We watch it on every device in the house—the computer, our phones, and an iPad. We even Chromecast it to the TV. It doesn’t get old. If this video won’t go viral, there’s no justice in the world—or at least on YouTube.
He’s still laughing as I see him out. “That might be the most fun I ever had!” I swear, he’s like a kindergartner who’s just been handed the world’s most intricate balloon animal.
Without thinking, I reply, “How do you know? You’ve probably forgotten most of the fun you’ve had.”
He looks surprised for a few seconds, and I figure I’m about to get his book bag in the side of the head. Then he says, “Good point. But it was still awesome.”
Me and my big mouth, I can’t leave well enough alone. “You know, we’ve got a video club at school, and you’d be a natural with your camera skills. We could really use you.”
That might be the dumbest thing I’ve ever said aloud. Chase Ambrose and his football buddies have made a career out of terrorizing kids just like the vidiots. Recruiting him is like inviting a shark over for sushi.
He grins at me. “When’s the next meeting?”
He did it! The crazy fool actually did it!
We’re gathered around the Smart Board in Ms. DeLeo’s room, watching How to Clean Your Tricycle on YouTube. I’ve got to hand it to Brendan—when he sets his mind on something, he follows through, even after the entire video club told him to take a hike. And you know what? He knocked it out of the park. I’ve never seen anything so funny. It’s a wonder he didn’t get himself killed. But he’s very much alive, beaming like a proud papa, as he premieres his work to rave reviews from the club.
Ms. DeLeo, our faculty advisor, laughs until tears are streaming down her cheeks. “Brendan, how could you even dream of doing such a thing?”
“The worst part was how cold the water was,” he says. “But it was totally worth it.”
We burst into thunderous applause when the music comes to a crescendo and the tricycle is pedaled out of The Shiny Bumper into the light. Brendan takes a bow, a goofy grin plastered onto his face.
Credits appear on the screen: PRODUCED BY BRENDAN ESPINOZA AND CHASE AMBROSE.
Chase Ambrose?
The ovation dies abruptly in the classroom.
“That’s part of the joke, right?” Mauricia Dunbar offers dubiously. “Like produced by William Shakespeare or Mickey Mouse?”
“No, it was really him,” Brendan tells us. “None of you guys would help me, and he said okay.”
“Why would you even ask him?” I blurt, furious. “Do you have a death wish or something?”
Ms. DeLeo steps in. “Isn’t it enough that the video got made and it’s fabulous?”
“I don’t have a death wish,” Brendan retorts. “And you know what? I’m glad I asked him, because he did an awesome job on camera two. Maybe it’s from sports, but he has a really steady hand. Better than any of us—including me. We could use a guy like that.”
I get a sinking feeling in my gut. “You didn’t!”
Brendan nods. “I invited him to join the club.”
We all start babbling at the same time. I’m so angry that I can’t really make out much of it. But it’s pretty obvious that everybody is relating the story of some mean thing that Chase and probably Aaron and Bear did to them. There’s definitely no shortage of material. The chorus of complaint goes on and on.
“Yeah, I get it!” Brendan holds up his hands. “Those guys picked on me too—more than any of you!”
Not more than my poor brother, I think.
“But the Chase Ambrose who worked on this video,” Brendan goes on, “is not the same person. He lost his memory when he fell off his roof this summer—total amnesia. I know it sounds weird, but maybe he forgot what a jerk he was.”
“Big talk from the guy who thinks riding a tricycle through a car wash is a smart thing to do,” puts in Hugo.
Brendan doesn’t back down. “Seriously—we had a great time yesterday. He was helpful. He had good ideas. He was even nice. He’s different.”
All I can see is a red haze in front of my eyes—and through it, Joel, packing his suitcase to go away to school.
I remind Brendan, “My brother would be in this room right now if it wasn’t for that jerk! I don’t want him here. None of us do.”
“That’s enough,” Ms. DeLeo cuts me off. “School clubs are open to everyone. We don’t pick and choose. If this boy wants to be a member, then we take him in. It’s as simple as that.”
