Mixed Up, page 7
Portia bounces too, throwing out her arms to maintain a precarious balance. Watching her triggers another memory I’ve got no business having. Her arms are swaying, only she’s not surrounded by boxes. She’s dancing, a balloon in each hand. Holding back her long fair hair is a costume tiara, with the words HAPPY BIRTHDAY spelled out in sequins.
As she gyrates, one hand comes up to suppress a cough. In that instant, my happy recollection plummets into the depths of despair. Cold misery comes down on me like it’s poured from the sky, and I’m trembling, even though I can’t explain why.
When we get to Saint Basil’s, I’m no use to anybody. While the others unload the truck, I’m in the churchyard, on my knees, dry-heaving into the bushes.
What is it about that memory that took me from having a good time and sank me to a place so awful that I’m physically sick? Portia dancing? What’s so bad about that?
The bike ride home from Breezeway is always longer than the ride there. It’s the same 4.6 miles. But by then, it’s late rush hour, getting darker every day, and I’m sharing the road with more cars, who would like nothing better than to blast a cyclist into the ditch.
On Wednesdays, I skip dinner and go straight to Dr. Abagnale. She welcomes me the same as before, but with a look on her face like she smells something nasty. She probably does—me after all that pedaling.
By the time I make it home, I’m starving. Mom has a new line: “The kitchen is closed.” I’m okay to make myself a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, but that’s where the menu ends. She’s trying to convince me to keep more regular hours, and I can’t explain to her why that’s not going to happen. These days, my gardening takes place in the dark, by flashlight, when you can’t tell a weed from a vegetable, and it’s barely possible to notice if Jaws has been snacking on my plants again. The green beans look a little nibbled, but I won’t be sure until I see them in daylight.
My parents know that I’m volunteering at Neighborhood Harvest, but not that I’m doing it at the Breezeway branch on the south side. I don’t tell anybody—especially not Dr. Abagnale—about Portia and why I have to spend so much time with her.
To be honest, if Portia went to my school, I don’t think she’d ever choose to be friends with somebody like me. She’s just too popular and out of my league. But at Delgado, I have a couple of advantages. First of all, I’m a stranger. Nobody knows me, so I might be cool. Second, and even more important, I have secret scouting on Portia via those memories that aren’t mine but seem to be real. Like Neighborhood Harvest—I never could have hit it off with her in the first place if I didn’t “remember” that she’s a volunteer. When I said I was one too, that instantly gave us something big in common.
Example: I have a clear picture in my mind of her out in the neighborhood around Delgado walking a large German shepherd. So whenever we see a dog, I go into a long speech about what an animal lover I am, and how I’d take big dogs over little yappy ones any day. In another memory, she’s mourning over a geometry quiz she flunked. So I’ve been brushing up on math, so I can help her with it. I have to do that anyway, since I have math in ninth period—the class I miss a lot in order to get to Portia.
If only I knew where these memories are coming from …
Even though I’m not telling anybody about my trips to Breezeway, I almost wish Dad could see me when I’m here. My life with the Delgado kids is a lot closer to the one he wants me to have than the one I’m actually living at home and my own school. I’m a man about town in Breezeway—at least, I go everywhere Portia does: Fro-Yo Joe’s, Dunkin’ Donuts, the bookshop, the convenience store. I even have a nickname among some of the guys. They call me Basket Case because of the basket on my bike. The old Theo would probably take that personally, but here, it’s kind of my trademark. I don’t have a trademark in my real life.
When you hang out with the most popular girl in school, some of the popularity rubs off on you. Also, I’m not shy here. I can’t afford to be. If Portia gets bored with me, there goes my only lead to understanding what’s happening to me.
I always assumed I was shy because it was in my DNA or something. Who would have thought it was something I could change like my underwear?
I’ve got serious reasons for coming to Breezeway, but I have to admit it’s fun to play at being someone you’re not. And if I blow it here, I can always go back to being the real me.
One afternoon, Portia shows up at Fro-Yo Joe’s with a scrape on her cheek. “Kickball injury,” she explains, half sheepish, half proud. “I slid into second on my face. Safe.”
“High-stakes game,” I comment.
“The highest—bragging rights. The whole seventh grade is in on it.” She rattles off a list of names, most of them the kids who’ve dubbed me Basket Case. “And Reef,” she finishes, turning suddenly melancholy. “He used to play. You know … before.”
Reef. It’s an unusual name, but for some reason, it rings a bell with me.
“Who’s Reef?” I ask.
Portia’s eyes grow shadowed. “It’s the saddest story you ever heard. This kid—his mom died of Covid last year. She was so nice. She worked at the bank over on Willow Street.”
The memory slams into my head like a blow from a sledgehammer. I know that bank! I stood across the street and remembered a lady sitting in that glassed-in office! The sight of her almost made me cry! Was that the same mom … the one who died?
Portia is still talking about this kid Reef. “He had no dad, no grandparents, no family. His mother’s friend took him in, so he’s got a place to live. But you can tell he’s totally miserable.”
“I want to meet him!” I blurt.
