You Remember- Part 1 of 4

Truck with a dent, Insufficient

I remember it started when you were dancing with Amy. It was Tuesday, October 1st. You were jumping around on that Dance Dance Revolution mat and you slipped and broke your leg.

You got a lime green cast, remember? I was the first one to sign it, but I felt so bad when you fell. I didn’t have a cellphone, so I couldn’t call 911, but that doesn’t explain why I didn’t even comfort you.

I could tell it was bad because you were crying. You never cry; when people hurt your feelings, you just sit there and take it. Unlike me. I always fight back. Unlike Amy. She always cries.

Remember the way she cries? Silent and agonized. She never makes a sound, but a shuddering intake of breath every now and then. That’s the way she was when she saw you crying. You were both sobbing and I was just standing there, wanting to hit someone because I saw you both with rivers of hot, salty tears streaming out of your eyes.

At the hospital, they gave you crutches and they told you to take it easy. They said you couldn’t run; you already knew that, but just hearing it made you sad. Running was your passion. You loved to run, and I loved watching you because you would fly. No one else can run like that. Coach Carter was upset about the accident too; he was the track coach, remember? You were the best runner on the team, and you always got first or second, but you didn’t care because you just loved to do it. Now you wouldn’t be able to.

We went over to your house, just the three of us. We got there the way we normally did, minus the running; we walked down Apex, turned on Troy, and found your house on 167th street. Your street was the only street in the neighborhood with a number. All the other streets had names like Apple Orchard Road, Dial Boulevard, or Butterbush Avenue. There was no 166th street or 168th street, just lonely old 167th.

We stopped at your front door while you hunted in your backpack for the key. Your house was bright red, it had a glossy sheen to it too. No cherry, or tomato, or even a strawberry could hold a torch to your house. My house… you know it was only white. No color at all.

You found your key. It still had that stupid, little, beaded key chain I made you. The one with your name, remember? It was green, yellow, and turquoise. You loved it. I was embarrassed that you had kept it after all those years, but that day at your house, it was still on your key. You finally opened the pure white door that stood out from that red burned over the rest of your house. I always told you that your house smelled like cinnamon. You thought it smelled like nothing because you had lived there your whole life. We clomped up to your room, but you had a little trouble on the stairs. I helped you. Amy helped you. I swear it took us ten whole minutes just to get you up seven steps.

Your room was at the end of the hallway. We walked into your room laughing at some joke Amy made that even I can’t remember, so I won’t ask you to. You flopped on your bed, leaning your crutches against the wall.

Your room was always so clean; everything was put away so neatly. Your shoes were in the closet, all of your two hundred and six books were on your three large shelves in your room, all your dirty clothes were in your hamper, and all your papers and notes were in an enormous black binder with three rings five inches tall each. You had told me you wrote stories down and put them in there. Written on the front in White-Out was ‘Stories.’ You had literally four inches of loose-leaf paper already written on, and you had an inch ready to go. We both wanted to be authors when we grew up, remember?

I still want to be an author. I promise I’ll write down our story.

I was jealous of your binder; I had one just like it. You made it for me to match yours. It is exactly the same except for what’s inside: I only had one inch of written-on paper, and four inches of blank. This binder is the only thing that sat on your floor except for your furniture and us.

We were sitting in your room, running our hands through your fuzzy green rug. Amy said that in her house, the rug wouldn’t be fuzzy. Her dogs would mess it up. She had three, remember? Pinto was a collie. She was always my favorite. She was black, white, and brown, and she had this long fur that was just as soft as your rug, if not softer. She had a Shetland sheepdog, who was black, and was always your favorite. The last dog was a mutt. Amy’s brother saved him from a shelter. He was Amy’s favorite.

His name was Such.

Yes, I know you remember Such. Even though he’s not allowed in the part of the hospital where you are now. Such is in the pet area of the hospital, licking his wounds, so to speak, so don’t you worry about him.

So you were telling about an incident in social studies that day. We were having a discussion about the ethics of the Roman Empire, remember? You were the only one who bothered to research anything. I always forget how smart you are because to me, you always seem like a goof off. I heard a little catch in your voice and you gazed out the window at a red winged blackbird. The bird landed on a bush that was tall enough to be seen from the second story window. It was a burning bush; The leaves turned as red as the house in the fall. You had been acting strangely lately; you would just trail off in the middle of a sentence and look distant.

“Do you believe in magic?” you asked suddenly, “I don’t.”

“I do,” said Amy. She smiled at you, “Why not?”

“I guess there has always been a scientific reason for everything that was once considered ‘magic,’” you responded, but you looked troubled. The red winged blackbird flew away. “Let’s say,” you started again, “you’re minding your own business when all of a sudden, you stumble upon a huge coincidence, like you say something, and then it happens.”

