THE SOUND OF quick footsteps coming from behind reaches my ears, followed by a pair of arms latching around my shoulders, causing me to stumble a little. Dylan plants a kiss in my hair as he rights us, and out of the corner of my eye, I can see his large grin. Laughing uncomfortably, I subtly disentangle myself from him, reaching up to pat down my hair.

"Hey," he greets, his smile unwavering.

My heart sighs wearily when it registers the hopeful look in his eyes. "Um, hi," I mumble as we walk toward the study hall. "I don't mean to sound like a broken record, but I thought we were going to take things slow?" Taking things slow does not equate to overbearing public displays of affection in my mind, but maybe it does in his.

He laughs shortly, raising an eyebrow. "Well, we said that before you kissed me last night."

Closing my eyes briefly I take a deep breath. The same feeling of guilt I experienced last night returns, twisting my insides and making me squirm. "Dylan," I say, disappointment colouring my tone. "That was just a... thank you. It didn't really mean anything else."

Each word makes me want to cringe as I say it aloud, but it's too late, and I glance up, catching a glimpse of the hurt on his face. "I'm sorry," I murmur.

After a few moments of looking completely dejected, he recovers, his smile returning, though he avoids my eyes now. He clears his throat. "Regardless of that, it was a great night, and we should do it again sometime."

The idea of going out again with Dylan is not the worst thing in the world, considering how much fun we did have yesterday, but I can't help but feel wary if this is the follow up. Being with someone you can't remember being in love with proves to be more difficult everyday. There's a voice in the back of my mind, telling me I should end the relationship and avoid stringing him along, but I don't know if that would be fair. I haven't given it a proper chance yet.

I'm about to respond, when a new thought occurs to me, my mind switching gears. "Do you have study hall next?"

"Yeah," he says slowly, narrowing his eyes.

"Feel like skipping out and going somewhere with me?"

His eyes widen slightly before a grin blooms on his face.

Ten minutes later, I stand at the entrance to the old car lot, appraising the worn out sign that reads Rawley's Junkyard in fading red letters, accompanied by an image of a cartoon vehicle, the front of the car broken and mangled. After doing a quick search on one of the school computers, I soon learned that this was the likeliest place that my car was hauled to after my accident. Since the night of the family dinner, and the nightmare, I haven't been able to shake my burning curiosity about the details of the accident.

Dylan stands next to me, his hands in his pockets, his eyebrows pulled together in a frown. "You know, this isn't what I was expecting when you said you wanted to go somewhere with me."

Raising an eyebrow, I give him a look. "This is somewhere, isn't it?"

He sighs, kicking at a rock on the pavement with his shoe. He looks at the sign again, then back at me, his frown still in place. "What are we doing here, Allie?"

Shrugging casually, I look away. "I just want to see my car," I say lightly. "We have thirty minutes before we have to get back to school. Let's go."

Leaving our conversation behind, I walk through the opening in the fence, and he sighs again as he follows. There are a plethora of damaged cars lying abandoned around the lot, and I look around, narrowing my eyes, wondering which one belonged to me, which one I was apparently sitting in when I crashed and hit my head, effectively ruining my life.

Dylan is a few feet behind me, his hands still shoved into his pockets moodily, like a pouting child. When he sees that I'm not slowing down, he picks up his pace, falling into step beside me.

"Allie," he says, his voice sounding irritated, causing me to look at him. His eyes are still cast downward, but then he brings them up to mine, looking determined. "You almost died that night. And I'm not a huge fan of the idea of seeing the car that almost killed you."

Pursing my lips, my footsteps falter and I come to a halt, considering. The thing is, I want to say, I'm starting to think that it wasn't a car that almost killed me. But I don't. Instead, I shrug my shoulders, raising my eyebrows. "You're more than welcome to leave if you'd like," I say firmly.

