friends.’
I wonder if that could be true.
She wipes her hands on a towel. ‘Anyway, if Cody acts strangely it’s because he gets nervous when he’s around pretty girls. Give him some time to get used to you being here.
He’s a very sweet boy.’
I nod and smile, unsure of what to say next.
Heather suggests I go upstairs and rest, promising to call me when dinner’s ready.
I don’t argue. I’m anxious to be alone. I climb the steps quietly and retreat to my room, closing the door behind me.
I sit in the rocking chair and sway back and forth. The movement calms me. The range of motion is limited. Confined. It fits in a box.
I like things that fit in boxes. Especially boxes that have labels.
It’s the misshapen, unmarked containers with unknown contents that bother me.
Although I tell myself not to, I think about the boy. I can’t help it. He fascinates me. And infuriates me at the same time.
What does that mean?
Maybe nothing.
Maybe everything.
He wasn’t like Cody. He was tall. Taller than me. His face was long and oval-shaped. His arms were not scrawny, but loosely defined by muscle. I assume this signifies he’s already
hit his ‘growth spurt’, as Heather called it. Which means he’s older than thirteen. I find myself wishing I had a better frame of reference.
For everything.
Is it possible he really knows things about me? Where I’m from. What I’m like. Who I am.
‘Sera. That’s your name. It’s short for Seraphina.’
Seraphina.
I walk over to the mirror and stare at my reflection while I repeat the name aloud, dissecting it in my mind.
‘Sera. Short for Seraphina.’
Seraphina . . . Sera . . .
S
.
I hurry over to the dresser, pull open the drawer, and snatch up the locket, flipping it over to study the engraving on the back.
S
+
Z
=
1609.
The equation that I can’t solve. Despite the fact that math seems to come easy to me.
But perhaps that’s the problem. Perhaps the equation has nothing to do with math.
‘You’re not who you think you are.’
I’m not anyone!
I want to scream. I don’t even
know
who I am. How can I possibly be someone I’m not?
My head starts to throb. I return to the chair and rock frantically back and forth, waiting for the motion to calm me once more. But this time it does nothing. I close my eyes and concentrate on
the boy. On his face.
I watch his demeanour change as soon as he sees Heather approaching us. His face becomes sombre. Earnest.
‘Try to remember what really happened . . .’
I create a mental index of everything I know to be true:
I like numbers.
I have a tattoo.
I like grilled cheese sandwiches.
And supermarkets.
I have long brown hair and purple eyes.
I survived a plane crash.
A plane crash I have no memory of.
A glitch in a computer erased me from a list.
‘You were never on that plane . . .’
Suddenly my eyes flutter open. I rise from the chair and pace the room. I hate all these unanswered questions. I hate the doubt that he’s planted in my mind. I hate that he’s made me
second-guess everything I know.
And mostly I hate how unforgettable he seems to be.
Somehow every memory in my brain has managed to abandon me and yet his face is the face I can’t seem to chase away.
As I walk, I repeat my mantra.
I don’t know him. I don’t remember him. I can’t trust him.
The last line makes me stop. Apprehensively I glance down at the locket in my hand. I draw in a deep breath and pop open the black heart-shaped door, removing the crumpled note and placing it on
the dresser.
I ransack the room, searching everywhere until I find what I’m looking for in a nightstand by the bed.
A pen and a blank sheet of paper.
I place the paper next to the yellowed note and slowly, carefully, scrawl out two words.
Trust him.
I glance between the two messages – one yellowed and ragged and faded by lost time and salt water, and the other white and crisp and right now – and I see what I was afraid I would
I wonder if that could be true.
She wipes her hands on a towel. ‘Anyway, if Cody acts strangely it’s because he gets nervous when he’s around pretty girls. Give him some time to get used to you being here.
He’s a very sweet boy.’
I nod and smile, unsure of what to say next.
Heather suggests I go upstairs and rest, promising to call me when dinner’s ready.
I don’t argue. I’m anxious to be alone. I climb the steps quietly and retreat to my room, closing the door behind me.
I sit in the rocking chair and sway back and forth. The movement calms me. The range of motion is limited. Confined. It fits in a box.
I like things that fit in boxes. Especially boxes that have labels.
It’s the misshapen, unmarked containers with unknown contents that bother me.
Although I tell myself not to, I think about the boy. I can’t help it. He fascinates me. And infuriates me at the same time.
What does that mean?
Maybe nothing.
Maybe everything.
He wasn’t like Cody. He was tall. Taller than me. His face was long and oval-shaped. His arms were not scrawny, but loosely defined by muscle. I assume this signifies he’s already
hit his ‘growth spurt’, as Heather called it. Which means he’s older than thirteen. I find myself wishing I had a better frame of reference.
For everything.
Is it possible he really knows things about me? Where I’m from. What I’m like. Who I am.
‘Sera. That’s your name. It’s short for Seraphina.’
Seraphina.
I walk over to the mirror and stare at my reflection while I repeat the name aloud, dissecting it in my mind.
‘Sera. Short for Seraphina.’
Seraphina . . . Sera . . .
S
.
I hurry over to the dresser, pull open the drawer, and snatch up the locket, flipping it over to study the engraving on the back.
S
+
Z
=
1609.
The equation that I can’t solve. Despite the fact that math seems to come easy to me.
But perhaps that’s the problem. Perhaps the equation has nothing to do with math.
‘You’re not who you think you are.’
I’m not anyone!
I want to scream. I don’t even
know
who I am. How can I possibly be someone I’m not?
My head starts to throb. I return to the chair and rock frantically back and forth, waiting for the motion to calm me once more. But this time it does nothing. I close my eyes and concentrate on
the boy. On his face.
I watch his demeanour change as soon as he sees Heather approaching us. His face becomes sombre. Earnest.
‘Try to remember what really happened . . .’
I create a mental index of everything I know to be true:
I like numbers.
I have a tattoo.
I like grilled cheese sandwiches.
And supermarkets.
I have long brown hair and purple eyes.
I survived a plane crash.
A plane crash I have no memory of.
A glitch in a computer erased me from a list.
‘You were never on that plane . . .’
Suddenly my eyes flutter open. I rise from the chair and pace the room. I hate all these unanswered questions. I hate the doubt that he’s planted in my mind. I hate that he’s made me
second-guess everything I know.
And mostly I hate how unforgettable he seems to be.
Somehow every memory in my brain has managed to abandon me and yet his face is the face I can’t seem to chase away.
As I walk, I repeat my mantra.
I don’t know him. I don’t remember him. I can’t trust him.
The last line makes me stop. Apprehensively I glance down at the locket in my hand. I draw in a deep breath and pop open the black heart-shaped door, removing the crumpled note and placing it on
the dresser.
I ransack the room, searching everywhere until I find what I’m looking for in a nightstand by the bed.
A pen and a blank sheet of paper.
I place the paper next to the yellowed note and slowly, carefully, scrawl out two words.
Trust him.
I glance between the two messages – one yellowed and ragged and faded by lost time and salt water, and the other white and crisp and right now – and I see what I was afraid I would
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