The atmosphere in the room is supercharged—rage from me, defiance from Brendan, firmness from the teacher, and varying degrees of protest, discontent, and unease from everyone else. It boils around us when a voice from the doorway asks, “Am I late? What did I miss?”
It’s him—the enemy.
He enters the room, tentative but smiling. And here I am unarmed, without my trusty tub of frozen yogurt.
“Welcome,” Ms. DeLeo greets him. “Brendan was just showing us your new video. We’re so happy you decided to join us.”
Chase seems hesitant. He probably picks up on the disconnect between Ms. DeLeo’s warm welcome and the body language coming off the rest of us. Only the KEEP OUT sign is missing. When he sees me, he takes a step back, a little fearful. The fear looks good on him. At least that part of his memory works. He remembers that I’m the person who hates his guts.
“How to Clean Your Tricycle killed,” Brendan assures him. “And look—we already have forty-six views on YouTube. I was hoping it would be viral already, but these things take time.”
“They call it viral because it’s supposed to spread fast, like a virus,” I put in sourly.
“Some viruses are slower than others,” Brendan replies.
“So what exactly do you guys do?” Chase asks. “You know, when you’re not riding tricycles through car washes?”
That bugs me too. For sure, that’s how he sees us—a collection of nerdy wing nuts who pull off moronic stunts and call it brilliance. Brendan can be kind of a goofball, but he’s also the smartest kid in school. A knuckle dragger like Chase will never appreciate someone who’s destined to accomplish something that will make the world a better place. Why would he? The simplest way to make the world a better place would be to kick out Chase Ambrose.
Ms. DeLeo provides the answer. “Well, some of us will be working on entries for the National Video Journalism Contest.”
“You mean just Shoshanna,” Brendan snickers.
“If you could get your head out of YouTube long enough,” I tell him, “you’d see what a great opportunity it is. This year’s guideline is to profile a senior citizen with an interesting story to tell. We should all consider it.”
“I don’t think I know any old people,” is Chase’s reaction. Probably because he gets his jollies by pushing them out into traffic.
“We’ll also be producing the school’s video yearbook,” the teacher goes on. “That’s something you can sink your teeth into.”
I cringe. Bad analogy for Chase, who I always pictured as a mountain lion picking over a carcass.
“What goes into a video yearbook?” Chase asks.
“Student interviews, mostly,” Hugo jumps in. “You get so much more than the standard picture and quote.” He shrinks back when he remembers who he’s talking to. My brother’s experience has trained us to avoid capturing Chase’s attention. He can’t target you if he doesn’t notice you’re there.
Chase nods. “Makes sense.”
“Nifty way to keep score of the kids whose lives you’ve ruined over the year, isn’t it?” I add bitterly.
He’s thrown by that, but Ms. DeLeo jumps in quickly. “We’ll also need content on every club and team in the school. Chase, since you play sports, I thought you’d be a natural to cover the athletic program.”
A hopeful buzz greets this suggestion. Interviewing the jocks is a miserable job, since they’re always so uncooperative and hostile. The worst of them is usually our newest mem
ber himself, but we’ve still got Aaron and Bear, plus Joey Petronus, Landon Rubio, and some of the others to contend with. It’s like Miss America. If the winner can’t fulfill her duties, there are plenty of runners-up to take over the tiara.
“I’ll try,” says Chase. “But I don’t really know those guys so well anymore. I mean, they know me—”
Well, how about that? Brendan’s right—this big dummy fell on his ugly head hard enough to give himself amnesia. What other explanation could there be that he “doesn’t really know” the juvenile co-delinquents that he’s partnered with in a reign of terror that covers the entire town?
Could Brendan also be right that Chase has no idea what a jerk he is?
No. Amnesia can wipe out the details of your past, but it can’t change the kind of person you are. Maybe he doesn’t remember being a bully. He might have no clue that he tortured Joel to the point where he had no choice but to leave town. But when a person like that wants to know how he feels about something, and looks deep inside his black heart, it’s still going to be filled with acid.