“Okay,” I trailed, not understanding where this was going.

“Now let’s say it happens again. And again. Would you think it’s magic?”

“Yes,” said Amy.

“No,” I said. “It’s probably just a huge coincidence, just like you said.”

“What would you do if it happened to you?”

“I’d say ‘I’m going to win the lottery!’” exclaimed Amy, ever the optimist.

“I’d try to prove it wrong by saying something that couldn’t possibly happen.” I said.

“Hmm…” and that’s all you said.

Do you remember this talk? I didn’t realize it would be the key to figuring out your odd behavior. I didn’t realize the answer was right in that room.

The next day was your first day back in school since your accident. It was Thursday. We had Gym first hour, remember? You had to stay in the library and read or work on homework, but you were allowed to pick one friend to keep you company. You picked me, of course. You were writing on loose leaf paper. No doubt you were working on a story to put in your binder. Just like running, I always loved watching you write.

You’re left handed. Your writing is messy and connected and hard to read. Like mine. We both had the same bad hand writing that we learned from the same bad teacher. Your left hand flies across the page, filling in details and starting new ideas. I always told you that you had an unfair advantage being a leftie and all. Lefties are naturally more creative than righties because they use the right side of their brain more which is the creative side, or so say the "experts." You looked up, your blue eyes meeting mine.

“What rhymes with insufficient?” you asked.

I thought for a moment and shrugged, “I don’t know.”

“Oh well. I guess I’ll use another word…” you continued writing.

“Oh I know!” I whispered, “Truck with a dent, insufficient.”

“Hmm…” you said. And nothing more, but I saw you erase something and write ‘truck with a dent’ in its place. You always used a pencil. I don’t know why. You never made any mistakes. I always used pens, but I always made mistakes. All of my papers had huge scribbled-out bits. The bell rang and our study hour was over.

---

I lived a pretty normal life. I did! Amy did! You did too. We all lived a normal life, three friends having fun and making memories. But then your problem came. Your problem. Which almost broke me. Your problem. Which did break you. And Amy... Oh Amy...

That day when I first noticed the problem, I didn’t think much of it.

I saw a truck with a dent in it. A very large dent. I pointed it out to you saying, “Insufficient, truck with a dent!” Your face went pale. We were walking to school, me, Amy, and you, remember? You told us that you left something at your house after I pointed at the truck. You said you’d see us later. We didn’t. The last words you said to us were “Goodbye!” and you left, going as fast as you could with a broken leg, towards home.

You didn’t come back that day, and you weren’t at school the next day either. On the third day of your absence, we went over to your house, accompanied by none other than Amy’s dog, Such. We knocked on your door. No one answered. Amy and I exchanged glances. We knew your parents were away on a business trip. We knew where you hid the key.

We retrieved it and opened the door. We called hello and Such even threw in a friendly bark, but there was no answer. We carefully and quietly stepped into your house, and by habit, we crept up into your room. I found it a mess. Okay, well maybe not a mess, but there were books and clothes and pencils on the floor. I saw your black binder open on your unmade bed. You had never allowed me to look at your binder before, and I didn’t want to, but I leaned over it and found an envelope addressed to me and Amy in your messy handwriting. It said:

Please read my binder starting from September 22nd to my last entry.

Amy and I did. What we found was amazing. You had been writing a story about three people, one with my name, one with your’s, and one with Amy’s. You were writing a biography!

Please note the dates of these entries.

The first one on September 22nd, was the day you broke your leg.

Please note the dates of these entries very, very carefully.

What do you mean? Then I realized. You broke your leg last Tuesday. Last Tuesday was October 1st. What was going on?

As you have no doubt noticed, I wrote the story before it happened. This has been going on without me noticing it for a long time. Everything feels like déjà vu recently, and I blamed it on lack of sleep, but it’s because I wrote about it!

That day in the library, when we were talking about dents in trucks and I wrote it down, I was thinking that I would follow your advice and make some story so crazy that it couldn’t possibly happen. Looking back on it now, I realize that was a mistake. I should have written about how I won the lottery like Amy suggested. No. I wrote something worse.

No doubt I am not here because I wrote that I was transformed into a dog. A dog named Such. Please, Get me from Amy’s house and read my story and prepare for the future: It will not be pretty. I apologize for all of the pain and hardship you are about to go through. I didn’t mean it. I wrote all of it on a whim. I regret ever writing at all. Good Luck.

Amy and I looked simultaneously at you.

You wagged your tail. You were Such. You were a dog. You were Amy’s dog named Such.