Saturday Morning: Present
“Downtown Crossing,” comes the conductor’s voice. “Change here for the Orange Line.”
I grasp the trails of this memory, but it vanishes quickly. Gym chaos is replaced by train cacophony. I’m sweating again, my lips dry. What happened next? What did I do?
Just what kind of person was I?
“Soph?” Kyle looks at me as the train slows, and I shake my head.
I don’t know where I’m going, but not here. We’re not far enough yet.
I’m not sure far enough exists.
Between this station and the next, I plead with my memories to return, but nothing new happens. My stomach rolls with the train’s motion. Whatever I was doing at RTC, it was for the best. I cling to that part of the memory, that residual emotion. Finding X was obviously very important. My job was important. I was trying to help someone.
But I was not a normal college student. Sophia was—is—not a normal person. I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised by this given what happened at South Station, and yet I’m freaking out. I don’t dare show it either. I have to keep myself together.
“Park Street.” The conductor’s accent makes it come out like Pahk Street. I wonder if it’s part of the job requirements that T conductors sound like Boston stereotypes.
“Here,” I say to Kyle. “This is a good spot.”
He doesn’t ask why, but the question shows in his eyes. I respond the same way: We’re at the Common. I want the open ground and the crowd.
I can’t tell if he understands, but it doesn’t matter. And I can’t explain why, suddenly, I know Park Street Station is the stop for Boston Common when a minute ago I knew nothing about Boston geography. All that concerns me is that THEY can’t be far away.
The crowd lurches in a mass, shuffling like zombies to get off the train and above ground. They’re way too slow. I don’t like being in this confined space. Plus the station is disgustingly hot, and it’s hard to breathe.
Kyle takes my hand. I let him lead the way so I can keep my eyes open, my head always in motion in case I see someone I recognize. They will find us again. I’m sure of it. Until I figure out how they found me the last time—and why—we’re vulnerable.
When we pop out of the station at the edge of the Common, I squint into the December morning sun.
December. How do I know the date?
I push the question away. Little by little things are returning. I need time, although I fear I don’t have it.
The low sunlight reflects off the windows of the nearby buildings, almost blinding. Kyle and I traipse away from the T entrance and the vendors with their stalls. To my left, the Common is a field of dead grass, dotted with the melting remnants of some old snowstorm. Its many paths are clear, though crowded. Although it doesn’t hide me, I’ll be able to see anyone coming.
“Where to?” Kyle says at last.
I point to a random path. “Anywhere. Let’s walk.”
“How about let’s talk. Who were those guys back there? How did you do that?”
I have his hand, so I drag him forward with me, not wanting to explain while others are within hearing distance. Kyle seems to understand, or if not, he’s patient and bides his time.
I wish I knew which it was. I’m still not sure if I should trust him, but I need answers from him as much as he wants them from me.
Once we’ve walked some distance from the crowded outer paths, I struggle for words. “I don’t know who those guys were, but bad people are coming. That’s all I remember. They’re looking for someone at RTC, or I was looking for someone at RTC and they were looking for me.”
Kyle stops but doesn’t let go of me, and I falter. “Those guys went after you.”
“I know.”
“But you think they’re after someone else?”
I squeeze my eyes shut, straining for another memory, but one doesn’t show up on demand. That’s wrong too. I feel like there used to be a door in the back of my mind, one I could open at will. From behind it, I could retrieve whatever I needed whenever I needed it. But now it’s dark behind the door, and everything’s fallen. The memories I pull from there are jumbled and senseless. I trip over facts that were once neatly stored.
“I told you—I don’t know. I just have this sense that I’m in danger.” And someone else was in danger too. Kyle? Is that why he’s with me, or is it totally unrelated?
Danger. Read.
I chase the unrelated words around in my head. Read what? Something in my backpack? I rifled through it earlier and didn’t see an e-sheet or anything.
Kyle’s face is pained. No doubt I’m scaring him. And why not? I’m scaring me. This is probably a good reason not to tell him more than I already have. That, and he clearly wasn’t supposed to know what I was doing at RTC.
Unfortunate, because maybe if he had known, he could fill me in on the stuff I’m missing.
He starts moving again, though now he’s scanning the surroundings like I am. “That cut—you must have hit your head. I think you need help.”
Stay away from doctors. That thought triggers my paranoia so that my muscles clench from shoulders to feet. Why do I hate doctors?
I shake my head at my Kyle. “No, this is helping. My memories are coming back. What did I tell you? Before this happened, I mean.”
