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If you purchased this book without a cover, you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as “unsold and
destroyed” to the publisher, and neither the author nor the publisher has received any payment for this “stripped book.”
Copyright © 2015 by Brista Drake. All rights reserved.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the
case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews. Printed in the United States of America
Copyright © 2015 Brista Drake
Remedy for Memory was first published in June 2015.
First Paperback edition, 2015
All rights reserved.
ISBN-13: 978-1483960173 ISBN-10: 148396017X
i
FOREWORD
Hello to all my readers. I want to take this moment to thank the people
who have inspired my writing. Thank you, Mom, for always checking in on me
from time to time, bringing me food, starting a fire when it got cold, etc. Thanks for constantly asking how my book was going and for pushing me through to the end, no matter how tough it got. I can’t imagine having done any of this without you.
I want to thank the first people who took the time to read my book. Clay and Dan, I love you guys. I want to recognize Conrad, who has recently passed away a few weeks before this book was published, for being one of my biggest supporters from the beginning. I’ll miss you.
Thanks, Zoe and Grace from Teen Eyes Editorial. You did a great job with the edits, even while finishing up your school years. I love that you’re working toward your dreams at such a young age, not that I have any room to talk.
Finally, I’d like to thank National Novel Writing Month. If I hadn’t found this program three years ago, I never would’ve found my calling, or finished this book for that matter. The people I’ve met have been so supportive. I can’t thank them enough. Thank you, Danielle Thamasa, fellow author and my region’s ML, for the helpful tips along the way. To my biggest fans, I love you to the moon and back, especially my first and most enthusiastic supporter, DearJordan.
To the next galaxy and then some.
1
February 14: 1:50 p.m.
Riingg. “Oh, doggone it.” Mr. Rhodell almost finished
explaining rate of change when the seventh period dismissal
bell rang. “Okay, we’ll finish derivatives tomorrow.” Half
the class was already out the door. He started to clear off the
board for last period, Advanced Math.
A few students watched him take it one step further with
a spray bottle, the board having built up a layer of marker
residue over the course of the day.
An acne-faced boy poked a guy with dark hair in front of
him. Mr. Rhodell stood on one foot, leaning as far as he
could toward the other side. His head was grazing the bottom
of the American flag, like it was combing his hair. “How
does he not feel that?”
The dark-haired boy in front of him snickered. “He
probably is doing it on purpose. There’s no way he doesn’t
notice it getting in his eyes like that.” Indeed, Mr. Rhodell
kept polishing the board in small circles. “Hopefully he
cleans for the first five minutes.”
“Someone get him to talk about his family again. I’m not
ready for that test today.”
Brista Drake
2
1:55 p.m.
The eighth period bell rang, ready to end in three, two. . .
An oversized student charged headfirst through the
doorway. He decelerated rapidly into a sway that was both as
slow and bigheaded as a Macy’s Day Parade balloon. He
viewed the world with half open eyes, leaning backward in
his stride – counterbalancing his protruding stomach,
perhaps. His lips were a thin line of ambiguity. His chin full
of beard was raised. He was a senior – at first glance, a
socially awkward hippo rocking down the aisle with a binder
under his arm that was ready to puke paper all over the floor.
The giant’s binder hit the desk with a heavy thump as he
slid casually into his throne. The dark-haired boy grinned.
“If I didn’t know you, I’d say you were a pretty laidback
kind of guy, Aaron.”
Acne-face spoke to the now turning Aaron, “Me and Jeff
were just chatting about Valentine’s Day. Any thoughts?”
They both instantaneously beamed as Aaron raised his
giant hand toward his chin, pondering at the ceiling tiles
above him.
“Hm. Now. . .” A deeper, sly voice emitted from Aaron.
He slowly double-tapped the end of his pencil against the
rim of the desk, placing the other end in his mouth like a
cigar.
His eye’s narrowed. “Lemme tell you somethin’ bout
Valentine’s Day,” He widened his wind passage to play up
his role as the Godfather.
But something interrupted them. The class turned toward
the door. Aaron frowned, indulging in a deep drag from his
pencil as two girls approached the front of the room. They
were holding gifts – two of several office aids who had been
REMEDY FOR MEMORY
3
delivering sweets throughout the day to every corner of the
school.
As he took the pencil out of his mouth, he glanced at Mr.
Rhodell. Mr. Rhodell creased his eyebrows in deep thought,
watching the girls as they worked together to uncoil a tag
from a bouquet of flowers. Aaron began to scribble on the
surface of his desk.
“What’s all of that for?” Mr. Rhodell pointed at the roses.
