Memoirs of a Teenage Amnesiac(16)

“Mr. Patten, why do I hear whispering during the morning announcements?” Mrs. Tarkington asked.

“Sorry,” I mouthed.

Roger smiled and shrugged.

As for the work, it was the beginning of the school year, so the class was still reviewing algebra II and trigonometry. Luckily, I remembered both.

Less luckily, I had somehow left my math book in my locker. Mrs. Tarkington lent me a spare, but you could tell it really put her out.

At the end of the class, Mrs. Tarkington pulled me aside. “Miss Porter, I let you get away with it today,” she said, “but it is not acceptable to wear sunglasses in the classroom.”

I tried to explain about the wires in my brain and all that, but you could tell she thought it was just an excuse. Maybe it partially was, but I still wanted to wear my sunglasses. I felt safer behind them. She waved her hand to dismiss me. “Don’t do it again.”

American history was second period, and none of it was particularly familiar. But then, it didn’t seem like anyone else knew much more than me. Plus, it was all written down in the book, so I didn’t think it would take much doing to catch up.

I got lost going to third period, English, because it was held in a room just off the school library that wasn’t indicated on the map. When I finally got there, Mrs. Landsman embraced me as if I were her long-lost daughter. I took that to mean we were close.

“Naomi Porter, we were so worried about you!” Her hold was surprisingly tight for such a small woman, and Mrs. Landsman couldn’t have been more than five feet one; I’ve been five feet seven since I was twelve, but with this little woman wrapped around my waist, I was suddenly very conscious of my height. She had Will’s bright blue eyes, crooked smile, and pale skin. Unlike Will, her hair was reddish blond and it rained down to her waist: long, straight, and parted in the middle. She had the kind of gossamer doll face where you could tell it would be incredibly easy to hurt her feelings. The nameplate on her desk said her first name was Molly, and the name suited her: girlish, but old-fashioned; sweet and open like an apple.

“Will didn’t mention you were coming back today!”

I confessed that I hadn’t told him.

She wagged her finger at me. “My dear, he’s going to be absolutely outraged!” All of Mrs. Landsman’s sentences were whispery confessions ending in exclamation points. “He stayed home sick today—his stomach again—poor boy, he works too hard, but I have half a mind to call him right now!”

Mrs. Landsman embraced me again before directing me to a seat near the front of the classroom. “Please do let me know if I can help you with anything. Anything at all!”

Mrs. Landsman had begun the year with a drama unit, and the class was in the middle of reading Waiting for Godot aloud. All the parts had been divvied up during my absence, so I only had to listen to the other people read. The role of Estragon was read by a long-legged blond girl named Yvette Schumacher who was wearing maroon platform Mary Janes with kneesocks that had embroidered red hearts on them—in a school with uniforms, you spend a lot of time looking at the footwear for clues. I knew Yvette because she had also been in my sixth-grade class, along with Alice from the hallway. The role of Vladimir was played by Patten comma Roger from my precalc class.

Maybe if I had started the play from the beginning it would have been more interesting or made more sense. But without context or knowing the story, it was difficult even to know what the play was about. Were the main characters in love or just friends? It was hard to tell.

I tried to concentrate, but even when I was a little kid I hadn’t particularly liked being read to. As soon as I learned how, I always preferred to do it myself. Plus, the language in the play was so circular that I found it extraordinarily difficult to follow out loud.

The next thing I knew, Mrs. Landsman was gently shaking me.

“Naomi, poor darling, wake up!”

The classroom was empty, and for a moment I forgot where I was. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t apologize, dear. You can read the play later. It’s fifty-something years old and will certainly keep until tomorrow. You looked so peaceful. I was considering letting you sleep even longer. Would you like to go to the infirmary for a quick rest?”

I really was exhausted, but I knew I’d better keep plowing through my schedule. It wasn’t going to get any easier. “That’s a really nice offer, but I should go,” I said reluctantly.

“If you’re sure…” Mrs. Landsman studied me with concern. “I think of you like one of my own, dear,” she said. “I’ll write you a note. What’s your next class?”

I checked my hand. “Physics with Dr. Pillar.”

“He’s a lovely gentleman. One of my favorites!” As I was six inches taller than her, Mrs. Landsman had to reach up to put her arm around my shoulders. My dad and I weren’t much in the way of huggers, but it felt nice to be touched by someone who wasn’t either a doctor or trying to get in my pants. It felt nice to be mothered.

“You may want to stop in the washroom. A little bit of your schedule seems to have transferred to your face,” she said.

In the girls’ bathroom, I examined myself in the mirror. The backward stamp of my schedule was indeed on my right cheek. The soap was the rough, powdery kind you only ever find in schools. It was crap for cleaning. I had to basically rub my face raw to remove my schedule, and in the process of doing that, I smudged the part that was written on my hand.