Forget Me Not (12 page)

He sets up pens

He orders life

He schedules plans

He sets up pens

The black, the blue

He schedules plans

For both of us

The black, the blue

Words on the fridge

For both of us

Tell where to go

Words on the fridge

Our whiteboard week

Tell where to go

The clock is king

Our whiteboard week

Filled to the brim

The clock is king

And I comply

Filled to the brim

A tight-run ship

And I comply

But it can sink

A tight-run ship

A neat abode

But it can sink

If there are holes

A neat abode

Is not enough

If there are holes

It fills up fast

It’s not enough

He thinks that if

It fills up fast

He’ll keep us both

He thinks that if

He orders life

He’ll keep us both

In nice straight lines

as if to say,
Why

are you back so soon?

I shrug. How can I tell

him I can’t stand

to be around myself

for even five minutes?

Besides, I’m trying to

figure out who

this guy is.

This person

I called

Dad

but never really

understood.

Why wouldn’t you let me

live with Mom?

She would have understood.

She would have known what to do,

after that night, when everything

started spinning out of control.

Why did you insist

that I had to stay with you,

when it was so obvious

you didn’t give a damn

and never had a clue?

She wanted to take me

when she left.

I screamed and cried.

Pleaded and begged.

You locked me in my room.

I didn’t even get to say good-bye.

You said it was for my own good,

though you wouldn’t tell me why.

But there was something more.

I could see it in your eyes.

Were you afraid to be alone?

Did you want to make a point?

Was it about control?

Or about being right?

“If you’re done here,

then it’s time for us

to go to the school,”

Elijah tells me.

“Why?”

“You have to go back where it happened

and make a different choice.”

“No. I can never go up there again.”

“Okay. Not right away.

But remember,

you don’t have a lot of time.”

“Never,”

I say, but then again,

I don’t want to stay

here, either.

Because I can’t stand

to be

in the hospital

for another minute

with my broken body,

with my token dad,

with my pain.

Elijah and I

get to school just after the

tardy bell rings. We

slip into Sci-Tech and then

hurry down the hall to our

physical science

class. Today Mr. M. is

dropping textbooks to

see if they fall faster than

feathers. Or maybe he’s just

trying to make a

noise loud enough to get through

to the kids with i-

Pods. He gave up on sending

them to the office because

they got lost along

the way and usually

didn’t come back. Now

he’s dropping a book on the

desk of a girl who’s asleep.

She jerks her head up

to look at him, turns off her

music, and says, “What?”

“What does Newton’s apple mean

to you?” he asks. “Is it a

cookie filling?” she

answers. He groans and explains

gravity once more.

Drops another five textbooks.

Goes back to his desk and takes

a Valium. It must

get tedious having to

repeat everything

five times per class, six classes

per day, for year after year.

He must feel just like

a robot, but then, aren’t we

robots too? Going

from class to class at the sound

of a bell doesn’t really

make you feel like an

entity with free will. I

never considered

that the teachers were just as

trapped as we are. Maybe more.

Mr. M. has been

here for twenty-five long years.

I could make it out

in four. . . . That is, if I live

long enough to graduate.

Second period and it’s time for

Elijah’s history class in Humanities.

I freeze as we walk toward

the steps leading up to the

second-floor balcony, because

the H Hall is on the other side

of the glass window.

I can’t see the Hangman,

but I know he’s

looking down at me.

“How can you go in there day after day?” I ask.

“There’s a lot of stuff in life

you just have to walk through.

Every time I walk through

that building, it reminds me

of where I don’t want to go.”

I look up on the second floor

and think about

the Hangman in the hallway.

I see

a baby pigeon

fall from the rafters

onto the ground below.

The two black birds are instantly on it,

like Brianna on a salad buffet.

I once wrote a poem

about a dead rapper

with a raven tattoo.

Ms. Lane talked

me into signing up

to perform it

at the school talent show.

She said I could be a great

writer if I stuck

with it long enough.

I told her what I really wanted

was to be an actress, and the real

reason I was taking her class

was so that I could write

better lines for myself.

She said that whether I became

an actress, a writer,

or both,

I needed to remember

that connecting with people

was more important

than outshining them.

But now I’m not sure

I’ll get the chance

to do either one.

and we’re still standing on the steps.

“I’ve got to get to class,” says Elijah.

“If I miss another day, I’m gonna get ISS.”

I look up at the second floor.

“I can’t go in there.”

“You can stay out on the quad.”

“I don’t want to be alone.”

“Go talk to the Bird Man.”

He points to a boy standing

on the circle in the center

of the quad. He’s yelling

at the kids who pass.

“The seniors are gonna beat him up

if they see him stepping on the Raptor,” I say.

“Not if they can’t see him.”

“What do you mean?”

“He’s dead.”

I shudder as I look at the boy wearing the school

gym uniform. I wouldn’t be caught dead in that outfit,

and I certainly can’t imagine spending eternity in it.

