Sorry I haven't uploaded in so long! I've started school (frick i wanted to get this all done before school started god dammit) and been rather pushed with schoolwork and stress uwu

hopefully all of your guys school years have started out pleasantly enough!

The book I used for this was 'Memoirs of a Teenage Amnesiac' by Gabrielle Zevin. It took soooo long for the book to come via mail order library, but was definitely worth it! The main plotline is owned by Gabrielle Zevin (along with the way i worded a lot of things frick im so bad) and I hope you enjoy this! It's more of an excerpt than an entire story, because I didn't want to write the entire thing out undescriptively as that would do it no justice whatsoever. I suggest you go and read the book as well, if you haven't already! its really worth it!

Well, enough of my jabber, here's the oneshot!

Day Seventeen: Plot Of Your Favorite Book

If things had been different, she'd be called Aubergine or Agatha, and she'd have a British accent and complain about the weather year round. Maybe she'd even be a street kid who'd trade you just about anything for a pair of blue jeans. But she is not Aubergine or Agatha, because at six months old she was delivered from Liverpool, England, to Brooklyn, New York. She doesn't remember the trip or ever having lived in England at all. What she knows about her orphanhood is limited to what she's been told by her parents and then by what they were told, which was sketchy at best: a week-old baby girl was found in an empty typewriter case in the second-to-last pew of a Western Orthodox Church. Was the case a clue to her biological father's profession? Did the church mean her birth mother was devout? She'll never know, so she chooses not to speculate. Besides, she hates orphan stories. They're all the same, but most books are bursting with them anyway. You start to think everyone in the whole world must be an orphan.

She can't remember a time when she didn't know she was adopted. There was never a dramatic "we have something to tell you" talk. Her adoption was simply another fact, like having blonde hair or no siblings. She knew she was adopted even before she knew what that truly meant. Understanding adoption requires a basic understanding of sex, something she would not have until third grade when Anya Braginski brought her grandparents' disturbingly dog-eared copy of The Joy of Sex to school. She passed it around at lunch and while most everyone else was gagging with the realization that their parents had done that to make them (so much hair, and the people in the drawings were not one bit joyful…), Alice felt perfectly fine, even a little smug. She might be adopted, but at least her parents hadn't degraded themselves like that for her sake.

You're probably wondering why they didn't do it the old-fashioned way. Not that it's any of your business, but they tried for a while without getting anywhere. After about a year, Mom and Dad decided that, rather than invest about a billion dollars on fertility treatments that might not work anyway, it would be better to spend the money helping some sob story like Alice. This is why you are not, at the very moment, reading about the inspiring true account of a Liverpudlian orphan called Aubergine, who, things being different, might be named Alexis or Alice.

Truth is, she rarely thinks about any of this. She's only telling you now because, in a way, she was born to be an amnesiac. She has always been required to fill in the blanks.

But she's definitely getting ahead of herself.

Alice received a letter once she heard about her (for lack of a better term) accident from her best friend, Al, who she'd forgotten about at the time. (She didn't find it immediately; it was slipped in the sleeve of a mix CD.) He had inherited a battered black typewriter from his great-uncle Desmond who'd supposedly been a war correspondent, though Al was unclear which war it had been. There was a dent on the carriage return that Al theorized might be from a ricocheting bullet. In any case, Al liked composing letters on the typewriter, even when it would have been much easier to send an e-mail or call a person on the phone. The boy wasn't antitechnology; he just had an appreciation for things other people had forgotten.

'Chief:

The first thing you should know about me is that U remember everything, and the second thing is that U'm probably the most honest person in the world. U realize that you can't trust anyone who says that they're honest, and knowing this U wouldn't normally say something like that about myself, U'm only telling you now because it's something U feel you should know.

Un an attempt to make myself useful to you, U have assembled a timeline of the events leading up to your accident, which you may or may not find helpful, but you will find below.

6:36 p.m. Alice Williams and Alfred Jones, co-editors of the nation-award-winning Thomas Purdue Country Day School yearbook, leave the offices of The Phoenix.

