Forget Me Not (2 page)

slammed it in his face.
Damn,

he yelled, turning red with rage,

banging on the wood with his fist.

WARNING

and threatening, but Brianna had

locked herself in her room. He

sat on the bed, trembling.

Darla can’t find out. She’s

VERY

unpredictable.
“I thought she broke up

with you.” He showed me his phone.

SORRY ABOUT LAST NIGHT. I’LL

MAKE IT UP TO YOU.
She’s more

FRAGILE

than people realize,
he said.
I want

to end it, but she has to think it’s

her idea or she’ll make my life

a living hell. You won’t tell,

WILL

you
? “Of course not,” I said.

I was the one who was fragile,

though I didn’t know at the time

just how easy it would be for me to

SHATTER.

in reassurance

and said,

“She’ll
never
know.”

Darla is captain

of the dance team and I

had to see her every afternoon

at practice, but I am

an expert at keeping

my feelings

hidden inside.

“That’s what a good actress does,”

my mother used to say

before she left.

“Keep them guessing. Don’t

ever let them know

what you’re really thinking.”

Davis smiled and his eyes

were filled with such relief

that I felt proud.

Yes, I admit it,

proud.

Like I’d done a good deed.

He kissed me

in gratitude

and his lips

took me in.

“This has to stay

our secret,” he said,

with a promise in his voice

that if I could stay quiet,

I could be with him again.

My heart rose and fell,

danced and crashed.

I wanted so desperately to walk

down the hallway at school

arm in arm with him,

watching all the other

girls cringe in envy.

I didn’t want to be some secret,

tucked away in the back of his bedroom.

“I won’t say a word,” I said.

A little bird tried to warn me.

It was whispering words like

Liar . . . and . . . Cheat . . .

but I couldn’t hear what

it was saying.

At that moment my

heart was beating

too loudly to

hear anything else.

There is yellow crime

scene tape at the bottom

of the stairs to the Fine Arts

Building, in front of the entrance

to Brady Theater. I wonder if the

forensics class has created

another mock murder or if

the crime is real. At this

school it could go either way.

POLICE LINE DO NOT CROSS POLICE LINE DO NOT CROSS POLICE

Second period.

Kids start buzzing

down the F Hall in

the center of the school,

turning left onto the

G Hall at the front

of the building, and

making their way

outside like wasps

suddenly freed

from a nest.

The hum

is deafening.

They aren’t really free.

They have five minutes

to make it outside

to another brick building,

another pointless class,

another hour of futility.

Not one of them

goes through the door

that leads to the H Hall,

where I sit.

They hurry past it

but they

never enter.

That’s because there

aren’t any classes

on the H Hall. The

rooms are all used

for storage.

Besides, there’s

no way out

of the H Hall except for

a handicapped elevator

at the far end, and you have

to have a special key for that.

But I’ve known kids with

broken legs who would go

all the way to the other side

of the building to use that

elevator, rather than walk

through the H Hall.

There’s a very good

reason for this.

The H Hall is haunted.

I used to walk

all the way

around the building

to avoid it, but I don’t

mind it anymore.

I have ghosts of my own.

A hundred years ago the school was a convent.

Then after a scandal involving a young nun and a

Jesuit priest, the convent was sold and Our

Sisters of Divine Charity became the House of

Fallen Angels

and eventually a military institute. Unfortunately, there

was a tragic incident involving a young private and a

girl from a nearby prep school and it closed down. It’s

hard to follow the rule of no guns in school when you’re

preparing for war.

It was later reopened as a small private university, which

is the reason the buildings have names like Sci-Tech.

Then the head of the English Department made off

with a bunch of money tucked inside a book of stolen

metaphors.

The property sat vacant for ten years and became a home

to migrating birds and vagrants. Eventually the city auctioned

off the land and the buildings. The school board bought it

cheap, thinking it would be the perfect location

for a high school.

I see Brianna

walking across the grass

down on the quad

and my first impulse is to wave.

She looks upset,

and that worries me.

But then I remember

she’s not my friend anymore.

So why do I still care?

I think about how her

Saturday Night Live

imitations used to make

me laugh so hard I cried.

I think about late-night

brownie binges, Halloween

costume shopping sprees,

and Popsicle brain freezes.

But then I remember

how when she became a vegan,

I was supposed to become one too.

And when she boycotted Walmart,

she gave me a two-hour lecture

when I bought a bottle of suntan lotion

from “the corporate oppressors.”

I was worried in middle school

when I started getting all the lead roles

in the school plays, but then she decided

she’d rather be a director, which

ended up being the perfect job

for a control freak.

She’s just like my dad,

always trying to get people to fit

into nice straight lines.

