I wonder whether she’s trying to get detention again.
The thought makes me sick.
Jamie has successfully ignored me all period, a task made easier by the fact that today wasn’t a lab day. No partnering. No practice drills. No joint assignments.
No speaking to each other.
The bell rings, and Jamie stands so quickly, it makes me jump. She turns to face me and plunks something down on my desk.
“Here,” she says, then turns and exits the classroom.
In fifteen seconds, the room is empty. Even Ms. Garcia is in her attached office, prepping for next period.
Slowly, I unfold the small piece of ripped notebook paper. There is no note; no nothing. Just a phone number.
I know what it is, though.
Even mad at me, Jamie came through.
Now it’s up to me to decide whether or not I want to contact my father.
“Do you think I can be fixed?”
My mom looks at me sharply, surprised. We’ve been eating dinner, up until this point, in silence.
“Fixed?” she asks. “I wouldn’t say that you’re broken. You’re special.”
I roll my eyes at her G-rated look on life.
“Whatever, Mom,” I reply curtly.
“What made you think of this?” Mom asks, ignoring my tone.
“Anatomy,” I reply. I take a bite of chicken and then continue. “Ms. Harris talked about storing different memories in different parts of the brain. Easy stuff, like knowing your name or riding a bike or math, goes in one place; experience-type memories go in another.”
“I wouldn’t say math is easy,” Mom jokes. It annoys me.
“It is for me,” I say sharply. “Maybe your math is stored in the harder part. Anyway, that’s not the point.”
“Sorry,” Mom says. “Go on.”
“Obviously that means that only one part of my brain is messed up. Not all of it. So I’m wondering if I can have the messed-up part fixed.”
And then I’ll know what happened in the past, I think, but don’t say. And maybe I’ll stop remembering what’s going to happen in the future, too.
“I don’t think it works that way,” Mom says quietly.
“Why do you think that?” I demand.
“Because one of the experts we’ve seen is a neurologist. Do you know what that is?”
“I’m not dense, Mother.”
“London, I’ve about had enough of your tone. I was just going to say that he had an MRI done on your brain, and nothing looked out of the ordinary. He said that your brain is perfectly healthy. No parts are ‘messed up.’ ”
“Whatever,” I say defensively. “I’m finished.”
I push back from the table, take my plate to the sink, and leave my mom to finish eating alone, which only bugs me every step of the way upstairs.
24
“Okay, I’m ready,” I whisper, even though whispering isn’t necessary. We are totally alone.
Nearly inaudible music plays from Luke’s bedroom stereo, and the late-afternoon sun is on the other side of the house, making the room dim.
“Are you sure you want to do this?” Luke asks. The hairs on my arms stand on end.
“Yes,” I answer quickly. Then I add, “I think so.”
“There’s no rush,” he offers. “We can wait.”
“No, it has to be today,” I say, in a bossier tone than I mean.
Luke laughs and picks up his cell phone.
“Okay, here goes,” he says.
He dials the number from the scrap of paper, and I bite the fingernail on my right pointer finger in anticipation. I imagine one ring, then two, then…
Luke’s eyes widen and his posture stiffens. Less than one second later, he relaxes again. He makes a face as he disconnects the call.
“Wrong number,” he says, disappointed.
“Like the voice mail was for someone else?” I ask, needing clarification.
“No, like the number was disconnected. It might have been your dad’s number way back when your parents divorced, but he’s changed it since then.”
As if on cue, muffled squeals erupt from the direction of the kitchen, and Luke and I instinctively move to sit in beanbags. We know—him from experience and me from my notes—that his mother will come in without knocking to see what we’re up to. Innocently crank-calling my estranged father might look questionable if we’re doing it from Luke’s bed.
In fact, anything done while lying on Luke’s bed might be met with a raised eyebrow from Mrs. Henry, and a motherly inquisition is not what I need right now.
Luke clicks on the TV just in time for the interruption, and his mom finds us enjoying a documentary about ice fishing. She invites us to the kitchen for an afternoon snack, and we oblige because there’s nothing left to do on the dad front for now.
After nachos, we settle into the oversized living room couch to be entertained by two matching almost-three-year-olds. I know I’ve spent time with them before, so I try to hide my utter amazement at the carbon copies before me. How odd it must be to see yourself in someone else.
Luke’s miniature sisters layer on every piece of dress-up clothing their little bodies will hold and act out a play about “monkeys and mommies at the zoo.” We give them a standing ovation, and then explain to them what a standing ovation is.
Next up is a game of skill called “line up the stuffed animals.” Like little ants, the girls move from storage bin to line and back again, carrying armfuls of stuffed bears, elephants, giraffes, and more. Once completed, a Great Wall of “Stuffies” extends from the fireplace to the arched doorway. After consulting each other for all of five seconds, they divide the territories: the left half of the living room, which includes the couch, is for “bigs,” while the right half is strictly for “princesses.”
When Big Luke leaps off the couch and jumps into twin zone, he’s met with screams and giggles and general joyousness that’s contagious. I can’t help but join in for a while, tickling and laughing with either Ella or Madelyn, I can’t be sure.
Soon enough, it’s nearing dinnertime, and Luke’s father arrives wielding a massive box and a warm hello for all of us. Mr. Henry is a handsome man, and I can see Luke in him. For a moment, I let my mind wander, wondering whether Luke will have the same salt-and-pepper hair and lightly weathered face when he’s his father’s age.
Back in reality, the girls are opening the box with their father’s help, and I can’t help but feel a pang of jealousy at their relationship. I move to the couch and watch the simple moments that kids with fathers in their lives take for granted. One twin’s tiny hand rests on her daddy’s shoulder as he cuts open the top; another doll face lights up like it’s Christmas morning as her father makes his way through packing peanuts and bubble wrap.
At its core, the box holds a handmade wooden rocking horse, painted pink and ready for riding.
But after one ride each, the real appeal is the massive, fortlike shipping box.
“It’s a car!” the twin I think is Ella shouts right into Luke’s face. Her eyes are so bright, how could he not help her inside and vroom her around the carpeted room? The girl that has to be Madelyn wants a ride, and Ella wants another. And now it’s: “My car!” “No, my car!” “No, MINE!”
