Unforgettable (13 page)

The Truth about Hay

I'm up to my shoulders in hay bales, trying to lift one from the top of a stack that's almost as tall as I am. Brad throws them down like empty boxes. I'm getting stronger; I've already moved twice as many today as I did my first few days on the job. Pretty good, considering how tired I am. I barely dragged myself out of bed at seven this morning.

“We're stopping at noon today. Alexis is visiting her dad this weekend.”

“Thank God for Alexis,” I say, because I don't think I can last the whole day. I'm trying to work through the burn, but each bale feels heavier than the last one.

Brad laughs. “You can thank her in person. She's stopping over later.”

Whenever I picture Brad's girlfriend in my head, she's always big. Maybe it's because Brad is such a big guy himself; not fat, but broad, like a younger version of his dad. But for all I know Alexis could be really cute.

As much as I want to quit working and go take a nap, part of me likes hauling bales of hay. It's simple work that doesn't require any thinking. I can empty my mind the same way I did when I rode my bike in California. The physical exertion required makes it difficult for the flashbacks to interfere.

“How's it going with Halle?” Brad asks.

“Okay.” I'm worried that I might have screwed things up with her last night when I ran away. But I haven't called her yet. I don't know what to say. I don't have an excuse for what I did.

“You two seem pretty chummy around school.”

“I kissed her.” I don't mean to tell him; it blurts out on its own. Maybe it's because I can't stop thinking about the kiss. This is a memory I could play over and over for the rest of my life. I lick my lips and I can still taste the strawberries.

Brad reaches a gloved hand my way and gives me a high five. “Way to go. There's hope for you yet.”

“Thanks.” I feel my face flush and I turn away.

“I've known Halle since we were in grade school,” he says. “She's always been nice to me, but I figured she'd hang with the popular crowd. I mean, coming from that kind of money? She's got more wardrobe changes than a model. But she was really shy in elementary school.”

I take a swig from my water bottle. “I don't think she belongs here, to be honest.” Maybe it's because I know her from California.

Brad nods. “It's harder to be rich on the Range than to be poor. Makes a person stand out too much. Plus, she's a packsacker.”

“A what?”

“Packsacker. An outsider. She wasn't born on the Range.”

It strikes me how much this community is tied to the land, how they've had this connection since iron ore was discovered in the 1800s, and even before that when Native Americans lived off the lakes and forests. It's a vague, hard-to-understand connection, where they brag about the man-made bluffs and deep pits created by mining companies, but complain about how those same companies used them for cheap labor and compromised their health. And Halle is the perfect symbol of the enigma: she protests the very company that feeds and clothes her.

“I guess I'm a packsacker too, then.”

“No. You're more like a tourist.”

Brad turns to pick up another bale when his brother Karl grabs him from behind and pulls him to the ground. It takes a second before I realize they're just wrestling the way brothers do. They roll around in the dirt, their faces red from the exertion.

“Say mercy,” Karl demands as he pushes Brad's shoulder into the ground.

“Forget it,” Brad grunts.

Their clothes are caked with hay and leaves and dirt, but they're single-minded in proving their strength. I can't tell if Brad is mad or not. Even though Karl is older, Brad has twenty pounds and a few inches on him, and he manages to flip Karl over. But Karl is crafty and knows where to apply pressure to make Brad flinch, and pretty soon Karl is back on top. I have to move away when they roll in my direction.

Then Brad whispers something in his brother's ear. I don't hear what he says, but a moment later they're both jumping on me, and then we're all three on the ground, rolling in a bed of hay and dirt, flailing arms and legs and huffing breaths in the brisk air that smells like pine and manure and freshly mown grass. I'm no match for either of them, but it feels good to strain and grunt for the fun of it, to pit my strength, however lacking, against theirs. All the biking I did made my legs strong, but I don't have the upper-body muscle that they do.

We're still rolling around when Brad's mom comes out of the house with a petite girl whose blond hair bounces behind her in a ponytail.

“If you've got so much energy that you need to wrestle it off, then you're not working hard enough,” Brad's mom yells, but there's a smile at the corners of her mouth.

We get up and Brad looks appropriately shame-faced in front of his girlfriend. Alexis reaches and runs a hand through his hair, brushing out stalks and chunks of dirt. She's nice-looking in a plain way, meaning that if she stood in a line with the other girls at my school I wouldn't be able to pick her out. But she has a kind smile and Brad can't take his eyes off her.

Brad's mom turns to leave. “Don't try to change him, Alexis. You'll just get frustrated. And Karl, what are you doing down here when you're supposed to be up in the loft?”

He puts his hands out. “There weren't any bales coming in. I figured they were quitting.”

“Nobody's quitting till this rack's unloaded.”

She goes back into the house. I know that when we're done she'll have a casserole and homemade bread and dessert waiting for us. Brad's dad will be there, too, and we'll sit around a long, oval table where the conversation will flow like water and I'll think
this is what a real family looks like
, because that's what I thought last time, and then I'll remember my dad again and feel sad.

