Page 35 of That's Not My Name

“In a way. You were having some trouble. Not academically, you’ve always been on top of your studies, but you…” He trails off and takes a long sip of his coffee. His hands tighten around the mug when he sets it back on the table. “You fell in with the wrong people, and I can’t say I’m all that upset that you don’t rememberthem. I lost you for a bit, to people who led you down a wayward path. No respect for adults. For the rules. Partying all the time. Inappropriate outfits. Inappropriate music and television shows. No morals. I had to step in before you went too far. Homeschooling has been really good for you though, and in the end, you recognized it was necessary too. We’ve been closer than ever these last few years.”

I have no idea what to make of that story.

Appropriate books. Appropriate clothes. Appropriate friends. Appropriate life.

A pattern is emerging here.

And what does he mean, about going too far? Too far in what way? Is he saying I got into drugs or shoplifting, something illegal? I open my mouth to ask, but the white-knuckled grip he has on his coffee cup makes me think better of it. Whatever happened, whatever I did, it’s bad enough that he’s still upset about it.

Can you feel remorse for something you don’t remember doing? Should I?

I drink some more of my smoothie and stare down at the table, trying to loosen the knot forming in my chest. These life details are giving me anxiety. Or heartburn. Or both. I wish I could remember already. All of it. All at once. A tsunami of all my mistakes and triumphs, so I don’t have to rely on someone else’s version of it. I want to know what really happened with my friends.

Sandra leaves the bill as she passes by with a tray of food for another table, and I aimlessly reach for my smoothie again, but this swallow goes down weird. Like a whole chunk of strawberry.

I freeze.

My mouth blossoms a familiar itch that once again creeps down the back of my throat and spreads through my body. I rip my sleeves back, but I already know what I’m going to find there.

Baby hives. Fuck.Fuck, not again.

We didn’t order anything with eggs. Why is this happening?

I look up at Wayne and claw at my itching throat. A wordless plea for help.

He springs from his seat. “Come on. Pharmacy’s across the street. Hurry up.” He slaps a couple twenties on the bill and shoves me, itching and hacking, out the door and toward the van.

I stop by the passenger door and he sprints toward the pharmacy.I scratch my neck, my chest. I chew on the insides of my mouth, trying to relieve the itch that won’t stop. After what feels like a very long time, he reappears around the back of the van, already pouring a dose of liquid Benadryl into the cap it came with. I take it and he pours another, pressing it to my lips until I drink that one too.

I close my eyes and wait for the first signs of relief, but it takes ages. He helps me into the passenger seat and stands by the open door, shaking his head as we wait, and wait, and wait.

“It must have been the strawberries in the smoothie,” he blurts, leaning against the inside of the door. “Not the eggs. It’s the only thing you ate both times.”

I think of the sliced strawberries sitting on the table at breakfast. Itmust have beenthe strawberries? Was he guessing the first time?

How can my own father not know what I’m allergic to?

There must be confusion on my face because he adds, “I’m so sorry. So, terribly sorry. Your mother was allergic to eggs. You’re allergic to strawberries. I can never keep that straight. You usually remind me, but you can’t remember what not to eat.” He scrubs his face with his hands. “God, I’m so sorry. I knew it was too soon for an outing. Let’s just…go home.”

He shuts the door. I try not to frown as I scratch all my skin off for the second time in so many days. I pull the hot-pink Nana’s bag from the space beneath my feet and shove it into the back so I can stretch my legs.

Wayne climbs in and starts the van. I reach to the side, still scratching, to grab my seatbelt and catch a woman staring at me from the sidewalk. I don’t know her—at least, I don’t think I do—but she gapes at me with wide, dark eyes. She’s short and slim. Maybe forty? With clearly home-done highlights in her dirty-blonde hair.

She waves, and I instinctively wave back.

The van pulls away and she takes out her phone, almost frantic, and holds it to her ear.

“Don’t worry,” Wayne says, dragging my attention back to the inside of the car. “Once we get home, we don’t have to leave for a long time. I’ll throw out every strawberry in the house. I’ll do anything to keep you safe. You know that, right?”

Worry curls through my stomach. I click the seatbelt into place. “Yeah…I know.”

ELEVEN

DREW

Roane blows past me in the cruiser before I’ve even left the parking lot, and I’m filled with regret. Sure, it’s noble and shit to strut away from the sheriff’s accusation-field-trip, but every step makes me more aware that this is where Lola stood five weeks ago. And I’m plunged into the past.

Did she turn left or right when she left the parking lot?

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