Unremembered (7 page)

I hurry over to the dresser, pull open the drawer, and snatch up the locket, flipping it over to study the engraving on the back.

S
+
Z
=
1609.

The equation that I can’t solve. Despite the fact that math seems to come easy to me.

But perhaps that’s the problem. Perhaps the equation has nothing to do with math.

‘You’re not who you think you are.’

I’m not anyone!
I want to scream. I don’t even
know
who I am. How can I possibly be someone I’m not?

My head starts to throb. I return to the chair and rock frantically back and forth, waiting for the motion to calm me once more. But this time it does nothing. I close my eyes and concentrate on
the boy. On his face.

I watch his demeanour change as soon as he sees Heather approaching us. His face becomes sombre. Earnest.

‘Try to remember what really happened . . .’

I create a mental index of everything I know to be true:

I like numbers.

I have a tattoo.

I like grilled cheese sandwiches.

And supermarkets.

I have long brown hair and purple eyes.

I survived a plane crash.

A plane crash I have no memory of.

A glitch in a computer erased me from a list.

‘You were never on that plane . . .’

Suddenly my eyes flutter open. I rise from the chair and pace the room. I hate all these unanswered questions. I hate the doubt that he’s planted in my mind. I hate that he’s made me
second-guess everything I know.

And mostly I hate how unforgettable he seems to be.

Somehow every memory in my brain has managed to abandon me and yet his face is the face I can’t seem to chase away.

As I walk, I repeat my mantra.

I don’t know him. I don’t remember him. I can’t trust him.

The last line makes me stop. Apprehensively I glance down at the locket in my hand. I draw in a deep breath and pop open the black heart-shaped door, removing the crumpled note and placing it on
the dresser.

I ransack the room, searching everywhere until I find what I’m looking for in a nightstand by the bed.

A pen and a blank sheet of paper.

I place the paper next to the yellowed note and slowly, carefully, scrawl out two words.

Trust him.

I glance between the two messages – one yellowed and ragged and faded by lost time and salt water, and the other white and crisp and right now – and I see what I was afraid I would
see.

They are exactly the same.

They were both written by my hand.

Heather and Scott try to make conversation with me during
dinner but I’m not really there. My mind is elsewhere.

More specifically, on the note.

The note that
I
wrote.

But
why
? This is the question that bothers me the most.

Did I intend it for me? Or for someone else?

It had to be for someone else.

Otherwise, doesn’t that imply that I
knew
I was going to lose my memory? Why else would I need to remind myself to trust someone? But I know that’s impossible. No one can
predict a plane crash. No one can predict amnesia. Did I somehow manage to scrawl out the message right as the plane was going down? Just in case?

And who is
him
?

Trust
him
.

I can only think of one person. And he’s the last person I want to trust. Because it would mean believing everything he’s told me.

That there are people looking for me.

That I’m in danger.

That I was never on the plane.

No. I can’t.

There are a million
hims
in the world. It seems far-fetched and completely irrational just to assume
that
boy is the one the note is referring to.

But I suppose if I really am the girl who wrote that note, then I at least owe it to myself – to
her
– to find out for sure.

After dinner I go to my bathroom and wash my face with the cleanser Heather bought for me at the store today. While I was in the hospital, Kiyana taught me how to take care of
myself. Teeth need to be brushed, faces need to be washed, fingernails need to be kept clean. I find it annoying that I have to be reminded of these things that seem so basic. So human.

I have started over in so many ways I’m beginning to lose count. And I have a feeling I’m not one who loses count easily.

I notice a light under the door of Cody’s bedroom. I can hear voices. Three in total. It sounds like an argument.

Cody told his parents at dinner that his friends from school were coming over.

I unlock the door and open it, revealing Cody and two similar-aged boys crowded around a giant board with a glossy white surface. It’s covered in red scribbles. Cody holds a matching red
marker in his hand.

The voices quiet immediately and all three boys turn to look at me.

‘Haven’t you ever heard of knocking?’ Cody asks. I can infer from his tone that he’s angry with me, although I’m not sure why.

