Here is the first chapter.
1
Charlie
A crash. Books fall to the speckled linoleum floor. They
skid a few feet, whirling in circles, and stop near feet. My feet. I don’t
recognize the black sandals, or the red toenails, but they move when I tell
them to, so they must be mine. Right?
A bell rings. Shrill.
I jump, my heart racing. My eyes move left to right as I
scope out my environment, trying not to give myself away.
What kind of bell was that? Where am I?
Kids with backpacks walk briskly into the room, talking and
laughing. A school bell. They slide into desks, their voices competing
in volume. I see movement at my feet and jerk in surprise. Someone is bent
over, gathering up books on the floor; a red-faced girl with glasses. Before
she stands up, she looks at me with something like fear and then scurries off.
People are laughing. When I look around I think they’re laughing at me, but
it’s the girl with glasses they’re looking at.
“Charlie!” someone calls. “Didn’t you see that?” And then,
“Charlie…what’s your problem…hello…?”
My heart is beating fast, so fast.
Where is this? Why can’t I remember? “Charlie!”
someone hisses. I look around. Who is Charlie? Which one is Charlie?
There are so many kids; blond hair, ratty hair, brown hair,
glasses, no glasses…
A man walks in carrying a briefcase. He sets it on the desk.
The teacher. I am in a classroom, and that is the
teacher. High school or college? I wonder.
I stand up suddenly. I’m in the wrong place. Everyone is
sitting, but I’m standing…walking.
“Where are you going, Miss Wynwood?” The teacher is looking
at me over the rim of his glasses as he riffles through a pile of papers. He
slaps them down hard on the desk and I jump. I must be Miss Wynwood.
“She has cramps!” someone calls out. People snicker. I feel
a chill creep up my back and crawl across the tops of my arms. They’re laughing
at me, except I don’t know who these people are.
I hear a girl’s voice say, “Shut up, Michael.”
“I don’t know,” I say, hearing my voice for the first time.
It’s too high. I clear my throat and try again. “I don’t know. I’m not supposed
to be here.”
There is more laughing. I glance around at the posters on
the wall, the faces of presidents animated with dates beneath them. History
class? High school.
The man—the teacher—tilts his head to the side like I’ve
said the dumbest thing. “And where else are you supposed to be on test day?”
“I… I don’t know.”
“Sit down,” he says. I don’t know where I’d go if I left. I
turn around to go back. The girl with the glasses glances up at me as I pass
her. She looks away almost as quickly.
As soon as I’m sitting, the teacher starts handing out
papers. He walks between desks, his voice a flat drone as he
tells us what percentage of our final grade the test will be. When he reaches
my desk he pauses, a deep crease between his eyebrows. “I don’t know what
you’re trying to pull.” He presses the tip of a fat pointer finger on my desk.
“Whatever it is, I’m sick of it. One more stunt and I’m
sending you to the principal’s office.” He slaps the test down in front of me
and moves down the line.
I don’t nod, I don’t do anything. I’m trying to decide what
to do. Announce to the whole room that I have no idea who and where I am—or
pull him aside and tell him quietly. He said no more stunts. My eyes move to
the paper in front of me. People are already bent over their tests, pencils
scratching.
Fourth Period
History
Mr. Dulcott
There is a space for a name. I’m supposed to write my name,
but I don’t know what my name is. Miss Wynwood, he called me.
Why don’t I recognize my own name? Or where I am?
Or what I am?
Every head is bent over their papers except mine. So I sit
and stare, straight ahead. Mr. Dulcott glares at me from his desk. The longer I
sit, the redder his face becomes.
Time passes and yet my world has stopped. Eventually, Mr.
Dulcott stands up, his mouth open to say something to me when the bell rings.
“Put your papers on my desk on the way out,” he says, his eyes still on my
face. Everyone is filing out of the door. I stand up and follow them because I
don’t know what else to do. I keep my eyes on the floor, but I can feel his
rage. I don’t understand why he’s so angry with me. I am in a hallway now,
lined on either side by blue lockers.
“Charlie!” someone calls. “Charlie, wait up!” A second
later, an arm loops through mine. I expect it to be the girl with the glasses;
I don’t know why. It’s not. But, I know now that I am Charlie. Charlie Wynwood.
“You forgot your bag,” she says, handing over a white backpack. I take it from
her, wondering if there’s a wallet with a driver’s license inside. She keeps
her arm looped through mine as we walk. She’s shorter than me, with long, dark
hair and dewy brown eyes that take up half her face. She is startling and
beautiful.
“Why were you acting so weird in there?” she asks. “You
knocked the shrimp’s books on the floor and then spaced out.”
I can smell her perfume; it’s familiar and too sweet, like a
million flowers competing for attention. I think of the girl with the glasses,
the look on her face as she bent to scoop up her books. If I did that, why
don’t I remember?