The sun retreats behind a cloud, and the temperature drops several degrees without its light. Our feet crunch on old salt that’s staining the path.
Kyle zips his jacket higher as the wind picks up. “Last night you said you wanted to get away from campus for a while. Honestly, you seemed disturbed about something, but like you were trying to hide it.”
“But I didn’t say anything else?”
He laughs once. “No, but I’m used to it. You’re the only person I’ve ever met more tight-lipped than me. So when you insisted that we had to go today, I figured why not. You really don’t remember any of this?” He pauses in front of me, so close our chests touch. His breath passes over me in white clouds, and his bottom lip sticks out in this adorable way.
Despite everything, I’m struck by the urge to kiss him. To discover if his lips are as soft as they look. Have I ever done it? I can’t even remember. How sad.
I chew my lip to keep it from doing something stupid. “Something happened in the bathroom. I blacked out. Everything before that is…” Gone, but I don’t want to admit it. It’s too scary. “Is wrong. Hazy.”
“That doesn’t sound good.” Kyle winces. “Understatements—I’ve got ’em.”
I smile but immediately catch the shape of several dark figures moving in my peripheral vision. My smile vanishes.
I twist left as my heartbeat spikes, but the figures are only some random people hoofing it in the opposite direction. Still, I don’t like it. I should be more alert. Kyle is distracting me, which, given what little I remember, is apparently normal.
He’s also checking out the group, or checking out me checking them out. “Recognize them?”
“No, but let’s move. I’m getting cold standing here.”
“Yeah, your cheeks are all pink.” He presses a cold hand against my face. “There’s a coffee shop down by the Garden. Maybe we can get some coffee that we have time to drink and some breakfast we have time to eat?”
“Sounds good.”
We walk in silence another minute. I’ve returned to scanning the area, spinning around every few paces to check our backs, but nothing triggers any alarms in my head. There are plenty of business people in long black coats, children in bright puffy jackets with matching hats, and everyone in every variation between. I’m sure I appear ridiculous to those watching me, but Kyle keeps quiet.
Eventually, though, my need for information takes over. “Was South Station where we planned to go, or were we going somewhere else?”
“Like I said, I don’t know what you were planning. We got off the T there, and you said you’d be right back, then you ran into the bathroom. You know the rest. Or, well, you don’t, but that brings us back to now.”
A blast of bitter wind bites at my ears. I saw a hat and mittens in the backpack but don’t feel like stopping to get them out.
My hat. My backpack. I silently repeat it a few times, hoping it will sink in.
I am Sophia. Only I’m not entirely sure who Sophia is.
We’ve reached the end of the Common and wait for the signal to cross the street toward Boston Garden. Cars zip by, and I fight the urge to stand behind Kyle, letting him block me from view. Anyone could be in those cars. Anyone, like the guys from South Station. I shiver and tug my jacket’s collar over my chin.
Kyle motions to a coffee shop on the corner, and we cut away from the Garden. It’s crowded in there, but maybe that will help me blend in.
Before we can enter, he pulls me to the side. “What you did back at South Station, how you took down those guys, it was…” The rest of the comment hangs in the space between us, thin and chilly as the air.
“I don’t know how I did it. It was like some kind of instinct. If I thought about it too much, I wouldn’t know what I was doing.”
“Then you must be really well trained.” He scoots aside, letting a woman walking a very fluffy dog pass. “My dad is big into martial arts. The whole point of training is so that it becomes instinctual.”
His eyes search me for answers I don’t have. “Really, I don’t know. I guess I never mentioned anything like that?”
“Nope. Never.” He sounds hurt.
I wonder what else I never mentioned, and why. “I’m sorry.”
He takes my arm. “Don’t worry about it. I’m sure you had your reasons. I just wish I knew more. Then I could do more to help.”
His words and his nervous tone don’t match, but I’m not sure what to make of either. There are so many reasons he might be upset. I don’t remember him well enough to guess.
“In?” I motion toward the door.
We get lucky and grab a couple seats together by the window as someone gets up to leave. I’d rather not be next to the window, putting my face on display, but it’s that or nothing. And nothing is out. I need to warm up.
Kyle takes off his jacket, revealing a black T-shirt over a long-sleeved thermal shirt. It’s the T-shirt that says Sweet Cartwheeling Jesus on it. The one from that day at the bell tower.
“I’ll get the drinks,” he says. “Why don’t you stay here and save the seats.”
I’m so busy staring at his shirt, growing furious with my inability to remember more, that I just nod. The back of his shirt says Gutterfly, followed by a bunch of dates. It’s a band T-shirt.
