SECRETS OF SPLAT NIGHT (A “RESTART” STORY)
I remember what I had for breakfast this morning (toaster strudel). But that’s about all I remember.
The doctor calls it “retrograde amnesia.” I’ve forgotten everything from before I fell off the roof. They tell me I broke my fall . . . with my head. Also my shoulder, because it’s bandaged up too, and my arm’s in a sling. Another result: Everything I ever knew has been wiped clean. My house, my school, my friends, my family. I even had to learn my name — Chase Ambrose — off my medical chart. When you look into the face of your own mother and see a total stranger, it hits you pretty hard.
My life is still here, but I have to search for it, following clues, like I’m some kind of detective. I can tell from all the trophies on the shelves in my room that I’m good at sports, especially football. That makes sense, because if you go by the pictures on my phone, I hang out with a lot of large, tough-looking people. The stars of the slide show are these guys named Aaron and Bear, who everybody says are my best friends. I don’t really see it yet, but hey — who knows less about me than me?
At least I have friends.
Right now, the phone screen shows a selfie of the three of us. We’re crammed into a stall in the boys’ room at school. Behind us, the toilet is spraying like a geyser, and we’re soaked to the skin. I’m waving an empty bag that says it used to contain twenty pounds of flour, but I’m at a weird angle because Aaron has me in a headlock. And here’s the thing: We’re all laughing like crazy. I guess it would be funnier if I could remember it.
Suddenly, there’s a chime and a calendar reminder comes up on my screen:
SPLAT NIGHT – 11 pm.
I frown. I have no idea what this is supposed to be. Obviously, I set up the reminder so I wouldn’t forget about it. But I had no way of knowing I was going to fall off the roof between then and Splat Night. If I did, I could have set up another reminder to explain the reminder.
I tap the screen and an address comes up. So this is an appointment, not some show I wanted to watch on TV. The 11 pm part tells me I shouldn’t ask my mother about it. She’s usually asleep by 10:30.
I don’t want to go, but how can I blow it off? I have to find myself. If I cared about Splat Night enough to post a reminder, then it’s part of who I am.
Even though I’ve lived here my whole life, I have to find Portland Street on a map. Luckily, this is a small town, so nothing is ever very far away. By 10:45, I can hear Mom snoring softly from her bedroom. I slip outside, shutting the door gently behind me.
The town is even more unfamiliar at night, when I’m navigating by streetlight. I get lost a couple of times, but eventually I find where I’m going. The address turns out to be the Portland Street Assisted Living Residence. Old people? What could that possibly have to do with something called Splat Night? I recheck the address.
This is the place, all right.
I enter the building, already feeling stupid. The lobby is mostly deserted, except for a few elderly residents sitting around a table, playing cards. A couple of canes are hooked over the chair backs. What am I supposed to do? Ask where Splat Night is? They’ll think I’m nuts.
I’m halfway to the desk when, through the floor-to-ceiling window, I spy a couple of shadowy figures slinking around the corner, heading for the rear of the building. Aaron and Bear!
I run back outside and catch up to them. “Guys!”
“Ambrose!” Aaron exclaims. “You came!”
Bear chuckles. “I told you our boy wouldn’t miss out on Splat Night. This means your memory’s back, right?”
“Not exactly,” I admit. “My phone reminded me. To be honest, I have no clue what Splat Night is.”
Aaron throws a friendly arm around me. “It’s a time honored tradition — started by you, by the way.”
He’s squeezing hard, which really hurts my injured shoulder. I shut up about it, though, because it feels good to belong. I feel a tingle of anticipation that a missing piece of my puzzle is about to be filled in.
We’re behind the building now. We step over a low fence, and the rolling lawn gives way to soft earth. I peer into the gloom. “What is this place?”
“It’s the Graybeard Motel garden project,” Aaron replies. “A lot of the old Dumbledores and Dumbledoras plant vegetables out here, because — let’s face it — what else can they do?”
“Sky-diving,” Bear supplies. “Bungee jumping. No — the cords keeps tangling around their wheelchairs.”
“But –” I manage “–what does this have to do with Splat Night?”
