Don’t Look Back

chapter five

Going back to school so soon had sounded like a bright idea a few days ago, but as I paced my bedroom Monday morning, I was terrified. The yearbooks remained unopened on my desk, and while I should’ve been reacquainting myself with the names and faces of my fellow students, I sucked up time by trying to access my e-mail and Facebook account. No such luck there. Each of the websites showed too many failed log-in attempts, and I couldn’t answer the personal questions to retrieve my information. Was it possible that someone else had been trying to access those accounts? Probably when I was missing. That made sense.

When Scott popped in my bedroom, he handed me a printout of my class schedule. Grateful, I thanked him.

“You gonna wear that?”

Confused, I glanced down. I had on jeans and a heather-gray cardigan over my shirt. “What’s wrong with it?”

“Nothing.” His brows were arched. “But you usually dress like you’re going to a fashion show instead of school. Well, not always. Like, before Cassie, you dressed like this, but after her, not so much.”

“Oh.” Uncomfortable, I glanced at my closet. According to Del, Cassie did everything I did, but it seemed like the other way around sometimes. “Should I change?”

“Nah, come on. We’re going to be late if we don’t hurry.”

I grabbed my messenger bag and followed him through the house and into the garage. The Bentley was gone, but there were a red Porsche and a newish white Audi.

“Mom wanted me to tell you that you’ll be meeting with the guidance counselor during homeroom,” Scott said, coming to a stop in front of the Audi. He opened the back door, throwing his bag in. “I think she said something about you meeting with her three times a week.”

“What?” I gaped at him.

He grimaced. “Yep. When you get there, you need to go to the front office.”

I slid into the passenger seat, clutching my bag to my chest. “Are you serious? Everyone is already going to stare at me like I’m a freak. And now I have to meet with a therapist?”

“I don’t think she’s a real therapist, Sam.” He pushed a button on the sun visor. A second later the garage door groaned and rattled, sliding open. Bright sunlight filtered through the windows. “And you always liked it when people stared at you before, good or bad.”

“Well, I’m not the same person,” I snapped.

He glanced at me. “Yeah, I’m beginning to see that.”

Sighing, I stared straight ahead as he backed out. “I don’t have a car?”

Scott laughed as he spun the car around. “You did. A really nice one, too, but you wrecked it.”

“I did?”

He nodded, easing the car down our long driveway. “You and Cassie got drunk one night. Drove it into a tree, and Dad had to pull all kinds of strings for the police to label it an accident due to road conditions. He was pretty pissed for a while.”

My mouth dropped open. Several seconds passed before I could even think of something to say. “I don’t think I want to know anymore about myself.”

Another strange look was shot in my direction, and then he shook his head. “So weird.”

I didn’t say anything until I realized he was slowing down near the main road and pulled off to the side. “Why are we stopping?”

“I always give Car a ride. He drives a motorcycle, and school admins don’t want him driving it there.”

Carson on a motorcycle? Seriously, what could be hotter than that? I craned my neck, spotting a two-story brick home three houses in. There was a covered bike sitting in the small driveway. “He lives on our property?”

“He and his dad live in our guesthouses,” Scott explained. “His father works for rent and what crap money Dad pays him. Something you loved reminding him of.”

I winced. “Where’s his mom?”

“Dead. Cancer. No health insurance—the trinity of shittiness.”

Before I could respond to that observation, I saw Carson trotting across the driveway, a backpack slung over one shoulder and a gym bag on the other. I wet my lips nervously as he approached the car. He wore faded jeans and a short-sleeve shirt over a white thermal. His hair was still damp, curling on his forehead.

He looked good—really good.

Carson stopped in front of the passenger door and then realized I was already there, gaping at him like an idiot. Frowning, he darted around the front and slid into the seat behind Scott. He didn’t look at me. “What’s she doing here?”

Scott glanced in the rearview mirror. “She used to ride with Cassie, dude.”

“Oh, yeah, that’s right.” His ultrabright gaze touched my face for a second, and I felt my skin burn in a pleasant, heady way. He settled back, throwing his arm over the backseat in a lazy, arrogant sprawl.