6:45 p.m. Williams and Jones arrive at the student parking lot. Williams realizes that they have left the camera back at the office.

6:46 p.m. Discussion ensues regarding who should have to return to the office to retrieve the camera. Jones suggests settling the matter with a coin toss, a proposition which Williams accepts. Jones says that he will be heads, but Williams states that she should be heads. Jones concedes, as oft happens. Jones flips the coin, and Williams loses.

6:53 p.m. Jones drives home; Williams returns to The Phoenix.

7:02 p.m. (approx.) Williams arrives at The Phoenix office where she retrieves the camera.

7:05 p.m. (approx.) Williams falls down the exterior front steps at school. Williams strikes head on bottom step, but manages to hold on to the camera. Williams is discovered by one Gilbert Beilschmidt.

As U mentioned to you, U am always available to answer any other questions as they might arise.

U remain your faithful servant,

Alfred F. Jones

P.S. Apologies for the "U" [i] key. Hopefully, you've figured out by now that the thing that looks like a U is actually the letter "U". There's a defect in my typewriter such that every time capital "i" is pressed, "U" comes down instead.'

When Alice woke up in the infirmary, the room was empty. She recalled a slight amount of what happened, but not everything. She remembered being in an ambulance, two paramedics above her and one boy standing outside the van, doors open, about to get in. He looked older than she can remember what she looked like, but then again, how old was she? When she asked who he was, he said his name was Gilbert, and hopped into the van, saying he was her boyfriend.

"It's my fault you're in here," he had said in a low leveled German accent, "and it wouldn't be polite to leave you alone with complete strangers." His expression was thoughtful, almost like he was going to say something, but he didn't, and she complained that she was tired and that her head hurt. The technicians forced her to stay awake, and although she couldn't recall this boyfriend named 'Gilbert', she clasped her hand around his for comfort. He didn't pull away. He tried telling a joke, but she was hit with a large amount of pain, and didn't hear the punch line.

In the emergency room, two doctors and a nurse – maybe more, she can't remember – checked over her wounds. She knew she was bleeding from the head, and the doctor asked how long Alice was out before the ambulance arrived. Gilbert said twenty-one minutes. He knew exactly. After the doctors left, another set came in, to ask Alice some relatively general questions.

"Your full name?"

"Alice Paige Williams."

"Where do you live?"

"Tarrytown, New York."

"Good, Alice, good. What year is it?"

"Two thousand and… 2006, maybe?"

Even as she said it, she knew it wasn't right. Because if it was 2006, she'd have been twelve, and she knew for sure she wasn't twelve. She didn't feel twelve. She felt… She couldn't say the exact number, but she just knew she felt older. Seventeen. Eighteen. She didn't feel twelve either. And there was Gilbert – Gilbert looked at least seventeen, maybe older – and she felt the same age as him, the same as him. She looked from doctor to doctor to nurse; poker faces, every one. One of the doctors said not to worry, which made Alice worry, of course. When the doctors left, she heard some worrisome phrases: "mild traumatic brain injury" and "specialist" and "CT scan" and "possible retrograde amnesia." Alice listened until she couldn't hear them anymore and then decided to concentrate on matters more tangible.

Gilbert always said how ugly he was, but Alice thinks he must have known that he wasn't. The worst that they could ever say was that he was too skinny, and that he was a little different colored than others; his hair was white, and his eyes were a gorgeous shade of red.

Now this 'Gilbert' was standing in her room, and she stared.

"Sorry, I had to use the pisser." He explained, and it hurt her head to laugh, but she did so anyways to be polite.

"Talk quieter, Gilbert… What happened? Where am I?"

"Honestly, all I remember is you diving towards me after a camera. You hit your head pretty hard on the stairs. The camera is safe, by the way. Hope it was worth it."

"Why did you say you were my boyfriend? Are you my boyfriend?" Alice asked.

