Altered State

A few more children from my elementary school disappear from the memories of people every year. Today, we have organized our desks, in a circle, and Mrs. Witherspoon reveals that Tracy Peters has gone to a better place. While riding her bike, Tracy was struck by a car. Until our next dose of Altered State, she will be remembered. Then, I'll just remember her. Altered State does not work on me. Okay, the anti-aging part does: I'm nine, but I'm never going to forget just like the others do. I'm the fifty-five-pound elephant in the room.

I puff a lengthy blonde lock of hair out of my eyes so I can better see Mrs. Witherspoon scowl at me because of my disruptive noise. The gold color upon my head comes from my mother's side and the length from my dad. He always insisted that my hair should be kept long, for I looked like a boy when it is cut short.

I miss them, my parents.

The best friend of Tracy, Charlie, whimpers next to me. Charlie’s real name is Charlene but nicknames are for kids and that is what she is. A kid. That is what we all are but shouldn’t be. The name Charlie always sounded boyish but somehow it fit her perfectly. She had this bright glow about her but today that glow was like a dark cloud.

I'm patting Charlie on her shoulder. "I miss her too." She smiles politely, and a deep sadness overcomes me. Charlie will not recall Tracy after our next dose of Altered State. She will return to her carefree self, but I will always remember the short-haired brunette who loved the thought of being a mermaid and— "But Altered State is coming," said Mrs. Witherspoon with a positive energy blast cutting off my thoughts. "We're going to have a cure for aging soon, and we're not going to ever lose our friends or parents." She looks at me. She can recall that I had parents, and she is aware that they're gone, but what she doesn't remember, is their names.

"Accidents will still always happen," I said with spite and all the puffy, teary eyes in the room glared at me. The recess bell rings and my fellow classmates run outside. I follow slowly, dragging my feet as I walk.

I look around as I lean with my hands stuck in my tightly patched corduroys during recess against the once blue but now rusty monkey bars. The air holds the incoming winter's scent and gentle breezes shake yellow and orange oak leaves free from their branches. Fall. The ideal season for introducing the world to Altered State. At least what's left of it, anyway. I kept up with the declining population of the world for a while, but my computer was rotting away and I couldn't afford a new one.

"Adalie, do you want to play kickball with us?" After the first dozen years or so, Kickball lost its luster. A gust of wind blows through my hair, leaving a slight freezing sensation on my face. I look at the home run wall, and in spite of my disinterest, I can't help but wonder, with the wind, could I finally make that sucker clear with a nice, quick kick?

"Sure," I say, and take my once usual outfield position.

"By Kyle Nelson, what Altered State means to me." I slump into my little wooden seat. The speech by Kyle is my least favorite. He wants Altered State to have been able to save his pet, Spotty. He doesn't remember Spotty, but all over his room there are pictures of her, so at some point, he knows he had a cat named Spotty. Sadly, Altered State isn't for animals. They wilt around us and fade into aging picture frames just like the family members we’ve lost but don’t recall.

In front of the school, two gray fortification-sized buses rumble into the cul-de-sac. My classmates and Mrs. Witherspoon, with their faces pressed against the glass, fog up the window. For the beginning of autumn, today is unusually cold. Below freezing actually. It was weird to me but it might have also just been my blood icing over, making it feel colder than it actually was. It was Curing Day.

The CDC came with our shots, the oh so wonderful Altered State.

Mrs. Witherspoon covers her heart with one hand while her Rosary beads are thumbed with the other. Altered State is her salvation.

We take turns receiving our shots. Mrs. Witherspoon puts her hand in ours, one after another. We get Band-Aids covered in little cartoons for our shoulders and I'm wondering what my character is going to be this year. It is one of Curing Day's few remaining unpredictable events.

"Adalie, it's your turn. Don't be afraid." For the first time, I hesitate to sit in a familiar chair.

"I'm not scared," I say, covering up my real fear. Am I through with Altered State? Am I going to become the next empty desk? Are they going to forget me like the others? My little break leads me to wonder if I have become really tired of the same routine, living alone, nothing changing. I sit down and look deep into the eyes of the CDC man. He's the same man who gave me my first shot. I burrow past the irises of blue and try to read his thoughts. Can he see the wisdom in my eyes? Does he know that I have not forgotten a single person that has been removed from my life? Can he tell?

Altered State was meant to stop us from getting older and dying, but froze the world instead. I like to think that somebody out there is looking for a cure for this cure. Sometimes I still hope that I will grow up to be a wife someday, have a husband and maybe my own children. Not like Mrs. Witherspoon.

"There you go, sweetie." He sticks on my shoulder a Scooby-doo Band-Aid and gives me an empty smile. He is also an Altered State survivor.

Our desks are aligned in a circle. On the fringes, there are several seats coated in sheets of dust. For many years, they have not been part of this circle.

Kyle Nelson died last night in a fire in his home. I find that I am exceptionally saddened by this. I considered Kyle a friend despite his maddening yearly speech and his lack of maturity. I sift through the memories of Kyle that reside in my mind and cover a slight grin with my hand so no one sees. I remember that first day when Kyle rolled the kickball my way. There was a powerful wind blowing and the ball sailed over the home-run fence after making contact with my foot and echoing that unique rubber sound. When was that? I countback. Maybe a decade ago?

I'll have to try again. Make a new memory with a new pitcher. Maybe then I'll forget Kyle, just like all the others. I feel my face scrunch up and tears begin to form in my eyes, and I allow myself to cry for Kyle with the others.

I cry with them - while they are still here.