A couple of construction detours take me out of my way, and I get held up at a train crossing and a series of busy intersections with heavy traffic. About half an hour in, I can add an extra navigation system to the phone app: my nose. There’s an acrid smoky smell to the air, and it seems to be getting stronger.

  I’ve been riding for about forty minutes when I pull up to the Amalgamated Printpack factory—what’s left of it, anyway. Most of the building has collapsed, and what’s still standing is blackened beyond all recognition. The smell is so strong it makes me gag.

  Eagerly, I scan the horizon. My heart sinks. No cupola. It was easy to spot on the TV news, since the camera angle was from a helicopter. But here on the ground, you can’t see very far.

  My rear end is already aching from too much time on the bike seat, but I get back on and start to explore the neighborhood, keeping my gaze at rooftop level. I don’t find the cupola, but I do make a discovery that’s even more amazing. I know this place. The stores—they’re familiar to me. That dry cleaner—I definitely recognize the writing on their sign! But how is that possible? I’ve never been to Breezeway before!

  And that bank! Almost on autopilot, I hit the brakes and my bike shudders to a stop in front of a branch of  Trident Credit Union. Through the window, I can see a man sitting at a desk, but I remember a lady in that office—slim, with light brown hair. I can picture her face as clearly as if she was standing right in front of me. Weirder still, for some reason I want her to be there. The yearning is so powerful it’s almost a physical ache. Why? She seems vaguely familiar, but I don’t understand how I ever could have met her.

  As I stand there, wondering what my next move should be, a couple of kids my age round the corner and head up the main drag. They’re carrying backpacks. A quick check of my phone confirms that it’s just after three thirty, prime school dismissal time. It hits me—the place I’m looking for is a school! Another group comes into view. Two of them wear T-shirts emblazoned with DELGADO MIDDLE SCHOOL. That must be it!

  I climb on the bike and ride in the direction the kids are coming from. As I coast down the block, the crowd thickens into a parade. I’m convinced I’m on the right track. Some of the faces even look sort of familiar—which, again, should be impossible. But if I can recognize a dry cleaner or a bank, why not people?

  I wheel around one more corner and there it is: the cupola, just the way I remember it … except I shouldn’t remember it at all. At first, it peeks out over a row of storefronts, but as I get closer, the whole place comes into view.

  School must have just let out for the day, and kids are filing onto buses lined up along the circular drive. There are the brickwork steps that seemed so wrong in my memory because I knew they didn’t belong at the entrance of my own school. Now I understand why. They aren’t at my own school; they’re here.

  Eventually, the buses pull away, leaving a handful of students milling around in front of the building. I get off my bike and lean it against the playground fence. I don’t know what my plan is, but I came to find this place and here I am. What’s the next step? Am I waiting for one of the locals to point at me and yell, “Hey, that’s the guy who used to go here, but he got amnesia, and his parents didn’t tell him about it, because … because …” I can’t imagine how the rest of that sentence might go.

  That would make things a lot easier, but nobody comes running to welcome back a long-lost classmate. I’ve accomplished my goal—I’ve found the school with the cupola. That’s as far as it goes, though.

  And then she comes out the front entrance and down the steps, passing so close to me that I could reach out and touch her. In Breezeway, a lot of the faces ring a bell, but with her, the bell is as loud as a cherry bomb. At the sight of her, dozens of memories pop into my head. We’re obviously friends, but there must be more to it than that. There’s an importance to our connection, a weight. I can even access her name.

  “Portia!” I blurt.

  She looks startled. “Are you talking to me?”

  She doesn’t know me! Why not? I know her! In a split second, I understand that Portia and I are not friends. She’s never laid eyes on me in her life.

  “Oh—uh—” I keep my panic under control. What can I do? Pretend to be talking to somebody else? How many Portias can there be?

  She goes on. “You don’t go to school here. How do you know my name?”

  There’s an answer to that question, but not one I could ever present to her. Memories of Portia whirl around my head, offering fleeting glimpses. Most of them take place at a school—probably this one. But I can’t claim to be her classmate at Delgado. She’s already concluded that I’m a stranger here.

  I get another image—Portia behind a counter, handing out boxes of groceries. Mentally, I zoom in on the logo on the carton: NEIGHBORHOOD HARVEST FOOD BANK.

  “From the food bank!” I exclaim.

  Her eyes narrow. “I don’t remember seeing you there.”

  My mind races. “I volunteer on the delivery trucks. We’ve made a couple of shipments here. I’m Theo.” I hold out my hand.

  She shakes it. “Oh, hi. Sorry—I meet a lot of people at the food bank. It’s hard to keep all the faces straight.”

  It makes instant sense that people remember Portia more than vice versa. When she smiles at me, it’s like the sun comes out from behind a cloud, bathing all of Delgado in bright light. Hers is not the kind of face anybody forgets.

  For once, I wish I was more like my father. Dad could have a two-hour conversation with a Tasmanian devil, and by the end of it, they’d be best buddies. That’s part of Rule the School—you always have total confidence that everyone wants to hear what you have to say, because you’re you. I’m kind of the opposite of that. Mom claims I’m destined to be the strong, silent type, but mostly I’m just silent. Okay, I’m shy—especially when it comes to talking to girls. Maybe that’s why I’m into gardening. Onions don’t need much in the way of conversation.

