A Season for Fireflies

  Dad sighs. “Look, Pen. Your mom and I wanted you to find out from us first, and well, your mom slept in today, but I—”

  “What?” I say, and turn to him. I forgot to move slowly; the figures ache and I suck in a sharp breath. “I’m okay,” I say quickly. “What’s going on?” Dad pulls onto the path that leads up to the double doors of the school. “You said the meeting was to get me up to speed and get back on track.”

  “Are you sure you don’t want me to come?” Dad says. We’re idling outside school. “You can take more time off. We can homeschool.”

  “What’s going on, Dad?”

  He pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose.

  “They have to put you on a probationary period as a senior. We don’t know how much information you’ve retained and what you’ve lost since the strike. Or if it will affect how you learn new things.”

  My heart sinks. “They’re keeping me back?”

  All I can see in my head are Wes, May, Panda, and Karen, walking across the stage at graduation without me. I grip the seat cushion but the middle of my right hand zings and I have to relax. Except, they’re not my friends anymore. I try to picture myself walking across the stage with Kylie, Lila, and Eve, but it doesn’t feel the same.

  “No. They’re not holding you back—not yet, anyway. But they’ve taken you out of AP for now.”

  “But I’ve always been on the honors track. I worked so hard—”

  “I know, I know. But Pen, eleventh grade was really hard academically and we don’t know yet what you’ve kept and what you might have lost. We just have to wait and see.”

  “I just want my life back,” I say.

  “I know. Just go in and talk to them, and you can call me after to let me know what happens.” He pauses. “But I really think I should come with you.”

  “I have to do this myself,” I say, and look up at the double doors. “I have to.”

  Dad nods and kisses me on the forehead. He pulls away to rummage in the backseat for something.

  I double-check that I have the stage makeup concealer in my bag so I can cover any stray ferns throughout the day. I don’t want the headmaster, or anyone for that matter, to see them and think I need to be kept back. I am about to open the car door when Dad says, “Wait. I got you something.” He pulls out a small brown paper bag. I pull out a leather-bound journal with my initials engraved in tiny gold letters on the front: PLB.

  “I love it,” I say.

  “Dr. Abrams said you should do your best to note any inconsistencies with your memory. I thought you could use a journal to keep track of it all.” He smiles. “And I thought it was cool.”

  “It is cool,” I say. “Thanks.” I kiss him quickly on the cheek and let him go back home to write his typical nine thousand emails to people about his new inventions.

  “You can call or text me after the meeting?” he says through the window, once I’m already out of the car.

  “Text you?” I say. “Do you do that now?”

  “I try but I’m not that hip,” he says. “Lots of typos.”

  “Get with the times, Dad,” I say, and note the irony of my situation with a cringe.

  “Hey! She’s already back to punning!”

  I laugh, and limp my way up toward school.

  “Well, I think it’s important that we be realistic here.” The headmaster’s voice is as annoying as ever. Six thirty and I’m sitting here in between Headmaster Lewis, School Counselor Ms. Winters, and Ms. Reley, who’s been assigned as my faculty advisor while I readjust to school. Reley is notorious for being a hard-ass. Yippee.

  “Penny was third in her class last year,” Reley says.

  I was?

  “She’ll catch up quickly.”

  “I just don’t know,” Headmaster Lewis says with a shake of his head. “It’s a lot of work to make up.”

  “Know what?” Reley retorts, and I can hear the aggravation in her voice. “The state said it’s our discretion given her academic record. We’ve already taken her out of accelerated classes.”

  “Look.” Ms. Winters sighs. She seems to be sighing her way through this whole meeting. “I think we should hold off on taking any drastic measures like holding Penny back a year until we see just how permanent her memory loss is. We might be overreacting for nothing.”

  I nod. I like that idea.

  Headmaster Lewis flips through a file folder, which I would love to get my hands on. Over the top, I can see a typed letter with the Memorial Hospital logo.