“I—”
“It’s lunch, why are you walking that way?” She pulls me
down a different corridor, past more students. They all look at me…little
glances. I wonder if they know me, and why I don’t know me. I don’t know why I
don’t tell her, tell Mr. Dulcott, grab someone random and tell them that I
don’t know who or where I am. By the time I’m seriously entertaining the idea,
we’re through a set of double doors in the cafeteria. Noise and color; bodies
that all have a unique smell, bright fluorescent lights that make everything
look ugly. Oh, God. I clutch at my shirt.
The girl on my arm is babbling. Andrew this, Marcy that. She
likes Andrew and hates Marcy. I don’t know who either of them is. She corrals
me to the food line. We get salad and Diet Cokes. Then we are sliding our trays
on a table. There are already people sitting there: four boys, two girls. I
realize we are completing a group with even numbers. All the girls are matched
with a guy. Everyone looks up at me expectantly, like I’m supposed to say
something, do something. The only place left to sit is next to a guy with dark hair.
I sit slowly, both hands flat on the table. His eyes dart toward me and then he
bends over his tray of food. I can see the finest beads of sweat on his
forehead, just below his hairline.
“You two are so awkward sometimes,” says a new girl, blonde,
across from me. She’s looking from me to the guy I’m sitting next to. He looks
up from his macaroni and I realize he’s just moving things around on his plate.
He hasn’t taken a bite, despite how busy he looks. He looks at me and I look at
him, then we both look back at the blonde girl.
“Did something happen that we should know about?” she asks.
“No,” we say in unison.
He’s my boyfriend. I know by the way they’re treating us. He
suddenly smiles at me with his brilliantly white teeth and reaches to put an
arm around my shoulders.
“We’re all good,” he says, squeezing my arm. I automatically
stiffen, but when I see the six sets of eyes on my face, I lean in and play
along. It’s frightening not knowing who you are—even more frightening thinking
you’ll get it wrong. I’m scared now, really scared. It’s gone too far. If I say
something now I’ll look…crazy. His affection seems to make everyone relax.
Everyone except…him. They go back to talking, but all the words blend together:
football, a party, more football. The guy sitting next to me laughs and joins
in with their conversation, his arm never straying from my shoulders. They call
him Silas. They call me Charlie. The dark-haired girl with the big eyes is
Annika. I forget everyone else’s names in the noise.
Lunch is finally over and we all get up. I walk next to
Silas, or rather he walks next to me. I have no idea where I’m going. Annika
flanks my free side, winding her arms through mine and chatting about
cheerleading practice. She’s making me feel claustrophobic. When we reach an
annex in the hallway, I lean over and speak to her so only she can hear. “Can
you walk me to my next class?” Her face becomes serious. She breaks away to say
something to her boyfriend, and then our arms are looped again.
I turn to Silas. “Annika is going to walk me to my next
class.”
“Okay,” he says. He looks relieved. “I’ll see you…later.” He
heads off in the opposite direction.
Annika turns to me as soon as he’s out of sight. “Where’s he
going?”
I shrug. “To class.”
She shakes her head like she’s confused. “I don’t get you
guys. One day you’re all over each other, the next you’re acting like you can’t
stand to be in the same room. You really need to make a decision about him,
Charlie.”
She stops outside a doorway.
“This is me…” I say, to see if she’ll protest. She doesn’t.
“Call me later,” she says. “I want to know about last night.”
I nod. When she disappears into the sea of faces, I step
into the classroom. I don’t know where to sit, so I wander to the back row and
slide into a seat by the window. I’m early, so I open my backpack. There’s a
wallet wedged between a couple of notebooks and a makeup bag. I pull it out and
flip it open to reveal a driver’s license with a picture of a beaming,
dark-haired girl. Me.
Charlize Margaret
Wynwood
2417 Holcourt Way
New Orleans, LA
I’m seventeen. My birthday is March twenty-first. I live in
Louisiana. I study the picture in the top left corner and I don’t recognize the
face. It’s my face, but I’ve never seen it. I’m…pretty. I only have
twenty-eight dollars.
The seats are filling up. The one beside me stays empty,
almost like everyone is too afraid to sit there. I’m in Spanish class. The
teacher is pretty and young; her name is Mrs. Cardona. She doesn’t look at me
like she hates me, like so many other people are looking at me. We start with
tenses.
I have no past. I have no past.
Five minutes into class the door opens. Silas walks in, his
eyes downcast. I think he’s here to tell me something, or to bring me
something. I brace myself, ready to pretend, but Mrs. Cardona comments jokingly
about his lateness. He takes the only available seat next to me and stares
straight ahead. I stare at him. I don’t stop staring at him until finally, he
turns his head to look at me. A line of sweat rolls down the side of his face.
His eyes are wide. Wide…just like mine.