"Heh, you remember that?" He gave an embarrassed smile. "Well, no, I'm not. We don't know each other at all, actually. I just said that in order to ride with you. Being alone in an ambulance is not a position you want to be in." His face regained that thoughtful look, and she questioned it as well. "Back then, I was wondering if I should have kissed you to try and better convince the drivers, but you were a little dazed, and I wouldn't want to make you, y'know, barf or anything. Not to mention it would be rude, as I don't really know you. I was also thinking about when you woke up, if I would be able to get away with saying you were my girlfriend, and how long you'd believe it for…" He gave a small chuckle, and the door opened, revealing Alice's father.

Gilbert immediately stood and tried to introduce himself to Alice's father, but the man just moved past him and onto his daughter. The doctors returned, with a nurse, a specialist, and an orderly who began wheeling Alice away without even bothering to tell her where, and her father was hovering over her, spewing phrases at her. And once she controlled her look onto her father – who looked a lot older than she remembered – Gilbert vanished, something she'd soon know was a keen trait of his.

When she got settled in a different, private room, her father sat next to her. He passed the time by asking if she was okay. "You okay, kid?"

"Yes, Dad."

Five seconds later, "Kiddo, are you okay?"

After a few repetitions, Alice finally snapped, "Where's Mom?" She was better than Dad with these situations.

"In the city," he answered.

"Is she working?"

"Working?" Her father repeated. "She's… She… Alice, are you trying to worry me?"

"Dad, are you screwing with me?"

"Screwing with you?"

"Sorry. Playing with me, whatever."

"Are you screwing with me?" Dad asked.

"So you can use screw and I can't? That doesn't seem fair," Alice protested.

"I don't care if you use the word screw, Alice. But is that what you're doing?"

"I'm not screwing with you! Just tell me where Mom is."

"In N.Y.C." He pronounced everything slowly, as if she didn't understand. "New York-"

"City. Yes, I know what N.Y.C. stands for. But why?"

"She lives there. Since the divorce. You can't have forgotten that."

You can guess that Alice definitely had.

If you're a wine-drinking type, you might have heard of Alice's parents. They wrote a series of travel memoirs/coffee table books called The Wandering Williams Do… and then fill in the blank with the exotic locale of your choice, like Morocco or Tuscany. Alice's mom, Madeline, took the pictures, and her father, Matthew, wrote the text, except for the occasional footnote by her mother.

That's what popped into Alice's head when her dad said they were divorced – all those Wandering Williams books and her as a kid on the back flap.

Alice tried to find the last thing she remembered from before the accident, but that idea was utterly useless, because the mind is constantly making new memories, and gave her an unneeded answer; her name when the doctor asked her what it was. She tried a more specific thought; the last thing she remembered about her mother. What appeared was her mother's "Sign of the Times" show, which was an exhibition of her photographs at a Brooklyn gallery. She had picked Alice up on the last day of sixth grade, so that she could give her a private showing before anyone else got there. The show had consisted of Madeline's pictures of signs from around the country and the world: street, traffic, restaurant, township, movie theater, bathroom, signs that were painted over but you could still make them out, signs handmade by homeless people or hitchhikers, ect. Alice's mother had this theory that you could tell everything about people (and civilization in general) from the kinds of signs they put up. For example, one of her favorite pictures was of a mostly rusted sign in front of a house somewhere in the backwoods. The sign read 'NO DOGS NEGROS MEXICANS'. She said that, regardless of the rust, it had communicated to her clear as anything "to take the picture quick and get the hell out of town".

"So is she on her way, then?" Alice asked her father.

"I didn't think you'd want her here."

"She's my mother," Alice insisted, "of course I want her here."

"The thing is" – Matthew cleared his throat before continuing – "I called her, but since you haven't really spoken to each other for a while, it didn't seem right that she come." Alice's father furrowed his brow. "Do you want me to call her back?"

Alice did. She longed for her mother in the most primitive way, but she didn't want to seem like a baby or not like herself, whatever that meant. And her and her mother not speaking? It seemed so unbelievable to her and more than she could even begin to figure out in her current state. Alice needed time to think.