  “Penny’s memory loss is very extensive,” Headmaster Lewis says. “And eleventh grade is an important year academically. I fear without the memory of last year, she won’t be adequately prepared for college next year.”

  “She may not remember the events of last year but it doesn’t mean that her development and skill set are compromised,” Ms. Winters explains, and I hope that it’s true.

  “What do you want to do, Penny?” Ms. Reley asks.

  I can hear the chatter from the hallway as it begins to fill up with people.

  “It’s strange. I feel like I should be in eleventh grade and taking my SATs. The timing feels off. But I want to be with my friends. I want to be with—” I am about to say their names: Wes, May, Panda, and Karen. “I need to get back to the way things were. Apply to college,” I say quietly.

  The headmaster looks thoughtful. “If we keep you where you are, we’ll need to establish some ground rules to help you succeed academically.” He ticks things off on his fingers. “Someone will have to get Penny up to speed on her standardized testing scores and work with her on her college applications.”

  That’s right. I took the SATs already.

  “We will also need to provide her with a note-taking buddy and a peer tutor.”

  An idea rushes into my head. I know the perfect tutor.

  “May I suggest someone?” I ask.

  “I don’t see why not,” Headmaster Lewis says. “It will need to be someone you work well with, after all.”

  “May Harper would be great.”

  They all share a glance, one that says, bad idea. After a pause, Ms. Winters says, “We’ll check with May today. If she agrees, we’ll get you guys working straightaway.”

  The meeting is adjourned and I limp out of the room. I hesitate before stepping out of the administrative offices and into the hallway. I don’t know who I will sit with at lunch or who will make room for me. I haven’t heard from Kylie since she ran out of my bedroom. I sit down in a chair near the doorway. In my new notebook, I write down the two questions from last night and scribble a third question below the other two:

  1. Why did I quit theater?

  2. How am I friends with Kylie Castelli?

  The third is probably the most important . . .

  3. How do I apologize and get my friends back?

  TEN

  WHEN I WALK INTO THE HALLWAY THE ENDLESS streams of bodies just getting out of homeroom are a welcome camouflage. Phones ding and beep, girls near me squeal about their dresses for homecoming, and my thoughts are drowned in the slam of locker doors. I walk slowly so as not to draw any attention to the limp, and make sure to pull down on the sleeves of my cardigan to cover any of the ferns that could accidentally show.

  Concentrate on the center of your foot, press down, and repeat. It’s useless. I might as well not have any toes. I smooth any flyaways on the top of my head and even though I curled my hair this morning the humidity makes it fall flat. I don’t think I look like I was almost fried twelve days ago.

  I’m heading toward my locker when someone cries my name.

  “Penny! You’re back!” Eve runs toward me. She’s got long blond hair now, not the chin-length bob I remember.

  “Do you know me?” a different girl says, and runs at me too. She has black hair with dyed green tips. I don’t know her. “Kylie told me you don’t remember anyone!”

  “How about me?” asks a girl whose features seem familiar but I can’t plac
e her either.

  “I . . .” I start to say, but more and more people circle around me.

  You look amazing!

  What happened?

  Do you remember the lightning?

  Penny Penny!

  Penny!

  Penny!

  Penny

  Penny!

  Penny

  I bring my hand to my head and cover my eyes. I keep my eyes clenched shut. My stomach lurches. People touch my forearms and shake my hand and I feel pressure on my skin, even under the long sleeves of my cardigan. It burns.

  I try to walk but Eve gives me a side hug and my knees nearly buckle at the wash of heat that rolls over my ribs when she squeezes me. I glance around, searching for a familiar face, but people either are nearly on top of me, or they pass too quickly for me to pick anyone out. Metal-flavored saliva rushes into my mouth.

  “Okay, okay! Break it up. Coming through.” Panda’s voice booms through the air. He parts the crowd. “Come on,” he says, and pushes both his arms out to make room for me. I rush through.

  “Thanks,” I say breathlessly.

  Eve calls after me, “I’ll see you at lunch!”

