24 Hours

Chapter Four

Chapter Four

                I cannot forget.

                Memories, to me, are like tattoos. Some of them I regret, and they’re there forever; the ones that bring me the most pain stay with me just as much, and perhaps even more, as the ones that bring me joy.

                I’ll give an example.

                In first grade, our teacher would make us sing the ABC’s with our tongue out and our eyes closed. It etched the letters into our brains, knowing how stupid we looked doing the clumsy little dance. One day, I bumped into a little boy while I was doing this. Inevitably, our tongues touched.

                We opened our eyes immediately to find that we had no interest in each other whatsoever. Although we complained, wiped our tongues on the sleeves of our shirts, and got on with the day, I can never get that feeling of embarrassment out of my mind. It’s an emotion I’m stuck with forever.

                Fortunately, I can manage to balance out the positives and the negatives, more or less.

                In sixth grade, I sat at my desk reading a book. The fair-haired boy (the same one from the hallway) was sitting just across the room. The teacher kindly asked him to pull out a TV from a nearby closet, so we could watch the morning announcements (weather, lunch menu, after-school dates, etc.). He and his friend gladly stood up to bring it into the classroom.

                As he tugged it out, he looked at me. At that moment, I felt fearless.

                So I smiled.

                To my surprise, the boy smiled back. And he didn’t just do so; he waved. He waved at me. As he waved, his friend pushed the TV right into him, and the poor boy stumbled backwards. My cheeks turned red at the incident, but it was enough to make my day.

                I find small, subtle gestures to be more important than big ones. You can tell more about a person from the way they naturally are or act than when they pull a big stunt; stunts are lies, and lies are stunts.

                This, I believe, is why I found that wave so touching and memorable.

                However, I cannot forget. We cannot forget.

                When someone says “get over it,” or “it’ll be OK,” it just sounds like a bunch BS to me. I can’t simply move on, that’s just not me. It’s like a wound. Whether it’s big or small, there’s a chance it might scar. And me? Well, I almost always scar.

                Because of my inability to forget, I’ve caused a lot of trouble. My mother thinks that the lack of forgetfulness is a big cause of The Thing. The Thing is something we rarely speak of, because I don’t think it’s true. It can’t be true.

                So as I run down the hallway, gasping for air, I know that I’ll never forget the boy that wiped the tears out of my eyes, the boy who waved at me in social studies.

                I dash into the restroom, crying. There are about half a dozen girls already in there, most of them standing in front of the mirrors applying make-up. I’d been wise enough, however, to wear waterproof mascara that day, so the tears didn’t turn the dark black I thought they’d be.

                Although none of the girls paid much mind to it, I immediately stumbled into the handicapped stall, locked myself in, and began to weep.