I press my back as far against the wall as possible, trying to stay out of the window’s view, and rub my eyes. Gutterfly. The name isn’t totally unfamiliar. Like the faces on those guys at South Station, I know I’m familiar with it more so than I recognize it.
Clinging to that piece of information, I ransack the dark, messy space in my mind. There’s something in there. For some reason, I feel as if the more pieces I can put in place, the easier it’ll be to unclutter and retrieve the rest.
By the time Kyle returns with the coffee and muffins, I haven’t got far, but I have got something. “I like them, don’t I?”
“You like what?”
“Sorry. I mean I like Gutterfly. Right?”
Kyle glances down at his shirt. “Yeah, lots of people do these days. Their last album made them annoyingly popular. You remembering more?”
“Not sure. They have a song that goes like this?” I hum some melody that popped into my head a minute ago.
Kyle’s face brightens as he takes the lid off his coffee and waves away the steam. “Yeah, that’s them. Do you remember any of the music at the dance last night?”
I sip my coffee, grimace and add more sugar. “The better question is whether I remember a dance last night. And no.”
The hopeful expression falls from Kyle’s face. Now I feel guilty. Did we go to the dance together? Did we have fun? I want to know. I want to believe we did.
I run my fingers around the edge of the cup. “Maybe it would help if you tell me more. Tell me about the dance and our classes.”
Tell me about myself. I’m reluctant to say that part though. Although I trust Kyle for no good reason, I’m reluctant to let on how much of myself I’ve lost.
“Never show weakness. Weaknesses—and never real ones—are only something to be expressed in a calculated decision when trying to reach a goal. Use fake weakness to manipulate other people. Don’t let other people use your real ones to manipulate you.”
There’s that woman’s voice again. It grates on my ears. Or, well, my brain, since she’s a memory. But there’s value in what she says.
Vulnerability is dangerous. I should hide what I can. Even if Kyle is okay to trust, the paranoia remains.
They’re coming.
I know. I’ve met them. Stuff it already, brain.
Kyle seems to be considering, drinking his coffee thoughtfully. “There’s a lot I could tell you. It probably makes more sense for you to tell me what you remember. Then I can fill in the gaps.”
The problem is: it’s mostly gaps. And the parts I remember are not things I think I should share. But right. I won’t let that on. Weakness is bad. Mission was secret. Got it.
“Okay, starting backward. Um, the dance.” I close my eyes, begging my mind to release more memories.
One finally comes with the force of a hurricane.
Nine is stalling me in the bathroom. “I think we should go over this makeup thing again.”
“Are you kidding? We spent the past half hour painting my face various shades of…” I consult the containers in my hand, “…Desert Peach and Urban Twilight. Who names these things?”
“Please. Who cares?” She’s practically whining, batting her non-mascaraed eyelashes at me.
Above, one of the fluorescent tube lights flickers. Maintenance was supposed to have fixed that yesterday, so how come it’s not done? It’s making my eye twitch. Or maybe that’s the makeup.
“You leave me tomorrow for who knows how long,” Nine continues. “You’re getting to GO.”
When she says it, the word is clearly in all caps.
Nine has made no attempts to hide her jealousy. It’s for exactly that reason she’s not the one who was selected. She wants it too bad, and that makes her untrustworthy. I’ve told her this, for all the good it’s done.
As for me, GO is a mixed blessing. My stomach knots when I think about it. I’m ready for this. I’ve been preparing for weeks. I’m trusted. Yet I’m silently freaking out and don’t want to show it. Showing it is weakness.
Actually, feeling it is weakness. Showing it would just be embarrassing.
I wave the containers at her. “I don’t even plan on wearing this stuff. It’s irritating, and if I rub my face, it smears. I don’t like it.”
Nine rolls her eyes at me. “Think of it like camo paint. Lots of college girls wear it. That’s my point—we need to make sure you blend in. We’re different, Sev. I want to make sure you kick ass on this mission.”
We’re different. Yup, thanks for the reminder.
I smile though. Nine and I don’t always agree on everything, but she’s my closest friend. “I know. So do I. But I don’t think my ability to apply a killer makeup job is going to be the deciding factor.”
“Be prepared. You never know.” She removes her body from the bathroom door she’s been blocking. “But fine. You should get a good night’s sleep.”
“You think?”
She flings open the door and saunters down the drab gray hallway, swinging her hips as if she can hear some tune that I can’t. Amused, I’m about to ask what’s up when she throws open the door at the end of the hall.