  I want to stay and talk to Panda, but my skin is on fire and if I don’t get this cardigan off me, right now, I am going to lose it. Another flush of heat rolls over me and I limp as fast as I can down the hall, turn away from all the well-wishers and into the quiet of the hallway where the art studios are. There are no art classes during this time block, and most days it’s deserted. Alone, I can finally breathe.

  I lean my head back against the cement wall. I slip the cardigan off my shoulders so I’m just wearing a black tank top, exposing my chest, neck, and arms. The cool air on my skin nearly makes my knees buckle from relief.

  “I can do this,” I whisper. I just have to get through a few classes. I can keep up with the work. I know I can. “I can do this,” I say again.

  Someone clears his throat. Wes steps out from an art room at the end of the hall.

  I jump up, pulling my cardigan to my chest.

  “I just needed a second,” I say, trying to explain why I’m ripping off my clothes in the middle of a hallway.

  He walks to me; he is so much taller than I remember. In my head he’s still kind of lanky, standing on the stage with a script in his hand. But he’s changed in a year. This version of Wes is muscular. Older. He stops across from me and digs his hands deep in his pockets.

  “How are you?” he says.

  “Okay, Gumby. You?”

  A tiny smile tugs at his mouth as he meets my eyes. His gaze pauses on the figures on my arms and stomach. His eyes trace along my shoulder and stop, focusing on my collarbone.

  “They’re called Lichtenberg figures,” I say quietly. I’m not sure if he cares.

  He clears his throat, breaking his gaze away from my skin. I lean forward, drawn by the scruff of facial hair on his chin. I want to touch him. For a second, we look into each other’s eyes. There’s hurt in his expression.

  “How are—” I start.

  He squeezes his eyes closed like pain has rushed through him and he backs away quickly. I immediately slip the cardigan over my shoulders with a sore lift of my arms.

  “I have to go,” he says, and hurries down the hall, around the corner, and away.

  “I’m sorry,” I whisper, but it’s too late, he’s gone, and the heat between us crackles outward into the air, away from me.

  Dr. Abrams has explicitly instructed me not to drive for two weeks, which is fine by me because I only had a permit the last I remember. So, after school, Bettie drops me off at home before heading home herself. There’s a black Honda in the driveway that I don’t recognize.

  Just as I open the door to step into the kitchen, I hear Dad talking to a man whose voice I can’t identify. “Mr. Berne, I’m sorry to bother you, but I’m Troy Fellizi from Channel Six News.” The man’s voice comes from the living room.

  “I was hoping to speak to your daughter when she comes home from school. I’d love to interview her for our morning news program. It’s a real survivor story,” he explains.

  I step out to the screened-in porch attached to our kitchen so I can listen better. I hold my backpack close to my body so nothing inside will jingle or clank.

  “She’s still recovering, and I’m not sure she’s ready for visitors just yet. Can you show me some of your credentials?” Dad says.

  There’s the sound of latches like the journalist is opening a briefcase.

  “I don’t think Penny will want to be on TV.” Mom’s voice. “Besides, we would rather not draw attention to Penny’s aesthetic reactions to the strike.” Of course Mom would be concerned about how it looks.

  “Aesthetic?” the journalist asks.

  “She has some markings on her skin,” Mom explains.

  Great. So now the public will know that I’ve got ferns all over me. I crack open the door and tiptoe into the empty kitchen.

  “I’d also love a chance to catch up with you, Mrs. Berne. What are your present plans? Will you be returning to the event planning industry?”

  God, this guy is good.

  “Can I offer you some water? Coffee?” Mom says.

  “Water would be great,” the reporter says, and Mom’s soft footsteps pad from the living room and she stops, freezing when she sees me standing just outside the kitchen door with my bag held to my chest. She must be able to tell from the expression on my face that I heard what happened in the living room.

  “Do you want him to interview you?” she mouths.

  I shrug. It might not be bad to tell people what happened.

