Age 18
Mesa, Arizona
I catch the wad of paper before it reaches my head, my hand moving before I even have time to process it. I don't understand how I knew it was coming, then again, I don't understand a lot these days. Like sophomore chemistry, which I'm failing, and which I would be failing even if the kids in that class didn't bully me. I did surprise them with the catch though, and now there's even more hushed whispers with me at the center.
I ignore them, focusing on the diagram of molecules on the board. Mrs. Mayer does her best to explain nomenclature and how things are named, but I don't understand how it relates to the circles and lines already on the board, and she looks confused herself. I used to really like science, but my last year of school that I can remember is 7th grade. Don't ask me how I passed the benchmarks to get into sophomore year, because I really don't know. Or maybe I just don't remember. Science has tried very hard to explain me since I got back, yet I still remember nothing. Grandma says it will come, but she gets a strange far away look when she does, like she can only barely remember herself.
The bell rings, cutting Mrs. Mayer short. She didn't finish her lesson, which is fine, because I'll fail the test anyway. For a second, I have a faint feeling of someone chiding me for thinking negatively, but it disappears before I can focus on it.
All the classes I hate, I have in a row: math, chemistry, and everyone's favorite: PE. Yay. I mentally prepare myself in the locker room before opening my locker, changing out the relative safety of my long sleeved shirt and jeans for the creepy fire powers exposing gym clothes. Again, yay. I almost puke when we reach the gym because Coach Van starts handing out papers immediately after pressing play on the PACER test. We have less than thirty seconds to find a partner and line up before that god awful sound sends us off to our doom.
I have never made it more than 20 laps, which is a little below average for any other school, but Desert Mountain Desert High School is a athletics-focused school, so we are going to be here all hour so the four track stars in my class can run their 85-100 laps and over inflate their egos. My partner goes first, tapping out at 25 laps, which I applaud her for, just not out loud because being a legal adult still in high school isn't great for making friends. The highest one in the first group gets to 75 before giving up. There is no escape.
I take my place at the start line, between record holders for the 800m and 400m. The voiceover starts us and I run, wondering how long I can go before it's not shameful to drop out. I try to drown out the beeps, running mindless like the rest of my classmates. I approach what I think is the 20 mark, but I'm not really tired, or even out of breath. I consider stopping, but I feel an urge to keep going. A memory almost… I push myself, hoping it will come to me. I chase after it, going lap after laps but not processing the others dropping out. I can see in my mind dark fog, curling mist, and the outline of a face. Just when I think that I can reach it, everything goes dark. I stop in the middle of a lap, pulled back to the present, realizing I'm the only one still running. I winded, but not finished, I could've easily kept going, except that I'm parched. And glowing. And being stared at.
"How many laps?" Coach Van asks my partner. I just stand there, stunned, trying to take deep breaths and not run out the door in embarrassment.
"174" Coach shrugs, says something about a new record, and the class moves on. I stand there in the middle of the gym, bearing a couple death glares and weird looks before it empties. I follow them out to the hallway, but not out to the field, instead parking it in front of the drinking fountain, alternating between gulping down water and gasping for oxygen.
I try to remember what I had seen, but I can't. I am met with the same mental nothing as when I try to remember anything from the years I'm missing. It's as if whatever happened to cause my amnesia happened again just by thinking about memories I'd lost. There's just nothing.
When Grandma asks how school was, I tell her about chemistry and not understanding it, but nothing else. There's no point in trying to explain the PACER, even when the score shows up in my grades a week later, because there's no explanation for it, except that the kids at school must be right. I'm a freak.