Both her eyebrows go up. “That’s not such a good idea. We used to be friends. He even came to my birthday party. But after it happened, he shut everybody out. Not that I’m blaming him. What the poor guy’s been through—it’s unbelievable!”
I can’t let the subject drop. I’ve been so positive that Portia is the connection to the answers I’ve been searching for. Could it be this kid Reef?
“Maybe he’s weird around you guys because you knew him when his whole life fell apart,” I reason. “I’m new here. He might talk to me even if he can’t open up to you.”
“I guess.” She doesn’t sound convinced. “He doesn’t like me very much anymore. Whenever he sees me, he heads in the opposite direction.” It really seems to bother her. When you’re Portia and everybody flocks to you, it’s hard to understand rejection.
“I’ll come early tomorrow,” I promise. “Meet me in front of the school and you can point him out as he leaves.”
A frown creases that perfect forehead. She’s probably wondering why I’m suddenly so obsessed with this one kid. I can’t explain it to her; I can barely explain it to myself. But I feel like I’m close. I can’t let this get away from me.
“Okay,” she finally agrees.
I spend the whole next day in a state of anxiety.
“Someone’s excited this morning,” Mom observes at breakfast.
“No, it’s just another day!” Even my voice is squeaky. “Why excited? What makes you think I’m excited?”
Kristi laughs in my face. “Well, for one thing, you got more cereal on the place mat than in your mouth.”
Even Jaws seems to catch an aura off me. As I start down the front walk, he backs out of the flower bed and watches me with his head tilted quizzically to the side, as if he too notices something different about me today.
“I’m not excited!” I throw him a dirty look as I head to the garage to get my bike.
Halfway through eighth period, I sneak out of school. I can’t take the chance that I might not get to Delgado in time to meet up with Portia and intercept Reef at dismissal.
Wouldn’t you know it—there’s construction on the Thirteenth Street Bridge, and I have to go around the long way. When I have a near miss with a cement truck, my first thought is not I almost got killed. It’s What if I’m late today of all days? That’s how wound up I am.
Delgado’s distant bell sounds just as I wheel around the corner and the white cupola comes into view. I raise myself off the seat, putting my full weight into pedaling the last block. I stash my bike and sprint for the front steps.
There’s an art to middle school dismissal. Never stand right in front of the exit unless you want to get trampled—especially if the eighth graders come out first. The smart move is to back off and let the initial stampede pass.
True to her word, Portia is one of the first ones out of the building.
“Did I miss him?” I ask anxiously.
She shakes her head. “The seventh-grade wing is toward the back. He’s not out yet.”
The flow of people is like striking oil—a gusher at first, but eventually, it slows to a trickle. Portia stands beside me, scanning the emerging faces.
“That’s him.”
She doesn’t need to say it. When Reef appears, I know exactly who he is. He’s the kid I saw that first day peering in the window of Fro-Yo Joe’s—the one from my memory of looking in the mirror.
No wonder Portia thinks of him as “that poor kid.” Even from a distance, you can see that he’s suffering. There’s a grimness to him, a tension. His shoulders are being held too high, like he can’t relax. A thin line surrounds his mouth, indicating that his jaw is clenched. The kids around him are socializing, laughing, chattering, but he doesn’t seem to notice any of it. He talks to nobody, his eyes downcast.
Maybe I recognize him so easily because I’ve felt that sadness—his sadness. In a dizzying rush, I return to my vision of the sick woman in the hospital bed. His mother? Yeah—I have no trouble believing that’s the kind of devastation you feel when someone you love is dying.
Which still doesn’t explain why I would experience his memories.
“Reef—” Portia begins tentatively.
His response, almost automatic, is “Oh, hi. Gotta run—”
But he doesn’t run—and not because of Portia either. He freezes when he catches sight of me.
“I’m Theo,” I say aloud.
“I—I know.”
He recognizes me—just like I recognize him!
What’s going on?
This can’t be happening!
I must have thought that to myself a hundred times when Mom was sick. But this is the first time the thought is racing through my head because I’m looking at something absolutely, positively, one hundred percent impossible.
This kid—Theo—the one they call Basket Case—I’ve seen him before. And not just hanging around Portia. He’s in my memories. But here’s where it goes off the chain: I don’t remember him so much as … I am him.
All that gardening I know I’ve never done—every now and then I’ll catch a glimpse of my reflection in a window. It should be my face, but it isn’t.
Fact is, I’m looking at that face right now.
Portia sticks herself into the odd standoff between the two of us. “You guys know each other?”
“No,” we reply at the same time. Then, also at the same time, “I mean—” We both fall silent again.
“This is weird,” Portia concludes, studying our expressions. “You get that you’re acting weird, right?”
Weird isn’t the half of it! How often do you run into a face you remember from your own reflection?
I take a flying leap. “Is there any chance that you have … a rabbit?”
Theo seems astounded. “You know Jaws?”
I think of those gigantic square teeth sticking out of that tiny furry face, and a short laugh is torn from my throat. “Jaws—right!”
“We have to talk,” Theo says urgently.
“Definitely,” I agree.
And we’re actually starting to walk away when we realize that Portia is still standing there, staring at us.