Someone had come to deliver gifts to his room earlier fourth
period, but he’d been too engrossed by a proof diagram to
notice.
“We’re delivering Valentines,” one said. She hesitated
and glanced around.
“Valentine’s Day?” He poked the lunch calendar with his
index finger. “Shoot, it is Valentine’s Day.” Everyone in the
class shook in silent giggles.
“Mr. Rhodell didn’t know it was Valentine’s Day,” Acne-
face snickered to Dark-hair. Aaron, striving to be different,
or lost in thought, deepened the grains into the desk.
The aide read the tag. “Is. . . Shanda. . . in here?” A junior
raised her hand, causing an uproar of adoring noises to
sprout from her friends. While everyone watched the junior
blush, the other dispatcher made her way behind the class to
Aaron who was rapidly slashing hairy dashes on his doodles.
She already knew the name, quickly slipping the box onto
his desk before retreating.
Aaron froze mid-jab. He looked up from under his brows.
A few others in the room glanced over, their interest slightly
piqued.
Aaron sat up, pushing his chest marginally forward to
seem more masculine. He stared, puzzled, down at the pink
box, keeping most of his emotion out of his face. His eyes
Brista Drake
4
were completely dull. He couldn’t help but smirk when the
boys looked over.
“Whoa, Aaron. Who’s the special lady?” asked Dark-hair.
Aaron barely cared who it was from, but was curious if
this was raising awareness of himself in the room. He
scooped it off the table and rotated it over in his hands,
pausing dramatically. When he started to rotate it again, he
frisked the entire surface with his fingers. He stopped again.
There was nothing to report. He put the box down and
placed a firm grip on the lid, which slid off with ease.
Cream-colored confetti paper was enclosed inside, covering
something dark like chocolate.
He quickly became excited, a devilish grin spreading
across his face. Signs of amusement speckled all around him.
He tore the folds away, but under the last sheet was a book.
A lack-luster, inedible book.
“WHAT!” roared the beast. He held the book out in front
of him with one hand. If anything, though, he was amused
by the convenient turn of events, sustaining his beast-like
snarl. Everyone was watching – a good sign. He raised his
hand and released all of his fingers except two; the
paperback dangled upside-down between them. He burned it
with his eyes. A surprise spurt of laughter from somewhere
close-by died moments after it broke the silence.
His gaze, still intensified, automatically touched on the
upturned words of the title. Eventually, something in the
author’s name registered in his brain, something that made
him read it through. His whole body stiffened, but he
managed to keep his face unchanged as he reread the
author’s name again with desperation. His expression fell
flat and he lowered the book to his desk.
The boys were joshing with him. Others were turning to
REMEDY FOR MEMORY
5
the front of the class as Mr. Rhodell approached the board.
Aaron looked his two classmates in the eyes, both
insignificant enough to disregard their names, even when
they broadcasted his. All the clichés of the day were
suddenly insignificant. The punchlines, the façade of a king,
they caved in. There was no way he was going to be able to
focus during class.
He was grinding down the last of his flat expression. Not
to raise suspicion, he nodded at anything they said. He
pushed the book under his binder at the right moment,
keeping it out of view, and he stayed heedlessly quiet for the
rest of the period.
3:04 p.m.
Why did Aaron keep it in his binder? He could’ve tossed
it in the trash on his way out of class like he planned.
Yet, it was sitting at the bottom of his backpack.
The moment he got home, he stumbled upstairs to his
room. He locked the door behind him and yanked his
backpack’s zipper open on the chair’s arm, like usual. He
flung the binder onto his bed.
He went to stand over it, trying to calm himself. He
gripped the binder’s zipper and, with difficulty, pulled
aggressively over flyleaves jammed inside the zipper’s teeth.
Like any normal day, he tossed the flap carelessly over on its
side, but there it was, nested in the masses of paper.
His chest slowly expanded. After a moment, he seized the
book in his hands, pretending to not feel his pulse racing,
and sat cross-legged on his bed. He studied the back,
skimming the copyright section and strumming the pages a
Brista Drake
6
few times. Inadvertently, it fanned a scent of new book his
way. He flipped it over and read the cover one last time.
He debated on burning it. He glared until his eyes started
to water. He would wait until his nerves calmed down before
throwing it in the garbage.
Soft crackling of binding – just for a moment – lifted off
of the sheets. This wasn’t an ordinary book in his possession.
Aaron paused. A louder, braver crunch arose when he
pushed down its crease, where the first page and the cover
met. Admittedly, it was charming. A book, ey?
