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forget, that I’ll eventually lose any kind of filter or organization up there, like a library with no Dewey decimal system. The other worry is that I might forget everything; that my brain will kick into reverse and keep going until all that’s left is a blur of white noise.
    But the reason I can’t sleep tonight is because I keep thinking about Halle Phillips’s daffodil voice. It floats through my mind and whispers in my ear. When I finally do fall asleep, I dream of that same daffodil voice that I heard in kindergarten, the sassy attitude that went with it, and how she sounds now, how she hasn’t changed all that much after all. I dream of her curves and those dark eyes that draw me in. I dream of her long, sexy legs.
    When I wake up I want to go back to sleep, to keep dreaming about her. I roll over and look at the clock: two minutes before the beep, which lasts an annoying five seconds and repeats every minute.
    Pans rattle in the kitchen and the strong odor of coffee hits my nose. Mom is up. I turn off the alarm and pull the covers over my head. Five more minutes . The fog of sleep wraps around my brain.
    But my memories are up and forcing their way in. I’m in front of Dink. Dink’s muddy voice yells at me.
    â€œWe’re running out of time. I don’t want to hear any more of your crap. You don’t have to ask your mom. Do as I tell you, Baxter!”
    I sat frozen in front of him, a pencil poised in my hand. Dink was doing something bad. Why did he want me to write down all those numbers?
    The next moment a hand cracked across my face. My cheek had a hot streak from where Dink hit me, leaving an imprint. Dink’s eyes were wild marbles moving back and forth between me and his two friends.
    â€œYou start writing. Now!”
    My hand shook as I scribbled down the numbers.
    Dink. I can’t stand the memories. For three months after he was arrested I’d dream about him and wet the bed. I grab my watch off the nightstand and clutch it in my palm. I pry my eyes open and stare at it, focusing on memories of anyone but Dink.
    Dr. Anderson was in front of me. His lab coat was blinding white; he looked like an angel.
    â€œI want to help you figure this out, Baxter. Will you let me help you?”
    I reach out to him and my watch falls to the floor. Is this real? Is Dr. Anderson here in my room?
    â€œBaxter, wake up. You’ll be late for school.” Mom opens the curtains, flooding my face with sunlight. I put up my hand to block it out. When did I fall back asleep? How much was memory and how much was dream?
    Is dreaming what it’s like to have a normal memory? When you see some things that are real, but not everything is as it seems? Or is it where you unconsciously choose to discard memories, to flush them away into the excess tide of unwanted experiences?
    Dr. Anderson was the only person I could talk to about this, the only person who understood. He sounds like a silver trumpet, vibrant and bright.
    Mom shouts a hurried “Get up” and leaves. I roll off the mattress and hit a wall. I’m not used to having my bed propped next to the right wall of my bedroom after years of having it on the left side. I’m half asleep and I thought I was still in California. So this is what it’s like to forget! Suddenly the day seems promising.
    I pull on jeans and a clean T-shirt. My drawer is almost empty and Mom hasn’t done laundry yet. I’m dangerously close to being forced to wear a large shirt I got years ago, a yellow SpongeBob atrocity. I’m not a math whiz, but I know that would exponentially lower my popularity index at Madison High School.
    Mom is pouring herself a cup of coffee. A whiff of residue smoke tells me she’s already been outside for a cigarette. Do I nag her so early in the morning? The kitchen is less cluttered; she unpacked some more boxes last night. The small, square table is cleared off, but the chairs still hold