I Know You Remember Page 4

  “Well, either way, I make good hot chocolate,” Brandy says. “And I like company.”

  Ingrid’s got my schedule in one hand as she pours syrup over her plate. “Hey, we have economics together!” She sounds delighted. “With Mr. Thatcher. He’s really nice.”

  “Oh,” I say. “Good, yeah.” I take a sip of the coffee; it’s burnt and bitter. I lean across the table for the sugar bowl. I’m not sure how I feel about sharing anything with Ingrid. A class. A car. A bathroom. I don’t go from zero to besties at the best of times, and now I have a roommate there’s no way to dodge.

  “And you’re in yearbook?” she says. “I’ve heard that’s fun.”

  “Actually,” I say, setting down my mug, “I’m going to drop that.” Dad was the one who signed me up for classes—which he did without knowing anything about my academic history. I’m in a solo and ensemble class in the music department, which is fine, and economics is required. But he also put me in regular biology and English, so I’ll need to talk to a counselor sometime today so I can switch to AP. For some reason he put me in intro to Russian, so I’ll have to change that to French IV. And then, with one elective left, he stuck me in yearbook, which just goes to show how little he actually knows about me.

  “That’s too bad,” Dad says, frowning. “You used to love to write. I remember you were always filling up those little journals . . .”

  My hand squeezes convulsively on the handle of my mug, sloshing coffee over the side. “That’s not the kind of thing I write,” I say. My voice comes out strangely shrill. I look up to see Dad’s face go pink and startled.

  I take a deep breath and say, more calmly, “Yearbook’s just not my scene. It’s all . . . fluff pieces about popular kids.”

  He looks confused. “I just . . . I thought it’d be a good way to meet people, since you’ve been gone so long.”

  “I already have friends, Dad. But thanks.” I fight to keep the venom from my voice, but my mouth feels tight with anger. Little journals. Could he have been more condescending?

  He doesn’t even know what I wrote in those notebooks. He doesn’t know anything about me.

  * * *

  —

  IN THE CAR, INGRID sets the radio to a pop station and starts immediately singing along. It’s a relief. Maybe we’ll make it the ten minutes to campus without talking. In the middle of the song, though, she turns the radio off with a snap.

  “It’s not my business,” she says. “But your dad’s been really good to us.”

  She’s looking out the window. We’re driving down a commercial strip, lined with car washes and fast food joints. Her hair hangs in a neat, straight line, hiding her profile.

  “I mean, I get it. My mom was a meth-head for, like, half my life. There’s a lot I’m still trying to forgive her for. I’m not trying to say you have to let everything he did wrong go. I just . . . I guess I just want you to know how hard he’s worked to change. I hope you can give him a chance.”

  I realize I’m squeezing the steering wheel in both hands and force myself to lighten my grip.

  Easy for Ingrid to tell me my dad’s a “good guy.” She wasn’t there for the screaming matches between him and my mom. She wasn’t there the day he drove over my bike and then swore at me for having the nerve to be upset about it. She wasn’t there for the long sullen silences after, when he disappeared into a guilty fog of vodka.

  And hearing about what a great guy he’s been to some other family? Not exactly the most comforting thing in the world. Actually, it pisses me off. Because why was I the last to get the benefit of this new and improved Dad?

  We’re at the turn to the school. I take a deep breath, and even though there’s only a few moments left of the drive, I turn the radio back up.

  Inside, we’re swept into the crowd. Red-and-black laminate floors stretch down the hallway like a checkerboard. The harsh, bright odor of chlorine hovers around the entrance, near the pool, and then fades as you go up the stairs, absorbed into the swirling currents of BO and cheap body spray.

  I’ve been dreading this part. I’m the new student, almost a month into senior year. Almost everyone will have a foot out the door already, thinking ahead to graduation and college. I recognize a few faces in the crowd—at least, I think I do—but it’s been a long time, and I didn’t really have any close friends in middle school. Back then I had a hard time talking to other kids—that was when things at home were really falling apart, and it took all my strength to keep up a normal front. I didn’t have a lot of extra energy to make small talk about Miley’s dance moves or whatever. I doubt anyone will remember me.

