Part 16 (1/2)

She turned toward me. ”I'm not asking you to do that. You've already been doing that, and it's like he's chasing a ghost.” She looked down at her hands. ”I don't really know what I'm asking.” She lifted her head. ”If you could just talk to him and give him some sort of answer, maybe he'll stop running.”

I looked at her helplessly. ”Jules, I don't know what to say.”

”Do you know what he wants?” Jules pleaded. ”He's not being straight with me. I wouldn't ask if I didn't think it was important.” The edge of her mouth pulled up in a rueful smile. ”His car was wrecked, and I'm not sure how many more concussions he can get before brain damage sets in. I believe you that you don't want to hurt anyone, but you're hurting him. Can you think of anything that would help?”

I thought back to the fragments of conversations we'd had. What did Jack want?

Tell me you remember, Becks, he'd said.

”I'll try to think of something,” I said. What I wanted to say was Does Jack know you love him?

I couldn't help thinking Jules was a hundred times better for Jack than I was. And I couldn't help hoping Jack would never realize it.

The next day, Jack didn't speak to me again in Mrs. Stone's cla.s.s, probably because I'd ditched him one too many times. I thought about Jules's request. I ruled out talking directly to Jack; I wasn't exactly a model of composure when we were face-to-face.

He wanted to know if I remembered. So at lunchtime I took a small piece of paper out of my notebook and wrote two words on it.

I remember.

I slipped the piece of paper into his locker before I could think about it for too long. But during history cla.s.s, all I was doing was thinking about it. I pictured him reading the note, and my fingertips started to sweat. I tried to get a better look at his face in my imagination. Was he smiling?

By calculus, I was second-guessing myself. Would he think this was just another confusing message? Would he be even more frustrated?

By the end of school, I still hadn't seen Jack. Why did I ever think two little words would make things better? So stupid. I walked past his locker on the off chance my note was sticking out of one of the slots and I could yank it away.

But it wasn't.

The note was small. Only two words on it. Maybe he wouldn't find it, and if he did, maybe he wouldn't know who wrote it. There could be other girls out there who would write those words on a paper. And shove it in his locker.

By the end of school, I'd had no word from Jack. No sign that he'd read anything. He kept a messy locker, and I started to believe the note was lost, and maybe that was a good thing. I breathed a sigh of relief as I put away the last of my books and took my backpack out. When I slammed the door, I gasped.

Jack was behind it, waiting, with the corner of his lip pulled up in not quite a smile. ”What?” he demanded.

”What what?” I asked.

He held my note up in front of my face. ”What do you remember?”

Everything. But I couldn't tell him that. I shrugged and said, ”Things.” Then I made a move to leave, but Jack's strong arm blocked my way, his hand pressing against the locker behind my back.

”No you don't. You can't leave a note like this”-he waved the paper-”and then say 'things.' I want to know what, exactly, you remember.”

People in the hallway stared and I could feel my face going red. Jack noticed, and put his other arm up against the lockers, blocking me in. My pulse went nuts. It had to be visible on my wrists.

Jack's face was inches from mine. His breath was minty, and I could smell the rustic scent of his aftershave, and whatever strong emotion he was feeling, it tasted sweet. I breathed it in, and the inhalation was embarra.s.singly loud.

His eyes searched mine. ”This is the first opening you've given me, and I'm not letting you get out of it.” He paused. ”What do you remember?”

I looked behind him, at the curious spectators, and squinted my eyes shut, unable to bear the scrutiny anymore.

”Say something, Becks. Say anything.”

”You,” I said. ”I remember you.” I kept my eyes shut, and felt his hands drop. He didn't move back.

”What do you remember about me?” There was strong emotion behind his voice. Something he fought to control.

With my eyes closed, I could easily picture the other side of the century.

”I remember the way your hand could cover my entire shoulder. The way your lower lip stuck out when you were working out a problem in your head. And how you flick your ring finger with your thumb when you get impatient.”

I opened my eyes, and the words no longer got stuck in my throat on their way out. They flowed. ”And when something surprises you and you don't know what to say, you get a tiny wrinkle in between your eyebrows.” I reached up to touch the divot, then hesitated and lowered my hand. ”It showed on the day the coach told you you'd made first-string quarterback. And it's showing now.”

For a moment the s.p.a.ce between us held no tension, no questions, no accusations.

Finally he leaned back, a stunned expression on his face. ”Where do we go from here?”

”Nowhere, really,” I whispered. ”It doesn't change anything.”

Eyebrows still drawn together, he said, ”We'll see.” Then he turned and left.

I tucked this moment away.

In the dark, dank world of the Tunnels, I would call upon this memory. And there would be a flicker of candlelight. If only for a moment.

I closed my eyes, as if my eyelids were the levers of a printing press, etching the fibers into my mind. Memories were outside Cole's reach. As long as I held them, memories were mine and mine alone.

SIXTEEN.

NOW.

Home. Two and a half months left.

Time was doing strange things to me. Sometimes a week felt like a day, and sometimes a minute felt like an eternity. It was like a clock that was running out of power, winding down except when it received an occasional jolt, and a week was suddenly gone.

Telling Jack the truth-that I did remember him-seemed to adjust things between us. Softened some of the tension. I could see it in the occasional glances he sent my way during cla.s.s. And when I caught him staring now, there was no hostility in his gaze.

We had reached an equilibrium. A way to exist living in each other's world again.

I thought about my other efforts. I wasn't making any headway with Mary, since she'd missed the last couple of Sat.u.r.days at the soup kitchen. But things were getting better with my dad.

After school one day, he asked me to run the latest design change for his campaign flyers into town to give to Mr. Macy at the printing shop. His office had the latest technology, but when it came to my dad's campaign, it was strictly old-fas.h.i.+oned. He believed a handshake was the best social-networking tool, and a computer couldn't convince someone of the sincerity of a smile.

I grabbed the folder with the designs. As I opened the front door, my dad called from the kitchen, ”The exercise will do you good.”

Because exercise and service to others fix all problems. It was a good step, my dad giving me a task. We were approaching normal.

I made the trek into town and delivered the instructions to Mr. Macy, and when I came out of his shop I could hear music coming from somewhere near the center of town. I started wandering toward the sound. The song was soft enough that even though it sounded familiar, I couldn't quite place it.