"In three words I can sum up everything I've learned about life: it goes on." -Robert Frost

Memory Lane: Chapter Two

After unpacking all of my clothes and applying my medical lotion to my legs, I sit down on the window seat that Uncle Tim made for me. The cushion is stiff: clearly unused and ready to morph into my shape. My mom's worn leather journal rests open in my lap as I read through more pages of her random thoughts mixed in with other poet's words of wisdom. She has a variety of poets in her journal, but it's clear to me that her favorite was Robert Frost. Along with his poems frequenting nearly every page, she quoted him most often in real life, too. She had a quote prepared for everything.

"What would you say right now, mom?" I mumble as I gently close her journal, looking out the window at the world below.

Though it isn't cold outside, the cool autumn breeze blows against the window and carries a few passing leaves with it. I pull my dad's college crewneck tighter around my body and tuck my legs up onto the bench when a knock at my door pulls me away from watching the world outside.

"Laura?" Allen asks, only pushing the door open after I call back out to him. "Mom- er, Aunt June wanted me to come let you know that dinner is ready. Do you still like meatloaf?"

He stands awkwardly in my doorway, so tall and posture so straight that his head is only inches away from the top of the frame. There's that same look in his eye from before; guilty panic at his needless change of wording. It's as if he thinks that even saying the word "mom" will set me into a depressive episode.

From the corner of my eye, I catch sight of myself in the mirror and see my lack of a smile. I'm reminded that people will only look at me that way if I give them reason to. So, I quickly plaster one on in the most convincing way possible even if I haven't liked meatloaf since I was a little kid.

"Thank you, that sounds great!"

I internally groan at the obviously fake excitement to my voice. No one gets this cheerful over meatloaf even if it is their favorite meal.

Allen eyes me, "You hate meatloaf, don't you?"

I wince slightly at being caught and my smile turns sheepish.

"I tried to tell her. I remember when you got sick from it when we were kids, but she brushed that off and said it was always your favorite," he says, rolling his light blue eyes.

I hear Aunt June shuffling around in the kitchen downstairs and a sting of guilt hits me. "Please don't tell her, I'll still come down and eat."

"Don't worry about it. If you want, I'll just tell her you're still busy unpacking."

Gratitude washes over my expression as I nod and things fall silent. Allen continues to stand by the door, his eyes darting around the room and feet shifting every few seconds as if he can't find a comfortable position to stand in.

"So..." he says, clearing his throat, "how are you settling in? Did she overdo it with the pink?"

This isn't home. For the past eight months, nothing has come remotely close to feeling that way. Still, I look around the walls and items covered in different shades of pink and a warmth crawls through my body instead of any pain or sorrow. Aunt June did all she could to make me feel at home; she's even going so far as to make me meatloaf that at one point really was my favorite food. This may not be home, but it has the potential to begin to feel that way if I let it.

I look back at Allen who seems as though guilty for asking after it takes me so long to answer. Quickly, I respond with more cheer than probably necessary to sell my story.

"Great! All of my clothes fit perfectly into the dresser and this window seat is incredible. I can't believe Uncle Tim made it in less than a week."

Allen smiles, but it seems more like a smile of relief that I responded rather than a genuine reaction.

"That's good," he says with a nod of affirmation that makes his words seem more directed at himself than me.

We fall into an awkward silence again, until he speaks up.

"Listen, no pressure to go, but a friend of mine is throwing a back-to-school party tonight. It might be nice for you to meet some of your new classmates before school starts on Monday."

I avoid tilting my head like a dog when confusion hits me. As kids, Allen was never one that I would imagine getting invited to a party. It's not that he was antisocial, but Allen was a bit of a nerd and being uncomfortably taller than his classmates while a few pounds too skinny surely didn't help. Of course, I see now that he gained weight rooted in muscle and has started taking more care of his fashion and appearance, so it shouldn't come as too much of a shock. Even so, I let my reaction show.

"Hold up- you're popular?"

Allen furrows his brow, crossing his arms over his chest in defense, his stance suddenly void of discomfort. "Why so much emphasis on 'you're'?"

I stifle a laugh at his almost whiny voice. Even though his looks have aged with him, I suppose he's still just a 17 year old boy.

"Sorry! All I meant is that last time I really saw you, you had a Pokémon obsession, collected coins, and did math on the weekends... for fun. I think that explains itself."

Allen opens his mouth to argue before he shuts it, his lips forming a thin line as he thinks it through. Then, he shrugs his acceptance and chuckles.

"Well, I still play Pokémon every time a new game comes out, my coin collection is tucked away safely under my bed and I still add to it, and I'm Captain of the math team."

"So this is a small party with board games and Pokémon cards?" I joke.

Allen's smile instantly vanishes into a scowl, but I know he's not really offended.

"No, it's a typical high school party with drinking and smoking. I think your standards of popularity are a little... rooted in fiction."

I suppose I am stereotypical with my popularity assumptions. At my school, social status was as cliché as it could have been. Only a few people broke the mold and though I was not one of them, I was happily in the middle of the pack. I had plenty of friends, all of which I've distanced myself from since the accident, but we were not the type to be invited to every party or run around with the predominantly popular kids.

Despite what Allen says, high schoolers will be high schoolers and that means major judgment on others that don't fit their mold.

"Not many schools invite the captain of the math team to parties, haven't you ever seen Mean Girls?"

Allen snorts. "This isn't a movie. But, I am on the baseball team and my girlfriend is the cheerleading Captain, so I'm sure that helps."

I laugh, "Yep, there it is."

"To be fair, I met Kendall on the math team last year. So, it's possible to be an athlete and a mathlete. Which means being smart and a little nerdy does not mean you're automatically a loser."

