The Memory Book(39)

When it got so heated that I banged on the table, lifting the hot sauces a centimeter out of their brackets, Stuart said, “Sorry. I didn’t mean to argue.”

He looked actually worried, as if I would storm out or something, and took my hand across the table. “You’re really torn up about this,” he continued. “We should stop.”

He looked so cute. He was wearing a blinding-white button-down that brought out the best brown in his skin and the lights in his eyes.

I leaned across the table and whispered, “Are you kidding?” I hadn’t argued like that since before Nationals. I could feel my cheeks full of blood and heat, and my head was still climbing all over his position, scrambling to spar with a worthy opponent. “This is the most romantic thing we could possibly do.”

“Really?”

“I want to…” I looked around. The place was full to capacity with chattering families. “I want to make out with you in the middle of this restaurant.”

Stuart leaned back in his chair and raised his eyebrows. “Then do it,” he said, daring me.

So I did.

I mean only for a few seconds. But I did it.





LAST FINAL, LAST DAY OF SCHOOL


I drew a blank.

It was not as huge as Nationals, but all of a sudden, in the middle of an equation, I forgot what I was doing. And again, Future Sam, it was so strange because, yes, I was confused and upset, but there was also this sort of loopy happiness that made no sense, like I had just woken up from a long nap. And again, I almost laughed or smiled or something at the absurdity of it. Like, huh, what did I come in here for? What was I doing? Was I multiplying something? Huh, well, la-di-da.

As the fog cleared, I retraced my steps. I went back to the beginning of the problem and tried it again. But I couldn’t keep track of where among the numbers I went astray. I couldn’t reroute without erasing everything and starting completely over, and I didn’t have time for that. I was panicking.

So I cheated. I thought of which of Coop’s methods would work, and I really, really cheated. I made sure no one was watching, I licked my thumb, and I moved it across the ink of the next problem until the numbers were unrecognizable.

While Mrs. Hoss looked closer at my paper, I zeroed in on Felicia Thompson’s desk in the front row. As I walked back to my spot with a new test, I chanted her answers quietly to myself. A, A, B, D, C, C, A…

Over lunch I felt so guilty, I completed an entire practice test, just to prove I could have done it if it hadn’t been for NPC. (I aced it. But still.)

On the last hour of high school, while everyone in the senior hallway was ripping papers and books out of their lockers with vicious glee, I caught up with Coop and told him.

“Aw, baby’s first guilt trip,” he said, and put his hand on top of my head, ruffling my hair. “It’s over! Who cares? You would have killed it, right? You didn’t do anything wrong. Sometimes it’s just about timing.”

“Sure,” I said. For Coop it was.

Coop stopped in the middle of the hall, next to me. “What are you doing now?”

“Walking,” I said without thinking, because I was thinking about a million other things.

“People are coming over to my house to grill hot dogs.”

“That sounds fun!” I said, and waved good-bye.

Later I realized he might have been inviting me. Oh well. Me and social cues.

As we walked out of Hanover’s doors for the last time as high schoolers, I wasn’t reminiscing, I wasn’t crying, I wasn’t celebrating. I was praying. God, Jesus, Mary, and all the saints, I said over and over. Please, please, please let graduation day be the right timing.





BUT WHAT IF IT’S NOT


It’s three a.m. and I just woke up in a cold sweat from a nightmare where I got onstage to give my speech, but a bear started moving through the crowd, and no one was scared of it except for me, and it came barreling through and everyone stepped aside for it even though it was heading straight for me, slowly, and right before it went up on its hind legs to maul me, I woke up. And I realized: Coop’s methods may work for tests and class time, but they don’t work for speeches. I’ll be up there with nowhere to escape, and no way to avoid it.





UNTITLED, IN A GOOD WAY


This morning I was up again at sunrise. I recited my speech in a long, hot shower. It’s a beautiful spring day, practically summer. Mom and I had picked out a dress from one of the boutique sale racks earlier this week, simple white with thick lace, and Mom took in the waist and let out the shoulders so it fits just right. She also bought some stuff to make my curls less frizzy, which I worked through my wet tangles, and I even brushed on some of her mascara.

Soon Grandma and Grandpa (just the ones from Dad’s side—Nana can’t make the trip from Canada) will meet us for lunch before the ceremony. Stuart asked if he could take me out before all the craziness and family stuff began, and Mom said yes, since today was a special occasion.

We went to the 4 Aces Diner in Lebanon and sat in a booth. Because I was so nervous and my stomach couldn’t take solid food, and hell, because today was the first day of the rest of my life, I ordered an Oreo milk shake for breakfast. Stuart burst out laughing and ordered one for himself, too.

“You look adorable,” he said as we sucked on our straws.