The Memory Jar by Elissa Janine Hoole Page A

that’s frozen into a treacherous icy mess on the sidewalk, and I wonder what he gets. He gets that I want him to shut up?
    â€œThat stuff I said was true, about my brother.” He stops walking. “People with brain injuries can be impulsive, aggressive, depressed, forgetful—” He stops, his mouth sort of hanging open, his eyes on mine for the first time more sad than angry. I nod. Yes, that stuff is true. “It doesn’t add up,” he says, narrowing his eyes. “He wouldn’t try to kill himself .”
    I step back. No, of course not. Scott wasn’t suicidal. Would he try to kill himself to avoid having a baby with me? That seems a little extreme. Like, what did he have to lose? He could have walked away at any time, and he could have gotten away with nobody ever knowing, probably, and even if his parents and everyone found out, what hardship was he going to face? His parents would love their golden boy no matter what, and besides, he was in college—it’s not unheard of for college-aged boys to have sex. I shake my head.
    â€œNo,” I say. “There’s no way. Scott wouldn’t be that irresponsible.” It was far more likely that I tried to kill Scott than for him to kill himself. I dismiss the possibility.
    We walk a little more quickly for the last half block to the gas station, and Joey won’t let me wait outside because he says I might breathe in toxins from the gas fumes. The baby might breathe in toxins from the gas fumes, is what he doesn’t say. Inside the station, Joey makes us linger in the candy aisle until there aren’t any other customers, and then he pulls his hat down as low as it goes and tries to act nonchalant as he asks for a pack of those hipster cigarettes that are like eight bucks a pack. I hold my breath as the clerk’s eyes bounce over in my direction before he reaches up for the cigarettes and asks Joey if he has any ID. “The girl, too,” he says, nodding in my direction.
    Joey leans in with his desperate eyes, holding up his driver’s license that shows he’s only sixteen years old. “Look, my brother’s in intensive care right now, banged up real bad, and he might not make it. That’s his girlfriend, right? We need a smoke, that’s all.”
    I step out from behind the candy rack on the end of the aisle and the clerk takes a long look at my face, at my lacerations. He makes a show of checking Joey’s ID and slides the pack across the counter with one quick motion. Joey makes them disappear like a magic trick, up his sleeve.
    A block away from the station, he hands me a cigarette and a book of matches, frowning a little. “You shouldn’t smoke, with the … ” He gestures vaguely with his own cigarette. “I can’t believe … ” I wait, but he doesn’t finish the sentence. He walks really fast.
    â€œThe clerk was staring at me like I’m some kind of freak,” I say on my first exhale. I get a little dizzy, and my stomach lurches unpleasantly as the nicotine hits. Stupid baby is even ruining my one cigarette. Just let me have this one and then I’ll stop. Maybe. Stop talking to the fetus, Taylor.
    Joey makes a scary face and holds his arms out like Frankenstein’s monster, staggering toward me. “Auughhhhhrrrrauughhh,” he groans.
    I push him away, but he keeps coming, driving me off the edge of the sidewalk into a hedge. “Not fucking funny, asshole,” I say, but I’m also sort of laughing. “I’m going to burn you with this cigarette, Joey, seriously. Get off me.”
    â€œI’m sorry,” he says, his face falling back into that dark, hopeless place it’s been since the rage faded. “You’re going to have an awesome scar, though.”
    â€œTruth.” I appreciate that Joey gets me enough to know that an awesome scar would be something I’d value, that having an interesting