Gabrielle Zevin: Memoirs of a Teenage Amnesiac

Even Mom and Fuse came in from the city to see my pictures.

They took me out to dinner afterward. Of all things, what we talked about was how they had met.

The first time was in high school, which I had already known.

Fuse said that the second time was twenty years later on a subway platform in Brooklyn. Mom had been waiting to go to her photography show and Fuse had been waiting on the opposite subway platform to go to Manhattan to meet with clients. Just before Mom’s train got there, Fuse wrote his phone number on a sheet of looseleaf paper and held it up so she could see it, but he had no idea if she would write it down or call or what. Then Mom’s train pulled out of the station. She was still standing there, fishing through her bag. She yelled across the platform, “I couldn’t find a pen.” Then Fuse pointed up, meaning that they should meet outside the train station.

“So, depending on how you look at it, our love story took twenty years or thirty seconds,” Mom joked.

“It was very fast or very slow,” I said.

“Love stories are written in millimeters and milliseconds with a fast, dull pencil whose marks you can barely see,” Fuse said. “They are written in miles and eons with a chisel on the side of a mountaintop.”

“Honey,” Mom said with amusement in her voice, “that’s awfully poetic.” She coughed. “Pretentious.”

“It’s the philosophy major in me.” Fuse blushed.

The next week, I went to take down my pictures from the school gallery. When I got to the one of me and Chloe in the chair, it put me in mind of the difference between her origins and mine.

For Chloe, Mom had gone through pain, sweating, and thirty-five extra pounds. But at least she’d only had to travel a couple of blocks from her apartment to the hospital.

For me, she had filled out many forms, crossed her fingers, paid fifteen thousand dollars, overcome a language barrier, and dealt with opportunistic Russian bureaucrats. After all that, she got to sit for thirty hours in coach.

The delivery was different, but the result was basically the same. It was like Fuse had said: a love story in millimeters or a love story in miles.

ACE APPROACHED ME AGAIN ABOUT JOINING THE TENNIS team. His mixed doubles partner, Melissa Berenboim, had torn her ACL. She was out for the last three games of the season, and he needed a replacement quickly. “We never thought we should play together while we were going out, but I figured it’s fine now,” he said.

“What about our fight and everything else?”

“I thought you might say that, but first and foremost, I have to be a good captain to my team, and what is good for the team is me finding a replacement for Missy. Naomi, there are way, way, way more important things than whatever stupid stuff happened between you and me.”

“Like?” I was curious what Ace would say.

“Like tennis. And strong knees.”

“I’m warning you, I’m totally out of practice.”

“I’ll whip you right back into shape, Porter.”

The truth was, I’d wanted to go back to the team for a while. I wasn’t the greatest player in the world, but I loved playing. Ace had known that about me.

“Sure,” I said. “Why not?”

Actually, Ace was a great doubles partner: not selfish, not trying to go for every shot, instinctively knowing when I could reach the ball and when I couldn’t. We were a good team. We won more than we lost, which was saying something considering how little practice time we’d had.

We enjoyed each other on the court, too. Like if the score was forty–love, Ace might make a joke and say something like, “Forty—and maybe it’s love, but probably not if she dumps you on homecoming night.”

“Ha,” I said.

One day I wore those tennis sweatbands on the court. I held up my wrists and said to him, “Notice anything special about me?”

Ace whistled and said, “The guy who got those for you must have been some romantic.”

It was all sort of corny, but we amused each other. It was easy to remember why I had liked him in the first place.

We were in the athletic department van on the way back from a match when Ace said to me, “I heard about James.”

“Yeah,” I said, hoping he would leave it at that.

“Maybe you could go up to visit him?”

I told him that I already had, but that we were basically taking some time off from each other.

Ace nodded. He said, “I can tell that you really love him. I know what you look like when you’re in love. I know you. ”

Then Ace apologized. “When we broke up, I might have said some things that weren’t very nice about you. I’m sorry for that.”

Of course, I had forgiven him ages ago. I told him I was sorry, too. “Things hadn’t been going well for a while, had they? Even before my accident, I mean?”

Ace smiled that dopey grin of his and just shook his head.

The third week of May, I was helping Alice paint the sets for her new play, a production of Hamlet , when James sauntered into the theater.

I hadn’t known he’d be back that day.

James was still handsome as ever. Less emaciated and that was good. He asked me if I wanted to go get coffee somewhere. I told him I had to finish painting first, which I did.

At the coffee shop, he told me about Sweet Lake, and I told him about my pictures.

He told me he had quit smoking, and I told him I was letting my hair grow out.

He told me how he’d made friends with a girl called Elizabeth while he was away, and I told him how I had sent Chloe an Emily Dickinson poem last week.

“Which one?” he asked.

“‘I’m Nobody.’ It’s sort of a nickname she has for me. We read it in Mrs. Landsman’s class, so I photocopied it and sent it to her. When I was a kid, I always loved getting stuff in the mail, didn’t you?”

James nodded.

Soon after, we ran out of things to talk about.

Our moment had passed somehow. I was different. He was, too. Without our “madness” (how else to put it?) to unite us, there wasn’t anything much there. Or maybe too much had happened in too short a time. It’s like when you take a trip with someone you don’t know very well. Sometimes you can get very close very quickly, but then after the trip is over, you realize all that was a false sort of closeness. An intimacy based on the trip more than the travelers, if that makes any sense.

Whatever it was, I knew he felt it, too.

He drove me back to my house.

“You still have paint on your palm,” he observed. “Like mine, the first time we met.”

“Except that was your blood, Jims,” I pointed out. “This’ll just wash out, you know?”

“True, true. But it healed pretty quick actually.” He kissed me on my cheek.

I went to prom by myself, but I ended up hanging out with Yvette and Alice.

The first person I ran into was Ace. His new girlfriend was a tennis player from another school. Ace introduced me in the following way: “This is Naomi Porter, my ex-girlfriend and current mixed-doubles partner.”

“Probably more information than you needed,” I said to Ace’s girlfriend, rolling my eyes.

Will was there with Winnie. He was wearing a powder blue tuxedo, and she looked teeny tiny in a matching powder blue vintage tulle dress with a full skirt. (Personally, I’m too tall for most vintage clothes.) It was a lot of blue, but they looked adorable. Will and I never got a chance to talk. At one point, he winked at me from across the room; I winked back.

He was a good boyfriend to her. He brought her punch, made sure she had a seat when she wanted one, and watched her purse when she went to the ladies’ room.

He was a good boyfriend to her as, in some universe elsewhere, he might have been to me.