“Allow us to demonstrate.” Aaron reaches down into some leafy plants and comes up with two beefsteak tomatoes. “You want the ripe ones. They make a bigger splat.”
He hands one to Bear, and they lead me to the rear of the plot. There’s a small rise and, at the bottom of the embankment, cars whiz by on a four-lane highway. I’m totally mystified until Aaron counts, “One . . . two . . . three!” and they hurl the tomatoes out into the road.
Splat! Aaron’s scores a direct hit on the windshield of an SUV and practically vaporizes. Bear’s bounces off the trunk of a sedan and explodes, spraying juice and pulp all over the car behind it. Tires squeal as the shocked drivers brake and swerve.
Aaron and Bear flatten themselves to the rise, yanking me down with them. They’re laughing hysterically, arguing over who’s the better shot. I’m stunned. This was my invention? My idea of fun? Stealing vegetables from old people and chucking them at cars?
Aaron and Bear are back in the garden, scrounging for more tomatoes.
“Your turn, Ambrose,” says Bear, pressing a large, overripe one, already oozing, into my hands.
I don’t throw it. I can’t. Part of it’s my injury. My bad shoulder isn’t on my throwing side, but any physical effort is going to shake me up all over.
The main reason, though, is — why should I want to?
Don’t be a wimp, I almost scream at myself. You want to find out who you are. This is it! Splat night is your thing. And who does it hurt? A few drivers who’ll need a car wash? Old people who are short one tomato out of dozens? Come on. Throw it!
“You can’t wait till the car’s right there,” Aaron lectures, assuming my hesitation is because I’ve forgotten how to do this. “You have to guesstimate how far the car will move while the tomato is in the air. . . .”
He gives me a few more pointers, and Bear puts in his two cents. Apparently, there’s a science to Splat Night.
I have to do it. If I don’t, it’s like telling them I don’t want to be their friend anymore. All right, I’ll miss on purpose. I grip the tomato and let fly — a wobbly duck that barely breaks apart when it hits the soft shoulder of the road. My bad shoulder throbs like crazy on the follow-through.
“Ambrose — you’re wasting tomatoes!” Bear exclaims angrily.
Aaron silences him with a punch that would stop a rhino. “Shut up, Bear! Our boy just got out of the hospital!”
Both of them launch into a list of excuses for why my tomato-throwing isn’t up to my usual high standard.
That’s okay. My best friends are more than willing to fill in for me. It’s a bad night to be driving on Route 106, because a relentless artillery barrage of tomatoes is raining mercilessly down on the highway.
That’s when it happens. The usual splat. The screech of brakes. I watch in horror as a small Chevy skids off the road and goes nose-first into the ditch.
Instantly, Aaron and Bear are hurdling the fence and sprinting away from the scene of the crime.
“Come back!” I holler. “That driver could be really hurt!”
“Yeah!” Bear tosses over his shoulder. “And there’s going to be cops! Run, man!”
And I do — but not away. I scramble down the embankment toward the disabled car. All I can think of is the people inside.
The guy manages to struggle out of the Chevy. He’s a little dazed, but I can see he’s pretty much okay. He’s staring at his car like he can’t believe what happened. I squint through the darkness. There are no passengers.
I stop in my tracks. I want to help the driver, but that could make trouble for Aaron and Bear. Trouble they deserve, but who am I to judge? I created this activity.
I wanted to learn about myself. Here’s lesson number one.
I have a choice: Escape or try to help.
If the old Chase was anything like his friends, escape should win that argument, hands down.
But I guess what I’m learning is: I don’t have to be the old Chase. I can be someone new. With every single decision, I can choose to be new.
I pull out my phone and dial 9-1-1, noting that I still remember what to do in an emergency. “There’s been an accident. On the highway behind the retirement home on Portland Street. A guy went off the road.”
I hear a keyboard clicking as the operator takes down the information. “And who’s calling?” she asks me.
“Hurry,” I say, and hang up.
Who’s calling? I wish I knew.
Losing your memory is really hard. But now I’m starting to wonder if getting it back might be even harder.