I hate control freaks.

But when I see

her Girl Power backpack,

her yin-yang tattoo,

and her blond dreds,

my very first impulse

is to smile and wave.

That’s what Ms. Lane,

my writing teacher,

would say.

Spill it out onto

the page.

Sometimes it’s

the only way

for thoughts heavy

as bricks

to become feathers

and fly away.

I could go

to her class.

Get my head

together.

I’d sit next to

Elijah.

I wonder if

he’s heard.

Even if he has,

I know

he

wouldn’t say

a word.

leather biker pants even

though he doesn’t ride

a bike. Total geek. Loose white

shirt and leather boots make him

look like Orlando

from
As You Like It
. He went

to the psych ward last

spring when his brother, Frank, died.

When he came back he kept to

himself. Sat alone

during lunch scribbling in his

notebook and then he

spent a whole month speaking in

iambic pentameter.

He knows what it’s like

to be the campus joke. I

would be safe with him.

The other kids think he’s lost

his mind. I think he’s found it.

Shakespeare is a mask

to hide the pain. I wonder—

if I found a mask,

put it on, and tied it fast,

would I be okay again?

I keep in the back

pocket of my jeans.

It’s just like the one

Hemingway used to write in,

before he blew out his brains.

It’s filled with poems

and letters to Ernest.

I began writing to him

in September,

when everything started

with Davis.

Ernest was dead,

so I knew

he could keep a secret.

Maybe if I tell him what happened,

he’ll help me figure out what to do.

I don’t even know where to start,

but I open the notebook anyway,

because I don’t have anywhere to go,

and I know, it’s gonna be

a long,

long day.

They’re calling all the freshmen

into Admin (aka Watchdog Tower).

It got its name from

the winged wolves

perched on the four corners

of what used to be a church.

We go into the conference room,

one by one, so they can question us

about what happened to Ally.

Officer Richie,

the campus cop,

and some guy in a suit.

It’s the suit who does all the talking.

“How long have you known Ally Cassell?”

It’s the middle of October,

but the room

is hot as Hades. I wonder

if they turned up the heat on purpose.

To make us all sweat.

“Since elementary school,”

I tell the man.

He makes a note on his legal pad.

“How did you meet her?”

I can’t imagine how this is relevant,

but I don’t want to seem difficult.

It’s easy to get a reputation

for being difficult.

Once you do,

they never stop

watching you.

“I was in
A Christmas Carol
with her

and Brianna Connor in the third grade.

Ally was the Ghost of Christmas Past.

Bri was the Ghost of Christmas Future,

and I was the Ghost of Christmas Present.”

“I see,” he says, looking me up and down

as if he’s already made up his mind that I’m

trouble, just because my hair is in a ponytail

and my ears and nose are pierced.

But my comment seems

to have great significance

because he takes copious notes.

Then he peers at me

over his black-rimmed glasses.

“Would you say you were
close
?”

We were in every school play together

from third grade to seventh.

Then my brother died

the summer before eighth

and I sort of went AWOL,

but this is none of the man’s business,

so I don’t say anything.

I remember you, Ally,

out beneath the stars that night

at the party at the end of middle school,

when I finally started coming back around.

Your hair was the color of gold shining in the moonlight.

Your chin turned up to the stars under

the soft glow of the streetlight.

I should have called you afterward,

but I was too afraid.

I’m so sorry.

Maybe things would have

turned out differently if I had.

“I asked if you were close?”

“Off and on.”

“When was the last time you saw Ms. Cassell?”

“In sixth period, yesterday afternoon,” I say.

Ally, remember when I told you

I was taking a creative writing class?

I said I was tired of reading lines

written by someone else.

It felt like my whole life

had been scripted and

directed by strangers.

I said you should sign up too.

But I didn’t really think you would.

When I saw you in class that first day,

I told myself high school was gonna be

a brand-new start.

I wanted so badly to believe

you were there because you had a crush on me,

like the one I had on you,

but then you joined the dance team and

started running with the popular crowd.

Then the rumors started circulating

about you and Davis.

That picture told the rest of the story.

“What was her mood yesterday afternoon?”

You were hiding under your hoodie,

but I could still see that you’d dyed your hair

jet-black, as if that would fool anyone.

You were writing on your arm

with a permanent marker the words,

I HATE MY LIFE. I HATE MY LIFE. I HATE MY LIFE.

I asked if you were okay, and you started to cry.

You seemed so small then. I wanted to hold you.

You are small.

Barely five foot three,

but you have a way

of filling a room

that makes you seem

bigger than life.

Like the day you stood up in class,

did a 2Pac impression,

sang a rap you’d made up,