"I grew up used to the fact that nothing was permanent.
It was only a matter of time before we would move again and I would be forced to start all over.
I spent many years uttering the same words: “I’ll never forget you, I promise.”
And then I spent many more years forgetting, breaking promises.”
He smelled strongly of coffee and cigarettes and the bittersweet stench of poorly-written love poems, and in this, he smelled almost as delectable as he looked; and that was saying something, as in that moment, the only thought I could process was that he was the most attractive person I’d ever seen.
(The Art of Forgetting)
At the start of my second week at Brackenridge, I was transferred into an Art 2 class when my whole schedule was switched around. Ms. Wendler, the stout and eccentric woman who taught Art 1 and 2, saw “potential” in my drawing and had me moved from Art 1 to Art 2 after just three days in her class. I liked Ms. Wendler; she struck me as one of few teachers at Brackenridge that I could appreciate during my time there.
Art 2 was only offered first and second block on the odd-and-even-day alternating schedule, and I got slotted into the second block class. I stumbled into the class, schedule in hand, with an edge of hesitation weighing down my feet. I enjoyed art, sure, but I had no idea how my skills would rank with the Art 2 students who had truly worked their way into the class with a previous year’s worth of experience.
Quickly scanning the room, I noticed a table in the back left corner of the classroom that didn’t have anyone sitting at it. There were a lot of students in the classroom already, so I figured that if anyone sat at that table, they would have been there by then. I shuffled to take one of the seats at the table, dropping my schedule on the tabletop and allowing my messenger bag to thud on the floor in a mess of fabric and notebooks.
I was intensely studying the order of my next few classes when the chair beside me slid back and a petite girl with fair skin and dark brown hair that tumbled over her shoulders and down her back poured herself into it. Her eyes, almost as brown as Thayer’s, met mine, smiling. “Hi,” she said. Her voice was small and adorable, but not exactly quiet. “I’m Aubin and I like your shirt.”
I blinked. That was the first time I’d been greeted by someone at Brackenridge that hadn’t been forced to speak to me. It was only the second time I’d been approached by anyone my age since we had moved to Lackland. Once I got over the initial shock of being addressed, I looked down at my shirt to remember what I had put on that day. My shirt advertised the band Coheed & Cambria; Amy, a girl I had befriended a few moves before, was obsessed with C&C and got me into them as well. The shirt was memorabilia from the concert I had attended with Amy a month or so before we moved away. I had totally forgotten I owned it until I found it in the bottom of a box of clothes when unpacking a few weeks before. I mentally thanked Amy for helping me to make friends even when she and I were no longer friends ourselves before returning my attention to Aubin.
“Uh, hi. I’m Andi.” I smiled sheepishly at her. “I’m glad you like the shirt. From experience, I don’t know many people who like Coheed & Cambria.” My hands fumbled with my schedule for a moment before I put it down and shifted in my chair to face Aubin more. I was still trying to wrap my mind around the concept of human interaction.
“Well, I suppose I’m one of few, then.” She beamed. Her smile was wide and goofy, but it added an air of beauty to her already pretty face. “Is Andi your real name or is it short for something?” She blurted, seeming to catch us both off guard.
“It’s short for Andrea, but my friends and family have called me Andi for as long as I can remember.” It was true. My parents might as well have named me Andi, because I couldn’t recall a time in my life when anyone but teachers had called me by my real name.
“I’ll tell Ms. Wendler to call you Andi, then.” She replied without missing a beat. “She goes to my church, so she likes me. I bet she’ll like you, too.” I couldn’t help but smile. Aubin hadn’t even known me a minute and she already had confidence in me. Her optimism was empowering.
“Thanks,” I laughed. “I was actually in her Art 1 class last week. She had me transferred to this class when my schedule got all switched up.” I glanced at my schedule on the desk. “This is my first year here…” I stammered.
“Oh, it’s mine too, don’t worry. I don’t know anyone either.” Again, Aubin didn’t miss a beat. “I was homeschooled up until this year. My parents decided it might be good for me to at least spend my senior year in a public school before I go off to college. Are you a senior?”
I nodded. “Yeah. Hopefully I’ll be able to finish out my senior year here.” I paused. “I’ve been to five different high schools so far.”
“Ah.” Aubin sighed. “You must be part of an Air Force family if you move so much.”
“Yeah, my dad’s been in the Air Force since before I was born.” I replied. My eyes met the floor.
“One of my best friends has both parents in the Air Force. They’ve been lucky enough to be stationed here for a few years, though. I know them through church, too.” She smiled again.
