3
There. He’s right there, with the sun sparkling over his chocolate brown hair. My heart fluttered. He was perfect, simply perfect.
“Go.” Kara said, “just go talk to him.” I turned to stare at her.
“I can’t do that.” I said, “look, he’s over there with all his friends. If I go over there now, I’ll look like a loser.”
“Look at what your wearing.” Kara said, indicating to my lemon yellow skirt and matching shirt. I nervously smoothed my skirt.
“Its the only thing my mother would let me out of the house in.” I made my excuse. Kara clicked her tongue.
It was Nate and I, hugging each other with my lips on his cheek. I was wearing a twenties-style swing dress and black heels. Winter formal, 2009. I hugged the frame to my chest, my eyes welling with tears.
I give myself one second. I’m supposed to be over him.
I hurl the photo frame across my room, watching as it hit the dark red wall. I flinched as the glass shattered.
“What was that, Melody?” my mother called.
“Nothing.” I called back, getting up to pick up the shards of glass. I gingerly removed the photo from the frame and ripped it up. There. Winter Formal 2009 was officially removed from my memory.
“Are you sure?” my mother called. I didn’t reply. Instead, I sweep the shards of glass over my hardwood floor and into my wicker garbage basket.
I ran downstairs to get the broom. My mother traps me at the corner. Her eyebrows were raised, her head was tilted to the side, the perfect picture of a concerned mother.
“Are you alright?” my mother asked, “you do realize what day it is?” I wrinkled my nose.
“Saturday, July twelfth.” I recited in an almost monotone. My mother nodded.
“What happened on this day two years ago?” My mother prodded me, with a slight frown.
“Oh, god, Mom.” I said, “really?” it wasn’t the day Nate had died, more like the day we got together.
“How are you feeling?” she asked.
“I was fine, and then you have to go ruin that.” I snapped. I glared at her and resisted the urge to stamp my foot. I could feel the tears coming on again.
“Oh, Melody!” My mother sighed, exasperated. I don’t know what she said next, because I ran right back up to my room.
I slammed my bedroom door and flung myself over my bed. I could still remember the way he looked at me, the way his dark brown eyes seemed to be lit with a constant inside joke.
“Melody.” My mother called. Concern covered her tones, and I wrinkled my nose. As if she actually cared. I didn’t want to respond; I didn’t care what she had to say to me.
“Melody.” My mother’s parrot-like voice rang out again. I sat up and stared at the door. I no longer had the physical energy to care about anything my mother did or said.