I gasp. Our entire unit, all twelve of us, are crammed in the girls’ quarters. Blue and purple crepe paper covers the normally bare walls and windows. Our six beds have been pushed against the sides, creating an open space in the center. For a change, the room feels almost warm and alive.
“Surprise!” people yell in chorus, tossing excess crepe paper at me.
I cover my mouth with my hands, laughing. “Crepe paper? Really? Where did you get that? What are you doing?”
Six playfully hits Nine on the shoulder. “Good question. What are you doing? We didn’t have time to finish decorating.”
Nine pokes me. “I couldn’t hold her any longer. You know she’s got an iron will.”
I stick my tongue out at her, still laughing to cover my surprise and to hide the tears forming behind my eyes. I can’t believe they did this. We’re going to be in huge trouble if Fitzpatrick finds out, but I don’t care.
“Our Seven, stubborn?” One drapes an arm around me, giving me one of his rare grins. “Never.”
“Shut up.” I flick him in the chest.
Despite his grin, I’m certain he had no hand in planning this. In fact, I’m certain he doesn’t approve. There’s a tightness around his eyes that he doesn’t bother to hide, and for good reason. As our team leader, One is supposed to set the example. But he’ll go along with this for me.
I try not to think about that.
“You’re all crazy,” I say. “You know that?”
“Crazy jealous,” Six says, tossing her hair. “And we’re going to miss you.”
I lob a piece of crepe paper at her. “I’m not leaving forever. If I have any luck, I’ll get this done quickly and be back before you can out pull-up me.”
As the three smallest people in our unit, Six, Eight and I are perpetually competing to see which of us can do the most pull-ups.
One clears his throat. “It won’t be luck if you’re fast. It’ll be skill. That’s why—”
“Oh, enough with it,” Nine says, dragging me deeper into the room. “She doesn’t need a pep talk. We’ve got more celebrating to do.”
I follow her, pretending I don’t see the scowl on One’s face. He’s the only other of us who’s gotten to go on a real mission, but his wasn’t a solo one. And it was fast. He was gone three days, flying to Turkey with one of the CYs to obtain…something. Something the rest of us weren’t cleared to know about.
We congratulated One then, but no one threw him a party. Him being chosen was expected. He’s our team leader, the best and most responsible of us all. I hope he doesn’t resent the attention I’m getting.
With that thought running through my head, I smile awkwardly at everyone who starts talking to me. This party’s suddenly gone from sweet to cringe-worthy.
“Incoming!” The group parts, and Three barges through carrying a cake. He sets it on my desk with a flourish, shoving my laptop and packing list out of the way with his elbows. “Exalted Seven, I bring you sustenance.”
“Oh, please.” Nine grabs the knife from him.
I cross my arms, awkward surprise turning to awkward awe. “Where did you get a cake?”
Three winks at me. “I have a way with people.”
Yeah, I bet. Three, with his blond waves and blue eyes, has proven remarkably adept at convincing the older women around here to give him anything he asks for.
“Let’s get this party going,” Six says.
A moment later she and Ten have filled the quarters with dance music. I’m not sure how they managed that either. Apparently, all the extra time I’ve spent prepping for tomorrow’s mission, my unit has spent prepping for tonight.
Well, we’ve been trained to be resourceful. I suspect, come tomorrow, some people around here are going to worry we were trained to be too resourceful. Thank goodness I’m leaving for Boston in the morning and won’t be around to experience the inevitable punishments.
I can’t decide whether to gorge on cake—a treat I’ve rarely gotten to eat in my nineteen years—or dance. Somehow, I manage to do a bit of both. We all know this party can’t last long because Fitzpatrick will come around soon. She’s due in here by ten. If she hears the music or someone alerts her, she’ll be here earlier. Until then, everyone—even One, Five and Twelve—seem determined to enjoy the madness.
Finally, One pulls me aside, whipping me away from where Nine and Six are dancing, and into the empty corridor. He shuts the door, and I tense.
“You’re nervous.”
Why is it never a question with him? “Well, yeah. It’s my first real mission. Who wouldn’t be? Besides you, fearless leader.”
His smile lasts only a fraction of a second. I can’t even be sure it was genuine. “I’d be anxious too. Hell, I was on my trip.”
“But you say it like it’s an accusation. Poor Seven, she’s so weak.”
He’s always doing that. Since he’s leader, he feels he has to watch out for all of us, but it’s the worst with me. Always with me. Like I’m the runt of the litter or something. Which I’m not. We all have different strengths, but there are no runts here.
