“I’m sorry,” I say again. “I’ll tell him it’s my fault if you want.”
“You sure you’re all right?” Finn asks.
“If you’re hurt, I have to fill out a report,” Forklift Guy says uneasily.
My phone chirps again.
“I’m fine,” I repeat to both of them. “I really have to leave.”
On shaky legs, I turn and walk toward the doors.
“Give me your phone number, at least,” Finn says, falling into step behind me.
I shake my head, repeating, “I have to go.”
My mom is waiting at the curb as we walk through the doors, but I feel like I owe him something.
“Finn,” I say, trying the name on for size.
“Jessa.” He raises his brows and looks at me.
“Thanks for pulling me out of the way.” Even though it’s your fault I wasn’t paying attention.
He nods, and I open the car door.
“I have an incredible memory,” I say pointedly. “Sooner or later, you’ll come back to me.”
“I’m counting on it,” he says, and something in his eyes makes me hesitate before I finally slide in and close the door. The car pulls away from the curb, and Finn stands watching us with his hands jammed down in his pockets as we drive away.
3
Welcome to My Life
I open the door to my house, eager to find a quiet place for my thoughts, and I find chaos instead.
My brother, Danny, is two years older than me, five inches taller, sixty pounds heavier, and at this moment he’s kicking the wall over and over and shouting at the top of his lungs.
“Won’t work! Won’t work! It doesn’t work!”
I toss my bag down on the floor.
“Danny. Danny!” I put my hands on his shoulders cautiously, and he turns tear-filled eyes to meet mine for a brief moment.
“The batteries won’t work. They won’t work. The batteries won’t work,” he repeats, clearly frustrated.
“Stop kicking,” I say, leading him away from the wall. I rub his back in a soothing motion. “Now tell me slow. Where don’t the batteries work?”
“In the remote. For the Xbox. I put them in and they don’t work.” He covers his eyes with his fingers, pressing hard.
“Did they fit?” Maybe he grabbed the wrong size or something.
“They don’t work. I put them in and they don’t work.” His voice rises again with pure frustration.
I hold out my hand. “Let me see.”
Danny rubs his eyes once more, then walks over to the end table next to the couch and picks up the remote control for the Xbox, handing it to me.
“Those batteries are bad. They don’t work.”
I pull the door off the battery compartment and see the problem immediately.
“They’re in wrong, Danny. See? One goes this way, and the other one goes that way. Opposite.” I turn one of the batteries around, and the remote’s indicator buttons light up.
“See?” I say. “Danny? Danny, look at me.”
He takes his eyes off the TV, finally making eye contact.
“Look at what I did with the batteries, so you know for next time, okay? One this way, one that way. And if it doesn’t work, try going opposite again. Okay?”
“Okay. It didn’t work.”
“I know, but it works now.”
“Did you fix it?”
“I fixed it.”
“And it works now?”
“Yes,” I sigh. “Do you want to work on the library decorations now? I promised you.”
He sits down on the couch, reaching for the bag of Goldfish crackers he’s always munching on.
“No. I want to do it later. I’m playing Super Mario Galaxy. Is the remote fixed?’
I reassure him again that it’s working as he starts the game up and sees it for himself. Most days Danny is no problem, beyond the usual annoying sibling-type stuff. But when something upsets him, he gets stuck on it and won’t let it go. He’s probably going to talk about that remote for the rest of the night and mention the batteries again the next time he picks it up, too.
Sometimes, autism can be really tiring.
“Where’s Mom?” he calls out as I scout the cupboard in the kitchen for a Pop-Tart.
“She told me she was going to rake the leaves,” I call back.
“Is she using the rake with the green handle?”
Why this is important, only Danny knows.
“I think so,” I answer.
I pour myself some iced tea to go with the Pop-Tart, scoop up my bag off the floor, and try to get Danny’s attention by waving at him. “Danny! Tell Mom I’m in my room.”
Danny doesn’t hear me at all. He’s too focused on the game now. I climb the stairs to my room and flop down on the bed, then close my eyes and replay the events of the last hour.
You think I’d be a little more freaked out over the fact that I almost died, but that’s nothing compared to the feeling of seeing the man of your dreams in the flesh. And how does he know me?
Obviously, we’ve met somewhere before, and I wasn’t kidding when I told him I have an incredible memory. I really do. I certainly wouldn’t have forgotten him. I know that face, from the glossy darkness of his hair to his long, long lashes to the way he gets a dimple on one side when he smiles.
This must be what going mad feels like.
How does he know me?
And why is he being so cryptic about everything?
I think I’m through being freaked out. I’m just angry now. Who does he think he is? Is this some kind of joke for him? Like he met me in passing once (and my mind registered him, of course—how could it not?), and now he’s being all secretive just to mess with me. What a jerk.
The jerk who saved my life.
I flip open my notebook with a sound of disgust and try to concentrate on my Spanish assignment, but it’s not working.
So the jerk sees me working the candy table (I further muse), and when he