Brad puts a gloved hand around his girlfriend's waist. “Hey, Alexis, meet the new kid at school, Baxter.”

“Hi, Baxter.” She gives a friendly wave. “Hey, Karl.”

“Alexis,” Karl says, stretching out the word. “Can't you find anyone better in the big city than this clod?” He pokes Brad, and a moment later they're back wrestling on the ground.

“Hi, Alexis,” I say. And just so I don't feel awkward standing around watching the two of them wrestle, I drop down onto the dirt and join them.

Through the Camera Lens

“You have to be willing to experiment, especially with the lighting.” Bob puts the camera on my shoulder. “See how it looks when you point at the window.”

I peer through the lens and nod. Just because I memorized the instructions and functions doesn't mean it will translate into an ability to take good shots. The manual is filled with information about recording in different lighting conditions and using the manual controls, but I've never actually held a camera before. I've never noticed the way the sun casts a shadow across the wall or how artificial light is different from the natural kind, especially this early morning haze that holds a hint of orange as it cuts through the glass.

“Now point it at the corner, away from the light.”

I aim the camera at the darkened corner of the classroom. “So I need to set the white balance every time I film in a different location or lighting condition?”

“Exactly. Have you had any experience with this camera before?”

“Kind of,” I say, and the lie slips off my tongue without much effort. I adjust the camera on my shoulder. It's heavier than I thought it would be. I'd fiddled with the camera on the tripod, but Bob wants me to get the feel of holding it in case I have to move around while filming.

Bob nods and folds his arms. He has on jeans and a flannel shirt, and even though he's older and has thick glasses, he tells us to call him by his first name instead of Mr. Schraan. “I thought so. I mean, most kids get confused with the scan reverse option. You're the first one who's understood it without my having to explain it ten times.”

Eddie looks up from the thick manual he's reading. “I'm impressed, New Kid.”

I aim the camera at Eddie and fiddle with the setting. Bob has been teaching me about framing subjects, about not leaving a lot of space above heads, about shooting from an angle and keeping the camera steady. I'm starting to get the hang of things and it makes me want to learn more. I like the way the world looks through the lens, how I can adjust a setting and create a different view of the subject. I seem to have a knack for it, too.

Eddie looks up and scowls, so I turn the camera toward the front of the room and center the clock in the frame, zooming in until I can see the dust particles on the top of the rounded glass. The clock is three minutes slow.

I want to focus on more people, but it's just the three of us in the room and Eddie clearly doesn't want the camera on him. He's a hard one to figure out. He's got this tough guy attitude, but he hangs around with a bunch of freshmen who can't even drive. He belongs to the Environmental Club, which is about as low on the social totem pole as you can get at Madison High; he doesn't seem at all concerned about what people think.

I'm tempted to record him so I can watch it later. How much does the camera capture? Can it reveal the idiosyncrasies behind his careful expressions? What about myself? Maybe my own memories are the result of an incorrect setting on the camera inside my head. I had it completely wrong in regards to Halle. If only I could adjust that internal lens as easily as the camera's.

Bob holds out a rectangular lens. “Will you be doing any wide-screen cinematic shots?”

“It'd be cool to have a wide-angle shot of the taconite plant,” Eddie says.

Bob shakes his bald head. “Did you say the taconite plant? We don't normally let this equipment out of the school. It's too costly to replace.”

“This is for our club project,” Eddie says. “We need that footage.”

“Well, I might do it for you, Eddie, if you take full responsibility and promise to return it in perfect condition.”

Eddie puts up his hand. “You have my sacred vow as head of the prestigious Environmental Club.”

“I'm going to need a signature to go along with that vow.”

I place the camera in the bag. “We'll take good care of it.”

Bob has Eddie sign out the camera. “It has a ninety-minute card in it. That should be plenty for a short video. There's another card in the side pocket if you run out.”

Bob hands me the camera bag, and I put it over my shoulder. “Any more questions about how to use this? You already seem like a pro.”

“He does, doesn't he?” says Eddie. He gives me an appraising nod. “You're full of surprises. I didn't think you knew anything about cameras.”

I have to look away. “I read the manual. I'm a quick learner.” I try not to sound too confident.

As we leave, Eddie mutters, “I just signed my life away. You better not screw up.”

I wonder if I already have. Eddie's more suspicious than ever.

Monsters and Memories

“Halle, we're going to save you till last. We'll film you in front of the plant,” Eddie says. He leaves to set up the background for Gina and Roxie on the opposite side of the classroom.

She looks up from the script she's working on. I haven't spoken to her since I ran away the other night. I search her eyes for anger or revulsion, or worse yet, pity. Has she figured out that I'm the boy from kindergarten?

“Thanks for getting me out of detention,” I say politely. The fact that Halle has talked Mr. Shaw into excusing me to work on the video is mind boggling. I've never had much success in talking to teachers, much less getting special allowances from them.

I should say something about the other night, apologize for running off. But part of me is still upset about Halle's comments about kindergarten, about her memory of that time. She was the one who was different, the one who had no social skills. She had it so wrong. Of course, so did I.

