Restart by Gordon Korman
JWPianoMan: Now who’s being greedy?
I exit messages and call Joel because I’m worried about him. I always worry about him. He’s my younger brother—fourteen minutes younger, anyway. But if the thought of Chase Ambrose falling off his stupid roof onto his stupid head doesn’t bring a smile to Joel’s lips, then something is seriously wrong.
Besides the usual, I mean.
“Hey,” he answers.
Even in that single syllable I can pick up the discouraged tone in his voice. He’s angry and homesick, and who can blame him? It’s not like going away to boarding school was his first choice. Or even his twentieth.
“Is Melton getting any better?” I ask, almost afraid to hear the answer. That’s Melton Prep and Musical Conservatory in New Britain, Connecticut.
“What can I tell you? It’s exile.”
I don’t argue with him. How can I? Joel’s a talented musician who belongs in a place like Melton. But that doesn’t change the fact that he’d still be at home starting eighth grade at Hiawassee if it weren’t for what happened.
“How are the other kids?”
“Okay,” he replies without much enthusiasm. “All losers, just like me. I’m probably not going to get picked on, if that’s what you mean. There are no pickers here, only pickees.”
That bugs me. “You’re not losers. You’re there because you’re winners. You have talent.”
“There’s a reason why I can’t live in my own town, and it has nothing to do with playing the piano. It’s Alpha Rat, and you know it. If he fell off a skyscraper instead of his own roof, I’d be on my way home right now.”
I have to let that pass, because it’s the bitter truth. Chase Ambrose and his two disgusting friends hounded my poor brother out of town. The thought of it amazes me even though I saw it happen. I still can’t figure it out. Chase isn’t Darth Vader or Voldemort; he doesn’t have the Force or dark magical powers. And yet he, Aaron Hakimian, and Bear Bratsky made Joel’s life so miserable that my parents had no choice but to find him a school in another town.
We tried to fight it. My dad spent so much time in the principal’s office that it would have made sense for him to leave a change of clothes there. But nothing could be done about the bullying. Most of the time, there was no way to prove who was doing it. A random foot tripping Joel up in a crowded hall, a shoulder rammed into his chest that sent him sprawling—“Sorry, man. Didn’t see you.” Dog poop pushed in through the vents of his locker, his clothes mysteriously disappearing from the changing room to be replaced by a rabbit suit. When a science project wound up smashed, or a painting ruined in the art room, it was always Joel’s. On the night of the talent show, when the fire alarm was pulled, it was during Joel’s piano performance.
It started with just Chase, Aaron, and Bear. Eventually, though, it spread. The other kids—well, they couldn’t help but notice that every time someone was making a fuss or protesting, stuffed into a locker or mummified with toilet paper, it was my brother. Before you knew it, Joel was the school victim and the school joke. His life was practically unbearable.
Who do you blame? The principal? Dr. Fitzwallace did what he could, but most of the time there wasn’t any evidence. Sure, he could make the occasional try. There was this time Chase chucked a lacrosse stick at Joel’s bike and the butt end got jammed in the spokes. Joel went flying over the handlebars and wound up with a sprained wrist, a black eye, and a nasty scrape along his jaw stretching from chin to ear. There were plenty of witnesses to that one.
Dr. Fitzwallace was all set to throw the book at Chase—a long suspension, the works. The school board overruled him. They agreed it was wrong to throw the stick, but insisted that Chase couldn’t have predicted it would result in serious injury. Ha! The real reason was that Chase was the town sports hero—and the son of the last town sports hero. Chase’s dad had a lot of admirers on that board. And my family didn’t.
