Unforgettable by Loretta Ellsworth Read Free Book Online

now.”
    I almost laugh. As if that was possible.
    She remembers then. “Oh, right. You won’t forget.” But she sounds kind of sad when she says it.
    I don’t know what to say, so I go brush my teeth. The weight of the Cheerios presses in on me. Nothing scares me more than to see the hope in Mom’s eyes.
    Her voice is the same as it has always been: a breath of spring air, mixed with the scent of lilac that used to grow outside my bedroom window. It’s the voice of promise.
    As I stare at my reflection in the mirror, I wish I had an answer to that promise.

Freshman Orientation
    Mom’s optimism must have rubbed off. On my fourth day of school at Madison High I walk into the boys’ bathroom, the one on the first floor, whistling the theme song from The Andy Griffith Show , and I’m completely blindsided by a hefty arm that squeezes my neck, pulling me into a headlock several inches above ground, leaving my feet dangling.
    At first I think Dink! and I almost pee my pants. I don’t want to die in the boys’ bathroom. How did he find me so soon?
    â€œNew kid,” a voice behind me belts out, “this is the senior bathroom.”
    Thank God it’s not Dink. “How am I supposed to know that if I’m new?” I try to ask, but only a small gasp escapes.
    â€œWe’re gonna have to help you remember so this doesn’t happen again.”
    Good luck with that.
    There’s a swarm of them now, big football types, circling me. The bathroom is smoky, with a smell that’s skunky but sweet at the same time. My face is tilted up toward the hazy fluorescent lights and the triangle-shaped tiles of the ceiling. Another guy moves into view. All I can see are black nose hairs and a pimply forehead. The beefy arm holds tight against my neck, preventing any movement and allowing very little breathing. But the voice behind me is twice-baked potatoes, warm and comforting. It’s hard to believe that voice really wants to hurt me, even if the arms connected to that voice are wrapped around my neck. Of course, I’m a coward, so I don’t fight back. I don’t do anything except worry about my three-hundred-dollar atomic solar quartz watch. It was a gift from Dr. Anderson.
    But the stress is too much. “Twice-baked,” I squeak. The words come out before I can stop them.
    â€œWhat? Did you just say ‘twice-baked’?” The grip loosens.
    I force out a small nod, not having much room to move my head.
    â€œThat’s weird, dude.”
    â€œMaybe you’re squeezing too hard and you stopped the blood flow to the brain,” says the voice with nose hair, and he sounds like tar paper.
    The grip loosens. I crash into the sink, gasping, rubbing my neck.
    â€œWelcome to freshman orientation,” Twice-baked says.
    He shoves me and I land near the door. I use the opportunity to exit before tar-paper voice grabs me.
    â€œDon’t come back,” they holler. Their laughter echoes in the hallway, an odd combination of tar and potatoes.
    My watch! There’s a scratch on the right side, probably from crashing into the sink. Why’d I go into that bathroom in the first place? Then I messed up by calling that kid “twice-baked.” Dr. Anderson thinks that my synesthesia might have something to do with my unusual memory. Some people see numbers as colors, textures, or sounds. The number four could be green and pointy. I hear voices that way. But I don’t tell people about it. I don’t go up to girls and say, “Hey, did you know you sound like a shade of purple?” How would that affect my popularity index? Worse than wearing a SpongeBob T-shirt.
    I’m six minutes late to Science. “Sorry,” I murmur as I make my way to the back of the classroom. There’s only one empty seat, and who’s sitting across from me? None other than Halle Phillips. Even though my neck stings like rug burn, I’m out