I don't remember Austin Moon.
I don't remember him at all. I can't put a face to the name, I don't recall any experiences with him ever. But according to him and to my dad and to Trish and to my teachers, we were really close before the accident. Super close. And I don't remember.
A few months after the accident, he moved away. I was secretly relieved, because this blonde little boy who always left my company crying kept trying to tell me we were best friends.
"Trish is my best friend," I'd tell him defensively.
He kept telling me we wrote music together.
"I don't share my music with anyone," I'd tell him.
He told me he always had a crush on me.
"I don't even know you," I'd tell him.
And every day, he would leave my home at either my mother's or father's request and for a moment I would feel bad, because I don't like people crying.
But I just don't know him. Not anymore.
So he moved away, my mom told me. He begged his mom to move him and his parents moved their business to Jacksonville. His mother, Mimi keeps in touch with my mom and they discuss us kids together. She tried to hide it at first so it didn't scare me, but I don't care anymore. I feel bad because they were great friends before, and now my mom is in Africa and Austin's mom is in Jacksonville. I bet she doesn't even know my mom is gone.
It's been four years since they moved. I live with my dad now, and I help him run the music store, where he gives me piano lessons after it closes so I can hopefully learn to play as well as I used to.
Today after school, I make for Sonic Boom on the earliest bus and make it to the mall in less than ten minutes. I take my time through the mall since my dad never minds me being late, and I take in the happy families, something I miss having. My parents still talk and are on good terms, but they aren't married anymore. They're married to their work.
I see Mini's and smile sadly as I find the bright little table where I sat with my little cone in grade three.
I see Billl's Surfboard Shack and I think about how I'd love to learn to surf, but my dad is far too clumsy for anything other than swimming.
I make it to Sonic Boom, and there are many customers, kind of odd for a Thursday. I remember that we got in a new supply of electric guitars today and I'm not longer surprised. I jog upstairs to the practise room and drop my backpack and pull a soda out of the mini fridge for a quick drink. He smiles as I bounce down the stairs and to his side, giving him a peck on the cheek. I relieve him from his cashier duties and I take his place, skimming through a magazine idly, waiting for customers.
Not one hour in to my shift, Trish barrels in. "Guess who got at Roy's Roller Rink?" she exclaims. She rolls in and almost hits the counter. "I hate this job," she mutters. "I have to teach little kids how to skate! I don't know how to skate?!"
I giggle. "Don't worry, Trish, you'll have a new job tomorrow," I tease.
"Tomorrow? Um, no. There's no way I'm lasting a whole day." I roll my eyes playfully. That's something else I remember – Trish's tendency to get a new job almost every day. She has serious commitment issues – even at 12 years old.
"When's your break?" she asks me.
"Twenty minutes," I reply.
"Shoot," she says. "I have to go back..." She checks her watch. "Fifteen minutes ago. Oh. See ya!" And she runs off.
For the next twenty minutes, I engross myself in an article about how to do the perfect lazy bun, and when my dad comes to let me go on my break, I run upstairs and jump at the piano. For a minute, i mess around with trying to familiarize myself with the keys – an exercise my dad taught me after the accident – and then I begin to play piece I found in my room three years ago.
At first it's tricky, but I find a rhythm in the music and I thrive on it. About a minute in to the song, I stop. I mess up the key, sighing. I sit there in silence for a moment and hear my dad's voice downstairs. He's arguing, presumably with a customer, so I close the door a little further to block out the noise. I start to tidy up the practise room and sing the song to myself. "I like the bass when it booms, you like the high-end treble. I'm like the 99th floor and you're cool on street level," I sing softly to myself. "I like the crowd rock, rock, rock, rockin' it loud, you like the sound of hush hush-"
"Hey, keep it down," a voice says. I jump, and turn to the noise, almost dropping my papers. The boy, blonde and happy, grins. He steps forward a little. "Sorry, didn't mean to scare you." I say nothing. He continues. "You sing beautifully."
"Thanks," I mumble, tucking a strand of hair back behind my ear. "Can I help you?"
He shrugs. "Nope, just came to see what was up here."
"Do you often invite yourself in to places you don't know?"
"Sometimes." He nods to the piano. "Do you play?" He grazes his hand along the wood. I nod. "It's old."
"It's nice," I say defensively.
"No, it is," he assures me. "Play me something."
"I don't know you," I say, confused as to why this stranger was still in my practise room.
His smile falters briefly but he shrugs again. "How can I know if you don't give me the chance?" He looks at the seat, silently urging me to sit.
I find myself listening, and I sit down, straightening my skirt. I hesitate, but I play anyway, the song from earlier making a reappearance. I don't sing, just play, the chords coming easily. He leans down on the piano, watching, and I know I should feel uncomfortable. I don't. At the part from before, I screw up again. And I sigh. "I-I..." I stutter. "I can never get that part." I run my fingers through my hair and take a deep breath.
He comes around to my side of the piano and leans in to see the music. He hums it to himself and gently takes my hand and brings my finger to the keys. "So it goes, hmm, hmm, hm, hmm," he shows me. I smile as I follow his instruction on my own and nail it. "You have a beautiful smile," he says to me.
My cheeks immediately redden and stand up quickly to move, but I crash my knee in to the piano leg and yelp. He catches me as I trip and I grip my knee, scowling. He doesn't let me go until he sits me back on the bench. He lifts the edge of my skirt slightly to get a better look at the forming bruise. I sigh again. He turns my leg carefully and bends it. "Does it hurt?"
"Just the surface. I'm usually not that clumsy," I complain.
"You'll be fine," he finalizes. He offers his hand to pull me up.
"Thanks. I feel like I'm twelve years old again," I say.
"Why?"
"I was sort of... in an accident," I explain. "My parents and I were hit in a car crash."
"I know about that," he says softly. He brings a hand up to a scar on my face and lightly brushes it. "That's how you got this."
"How do you know about that?" I ask, suddenly afraid. He says nothing. "Who are you?" I ask, staring up at him. His eyes look almost golden brown in the light and I swallow.
He looks down and away. "We've met before. Before your accident."
"What?"
"I visited the hospital every day while you were there. It killed me seeing you so beat up." He looks like he's going to cry for a moment, but it passes.
"What's your name?" I whisper, my voice breaking. I want to know, but somewhere in the back of my mind it's warning me. Telling me to back off. I push anyway.
"Austin Moon."