[Jade]

Hey Gord. I'm working on improving my writing and I decided to rewrite Secrets of Splat Night! Here ya go: 

 

I can still remember the food I ate for breakfast a twelve hours ago–some delicious toaster strudel. But that’s about as far back as my memory goes.

My doctor calls it “retrograde amnesia,” two big words that meant nothing to me until the Incident. Every single thing that happened before I took a nose-dive off my roof is gone, at least for me. Everybody is saying that I at least softened the blow by landing well… on my head. My shoulder, too, since it’s been mummified in a sling since I woke up. Another thing: Everything is brand new to me. My home, my school, my friends, my family. It wasn’t very awesome having to learn my own name from my medical chart. When I looked at my mother and saw nobody but a stranger, it hit me like a train.

 

The life I had–have–is here, regardless. The thing is that I have to look for it pretty hard, running after any lead I can find. Observing the dozens of trophies decorating my shelves, it’s pretty obvious that I was a star athlete, especially in football. That’s believable. Especially since my phone’s gallery is overrun with me with a bunch of bulky guys. The main characters of my life story, according to my phone, seem to be some guys named Aaron and Bear, my best friends. I’m not really seeing it, but I’m probably not the best person to ask right now. 

 

But I’ll look at the bright side. Being an amnesiac would be much more boring if I were a loner.

 

At the moment, a selfie of us three is making my screen glow. We’re all stuffed inside a tiny stall in the boy’s restroom. Behind me, I can see water exploding from the toilet, and every single one of us look like we’ve just walked through a rainstorm. In my hand, there’s this huge bag that claims it used to hold 20 pounds of flour, but it’s at an odd angle since Aaron put me in a headlock. The craziest part is that we all seem to be cackling like maniacs. I don’t really get it, but it’d probably be a lot funnier if I could understand it. 

A little ding pops up on my screen, showing a calendar reminder:

SPLAT NIGHT – 11pm

What even is that? The corners of my lips turn downwards. I know I made the reminder so that I wouldn’t forget about it, but I don’t think old me knew that me me would be a complete amnesiac. If I did, I’d at least set a reminder for the reminder.

My finger taps the screen, and an address pops up. Alright, not an appointment–though I’m not sure what doctor would be trying to meet this close to midnight. Also not a show coming out. Oh, and the time is seems to be a hint that I shouldn’t bother my mom about it. 

She’s tucked in tight by 10:30, anyway. 

I can’t say I really want to go, but I can’t just not show up. I’ve got to figure out who I was somehow. If the old me thought it was important enough to make a reminder, it’s probably a part of my identity.

In a small town, it’s not hard to find things, at least when you remember the streets. It’s not the easiest task to find Portland Street on a map, but I decide to go for it once I can hear Mom’s soft snores coming from her room. I sneak past the front door, letting it glide shut behind me.

 

The town, if possible, is even more foreign to me in the dead of night with only streetlamps to guide me. I can’t say how many times I get lost, but I begin to get the gist of the place once I turn up in front of Portland Street Assisted Living Residence. Grandpas? That doesn’t seem to have much in common with Splat Night, but okay. I glance down at my phone to make sure I didn’t get lost again.

 

Nope. This is it. 

 

I feel like a doofus when I go through the front doors. The lobby might as well be a ghost town, except for a handful of old people playing cards at a table. Canes are looped on the back of their chairs like deadly weapons. So… what do I do? Ask them about Splat Night?

 

I don’t want to seem any crazier than necessary.

 

Halfway to the front desk, I catch a glimpse of shadows slipping past the floor-to-ceiling window, moving towards the back. Aaron and Bear!

 

I rush outside to catch up. “Guys!”

 

“Ambrose!” Aaron shouts. “You showed up!”

 

Bear laughs. “Told you so. Our guy would never give up Splat Night.” He turns to me. “Does this mean you remember everything again?”

 

“No,” I mutter. “I had a reminder on my phone. Honestly, I don’t know what Splat Night is.”

Aaron slings an arm around my shoulder. “It’s tradition! One you started. Not a very good founder, are you, forgetting all about it, hey?” He nudges me, and I wince.

 

He’s squeezing me a lot more than I’d like, and it makes my shoulder throb. I don’t want to bring it up, though, because it’s worth it if it means I belong. Anticipation begins to build up in my body for what’s about to happen. I have a feeling that it’ll make my life make a little bit more sense.

 

 Now, we’re hidden behind the building. Hopping over a small fence, the fake terrain turns into soft ground. I gaze into the twilight. “Where are we?”

 

“Graybeard Motel Gardenening Eztravaganza. One of the top hobbies for the Dumbledores and Dumbledoras is planting anything they possibly can, because, well, what else would they do?” Aaron says.

 

“That tiny lady in the corner seemed like she’d make a great rock climber. I don’t know, though.” Bear replies, grinning.

 

“Okay, okay. But Splat Night! What’s that got anything to do with lima beans?” 

