has the right to judge me.”

  Before I agree

  to check out the books,

  she has already

  shoved me in line.

  “Thanks, J,” she says

  and hugs my waist

  from behind.

  My heart beats so fast

  I almost drop the stack.

  “You can’t just run off like that,”

  Mom says

  when I arrive home.

  “No matter what.”

  I charge

  into my room

  and think,

  hypocrite.