"No," Alice relented, "you don't need to call her." Matthew's brow unfurrowed.

"Well, that's what I thought."

Alice and her father ended up making a list of everything she had forgotten (her father adores lists; he believes anything can be accomplished, the ills of the world cured, so long as it's written down and assigned a number). The list included number ten: Alice's boyfriend.

"I have a boyfriend?" Alice thought about Gilbert briefly.

Dad looked at her. "Francis. He's still away at tennis camp."

Her dad was up to nineteen when a nurse came into the room to wheel her away for the first of many tests.

Alice's been in the hospital room for three days. An army of mean nurses would wake her up every few hours by shining a light in her eyes. All she wanted to do is sleep, but no one would let her. Besides that, her time was occupied by taking tests, ignoring her father's incessant list-making, and wondering is Gilbert Beilschmidt might visit.

He didn't.

Alice's first visitor was Alfred Jones. Visiting hours began at eleven on Fridays, and Al showed up at 10:54. Matthew had gone outside to call a few folks, so no one was around to tell Alice who the teenage boy in a worn-in bomber jacket was.

"Nice save, Chief!" Al said as he entered the room. Alice asked him what he meant, and he explained about her rescue of the yearbook camera. "Not a scratch on it. Really going above and beyond the call of duty there," he added.

Despite his questionable clothing choices, Al was not the least bit fussy or wimpy. When Alice asked him about the jacket, he claimed to wear it ironically, "as a way to entertain myself in the face of the daily monotony of school uniforms." He was compactly built, taller than Alice (she was five feet seven inches, and he was five feet nine), but solid-looking. He had straight blond hair and sunny blue eyes, the color of the sky or a robin egg. His eyelashes were very long and looked as if they had been coated with mascara even though they hadn't been. On that day he had light dark circles under his eyes, and his cheeks were flushed. If he seemed loud or cavalier about Alice's condition, she suspected that that was to hide his concern for her. Alice liked him immediately. He felt comfortable like broken in jeans, and it goes without saying that Gilbert had a quite opposite effect on her.

"Are you Francis?" Alice asked, remembering what her father had said about her having a boyfriend. Al removed his gold rectangular-framed glasses and wiped them on his pants, something that would later be known as something Al did when embarrassed.

"No, I'm not," he said. "Francis is about two inches shorter than me. Also, he's your boyfriend." His eyes flashed something mischievous. "Okay, so this is deeply wrong. I want it on the record that you are acknowledging that this is deeply wrong before I even say it."

"Fine, it's wrong." Alice said.

"Deeply–"

"Deeply wrong."

"Good." Al nodded. "I feel so much better that you don't remember him either. Your man's a tool not to come. No offense."

"Leave. Right now," Alice joked in a stern tone. "You have gone too far insulting Francis… What's his last name?"

"Bonnefoy."

"Right. Bonnefoy. Yeah, I'm really outraged about you insulting the boyfriend I don't remember anyway."

"You might later and if that's the case, I take it all back. He'll probably still come, visiting hours only started a minute ago." Al said encouragingly.

"Dad said he was still at tennis camp."

"If it were my girlfriend, I would have came back from tennis camp."

"Who's your girlfriend?" Alice asked.

"Don't got one. I was speaking hypothetically." Al chuckled and stuck out a hand. "Introductions are in order. My name is Alfred Jones, the Co-editor of The Phoenix. Incidentally, you're the other one. Your dad said you had forgotten some things, but I didn't suspect I'd be one of them."

"Are you that memorable?"

"Pretty much, yes." He nodded decisively.

Alice asked him if her 'best friend' really wore a bomber jacket and he insisted that he knew everything about her. She asked him how her face looked. He responded that it was mostly covered in gauze, and she insisted he looked under it.

