Don't Forget Me

Chapter 1

I've spent more hours than I can count lying awake, finding hidden pictures in the random patterns of my popcorn ceiling.

A rack of antlers with asymmetrical drop tines. A bundle of tulips gripped tight by spindly fingers.

Most of them I've found before. After all, there's only so much to discover on a ten-by-twelve ceiling. But sometimes I see something new. Like Mom's old schoolmate Mrs. Lassam's thick-rimmed glasses, which I've been staring at for the past hour. I haven't been able to stop thinking about her since she walked out of Sunday Mass with us this morning.

The question she asked me was simple enough. What are your plans now that you've graduated? It should've been an easy answer, the same bullshit story I tell everyone, but I've been spending so much time thinking about my real plans that I almost told her the actual truth. I covered it, of course, but I could've ruined this whole thing. I need to be more careful the closer it gets.

One wrong word to the wrong person in the wrong place, and our plan will be blown to hell.

The truth is I hate keeping secrets. I always have. All they really do is tear people apart.

But this...

This is different.

Because this particular secret is the only thing keeping me whole.

She is the only thing keeping me whole.

I know it might sound a little extreme, but sometimes it feels like she's the only one I can be myself around, like she's the only thing holding my feet to the ground and without her, I might just forget who I really am and float away.

She's so much more than just a secret. She's everything to me.

For my own eye health, I force my attention away from Mrs. Lassam's glasses and flip over onto my stomach to snag my phone off the corner of my bed. 3:17 a.m. The screen lights up with a photo of me, which I'm sure looks slightly egotistical or at least super weird from the outside. But when I look at this photo, I don't see myself. I see what I'm smiling at: the photographer.

I see Lisa.

Instead of my long, dirty blonde hair, I see her chocolate, chin-length cut, which she's forever regathering into a mini-ponytail at the back of her head.

Instead of my sharp jawline and bony shoulders, I see her two dimples, set deep into the cheeks of her round face, and her strong arms.

Even though every part of her is forever carved into my mind, tonight, after what almost happened after Mass, it's not enough to just imagine her. I need more.

I slide out from underneath my blue-and-white-striped comforter and tiptoe silently across the carpet to my desk. Somewhere along the top shelf is a thin orange granite rock, lodged in the gap between two sections of wood. Slipping it out, I crouch down on the floor and stick an edge into one of the screws holding the metal vent over the air duct. They take longer to unscrew than they used to.

After being taken out about a million times, the little crosses are almost stripped down to perfect circles. Honestly, I should probably replace them with fresh ones soon so they don't draw any attention.

Quietly, I set the vent cover on the floor beside me, then carefully reach inside the duct to remove an orange shoe box. Without fail, the familiar worn corners and peeling Scotch tape send my heart pounding. I glance back at my closed bedroom door before turning on my flashlight and removing the lid. Inside is a mess of handwritten letters and photographs but also things that wouldn't mean anything to anyone other than the two of us.