I message my theory to Joel later that night.
JWPianoMan: So what ur telling me is: I’m in exile, and the guy who exiled me doesn’t even remember doing it?
Shosh466: That’s what they say.
JWPianoMan: Don’t know what 2 think about that.
Shosh466: He’ll remember soon enough. Or Beta & Gamma Rats will remind him.
JWPianoMan: U seem 2 know a lot about Alpha Rat these days.
I start to tell Joel the real headline—who the video club’s newest member is. My fingers freeze over my phone screen. My brother is depressed enough. The thought of Chase forcing him away and then parachuting into his spot in the club and ruining it will only make him feel worse.
No, that’s not it. That slimeball didn’t ruin video club. What really happened was even worse: nothing.
The worst person in the world came to Ms. DeLeo’s room and … life went on. The other members didn’t quit. The ceiling didn’t cave in; our equipment didn’t burst into flame. Ms. DeLeo didn’t collapse at her desk.
We can’t stand that guy, but we’re going to put up with him. No way am I going to tell Joel that. He’s upset enough as it is.
Besides, Chase Ambrose will last about ten minutes in video club. As soon as Ms. DeLeo actually asks him to do something, he’ll be gone.
So I type:
Shosh466: Boring school, boring town. Amnesia = big news.
JWPianoMan: Alpha Rat squeezing zits = big news at that school.
Shosh466: He doesn’t have any zits.
That’s a pointless thing to text Joel. But by the time that occurs to me, I’ve already tapped send.
JWPianoMan: HMS kids r such morons.
Shosh466: Melton kids any better???
JWPianoMan: NO!!!
It’s as if a deep chasm opens up in my stomach. I don’t want to make him feel worse, but it needs to be said.
Shosh466: C’mon, little bro. U were miserable at home.
JWPianoMan: At least there I was special. Here I’m just another 2nd rate piano player.
I think of Chase and want to explode.
The Hiawassee Middle School Hurricanes play a preseason scrimmage against East Norwich on Saturday. I make it a point to be there, not as a player, but as a member of the video club. Ms. DeLeo put me in charge of athletics for the video yearbook, so the game is as good a place to start as any.
As I climb the bleachers, the flip-cam is an awkward weight in my hand. I don’t feel like a video club kid—not that I can recall being any kind of kid. This is supposed to be the site of my greatest glories, yet I’ve lost all that. The sight of the players on the field doesn’t bring back a rush of gridiron memories. I guess I always pictured vast crowds cheering my name, but there isn’t much turnout for the scrimmage—maybe a couple of dozen kids and a handful of other people scattered around the stands.
I raise the camera and shoot a couple of plays. Brendan said I was a natural filming How to Clean Your Tricycle. That was easy, though. That stunt at the car wash was the craziest, funniest, most bizarre thing I’ve ever seen. I honestly couldn’t look away. And since I was watching through the camera viewfinder, I captured the insanity from start to finish.
It would be wrong to say I had the time of my life, since I can’t speak for my life before the accident. But it was more than enough for Brendan to convince me that video club was the place for me.
A foghorn voice drowns out the PA announcement broadcasting over the loudspeaker. “Champ! Over here!”
It’s my dad, sitting in the fourth row with Helene.
“I never miss a game,” he exclaims, assuring me that he was here on the fifty-yard line, week in and week out, all through the twenty-eight-year gap between his state championship and my own. “Helene’s turning into a real fan too.”
My half sister has set up an impressive array of dollhouse furniture on the metal bleachers and is playing with a couple of Barbies. As far as I’ve seen, she hasn’t looked in the direction of the field once.
For such a big Hurricanes fan, Dad sure doesn’t seem to have any fun watching them play. The longer we sit, the darker his mood gets, blackening and lowering until it hangs over him like a line of thunderheads.