"There are nine stitches, a raised knob right below that, probably the size of a Brussels sprout, and a larger bruise spread out across your forehead. Doesn't look permanent, maybe a little scar from the stitches." He put the gauze back into place. "You're still insanely, wickedly, unfathomably gorgeous, and that's the last I'm gonna say about it, Chief."

She thanked him, and asked about Gilbert Beilschmidt. Al said that he was new this year, and that he might have gotten kicked out of his last school.

"I don't know much 'bout him, only met him this morning when he dropped off the camera at The Phoenix. He was polite as anything. Guy isn't like Francis Bonnefoy." He paused. "Or me."

He gave her a CD, and rattled off about how he was under time constraints and that the next one would be better. When Alice's mother arrived, surprisingly, he greeted her politely, and took his leave. When Al left, Madeline burst into tears.

"Where were you?" Alice asked.

"Your dad told me not to come, that you didn't want me. But how could I not come?" She looked at Alice. "Your poor head." She tried to hug Alice, but Alice pulled away, wanting to know a few things.

"You and Dad are divorced." Her mother nodded. "Why?"

Her father entered the room. "Yes, tell her, Maddie."

"…You were twelve when I ran into Leon. It was just by chance."

"Leon?" Alice questioned.

"Her high school boyfriend," Matthew answered.

"Just by chance," her mother repeated, and began describing the scene, but Alice didn't want the details.

"I had an affair," Her mother finally released.

"I got pregnant."

"Your dad and I divorced."

"I married Leon and moved to the city."

"You have a three-year-old sister."

"Sister?" This was new to Alice. Sisters were something other people had, like mono or ponies. "But I thought you couldn't have children. Sister?"

"Yes, her name is Mei."

"Are we close?"

"No," Madeline said, "You refuse to see her."

Alice couldn't think of anything to say.

"It's probably a lot to hear at once," her father said.

"How are you feeling, cupcake?" Her mother's voice was high and whispery, like she was floating away.

"About what? Which part?"

"Everything, I suppose." Her mother's eyes were wide and expectant.

"I feel like…" Alice looked away. "I honestly feel repulsed. I honestly feel like you're a slut."

"Alice." Her father whispered urgently.

"What?" Alice responded. "She is. Women who cheat on their husbands and get pregnant are sluts."

Madeline stood up and started backing away from the bed, not able to look Alice in the eye. "I understand," she said, "I understand." She began repeating it quietly, and her dad escorted her out the door.

Alice was sent home on Monday.

When they went home, Alice began looking for her dad's red truck in the parking lot, but when they reached a little white compact car, she looked at it incredulously. When they reached their home, it was a different house, and she looked at it incredulously as well. She went to her room (some of the same furniture, but that was the only extent of remembrance) and slept. She woke up for lunch and again for dinner, but when she arose at eight that night, she felt braver.

She had been avoiding her reflection while at the hospital. It may sound like vanity, but she believed that wounds are like water set to boil; they heal best left unwatched. Now, though, she was ready. She wanted to reacquaint herself with herself once more.

It was what she was expecting. Even though she lost six years of memories, she never really thought that she was twelve. Alice just knew she was older. Her face was a bit shocking (not because of the injuries, Al had been pretty accurate on that front, and the colors were changing, which she interpreted as healing). Her face overall, looked like someone she knew, a cousin maybe, but not her. The hair was about the same length, halfway down her back, and her green eyes pale.

"Hello," She greeted herself. "I'm Alice." The girl in the mirror didn't seem convinced.

Alice decided that mirrors were useless, and put a T-shirt on that she found.

She opened her closet (very organized, with school uniforms and gym clothes and shoes) and found a black velvet dress for a formal she didn't recall. She decided to put it on. It was a little tight around her breasts, and she realized she must have grown since the last time she wore it. She didn't bother zipping it all the way up. She wondered what the formal was like, who she went with, what they got her as a corsage, if they got her a corsage, or if she just went with friends, or if it was a formal at all.

