Gabrielle Zevin - Memoirs of a Teenage Amnesiac

“’Cause before you were just thinking I was a bitch?”

“I wouldn’t say that.”

“What does the song have to do with us meeting though?” I asked.

“Well…” Will cleared his throat. “I guess, on some level, it’s about the difficulty of modern communication. Like I said, I didn’t have that much time to put together a proper mix. But I always think of you and meeting you when I hear it. Don’t you do that? Don’t you hear a certain song and associate it with a person? They don’t even have to know you’re doing it.”

“Sometimes maybe.”

“And my dad really liked that song, too. He was a big fan of the Flaming—”

I yawned. I couldn’t help myself. “I’m sorry. You were saying? Your dad…”

“Oh hey, you should get to sleep, Chief. You can call me again tomorrow, if you want, if you’re feeling up to it.”

“Hey, Will, can I ask you another question?”

“Anything.”

“Would you say that I was really into Ace?”

“I truly doubt if I’m the best person to answer that.”

“Who else, then?” I asked.

Will sighed. “Honestly, I would say that you were. Not that I’ve ever understood his appeal, but there you go.”

“Why, though? Why him and not somebody else?” I really wanted to know.

I heard Will take a drink of water before he answered. “I’m not in your head, so I’m only theorizing here. I think you like being seen around with a good-looking jock. I hope that doesn’t sound too mean.”

“So you think I’m shallow?” I countered.

“I didn’t say that. I think you’re the swellest gal around, but I also think you’re human. And you go to a school where it’s not entirely a bad thing to have a boyfriend like Ace.”

I wondered…

All this speculation was exhausting. “Night, Will,” I said.

“Good night, Chief. Say, do you think you’ll be able to come back to school with everyone else after Labor Day?”

“I don’t know when I’ll be back. I’m still pretty tired.”

“Well, take it easy, okay? I’ll pick up your schedule and all your assignments, so you don’t have to worry about any of that.”

“Thanks.”

I got under the covers and listened to that song again. I fell asleep before it was over.

I slept for the next thirteen hours straight. I didn’t even hear my dad come home.

The day before I was to return to school, I told Dad I wanted to figure out if I still knew how to drive.

“You sure you’re ready?”

I wasn’t necessarily, but it didn’t seem particularly appealing to have my dad driving me everywhere either.

“It’s only been about three weeks, kid. I’m just not sure it’s safe.”

But I had to start figuring these things out, you know?

We went out to the car. I put the key in the ignition and turned it. The movement seemed familiar enough.

I was about to step on the gas when Dad said, “You need to shift the car into reverse.”

“Oh, right,” I said as I did it.

I was about to step on the gas for the second time when Dad said, “You’ll want to look in the rearview mirror to see who’s coming. Then over your shoulder to check the blind spot.”

“Right. Right.” The road was empty in both directions.

I started to back up the car. I had just eased my bumper out of the driveway when a horn blasted three times. I slammed on the brakes as an SUV raced by, barely missing us.

“Moron!” Dad yelled, though surely no one could hear him except me. “A lot of people speed through this area. Don’t worry about it.”

But I was worried about it. I didn’t feel at all confident that I knew how to drive anymore. “I should know how to do this!” I banged my fist on the dashboard. Of all the things that had happened, this struck me as particularly humiliating. I felt childish and helpless and weak and stupid and suffocated. I hated that Dad or anyone else had to watch me be so pathetic. I needed to get the hell out of that car.

I didn’t even turn off the ignition. I just slammed the door and ran straight to my room.

Dad followed me. “Naomi, wait! I want to talk for a second!”

I turned slowly. “What?”

“I’m…You’ll drive when you’re ready. We can try again next week. No rush.”

Dad’s eyes were bloodshot. He looked like he hadn’t been sleeping, and he never slept much to begin with. “You look kind of tired, Dad.”

Dad sighed. “I stayed up late watching a nature program. It was about lemmings. You know how people used to think they all committed suicide when the population got too big?”

“Sort of.”

“Turns out they have really bad eyesight.”

“Since when do you watch those?” I asked. My dad was not really a “nature” guy.

Dad shook his head. “Not sure. Since the divorce, I guess. I’ll drive you to school tomorrow, okay?”

I hadn’t been dreading school, but only because I hadn’t been thinking about it.

In the hospital, they had tested my cognitive skills and concluded that my brain was, aside from the memory loss, normal. Whatever normal meant. (Or as Dad had joked, “No more weird than it was before.”) I could remember math and science, but had forgotten entire books I had read and most of history, world and, of course, personal. I still had the ability to learn new things, and everything before seventh grade, so, all things considered, it could have been far worse. Some people with head traumas end up having months or even years of physical therapy where they have to be taught everything all over again—reading, writing, talking, walking, even bathing and going to the bathroom. Some people end up with their heads shaved or having to wear a helmet. I’m sure either would have gone over really well at my high school.

The main thing that worried me about school was not the work, but the kids. To look at me, no one would even think anything much had happened—all I had were bruises and some stitches—but inside, I felt different. I worried about not recognizing people and not acting the right way. I worried about having to explain things when I barely understood them myself. I worried about everyone staring at me and what they would say. This was why I’d tried not to think about school at all.

The next morning at Tom Purdue, most of the kids who were getting dropped off looked young, like freshmen or sophomores. Sitting in the passenger seat of Dad’s car, I felt more than a little melancholy that I hadn’t driven myself.

“You ready?” Dad asked.

“No,” I replied.

I had written my schedule on my hand the previous night; I had a map of the school; I knew the combination to my locker; Dad had called all my teachers. Why was it so hard to open the car door?

Dad pulled a small, rectangular black box out of his jacket pocket. “Your mom wanted me to give this to you. It came last Friday.”

“I don’t want anything from her,” I said.

“Fine by me. I’m just the messenger,” Dad said.

Attached to the box was a gift card in her distinctive, artistic scrawl: “Cupcake, Dad said you could use these. Have a good first day back. I love you, Mom.” But I wasn’t her cupcake or anyone else’s, and I hated being bribed. I didn’t even care what was inside the box. I wouldn’t like it on principle.

Then again, it’s really difficult to resist opening a present once it’s already right there on your lap.

So I lifted the lid. Inside was an extremely expensive-looking pair of silver-framed sunglasses.

I looked at Dad. “You told her about the light?”

“She’s still your mother, kid.”

A “fun” side effect of my accident was that I felt like I was living in the North Pole. Everything seemed incredibly bright (like I imagine the polar caps probably are in person) and I was usually freezing, even though it was still September. I guess this sort of thing can happen with head injuries. As it was explained to me, the wires in your brain have to reroute, and sometimes they send out incorrect or too much information. The upshot was that I was cold when it was warm and weirdly sensitive to light, even when it really wasn’t all that bright.