The only time anyone was able to pin something on those three idiots, it had less to do with my poor brother than the fact that it cost the district money. At the big open house in May, Joel was invited to play piano. He’s by far the best musician around here, even if none of the other kids appreciate it. Anyway, Chase, Aaron, and Bear planted six cherry bombs inside the school’s baby grand, timed for the middle of the performance. I can still hear Joel’s scream when the big firecrackers went off, splintering the wood of the piano. I think that’s part of what makes him such an irresistible target for the Chases of the world—they know they can always get a reaction out of him. After that, Joel couldn’t even walk down a hall without a bunch of football players making fun of how scared he was. We were all scared, but it’s only Joel they remember.
The irony is that the case against Chase and company had nothing to do with the attack on my brother. No—it was the damage to the piano that got the administration upset enough to bring in the police. The juvenile court judge sentenced Chase, Aaron, and Bear to community service at our town’s senior citizens’ home. (As if the elderly deserved that.)
You’d think Chase would leave Joel alone after that. It would’ve made sense. But sense has never been an Alpha Rat quality. So my parents found a new place for Joel—because as long as that bully was around, my brother would never be safe.
Joel’s probably right that if Chase had fallen off a skyscraper instead of just a roof, he’d be able to leave Melton and come home. Sometimes I feel like I should be up on that tall building, pushing Chase over the side.
But that would make me no better than him. And I am better.
Everybody is.
The night before the first day of school, my dad always used to take Joel and me to Heaven on Ice, which is one of those self-serve frozen yogurt places. Even though Joel and I are twins, our dessert strategies are totally opposite. I get vanilla yogurt with just a handful of chocolate sprinkles. Joel prefers a thimbleful of yogurt and ninety-nine percent toppings. It’s a competition to see who can load up the most weight.
I don’t want to go this year.
“Come on, Shosh,” my dad wheedles. “It’s a tradition. All your friends will be there.”
“Not my best friend.”
He gives me a sad smile. “So you and Joel are best friends now? When he’s home, you two fight like cats and dogs.”
“He should be home now.” I know Dad’s trying to help, but I’m determined to be miserable.
“We’ve been over this a million times. This is the best thing for Joel. Whatever the reason he’s there, he’ll learn to love Melton for the music program.”
In the end, I let him talk me into going. Mom and Dad are worried enough about my brother. I don’t need them stressing over me too.
It’s weird to be at Heaven on Ice without Joel. I see Hugo and Mauricia, and the first question they ask is how Joel’s doing. The way they say it, it’s like he’s been shipped off to the moon, not Connecticut. I don’t want to deal with the whole sob story again, so I change the subject and ask them about camp—they both went to sleepaway this summer. Right when Hugo is telling me about his life-and-death struggle with a pup tent, I spot … him.
The jerk.
The worst person in the world.
Chase has a few small cuts and bruises on his face, although nothing like what I was hoping for. His left arm is in a sling, but that’s about it. He’s standing in front of the row of yogurt dispensers with a timid look on his face like he honestly can’t decide what flavor he wants. Isn’t that classic? The kid who feasted on Joel—chewed him up and spit him out—can’t make up his mind between strawberry banana and rum raisin. Too bad they don’t have poison.
He must feel me glaring at him because he glances up and catches my eye.
He looks right through me at first, which is insulting enough. And then he does something so horrible that I can barely believe it, even from the likes of him. He casts me a shy smile.
All the anger that’s been building inside me since Joel left for Melton rises to th
Before I have a chance to think about it and stop myself, I stalk over to Chase. I get right in his face and tell him, “You’ve got some nerve grinning at me after what you did! You stay out of my way or you’ll be sorry!”
I take my beautiful vanilla yogurt with chocolate sprinkles, dump it over his head, and sweep out of the store.
My father’s in conversation with one of the other dads and almost misses me storming past. “Done so soon?” he asks. Then he looks back inside and sees our family’s archenemy, dripping frozen yogurt and sprinkles all down his face, dabbing at himself with a soaked napkin in his one free hand. “Car’s around the corner,” Dad mumbles, hurrying me away from Heaven on Ice. He’s embarrassed, sure. But maybe also a little bit proud.