One runs his fingers through his hair. “It’s not an accusation, and I don’t think you’re weak. You got picked for this mission—that’s because you deserve it. But I can tell you’re hiding your anxiety, and I want you to know you don’t have to. No one’s going to judge you for being nervous.”
That might or might not be true. I’m not risking it.
One slides a finger across my jaw, and I suddenly realize how close he’s standing. Inches away. His hazel eyes search my face, and something like the chills come over me.
One has the most mesmerizing eyes. They have the power to make me feel younger than him, and weaker. That I need to turn to him—our leader and big brother—for protection. Or they can make me feel like I’m the strongest, most bad-ass girl on the planet.
The way he looks at me now, I feel a bit of both. Confused doesn’t even being to cover it.
“I’m nervous for you too, you know.” His face is so close that his breath tickles my nose when he speaks. It reminds me that, though he is our unit leader, he’s not actually my brother.
I try to laugh, but my mouth’s dry and my lips don’t work properly. “I thought you said you were sure I’d succeed.”
“I am, but it could be dangerous. We don’t know how much the others know. If you got hurt…”
I start to say “I won’t”—one of those ridiculous promises no one can keep—but I can’t get the words out. My heart’s beating like I just finished our morning run.
One reaches up and runs his thumb down my cheek. The brush of his skin, so light yet so meaningful, is too much. I hold my breath.
Forget my mission. This moment is so much more dangerous. We shouldn’t be out here alone. He shouldn’t be standing so close. I shouldn’t be imagining what it would be like if he were even closer, thinking about all those times I’ve seen him without his shirt on, wondering what it would be like to slide my hands under it now. Would his skin be silky or sweaty? Would the hard ridges of his muscles guide my hands up or down?
Heat spreads throughout my body, and my heart beats faster.
Why is One doing this? Is it a test? Not only is he failing to set the example, he’s pushing me to break one of the biggest rules we have.
Unless I’m misreading him. But no. I’m good at reading faces. I’ve been trained to do it, and I really don’t think I’m wrong.
Then the main door opens, and we jump apart. I can’t see the entrance from here, but that must be Fitzpatrick heading our way. A guilty expression sweeps over One’s face, just like I’m sure it does on mine. I was definitely not misreading him.
Oh, shit.
Kyle waves a hand in front of my face, and I shudder as I return to the present. “Soph?”
Kyle. Kyle. Kyle.
Focus on Kyle with the perfect cheekbones and shaggy bleached hair. Kyle, who I went to some dance with last night. Kyle, whose closeness to me now makes my skin tingle.
But I can’t focus on the present, and I rest my forehead in my hands. Who is One? And what kind of name is that? Why did he call me Seven? I thought I was Sophia.
Three. Six. Nine.
What. The. Hell.
Cole. Gabe. Summer. Jordan. That’s it. I almost scream with surprise. Those were the faces in that photo Audrey was looking at in our room. So why am I remembering them as numbers?
I file the memory away, but instead of easing my confusion, it worsens it. My headache is back.
“Sophia?”
Right. That’s supposed to be my name. I’ll worry about the rest later.
Blinking, I force myself out of my stupor. “Here, sorry.”
Kyle’s face is amused as he drains his coffee cup. “Get lost down memory lane?”
“Um, yeah. Was thinking about the time Fitzpatrick came and broke up a dorm party at my old school.” Half my coffee plus most of my muffin remains, and I stall by drinking more. The coffee’s gotten cool, but I don’t mind. I’m plenty warm at last.
Kyle points to the muffin with his coffee stirrer, as if reminding me to eat. “You’ve mentioned this Fitzpatrick before. She was your RA or something?”
“Yeah.” No. I don’t think that’s entirely correct, but I don’t know what is correct, so I don’t want to explain. Maybe that’s what I told Kyle, though. Maybe it was part of my cover story. Whichever, the fact that I lied to Kyle is a good reminder of why I shouldn’t be talking too much.
I twirl my cup around on the table and check out the window. The street is busy. Pedestrians scurry by, bundled in their jackets, avoiding eye contact. Traffic backs up in the intersection, and horns wail. But no faces alarm me. No cars look familiar. How long do I have here?
“I didn’t like her—Fitzpatrick,” I tell Kyle. “I called her Bitchpatrick.”
He smirks. “Yeah, I know. You said your old school wasn’t much fun.”
“What else did I say about it?”
I spin the cup so fast it almost goes flying off the table. Kyle catches it then rests a hand on my hand. I’m trembling, but that might be in part from his touch. Or the caffeine jitters.