Our eyes lock in a challenge, seeing who will concede, and it's Dylan who does, his shoulders drooping as he sighs and runs his hand through his dark hair. He doesn't say anything, but his body language is enough to tell me his answer. Turning away from him, I move to examine the vehicles more thoroughly, but stop short, flinching in surprise at the sight of a large man before me.

He has his arms folded as he regards us, not seeming very keen on the idea of our company. The top of his head is balding, his face and clothes smeared with car grease.

"Can I help you?" he questions finally, looking dubious.

Plastering an apologetic smile on my face, I straighten up and tuck a strand of hair behind my ear as the breeze tries to carry it away. "Yes, actually." My eyes dart to Dylan, who's watching me disapprovingly, before returning to the man. "I was in a car accident a couple weeks ago, and I was told I could find my vehicle here."

He narrows his eyes, visibly suspicious. "Okay," he responds, his voice flat, but he doesn't move.

When I see that my statement isn't enough to push him into action, I try a different approach. "Could you help me find it?" I ask, taking a step forward and wringing my hands forward in an attempt to look timid. "I've been diagnosed with amnesia, and my doctor says that seeing the vehicle I was in when I crashed could help trigger my memory." The lie slips off my tongue easily, almost as if it's second nature. I force my eyes to water for good measure.

The man watches me a few moments more, testing the validity of my story, and to my surprise, Dylan reaches over, putting his arm around me sympathetically. But when I look at his face, he still appears upset with me.

Finally, the man, who's name tag reads Dale, sighs in defeat. "Alright, no need to get emotional." He pauses, before reaching up and scratching the back of his head. "What kind of car is it?"

"It's a silver Ford Focus," Dylan mumbles from beside me, though he avoids my eyes.

Dale nods, his eyes narrowing in thought this time. "I remember that one. It's over here." He turns around, sauntering down the aisles of cars, and we follow behind quickly.

Dylan continues to ignore me as we walk, and it doesn't make me feel as guilty as it should. After a while, Dale parks himself in front of the aforementioned vehicle, and we stop short.

"Here she is," he says redundantly.

Taking a step closer, I inspect the car. The front of the vehicle is completely smashed, the hood crunched and sticking up, the roof of the car is also extremely dented, on the verge of caving in. The sight of it all is jarring, and it's even more jarring to think that all of that might have happened while I was inside of it.

"I hit a tree?" I say, though it comes out as more of a question.

"Are you asking me?" Dale asks, scoffing, before shaking his head and making to leave. "Gimme a shout if you need something else."

I bring my eyes back to the mangled metal. The car is impressively damaged, and it makes me further question the fact that I'm still alive, with nothing more than a bump on my head. Instinctively, my hand reaches up to my side, to the wound that doesn't align with the accident. Maybe I'm reading too far into things. I must be the only person to question the merit of a car accident I'm lucky to have survived. But my lack of memories makes it hard to trust anyone, and nothing seems to add up the way it should.

"Well," Dylan begins, reminding me of his presence, "is it bringing anything back?"

Straightening up, I shake my head. "No. Nothing at all."

He gives me a look of sympathy. "I'm really sorry, Allie."

"It's okay," I say, because in truth, I wasn't expecting anything.

He looks around, visibly uncomfortable. "Now, can we leave? I don't like being here."

"Yeah," I say, my eyes drifting back to the car, a piece that seems like it's from an entirely different puzzle than the one I'm trying to solve. "Let's go."

✘✘✘

Back at the school, long after Dylan and I have returned, I'm exchanging my books at my locker, deep in thought. The image of the car has been branded into my skull, something that my classes can't distract me from, and something I can't ignore. I'm already thinking about heading to the police station or the hospital, questioning the cops and paramedics who responded to the accident and asking them exactly what happened. Maybe even confronting Dr. Meyer about my bizarre wound.

I don't notice the two girls behind me until I turn around.

They each stand with their folded arms, hatred etched into their faces. I wait expectantly but they don't say anything, seeming to be testing me with their silence.

