Remember Me Read online

  She knocks on my bedroom door.

  “Jamie, please let me in.”

  I’ve been sketching furiously

  and listening to my iPod

  for an hour.

  I’m not in the mood for this.

  She sighs.

  “If you ever want to talk,

  well, I’m always available.”

  I almost laugh.

  She hasn’t been available

  for four years.

  Anger swells,

  bitter and boiling.

  I kind of do

  want to talk…

  but not with her.

  Erica’s not exactly

  the listening type,

  but I can rant

  to Asher,

  who will listen

  without judging

  until he’s got me

  laughing

  instead of

  raging.

  From Lear Lane

  to Good Hope Road,

  to the left of Wildflower Park,

  past Greenwood High School

  and the neglected graveyard.

  From gaudy mini-mansions and

  white-collar professionals

  to condemned buildings and

  evicted families,

  I bike to the Brooks residence.

  Beatrice’s red nails

  curve along

  the side of the door,

  her fingers like spiders.

  “Lemme guess.

  You’re looking for Erica?”

  Beatrice says.

  “Well, she’s out somewhere.”

  “I’m actually looking for Asher.

  Is he here?”

  She pauses for a moment,

  then rolls her eyes

  dramatically.

  “That boy, I swear.

  I found weed and cigarettes

  under his bed.”

  She picks at her nails,

  as if this conversation

  is some kind of gossip fest.

  “Well, I don’t want drugs in my house.

  I had to call Social Services.

  I swear, they’re always

  just like their parents.”

  Gone.

  Just gone.

  Leaving only the space

  where he had once been.

  Leaving only the pain

  in my heart and my stomach.

  She mentions him

  for a moment,

  a few words passing in an instant.

  Asher.

  Labeled Troublemaker.

  Sent to a group home

  like some of her others.

  She says teens are like needles.

  They pick, pick away at her…

  except for the other Sinclair—

  she’s all right.

  Quiet most of the time.

  Always writing in some book of hers.

  I check Wildflower Park.

  She’s gone.

  Disappeared

  just like him.

  Gripping the sides of my sketchbook,

  I try to picture something

  different.

  Something too good,

  like the park at peace with life.

  Wonderland, revised.

  Maybe

  just an image on paper

  can make me feel better.

  It’s late

  when I arrive home.

  Really late.

  Like, midnight.

  I slip through

  the back door.

  I expect to find

  Mom fuming in rage

  or worrying,

  or something.

  Instead

  she’s at work.

  Overtime.

  Does she know

  or even care,

  if I’d ever

  come back

  “home?”

  JULY

  Erica, it’s Jamie. I’m so sorry about Asher. Please call me back.

  Erica, it’s Jamie. What happened is awful. Do you want to talk about it? Please call.

  Erica, it’s me. Um, where are you? Are you avoiding me? Call me. Or don’t. I’m just—I’m really sorry about Asher. Please call me back.

  Erica, um, call me…when you’re ready. I’m just—I’m worried about you.

  The next week is spent in

  solitary confinement.

  I haven’t heard a word from Erica

  and Mom’s away on business.

  I read a book.

  I watch too much TV.

  I eat a carton of

  chocolate chip ice cream.

  I try to draw but

  end up staring at

  the pencil in my hand,

  who used to be

  my loyal friend

  until my creativity

  betrayed me

  and now

  my art

  can do nothing.

  My thoughts

  create a wedge

  between inspiration

  and me.

  Where are you, Erica?

  I have a horrible habit

  of spending these periods of time

  when I’m alone

  in Mom’s closet

  fishing out that old hatbox.

  I try not to think about

  my dad

  below the ground.

  I try not to think about

  losing people

  in general.

  I’m sketching in the park

  when Erica suddenly appears,

  strutting through the gate into

  Wonderland.

  “I’ve changed my page quota

  to fifty instead of seventy,” she says

  as she walks toward me.

  “I just can’t wait that long

  anymore.”

  She looks the same

  except her eyes

  are inked creases in her skin—

  melted and helpless,

  or it might just be

  shadows and sunlight

  playing tricks on my mind.

  I have to ask

  when she sits next to me,

  nothing in her hands.

  No book.

  No cigarette.

  “It’s been a week, Erica.

  Where have you been?”

  She picks at a

  dirty fingernail.

  “I’ve been hanging out

  with Chris.”

  She turns and looks me

  square in the eye,

  and in that moment

  I realize

  she knows

  that his name hurts.

  And of course,

  of course

  she knows

  that I love her.

  And I’m

  angry.

  Why did she pick him?

  Is it because of

  his gender,

  his looks,

  his poseur personality?

  Erica puts her head

  on my shoulder.

  I’m so

  disgusted

  with myself,

  my exposure,

  my desperation.

  But

  I still can’t bring myself

  to push her away.

  And I agree

  to be Erica’s plus one

  on a camping trip

  Chris is hosting.

  When Erica talks about it

  she’s so full of life,

  like Asher’s still here

  and everything’s all right.

  We don’t talk about him.

  Or my messages.

  Or what she was doing all this time

  with Chris.

  I don’t tell her that I’m angry.

  She doesn’t tell me that she knows.

  All we talk about is

  the camping trip.

  “A great escape,”

  Erica calls it.

  I’m
eating dinner alone

  (Chinese takeout)

  when Mom walks through the door,

  dragging a suitcase behind her.

  “Jamie.”

  She muffles a yawn.

  “I missed you.

  How are you doing?

  Hey, I got you something.”

  She digs in her suitcase

  and pulls out

  a wooden box filled with

  drawing pencils.

  The New York City skyline

  is carved in the top.

  “I was downtown

  and saw this on display

  in a little art store.