And how do I feel? I thought there was nothing Chase could do to make me madder at him than I already am. Now I stand corrected. Every time I think about it, my blood boils a little bit hotter.
After all the bad history that went down between him and Joel, I swear he looked at me like he’d never seen me before in his life.
Like he hadn’t played a starring role in destroying my family.
I recognize the school. Not because I remember it. It’s just that Mom drove me by here a few times over the last couple of weeks to make sure I’d be sort of familiar with the place. It’s called Hiawassee Middle School, and it turns out I’m the star of just about every team they have. Or ex-star. Until further notice, I’m on the disabled list.
I get this information from my mother on the drive to my first day of eighth grade. It’s just the two of us now, since Johnny’s back at college. Mom’s trying to fill me in on my former life so I won’t be caught by surprise, like when that psycho girl dumped frozen yogurt on my head.
Funny—she was sympathetic when I told her about that, but she didn’t seem very surprised. Like we live in a town where people attack each other with desserts all the time.
“Oh,” she replied airily, “young girls can be oversensitive, especially with a popular athlete. She smiles at you; you don’t smile back; she takes it personally—”
“But I did smile. She’s the one who didn’t. She went straight for the yogurt—”
She rolled her eyes. “What do you want me to say, honey? I don’t even know who this mystery yogurt bomber is.”
But here’s the thing: I think she did know—or at least she could make a pretty good guess. Why would she hold that back? It wasn’t like those first days out of the hospital when she was a stranger to me, and I must have seemed plenty unfamiliar to her.
Now, as we pull to the curb in front of the school, she’s pumping me up with details like names of friends and teachers I get along with. Yet I still can’t shake the impression that there’s something being left unsaid.
“But …” I prompt.
She reddens. “But what?”
I put it to her: “Tell me the part you’re leaving out.”
“Thirteen years is a long time, Chase. There’s no way I can fill all that empty space for you while we’re parked at the side of the road on the first day of school. You’re going to hear things about yourself—good and bad—that might surprise you. Just keep your cool, okay?”
Now, what’s that supposed to mean? I asked; she answered. And now I know even less than before.
Her face is the color of an overripe tomato. I don’t push it. I’ll find out soon enough.
There are hundreds of kids pouring in the front entrance. Everybody seems to know everybody else. Backslaps and high fives fly everywhere. Several of them fly in my direction, and I smack hands, bump fists, and try to look like I belong, which I definitely don’t. I also get some strange looks, and a few kids meet my eyes and then furtively look away. I’m guessing this has something to do with the scrape on my face and my immobilized arm and shoulder. Mom warned me that a lot of people probably heard about my accident, but nobody knows the amnesia part. I have to get ready to explain that to a lot of friends who can’t figure out why I don’t recognize them. The teachers and office staff had to be told, of course.
“It’s our boy!”
A single bellow rises above the general chatter as soon as I enter the building. I don’t know the kid, but I’m willing to bet he’s one of my football buddies, judging by the size of him. From out of the hubbub of the foyer, guys who are almost as big are converging on me, slapping at me and calling me their boy.
“Guys—guys! Not the shoulder!” My mind is reeling. How am I going to explain to this welcoming crowd that I haven’t got the faintest idea who any of them are? I start to feel a little dizzy.
“Chase!” Two more football players elbow their way to my side. To my surprise, I actually recognize this pair. They’re the guys from the pumpkin-smashing picture on my phone. Mom pointed them out in my lacrosse team photo as Aaron and Bear. Apparently, they’re my best friends.
“Dude, good to have you back!” barks Aaron, the taller of the two. In person, he has the closest thing to a full beard I’ve ever seen on a middle-schooler. “We tried to come by, but your mom said you were on bed rest.”
“Yeah, I can’t believe you’re here,” chimes in one of the other guys. “Didn’t you jump off the clock tower on the village green?”
Bear whaps him hard across the face. “He jumped off his roof, moron. If he jumped off the clock tower, he’d be dead. And he didn’t jump; he fell.”
