Remedy for

Memory

BRISTA DRAKE

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.

REMEDY FOR MEMORY

7

THE

VALENTINE

SWEET

By Trisha Gratz

Brista Drake

8

For Aaron

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.