“Chase, come with me. Let’s have a little chat.”
My friends are already slouching off down the hall, so I follow the principal into his office. On the wall are two large framed photographs, and I’m surprised when I identify one of them. It’s on my wall too—part of a newspaper clipping about our football championship last year. It’s me, helmet pushed onto the back of my head, hoisting the trophy. The other is similar, although you can tell it’s a lot older. The pose is almost identical—a young player raising the same trophy. I can’t explain it, but the kid looks sort of familiar. But that’s crazy. How can I recognize him? I don’t recognize anybody.
Dr. Fitzwallace is watching me. “That’s your father. Our only other win at state, back when he was your age.”
Wow, no wonder Dad calls me Champ. I should call him Champ too.
I tell the principal, “I didn’t know he won at state. I mean, I’m sure I knew at some point—”
“That’s exactly what I’d like to talk to you about. Have a seat, Chase.” Dr. Fitzwallace waves me into a chair. “I have to confess this is a first for me. I’ve never had a student suffer amnesia before. It must be very upsetting for you. Even a little frightening.”
“It’s pretty weird,” I admit. “Not remembering anybody. It’s like I’m surrounded by all these people, but I’m still alone.”
The principal sits down behind his desk. “I hope we can make this situation a little easier on you. I’ve alerted all the teachers and support staff. So we’re ready for you. If you have any issues, just have whoever’s involved get in touch with me.”
I thank him because that’s what he seems to expect me to do.
“One more thing.” He leans back in his chair, and when he speaks again, it’s slowly and carefully, as if he’s trying to get his words exactly right. “This is an awful thing that’s happened to you, but it’s also presenting you with a rare opportunity. You have the chance to rebuild yourself from the ground up, to make a completely fresh start. Don’t squander it! I’m sure you’re not feeling very lucky, but there are millions of people who’d give anything to stand where you stand right now—in front of a completely blank canvas.”
I stare back at my principal. What is he talking about? I’m struggling to discover the person I was and he wants me to change?
What was so wrong about the old me that now I have to be somebody else?
“The impressive breadth and diversity of wildlife in the modern middle school is on display nowhere more than in the lunchroom. Here we see the species Cheerleaderus maximus grazing in her native habitat, the salad bar …”
I focus on Brittany Vandervelde and Latisha Butz as they make their delicate selection of lettuce, cucumber, and tomato slices. As I shoot, I balance the flip-cam on my forearm to keep it steady. Everything looks better on YouTube when the camera work isn’t all jumpy.
“A longing glance in the direction of the pizza table,” I continue my narration. “But, alas, it is not to be. For Cheerleaderus, this meal is garnished with a radish rose and fat-free dressing. And wait—” I pull back the shot to include Jordan McDaniel, heading out of the food line with a heavily laden tray. “Could it be? Yes! A rare Clumsius falldownus, weaving his way to the nearest table. You can do it, Clumsius—Uh-oh, there goes the soup. And that orange, rolling across the floor …” Oh, man, this stuff writes itself. Who needs a script when you’ve got real life?
“And now we leave the relative safety of the food line and venture into the lions’ den,” I go on, panning over to the corner table where Aaron Hakimian, Bear Bratsky, and some of their football buddies are eating too much and laughing too loud. “This is the land of the carnivores, where lesser animals fear to tread.” Don’t I know it! I’m filming on maximum zoom, even though it’s bound to be a little blurry. I sure don’t intend to go any closer and get fed my own video camera. “But where’s their leader? The apex predator? Could that be him paying for a pack of Fig Newtons at the cash register? Yes, it is—the king of beasts, Footballus herois, his thunderous footsteps striking terror in the hearts of all creatures great and small. Watch him make his majestic way to—”
As I pan my flip-cam to follow Chase Ambrose’s path to his football buddies, he disappears from the frame. I frown. He’s not going over there. He’s headed to somewhere else. I get him back into the shot and struggle to continue my voice-over. “But wait—mighty Footballus has changed direction. He’s taking his mighty self to a different table. For reasons known only to his supreme mightiness, he’s coming—”
Oh my God, he’s coming here!
