Remember When (Remember Trilogy #1) (5 page)

   I made a mental note to rip out a new sheet of loose-leaf for my reply to his manifesto, once he finally finished and handed it over. I was going to make damned sure I’d be the last one of us to get possession of his note, because there was no way I was ever letting that paper out of my hands at the end of this. Hell, I’d probably frame the stupid thing when all was said and done.

   Near the end of class, Mason told us to put our pens down- Trip never stopped writing- and she did a quick review of the work we’d done on
Romeo and Juliet
to prepare us for the project we were going to be working on.

   Then she passed out little stapled booklets that she had run off on the copier and collated, saying, “Rather than bore you by going over what I’ve already compiled here, I’ll ask you just to follow the directions in the booklets. I’m expecting great things from each and every one of you.”

   The bell rang and she added loudly over the noise of a dispersing classroom, “Have your partners picked out by Monday! Enjoy your weekend!”

   I got up and turned to give Trip his booklet and saw that he was still writing. “Hey Dummy,” I prodded. “The bell rang.”

   I tried to peek over his hands to catch a glimpse of anything he’d written down just as he swiped the pages off his desk and folded them out of my sight.

   “That for me?” I asked.

   He grabbed his books and tucked the note in his shirt pocket. I couldn’t interpret the look on his amused face; kind of embarrassed, but still lighthearted. “Maybe. Someday. Just not today.”

   I was just dying inside. Somehow, some way, I was going to get my hands on that thing. I didn’t even care if it wasn’t the love letter I was delusionally hoping it was, even though he’d started writing it long before our teacher asked us to Mind Ramble. I figured maybe he’d just gotten caught up on a tangent and rambled on endlessly about it. But the thoughts flying around
the head of Trip Wilmington, whatever they were, were just too enticing a mystery not to be explored. What I wouldn’t have given for just the slightest glean into that brain of his. The key to unlock that particular treasure chest was folded right there in his pocket, yet he wasn’t handing it over. It was like offering a starving person a cookie, but holding it just out of their reach. 

   Of course, I couldn’t ever convey my overwhelming obsessions to him. So, I gave a casual shrug and said, “Whatever floats your boat,
pal
.”

Chapter 6

WHERE THE HEART IS

   I had absolutely nothing to wear. The thing was, from Monday to Friday, getting dressed for school was a no-brainer. Grab an Oxford, choose a skirt, out the door. I know the public school kids probably wondered how we could possibly wear uniforms every day without wanting to jump off a bridge. But the truth was, I kinda liked it. There was no fashion show to compete with from day to day. We all looked the same from our necks down to our ankles.

   Until the weekend.

   My entire annual school-clothes budget went toward replenishing Oxfords, maybe replacing a skirt or two and restocking my undies drawer. The rest went toward shoes.

   When you wore a uniform every day, the only place left to express yourself was with your shoes. You’d be surprised how creative we could get with our footwear while still keeping within the guidelines of “hard soles, nothing above the ankle”. And trust me, there wasn’t a girl at St. Norman’s that didn’t push those parameters right to the edge.

   But blowing the majority of my school-shopping allotment on shoes constantly left me scrambling on Saturday nights. After all, unlike the public school kids, I couldn’t very well hit a party in my weekday clothes.

   I’d already torn through my closet, dismissing every garment I owned as unsuitable, more determined than ever to get a job and earn some wardrobe money.

   My father had already left for the evening- poker at the VFW- so I took advantage of his absence and raided his closet.

   The closet in his bedroom was a huge walk-in which I was normally forbidden to enter. Though I suspected it had less to do with my father’s desire for privacy and more to do with the indefensible fact that my mother’s side had remained virtually undisturbed since the day she left us.

   One time in fifth grade, we took a class trip to Thomas Edison’s laboratory. It was so cool to see his workspace with all the long tables set up, awaiting his next stroke of genius.

   I remember thinking that his office was so cool. All those books! And in the corner of the library, there was a cot for his erratic sleeping needs. The story was that he’d work for endless hours, pass out for ten minutes and then wake up and get right back to work again.

   But what sticks with me most is his desk. A beautiful rolltop plunked right in the middle of the expansive room, fitted with a piece of plexiglass across the opening. Apparently, upon his death, his wife had the desk sealed up. Stopped in time, exactly as he last left it, posthumously honoring the work that would forever go unfinished.

   That was my father’s closet.

   Despite the fact that his side was crammed with clothes and shoes and boxes of godonlyknowswhat, my mother’s side was left completely untouched.

   I ran my hand across the racks of clothes, the remnants of what she left behind, neatly aligned, undisturbed and awaiting an owner who would never release them to the light of day again. I pressed my face to a row of blouses and inhaled the familiar scent of my mother- Chanel No. 5 mixed with lemon- and it brought tears to my eyes for only the briefest second.

   Sometimes, like at that moment, it was easier to make believe that my mother had died. It gave me permission to mourn her loss, appreciate the person she was while still allowing myself to be sad that she was gone. Because how was a person supposed to feel when their mother
chose
to leave? Was I supposed to love her less because of it?