“Catch you later?” Theo offers, looking torn. Maybe he thinks he’s putting his potential boyfriend status at risk.
“Don’t worry about me,” she says sarcastically. “I love being ignored.”
But it doesn’t take long for her to fall in with a group heading to Fro-Yo Joe’s. That leaves me alone with Basket Case. We wander to a picnic table on the school grounds and sit down, facing one another.
“Listen,” I tell him. “Why are you here? I mean—I think I know. But I need to hear it from you first.”
Theo pauses for a long time. I think he’s planning out what he’s going to say. Believe me, I can relate. If he’s going through anything like what I am, finding the right words to describe it could take years.
At last, he begins, “There are things I remember that I know for a fact never happened to me.”
“Me too!” I jump in breathlessly.
“But it’s more than just my mind playing tricks,” Theo goes on. “The memories feel real. They’re just not mine. Are they yours?”
I’m surprised, but a split second later, I realize I shouldn’t be. My own “fake” memories—they’re not random images that somehow found their way into my head. They’re from the real life of another person—a kid who likes gardening, and goes to a karate class, and knows a rabbit named Jaws. A kid whose mom took him to the penguin exhibit when he was a little kid. A kid named Theo.
“You’re the gardener, right?” I ask. “And that’s your dad who’s always pushing you to be tougher?”
He looks embarrassed. “He’s not a bad guy. He wants what’s best for me. But it has to be what he thinks is best.”
“Because”—a phrase pops into my head—“he ruled the school.”
Theo looks shocked for a moment and then breaks into a nervous laugh. “You really are the right guy. Makes sense, I guess. If I’ve got your memories, why shouldn’t you have mine?”
“Is this, like, a disease?” I wonder. “We both got sick, and now our brains are … switching heads?”
“Not our brains. I’m still me and you’re still you. But I remember your life like I’m the guy who lived it. And vice versa.”
“And it’s happening because … ?”
Theo shakes his head. “No clue. But we’re not wrong about this. We’re not imagining it, we’re not hallucinating, and we’re not confused. When I tried to explain what I was seeing to my mom, she sent me to a psychiatrist!”
“I should be grateful I don’t talk to anybody at home,” I put in.
“The point is,” he goes on, “we have to back each other up, because we’re the only ones who can. Anybody else we try to tell will think we’re either lying or totally bananas.”
I wish he wasn’t right, but I already know he is. I picture myself trying to explain this to Willis or Jenna. They’d figure that I lost my mind, collapsing under all the stress after Mom died. If a kid with two parents got sent to see a shrink, I wonder what would happen to somebody like me. Whatever it is, Declan would enjoy it, that’s for sure. He’d probably set up a chair on the lawn so he could watch me being taken away by the guys in the white coats.
I lean back on the wooden bench and sigh. “So what happens now? We both agree this is real. What do we do about it?”
His face falls. “I never thought about it beyond finding you. I have no idea what comes next.”
Disappointment washes over me. So there it is. Not that I thought we could press a magic button and all this would be fixed. But when Theo tracked me down out of an entire city, sue me for hoping he’d have more to offer than “I have no idea.”
“I was afraid you’d say something like that. Come to think of it, how did you find me? There must be thousands of kids just like me in this town.”
“I used your memories. First the school.” He points. “That cupola. And when I came here to check it out, I knew Portia because you did. So I made friends with her, figuring she could lead me to you.”
Have to smile at that. “A lot of guys in this school would be really relieved to know that. They think you’re hitting on the most popular girl at Delgado.” My grin fades in a hurry. If Theo recognized Portia from my memories—well, my memories of Portia tell the story of the worst thing that ever happened in my life.
I fold my arms over my chest. “So you have my memories. Like what?”
He looks away from me. “I know you’ve had a rough time. I know you lost your mom and I know you don’t love the place where you’re living. I know you share a room with a guy who treats you pretty rotten …”
My jaw is stiffening. What other memories has Basket Case been eavesdropping on? Maybe the one where I got Covid at Portia’s party and passed it on to my mother. Does this stranger know how Mom would still be alive if I hadn’t been such a jerk about that one stupid thing?
Theo is still speaking. “I know it was just you and your mom and the two of you were really close. I know she worked in that bank near the school. I know she must have been a great mom, because she had a special smile just for looking at you.”
My temper rises up the back of my throat. I don’t even remember that smile, and he does?
It hits me: If Theo has access to my memories, how can he remember what I can’t? The answer is so obvious: He’s not sharing my memories; he’s stealing them. The reason I can’t call up an image of my mother is because he’s taken them away!
I leap to my feet. “You remember my mother’s smile, huh? Did you ever think about how that works?” He gives me a blank look. “When you remember that smile, you claim it for yourself. So I hope you’re satisfied, because I can’t see it anymore!”
Theo is horrified. “I didn’t know! I mean—why would that happen? Am I losing my memories to you?”
“What do you care?” I snap, my tone bitter. “If you forget your petunias, you can plant new ones—” I deliberately cut myself off. I was about to say But you only get one mother! I don’t think I could have made it through that without my voice cracking.
He stands up too. “I’m not doing anything! Not on purpose! The memories just come to me! Honest!”