I whip the camera away fast enough to leave a trail of burnt air hanging in the cafeteria. He’s right opposite me, larger than life, holding his tray over my table.
Why is Chase Ambrose coming anywhere near lowly me? Does he know I’m making fun of him and his friends in a YouTube video?
If so, I’m dead—no ifs, ands, or buts.
My last interaction with him was the time he and his co-Neanderthals stood me against a tetherball pole and then played an intense game, the rope whipping around me until I was trussed up like a turkey. I’d probably still be there if the sanitation workers hadn’t come to empty the Dumpster that day. Actually, I’m lucky I wasn’t in the Dumpster. Those jerks bullied Joel Weber so badly that his folks finally sent him to boarding school.
“Is anyone sitting here?” Chase asks.
I glance up, expecting to get a face full of something. He’s standing there, looking like he’s never laid eyes on me before. My mind screams, Red alert! Red alert! But aloud I say, “Help yourself.”
He takes a seat and then actually spreads his napkin across his lap! Just like a civilized person! Although—I look down at my own lap—no napkin. And probably none on any lap in the entire cafeteria.
This is the weirdest thing that’s ever happened. Unless—
Could the rumors be true? It was the biggest news in town that the great Chase Ambrose fell off his roof and landed on his head this summer. You can still see the cuts and scrapes on his face, and his arm’s in a sling. But the gossip around school is that the guy actually has amnesia. He doesn’t remember anything from before the accident. I thought it was just a rumor … but what other explanation could there be for why he’s sitting here with me instead of with his football friends? And acting like a human being, no less?
My video on hold, I turn back to eating—and let me tell you, that’s not easy when you’re sitting across from the apex predator, amnesia or not. I read that some amnesia is temporary. If it all comes back to him, I could have my entire egg salad sandwich shoved up my nose just for daring to be near him. Then I notice that he’s struggling to saw away at a barbecued chicken breast. The dull plastic utensils don’t make it easy, especially with one arm immobilized against his chest. He’s really working hard at it. Beads of sweat stand out on his brow.
I speak the craziest, most foolhardy words that have ever come out of my mouth: “You need help with that?”
“No, thanks.” He keeps on sawing, getting nowhere, his frustration growing.
I still can’t explain why I do it. I get up, loop around the long table, and approach Chase from behind. “It’s easier when both arms work.”
He battles a moment longer and then gives in with a sigh. “Maybe I could use a hand.”
So there I am in the middle of the cafeteria, hunched over the apex predator, cutting up his chicken. At one point, Shoshanna Weber passes by and shoots me a look that perfectly combines shock, amazement, and disapproval. Or maybe she’s just trying to figure why I’m sawing at his meat instead of his carotid artery.
I finish, put down the knife, and hand him back the fork.
“Thanks,” he says sheepishly.
“No big deal.” I return to my side of the table, sit down—
And hit the floor hard.
A chorus of raucous laughter explodes all around me. That’s when I notice I’m surrounded by football players. Bear puts my chair d
own on top of me, trapping me under it.
“Chase, man, you’re at the wrong table,” Aaron exclaims. “Come with us. We saved you a spot.” They practically kidnap him and drag him to the lions’ den.
A few seconds later, the chair is lifted off me, and somebody hauls me to my feet.
Chase.
“Sorry,” he says, looking uncomfortable.
“Come on, man! Over here!” comes a volley of shouts.
He hesitates.
“They’re your teammates and your best friends,” I tell him, because maybe he doesn’t remember.
“Right.”
If I didn’t know better, I’d think he wasn’t that thrilled with the idea.
Back in my seat, I take out my camera and realize that the video has been running the whole time. There’s no picture, obviously, but the audio is all there.
I might listen to it later just to prove to myself that I’ve had a close encounter with Chase Ambrose and lived to tell the tale.