“This isn't going to work,” she says, and a small wrinkle forms between her brows.

My stomach drops. I think of her lips, so soft and moist, of the smile she flashes so easily but which seems so fragile. I remember how it feels to be near her. I couldn't stand it if she rejected me now that I've experienced all that.

“It's all wrong,” she says. “A video isn't going to do anything unless we get some hard evidence against Wellington Mines.”

I take an appreciative breath and let it out. “What kind of evidence?”

“I don't know. Roxie has been looking into the rates of sickness in our area. We have that. But we don't have the employment histories of workers who later died of mesothelioma.”

“How would you get that?”

She bites down on her lip. “I'm not sure. But we'll get it somehow. We're the good guys and the good guys always win. Right?”

She looks up at me innocently, as though she really believes this is true.

“It's true in the movies.” I hold up the camera. “And this is a movie.”

She smiles that fragile smile and studies me a moment. “Maybe after we drive out to the plant and you film me, I'll let you kiss me again. If you promise not to run away. You did like it, didn't you? You didn't leave because I'm a terrible kisser?”

My heart quickens at the thought of kissing her again. “No. Not at all.”

“Good.” She seems satisfied, but it lasts only a moment. “Why
did
you run away?”

I look down, preparing to tell another lie. Maybe a half truth. “I was angry at how
The Great Gatsby
ended. I wanted a happy ending.”

Halle shakes her head. “Happy endings are reserved for fairy tales.
The Great Gatsby
isn't a fairy tale.”

I set down the camera. “I disagree. It was a fairy tale, one with a tragic twist.”

“I guess Gatsby could be seen as a kind of Prince Charming. He certainly thought of himself that way. He wanted to swoop down like a knight in shining armor and rescue his Princess Daisy. He just forgot to ask whether she wanted to be rescued.”

“And she didn't?”

Halle sighs. “Some girls want to be rescued. I just think it was too late for Daisy.”

Does Halle want to be rescued? What would it take to become her knight? A shiny new car? No, I doubt that would impress her. Halle isn't like Daisy that way. Even though she dresses in expensive clothing, she doesn't seem overly concerned about material goods. What if I could produce some incriminating evidence against Wellington Mines? Will that be enough to remove any chinks in the armor, the ones she's bound to find out about?

Halle goes back to studying the script she's working on, crossing out words and writing new ones in red above them. Knowing what I now know about her changes things. It makes sense, her being part of this rag-tag group instead of hanging around with the popular girls, even if she is drop-dead gorgeous and rich. She never felt comfortable in large groups—at least, she didn't in kindergarten. She was too shy and thoughtful.

Halle stops working after a moment and looks up at me.

“Mrs. Skrove.”

I freeze. “What?” It sounds more like a croak.

“It's been bugging me since that night. I couldn't remember my teacher's name from kindergarten. I just remembered it. And that boy, his name was …”

I pick up the camera and point it toward the whiteboard. I wait for her to say my name, to make the connection in her brain, to realize who I am. I can't breathe. I can't look at her. The seconds tick by; the board blurs into a white screen and kindergarten at Pascal Elementary plays out before me.

“You be the monster,” Halle insisted, taking her place behind the castle door.

“I don't want to be a monster. I want to be a fireman.” I was wearing a red plastic fireman hat. “Monsters don't wear red hats,” I said.

“Okay. Then you be a fireman monster.”

“No.”

“Then I'm not playing with you,” she said from behind the door.

It was our first fight.

“There's no such thing as fireman monsters,” I insisted, but she was silent behind the door. Finally, I went off to play with Ben, who was building a tower of Legos. Halle stayed in the castle the rest of the period. She peeked out at us. I saw one yellow pigtail hanging out from an opening and it reminded me of the story of Rapunzel, so I went up and pulled on the ponytail. Halle screamed. I felt bad and tried to say sorry but she was mad at me the rest of the day.

Maybe Halle has always thought of me as a monster. As much as I wish she'd remember me, I don't want her to see me that way.

Dr. Anderson said that most of the information people learn in life remains in their memories; they just can't recall it. Part of his research deals with the retrieval and storage length of memories, and how to restore them, or at least make them accessible. When I asked him what it's like to forget and try to remember, he said, “It's like losing something in your brain; you search every room trying to find it until you either get too tired of looking or it pops up in an unexpected place—for instance, between the sofa cushions of your cerebral cortex.”

It made sense. The spot between the sofa cushions was where Mom always lost the remote for the television.

I peek from behind the camera. Halle sighs. “I usually have such a good memory. But I guess kindergarten
was
a long time ago.” Her voice is troubled, as though the daffodils are being trampled under a heavy boot.

Gina comes up behind her. “Who remembers kindergarten? I barely remember last year.”

“Okay, Baxter, we're ready for you,” Eddie calls.

I breathe again. The shutter is now closed and I peer into the darkness of the camera, wishing I could empty my head and store my own memories inside that dark space.