Aaron read the words which never would’ve seen the
light of day, otherwise.
9
CHAPTER ONE
I’m a simple person, with simple flaws. My spine
has a slight case of scoliosis. I’m deaf in one ear,
however, I’ve never let that rule over my life.
Aside from that, my personal weaknesses range from
many to far. Who doesn’t let those get the best of us
from time to time?
I was a mile from that curve in the road – the one in
between home and town.
The music
was playing
at medium
volume as I
sped down the
far right side of the
road. That day, I’d left the house early, to give
myself time in the college lounge to start, and finish, my
reading assignment over Mill’s ethical standpoint.
At least, I’d read enough to pass off that I understood
Mill. I’d be forced to share to the class my opinions on
happiness, suffering, and how the two should be
utilized. So, no, I don’t remember what played over the
radio that morning.
I was in my first term, enrolled full-time, following a
four year engineering program that guaranteed I’d get a
diploma. It meant I registered into the hardest classes
right away – because my scores said I could.
Brista Drake
10
. . . And because I said I could. Education was
something that I valued. I wanted to keep myself. . .
focused. The work over-haul was good stress for me.
I ran through the day’s plan, turning up the radio’s
volume and watching my speed on the panel gauge.
Take a deep breath, lean back in the seat, correct your
hands so that they hung appropriately. Relax. Don’t
think.
The air was stale after having circulated through the
car’s heater for too long, so I cracked the window to let a
cool mist rush over me. A lake nearby carried over the
scent of freshly chiseled ice. The gush burned my
cheeks.
The trees had shed. The ground was brown and had
turned over for the year. Winter was coming.
Thu-thumb. Sometimes, if you can concentrate on a
part of your body long enough, you can hear it. My pulse
was loud, it was heavy, and it weighed down on me.
I felt the blood moving inside. There was silence. I
took in thick air. Thu-thumb,
the circuit recycled.
My head slunk passed my
shoulders. Warm tears streak
my cheeks. My fingertips
flushed against the steering
wheel. Breathe! I thought.
Breathe! You can’t go to school
like this! I caught myself for a
moment, only to become lost in
thought again. Maybe I wasn’t trying.
REMEDY FOR MEMORY
11
I thought I saw a turn ahead caution sign. I closed
my eyes. Another spell that I had submitted to was
ending.
Concentrate. Sounds from before – the music, the
car’s heater, the wind lashing in through the window as
it tussled at my bangs – they came rushing back. I felt
the solidity of the steering wheel in my outreached
hands. I opened my eyes after one burning inhale.
Damn. It was the curve in the road before town.
The arrow on my speedometer was vertical. I was
going too fast to be taking it. But it being the only curve
in the road, always has been, my adrenaline wasn’t
letting off the gas yet. Instead, I judged the maneuver,
keeping my foot on the pedal.
I entered the curve, but I had made a fatal mistake.
The road was narrow. The car wouldn’t make the full
turn. I pumped on the brakes, my hands jerked harder
right. The car screeched. I didn’t feel pressure from the
wheel anymore, or gravity anchoring me down. I gasped.
The car had gone airborne.
Where was the ground? I clenched the door handle.
The car touched ground. It skipped sideways across
the yard. There wasn’t a bump. It moved with velocity,
meaning I could flip any second.
It was sound of thunder before the lightning. I was
sitting at a forty-five degree angle. The blows became
more noticeable. The smooth treads of my left-side tires
striped the grass like ellipses, ripping at it violently.
Brista Drake
12
It dug deeper, the lawn absorbing the momentum,
dirt flying everywhere. I locked on a lone pine tree
aligned with my car’s path – specifically, with the
driver’s seat.
I thought of stupid things in this time. What was the
last thing I said or what should be the last thing I think
about? Or was there a possibility of living? Would it
matter to scream?
Nothing came out, by the way, if you were
wondering. I couldn’t stop a collision. There’d be blood.
I just wanted to be better. She – me – I did this. No
more. I didn’t care anymore!
I threw the wheel into a spin when there was enough
skid.
The tree moved from my door to the rear, hitting it
with critical force. He must’ve been something
breathtaking. I fell sideward. My head made a loud
thump against the doorframe. I heard the clout, but
didn’t feel it yet.
Eventually, everything was quiet.
13
FEBRUARY, FIVE MONTHS LATER
I cry because I have details I vividly remember, but
I can’t write them here, just in case someone else finds
this. I’m grateful for what I can write without coming off
as unreliable. What I can’t, nevertheless, bites deep at
the right time. You’ll have to trust that I won’t tell all
your secrets. They’re safe where you left me.
