Memoirs of a Teenage Amnesiac(40)

“I’m not in love,” I said finally. “I like him.”

“There’re those rumors about him—”

I interrupted. “I don’t care about any of that. It’s in the past.” It was my new philosophy. It had to be.

“I heard he used to be an addict and that he got thrown out of his old school and sent to—”

“Did you hear me? I said I don’t care.”

“I’m not gossiping,” Will said. “I’m only watching out for my friend. Personally, I think it’s better to know more than less. I’m not saying you should listen to any of the crap the kids at Tom Purdue say, but it might be worth addressing with James—”

“Christ, Will, would you stop being such an old man? You’re worse than my father,” I snapped. “I haven’t even gone on a date with James yet.”

“Sorry,” he said coolly.

“Why are you calling anyway?” I snapped again.

“I don’t remember,” he said after a pause. “I’ll see you at school.” He hung up the phone.

I was thinking how Will pulled things backward when what I needed was to be in this moment, now, when my phone rang again. I didn’t recognize the number, but I picked up anyway.

It was James.

“Did you get in trouble?”

“Not really.”

“Good, because I was thinking I could take you out this Saturday.”

Saturday was my seventeenth birthday. I had planned to go out with Dad for dinner, but I could always cancel that. I had dinner with Dad all the time.

“Sounds like a plan,” I said.

Dad gave me my present right before James was set to pick me up.

That year, the book he gave me was blank. The cover was made from taupe suede, and a leather cord wrapped around it so that it could be tied shut. The edges of the pages were gilded. He inscribed it “Write your life. Love, Dad.” For a variety of reasons, the gift offended me, and I briefly considered throwing it in the trash before just deciding to bury it under my bed among the dust, widowed socks, and other lost things.

Dad asked me what I thought of his selection.

“I would have preferred a novel,” I said.

“You didn’t like it?”

“I think it’s in somewhat bad taste to give an amnesiac a blank book.”

Of course, that was what I wanted to say. What I actually said was “It’s nice, but I doubt I’ll have much time for writing in it.” This was true enough, too.

Dad smiled and said, “You will. And you’ll want to.”

That seemed unlikely. Writing has always seemed such a backward activity to me, and that was most definitely not the direction I wanted to go. When my parents were still the Wandering Porters, I thought of summer as the living time; the rest of the year was the backward time, the writing time.

The doorbell rang, and it was James. He was wearing his corduroy jacket even though it was too light for the season. He was so handsome I nearly wanted to swoon. The word swoon had never even popped into my head before I saw him that night, let alone as something that I might do.

He smelled like soap with only the faintest hint of cigarettes. He was holding a wrapped CD, which he handed to me.

“How’d you know it was my birthday?” I asked.

“I didn’t. This was sitting on your doorstep. Happy birthday anyway. What is it?”

I tore open the paper. “Just a mix from my friend.” The CD liner read: “Songs for a Teenage Amnesiac, Vol. II: The Motion Picture Soundtrack, Happy 17th Birthday. I Remain Your Faithful Servant, William B. Landsman.” There wasn’t even a playlist; he must have run out of time when he was putting it together. I tossed the thing on the bench in the hallway.

“We could listen to it in my car,” James suggested.

“Okay.” I shrugged. Will usually had good taste in music, and the songs wouldn’t mean anything to me anyway.

James put the CD in the car player, but no sound came out. “This player’s old, and it can be a little spastic with home-burned stuff.” James popped the CD out and handed it back to me. I thought about throwing it out the window; I was still pissed at Will from yesterday. Instead, I just slipped it in my purse.

James hadn’t mentioned where we were going, and as part of my new life philosophy I hadn’t asked.

“Aren’t you curious where I’m taking you?” he said in that low voice of his.

“No, I trust you.”

We were stopped at a red light. He turned to stare at me. “How do you know I’m trustworthy?”

“How do I know that you aren’t?”

James abruptly pulled the car into another lane. “We’re going to California, right this instant.”

I didn’t blink.

“If I drove you to the airport and told you to get on a plane to California, you’d follow me.”

“Why not?”

“Unfortunately, I’m only taking you to dinner, Naomi. Maybe a movie. If I’d known it was your birthday, I would have planned something more exciting.”

But just being with James was exciting. I liked that his past was as much a mystery as mine. I liked that he might do anything at any moment. I liked that he didn’t expect me to behave any specific way. I liked that he believed me when I said I would take off and go to California.