After dinner I dash upstairs to my room. Everything about it looks like it came from a Pinterest board, from my bookshelf organized by color to the floating shelves on my walls decorated with plants and photos of me and my friends. It’s spotless too. Every morning I make sure to line up all the pillows on the bed so they’re stacked like it is a magazine shoot, which my sister loves to point out is just another type A thing about me.
But today has been a day, so as soon as I enter my room, I fling myself into my pile of pillows, scattering them everywhere, and toss my phone to the side. It’s been buzzing since school ended, but I’ve been ignoring it. I know they’re texts from Carmen, Jess, and Katie. We’ve had a group chat called Brat Chat since the summer before high school, when we promised each other we’d be best friends forever.
But on days like this, it’s hard to believe we’re best friends anymore. I hate the way they were mean to Sarah Chang for no reason this morning. I hate even more that I don’t know how to stand up to them.
Things between us have been different lately. I can’t pinpoint why. But if I’m being honest with myself, the only thing that bonds us is this group chat that I don’t even feel like responding to on most days.
The thought makes me frown. We used to do everything together. Sleepovers with Sephora face masks. Hibachi dinners where the chefs would throw food into our mouths. Tie-dye bagels on weekends after spin class. I was always the one who would rally the troops, but I haven’t planned anything fun since before the accident.
That’s because before the accident I was always trying to appeal to my friends. Organizing things that they liked to do, instead of thinking about what I found fun. And sure, I love hanging out with my friends, but sometimes I prefer to be alone.
Sometimes I make lists just so I can practice my hand lettering. Other times I underline my favorite passages in books and doodle those. My friends appreciate this hobby of mine when it benefits them—like when I make them really great signs for a big game or when I write them the best birthday cards—but most times when they catch me doodling, they say things like are you even paying attention to me? Or worse, it’s cute that you still do that.
I know cute isn’t a bad word per se, but sometimes when people use it, it comes off as patronizing. Nobody ever tells a boy he’s cute for doing something he likes doing. That’s why I know that’s cute isn’t a compliment.
I reach for my phone and start scrolling through all the texts I’ve missed. There are photos of different outfits my friends are trying on for tonight. Carmen has sent one of her in jeans and a halter top. She looks like she’s going to be freezing to me, but Jess ironically typed three fire emojis underneath it. Anthony isn’t going to be able to look away, Katie texted next.
My heart sinks. Katie already knows about Anthony? Carmen just told me about him this morning. Has this been going on with everyone else noticing but me?
I keep scrolling back through my text messages, wishing I could scroll back through time too. There are inside jokes I don’t recognize.
Maybe Carmen’s right. Maybe I have been missing everything.
One of the more frustrating things to find out is that I changed my password for a lot of log-ins before the accident: TikTok, Instagram, Snapchat, etc. The only things I can access are Twitter and Facebook. Apparently, before the accident, I changed my password for the apps I actually used. I always used to use Carmen’s birthday, but I have no idea what I changed it to.
It doesn’t really matter—it’s not like I’ve had the urge to post anything lately anyway. I can still see photos I grammed because I’m public. There are only a few I don’t remember taking, like the one where I’m at the diner with my friends sipping milkshakes, and the one of me in a hoodie with my bookshelf in the background. My last photo was just of me about to go ice-skating at one of my favorite spots, but after the accident it was flooded with get-well-soon comments and hearts.
I roll off my bed onto the floor and peel back the fuzzy rug that protects my secrets. After I lift the loose floorboard, I reach in and grab the three mysterious items—the dried rose, the Polaroid, and the key.
They’re right on top because I’ve been staring at them a lot lately, like if I stare long enough, I’ll suddenly remember my forgotten memories. But as many times as I’ve looked at them, I still have no recollection of receiving that rose or of someone taking my photograph. On the back of the Polaroid, it says NYC 2/8 in my handwriting. Who on earth did I go to New York City with? It must have been an odd day weather-wise. There’s snow in the background, but I’m only wearing a tie-dyed sweatshirt. Maybe I took my coat off? I reluctantly do that all the time when my friends want to pose for photos, so it’s possible. But I’ve shown them the Polaroid and they all say they weren’t with me that day.
As I stare at the photo now, the colorful sweatshirt reminds me of my watercolored paper heart. Then my fingertips run along the little brass key. The most confusing item I saved. What does it open?
When I ask my family what happened during those forgotten eleven weeks, they tell me I was busy with All Things College. Over winter break I made a pros-and-cons list for each school I was interested in, trying to narrow down where to apply. I was also buried in my intense study schedule, with cross-outs every day as proof that it actually happened. I ended up doing really well on the ACT, better than anyone I know. But it’s weird to feel proud of something you don’t remember doing—it’s almost like it didn’t really happen.
I tried to find out why I left the dance early, but nobody knew, not even Carmen. I’d know if she was lying. She does this thing where she blinks really fast. But when she says she has no idea why I left early, her eyes stay wide-open, so I believe her. I used to ask every once in a while, just to make sure, but I could sense she was getting annoyed, so I stopped.
Still, I find it hard to believe that all I did in those eleven weeks was study, even if that’s what I told my parents and even if the events seem trivial to my friends. When you get to high school, people tell you these are the days you’ll remember the rest of your life. That’s all I want—to remember them.
I remain seated on my floor, staring at the items, trying to remember how they got there. But my head goes completely dark, like a movie theater does right before the feature, except nothing happens next for me. I hold the rose in my hand, hoping it might trigger some memory but the smell from the dried petals is so faint it’s barely there at all.
I sigh. The only person who might know anything about it is Pete. He most likely gave me these things before I broke up with him. I’ve wanted to ask him plenty of times, but each time I’m tempted I get a heart-wrenching flashback of him coming to the hospital and holding my hand, basically pretending to be my boyfriend, because I asked for him when I woke up. He wasn’t spiteful about how I had ended things with him, proving that he was the perfect boyfriend—perfect human—until the very end, and even after. It’s why I vowed to leave him alone and never ask him about the items in my secret spot. Prying seemed so selfish—why dredge up hurt feelings?
But it’s been almost a year, I think. He’s definitely over it by now.
If I can just get him to tell me why these items were important enough for me to save, I can remember those eleven weeks. Then maybe, just maybe, I can move on once and for all….
I head to my closet, selecting two outfit options—the jean jacket I made freshman year with my last name on the back and a maroon long-sleeve T-shirt that says i have more spirit than you in gold lettering. With the hangers in hand, I head down the hall to Ashley’s room, her emo music growing louder and louder. When I get to her door, I knock and the music is lowered.
“One second!” she yells. Then there are shuffling sounds.
She opens the door and I enter her room, which is the polar opposite of mine. Band posters are tacked all over the walls, clothes are piled all over the floor. It looks like she just tried everything on in her closet. She’s wearing a leather jacket I’ve never seen before and ripped jeans. She and Steve are definitely going to some concert.
I shake my head. “Which shirt do you want to wear? You have to at least look like you’re going to a game.”
She breaks into a large smile. “Really?”
Ashley jumps off the bed and squeezes me tightly. I run down a list of the times I remember her hugging me: When I woke up in the hospital. When she graduated from middle school. When I took her and her friends to play laser tag for her fourteenth birthday. When I gave her a pair of gold hoops two years ago for Christmas. When she lost one of the earrings and I told her I wasn’t mad, even though I was secretly annoyed.
When she releases me, she grabs the jean jacket and squeals, “I’ll go tell Mom!”