"Hi..." I finally say, voice uncertain. "Can I help you?"

The one on the right purses her lips. Her shoulder length brown hair is straightened to perfection, and she raises an eyebrow, sizing me up. "Is it true you lost your memory?" she asks bluntly. "Or are you just faking?"

I laugh, more out of disbelief than anything, my eyebrows furrowing in confusion. "Why on earth would I do that?"

The one on the left shrugs a shoulder, smirking a little and flipping her blonde curls. "It's no secret that you like playing pretend," she elaborates.

My heart sinks at the comment, disappointed that people think I would stoop this low, faking memory loss just for the sake of starting over. But maybe something like that wouldn't have made people bat an eye, judging by what I've learned about myself.

The first girl speaks again. "So that means you don't remember being an evil bitch to me all last year? Or does that sound familiar?"

Flinching as though I've been slapped, my mouth falls open. "What?" The words feel like needles on my skin, making me sick to my stomach. I'd much rather excuse myself and make a quick escape to the girls bathroom, but for some reason my legs don't seem to be communicating with my brain and I remain rooted in place.

Her eyebrow seems to arch even higher, and internally, I shrink beneath her gaze. Outwardly, I keep my posture straight and rigid, clutching my books tightly to my chest.

"Did you lose your hearing, too?" she demands.

"Oh, screw off, Whitney," a new voice sounds, and all of our eyes shift in the direction of the sound, landing on Zoe, who seems to have materialized out of thin air, leaning against the locker next to me. Her eyes are narrowed in a glare, and she moves it to the girl on the left. "You too, Amber. Your jealousy is getting out of hand."

The brunette, the ringleader, Whitney, scoffs, raising her eyebrows. "Jealousy?" she repeats, her voice mocking. "Why would I want to be anything like you witches?"

Zoe sighs, dropping her eyes to examine her nails. "Flattery won't get you anywhere," she remarks with a smirk, and her confidence stuns me into silence. She meets my eyes, latching onto my wrist. "Come on."

Wordlessly, I follow her through the hallways, avoiding the throngs of people heading to their next class. The bell rings, and I know we're going to be late, since it doesn't seem like that's where we're headed, but I don't really care right now. Finally we exit the school through the back, and Zoe leans against the brick wall next to the door.

Moments later, she extracts a pack of cigarettes, selecting one and placing it between her glossy lips effortlessly, the action looking more graceful than it should. She flicks the hair out of her face, her expression stoic, and I watch her, unsure of what to say.

"Ignore them," she says finally, around the white roll in her mouth, pulling out a lighter. She lights the cigarette, blowing out a puff of smoke soon after.

I shake my head when she offers me one. "I'd rather not. It was enough to find that stuff in my sock drawer."

She laughs shortly. "Poor thing. If you don't want the weed anymore, give it to James. He'll gladly take it."

The condescending tone of her voice makes me feel like a child. Swallowing down my pride, I nod, taking a deep breath. "Fine."

I wonder briefly if this is what we used to do. It's not that hard to picture the four of us—Zoe, Dylan, James, and I—standing in this exact spot, smoke wafting up into the atmosphere as we laugh cynically about our peers and feel invincible, and I'm not sure if the vivid image is a memory or merely my imagination. It's nearly impossible to know the difference.

"Are you planning on going to class?" I ask, frowning.

Zoe shakes her head, keeping her gaze on the space in front of her and avoiding mine. "I'm not in the mood."

Sighing, I run a hand through my hair, staring at the closed doors and warring with myself over whether to go inside or not. "I feel bad skipping again. I already missed out on study hall."

She quirks an eyebrow at that, her eyes sliding over in my direction. "So I heard. Were you and Dylan shacking up in the junkyard? I wouldn't put it past you."

Her tone is light and sardonic, but the comment feels very close to a dig. I bristle slightly, a knee-jerk response. I find that her condescension feels familiar, like the spot on your skull where headaches always seem to linger. "Good to know," I say simply, unable to keep my words from sounding clipped.