Suddenly I found myself wishing that I was religious. Aubin seemed okay with not having many friends at Brackenridge; I didn’t doubt that the circle of friends her church affiliation supplied her with was more than enough for her. The bell rang, interrupting my thoughts and signaling the start of second block.
Aubin turned to face the front of the classroom, but looked over at me and smiled once more. I smiled back, and continued smiling as I directed my gaze toward Ms. Wendler, content with the friend I had just made almost effortlessly. Danny would be proud, I thought, and smiled on.
(The Art of Forgetting)
(Source: theartofforgetting)
“As I took Thayer in, I saw him in a different light than I had just an hour before. He was vulnerable, open, innocent. His broad back and shoulders rose fell slowly and shakily, but at a steady pace. His long, nearly hairless right arm still dangled off the edge of the couch, and his fingers folded only slightly as they brushed the surface of the floor. His still disheveled hair was plastered to his forehead; it seemed darker than ever, just short of black. His defined cheekbones held his closed eyes, which fluttered gently in his sleep. It was only as I sat watching him rest that I noticed the slight spread of freckles across his nose and cheeks. They were nearly indistinguishable, but once noticed, they brought a boy-like charm to Thayer’s strong face. The corners of Thayer’s mouth twitched lightly from time to time, pulling his lips into a faint ghost of a smile for half a second at a time. There was a look to Thayer’s face in that moment that could have been mistaken for serenity if one did not look closely; the longer I watched him sleep, the more I found myself feeling ill at ease. It appeared that the vulnerable, sleeping Thayer was searching for a kind of peace that he had forgotten how to find.” (The Art of Forgetting)
(Source: theartofforgetting)
“To be honest, there are days when you don’t even cross my mind. But when you do? Oh god, when you do, it’s like you control me. Every thought I have, it’s you. Every emotion I feel, it’s you. Everywhere I look and every time I close my eyes, it’s you. You’re every breath I breathe and every sigh I heave and every word I utter from shaky lips. No, I don’t always think of you…but when I do, there’s not another thought for miles.” (The Art of Forgetting)
(Source: theartofforgetting)
I became particularly accustomed to watching Thayer while we watched movies together in the afternoons. I observed the way that he sat with his left foot tucked beneath his right thigh whenever he sat on my couch. I observed the way he would crack his neck every fifteen minutes or so, a habit I wasn’t entirely sure that he was even aware of. I observed the way his emotions ran rampant across his face, especially those of surprise and anguish. I observed how even when we were sitting side by side, he towered over me. I observed how deeply his broad shoulders rose and fell with every breath he took. I observed his comely profile and the way he barely blinked when he was intently focused on something. I observed him. I felt like I got to know him more in those times when words were neither present nor necessary than I did even on our most talkative days. If there was one thing that my impermanent life had led me to excel at, it was learning from the outside looking in.
(The Art of Forgetting)
(Source: theartofforgetting)
With the conclusion of my statement, I looked to the sky. It felt good to get all of that off my chest, but there was still a lump in my throat. I hadn’t told the whole story. I hadn’t mentioned my father’s alcoholism or my mother’s neglect… and most importantly of all, I hadn’t mentioned Danny. Sharing the complexities of my impermanent life with Thayer were one thing, but Danny’s death was a burden I couldn’t place on him, not yet.
“Jesus, Andi. That’s rough.” He said after some while.
“We’ve all got our demons, Thayer.”
(The Art of Forgetting)
(Source: theartofforgetting)
Much of the next week followed the same pattern. Each day that we walked, Thayer seemed to find something new about the neighborhood to share with me. There were times that I began to wonder if he was just making it all up, but it wouldn’t have mattered to me even if he was: the way with which he elaborately wound the community together never ceased to amaze me.
I began to notice more and more of how shy of a person Thayer really was. It occurred to me that until I had began walking with him, he must have lived his life very much consumed within himself and his own mind. He was awkward and sheepish and fidgety in nature, and it seemed like the only time he could speak more than three sentences without saying “uh” or “I guess” was when he was describing the neighborhood as we wandered our way through its many antiquity-laden streets.
Spending my days walking and talking with him allowed me to distance my thoughts from North Carolina and Danny as much as I considered possible and healthy. Doubtlessly, many things I heard and saw still brought those bright green eyes back to me, and doubtlessly it still hurt like hell… but Thayer’s presence made the pain less frequent and less forceful, and so I began to take quite a liking to having Thayer around. My heart kept reminding me that I was only asking for trouble, but the way I saw it, my heart was troubled no matter what.
(The Art of Forgetting)
(Source: theartofforgetting)