I’d rather do extra credit than dress up for PE for even a day.

“What happened to him?” I ask.

“Struck by lightning on the soccer field.

Go talk to him. He won’t hurt you. His bark

is worse than his bite.”

So I go out to the quad to talk to a dead guy,

because I can’t stand the thought of going back

into the Humanities building. But all the time

I’m out there, I know there are eight eyes

watching me from the H Hall.

As I approach the dead guy

I see him yelling at a group

of boys walking into the gym.

“That’s right, keep moving, and stay away

from Ronnie if you know what’s good for you.”

“Hello,” I say.

He turns around. “Are you talking to me?” he asks,

even though we’re the only two people left on the quad.

“Is it okay if I hang here for a while?”

He strides across the circle until he’s standing

nose to nose with me. “You’re not dead.”

“No,” I say, and the fact that he realizes this

makes me feel strangely relieved.

“But you’re not alive, either.” He sizes me up.

“I guess you can’t hurt anything. Come on in.”

He moves aside so I can enter the circle. I step

on the tail feathers of the huge black bird and look around to

make sure there isn’t a senior waiting

in the wings to beat me up.

“I don’t get many visitors. Sorry the place is such

a mess.” He tries to kick a Coke can off the circle,

but it doesn’t budge. “Damn freshmen. Someone

needs to teach them some school respect.”

“How long have you been here?” I ask him.

“Since 1985.

I used to stash my weed out on the far side of the track.

Was going to smoke some after PE,

before heading to the locker room,

but then a storm came up.

Have you ever been electrocuted?”

“No.”

“I don’t recommend it.

I was going to be

in the first class

to graduate from

Raven Valley High.

It happened a week before finals.

My grandparents were coming

all the way from Boise and had

already bought plane tickets.

They used them for the funeral.”

A thin little kid carrying

a hall pass comes out onto the quad,

sees the Raptor, and decides to

walk across it while no one is looking.

The Bird Man runs to the edge

of the circle and screams,

“If you touch Ronnie,

I’m gonna rearrange your face.”

The kid jumps back, like he’s been hit,

and runs in fear in the opposite direction.

“Who’s Ronnie?” I ask.

He points at the painted bird.

Then he points

at the sky where a black bird

is circling the school.

“That’s Raptor Ron.

The official school mascot.”

“He’s bigger than the others.

I’ve never seen him before.”

“Been dead for ten years.

Got old and

the hawks ate him.”

“That’s disgusting.”

“That’s high school.

Survival of the fittest.”

I wonder if the two black birds

who circle the school

are descendants

of Raptor Ron’s.

Ms. Lane calls them

Hugin and Munin,

Observation and Memory,

after the two ravens who

belonged to Odin,

the Norse god

of death and poetry.

Their job was to travel the earth

and report what they saw.

“Exactly what a writer does,”

she told me.

I asked her if they represented

all memories,

or just the stuff

you’d rather forget.

She said mostly the latter,

but the birds weren’t all bad.

When a group of settlers

got stuck in the valley

during one long winter,

ravens helped keep them alive

by bringing them dead pigeons to eat,

which is how the town

got its name.

And there once was a prophet

who was fed by ravens

while he was hiding

in the wilderness.

She said the prophet never died;

he just rode to heaven on

a flaming chariot.

But I can’t imagine

ever being desperate

enough to eat anything

that came out

of those nasty black beaks.

And who wants to live forever, anyway?

I don’t want to go back

to the hallway,

but I don’t want to go back

to my old life either.

Maybe I could just stay

as I am right now,

hanging out with Elijah

and Oscar.

That wouldn’t be so bad.

Is it a possibility?

Is there a door number three?

And if I open it, will I find

anyone waiting there

for me?

Elijah comes back for me

for third period and we go

to special ed, where he’s

a student aid in Oscar’s class.

When Oscar sees me,

he starts pressing buttons

on his device that have been

programmed with redneck jokes.

They’re stupid, but I still can’t help

laughing, because he changes the

voice with each joke.

Elijah sets up a chessboard

and they play a game.

I like

how Elijah positions

Oscar’s wheelchair so he

gets the view out the window.

I like

how unobtrusively he wipes

the spot of jam from Oscar’s chin

that’s left over from breakfast.

I like

how he talks casually, to pass the time,

like he’s got all the patience in the world,

as he waits for Oscar to push the pieces

into place with his pencil.

I like

how proudly he says, “Oscar took

first place in the district meet last fall.”

And I like

how when Oscar’s machine says
Checkmate,

Elijah gets a bigger grin than Oscar does.

The kids from special ed

get to go to lunch before

everyone else.

Elijah pushes Oscar outside

with his tray piled high with

pizza and fries. Then we sit

at a table on the quad, where

Elijah cuts everything into chunks

that Oscar can pick up with his fork.

Soon it will be too cold

to eat outside,

so everyone is relishing

the last few days of sunshine.

The bell rings and kids

pour out of the buildings like