‘I have.’

He releases a funny sound from his nose. ‘Then why didn’t you?’

‘I wasn’t aware I was supposed to.’

One of the other boys starts to laugh and then covers his mouth with his hand.

‘Well, you are,’ Cody replies. His tone still has that edge to it. I don’t like the way it makes me feel.

‘Are you angry with me?’ I ask, taking a step towards him, searching his face.

He won’t look me in the eye. ‘No,’ he says, barely audible.

‘You seem angry.’

‘I’m not. What do you want?’

I look to the other boys, wondering if I can trust them with what I’m about to ask. Wondering if I can even trust Cody. But right now he’s my only option. I would go to Heather and
Scott, but something tells me that they wouldn’t grant my request. And that they would ask me for explanations I’m not ready to give yet.

‘I want to go to Los Angeles,’ I finally say. ‘To the airport, specifically.’

Cody laughs but it doesn’t sound genuine. ‘Then ask my parents to take you.’

‘I can’t go with them.’

‘Well, good luck with that.’

I understand the phrase but I’m fairly certain he’s not really wishing me luck. His tone and body language say otherwise. I find the contradiction frustrating.

‘My parents are never going to let you leave this house alone,’ he points out.

‘Yes, I agree. That’s why I’d like you to take me.’

His eyes widen. ‘What? Now?’

‘No,’ I reply. ‘In the morning. Before Heather and Scott wake up.’

‘This girl has lost her mind,’ he says to his friends.

‘Yes,’ I say again. ‘And that’s exactly why I need to go. To see if I can find it.’

They all laugh in unison now but I don’t understand. Did I make a joke? I would hate to have made one without even realizing it. What a waste that would be.

‘So, can you take me?’ I repeat, once their amusement has subsided.

‘No.’ Cody turns his back to me and faces the whiteboard. He continues to write with his red marker.

‘Why not?’

‘Because I’m busy,’ he snaps.

I glance at the whiteboard and review the series of scribbles. On closer inspection, I notice that the board is covered with numbers, letters and mathematical symbols.

‘You’re busy with this?’ I confirm.

He doesn’t look at me. ‘Yes. If we can solve this problem, we start out freshman year with like zillions of extra credit. Not to mention go down in the math hall of fame. And since
school starts in less than two weeks, I don’t exactly have time for clandestine journeys to LA.’

‘So if you solved it, you’d have time,’ I conclude.

He snickers. ‘Yeah, sure. If I solved it, then I’d have time to take you.’

‘Well, what if I helped you solve it?’ I suggest, feeling hopeful.

This makes him laugh again. The two other boys join in. ‘Yeah, because someone like
you
is so likely to solve Goldbach’s Conjecture, a conjecture that hasn’t been
proved or disproved in over two hundred and fifty years. Award-winning mathematicians around the world haven’t been able to solve it, but
you
, the amnesiac supermodel, you
can.’

‘And if I do, you’ll take me to Los Angeles?’

He finally turns back around and looks at me, replacing the cap on his red marker with a loud
click
. ‘Yes.’ He’s smiling now. It’s not the kind of smile I saw on
Heather earlier today. His eyes don’t crinkle. ‘If you can prove or disprove that every even integer greater than two can be expressed as the sum of two primes, then I’ll
personally escort you to Los Angeles.’

I focus on the whiteboard, expanding my field of vision until I can see it all at once. Then I approach and examine each section individually, noticing where the boys started with the original
formula and where they strayed off course. I grab the eraser from the shelf below and wipe out the second half of their markings, eliciting a series of gasps behind me.

‘You c-c-can’t . . .’ I hear one of them stammer. ‘She just erased two hours of work!’

I ignore the protests, pluck the red marker from Cody’s hand, and continue where the proof leaves off. My hand moves fast. Almost faster than I can follow. I don’t remember anything
I’m doing and yet the numbers and symbols that are appearing on the whiteboard in front of me are familiar. Familiar in a way I can’t explain. They don’t come from memory. They
come from somewhere else. I know how to form them like I know how to walk. How to speak. How to count items in a shopping cart.

