Forgotten (2 page)

With the spoon safely lodged in my
mouth, I navigated my way to the leather sofa with my hand extended
in front of me so I wouldn’t accidently bump into anything. Max
vigilantly herded me around five loads worth of laundry piled in
the living room. Tide’s spring scent filled the house, making it
feel as if winter just ended instead of fall’s beginning. Plopping
down on the couch, I dug into the ice cream for another savory
bite.

The school’s policy allowed for my
pooch to join me in my eight hours of suffering. But a particularly
horrific episode where I forgot to give him enough potty-breaks,
cut his guide dog career short. Wiping up urine while the other
students filed around was humiliating enough to avoid at all costs.
Max lay on my feet, keeping watch for potential witnesses of my
brief anxiety attack; I quietly ate all the evidence before it
melted.

On the last satisfying bite my cell
rang. Max went berserk. He barked adamantly until I silenced the
ring by answering the call. He wagged his tail like he believed
that the phone wouldn’t have stopped making noise without his help.
I held the cell up to my ear. The obnoxious shrill of Bree’s
off-key voice blasted through the tiny speakers on my phone… She
was in denial about being America’s next biggest singing
sensation.

“
Bree, you butt dialed me!”
I said, several times. When a break in the lyrics allowed, she
informed me that she was kidnapping me in “t-minus five minutes.” I
flipped my phone shut, sighed, and rested my head on
Max’s.

“
Bree is going to steal me
away from you,” I said, scratching him behind the ears before
standing up to get ready.

After burying the empty ice cream
container under a few other pieces of trash in the garbage, I
walked up the stairs to my room. All twenty-eight steps had an
article of clothing thrown on them. It was a testament to my
Martha’s ability to keep up with laundry. Safely inside my room, I
sighed with relief. In the entire world, my bedroom was my only
sanctuary. I slipped out of my navy blue-buttoned shirt and hung it
in my closet. The shirts on the far right were colored shades of
blue until they reached the divider, then they changed to green and
so on, with the color wheel. Thumbing through the first eight
shirts from the left hand side, I chose a long-sleeved top that
felt like Martha remembered to use fabric softener.

I smoothed it flat and glanced in the
mirror above my dresser, even though I’d never seen my reflection.
My optometrist dubbed my blindness an unfortunate side-effect of
watching my family being murdered in front of me. Never mind that I
was only a little older than one at the time, and couldn’t commit
to memory the events from that night, but it was enough to cause
physiological problems. I was sentenced to a life of blindness. At
least it was better than the fate my family received.

My doctor stated my corneas, irises
and pupils were operating perfectly, and there was no long term
damage to their nerve endings, which put me on the bottom of all
eye transplants. Even if I had the green to cover the costs, no
doctor would replace my “perfectly good eyes” for a working
pair.

My sight was comparable to wearing
night vision goggles, which left me up a creek in determining
color, depth, and definition. The only reason I had a clue about
what visual characteristics looked like was because I saw them in
my visions. My visions revealed a world of colorful beauty, but in
reality, people and animals appeared as dull, gray
shadows.

With enough light I could get a
general idea of my surroundings. In well lit areas, everything
became sharper but not enough for me to ditch my walking stick. For
all intents and purposes, Bree named my walking stick ‘Stella.’ To
her, all cars, boats, and canes should be given a distinguished
name. I found the name juvenile, but like most nicknames, it
stuck.

I slipped the long-sleeved shirt on
and slid my thumb through the holes in the sleeves. The wood floor
creaked under my weight as I walked to my dresser. I folded my
khakis and exchanged them for a pair of stone-washed jeans. Bree
assured me they were in style when she gave them to me a few months
ago.

I jumped a little when Max started
barking like someone stole his favorite squeak- toy. Bree barged
into my room shortly after.

“
I scribbled a note for
your fosters,” she said, referring to my foster parents. She leaned
against the wall next to my outside window. Her mudded dark shadow,
offset the lighter images the objects made in my sight. “I fed Max
a Milk-Bone because he gave me those puppy dog eyes.”

“
So where are we off to
tonight?” I asked, as I finished getting dressed.

“
Well, Ryker told me
Strikers is hosting a special tonight – two for one kicks. You want
to be my second pair?”

“
Wouldn’t Ryker make the
most sense to be your date, instead of me?” I asked, skimming the
surface of the dresser’s polished wood. The brush’s teeth pricked
my fingers. The brush appeared soft gray, just like every other
inanimate object in my vision. Taking the pony-tail out, I ran it
through my half dried hair.

“
You’re going to give
yourself split-ends yanking at your hair like that!” Bree warned,
pushing off the wall. On the down-stroke, she grabbed my hand and
pried my brush from my fingers. “Blonds show splits much more than
brunettes like me.”

“
Lucky you,” I
said.

“
Quit smiling like this was
your plan all along. You know I can’t stand the sound of you
shredding your hair.”

“
If I had your curls, I
wouldn’t look like I just walked through a hurricane, and then I
wouldn’t have to worry about looking like a train-wreck,” I said,
knowing the general appearance of her shadow, since she had allowed
me to feel her face and hair years ago.

“
Like you’d use the
products needed to make my locks look fabulous,” Bree
said.

“
I might.”

“
Right, so why is there
dust taking up permanent residency on the hair gel I gave you last
spring?”

I sighed, “You know I hate
your so-called
donations.
”

“
Liar. You’d freak and
shave your head if I wasn’t around to doll ya up.”

“
You caught me red-handed,”
I said sarcastically, and brought my hands up in the air as if to
say ‘I surrender.’

“
You know you look amazing
when you let me do your hair and make-up. But no, instead you run
around like the natural look is what boys want to see nowadays. I
swear you’re terrified to be pretty,” she said, fussing with my
hair long enough to make it lay flat across the middle of my back.
“That’s your plan, isn’t it – to hide behind this mess of hair?
Heaven forbid you actually
talk
to a guy.”