Every time I see a little girl, it brings me back to the one from my memory—the blond girl with the blue dress trimmed with white lace.
I’m not sure why that is. Maybe when you only remember one thing, it sticks with you. If only I could remember where I remember her from.
I think of her again when I see the little kid on the monkey bars at the playground. It’s my first day without the sling in more than a month—and since forever, in a way, because I remember nothing from before the accident. I’m out walking, enjoying my freedom from the tight wrapping on my shoulder. It feels fine—normal—and I need that after two weeks of school that were anything but. Normal is the last word to describe a place where you’re a stranger in a strange land despite the fact that everybody knows you.
That’s when I recognize the girl scrambling all over the jungle gym. It’s Helene, my half sister. She’s definitely high-energy, and really kind of cute, crawling through tunnels, whizzing down slides, and just as quickly climbing up again. She’s a little too wild, especially up top—I guess she’s too young to understand that falling on your head runs in our family.
Just as the thought crosses my mind, she loses her grip and tumbles off the top of the twisty slide. I’m there like a shot, catching her and swinging her around like it’s part of the game. She squeals in exhilaration, spreading her arms, and I get into the spirit, making airplane noises.
She’s loving it. I’m doubly thrilled because my shoulder is holding up fine. The two of us are having a great time—until she looks down and sees who’s got her.
“Mommy!” Her scream carries all around the park.
“It’s okay, Helene! It’s me! Chase—your brother!”
“I want to go down!” Now she’s red in the face and crying.
I set her on the ground and watch as she runs off to join Corinne, who’s hustling our way. Great. Dad’s family already has a problem with me, and now they’re going to think I’ve been terrorizing their daughter.
“Sorry,” I mumble. “I didn’t mean to scare her.”
“I saw what happened. Thank you for catching her.”
There’s nothing wrong with what she’s saying. It’s the way she says it—too polite, too distant, like I’m a stranger instead of her stepson.
Helene has her face buried in her mother’s sweater and refuses to look at me.
“I guess she doesn’t like me very much,” I comment.
Corinne softens. “She’s just a little afraid of you.”
“Afraid of me?” What could I have done that would make a four-year-old freak out every time I come near her?
Before I can finish the thought, a loud horn honks. A panel truck pulls up to the curb. AMBROSE ELECTRIC is stenciled on the side.
The driver’s side window rolls down and my dad sticks his head out. “Fire up the grill at five thirty, Cor! I’m bringing home the biggest steaks you’ve ever seen!” He catches sight of me. “Hey, Champ, what’re you doing here? You’re supposed to be at practice.”
I wave. “Doctor’s orders, remember?”
“Your arm’s fine!”
“Yeah, pretty good.” I point to my head. “It’s the concussion.”
He looks disgusted. “Doctors! They’ll keep you in bubble wrap the rest of your life if you let them. Well, how about dinner, then? I’ll bet you could use a good steak. You’re not going to get your strength back on the rabbit food Mom’s slinging at you.”
“Thanks. Some other time.” I hesitate. “I saw your state championship picture on the principal’s wall. I didn’t know. I mean, I knew at some point, but—”
He laughs with delight. “There are a lot of athletes out there. But only a few of us can make it rain. There’s something special about Ambrose men, Champ. Don’t let your mother coddle it out of you like she did with your brother.”
He drives off, his truck backfiring as he pulls away from the curb.
“Bye, Daddy!” calls Helene.
“Bye, Helene,” I say to her.
As soon as we make eye contact, she looks away.
I’m definitely famous at Hiawassee Middle. The part I can’t figure out is whether I’m famous good or famous bad.
The athletic program is my home here—or at least it was before I got hurt. All my friends seem to be jocks, mostly football players. I guess they were pretty worried when they heard about my accident. I pick up on the occasional grumbling that I have to miss the season. But mostly, people are just relieved that I’m okay.