“Who’d be stupid enough to jump off a roof?” Aaron adds.
“This was pretty stupid too,” I admit, a little taken aback by that full-face smash, and the fact that the kid on the receiving end didn’t seem to mind it. “I can’t remember what I was thinking. In fact, you guys, to be honest—”
The slappee cuts me off. “But you’re going to be healed up in time for football season, right? You’ll be ready for our first game?”
“The doctor says no. It’s my shoulder, but mostly it’s the concussion. I can’t risk taking a head shot so soon after the accident.”
A howl of protest greets this announcement.
“But we need you!”
“You’re our leading scorer!”
“The best player!”
“Our captain!”
“Cut it out, you guys,” Aaron orders. “Injuries are a part of the game. We all know that.” To me, he adds, “Listen, man. We have to talk to you.”
He heads out of the foyer to an inner atrium with hallways leading off it. We have no problem navigating the dense crowd. My two best friends just push people out of the way. Most kids see the three of us and clear out on their own.
They lead me to a bench along the wall.
“Are these seats taken?” I ask a youngish boy, maybe a sixth grader.
Before he can answer, Bear rumbles, “They are now!” The kid scrambles down the hall, propelled by a hefty shove.
I sit down with my fellow pumpkin-smashers. Before they can say anything, I burst out with, “Aaron—Bear—” The names are unfamiliar on my tongue, like I’ve never spoken them before. “I’ve got something to tell you. When I fell off that roof, I got more than a concussion and a sprained shoulder. I got amnesia too.”
Bear frowns. “Amnesia? You mean you forget stuff?”
I shake my head sadly. “Worse. I forgot everything. Like, my whole life before I fell.” I motion around us. “The school. These people. All new to me. I wouldn’t even know you guys except your pictures are on my phone. As it is, I don’t remember anything about us. I know we’re friends because my mother said so. But everything we did together—that’s gone.”
I catch them eyeing each other like they don’t believe me. It makes me mad until I consider how I’d react if a longtime friend told me the same thing. Here I am, the kid they’ve known all their lives. I look the same, talk the same. And I’m telling them that all our history is completely wiped out.
I don’t blame them for thinking I’m joking. It is a joke. Just not a funny one.
I speak again. ?
Bear stares at me hard. “Wait—you’re not kidding, are you?”
“I wish,” I say fervently.
He’s stunned. “Wow.”
Aaron leans forward, practically into my face. “Yeah, but your memory’s going to come back, right?” There’s an urgency in his voice—he must really hate it that I’m missing out on the good old days.
“Some of it. Maybe,” I reply. “But also maybe not. The doctor says it’s impossible to know.”
They look at each other again, and there’s no mistaking how freaked out they are. I feel a surge of warmth toward these two—my best friends. I have a giddy vision of my phone screen—the three of us brandishing the baseball bat with the ruined jack-o’-lantern. The good times.
“Guys.” I try to reason with them. “I’m still me, even if I don’t remember the stuff we did together. We’ll do new stuff. Better stuff.”
“Oh, yeah, totally!” Bear exclaims. “And if you can’t play football, you’ll be good for lacrosse in the spring, right?”
“The doctor said I should be okay by then, although we’ll have to see—”
“There you go!” He sounds upbeat, although I’m pretty sure he’s faking it. This can’t be an easy thing to process. If I wasn’t the one with amnesia, I don’t know if I could accept it myself.
“We’re here for you, man,” Aaron adds, slapping my back and sending a jolt of fire through my separated shoulder. I swallow an angry warning. One step at a time …
“Welcome back, boys,” a deep voice intones.
A tall man in a charcoal-gray suit approaches our bench. “Chase, I’m Dr. Fitzwallace, your principal. I thought I’d reintroduce myself, under the circumstances. We’ve met before, of course.”
A strangled “You can say that again” comes from Bear. The principal silences him with a single look through steel-rimmed glasses.