  “Do you live around here?” Portia asks.

  “Not far.” I gesture over my shoulder in the direction of home. Portia doesn’t have to know that it’s on another side of town. The circumference of the Earth is about 25,000 miles, so 4.6 counts as “not far.” To keep the conversation going, I say, “Whenever I’m in the neighborhood, I always stop by. I think the cupola on the school roof is really cool.”

  No sooner are the words out of my mouth than I know I’ve said something boring and stupid. People who rule a school don’t care about architecture.

  She glances up. “Cupola—is that what you call that thing?” And just to double prove that the topic interests her zero percent, she adds, “Well, bye. Happy, uh, looking at the roof.”

  I’m not sure why, but I’m convinced this is a big moment. Portia is my only solid connection to the memories that aren’t really memories. If I let her leave now, who knows if I’ll ever be able to find her again.

  I have to say something else to keep this going. What, though? I’m not my father. I’m not a schmoozer. I hang out with cucumbers, not with girls like Portia. I want to talk but my mind is a black hole.

  She starts away. It’s now or never. What would Dad do? If I knew the answer to that, I probably wouldn’t disappoint him fifteen times a day.

  I remember his words from the time I went after him to save Jaws: You saw what you wanted and you made it happen …

  I match Portia step by step, walking my bike along the sidewalk. I feel like a doofus, not to mention a total stalker. I’ll bet my cheeks are bright red.

  She glances at my bike and grins. “Nice basket.”

  I stick out my jaw. “During planting season, I can get twelve small pots in there.”

  She laughs in my face. “Theo, you’re hilarious.”

  Her destination turns out to be a shop called Fro-Yo Joe’s. I’m not invited, but, following the Dad reasoning—Who waits to be invited? You just go—I’m also not not invited. So I lean my bike against the outside wall and wander in with her. She doesn’t complain.

  So far, so good.

  Fro-Yo Joe’s is mostly filled with Delgado kids slurping desserts and shoveling toppings. Everybody seems to know Portia. They practically break their necks to welcome her and be noticed. I’m starting to suspect that Portia is another one of those people who rule the school. Maybe that’s why Dad logic seems to work with her.

  “This is Theo,” she introduces me.

  It’s pathetic how honored I am that she remembers my name.

  For a shy kid like me to be thrust into a bustling crowd of strangers who all know each other is the definition of uncomfortable. I buy myself a small cone and hide behind it as best I can, but everybody seems to want to know who is this outsider who’s suddenly friends with Portia. My usual companions—green peppers and daisies—are satisfied with water and a little fertilizer every now and then. Middle schoolers, not so much. It only makes it weirder that so many of these kids are familiar. At one point, I actually smear fro-yo on my chin so I can disappear behind a napkin for a while.

  While I’m cleaning myself up, another face appears at the window. It gives me a jolt. If some of the people in Fro-Yo Joe’s ring a bell, this newcomer is definitely a guy I know. He has a serious expression, and his eyes are distant and sad.

  Why do I recognize this person? How do I know him?

  He’s already gone by the time I have the answer. And anyway, my answer doesn’t make much sense. It’s another memory: I’m washing up in a school bathroom. And when I clear the soap and water from my eyes, his is the face that’s looking back at me from the mirror.

  Like he’s me.

  Except how could he be?

  I’m off the garbage squad. Got fired.

  It shouldn’t bug me so much, since I hated doing the garbage. But it does. Fact is, I don’t like losing to Declan, even if it’s the worst job in the world. Mom used to tell me that, in the business world, you’ll never beat the person who has connections, and Willis and Jenna are Declan’s parents. You can’t get more connected than that.

  Things would be a little more bearable if I was off the hook for the two hundred bucks, but I’m not. They just switched me to a different job: vacuuming. It pays the same amount, but it’s a lot harder, because it never ends. At least when you take the garbage out, it’s out. With vacuuming, it’s only as clean as the last slob to walk across the carpet. The kitchen is even worse.

  Plus, now that Declan knows I’m vacuuming, he deliberately steps in mud so he can track it all over the house. Then he complains about what a lousy job I’m doing and how I shouldn’t get paid.

  That’s not the worst thing he’s doing. I’m positive he’s cutting up straight pins and spreading the pieces all around the carpets. When the machine sucks them up, they tear holes in the dust bag. So when I open up to change bags, all I get is a giant cloud of powdery grime and fuzz, which goes all over the floor again. Now Jenna thinks I’m too stupid to change a vacuum bag without making a mess. And I can’t tell her it’s Declan’s fault, because it’s yet another thing I can’t prove.

  Another side effect of my new job: It’s triggering a whole fresh round of fake memories. These usually involve me pushing a lawn mower around a yard, but sometimes it’s a spreader, like for fertilizer or grass seed. That might go along with all those gardening memories I’ve had, but it’s just not me. Mom and I were apartment people, so there was no lawn to take care of. And here at the Helmers’, Willis does all the lawn care work. He says it relaxes him. Willis needs to relax. He’s Declan’s father. And to be fair, it can’t be easy to inherit a whole extra kid because your wife’s best friend happens to die.