The Hiawassee Hurricanes are kind of the kings of the school. It’s a pretty good role to come out of a coma and fall straight into. Since I’m the former captain, I’m almost like the king of kings. To be honest, though, it’s hard to picture how I got along with them so well. They’re loud, kind of obnoxious, and even though they’re really tight, they spend a lot of time shoving and punching each other. Insults constantly fly between them. They probably don’t mean it, but it can get pretty ugly. Was I like that too, when I was—you know—me? Did I greet my closest friends by pointing out imaginary stains on their shirts so I could slap their faces? Did I insult their moms, their grandmothers, and their grandmothers’ grandmothers? Probably. Even so, that was then and this is now. I’ve lost a step, maybe because of my concussion. I can’t keep up with those guys anymore.
Aaron and Bear shield me from the worst of it. “Dudes,” they’ll say. “Dial it down. Our boy’s injured.” Or they’ll step in front of me to absorb a friendly punch or forearm smash. I appreciate their help. Still, it doesn’t change the fact that I’m not the Chase I used to be. I almost wish they’d stop trying to protect me. I hate being weak; the other guys are treating me like I’m strong. I’m not—I get that. But maybe I can fake it until my strength comes back.
In the end, Aaron and Bear stress me out more than any of the others, because they ask me all these questions: What do you remember? Is your memory coming back yet? When does the doctor say that could happen? When will you be your old self again?
Since I’ve got nothing else to offer them, I describe the one memory that I do have—the little girl in the blue dress. They listen with great concentration.
“And?” Aaron prompts, eyes wide.
“That’s it. That’s the only thing I remember.”
“But who is she?” Bear persists. “Where did you see her?”
I shrug. “I don’t know. That’s all I’ve got.”
They stare at me for a long moment and then both burst out laughing.
I’m annoyed. “It’s not funny! Don’t you think I’d tell you more if I had more to tell? Do you know what the word amnesia means?”
“Relax.” Aaron puts an arm around my shoulders. “We’ve got your back. Boys to the end!”
Aside from the football players, most of the kids act kind of odd around me. Conversations end when I enter a room. Faces turn toward lockers as I make my way down a hall. I get that the whole school’s heard the story of my amnesia and they’re a little weirded out by me. But tha
t doesn’t explain everything. This one girl who’s pushing a rolling cart of textbooks—when she sees me walking next to her, her eyes just about pop out of her head. She spins away and slams into the wall of a doorway alcove. Books go flying in all directions. She trips on one and starts to go down, so I grab her arm just to steady her. Then she really loses it.
“Don’t!” she squeals so loudly that we’re the instant center of attention.
I’m mystified. “Let me help you pick up those—”
“No!” And she’s gone, practically running along the corridor, dropping even more books as she escapes.
What did I do?
I ask Aaron and Bear about it after school, and they treat it like the stupidest question ever.
“What do you care if a bunch of random nobodies don’t like you?” Bear demands.
“It’s not that,” I tell them. “She was—scared. Where did that come from?”
The two exchange a glance. “Man, you really did lose your memory,” Aaron comments.
“Come on, guys. Talk to me!”
Bear is impatient. “We don’t have time.”
“Why?” I query. “There’s no practice today.”
“We’ve got to be at the Graybeard Motel by three thirty.”
“What’s the Graybeard Motel?”
“We’ve still got two months left on our community service,” Bear supplies. “At the assisted living place on Portland Street, helping out with the geezers and the grandmas. Not everybody’s lucky enough to fall off a roof and get excused.”
“I’m on community service?” I may not remember much, but I know that community service isn’t like getting a detention at school. It’s something you get ordered to do. In court. By a judge.
I struggle to sound casual. The last thing I want to do is come across like a wimp to my two best friends. “What did we do to get sentenced”—I nearly choke on the word—“to community service?”
“It was no big deal,” Aaron scoffs. “We planted a couple of cherry bombs in the piano at open house. It was awesome! Cops are such sticklers about property damage. Like there’s a great piano shortage in the world.”