The car had started moving, and I was still staring at him. Carson’s dark, fathomless blue eyes finally made it back to mine. His gaze dropped, and I realized he was looking at my necklace. A smirk pulled at his lips. “What’s up, Sam?”

“Nothing,” I sputtered. Why couldn’t I pull my eyes away? It was like an old part of me was bold, knew it saw something she liked, and refused to let me turn away.

Scott cleared his throat but didn’t say anything.

A muscle started to tick in Carson’s jaw. “It’s early, and I’m really not up to trading insults with you, so can we just get this out of the way? Yeah, I don’t have a car. Uncool. My clothes didn’t cost me a house payment, and my dad works for your dad. Oh, burn.”

My eyes widened, and I flushed with shame. “I said things like that?”

He shot me a pointed look.

Feeling like the biggest tool ever, I turned around and stared out the window. My stomach was twisting again as I fiddled with the strap on my bag. The back of my throat burned. I couldn’t imagine saying those things to someone else, but I had. After several strained minutes, Scott coaxed Carson into a conversation about baseball practice and I kept to myself. Both of them seemed to appreciate that.

We stopped to get coffee because we apparently weren’t running that late and Scott felt as if he was going to pass out behind the wheel and “pull a Samantha.” Carson ordered straight black, Scott was over at the counter, adding more milk than coffee in his plastic cup, and I stood there, hands twitching at my sides, staring at the menu. The middle-aged woman behind the counter sighed loudly.

Chewing on my lip, I read the entire menu three times. Coffee—my choice of coffee— should be simple, but it wasn’t. I felt … lost.

“Hey,” Carson said from behind me, his breath warm on my cheek, causing me to jump. “You doing okay?”

Feeling my cheeks burn, I nodded.

A man behind me sighed, muttering. I heard the words stupid and rich tossed about. My mortification level soared to new heights.

Carson pulled me out of line, shooting the guy a dark look of warning. “What’s your deal?” he asked.

I glanced down at where his hand wrapped around mine. How could such a simple touch feel sweet as sin? Probably not the best thing to be thinking about given I couldn’t place an order for coffee.

“Sam,” he said, impatient.

Lifting my gaze, I was horrified to feel tears building. “I don’t know what to order.” My voice cracked. “I don’t know … what I like.”

Understanding softened his jaw, and he nodded. “You usually drink a latte—vanilla.” He paused, dropping his hand. “I’ve seen you drink them. Stay here and I’ll order.”

I waited off to the side while he placed the order. People were staring at me. I felt like a child, unable to complete the simplest task. I wanted to crawl into a hole somewhere. There was no doubt in my mind that Carson thought I was an idiot.

When he returned with my drink, he popped the lid on the cup. “Careful. It’s hot.”

“Thank you.” I wrapped my hands around it, welcoming the warmth slipping through the java sleeve.

I didn’t talk the rest of the way to school but took in the unfamiliar scenery. A lot of rolling hills, old estates, and very few subdivisions smack-dab in the middle of signs for the battlefield. The town had been around for a long time, and there was a lot of old money by the looks of it.

There was no spark of recognition when I laid eyes on Gettysburg High. It was a large brick building that reminded me of several dorms strung together, surrounded by trees and a sprawling pavilion.

With my heart in my throat, I followed the guys across the parking lot. There was a maroon-and-white banner hanging over the front entrance. HOME OF THE BATTLERS. It had a picture of a demented-looking Easter bunny on it.

The hallways weren’t too crowded yet, but everyone stopped when they saw me. Just stopped and stared. Within seconds, the whispers started. Tipping my head down, I let my hair fall forward and shield my face, but I could still feel them. Eyes filled with curiosity and morbid fascination.

My heart pounded and I clutched the coffee cup. I couldn’t do this. Not when everyone was staring. It would only get worse. Did they know I didn’t remember anything? Maybe Mom was right. I should’ve waited.

Scott fell in step beside me, his back stiff. When I peeked at him, he was shooting death glares at everyone. Kids promptly turned away, but it didn’t stop them from talking. On my other side, Carson kept watch quietly. I had no idea what he was thinking. Was he embarrassed to be seen with me? I couldn’t blame him.