She found some yearbooks, and started with seventh grade. Throughout all of them there was nothing important; some got taller, some got skinnier, some blossomed, everyone graduated. Alice read through the signature of each yearbook, all with the same phrases. 'Have a great summer'. 'Don't forget me'. 'Keep in touch'. The only interesting signatures were Al's, and it wasn't really a signature. On the inside back cover of her ninth and tenth grade books, he had drawn a neat box around the perimeter. Above both boxes were the words "This page is reserved for Alfred F. Jones to do with what he will." He hadn't yet used it.

Alice only found herself three times in the most recent yearbook. Her class photo, with light blonde (gray in the book) hair. The second was the varsity tennis team photo, which she wasn't in in the first place. Lastly was the yearbook masthead, which is why she wasn't in any pictures, as she was taking most of them. She put the books back on the shelf.

She went through her drawers. She found birth control pills ('I'm having sex with someone?' she wondered, shocked) and a diary, which would have been beneficial, had it not been a food diary, detailing everything she's eaten in the last six months. Alice felt disgusted, because really, who keeps a food diary?

She went through her backpack. She found a drivers license, and in the picture she was wearing her school uniform (at least the shirt) and braces, which she didn't have currently. She found her phone, which was dead, so she plugged it into its charger and turned it on. Suddenly, she wanted to call her mom, and she did.

A little tiny voice answered. "Hi there! You are speaking to Mei Chun, and I have just learned how to answer the phone."

This was Alice's sister. She hadn't been prepared for that, and for a second, couldn't speak.

"Hello? Is anyone there?"

"It's nobody." Alice wanted to hang up. She suddenly wanted to cry, but couldn't, for some reason.

"Hi, Nobody! Do you like to read?"

"Yes."

"Have you read Goodnight Moon?"

"Yes." Alice's mom used to read it to her when she was little.

"That's my seventh favorite book. It used to be fifth, but is now too easy. They have your name in it. There's a part that goes 'Goodnight, Nobody,' and this is my second favorite part in my seventh favorite book."

Alice heard her mother's voice in the background. "Is someone on the phone, Mei?"

"It's Nobody!" Mei yelled.

"Then hang up the phone, sweetie! It's time for your bath!"

"I have to go now," Mei said, "Bye-bye, Nobody. Call again, 'kay?"

"Okay."

Alice hung up the phone and felt lonelier than ever. All she wanted to do was sleep.

Which is what she did for about a week, maybe two.

It was easy to lose track of time.

Alice woke to three taps on her window. She sat up and pulled back the curtains, to see Francis Bonnefoy in the darkness. She now knew his face from in her wallet and yearbooks and picture frames on her desk, but in reality, the contrast between her "boyfriend" and her "pretend boyfriend" – Gilbert – was almost humorous.

Francis wore jeans, like Gilbert had, and a warm-up jacket. On Francis though, everything was a tad bulkier. Alice knew that underneath Francis's jacket was definitely not a faded band tee, like what Gilbert had worn. Francis's hair was a smooth honey color, long enough to be put in a ponytail (as current) but short enough so that he didn't look like a stereotypical hippie. He was very clean, as well. He was lean, but not lanky. And handsome, Alice supposed, but almost in an exaggerated way. Everything was too precise, too perfect. If someone had asked her at that moment, she would have said, "Definitely not my type."

Alice opened the window, and his legs swung in with such suave, casual grace, that she knew he had entered her room this way before.

The first thing he did was kiss her. On the lips. He didn't ask permission either.

Alice couldn't recall Francis ever having kissed her. She couldn't recall anyone ever kissing her. So, in a way, this was Alice's first kiss.

He tasted like a combination of mints and wine (could have been worse, she supposed), and his tongue was eccentric and too much in her mouth. The nicest thing she could say about it was that it ended quickly. Francis pulled away, but was still sitting on the bed, close to Alice.

"You really don't remember me, do you?" He had a slight accent, from where she couldn't place.

"No, but I know who you are. You're my…" Francis looked at Alice hopefully, but she couldn't bring herself to say the word. "My…"

"Boyfriend," he finished. "Francis." She figured out that his accent was French, unsurprisingly.

