Chapter 4-The Boy Who Remembered

I sip in the day beneath the framework of a glass microscope. I am a slave to the will of the sun. I am a slave until I say it is over. I'm not sure how it happened first, but I know I can't leave any other way than the one I've chosen.

I take an empty seat in my History of Magic class at the very front. If I don't, Binns will never call on me. If you take enough care to wonder, you notice I go to all my classes twice. Why, you ask? Well, the main reason is the scariest one: my reality is warped. When I open my eyes in the dream, I look at my hands, hear the birds, bite my tongue, and it all looks, sounds, and feels the same as it always does. I know when I wake up for real that it was my vision. Every time I come back to reality, I know for sure that this is the real world I live in, but when I'm in the dream…I never know. It's hard for even me to wrap my mind around. When I walk in that illusionary state of mind, separated from the world by the sun, I look around and wonder if it's real or not even though I know I wouldn't be wondering that if I were really awake. I just can't process the reality that when I really do wake up, I'm wide-eyed as a captured rabbit and breathing like a fish out of water. It's just not there. I've tried to wrap my mind around it, but somehow, I'm impaired. It is exactly like a dream. And I have yet to go lucid. When I get up after coughing and sputtering, I sigh and know it was all a vision and I can change that reality. When I get up under the sun's watchful eye, within that separate plane of time, I have no idea. That is what truly scares me. Because if I don't know if I'm dreaming in the vision, who's to say that I'm not truly dreaming when I think I'm awake?

I sit in my usual spot, but Jeremy doesn't come. Instead, Leo does. I find this odd considering I know he enjoys socializing and sleeping in the back of the classroom. I watch him take out his books, set them on the desk, and look over at me. "Are you staring at me?"

I'm taken aback by the comment. No one ever notices when I do something odd, or at least I never thought so. "Err, I was wondering why Jeremy isn't here," I answer truthfully.

"He decided to switch spots with me for the day to get his homework done."

I nod, eyeing him for a moment as I take my notes out and set them on the desk. I find Professor Binns to be a bore just as much as the next girl, but this class is really quite easy if you can navigate Binn's relentless talking and filter out the relevant information. The OWLs were a breeze last year.

"So, how are you today…Pocahontas?" he smiles.

"Oh, that's spread around, has it? I'm not sure what it means." Truly, I'm perplexed. He must've just been speaking with Frieda recently.

"I'm Leo," he says genially, opening a book.

"Oh, I know," I tell him, copying the action. "I enjoy your quips when you announce the Quiddich games. I'm Carina."

"Carina," he says, tasting my name in his mouth. I know it is bitter on the tongue, so he will spit it out soon. "So, we've never really talked."

"Perhaps we have and you just don't recall," I say playfully. Truly, we haven't spoken before. When I look at Leo, I see a wish somebody made on a shooting star walking on Earth. I stay away from those kinds of people for I know he's the type to chisel out cubes of the sky and press them deep into his chest so when the darkness finally burns away, there is fire beneath so bright; it can be seen by civilizations thousands of celestial units away.

Leo smiles crookedly at this and turns himself to face me. "I'm sure I would have remembered a girl like you," he returns, obviously just trying to flatter me. I do not smile. I am not amused. The joke is on him. He just doesn't know it. I turn and open my book without a word. He must be like Frieda, I think. He's patient enough to remember me. I have only met a few people like her, the others adults and none of them male, so this is an interesting situation for me. But still…Frieda never acts this interested. It's peculiar. Even after class starts, I can feel his eyes twitch over to me time after time. Take a picture. It'll last longer. That's what Frieda always says.

I write frivolously, copying down every word of the professor's banter. It isn't that I find him particularly interesting or that I can't simply take shorter notes, but my page is the only thing keeping me from staring back at him, wondering what he wants. I think it will go away and I can live in peace again. I am wrong.

History of Magic is my last class of the day, so I leave my things and shoes in the grass and walk in the breeze until my toes get cold. I am surprised to see Leo walking past. Did he follow me?

"Oh, hey," he says. "Carina, right?"

I do not respond. No one remembers my name. Somehow he has. I stare at him vacantly.

