Being Henry David - By Cal Armistead Page 0,19

want? All I can say for sure is that I already like this girl, and so far she seems to like me back.

“All right,” I say. “Which way?”

She points in the direction I’m already heading on Thoreau Street. “Walden Pond is just past the high school, across the highway.”

Walden Pond is within walking distance. Good. After all that sitting, I’d much rather walk than take a cab. If they even have cabs in Concord, Massachusetts. It seems like the kind of place where they automatically award every kid a Mercedes as soon as he or she passes driver’s ed.

“I’m Hailey, by the way,” she says as we approach the first crosswalk. She pauses, looks up at me expectantly. The name thing again. I almost blurt out “Henry David,” with more conviction than that first time with Jack, but catch myself just in time. Here I am, holding a copy of Walden, on my way to Walden Pond on Thoreau Street in Concord. No doubt about it, that’s going to sound suspicious.

“I’m Hank,” I say. Last names seem unimportant to Hailey, who nods and swishes her ponytail again.

“Where you from, Hank?”

I clear my throat, trying to buy time. “You first.”

She has a pretty smile. Bright, trusting green eyes. And there’s something sweet and fragile in her that reminds me of Nessa.

“Just up on Authors Ridge. You know, up near the cemetery where Emerson and Alcott are buried.”

“Of course,” I say, pretending to know who they are. Emerson is one of the writers Magpie mentioned when we were in his closet, but the name is all I know.

We pass a line of Victorian houses painted white and yellow and green, all with big front porches and shutters. After the claustrophobic vibe of the city, the town feels open, with wide expanses of lawn and blue sky.

“And…where are you from, Hank?” Hailey prompts.

“Well, I’m from, uh, near Boston. Probably moving to Concord soon.”

Hailey pulls the hairband out of her hair, tucks it between her front teeth and gathers the hair back together to bunch back into a ponytail. “Yeah?” she asks through the hairband. “When?”

“Um. I’m not really sure. I mean, my parents work in Boston and want to move out of the city. When we find a house, that is.” I’m surprised by how smoothly these lies slip out.

“Do you have brothers and sisters?” Hailey asks me.

I get ready to say one of each, the first response that comes to me, but that’s not what comes out of my mouth. “Just a sister,” I say.

“Are you okay, Hank?”

I’ve stopped walking and am leaning over at the waist, staring down at the concrete sidewalk. Sister. That word again. Like a punch in the gut. I have a flash of something, shredded edge of memory. A sense of danger, panic. Is my sister is in trouble? My gut seems to think so.

“Hank?”

“Sorry. Yeah, I’m okay.” I push the memory back before the beast can claw at my insides. “It’s just, um.” I catch a glimpse of Hailey’s T-shirt from the corner of my eye. Concord Lacrosse. “My leg. I pulled a hamstring running track. Sometimes it just zings me, you know?” I rub the back of my leg for dramatic effect, wondering about the lie that wouldn’t come out and then the one that came so easy.

Hailey nods. “My cousin did that once, pulled a hamstring playing basketball. Sucks.” This jock-girl knows her sports injuries. “You gonna make it, Hank?”

“Yep. I think I’ll survive.” I limp through a few steps to appear convincing.

We get to a big wooden sign that reads, HENRY DAVID THOREAU REGIONAL HIGH SCHOOL, near the entrance of a wide driveway. I almost laugh out loud. Is everything in this town named after Thoreau?

“Come on up and see the school,” Hailey says. “Since you might be moving here and all.” I follow her up the driveway.

Thoreau High School is small, just one story high, made of yellow concrete bricks. The bushes out front are early spring sparse, with little buds that seem a long way from opening. We pass a playing field with a scoreboard that says, Home of the Patriots. Kids are running around on the playing fields, practicing baseball and soccer and track. Some kids are just milling around, sitting on fences, talking and laughing. A few stare openly as we walk past them, and I feel sweat on the back of my neck.

Can they see I’m an imposter? That I have no identity and no memory? I adjust