  I knew you’d put it to good use.”

  She smiles and

  hands me my consolation prize

  for her absence.

  Her attempt to buy forgiveness

  is paper-thin,

  clear as cellophane

  but I’m glad at least she knows

  how to bribe me.

  Across the dinner table, Mom says,

  “You know, if there’s anything

  you want to talk about,

  you can always confide in me.”

  I’m still convinced

  I can’t,

  but I’m curious.

  Why is she offering again?

  So I ask

  and she simply says,

  “Teenage years are hard.

  It’s nice to have a parent

  to guide you through them.”

  I wish I had

  both parents.

  I wish Erica did

  as well.

  I meet Erica

  in the park.

  We wait for Chris

  to drive us to the campground.

  We talk about our favorite bands

  and I offer her some of my

  Starbucks latte.

  I ask her how

  her seventy—wait, fifty pages

  are going.

  “Right on schedule.”

  She looks at the ground,

  not at me.

  Right in the heat

  of our discussion about Queen

  I hear the park gate

  rattle.

  I look up and see

  Chris shaking the metal.

  “Come on, guys,”

  he shouts from the entrance.

  “My truck is waiting.”

  Erica hoists her duffle bag

  over her shoulder

  and I roll my suitcase

  toward Chris.

  I stare at him.

  Feelings churn in my stomach

  like stones.

  Resentment and hatred

  mix and groan.

  This park is ours,

  and he’s

  an intruder,

  stepping on territory

  that should be left private, alone.

  I sit sandwiched between

  Chris’s friends.

  Drake’s body odor and

  Jack’s obscene hand gestures

  make my legs squeeze together,

  my arms cross against my chest,

  my eyes search for a safe place

  to land.

  I try not to look

  at Chris’s hand on her thigh.

  I try not to imagine

  his hand being mine.

  It’s like the beach all over again.

  Oh God.

  Why did I agree to this?

  The campground

  is a tiny section

  of a large community

  of tents and fire pits

  lined up like Levittown.

  Stakes pile and

  nylon tenting spreads

  across a square of flat land.

  Chris digs metal into dirt

  while we tiptoe around

  sheets of fabric

  and ask him where

  “the bendy things go.”

  Erica drops a metal pole.

  “I can’t do this.

  Chris, babe, I’ll kiss you

  if you finish for me.”

  Of course he takes her offer.

  Who wouldn’t?

  As I’m organizing tools,

  I look up and find them still together.

  I walk to their side of the tent and

  drop my hammer.

  Chris screams and

  grabs his foot,

  pushing Erica away.

  Oops.

  I don’t let anyone

  see my smile.

  When we’re done unpacking and setting up

  (and Erica is halfway through a book),

  Drake suggests a cigarette break.

  Being the only one who doesn’t smoke,

  I crawl back into the tent

  to get my sketchbook and pencils.

  I turn around to leave,

  but Erica is

  kneeling behind me.

  “Oh my God, you scared me.”

  She doesn’t laugh

  or apologize.

  “Can I see that?”

  She points to my sketchbook.

  She’s not really asking.

  She never asks.

  She expects.

  I hand it over.

  My heart races

  and my palms get sweaty

  as she flips through the pages

  of my thoughts and feelings…

  leisurely.

  She passes through

  a montage of trees,

  my father,

  the Greenwood graveyard.

  A few pages later,

  she sees herself.

  Oh God.

  I forgot about that drawing.

  She stares at the picture

  for a long time.

  Minutes go by

  and she sits

  expressionless.

  She begins to slowly

  rip the page out.

  I wince

  but stay silent.

  If she was anyone else

  I would have snatched

  my sketchbook back

  in an instant.

  “Can I keep this?” she asks,

  pinching the drawing

  between her fingers.

  But she never really asks.

  Through the flames

  of the campfire

  she sits with Chris.

  His arms

  hold her close

  around the waist.

  Their legs

  intimately

  intertwine.

  Her hand

  cups his

  prickly chin.

  Kiss

  Kiss

  Why

  am I

  exhausted?

  I’m almost asleep when

  something brushes against me.

  Erica is sitting beside me,

  writing in her notebook.

  I start to sit up, but

  when she lies down

  I sink back into

  my sleeping bag.

  She pushes her book

  to the corner of the tiny tent.

  “I didn’t know you were awake.”

  She scoots in closer

  so our noses are

  practically touching.

  Fresh raindrops

  break the silence

  and bounce off the tent.

  The rain crashes harder,

  and cold air creeps in.

  Erica’s icy fingers wrap around

  the back of my neck.

  Her eyes capture mine.

  She leans in for a kiss.

  Eyes closed.

  Mouth open.

  Fingers laced through

  strands of hair.

  Skin soft.

  Chapped lips rough.

  Stomach hollow

  and exploding.

  Holding on

  to her, to the moment.

  Hands and heart

  afraid she’ll let go.

  Focuse
d but

  oblivious.

  The need to breathe

  is unimportant.

  “Man, did you believe how cold it got last night?”

  Chris peels a banana

  as we eat breakfast

  around the dead campfire.

  “I know, man,”

  Jack leers at me.

  “I was about to make some heat

  with one of these ladies.”

  Chris smacks him with the

  banana peel.

  “Just don’t touch my lady.”

  The ghost of Erica’s kiss

  lurks on my lips.

  I try to catch some

  signal from her

  that she’s not his anymore.

  I catch her eye,

  but Erica’s as closed as

  her notebook.

  And then it starts to rain.

  It beats down so hard

  and for so long

  that we all decide

  to dismantle the tents,

  pack up the supplies,

  and head home early.

  Hey Jamie.

  Asher! How are you?

  Eh, I’m holding up.

  How’s the, uh—