"Um, right, well, I was just going to walk down to the lake. Get my feet wet."

"It's quite cold," I warn him. "Don't let Jack Frost nip you."

"Ah…err. I was kind of asking there if you wanted to walk with me."

"Ah, I see. And why?"

"Why?"

"For what purpose shall I impart your presence for so long a time?"

"Ah…good company?"

I pause. "I see. Very well, then. The lake does beckon quite fondly in its serenity."

"Mmm," he says, tilting his eyes in a way that makes me think he regrets asking for my company. We walk down for a bit and I enjoy the wind pulling its fingers through my hair, snarling it like the anti-brush it is. The air smells dry, cold so early in the season. He doesn't say anything, but I know he wants something, so I start.

"So have you started the first issue of your newspaper?"

"You know about that?"

"Sure I know."

"I suppose you heard on the train."

My eyes flash. He remembered that? This was wrong. My fists felt cold. I released them. I didn't like this.

"I did," I admitted. "How goes the news?"

"It's a bust, unfortunately. The Longbottom's not into the idea, and if anyone was to like it, it would've been him, same with the others I asked."

"That is a shame. I hoped to absorb some of your brain through the bits of it you scratched out for all to see. I quite admire how you can do that, you know."

"What?"

I stopped. I'm usually good with words, but I can't seem to find them here. I gesticulate a bit, hoping to draw letters from the air for use.

"I admire how you can…be seen so elegantly."

"Oh. Thanks."

"Did he say the problem? Longbottom, I mean."

"Well, paper, people, authority. The usual road blocks."

"You're giving up," I tell him as if it's a fact and not a question, but he doesn't treat it that way.

"No. Not yet, anyway."

"You shouldn't," I say. "If you want something, take it. You're a forward man. You don't sidestep problems or dance around what you want. You'd know the call if it was whispered to everyone but yourself."

He doesn't say anything. I often say nothing with blankness in mind, but I know he's thinking hard.

"So why did you wish to talk with me?" I ask. His game is growing irksome. He should say what he means. I go to bed strictly at sunset and do not have time for this.

"I, um, heard Frieda talking fondly of you and thought I might strike up a conversation. See why she calls you Pocahontas." Liar. Frieda would never mention me in anything other than passing. What is it you really want?

"Frieda hates ignorance," I tell him. "Almost as much as you hate your mother." He stops where he is walking and I follow suit, taking a step back with my left foot to look behind me at the boy. I realize what I've done. I remembered his words on the train. They intrigued me at first, but what I've said isn't funny. I've grown impatient with my own mother. I let her slip from my tongue. Am I thinking of her without knowing it now? I can still see her face, smiling with locks black as the night braided down to her scalp. She was beautiful with a smile so white; it outshined any other part of her face. I'm embarrassed to have said it. I'm determined to stay in control for the sake of my pride and continue in deadpan. "Oh, I'm sorry," I tell him. "I meant girls. You do hate girls, don't you?"

He stands there, looking me over. "How well do you know me?" he asks.

"No relationship is defined on how well one person knows the other, only on how the two parties know each other equally. So, in such a case as this, I know you very well, but I understand you very little."

"But I don't know you," he responds, falling into my lap.

I walk slowly over to him, enjoying the tickling sensation of the grass between my toes. "You know me better than you think," I tell him, watching his wispy, brittle blonde hair swish in the breeze. I pause in front of him. I was going to say something mellow and confusing, yet meaningful, but decide against it. I can't think of a good explanation for my opinion anyway and as long as we're here…

"Why do you hate you mother?" I ask him. But as he opens his mouth, I realize I was right on the mark. I realize even more, I don't want to know. The very thought of having such information makes my head sear and stomach churn like rusted bits of metal are stuck in there. My bones might crack and crumble and deteriorate until there's but sand circulating through a pile of flesh on the bare ground.

To stop him, I throw myself into his embrace. "No, don't tell me!" I command, wrapping my arms around his neck. He says nothing. "Not here," I say, the words slipping from my mouth. Such a big mouth it is! I sigh and bite my thumb so pain temporarily fuses with the thick skin.

I open my eyes to the sunrise fading.