  At least I have Zahra. I hope. All the photos on her wall left me uneasy. What if there’s no room for me in her life anymore? What if she’s changed in ways I can’t even imagine?

  “You want some help finding your locker?” Ingrid asks, half-shouting to be heard over the crowd. Her sleek blonde head disappears for a second as a hulking boy in a letterman jacket passes between us, then reemerges a moment later.

  “Uh, that’s okay. I can find it,” I say. “I’ll see you fourth period.”

  She looks like she wants to say something else, but then just gives a little wave and heads down a side hall. The English hall, I think. I spent last night staring at a map of the school, trying to memorize where my rooms are. I don’t want to look like a lost tourist on my first day.

  I’ve only been to Merrill High once before, when Zahra and I came together to register for classes and get our student IDs. We hadn’t been in school together before—I’d gone to Northern Lights Middle School, and the trailer park was zoned for Mountain View—but we’d both go to Merrill, and I was excited about that. Excited to, for once, have classes with a close friend.

  It’d come as a shock when Mom announced that we’d be moving to Portland to “make a fresh start” just a few days after that.

  The hall is busy and echoing, kids jostling each other and laughing loudly. I hear snatches of different languages—Merrill High is one of the most diverse high schools in the country, and I recognize fragments of Spanish, Tagalog, and what I think must be Hmong.

  I shake my head to clear it, and find my locker. I stand there for a moment, staring into its soothingly empty metal interior, before I sling my backpack off and start to unpack.

  I don’t know what it is that gets my attention—an oddly pointed silence to my left, maybe, or just an odd tingle on the back of my neck. I pause in the middle of putting my lunch on the top shelf, looking around. And there he is—a boy, standing a few lockers down from mine. His eyes track my every move with a strange intensity. Something about it leaves my cheeks burning.

  I swallow hard, then dart a glance at him, trying to see if I know him. He’s parchment pale, his jaw lined with dark stubble. Skinny. Sharp featured. I busy myself hanging up my coat, organizing the few scanty things in my locker, but eventually I have to look up again—and he’s still there. His pupils flare as I turn to look at him.

  “Hi,” I say.

  He recoils then, as if I’ve slapped him. Then, before I can say anything else, he slams the locker shut so hard the door vibrates in its setting and strides away down the hall.

  My mouth falls open. I watch his retreating form, hunched in a dingy-looking jean jacket. Wondering if I know him. Wondering if he thinks he knows me.

  I glance around the hall, looking to see if anyone noticed the odd interaction. But the crowd’s starting to thin out, everyone scattering toward class. No one’s even looking my way. Whatever the hell that was, it wasn’t part of the official Merrill High Welcome Committee.

  I shut the locker and twirl the lock, turning to head to class. But the memory of his eyes still burns my skin. I feel it all the way down the hall . . . almost as if he’s in some dark corner, watching me go.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  I DON’T HAVE TIME to make it to the g
uidance counselor’s office before first period—so I have to sit through yearbook, at least this once. I find the classroom, a small room with computer stations against the walls. People are already sitting around a large rectangular table when I get there, but I don’t know if seating is assigned, and I don’t see anyone who looks like a teacher. So I just stand off to the side and wait.

  It’s a surreal feeling, being somewhere familiar and strange all at once. When I started my freshman year at East Multnomah High in Portland, that at least was a clean start. I didn’t know anyone. I didn’t have any idea of the social order—the cliques that reigned, the messages that your choice of sneaker or your hairstyle might send. Down there I couldn’t tell if a kid in a gemstone sweater was wearing it ironically or in dead earnest, or if the girl who wore a Pikachu headband every day was a hardcore Pokémon fan or some kind of arty hipster.

  Here it’s different. Here I can look around the room and get a read on most of the kids I see. They’re all clean-cut, in North Face or Columbia, in shearling-lined boots and leggings, their bodies strong and sporty. I’m willing to bet at least a few of them still have lift tickets dangling from the coats in their lockers. There are all kinds of outdoorsy types in Anchorage, but these are the ones with enough money to make it look stylish.