  “I don’t want him to take pictures of my skin,” I say.

  She nods. “We won’t let him.”

  “Okay,” I say. “I guess that would be all right.” She leads me into the living room. I note as we walk in that there are no wine bottles in the wine chiller or any glassware in the bottom of the sink. I know she pulled a bottle out the night we got back from the hospital, but I don’t think she ever opened it.

  Maybe things really have changed?

  The next morning before school, I root through the bag I had with me in the hospital. At the bottom is my hospital bracelet. I tape it to the second lined page in the journal that Dad gave me. As I’m putting the journal in my school bag, I notice a pile of books on the floor next to my desk. Some of the items in the pile are binders from last year’s classes. On the very top is my day planner. Nice! If anything, there might be some answers in there about what happened between my friends and me.

  “Penny!” Bettie calls, and I slip the day planner in my school bag too.

  I double-check to make sure my long-sleeved shirt covers my figures, and only when I am adjusting it does someone knock on my door.

  I expect it to be Dad but Bettie walks in.

  “Your friend is here to drive you to school.”

  I immediately think of Wes, but that’s not possible.

  “My friend?” I ask.

  I peek outside.

  “You’ve got to be kidding me,” I say at the sight of a lime green Lexus with Panda in the driver’s seat. I limp downstairs and note on the way that Mom is still sleeping. Dad is already in his basement shop, working.

  When I get outside to Panda’s car, I run my hand down the custom paint job. No one would sell a car in this color, let alone buy one.

  “When did you get this monstrosity?” I say through the open window.

  “Well, Miss Memory Challenged,” Panda says, and with a click the doors unlock. “I got it last year with the money I got for a voice-over commercial.”

  “You could have sprung for a more subtle paint job.”

  He laughs. “Get in.”

  My thighs shake as I bend and slip into the car. The car is a complete shit show inside. Although it doesn’t surprise me, there are at least ten different types of potato chip bags on the floor. I pull down on the arms of my shirt.

  He hands over a co
ffee. “Just the way you like it.”

  I sip on it and inhale the roasted but bitter coffee.

  “Wow, is it bad or something?”

  “What?” I say. “No, it’s really good.” I force another sip.

  “You’re full-on grimacing, Berne. If I wasn’t driving, I’d take it from you.”

  We head out of my neighborhood and past the marina. In another mile we’ll be at school.

  I grip the warm cup between my hands.

  “So . . .” I say casually. “How long have I been drinking black coffee? You know, like this?”

  “Last year,” he says, and I nod and force another sip. The last I remembered, I usually drank London Fogs. Earl Grey tea, vanilla syrup, and steamed milk.

  After a few twists and turns of the road, Panda pulls into the EG Private parking lot. When he puts the car in park he looks over at me. Concern on Panda’s face makes his round features seem smaller.

  I unclick my seat belt and place the coffee in the cup holder so I can open the door with my left hand. Panda scoots out and around to the passenger side. By the time he gets to my door I’m nearly out of the car. I don’t usually see Panda serious—hardly ever. He’s barely speaking above a whisper when he says, “Berne. How are you?”

  “I’m here. I just want to be normal, whatever that means. I don’t want people making special accommodations for me or anything.”

  “Well, that’s something.” His eyebrows rise.

  “What?”

  “You. With the volunteering information.”

  I don’t understand this at all. “What do you mean?”

  “You’re not big on giving up information about yourself. You know, when emotions are involved.”

  “So I hear,” I say. Panda opens the car door for me fully and I’m grateful to get out too. Panda swings his bag so it’s tighter on his back and begins the walk to school. He’s a couple of paces up when he glances back and sees I haven’t moved from the car. He’s wearing a black T-shirt with an enormous image of a person in cat makeup from the Broadway show Cats.

  “Why did you come get me today?” I ask and start walking.

  Panda doesn’t seem to want to answer me right away. I stop, touching his arm lightly. “Come on, Panda. My other friends won’t talk to me, but you do.”