They dropped me off in a lobby surrounded by glass windows. The plump secretary’s smile was full of pity as she ordered me to sit in one of the uncomfortable chairs. Each time I glanced over my shoulder, it seemed as if the group of kids gathering outside the room grew. I was like this gruesome car accident, and everyone had to stop and look.

A neatly dressed woman appeared in the narrow hallway, finally ending my torment. She straightened her glasses. “Miss Franco, are you ready?”

Standing, I grabbed my bag and followed her back to a cramped office. The first thing I did when I sat was search for her name. Judith Messer, counselor extraordinaire.

She took off her glasses, folded them, and placed them aside. The light from the lamp on her desk reflected off her diamond-encrusted wedding band. “How are you feeling, Samantha?”

That seemed like an incredibly stupid question. “Good.”

Mrs. Messer smiled. “I’ll admit we’re a little surprised that you’re joining us so soon. We thought you’d take some time to … recover from everything.”

My grip tightened on the cup, and I was ready for this to be over. “I feel perfectly fine.”

“I’m sure you do physically, but emotionally and mentally you have gone through a terribly traumatic experience, and adding that on top of the memory loss, this has to be hard on you.”

“Well, it hasn’t been easy.” I glanced up, finding her studying me closely. I sighed. “Okay, it sucks. I couldn’t even order coffee this morning, but I need to get back to doing things. I can’t hide in my house forever.”

She tilted her head to the side. “When the principal informed me you were coming back today, I spoke with a colleague who works with people suffering from amnesia. He did tell me that it’s best that you surround yourself with things that are familiar. Coming back to school isn’t a bad idea, but emotionally, the cost may be too high.”

“And what happens if it is?”

Her smile tightened, and she didn’t elaborate, which irked me. “I don’t think your classwork will suffer. Dissociative amnesia rarely affects that sort of thing, but we’ll be monitoring your progress to make sure that the general curriculum is still the right avenue to take.”

My teeth gnashed together at the unspoken warning. If my grades sucked, I was out of school. Nice. No pressure or anything with my fragile emotional state.

“Have you been able to remember anything?” She leaned back, crossing her legs.

I considered lying, but that wouldn’t help. “Sometimes I have these thoughts or feelings that feel familiar, but they don’t make sense.” When she nodded, I took a deep breath. “A few times I’ve seen things, flashes, but … those don’t make any sense, either.”

She nodded. “Your memory could come back in disjointed images or all at once. All it takes is something to trigger it.”

The Internet already told me that. I thought about the note, but I was afraid she’d tell my parents. “I haven’t really remembered anything else. It’s like I’m a … blank slate. When I met my friends, my boyfriend, I didn’t … feel anything for them, like I didn’t care at all.” I felt bad for saying that, but a little of the pressure lifted off my chest. “That’s terrible, isn’t it?”

“No, it’s not terrible. Right now, you have no bonds formed with them.” She smiled reassuringly. “Don’t be shocked if you find yourself making new friends or trying things that surprise those around you. It’s almost like being born again, but with the necessary survival skills already in place.”

Nice way of looking at it. Mrs. Messer asked a few more questions, and then she briefly touched on the subject of Cassie. “How are you handling that? Knowing that a friend of yours is missing?”

I hesitated. “I don’t know. It’s weird. I don’t remember her at all, and from what everyone is telling me, we weren’t the greatest of friends, but if she was with me, then I feel responsible. Like I need to remember so that people can find her, but no one really wants to talk about her.”

She nodded again. “You do understand that even if you never gain your memories, finding her isn’t your responsibility.”

The guilt chewing on my stomach told me differently. If I could just get my brain to work, then I’d bet I could lead everyone right to her.

Mrs. Messer slid a slip of paper toward me. My locker number and combination were on it. Our little counseling session was over, and it took me freaking forever to find my locker. I had to refer to my schedule to figure out which books to shove into my bag while ignoring the stares and whispers of the people around me. Closing my locker door, I took a deep breath and faced a crowded hallway filled with kids going to first period.

A wave of strange faces greeted me. Not a single one looked familiar. Squeezing the strap on my bag, I pushed through the throng of people. It could be worse, this whole memory thing. I could still be missing.

Or you could be dead, a voice whispered in the back of my mind.