I like his touch. The weight is comforting, and it makes me smile. At least until I remember One, er, Cole. Whatever his real name is. Then I wonder if I should be feeling guilty for liking the way Kyle touches me. This is so confusing.
Kyle taps each of my fingers with one of his. “You didn’t say much about it. Just that you didn’t like it and are happier at RTC. Although you missed your friends. Oh, and the work was a lot more difficult at your old school. But I find that hard to believe, and if it’s true, that’s scary given my workload this semester.”
I ponder that, waiting—hoping—for something to knock loose another memory.
Kyle stops his tapping and wraps his fingers around my hand. The rough edges of the bandage near his thumb slide against my skin. I’m not the only one who’s wounded.
“What did you do to your hand?”
He tucks the thumb under his palm as if ashamed of the injury. “Nothing. Just a cut. Last night, the window—you don’t remember that either? How much do you remember? Really. Be honest.”
I stare at the floor. Slush has melted off our sneakers and forms a grayish-brown puddle at our feet. I feel as dirty as the tiles because anything I say is going to be an obvious lie. Don’t show weakness is great advice, but I’m in no state to put it to use.
Kyle gives me a minute, but when I don’t respond, he sighs. “Okay, look. You’re scaring me. I thought maybe… I don’t know, never mind. But whatever it is that happened to you, it’s a lot worse than I thought at first. Mass General is right down the street. I think—”
“No.”
“Sophia—”
I yank my hand from him. “No.”
Where my fear comes from, I don’t know. But some things, even if I can’t place them, stick with me like scars.
Bad people are coming. Trust no one. Stay away from doctors.
Kyle presses his lips thin in disapproval, and we stare each other down. Eventually, he gives up. “Fine. I can’t drag you there, but this is serious. Do you want to head back to campus?”
“No.” If they are coming, they already know I go to RTC. Going back there would be giving myself up. I take a bite of muffin while Kyle frowns at me. It sticks to my throat, and I have to force it down. “I’m going to be fine. Stuff is coming back.”
“You hit your head.”
“I’m a little disoriented.”
He shakes my arm. “The way you’re acting, you probably have a concussion or something. You need help.”
I turn from him defiantly, doing what I should have done earlier while I pondered his T-shirt. I take in the coffee shop, assessing the baristas and customers for signs of threats and the doors for easy exits. The guy at the next table pulls an e-sheet from his pocket, unfolds it and begins reading the newspaper.
Read Harris.
Great. That’s more specific, but it doesn’t make more sense. Is Harris a book, an author, a website, what?
Would Kyle know? Is it wise to ask him?
He’s watching me, or more like he’s studying me while I watch everyone else. Why isn’t he sharing more with me? Why won’t he tell me more about myself? Is he purposely keeping things from me?
“Really crazy suggestion here,” he says. “But since you’re refusing to see a doctor, maybe you should call your dad.”
I freeze at the sheer obviousness of it. A dad. Parents. Yeah, I should have one or both of those. Everyone has one or both of those.
So why am I drawing a complete blank? I mean, yes, my memories are screwed up and missing, but this is parents. This should be fundamental. And yet the whole concept of parents feels foreign. Alien.
I have no parents.
I always look up, I can’t trust doctors, and I have no parents—things I’m sure of. Sophia—Seven—I—am a freak.
Swallowing, I return my attention to Kyle. “Have I ever talked about my parents?”
“You’ve mentioned your dad before. I think you said he works for the government.” Kyle raises an eyebrow, and I nod along like I know this. “You don’t talk a lot about him, but he calls you once a week.”
One of those disordered facts in my brain files itself away. “Sunday evenings. He calls every Sunday evening at eight.”
Fourteen calls since September, ranging from three minutes to thirty-two in duration. In my head, I can hear his voice, but his face is a mystery, and I have no idea what we talk about on those calls. But whatever. It’s better than nothing.
Kyle looks relieved again, possibly more so than when I hummed that Gutterfly tune. I hope this means he’ll drop the doctor-hospital crap. He nudges me. “So you going to call him?”
“Yeah. Just want to finish my coffee first.”
Actually, first I want to reconcile this certainty that I don’t have parents with the vague memory of talking to my dad every week. It doesn’t make sense, so there are two possibilities here. One, the man I spoke to wasn’t my dad and I lied about it for the same reason I was lying about everything else. Or two, everything I’m certain about is wrong.
I’m not sure which possibility scares me more. Both scream that trusting Kyle with even this much information might be a mistake.