I pick up my sketchpad, the one with the curled
corners. I haven’t drawn in a while, as you may know, or
maybe you don’t. It depends whether you paid attention
to that part of my life. But I wouldn’t blame you if you
didn’t. I usually keep forms of expression very private.
Well, I’ve needed a remedy recently, and this journal’s
now something of a keeper of personal growth. I never
thought I’d hold an inanimate object so dear.
I wonder about what happened back in September, as
I pull back on the corner once again. The last five
months haven’t left anything out, sadly. My mind is
clear. The sheets coasting to one side below me. The
world has changed again, hopefully for the better.
I’ve been writing, too. It’s healthier than streaming
endless series for hours until I doze off. I quit college
sometime after the crash, so there’s lots of time
dedicated to nothing.
I was in a sinking period. College had just started, but
I was still sinking. I had lost motivation to keep going,
long before the crash. The crash had woken me up.
Brista Drake
14
I write now to express pent up anger, against myself.
My journal, my sketches, they help. I know something
will come out of it. Mostly, I sincerely want to
understand.
So, five months later.
I find the finest graphite I own, turn to
an empty leaf, and fold my hand firmly
under its lead. The pencil’s drag leaves
a steady line through the middle of
the page, its edge reveling in all
the purity of a first impression.
The tip travels faster within
the margins. A hazy image
like the one I’d imagined
becomes clear. With more
pressure on the roll,
shadows darken and
outlines of silhouettes
emerge.
I do feel guilty
when I think
about it. I
wonder
whether or
not I’m
meant
to day dream. I never caught myself, but I felt the aching
it causes afterward. My memories are my own. They
were good for me. I wish he could understand that, so I
didn’t feel so horrible when I thought about. . .
REMEDY FOR MEMORY
15
The arc of my hand rubs against loose lead and trails
dark smudges off the lines. Just like that, I’d ruined a
good thing. The eraser can’t remove the full stain.
But with layering, I am able to enrich the detail.
Without entirely changing the picture, I’d given it a new
meaning.
And there it is, something beautiful I’d composed –
my own thoughts and hopes come to life – unlike
everything else. Maybe that’s why I’m drawing again:
everything is so much easier to fix.
I lie back in my bed and look down at what I’d drawn.
A kind of smile comes over me that I can’t explain.
Some things in life aren’t fair. I know I won’t see you
the same after I write this. I have to, though. This is for
me.
Then it’s your turn to understand.
16
FOUR YEARS AGO
It was the only school period I had that didn’t
include my sophomore class. I regretted waiting a year
to take my first Spanish course, after my close friends
had already finished theirs. Spanish was a choice –
unlike generals – so in a way, I felt like I was being left
behind.
Everyone I knew, even the cast of individuals I’d only
spoken two words to, was gone. It was a relatively big
deal today, because I never mixed with another grade
before.
Freshmen year we were sheltered away from the
older high school students. I only seen blurs of them in
the halls. So one could guess the number of butterflies
that tumbled in my stomach as I made the imminent
walk to last period.
I was one of the last people to clear the hallway, and
when I entered the room, I saw big geological maps of
Spain and Mexico on the walls. It was impressive. The
room was small, and empty seats were scarce. Each desk
was turned inward into a square, four to each square,
and there were five squares total. I shifted toward the
closest desk.
I managed to get there without overthinking, while
embracing a cold, flat expression. I knew what
assumptions I was receiving.
These things – unable to avoid glimpsing at one
sitting five feet away from me – looked bizarre. Their
REMEDY FOR MEMORY
17
faces were swollen, eyes darting wildly at each other.
Their bodies, doughy and out of proportion, were calm.
Some had just hit puberty. I vainly hoped I hadn’t
appeared like that during my freshmen year. I never
considered humans as numbers, but they were like bugs,
spawning in those seats before class to fill empty spots.
In contrast, I was just a result of poor judgement.
Please don’t think I’m stupid, I thought. I couldn’t fit it
in my schedule last year, okay?
With the exception of the back corner square, seating
a close-knit quartet of boys, the rest of the classroom
had been fairly inaudible. The daunting quiet suspended
over my table only emphasized how we all felt:
uncomfortable.
A tremble bloomed in my hands. I craned my neck
sideways to scan the rest of the students.
One of them was stretching in his seat as we made
eye contact. I dodged, eyeing a girl whose panicked look
jumped from the stretching boy’s back to me at once. I
deadpanned. I anchored my vision down onto the hems
of my sleeves, so I wouldn’t make that mistake again.
