It is dodgeball.

Hours later, during Ms. Harris's lecture on the hippocampus in Human Anatomy, Ryan Greene keeps glancing at me from across the aisle. My face and ego still sting from this morning, but I'm smiling and I can't stop. It hurts my cheeks, and Ryan is gawking-probably because the hippocampus isn't that exciting-but I don't care.

I saw Luke before class.

"Something funny, London?" Ms. Harris interrupts. She's stopped writing midsentence and is holding the blue dry-erase marker in midair. One of her perfectly curvy hips is popped to the side, and a manicured hand rests there, waiting.

She looks a little like one of the cheerleaders did earlier today. That's concerning, seeing as how Ms. Harris is a teacher and all. Shouldn't she reserve judgment?

Though I'm fairly certain that the majority of them are as bored by the anatomy of the brain as I am, the students in my line of sight now look annoyed at the interruption. More likely, they're just annoyed Ms. Harris turned around.

"London? Is there a joke?" she asks again when I don't speak. She tosses her dyed red hair and I wonder if she's jealous that mine is real.

"No, Ms. Harris," I say quietly. I try to think of something depressing, but the smile hangs on.

Ms. Harris stares at me, unblinking, for what feels like days. When she seems convinced that I'm either a bad seed or insane, she sighs and turns back to the whiteboard.

The rest of the students right themselves on their stools, and I relax, too. I take a deep breath of stale science-wing air and loosen my grip on the metal table.

My happy moment ruined, I focus on what Ms. Harris is saying, most of it completely snore-inducing. But then, she says something that grabs my interest.

"... possible that we store different types of memories in different parts of our brains."

Intrigued, I sit up a little straighter. I need to hear what she'll say next.

She turns and writes "Types of memories" on the whiteboard. Just as she's underlining her header, the bell rings.

"Class dismissed."

A little over an hour later, Mom is driving in the opposite direction of home, looking determined.

"Where are we going?"

"Out for a snack," she says.

"I'm not hungry," I protest.

"I don't care," she says. "You don't have to eat. But I think we need to spend some time together."

Uh-oh.

Mom pulls into a diner and parks, and we walk inside and seat ourselves as the sign instructs. Once the waitress has taken our drink orders-diet for Mom, regular for me-Mom strikes up a conversation.

"Good day?" she asks.

"No," I answer.

"Why not?"

The waitress delivers our drinks, and my mom unwraps our straws and puts them in the glasses. She takes a sip as she waits for me to respond.

"I got hit in the face with a ball in gym," I answer.

"Are you okay?"

"Yes, I'm fine."

"Good," she says. Another sip. "Anything else?"

"Carley Lynch."

"What did she do this time?" Mom asks.

"She just made some comment about my outfit."

"I love that outfit."

"Me, too," I say.

"You know she's just jealous of you, London."

"No, I don't know, Mom. I don't remember."

"Was Jamie there?" my mom asks casually.

"No, of course not," I mutter.

"Still fighting?"

"Obviously," I say, rolling my eyes.

A family scoots into the next booth over, and I watch them settle themselves as my mom speaks in a quieter tone. For that I'm grateful.

"There's no need to get snippy, sweetie. Jamie will come around; she always does. And Carley is jealous because of a boy. Christopher something. They went out for a while and broke up, then you asked him to a dance."

"I asked a boy to a dance?"

"It was a turnabout dance where the girls ask the boys. Jamie talked you into it. Anyway, you weren't interested in him after that one date, but Carley's always held a grudge."

"I told you all that?"

"We used to talk more," Mom says, with a hurt look in her eyes. I'm guilty of putting it there. I don't say anything back.

The waitress returns and asks what we'd like to eat. Mom orders a plate of onion rings for us to share; I love onion rings. The waitress moves to the next table over, and I watch the father order for his family. I'm aware of my envy as he chats with his daughter and son.

"When did Dad leave?" I ask my mom out of the blue. Her eyes grow wide as she swallows the soda she's just sipped.

"Where did that come from?" she asks. I shrug.

"Is that what's been bothering you lately? You want to know about your dad?"

"Maybe," I say.

Mom fidgets in her seat a little and then clears her throat.

"Okay," she says softly. "I've told you this before and I'll tell you again. Your father and I weren't meant to be together. We didn't get along, and he left when you were six. That's really the end of the story."

I think back to my notes.

"My memory went crazy when I was six. Do you think Dad leaving us traumatized me?"

"I've considered that," Mom admits, looking incredibly uncomfortable.

"So, what, you just fell out of love with each other?" I ask.

My mom doesn't meet my gaze when she replies, "Yes."

"And we never heard from him again?"

"No," she says. The letters at home tell me that she's lying, but I hide my anger. I press the issue.

"He never tried to talk to me or anything?"

I swear I see a flash of guilt in my mother's eyes when she answers. "No, honey, I'm sorry, he never did."

I don't believe you, I think.

And then our onion rings arrive.

When I get home, I try calling Jamie. She picks up on the third ring.

"You need to stop stalking me," she says sharply.

"Hi to you, too," I say.

"Seriously, I got your message earlier. I've gotten all of your messages. When I'm ready to talk to you, I'll call."

"But, Jamie, don't you think we should just talk about it?"

"Do you even remember what it is, London?"

"Yes," I say quietly. My notes are resting on my lap.

"But not really," Jamie snaps at me. "See, you get to go to sleep and forget everything. I don't have that luxury."

"It's not a luxury," I protest.

"Whatever, I have to go now."

"But, J, are we ever going to talk again?"

"I don't know, London, are we?"

Click.

"What's wrong?" Luke asks over the phone.

"Nothing," I lie.

"No, really, what is it? I can hear it in your voice."

I smile weakly. Why can't I remember you?

"Bad day," I reply, shrugging, though he can't see it.

"What happened?" Luke presses. I decide to let him in a little.

"My mom and I aren't really getting along, and she made me go and talk about my feelings after school. Then I tried to call Jamie and she basically cut me off and hung up on me. I'm really sick of her drama," I say bitterly, remembering forward to what I would consider some unnecessarily long arguments in the future. "She's just so self-absorbed. Everything is about her. It drives me crazy sometimes!"

Luke laughs a little.

"What?" I reply angrily.

"Nothing, I've just never heard you mad. It's cute."

"It's not cute!" I playfully shout at him. He laughs harder, and I join in. When we stop, Luke asks, "Seriously, though, what can I do to help?"

"It's just nice to talk to you," I say quietly. "This helps."

"I'm sorry I didn't call sooner," Luke says softly, sending chills down my spine. "I was painting."

"It's no big deal," I say, shrugging again. "I was eating onion rings and talking about feelings with my mom anyway."

"So tell me about the..." Luke abruptly stops talking on the other end of the phone. "Just a second," he whispers.

I hear Luke's hand moving over the mouthpiece, and then a woman's muffled voice. Luke's reply is louder but equally jumbled.

Soon enough, he's back.

"Sorry," he says, returning to the conversation. "That was my mom. She wants me to get off the phone. She said it's too late to talk."

"Oh," I say, trying not to sound disappointed, even though I know that my mom would feel the same way. "Okay, I guess we can catch up tomorrow then."

"Okay," Luke says.

"Good night, Luke."

"Sweet dreams, London."