“
Boys carry all sorts of
diseases, duh. Remember the great cootie infection of
middle-school?”

Bree snorted. I envisioned her rolling
her eyes. I heard her dig through a small bowl where I kept my
bobby-pins. She pulled half my hair back; I never said a word. It
was a fight we repeated too many times to count. I’d eventually
give in and regret bringing “appearances” up. They didn’t matter;
why should they? I couldn’t see. Nevertheless, I knew she was
looking out for me in her own way.

“
So do you want to hang out
at Strikers, or what?”

“
I’m guessing your mom
wouldn’t let you out on a weeknight until you promised it was just
a girl’s night?”

“
At least you get to do
something other than fold a mountain of sheets. There are enough
laundry baskets in your living room that it looks like an obstacle
course. Mrs. T went a little bonkers, huh?”

“
Martha opened the linen
closet and freaked out when she saw a mouse,” I admitted. I loved
Martha, but there were times I was glad we weren’t actually
related. “She didn’t find a single rat dropping, but still insisted
on washing
everything
.”

Deeming my hair
presentable, Bree sprayed me down with
Bed
Head
before heading to my closet. I assumed
I wasn’t wearing suitable attire, but I didn’t comment. Instead, I
felt the top of my head and cringed. My hair was teased to new
heights; the rocker-bump had to be pushing four inches
high.

“
Where are those military
boots I gave you for your birthday? Never mind, here they are –
still in the box,” Bree said, holding them up for me to see. Their
light gray shapes were apparent against her dark shadow. “For once,
make me happy by slipping these on without forcing me to my knees
because you insist on making me beg to prove a point that looks
don’t matter – they do; get over it.”

As much as I wanted her to beg, I said
nothing, and held my hand out to take them. I’d rather have gone
with the indigo flats Martha bought me, but I’d doubt it was up for
discussion. After lacing up the boots, she led me out of the house.
Her grandfather’s old Ford pickup was parked in the driveway. The
passenger door protested when I opened it, welcoming me with a
resounding whine. The stench of cow manure was still prominent even
though the truck hadn’t been used on a farm for over a
decade.

On the way to Strikers, we followed a
mutual agreement. Bree sang while I pretended I was deaf instead of
blind. I rolled my window down. The wind streamed through my hair
as she sped through the town. The blurred, black shapes of the
buildings, vehicles, and people looked like soft shades of
grey.

Perfectly shaped lips
formed in my mind as the wind blew over my skin, triggering a
vision of a young man’s lips.
His smirk
didn’t take away their kiss-ability factor, it enhanced it. Just as
I looked to take in more of the young man’s facial features, it
flickered out.

The vision was over in a blink of an
eye, but the deep red flush color of the mystery man’s lips had
already embedded itself to memory. It was the first time I’d ever
seen the visualization before, yet it felt oddly familiar. I
swallowed the lump in my throat and tried to forget the fact that I
had supernatural power to see the future.

We arrived at the bowling alley in the
time it took Bree to belt out two songs on the Billboard’s top one
hundred – Green Day and Katy Perry. I didn’t have the heart to tell
her that being a back-up singer wasn’t in her future.

We ditched her wheels for a pair of
striped sneakers. The smell of nacho cheese had soaked its
fragrance into the walls. Noises from the popcorn machine,
screeches from excited players striking out, and rattling pins
bombarded my hearing.

Bree squealed and waved when she
noticed Ryker saving a lane for us. It wasn’t long before they were
swapping spit. I took the opportunity to inspect the rental shoes,
old and stinky. I pressed my lips together and breathed through my
mouth. Even though they had been soaked in a bath of Febreze, it
couldn’t take away their stench. After slipping them on, I pushed
off the plastic chair to grab a ball while Bree and Ryker continued
their make-out session.

Stella and I tapped our way to the
ball rack along the far wall near the food court. Testing their
weight, I took a chance with a heavier ball. I waited ten minutes
at the ball stand before the two love birds finally came up for
air. I juggled the ball in one hand while I made my way back to our
lane.

“
You owe me,” I whispered
to Bree and handed her Stella.

“
Three words,” Bree said,
holding up three fingers like I couldn’t understand the concept of
counting. She wiggled each finger as she lectured me about the
importance of finding a boyfriend. “Cooties aren’t real. If you’d
buck up and talk to a guy, any guy, you wouldn’t have to be the
third wheel.”

I smirked. “I thought we were having a
girl’s night?”

“
And that’s what you’ll say
if my mom mentions anything about tonight,” Bree said
blithely.

After making my way to the ball
return, I counted four steps forward and two side steps which
positioned me perfectly in the lane. The pin’s shadows were hazy
but visible enough to give me an idea of where to throw.

I swung my hand forward and released
the ball when a deep, enchanting laugh stole my concentration. It
echoed in my ears like I’d been summoned by a god
himself.

“
Position seven, four and
ten – split ‘em, Winnie,” Ryker said which drowned out the
masculine voice.

I liked Ryker better when he squeaked
when he talked. I was about to tell him so when I heard the
hypnotic, masculine voice calling to me again.

He spoke in a foreign language, but it
sounded surprisingly familiar, yet I couldn’t quite pin-point it’s
origin. His words washed over my skin like water. I swallowed hard,
hoping to somehow re-train my throat to suck in air. Then he
stopped calling to me, like I’d cued him that I was unnerved by
this voice.

Get with the program, I
thought. A guy wouldn’t just shout from across the room in another
language to merely gain
my
attention. And certainly, no one has the ability
to caress another’s skin with their voice. I almost wanted to laugh
at myself for being so silly.