"You sure you aren't just saying that to make me feel better?"

"That would imply that I think you're smart..."

My jaw drops and I grab a pillow resting on the window-seat next to me, chucking it at him. He laughs and catches it easily, shifting it between his hands as he snorts at me.

"I just said I was on the baseball team, Little Laurier. Throwing a pillow at me is not going to-"

Mid-sentence, I chuck another pillow at his stomach and this one lands the hit. It smacks into his stomach before falling to the hardwood floor with a soft thud. Allen stands there silently, staring down at the bright pink pillow on the floor as I try to hide my laughter.

For the first time since arriving at the Stallard's, I feel a sense of normalcy seeping into place. Right now, neither Allen nor I see our living situation as his little cousin getting thrown into tragedy and forced to move in. No, it's just like we're little kids again; playing upstairs while our parents drink and cook together downstairs. For a moment, I forget that isn't our reality.

"I'm telling mom you hate her cooking," Allen finally says, lifting his teasing eyes to meet mine.

However, our banter ends when he barely avoids flinching at his use of the word "mom" again. Instead of correcting himself, which he really doesn't need to do, his expression turns uncomfortable and he quickly looks away from me.

Suddenly, the feeling of being little kids again with our parents laughing downstairs drifts away and I'm left with that same pit of darkness deep in my stomach.

"Uh- anyway. Let me know if you want to go, I plan on leaving around nine," he says, clearing his throat.

With that, he taps my door with a small, awkward smile and starts to retreat back down the hallway.

---

By the time nine o'clock rolls around, I've made my decision to go to the party and text Allen to let him know I'll be tagging along.

After changing into something more presentable for a high school party, I stare at myself in the mirror and hazel eyes blink back at me. My light brown hair cascades down, stopping just beneath my shoulders with the natural highlights the summer sun provided slowly fading. I lower my head slightly, ensuring my middle part doesn't look sloppy.

I practice a few different smiles. One for when someone tells me a joke that I may not really find funny, but have to offer up a humored reaction. One for when someone is telling me a story and I have to seem engaged. And one for when Allen undoubtedly glances my way with worry to ensure that I am having a good time. I even practice a sad smile to seem brighter than it would naturally be.

Walking downstairs, my chest no longer feels tight with anxiety but instead light with excitement. I've always thrived off of meeting new people. My dad was so extroverted and was always striking up a conversation with a stranger and I began to do the same wherever I went. Talking to others is easy for me, but since the accident it seems to be hard for others.

This is my opportunity to rewrite my own narrative. My classmates don't need to know about my past. All they need to know is that I moved in with the Stallard's for the time being. They can't treat me differently if they don't know what happened.

As I walk into the living room where Uncle Tim and Aunt June are, I give them both a big smile. However, my excitement hits a hard wall when I don't see my expression mirrored by them. Instead, there's that same look that they've been giving me all day. The same look that everyone gives me if they know what happened; another reason it's so important for me to avoid becoming known as the girl with dead parents at my new school.

Allen comes downstairs after me, leaning against the wall to the living room as he finishes up sending someone a text. I risk looking at him, hoping that his eyes have the same carefree glee that they showed for a moment earlier upstairs, but those hopes are quickly crushed and I look down at my feet.

"You two be careful," Aunt June says, "and Allen will be looking out for you tonight, Laura. Even so, if you want to come back home, don't hesitate to text me. I'll be right over to come get you."

I know she means to be helpful, but another sting of pain crosses through me for being treated once again as though I'll break down at any moment. I know they mean well, and I know that I haven't given them reason not to treat me this way. They'll continue to do so until I prove that I really am okay. So, I lift my eyes from the floor and smile at both her and Uncle Tim.

"Thank you, but before we go...can I ask everyone a small favor?"

That sends a hush through the room and Uncle Tim mutes the game show rerun playing on the TV. I shift my feet and quietly clear my throat, trying to find a good way to voice my thoughts.

"I appreciate everything you all are doing for me: letting me move in, decorating my room for me and building that window seat, and even cooking me dinner. You really are helping me feel at home, but..."

My voice trails off and I glance at the TV, watching the ridiculous game show host prance around the screen as I form my thoughts. I shift my eyes between the three of them, offering a small smile to relieve any worry they may have.

"It's hard to feel like this is home when you guys act like I'm not okay. You don't have to treat me like I'm broken or like I'm so fragile that I'll break if you say the wrong thing. Because I'm not, and I won't. I'm still me. I know that it's hard and that we're all new to this, and you haven't done anything wrong! I guess I'm just asking that you please don't treat me differently."

There's a silence hanging in the air when I finish. The three of them glance between one another until finally Aunt June says something.

"Laura... I am so sorry, honey. We don't mean to treat you differently. We all know how strong you are to be able to overcome all of this. I guess we're just worried about you."

"I know!" I quickly say, shaking my head with a smile. "But you don't need to be. I really am okay."

"I think we just don't really know how to go about this," Uncle Tim says, his voice soft and almost always hard to hear.

"I know, and truthfully I don't either," I admit. "For the past eight months, I've really been acting like the accident didn't happen. I know that it did and I know my parents are gone, but it's easier when I don't think about it. I've learned that the past can't haunt you if you don't let it in. That's what's been working for me."

Aunt June and Uncle Tim slowly start to nod as they digest all I've said, and finally they both smile at me.

"You're right, honey. We've been assuming how you feel. Thanks for talking to us about this," Aunt June says. "Now you two go, have fun!"

I turn to Allen with a genuine smile when I see that his look of worry is finally gone. Tonight is when I start proving that I'm the same Laura as I've always been, to others and to myself.

---

Chapter Three: Tuesday, November 29th