"Yes, my boyfriend."

"Je suis désolé I didn't come earlier, It's just…" He slipped into French, and Alice just nodded and responded once she heard the word 'tennis'.

"You play tennis? I do, too." Alice was just trying to make conversation. She already knew that, of course.

"I know you do, mon amour. That's how we met. Tu es bon," he suddenly thrust his hand to his chest, above his heart, and clenched the fabric there. In the quick and immediate movement, Alice had jumped lightly. "J'ai gelé! I should have left early. I should have come!"

"It's fine, Frank."

"My name is Francis." He whispered.

"I know that." Alice had no idea why she called him Frank. She knew his name, but she must have been momentarily stunned by the self flagellation.

He cleared his throat and changed the subject. "Oh, and I saw these in the gym store, and thought of you~" He pulled a pair of white terry cloth tennis wristbands out of his pocket. Alice wondered what about her screamed tennis sweatbands to him. Was it a joke? She could tell by his mouth – pink lips curved into a wan, considerate looking smile – that it wasn't. It certainly wasn't the most romantic gift ever, but it was obvious the fellow meant well, so Alice put the wristbands on.

"Elles semblent bonnes," he said. Alice walked over to her closet mirror under the pretense of looking at her new wristbands, but she actually studied Francis's reflection. She was trying to figure him out, and that's always easier when the person doesn't know you're looking at them. His eyes were tired, but he seemed pleased that she was wearing his gift. Maybe there was wistfulness in his gaze, of maybe the pills in her drawer, but Alice suddenly realized that she had probably had sex with him before. She also decided that she didn't want to talk with him about this just yet; she didn't know where that conversation might lead.

She finally turned away from the mirror and kissed Francis, as if she could figure it out that way. His lips were soft, but his chin was sandpaper against her face, a little five o'clock shadow she hadn't seen rubbing her jaw. When she pulled away, she feigned a headache, and Francis took his leave through the window once more.

Her father entered after Francis left, and said he was going out to get some coffee. It was 9:30 p.m.

Alice decided to listen to the mix that Al made her. She called him. He was happy – overjoyed, by the sounds of it – that she called, and he explained some of the songs and the reasons that he put them on there. The first one, 'Fight Test', was about how they met, back in ninth grade, when he mentioned the type of style she had accidentally placed in a yearbook page, when a picture was too big for the typing and only one sentence or word remained on the page as the rest got shoved to the next page.

"I had said 'sucks about the orphan', and you gave me this death glare. You thought I was talking about how you were adopted. I repeated the phrase, and you said 'screw you,' and it might have gone on like that forever except I replied with, 'I'm talking about the copy.' You laughed and said, 'Yeah, I think I'll make the picture a little smaller to get rid of it.'"

"What does this song have to do with how we met?" Alice asked. Al sounded a little sheepish over the line.

"Well, I didn't exactly have a lot of time to put the mix together, but I always associate that song with you and how we met. Don't you ever do that?"

"Sometimes, maybe."

They eventually said goodnight, and Alice listened to the song again, and fell asleep for thirteen hours.

A few days before school started, Alice and her dad decided to see if she could still drive.

She couldn't. They were almost out of their driveway when an SUV nearly smashed them in half.

She was dropped off on her first day, with her father handing her a pair of sunglasses in a black box from her mother. Alice had been suffering from heightened light sensitivity, so she couldn't help but take the glasses. She told her dad to throw out the box and the note. She left the sunglasses on. Just because her mom was a gigantic slut was no reason to pass up a perfectly good pair of shades.

She had trouble opening her locker. A friendly girl explained how she needed to make an extra clockwise turn before stopping at the final number, and Alice recognized her as Sakura, a girl who used to be a small Japanese kid in her sixth grade class with long black hair that was constantly in two braids. Now, though, her hair was dyed cranberry-red, and she wore black worker boots with her school kilt, and rainbow socks underneath. Alice asked if they were still friends, but Sakura said that they had drifted apart.