  The bell rings. There’s still no sign of the teacher. A few kids look up at the door and frown, but most of them are caught up in their own conversations.

  And then I hear her name.

  Zahra.

  The name cuts through the murmur of talk around me, like it’s somehow amplified. Like I’m wearing headphones and it’s being piped right into my ears. Everything focuses very sharply. My eyes dart around the room, looking for the source. Then I see her—the girl from Zahra’s pictures. The redhead. She’s wearing a chunky knit hat and a sleek puffer vest, and one foot jiggles up and down with nervous energy. She’s sitting at one corner of the table, talking to a couple of boys.

  “. . . haven’t heard from either of them since the party,” she says. There’s a note in her voice that sounds half airy, half mad. “So I have no fucking idea.”

  One of the boys smirks. He’s black, short but muscular, his red Merrill High hoodie bright against his skin. “They’re probably off making up,” he says. “Out at the lake or something. In a nice cozy cabin. You know how they do.”

  The other boy is taller, white, with shaggy blond hair. “Maybe,” he says, uncertain. “But that fight was messed up. I’ve never seen Ben that mad. I almost thought he was going to . . .”

  “Would you shut up, Jeremy?” the girl snaps. I suddenly realize she’s looking at me. Her eyes are almost the same shade of amber as her freckles, hard as stone. “It’s all just gossip. Not everyone needs to know Zahra’s business.”

  “Seriously, Tabitha?” The shorter boy shakes his head. “You of all people don’t have room to talk.”

  “I’m just saying.” She tugs at the edge of her knit cap, still looking at me. “Some of this is private.”

  My cheeks flare hot. I look down at my sneakers, but not before I see the boys glance in my direction.

  “Hey,” says the shorter boy, suddenly friendly. He cocks his head at me a little. “New girl?”

  “Uh . . .” I say. “Yeah. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to eavesdrop, I just heard . . . are you talking about Zahra Gaines?”

  Tabitha’s mouth is a small, tight button, but the shorter boy nods. “You know her?”

  “She’s my best friend,” I blurt, before I can think twice. Then I feel my cheeks get even darker. “I mean, she used to be. Before I moved to Portland. I used to live down the street from Zahra in middle school.”

  “Oh,” Tabitha says, as if that explains everything. “In the trailer park.”

  I frown. I know it’s supposed to be a dig, but I can’t tell if it’s at me or at Zahra. But before I can decide how to respond, the shorter boy speaks again.

  “I’m Marcus. Marcus Wray,” he says. His eyes are warm, and there’s a sly little smile on his lips. It’s suddenly oddly familiar.

  “Did you go to Northern Lights for middle school?” I ask.

  “Yup,” he says.

  “I remember you. You were in my English class.” He’d been one of the pranksters in the back, loud and constantly wisecracking through lectures. “Weren’t you the one that managed to get everyone chanting ‘Kill the pig’ during our Lord of the Flies unit?”

  “Oh, yeah! Ms. Lautermilk actually gave me extra credit for that because it was a good object lesson on mob rule,” he says. He squints at me, cocking his head. I can tell he doesn’t recognize me.

  “I was really shy,” I say, to let him off the hook. “You might not have noticed me.”

  “No risk of that now,” he says with a grin.

  I feel my cheeks turn red again, but I’m actually kind of pleased. Good to know I’ve gotten a little more memorable in the last three years.

  Tabitha rolls her eyes. “Very smooth,” she says caustically to Marcus.

  “I’m just being friendly!” Marcus holds up both his hands. “She’s new, she doesn’t know anyone.”

  “Lucky her.” Tabitha doodles idly in the corner of a notebook. I wonder if I’ve blundered into the middle of something—if Tabitha and Marcus are an item, having some kind of quarrel. But Marcus just gives a little shrug and grins.

  “I’m Jeremy,” says the blond boy, reaching out to shake my hand. He has a dimple in his left cheek. “Nice to meet you.”

  “Hi.” I smile shyly. “You guys all know Zahra?”

