There it was again, tugging at the edges of my subconscious. It was a discomfort that had been with me since childhood. Back then, it had been even more frustrating; poised on the brink of remembering something important, but unable to take the plunge. My mother would always laugh when the deep furrows — too aged for my years — creased my brow. She called me an old soul.

It wasn’t until years later that I understood what that meant, realized that she only thought she was joking. But, that was to come later. For now, I played a game with myself, balancing on the razor’s edge of ignoring the thought to gain more information. In a flash, I saw a wrought iron bench beneath an arbor of doublebloom roses in a bloody crimson. The night was moonless and clear with a teasing breeze to sift through the heat.

I gasped and stumbled to a halt. Leaning over, I braced my hands on my knees and breathed deep. It was the fastest and most vivid “memory” that had ever surfaced. Dimly, I heard a whistle blow and looked up to see Coach Kavanaugh about to walk over, her ponytail bobbing in concern. Before she could, though, Joshua Gabriel held up a hand to her and headed over himself.

My breathing, which had just slowed to a decent pace, caught again. Josh was a year older than me, an upperclassman and popular at that. Not to say that I wasn’t popular. If I were Japanese — I mentally twitched my lips at this — I would probably be considered a senpai. But, in that same way, my popularity was more a worshiping from afar. We both maintained that type of popularity at Oak Grove High School. But, the real difference was that he also had circle of friends while I mostly kept to myself. And, I was happy, generally speaking. My little world suited me just fine.

As he jogged over to check on me, I looked at him helplessly, trying to pull myself together. His eyes were a cool, glassy grey. Just looking into them made me begin to spiral back into the sliver of memory. It was like being sucker punched by the angel of déjà vu. This was like nothing I’d ever experienced before.

When he got to me, he put a hand on my shoulder and I was finally able to break free of the magnetic waves. Blinking, I straightened and gave him an apologetic smile.

“Sorry, I don’t know what came over me.” He frowned slightly. “I’m fine, now,” I reassured him quickly. Josh jerked his head fluidly down the track, sandy hair falling in his face.

“Come on. I’ll finish running with you.” I could feel my eyes growing wide.

“Oh, you don’t have to do that,” I protested.

“Come on,” he repeated, grinning slightly. “We wouldn’t want you to collapse alone on the other side of the track.” I shot him a dirty look. I wasn’t some helpless chit.

“I’m not going to collapse,” I muttered. However, I fell into step beside him and soon enough we were finishing out the laps at an even pace. When we did reach the other side of the track, he glanced over at me and I stared stiffly ahead. He obviously thought I was going to pass out, I thought. Instead, however, came something very unexpected.

“So, what are you doing after the big meet, Saturday?” I glanced over at him, nearly raising an eyebrow in response. The question surprised me, but it was more than that. I couldn’t fathom why he would want to know something so trivial as my weekend plans. I comforted myself that he was just making small talk.

“Probably doing laundry and working on that paper for Taylor’s class. ‘Arthurian Legend and the Art of Feminism.’ You?” For a split second, he seemed slightly uncomfortable, even awkward. It was so un-Josh-like that my mind scrambled for clarification. But, in an instant it was gone and I began to think that I had imagined it.

“I was thinking about going to the dance. A bunch of the other guys on the team want to go, so I figured why not.” I nodded. Of course. Senior track stars, spring fling. It made sense. I rarely went to those kinds of things, both because of lack of a date and because of lack of interest. As a general rule, socials weren’t really my thing.

We finished the rounds in relative silence after that, finally coming to a halt beside the aluminum bleachers. Unzipping my track jacket, I fanned myself off. It was an unusually warm day for practice. The freak 70-degree weather felt positively sweltering after the 50s and 60s of earlier March. I was absolutely sure that I looked as hideous as I felt: sweaty and flushed with the world’s messiest ponytail. I wiped off my face and tugged at my hair. Josh began to walk off, but paused a few feet away before coming back.

“Hey, Melyssa. I was wondering…” I looked up at him, waiting. “Would you like to go to the dance with me?” A coloring that had nothing to do with the excersice crept into my face. It took me a moment to pull my thoughts together and answer. What was I supposed to say? I’m sorry, I don’t dance.

“Uhm, sure,” was all I could lamely reply. He smiled, then.

“Great! You live on the fourth floor, right?” My mind was chaotic. He remembered that we live in the same building, even though we’d only met there once. He remembered my floor. I had just agreed to go to the dance with him. All I could do was nod and stutter out the apartment number.

“417B.”

“I’ll drop by to get you around six-thirty, then.” I smiled back, tentatively. Then, Coach began to blow her whistle again and we had to rejoin practice. There wasn’t really a chance to talk to him at all for the rest of the afternoon, and he had taken off with his friends by the end of today’s session. Mentally, I sighed. This was going to be interesting.

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