I continued to transfix on my hands. They were in a
desensitized arrest. Too many first impressions were
being made then to be gawking at my hands, but I
couldn’t bring myself to doing anything else. . .
“EEHUUHH!”
I flinched in the direction of a low, terrorizing shriek.
If someone made that sound (not a string caught in the
air vents or something), I guessed it was the hefty boy in
the corner, whose fat rolls were hanging below his t-
Brista Drake
18
shirt. His curly muffin of hair stood tall on his head. His
chest arched a foot over the desk. He scowled at the boy
across from him. I swear I heard growling from across
the room.
His erratic behavior attracted everyone’s attention.
He flared his nostrils like a provoked bull. I was the only
one completely horrified by this, because the others in
the room were a dazed sort of stressed. A fire drill
could’ve triggered the same reaction, having been
through this before.
A guy at the next square, an extremely nice guy or
just an acquaintance, leaned across the walkway to the
heavy boy and gestured to put a hand on his shoulder,
but didn’t.
“Hey… you wanna calm down there, A-“
The heavy boy spun around and shouted directly
above the small boy’s head.
I couldn’t pay much attention to what the tyrant was
saying (I guessed they were insults spoken in deep,
satanic English – too fast for me to register). I was a bit
staggered by the shapes his mouth was making, and the
nice boy’s lips continued to move. Brave, I thought, or
too stunned to realize he was still talking. The small boy
blinked a few times and waited for the screaming to
end, and a few moments later, it did.
The heavy boy shot back to his original position in
his seat and was once more huffing over the desk, his
scowl turned upside-down into a vicious grin.
I realized he hadn’t been glowering at the person
opposite of him, but at the wall or air or nothing at all.
REMEDY FOR MEMORY
19
He was just doing it just to
do it. By the way he started
laughing manically, I thought
he might’ve been a tad bit
embarrassed from being called
out in front of the whole class,
but I couldn’t tell.
He looked kind of stupid.
Scary, so I wouldn’t actually
tell him that to his face, but
stupid. I took him as a
modern day bully,
predestined to grow into
the radiant asshole that he
aspired to be. They weren’t as dangerous as they were
annoying during school hours, but still. I hoped he’d at
least drop out or have his schedule changed before next
quarter. He was going to ruin last period of sophomore
year for me.
I could actually feel my face burning. I wanted to
walk over there and tell him how terrible this semester
was going to be with him. I wanted to be some type of
hero so bad that I overlooked being the only one staring
at this point.
A new set of eyes then fixed on me, sending chills
down my spine.
I never forgot how blue they were – iceberg blue. Or
how oversized, like cartoon animations.
He sat back in his seat and must’ve felt the scorch
from my glare.
Brista Drake
20
I turned so quickly, he’d definitely call me out for it. I
could see a frown growing on his face from the corners
of my eyes. I stared at what were… my books. I begged
silently that he’d let it go.
Then, a woman withdrew from behind a computer at
the front wall. She had ignored the chaos going on
inside her classroom. She was ready to start class. I felt
reassured by this, as the tyrant must’ve dismissed my
glare as a passing glance. He, as well as I, was quickly
absorbed by her presence.
With a fake smile, she introduced the class as
Spanish One (as it’s called in the handbook) and herself
as Ms. Dover.
Ms. Dover quickly transitioned into the year’s
syllabus, which made a new alphabet look more like
prep work for a space launch. It required much
planning, pre-evaluating, and simulation. Only then
could you be ready to speak the word uno.
Eventually, though, she got to the same overview of
required supplies and rules that I’d heard in every other
class that day. I was being especially attentive to each
word that came drooling out of Ms. Dover’s mouth.
Overused encouragement quotes resonated crystal-clear
in my ears.
A rush of nerves hit me. I didn’t want to listen so
studiously, but I had to, because I was all alone. And
every day I’d walk into this classroom feeling that way.
That tyrant had friends he murmured to throughout the time. Even that brash ego has friends.
21
THE RED ORB
A week later, on a quickly darkening afternoon, I
witnessed the world catch on fire.
I was walking along a gravel driveway, admiring the
small pinwheels and pink flamingos picketed in the cut
grass. Down the road behind me, a silhouette of a large
chicken factory burned in the sun. The sky was dyed a
bold red. It faded orange on the opposite horizon
behind a small white house that I was walking toward.
The moment was spectacular. Never had I seen a sky
like this over my house and, feeling a bit envious, I
thought a small township away must make all the
difference. A light wind carried the scent of chicken
manure, like it did throughout the year. It was
bittersweet.