“Let me show you.” Aaron bows. He sticks his hands into a big bush and they come back holding two goliath tomatoes. 

 

“You’ll need the real red ripe ones. They make the best splats.”

 

He tosses one to Bear, who catches it like a mini football, and they start walking towards the edge of the plot. At the bottom of the hill, there’s a huge four-lane highway with dozens of cars zooming past. I’m absolutely stumped, at least until Aaron begins to count down “Three… two… one!” and the two boys lob their tomatoes into the street.

 

Splat! Aaron’s tomato get obliterated on a black SUV’s windshield. Bear’s bounces off the rear of a truck’s and its guts cover the hood of the car behind it. Cars swerve, brakes shriek, and drivers freak out.

 

“Get down!” Bear shouts, yanking my arm so that I’m crouched on the ground next to him and Aaron. Huge grins split their faces and they began laughing like maniacs, trying to figure out who had the better aim. 

 

I’m floored.

 

I started this? Almost killing random people with projectile fruits and veggies was the peak of fun for me? 

 

In a second, Aaron and Bear are lumbering through the garden, searching for even better tomatoes.

 

“It’s all you, Ambrose!” Bear says, placing a leaky vibrant red tomato into my hands.

 

I can’t throw it. My shoulder won’t let me. Any sort of exertion is going to rattle me up.

 

But seriously, why would I want to? 

 

Didn’t know you were such a wimp. My brain screams at me. You said you wanted to discover the real you–well, here you go. Splat Night. Your idea. Doesn’t hurt anybody, anyways, unless you’re worried about some middle-aged soccer mom who needs a trip to the carwash. I doubt the ancient people of old are gonna miss their two almost rotten tomatoes, anyways. Get over it!

 

“Dude. It’s not gonna work if you wait ‘till the car’s in your face.” Aaron instructs, probably thinking I’m hesitating because I’ve forgotten good form. “You’ve kind of got to listen to your gut on when it tells you to throw. You’ve got muscle memory.” 

 

He tells me a little bit more and Bear says something. I’m not really listening. Who knew there was a theory to Splat Night?

 

I’ve got to do it. Leaving now would be like throwing our friendship in their face. Fine, fine. I’ll just… make a really bad throw. Red goop sticking to my hand, I throw the tomato with half of my might and it falls to pieces on the shoulder of the highway. My shoulder starts aching badly.

 

“That was a really good tomato for that awful throw!” Bear grumbles angrily. Aaron punches him like a WWE wrestler, and the guys start bickering.

 

“Shut up! He just got off his death bed, give him a break!” Aaron replies, and Bear sighs. Then, the two start going on a rant about all the reasons my throwing isn’t as perfect as it used to be.

 

It’s fine. The guys make up for me and some. Anybody driving on Route 106 is having a really unlucky night since a cannonball might as well be firing tomatoes into the street. 

 

Then it happens. A splat. Brakes squeal. It feels like a nightmare come to life when the tiny Chevy slides off the street and nosedives into a ditch.  

 

Aaron and Bear might as well have grown wings with how quick they disappeared.

 

“Get over here!” I shout. “The driver could be dead!” 

“Yeah!” I can vaguely hear Bear holler back. “And I’m not getting locked up for murder! Run!” 

 

For once, I listen. I run, but not their way. Basically rolling down the hill, I speed towards the car, wondering if the people inside are even breathing.

 

A guy breaks open a door and scrambles out of the Chevy. He seems fine, other than the look of bewilderment on his face. Neither of us can believe what happened. Squinting through the night, I can see that it’s just him.

 

I stop. I want to help him, I really do, but what if I get Aaron and Bear in trouble? Their fault, yeah, but I don’t want them in jail either. It’s my fault–I’m the one who started Splat Night.

 

Well, I certainly learned something. A lot of things. But the first?

 

That it’s my choice. Run away, or try and help.

 

If the old me was even a little bit like my “best friends”, he would’ve run off a long time ago.

 

But something’s different. Maybe I’m different. I’m not the old me, and I don’t have to be. Every action I take makes me a different person. Maybe a better person, maybe not, but it’s my choice. I can choose.

 

Pulling out my phone, I dial 9-1-1. It’s funny that I can still remember what I’m meant to do in an emergency. “There was a car crash. On the highway behind the retirement home. Portland Street. A drove fell into a ditch.”

 

Somebody’s typing on the other side of the line. “Who’s calling?”

 

“Help.” I say, and I press the hang up button.

 

Who’s calling?

 

I certainly don’t know. 

 

Forgetting who I was is probably the hardest thing ever. But remembering who I was might be even worse. Not like I’d know.

Hey, Jade,

You made me break my hard and fast rule of NEVER reading other people's work.And I LOVED it!!! Great stuff!       --G--

[Jade]

Yay! Thank you so much and I'm really glad you enjoyed it. 

[Sasquatshhh]

i love toaster strudels

 

But seriously tho it matched his style so well at first I couldn't see any changes