I’m finished less than a minute later. I step back and examine my work. The entire white space is now filled. I circle the final result. ‘Proved,’ I say.

Cody doesn’t reply. His mouth is hanging open at a funny angle. The other boys have similar expressions on their faces. I interpret them as surprise. I’m surprised as well. Not by
the fact that I could do it. But by the fact that Cody inferred that it was near impossible. It definitely didn’t
feel
impossible.

But I have other things on my mind to think about. Higher priority items on my list of impossibilities.

I hand the marker back to Cody, who is still silent, staring at the whiteboard, his eyes running rapidly across my lines of scribbles, his lips moving as he silently reads what I wrote. If
he’s checking it for errors, he won’t find any.

That much I can be certain of.

It actually feels nice to be certain of something for once.

I make my way back to the bathroom. ‘I think we should leave early tomorrow,’ I tell him. ‘Five a.m.’

Cody nods ever so slightly as I close the door behind me.

It’s still dark outside when we leave the house. I’ve taken
the liberty of borrowing Scott’s baseball cap again to hide my face from view and
I’m dressed in the same clothes I wore yesterday. Heather had planned for us to go shopping today. I guess it will have to wait until I get back.

‘I feel funny,’ I tell Cody as we walk down the road that leads into town, glancing back at the sleeping house.

‘It’s called guilt,’ he says. ‘And I just want you to know that if I get in trouble for this – which I most certainly will – I’m telling them you
kidnapped me.’

‘Kidnap.’
I echo.
‘To abduct by force.’

He makes that strange sound with his nose again. I think it’s called a snort. ‘So she’s a walking dictionary too.’

‘I didn’t force you.’

‘No, you’re right,’ he concedes. ‘You hustled me.’

‘Hustle,’ I say. ‘To be aggressive, especially in business matters.’

‘It also means to con someone out of money. Like at pool.’

I frown. ‘But I didn’t take any money from you.’

‘Never mind,’ he replies quickly, hitching his backpack further up his shoulder. ‘Why don’t you just start by telling me how you proved Goldbach’s
conjecture?’

I shrug. ‘I don’t know.’

‘Well, I don’t believe you. I think you found it on the Web or something.’

‘The Web,’ I repeat with curiosity. ‘Like a spiderweb?’

Cody gives me a strange look. ‘No, the
World Wide
Web. You know, the Internet. You seriously don’t even remember
that
?’

‘I don’t remember anything.’

‘But you can walk and talk and prove unsolvable conjectures.’

I take a deep breath. ‘I guess so.’

The road is silent. And very dark. There are no street lamps like the ones I noticed when we were in town yesterday. But I can see Cody’s face perfectly. His forehead is crumpled and his
lips are twisted to the side.

‘So then how could you not know what the Internet is?’

This is the very thing that frustrates me. ‘I don’t know. I can’t explain it. I know certain words but not others. There doesn’t seem to be a pattern. Or if there is, I
haven’t found it yet.’

Cody glances at me out of the corner of his eye. ‘That’s gotta suck.’ Then, upon noticing my puzzlement, he hastily adds, ‘I mean, that has to be hard.’ He motions
towards my left wrist. ‘And I suppose you don’t remember why you chose to get such a weird tattoo?’

I cover the thin black marking with my other hand, embarrassed by it. ‘No.’

Cody pushes my hand away and leans down to get a closer look. Then his eyes light up. ‘Whoa, I wonder if it’s like a gang symbol or something.’

‘Huh?’

He shakes his head. ‘Nothing.’

‘So what is it?’ I ask.

‘What?’

‘The Internet.’

‘Oh. Right. It’s . . .’ He pauses, wheeling his hand around in a circle. ‘Well, it’s where you find everything.’

The definition intrigues me. ‘Can we go there?’

He laughs. It sounds kinder than the one I heard last night in his bedroom. ‘No, you don’t
go
there. It’s on a computer. Or a phone. Or a mobile device.’ He
reaches into his pocket and pulls out what I now recognize as a cellphone. It lights up at the press of a button and he begins tapping on it.