   I pushed those thoughts aside, again, and remembered why I was in there in the first place. Emotionless, I rifled through the hanging clothes, most of which were pretty outdated. My fingers grazed a butter-soft cotton, so I shoved the hangars aside to get a better look. I found myself staring at a flowery whisper of a blouse with flowing hippie sleeves. I stripped off my Bon Jovi T-shirt and slid the blouse over my head. I hopped up onto Dad’s bed to check myself out in his dresser mirror and felt a slight pang when I realized it fit like a glove. I’d finally grown into my mother’s body.

   I had a brief glimpse of an alternate life- one in which my mother and I could have shared this moment, giggling about having just doubled our wardrobes- and then dismissed the thought realizing that that scenario was never going to happen. I wondered if she’d feel violated that instead, I was just swiping something out of her closet without her knowledge.

  
Screw her. I’m wearing it
.

   I blew my hair out poker straight, but braided a random strip down one side. I threw on some jeans and a pair of strappy sandals- thanking God for my awesome shoe collection- because the look wouldn’t have been complete without some hippie footwear.

   I assessed the final product of my work and was happy with the end result. Although, I was going out on a limb there with the retro duds. I figured I’d have to endure a few jabs from the guys, but nothing too traumatizing. I’d gotten used to their relentless ballbusting over the years. Growing up in a neighborhood full of boys helped me to form a thicker skin than most girls I knew. Hell, one night I saw Francine Mentozzi reduced to tears over a pair of zebra-print stretch jeans when Rymer took one look at her and suggested she head back to the zoo. She didn’t hang out too much after that.

   That’s something I never understood. How anyone could feel “victimized” by “the cool kids” just because they weren’t a part of them. Unless someone was really asking for it, none of us went out of our way to pick on anyone. We were too busy doing our own thing to care.

   But from the outside, did that seem excluding? Did our goofing around come across as bullying? Didn’t those kids know that
we
got
our
chops busted every day, too? Maybe that was the difference between the “cool kids” and the not-so-cool ones. Maybe we were just better able to laugh at ourselves and not take any negative comments so seriously. Maybe that was the only line separating the people who enjoyed their school years from the ones who were scarred by them.

   I’ll give you an example: Junior year, Roger Vreeland and I were paired up on a science project. We’d meet at his or my house after school a couple times a week to work on it. Now Roger is someone I’d known since kindergarten, but never really hung out with or anything. He was kind of quiet and spent most of his time with the Audio/Visual crowd. But we actually hit it off fairly well during that project. We were surprised to find that I was smarter and he was funnier than we both had previously thought. We ended up getting some good work done in spite of a lot of joking around.

   One day, I showed up to his house with a replacement bag of Munchos, because I had demolished the last of his during our previous work session. I mean, it’s just what you do, right? A person would have to be pretty rude not to at least replace a bag of Munchos.

   But you know what he said? “Wow. Thanks. You know, it’s funny- I never realized you were
nice
before.”

   I’m sure he meant it as a compliment, but I was all, “What’s
that
supposed to mean?”

   And he actually said, “Well, you know. You were always too cool to talk to me.”

   Can you believe that? What the hell? I should have said that the reason we never talked was because he never opened his mouth in my direction, which was the truth. But did I go and jump to the conclusion that we never spoke because he was “too cool” to do so? No. I couldn’t imagine going through life with such a huge chip on my shoulder like that.

   I mean, it’s not like we were such a mutually exclusive group who spent our days trying to find ways to torture and alienate our fellow classmates. If anyone ever wanted to be a part of things, all they ever had to do was show up.

   That’s the thing about popularity that no one ever tells you.
It’s all about confidence
. That’s it. That’s the magic formula, boys and girls. Speaking as a person with experience on both sides of popularity, I can tell you that that’s all it takes. If you can mind the slight angular shift between holding your head up high and sticking your nose in the air... If you can strike the right balance between conformity and originality... If you can be friendly but not perky, optimistic yet unaffected, lead instead of follow... you’re in. It may seem like a tightrope-walk to be sure, but you just gotta fake it until you make it. After a while, you won’t even be that conscious of the fine line you’re walking all the time.

   I was anxious to get over to the party, but until I got my license, I was at the mercy of Lisa’s time schedule. I sat down at the top of the stairs where I’d have a good line of sight into the driveway. Not that I needed to keep watch for her. That girl normally started honking the horn from her house. This night was no exception.

   I bolted out the front door, simultaneously fumbling with my keys to lock it behind me while flapping my hand down to shush Lisa, who started beeping even more incessantly upon my presence.

   When I finally opened
the passenger door, I snipped, “Shut up already! I have neighbors you know!”

   Lisa just laughed and said, “I know! I’m one of them, Dippy!”

Chapter 7

HOUSE PARTY

   Greg Rymer lived in Norman Hills- the “rich neighborhood”- on the northern side of town. Back in the seventies, the land developer who had the area bulldozed was eventually sent to prison for bribing a bunch of government officials in order to get the zoning rights. Prior to his arrest, however, he was responsible for building some gorgeous homes.

   Rymer’s was a sprawling ranch nestled into a copse of trees, with huge sections of wall made up almost entirely of glass. I guess the secluded property allowed for them to live in a fishbowl without feeling like exhibitionists. Sometimes, it freaked me out to hang there at night, though. When just a few of us were there watching a movie or something, I always thought that there could be some murderer creeping around out in the woods spying on us. Seriously, the alienated house was the perfect backdrop for a slasher film. There wasn’t another home within earshot. No one would hear your screams.