“Did you see that?” he complains. “The left guard is supposed to cut block on that play! Otherwise, there’s no hole for the running back!” Or: “Our quarterback doesn’t see the field! He had a man wide open in the end zone!” Or: “What kind of tackling is that? Did you used to tackle like that? I never tackled like that!”
“I don’t remember anything about playing football,” I tell him honestly, zooming in tight on the huddle. “So I have no idea how I used to tackle.”
“Yeah, well, it was a lot better than that,” he snorts. “You used to wrap up your man and bring him down properly.” By this time, the Hurricanes are on the wrong end of a 24–7 score.
It’s funny—I’ve forgotten everything about my own football career, but I know the game itself. When I shoot footage of the action on the field, I get what the players are doing—or at least trying to do. Either East Norwich is all-universe, or this year’s Hiawassee Hurricanes aren’t a team of destiny. I have no idea how good I am, but it’s hard to believe that one person could make up the difference between these stumblebums and last year’s state champions.
“We’re out of sync,” I observe. “The O-line is opening up some good holes, but the backs are never in the right place to run through them.”
“Exactly!” Dad slaps me too hard on my bad shoulder. “That’s what I always say! We’ve got the talent—we do when you’re on the field, anyway. All we need is the timing!”
I’m sure it isn’t the first time my father and I have ever agreed on something, but it’s the first time I actually remember. That’s another thing amnesia made me forget—how much I like his approval.
Helene has dismantled her Barbie condo on the bleachers and is bored out of her mind. “Daddy, can we leave?”
“Not yet, honey.” Dad doesn’t even glance away from the field. “It’s still the third quarter.”
I point the flip-cam at her. “Why don’t you set up the furniture again? We can make a movie about your dolls.”
She curls her lip at me. “They’re Barbies.”
“Barbie can be a movie star,” I offer.
As she places the plastic chairs and tables with great care, quarterback Joey Petronus throws an interception that East Norwich runs back for yet another touchdown.
That does it for Dad. He goes off on a diatribe against the players, the coaches, even the guys who make the chalk lines on the field. I’m not immune either. He finishes with, “What are you doing with that camera, anyway? You should be in this game, not taking pictures of it! I know you don’t remember how good you are—but, I promise you, you are that good.”
I start to tell him I’m only here to cover the team for the video yearbook, but somethin
g makes me swallow the words before they hit air. I understand on a gut level that isn’t what Dad wants to hear.
Instead, I find myself saying, “I want to get back on the field. As soon as the doctor gives the okay. You’ll see. I’ll be out there.”
Dad nods, pleased. “That’s who we are, Champ. We’re Ambrose men. We’re the doers. Other people take pictures of us!”
Helene acts out entire story lines with her Barbies. I capture it on video, all the while keeping up a running game commentary with Dad, who doesn’t seem to be a Barbie guy, surprise, surprise.
When I play my footage back to Helene on the tiny screen, she squeals with delight.
And there, sitting on the bleachers in front of a bad football game, it happens.
I remember.
I mean, there’s nothing wrong with my ability to remember. I remember everything that’s happened since I woke up in the hospital. But before the accident—except for that weird image of the girl in blue—nothing.
Until now.
It’s a flashback of Helene. She’s probably what triggered it, because in my memory, she’s squealing just like she is now.
Wait—no. It isn’t a happy sound. Her cheeks are red, her face twisted, and she’s about to bawl.
In the memory, I’m holding a stuffed teddy—her favorite. I remember that too. Actually, I’ve got the bear in my left hand—and its head in my right.
I ripped the head off a four-year-old’s teddy bear!
Definitely not the memory I’d been hoping for. But still …
“I remembered something!” I exclaim out loud.
“Yeah, what?” Dad actually turns his attention from the game.
“Something from before the accident!”
“See?” He’s triumphant. “I told you there’s nothing wrong with you. You’ll be back in commission in no time. And, man, do we ever need you out there!”
On the field, our halfback takes a handoff and is buried under a pile of East Norwich jerseys. Dad’s looking away, so he misses it—a tiny gap in the weak side of the defensive line.