I shiver and break off more of the muffin, biding for time. “Tell me about the dance.”
“Not that much to tell,” Kyle says. “It was boring, like most dances. But you looked awesome.”
I throw him a smile, my growing mistrust stopping me from being flattered or flirting back. As Kyle talks about who we hung out with and shares stories about people I don’t remember well, I search the backpack for a phone. There’s got to be one. Who doesn’t carry a phone?
At last I retrieve it. It’s stuck at the bottom of the bag under the hat and mittens. I’m also hauling around a sketchbook, a set of fancy pencils, a water bottle and some protein bars. Weird. Was I planning on doing some drawing today? Do I draw? I push the questions aside, more to ponder some other time.
My thumb hovers over the phone’s screen, and I’m aware that Kyle’s watching me again. I must act normal. Must hide my confusion. But it’s difficult not knowing what normal is anymore.
As for the confusion… Icons float in front of me on the phone, taunting me. What do they all mean? How do I use this? Relax, I remind myself. I close my eyes and try to clear my mind.
The less I struggle, the easier it becomes. Like it did at South Station, my body remembers patterns and movements, even if I don’t. My thumb moves, gliding over the screen, and a contact list appears. I scroll through it, looking for one that says “Dad” or “parents” or “home”.
There is none. I have Kyle, Audrey, Yen, Chase and other names I recognize from the snippets of my recovered memory. But there’s nothing that connects me to anything or anyone outside of RTC. No Dad. No Cole, One, Nine, or any other person masquerading as a number.
I finish my coffee then think to check the call log. I talked to my dad—or whoever—on this phone. There should be a record of it.
It takes another second to remember how to pull up the log, but I trust my fingers again to lead me to last Sunday’s date. At one minute after eight, a call came in.
I stare at the number, waiting—hoping—for it to trigger something. Do I dare call it in front of Kyle? If the person on the other end isn’t my dad, then there must be a reason I hid that information. And if it is my dad, will I freak him out and make him worry when he discovers what’s wrong with me?
“We need to discuss your next phase,” a man says in my ear.
I adjust the phone and glance at Audrey, who is sitting mere feet away. “Okay, but I really need to work on this philosophy paper tonight. I’m drowning in work.”
The man on the other end is unmoved. “Can you leave the room?”
The memory lasts only a second or two, but it’s enough. The number that called last Sunday—that’s the number I’m looking at now. It’s an important number; it was an important conversation. But it wasn’t my dad on the phone. Any doubts I had are gone.
That means, as of just last weekend, I was lying to Kyle.
It also means I should call the number, but instead I’m stuck reliving the details that returned. Trying to sort them into place in that filing cabinet at the back of my mind.
Kyle waves. The scents of coffee and sugar wash over me. “Sophia?”
Traces of the mystery conversation run through my head, and words accidentally slip off my tongue. “I was searching for someone. They were in danger.” That’s what the conversation was about. The details are gone, but that much remains.
Kyle says nothing for a moment. His face is curiously blank as though it’s taking all his brainpower to follow my incoherent ramblings. Actually, it probably is. I’m jumping from one topic to another without any logic. “Yeah, you said that already. You’re sure now?”
I nod. Part of me wants to tell Kyle everything in the hope that it means something to him, but I swallow the urge.
Student X was in danger. Did I ever find them?
Kyle plays with a stirrer. Silence spreads across our table like spilled coffee. The shop is alive in conversation and clatter, but there’s none between us. We’re drowning in the quiet. Finally, Kyle releases the stirrer. “Do you remember who or why?”
“No. I didn’t know who, just that…” I mentally bite my tongue. “Just that I was sent to help them.”
Shit, even that might have been saying too much. Besides, it makes me sound crazy. Which maybe I am.
Kyle looks up sharply. “Sent? By who?”
“I don’t know. None of this makes sense.”
“No, it really doesn’t.” He squeezes my hand.
I stare at his skin—really stare—because for some reason something about it makes my brain itch. I strain to make another memory appear, but of course it doesn’t work that way. Anyway, it’s just a hand. Why would his hand be important?
No way am I going to ask. When I listen to myself, it’s not hard to imagine that Kyle must think I’m crazy. That I’m suffering from some kind of delusions brought about by the cut on my forehead. Yet one thing I don’t doubt is that it’s all real.
Real, and I never told Kyle any of it.
I shift the phone in my free hand. My answers—some of them anyway—are at that number. They must be. But now, more so than ever, I’m not sure I should call it in front of Kyle.
I set the phone on the table and put my jacket on.