In her first class, precalculus, she sat behind a boy named Heracles, and in quiet words, he said that he was also on the yearbook staff, before leaning forward and falling asleep. The teacher called Alice out on her sunglasses at the end of the period. She had American History next, and got lost on her way to English, but when she arrived, Mrs. Jones embraced her like a long-lost child.

"Alice Williams, we were so worried about you!" Her hold was surprisingly tight for such a small woman, and she couldn't have been more than five feet one. She had Al's bright blue eyes, crooked smile, and tan skin. Her hair was a more reddish blonde, and it rained town her back in layers. The nameplate on her desk said 'Amelia', and the name suited her: girlish, but old-fashioned; sweet and open like an apple. Mrs. Jones explained how Al was home sick today, as he worked too hard for his stomach, and afterwards showed Alice her seat, and got started with the class.

She had the class read Waiting for Godot aloud, with assigned parts. One of the speakers was Anya Braginski, who had been in Alice's sixth grade class as well. She wore maroon Mary Jane platforms – in a school with uniforms, you should always check their feet for clues.

Alice ended up falling asleep in the class, and Mrs. Jones shook her awake, and gently told her that she had some of her schedule on her face. Alice went to the bathroom, and then to her physics class. They were watching a movie, and she sat down after giving the teacher her note. The movie was about stars and planets, breaking apart and moving around and they reminded her of something…

Of being in an air-conditioned planetarium.

The air was stale like a library, but also sweaty like the sea…

Alice in a flimsy white tank top with goosebumps on her arm. Seventies rock. A boy with sweaty hands.

This feeling…

Like anything might happen.

She wondered if this might be a memory, or something she read or saw once, and she soon fell asleep again. She woke up on her own this time, which was good. Alice didn't want to be known as that girl who sleeps in class. Her teacher gave her a review of things she needed to get caught up on, and she thanked him and left.

Francis was outside her class to lead her to the cafeteria.

"Mon dieu, you didn't say you were coming today!" He hugged her and lifted her backpack from her shoulder.

"It's fine, I can carry it myself."

"I want to," He insisted.

When they got to the table, a girl named Emma addressed her as 'brave' and 'different than usual'. Alice asked how, but Emma moved on, talking to others. She was freezing in the cafeteria, and she ended up leaving the chilly school luncheon and headed outside into where she hoped it was warmer. She found a greenhouse, and entered. What looked like an experiment was on the inside, with eight sunflowers. Seven were almost or mostly dead, but one was thriving.

She was still looking at it, wondering why it was surviving, when a familiar deep voice said, "You're shivering."

It was Gilbert. Alice decided not to turn around and look at him yet. She didn't want him to see how pleased she was to see him again, especially since he didn't visit her once.

"Maybe a little." Alice replied casually. "Is it cold in here? I have trouble telling."

"Not to me," Gilbert said, emerging from behind an orange tree with an unlit cigarette hanging from his lips. He placed the cigarette in his back pants pocket. "But that doesn't mean it isn't cold to you." He took off his jacket, which was black corduroy lined with a sheepskin collar, and handed it to her. "Here."

Alice put the jacket on. It smelled like cigarettes and paint. "You smoke?"

"Now and then. Mainly to keep myself out of worse trouble."

For additional warmth she slipped her hands into his jackets pockets. She could feel keys, a bottle of pills, a lighter, a pen, a few slips of paper.

"Suppose I should have cleared out my pockets before lending my jacket to a girl," he joked. "What's in there, anyway?"

She gave him her report.

"Nothing too controversial, right?"

'Depends on what the pills are for', she thought. "Depends on what the keys are to," was her real answer.

He responded with his moms house, and his car, which was in the shop. The bell rang in the distance, and when she looked at the schedule she had written on her palm, the next class was visible, 'French III', but the numbers were long gone. She asked Gilbert, and he read her hand, before closing his own around hers. He offered to take her to her class.

She accepted.

It was hard to keep up with him in the hallways.