  “Yup,” Marcus says. He nods at the empty seat next to Tabitha. “She’s usually sitting right there.”

  My eyes fall on the plastic blue chair. I try to imagine her, but for some reason it’s hard. She flits in and out of existence like a ghost, her face a blur.

  “No one’s heard from her since Friday, though,” Marcus says. Tabitha gives him a murderous look, but he pretends not to notice. “But if you know Zahra, you know about her famous disappearing acts.”

  I don’t want to admit that I have no idea what he’s talking about, so I just nod. “Sure,” I say.

  “I love Portland,” Jeremy says. “It’s so pretty around there. Why’d you guys move?”

  “I, uh . . .” I don’t know if he means why I moved there, or why I moved back, but I’m pretty sure dropping my dead mother into a getting-to-know-you conversation is not going to make things less awkward. “My parents got divorced and Mom wanted a new start.”

  “That sucks,” Marcus says. “I’m a military brat. We used to move a lot, before Dad took a command on base. I always hated it.”

  “Yeah, it was . . . not easy,” I finish vaguely.

  “But at least Portland’s got good hiking spots,” Jeremy says. “Did you ever go out to the Gorge?”

  I hesitate, then nod. I think absently about the word “gorge,” how it can mean different things. How it can be a noun or a verb. To gorge oneself; to eat. I picture my mother disappearing down the canyon’s rocky throat.

  The door swings open. I exhale softly, relieved.

  A youngish woman, crisply dressed in a blazer and black-framed glasses, comes inside. There’s something fumbling and absentminded about her movements. She leaves the door open behind her, coming to a halt in front of us and looking around the classroom, almost as if she’s lost.

  “You’re tardy, Ms. Yi!” Marcus says gleefully. “I’m gonna write you up.”

  His tone is easy and playful. It makes me think that maybe, on a normal day, this is a fun, playful classroom, that Ms. Yi lets them joke with her. But now she just turns to stare at him. The room goes very, very quiet.

  Marcus swallows, looking suddenly nervous. “Uh. I mean . . .”

  The teacher’s voice is slow and soft.

  “There was an emergency staff meeting,” she says.
She blinks a few times and I wonder if she’s fighting back tears. “There’s some bad news.”

  The silence stretches out for what feels like forever. I look down and see my fingers are like shards of bone, white and sharp and cold as they clench around my notebook. At the table Tabitha leans forward, staring intently at the teacher.

  Ms. Yi turns a stunned look on the classroom, like we’re the ones who’ve surprised her. But when she speaks again, her words are almost deathly calm.

  “Zahra Gaines,” she says. She takes in a sharp breath. “Zahra . . . is missing.”

  CHAPTER SIX

  I STAND VERY STILL while everything falls apart around me. I watch as the other kids react. Jeremy almost falls out of his chair. One girl gasps audibly.

  Tabitha shakes her head.

  “No,” she says simply. “No, Ms. Yi, that’s not possible.”

  Ms. Yi looks down at her, helpless. Marcus tries to touch Tabitha’s back, but she shakes him off.

  “It doesn’t make any sense!” Tabitha says. Her voice cuts loudly through the room.

  “Tabitha, I understand what you’re feeling, but . . .” the teacher says, but Tabitha interrupts with a laugh.

  “She’s not missing. She’s with Ben,” Tabitha insists. Ms. Yi shakes her head.

  “No, she’s not,” she says, her voice trembling. “That’s why her parents called the police. Ben Peavy came back late last night and he had no idea where she was.”

  Her words land in a pool of silence so complete you can hear the ticking of the clock. My breath is quick but even, a hot pain in my chest. I turn the idea over and over again in my mind. Zahra’s missing. Zahra’s missing. Zahra’s missing.

  Tabitha shoots to her feet. I catch a quick glimpse of her face as she runs to the door, starkly pale beneath her freckles, her mouth a twisting knot. She shoves through the door and is gone.

  Marcus gets up to follow, but Ms. Yi holds up her hand. “I’ll go after her,” she says. “The rest of you, please, just stay here. I’ll be back and we’ll talk more about this, okay?”