Page 60 of That's Not My Name

SEVENTEEN

MARY

DAY 5

I shuffle to bed and sit down beside my pillow. Annoyed with the colossal weight of the everything I don’t know. I don’t know why the woman with the red couch is taking up so much space in my head. I don’t know why I have no memories of the blonde in Wayne’s wallet photo. I don’t know why I keep remembering the wrong details, or how to make it stop.

I need something to be clear, and overtly mine.

I run through my list again. Mary Ellen Boone. Seventeen. Good student. Senior. Lizzo. Strawberry allergy. Floral jackets. Dead mom, who’s not a nurse and not a brunette. Bit of a homebody. Cinnamon rolls. Purple. Homeschooled. Good catch.

This is who I am. Right?

I dig my legs under the blankets and curl into a ball. The brown-haired woman floats through my mind like a mirage. I tug at her image, trying to make her appear in a movie I’ve seen, or arm in arm with the blonde woman, or in a neighborly conversation about a shared fence.Anything that’ll place her in my life, but nothing fits and her face leaves an ache in my chest.

A tear slips down the side of my face.

Sleep washes over me like a river, so fast I don’t even remember closing my eyes.

I’m at the edge of a softball field, fidgeting in my uniform, anxious to take my turn. I flick my wrist and twirl the bat in my hand. I’m going to knock the crap out of a ball today, and I’m so excited for it. I stare at Kelly’s back, still at the plate as she tips the third pitch and sends it skittering toward third base. She makes it to first with a breath to spare, and now it’s time. I smile. I live for this shit. The pressure. The eyes on me. All three teammates tense on their bases, ready to run. They know what’s coming.

I walk toward home plate, Coach clapping me on the shoulder as I pass, and look up into the bleachers. She’s right there, in the front row, like she always is. Still in her work uniform, she tugs her hair up off her neck and winks at me. She knows what’s about to happen too, and the pride is already there on her face.

I step up to home plate and the field fizzles away.

I’m in the car with Wayne on our way back from our trip to Waybrooke, fogging up the window in my Benadryl haze. The trees loom over the car, getting closer and closer every time I breathe, until they brush the top of the van. I sit up in alarm as the branches scrape the paint off the vehicle, clawing at the windows.

“What’s going on?” I ask Wayne.

He smiles at me, and all his teeth are fangs. “Everything is okay.”

The branches break through the glass. I disappear.

I’m sitting with a girl I know in an assembly. She props her feet beside mine on the bench in front of us. We’re wearing identical sequin Converse, though hers are silver and mine are black. The gym bursts with sound, athousand voices all screaming at the top of their lungs. A teacher brandishes a microphone in the middle of the gym, surrounded by students amped up on school spirit. Behind him, at the top of a huge set of bleachers is a long paper sign with Freshman painted in red. The juniors have a maroon one with white letters to the left, and the sophomores have a black and gold one on the right.

“I can’t hear you, seniors!” he yells, looking up at our section.

My side of the gym erupts in screams.

The girl with the matching shoes laughs and says, “School spirit is dumb, but holy shit is it infectious.”

I couldn’t agree more.

The gym dissolves, replaced with a dimly lit kitchen.

I’m sitting at an island with metal stools. The woman with the brown hair beams at me and pushes a gold plastic plate across the counter. The lump on the plate looks vaguely like a cake, covered in fudge frosting. A set of black glitter “17” candles blaze on the top, but the whole thing tilts to one side like it’s melting, and I laugh. She’s never been a baker—or a cook of any kind, really—but she tries every birthday. No matter what’s going on, or how much attitude I’ve thrown at her.

She starts singing happy birthday with a soft, breathy voice, but she changes some of the words. Like always. “Happy birthday to you, happy birthday to you, you’re gorgeous and perfect, annnnnnnd I love you lots too!”

I blow out the candles and swipe a glob of frosting off the top. “You do know the actual song, right?”

She pretends to be offended, clutching her hand to her chest. “I’ve been singing it wrong since the day you were born, sweet thing. I’m not about to change it up now. I’m too old. Set in my ways.”

I shove a chunk of chocolate cake into my mouth. “You’re thirty-nine. You’re not old. Now are you going to help me eat this monstrosity or not?”

“I thought you’d never ask.” She brandishes a fork, unlike my rude ass, and scoops up a bite. “Happy birthday, baby girl.”

The happy feeling in my chest spreads through my entire body, and I smile. “Love you, Mom.”

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