Kyle gets up with me. “Ready to leave?”
“No. I want to call home, but it’s too noisy in here. Going to do it outside. I’ll be back.”
His hand falls on my phone. “Are you sure that’s a good idea?”
“Going outside?”
“Calling.” He reaches for his jacket and knocks over his empty cup because he’s not paying attention. “Was thinking whether you might not want to worry anyone, you know? Like you said—if things are coming back to you, then maybe you should hold off calling. Figure stuff out more.”
His pupils have dilated, and he pushes his hair around. I pretend not to notice, but I tense as well. “Maybe my dad can help. Talking to you is helping, so it makes sense.”
“Yeah, but…” Kyle’s fingers twitch. He wants to grab my phone, I can tell. “It also makes sense to figure out more information before you call. Like who you were looking for, and did you find them.”
No, it doesn’t make sense. None of this makes sense, and it’s making less by the second. “Just a few minutes ago you were suggesting I call.”
“Right, but I changed my mind.”
I zip my jacket. “I don’t understand why.”
He scuffs his sneakers.
Trust no one.
Not even Kyle.
If I came to RTC to find a student in danger, and bad people were also searching for that student, then it stands to reason those people might also have sent someone to the school.
Kyle?
Are the butterflies that spawn in my stomach when he touches me less about how hot he is and more the product of some residual memory? Did I know something more about him before I hit my head, if that’s even what happened? Is that why I dragged him away from school today?
Or is he the one who caused the problems I’m having? Did he drag me? Did he do something to me? Has anything he told me been true?
Oh, shit. What have I done by confessing this much?
Stuffing the phone in my pocket, I push by him toward the door.
“Sophia, wait!”
He reaches for my arm, but I dodge his hand. If I took down those guys at South Station, maybe I can also take down Kyle if it comes to that. I hope it doesn’t, though, because I’m still not sure how I pulled off those moves.
“Sophia!”
A group of people entering the coffee shop get in my way, giving Kyle the chance to catch up. The door shuts behind him. Though I take off in the least crowded direction, people create obstacles in my path, and the brick sidewalk is a hazard of ice and slush.
I might be able to outrun Kyle, but perhaps that’s not the best idea. He has answers. I want them.
Never mind “Sophia”. Indecision might be my real name.
We’re both hurrying and have already reached the next intersection. The busier parts of the city have vanished behind us, but the traffic down this road is heavy. Ahead, the street is lined with quaint-looking shops and historical décor. To my right, a residential street slopes upward, packed with stylish old houses fronted by iron fences and adorned with seasonal wreaths and greens.
Beacon Hill—that’s where I am. The neighborhood name itself isn’t useful, but every bit that comes back makes me feel better. A little more whole.
I duck down the side street, which is empty and quieter. Crossing my arms, I spin around and Kyle bumps right into me because he can’t stop in time. “Did you do this to me?”
He backs off, shaking away the impact. “What?”
“Did you do this to me?” I point to my cut. “Drug me or something? Is that why my head’s all messed up? Is that why I fell and got hurt?”
“Of course not!” Kyle’s eyes open wide. He reaches for me again, and this time I grab his hand. I’m not sure I even mean to do it. It’s another reflex, triggered by my paranoia. The way I turn his wrist—I have him in a lock. I could snap his arm in two so easily. All it would take is a little pressure. Kyle hisses. “Soph, shit. Stop it. I don’t know what happened. I told you—you were fine, then you went into the bathroom, and when I found you…”
He sounds sincere, but how can I trust either of us? “Then why aren’t you telling me everything?”
“Everything about what? Would you stop? You’re hurting me.”
I release him and raise my hands in despair. “I’m sorry. It’s just you’re hiding stuff from me. I can tell. I’m trying to get my memories back, and you’re holding out on me. And then you go and start acting just as weird as I am about the phone thing. What am I supposed to think? If you’re not the one who did this, then tell me what you know.”
I think I must have pushed him too far. He’s going to run away now, and I’ll have lost the only connection to my memories. But Kyle stays, and that’s even more confusing. More reason to wonder why we were together this morning. More reason to wonder if he’s after something from me.
Kyle shoves his hands in his pockets and kicks a pile of slush. “I’m telling you everything you’ve asked about. What else do you want me to say?”
“We can start with why you changed your mind about me calling my dad after I told you what I was doing at RTC.”
“I already explained that.”
“You were lying.”
He opens his mouth to protest but fumbles for words. It doesn’t matter. Over his shoulder, I see something far more concerning than Kyle’s behavior.
The men from South Station have found me.