Page 23 of That's Not My Name

I guess that explains all the Chicken Soup books in my room.

He pushes off the ground again and we swing a little higher. “I work from the house, mostly. It’s been great for homeschooling because I’m usually there to help if you need something, though you rarely do. You’re an only child, but not on purpose. Me and your mother wanted more kids, but it didn’t work out that way.”

“Where is she? My mom?”

Wayne frowns and his gaze drops to his lap. “She’s been gone for awhile now. It’s just the two of us. Both of our parents died before you were born, so we’re a smaller family. But we manage.”

I look back over the water. Well, that’s sad as hell. And fucked up, because now I’m missing dead people I can’t remember. “How did she die?”

“Car crash. When you were nine. It’s why last night had me so rattled. You scared the hell out of me. I thought I lost you too.”

My throat gets thick again, not from an allergy this time. “I’m sorry.”

He reaches out and gently squeezes my knee. “Not your fault.I’msorry for what you’re going through. I can’t imagine how hard it is to forget your life, and I’m kicking myself for letting you drive that piece-of-crap car. When we get back home, we’re getting you something better. I promise.”

I nod, but I don’t really care about a new car. I’m not even sure I remember how to drive.

We stare, the water and this silence a little less awkward. I think about the dead mom I can’t conjure an image of.

I guess I get to add it to the list of facts I’ve collected about myself: Mary Ellen Boone. Seventeen. Good student. Senior. Lizzo. Egg allergy. Floral jacket. Dead mom.

That last one is almost as depressing as needing to compile a list like this in the first place.

“I wonder how long we have,” Wayne says.

I squint at him. “What?”

“Before your memory comes back.”

“I’ve been thinking about that too. I wonder if it’ll come back in little pieces or all at once. Maybe I’ll never—” I can’t finish that sentence. I can’t imagine living like this forever, never knowing what came before this.

“It’ll come back. It’s only a matter of time,” he says, and stands. “Now come on, let’s go back inside. I have to start dinner soon, and I have a surprise for you.”

I’m not in the mood for any more surprises, but I’m starting to get cold, so I follow him back to the house.

Inside, he snags a brown paper bag off the couch and hands it to me with a big smile. “I found you some stuff at the little store in town. Some leggings and T-shirts. I thought you might like something that’s really yours, until we find the rest?”

I stare down at the bundle of cotton in the bag, and tears prickle my eyes again. I didn’t even have to ask him to take me to get my own things. He’s already on it. “Thank you, Wayne. This is amazing.”

“Anything for you, my Mary girl,” he says.

He reaches behind me and locks us in.

SEVEN

DREW

Mr. Mooredroneson about some dead guys who did something important at some point in history.

I can’t stop staring at Lola’s empty desk beside me. It feels like a black hole.

Her fingerprints are still there, I bet. Pressed into the underside where she’d grab the armrest and push herself up when the bell rang. She’d stretch her back before lugging her rose gold messenger bag off the floor and throwing it over her shoulder.

I’d try to carry it for her, and she’d refuse, saying she was as strong as me, and I’d make some dumb comment about taking it when she got tired, but she’d drag it behind her before she’d ever hand it over and admit I was right.

Back when things used to be normal.

Before I fucked everything up.

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