from the doorway where I left him. His eyes track my every footstep. My every move.
I feel my face grow hot with rage. My teeth clench.
I’m angry at him for lying to me. For clearly trying to take advantage of my memory loss, preying on my naivety. And I’m angry at myself for believing him. Even for a second.
‘I think we got some really cute stuff,’ Heather says as she starts the car and reverses out of the parking spot.
‘Yes.’ I stare vacantly out the window, trying to backtrack through all the things he’s told me and discount them one by one.
You were never on that plane. Lie.
Your name is Seraphina. Lie.
I gave you the locket. Lie.
You’re some kind of human science experiment for a company called Diotech.
Even I, the dysfunctional amnesiac, can recognize how ludicrous that sounds.
Heather peers at me. I must be clenching my teeth again because she puts a tender hand on my arm and asks, ‘Did something happen in the dressing room while I was gone?’
I cringe at the memory. ‘No.’
‘Was it those girls?’ She takes a guess. ‘Did they say something to upset you?’
If only it was as simple as that. If only I was a normal human being who couldn’t speak in foreign languages without knowing I was speaking them and solve unsolvable math problems without
remembering how. If only I didn’t have boys following me around, feeding me blatant insulting falsities. Then maybe my only problem would be girls in a dressing room.
But my life is not as simple as Heather would like it to be. I’m learning that far too quickly.
And now I just want her to stop asking questions.
I want to forget the boy and all the inexplicable things that have happened to me.
‘No,’ I assert again. ‘I’m fine. Nothing happened.’
I can sense Heather struggling. She wants to press on and investigate further but she can sense that I’m not willing to talk. I’m grateful when she remains quiet and leaves me
alone.
I feel desolate and lost. Without an identity. Without a home. Without anything.
I don’t know who I am or what I am.
I’m certainly not like those girls in the dressing room.
I’m not like the Carlsons.
And even Cody admitted I’m not like the other girls he knows.
So what am I like? Where do I fit in?
And the question that is truly beginning to plague me: if that boy – the one who calls himself Zen – is really lying, why do all his answers make sense?
As soon as we get home, I go straight to Cody’s room. When I open the door, he’s sitting on his bed reading a magazine.
‘I really have to install a lock on
this
side of the door,’ he mumbles. He’s clearly not happy with me. I suppose I can understand that.
‘I’m . . .’ I fumble with an apology but it’s apparent from the stilted nature of my voice that unlike math problems and foreign languages, apologies are not something
I’m inherently good at. ‘I’m . . . sorry . . . about—’
‘Yeah, yeah,’ he snarls. ‘Save it. What do you want now?’
‘I need your help.’
He snorts. ‘Forget it.’
‘Please, Cody.’
‘In case you haven’t heard,’ he begins, his tone more venomous than I’ve ever heard it, ‘in case you happen to have already
forgotten
the conversation that
happened outside yesterday, I’m grounded. Like for life. All thanks to you. So if you think I’m going to help you again—’
‘I just need to use the Internet,’ I interrupt.
His eyes narrow suspiciously. ‘The Internet?’
‘Yes.’
‘That’s it?’
‘Yes.’
‘You’re not going to ask me to take you to Guam or something.’
‘No.’ I pause, considering. ‘Unless the Internet is better there.’
Cody is silent for a brief moment and then he breaks into laughter. ‘Was that a joke? Did the infamous amnesiac supermodel actually make a
joke
?’
It wasn’t a joke. But I know better than to admit that because whatever I said clearly seems to have lightened his dark mood. So I smile and shrug my
I feel my face grow hot with rage. My teeth clench.
I’m angry at him for lying to me. For clearly trying to take advantage of my memory loss, preying on my naivety. And I’m angry at myself for believing him. Even for a second.
‘I think we got some really cute stuff,’ Heather says as she starts the car and reverses out of the parking spot.
‘Yes.’ I stare vacantly out the window, trying to backtrack through all the things he’s told me and discount them one by one.
You were never on that plane. Lie.
Your name is Seraphina. Lie.
I gave you the locket. Lie.
You’re some kind of human science experiment for a company called Diotech.
Even I, the dysfunctional amnesiac, can recognize how ludicrous that sounds.
Heather peers at me. I must be clenching my teeth again because she puts a tender hand on my arm and asks, ‘Did something happen in the dressing room while I was gone?’
I cringe at the memory. ‘No.’
‘Was it those girls?’ She takes a guess. ‘Did they say something to upset you?’
If only it was as simple as that. If only I was a normal human being who couldn’t speak in foreign languages without knowing I was speaking them and solve unsolvable math problems without
remembering how. If only I didn’t have boys following me around, feeding me blatant insulting falsities. Then maybe my only problem would be girls in a dressing room.
But my life is not as simple as Heather would like it to be. I’m learning that far too quickly.
And now I just want her to stop asking questions.
I want to forget the boy and all the inexplicable things that have happened to me.
‘No,’ I assert again. ‘I’m fine. Nothing happened.’
I can sense Heather struggling. She wants to press on and investigate further but she can sense that I’m not willing to talk. I’m grateful when she remains quiet and leaves me
alone.
I feel desolate and lost. Without an identity. Without a home. Without anything.
I don’t know who I am or what I am.
I’m certainly not like those girls in the dressing room.
I’m not like the Carlsons.
And even Cody admitted I’m not like the other girls he knows.
So what am I like? Where do I fit in?
And the question that is truly beginning to plague me: if that boy – the one who calls himself Zen – is really lying, why do all his answers make sense?
As soon as we get home, I go straight to Cody’s room. When I open the door, he’s sitting on his bed reading a magazine.
‘I really have to install a lock on
this
side of the door,’ he mumbles. He’s clearly not happy with me. I suppose I can understand that.
‘I’m . . .’ I fumble with an apology but it’s apparent from the stilted nature of my voice that unlike math problems and foreign languages, apologies are not something
I’m inherently good at. ‘I’m . . . sorry . . . about—’
‘Yeah, yeah,’ he snarls. ‘Save it. What do you want now?’
‘I need your help.’
He snorts. ‘Forget it.’
‘Please, Cody.’
‘In case you haven’t heard,’ he begins, his tone more venomous than I’ve ever heard it, ‘in case you happen to have already
forgotten
the conversation that
happened outside yesterday, I’m grounded. Like for life. All thanks to you. So if you think I’m going to help you again—’
‘I just need to use the Internet,’ I interrupt.
His eyes narrow suspiciously. ‘The Internet?’
‘Yes.’
‘That’s it?’
‘Yes.’
‘You’re not going to ask me to take you to Guam or something.’
‘No.’ I pause, considering. ‘Unless the Internet is better there.’
Cody is silent for a brief moment and then he breaks into laughter. ‘Was that a joke? Did the infamous amnesiac supermodel actually make a
joke
?’
It wasn’t a joke. But I know better than to admit that because whatever I said clearly seems to have lightened his dark mood. So I smile and shrug my
Similar Books