She turns her full attention over to me, blinking in confusion. "What is?"

Losing a measure of my confidence, I drop my eyes, bringing them to the pavement beneath me. I shrug a shoulder, feeling like a child once more. "It's good to know that's what you think of me."

She drops her shoulders dramatically, giving me a look, her lips curving upward. "Allie, come on. It was a harmless joke."

"Funny."

"We're friends," she reiterates, dropping her cigarette to the ground before smothering it with the toe of her expensive looking shoe, "this is what we do."

I don't say anything, and she sighs, shoulders slumping. "I'm sorry," she emphasizes. "I wasn't trying to offend you." Her eyes flit in my direction again. "This isn't exactly familiar territory, you not remembering me and all."

The sentiment deflates me considerably, and I lean against the wall again, running a hand through my hair. The increasingly familiar feeling of guilt creeps its way into my stomach once more. I have to remember that Zoe and I have been friends for years, and regardless of whether she intended the comment to be hurtful or not, she's probably not used to receiving any criticism. It's not her fault that I don't recall our friendship.

"I'm sorry, too," I mumble, shaking my head. "I don't mean to be snippy. I just feel like I'm in a permanent bad mood or something."

"Not to worry," she says, but she avoids my eyes again. "I shouldn't expect things to go back to the way they were."

I remain silent because I agree, she shouldn't expect things to go back to the way they were. There's no telling if I'll ever properly regain my memories, and I'm starting to wonder if that's even something I want.

"What did I do to make those girls hate me?" I ask, unable to ward off my curiosity.

A wicked smile captures Zoe's features, her eyes brightening slightly. "I will admit, you were quite rude to Amber in the past, but she deserved it."

"And Whitney?"

She pauses, smirking at some private joke, and I feel worry twist in my stomach.

"Zoe," I press, not sure if I even want to know.

"You pushed her down a flight of stairs last spring."

My breath catches slightly, and I wait for her to show some indication that she's just kidding, but her expression doesn't change. My mouth opens and closes for several moments as I flounder for words, my heart rate beginning to pick up. Her hatred for me suddenly seems a lot more justified.

Evil bitch.

"Oh my God," I finally breathe.

Zoe raises an eyebrow, looking amused. "Yeah, it was pretty bad. She had to wear a neck brace for a while. So embarrassing." She laughs to herself, making me feel sick.

"Did I get suspended?" I ask, hoping to find some justice in this story.

She gives me a strange look. "Of course not. There were no witnesses. She didn't even see that it was you. But she's not stupid, it wasn't hard to guess."

"Why?" The word comes out in rush, a desperate exhale, eager to find some plausible explanation for my outrageous behaviour, wondering if something like this was typical for me, expected.

"You were both gunning for the lead role in some play," she explains casually. "You decided to get rid of the competition."

"That's ridiculous," I sputter, feeling tears prick to my eyes.

"God, Allie." She laughs again, a twisted lilt that's starting to make my skin crawl. Maybe I used to laugh like that. "You're acting like you're not the one who did it."

Without another word, I push off from my place against the wall, ignoring her protests and pulling the heavy door open. I know it's too late to go to class now, but I feel the need to get away from Zoe. Taking deep breaths to calm myself, I walk through the hallways that are unsurprisingly empty. My footsteps echo on the floor as my pace increases, eager to leave the conversation behind me.

Wanting to remain out of sight, I quickly head for the bathroom, hoping a teacher won't come and discover me, busting me for skipping out on class.

I place my hands on the sink to support myself, gazing at the face that stares back at me, the face I'm learning to hate. Beautiful. Dangerous. Cold. My lip trembles as I try to imagine this face full of malice, sneaking up behind someone, deliberately pushing them down a flight of stairs, knowing the outcome could be fatal.

It's not hard.

But this time, I desperately hope the scene is just my imagination, and not a memory.