  I get paid on the weekend. So every Monday morning, I go to the office before the bell rings and give Principal Latimore a twenty-dollar bill. Right now, I’ve paid sixty bucks toward my debt. The principal said it was okay for me to save up and give her the whole two hundred at the end. But I live with Declan, which means no hiding place short of Fort Knox will ever be safe enough.

  Latimore is always super businesslike. She takes my twenty and writes me a receipt on her FROM THE DESK OF PRINCIPAL LATIMORE notepad. “So you’ll always have proof that you paid,” she explains.

  “I trust you.”

  The look on her face clearly says that the feeling is definitely not mutual. It doesn’t fill me with a warm, joyful feeling, that’s for sure. But I have to admit she’s been pretty cool about this whole thing.

  The big news at school is that Portia supposedly has a new boyfriend, this kid they call Basket Case. Some people are saying he isn’t a real boyfriend, just “some guy who might maybe one day turn into a boyfriend.” Considering that the seventh graders at Delgado date and break up every time the wind blows, you’d think this wouldn’t be such a headline. But this is Portia. Everything about her is always larger than life.

  What makes it juicier is, supposedly, this new guy doesn’t even go to our school. He’s an outsider. The way people are talking about him, it’s like he just landed his spaceship in the middle of the kickball game and said, “Take me to your leader.” So they brought him to Portia. Obviously.

  Think I caught a glimpse of him once at this frozen yogurt place Portia loves. Or maybe it wasn’t him. That kid looked kind of familiar and everyone says the new guy is a stranger.

  A lot of seventh-grade guys are bummed that Portia might be getting a boyfriend. Not me, though. No offense to her, but the less I think about Portia, the happier I’ll be. Thinking about Portia always leads me to a pretty dark place.

  If Portia had gotten a boyfriend a year ago, it’s possible that a nobody like me never would have made the guest list for her birthday party. And while I might have been upset about it back then, I guarantee that my life would be a whole lot better today.

  Presenting the newest volunteer for Neighborhood Harvest Food Bank:

  Me.

  Not the Neighborhood Harvest branch near me. The one in Breezeway. Portia’s branch.

  I’m positive that Delgado Middle School holds the key to understanding what’s happening to me. Otherwise, why would so many kids, including Portia, seem familiar when I’ve never been here before? Why would the area ring such a bell if it’s a place I don’t know? It’s like I remember it, but I shouldn’t. There’s no way I’ve forgotten some kind of secret life, because then people would remember me too … and they don’t. I have to figure out the connection, which means I have to keep coming back. And Portia is my excuse.

  I usually meet her after school, which means I have to cut ninth period in order to bike to Breezeway in time. When I can’t get away—like when I have a test or something—she goes straight to Neighborhood Harvest and I get there when I can. I’ve had to implement a couple of life hacks in order to make all this work. For example, I’m down to seeing Dr. Abagnale only once a week instead of twice, and in the evening instead of late afternoon. The same with karate—one class a week, on Saturday now. Dad gave me a hard time over that—the usual stuff about how soft I am—but it’s actually working out okay. Biking back and forth to Breezeway is a lot more exercise than you get in any class.

  On Wednesday, I arrive at Neighborhood Harvest around four thirty and find the warehouse in an uproar. Volunteers are scrambling all over the place, weighed down by armloads of heavy canned goods.

  Portia provides the explanation. “Grab a carton and start loading! There are already forty people in line at Saint Basil’s and more are coming every minute!”

  For the next twenty minutes, Neighborhood Harvest is a madhouse. Packages of pasta and cereal sail through the air as the volunteers toss them our way to save time. Our hands are just a blur, stacking and stuffing. Portia leaps up and comes down with a cabbage in what would be a spectacular catch in any Major League Baseball stadium. It gets a big cheer, and she takes a quick bow. I try to make a similar play on a plastic bottle of pancake syrup, but it bounces off my fingers and skitters across the concrete floor. There are catcalls and a few boos, but nothing is allowed to interfere with the work we’re doing. People are waiting for this food and it’s our job to get it to them.

  At last, the cartons are all full, and everyone is scrambling to load them onto the truck. It’s so disorganized that Portia and I get stranded in the back of the payload, landlocked by the stacked boxes.

  Dmitri, the supervisor, sees us trying to swim back out again and motions for us to sit down amid the cartons. “No time!” he calls. “Stay where you are. You can help with the distribution when you get to Saint Basil’s.”

  That’s how we end up riding to a Neighborhood Harvest food drive on the back of a truck, hemmed in by a hundred and fifty boxes of groceries.

  Portia loves it. Pink-cheeked with pleasure, she hangs on to a pair of gallon milk jugs and giggles all the way. Even when a loaf of whole wheat bread rolls out of the top box and bounces off her head, it doesn’t destroy the mood. That’s Portia.

  I grab it in midair and restore it to its proper box.

  “You must be used to all this!” she calls over the engine’s roar.

  I’m mystified. “Why?”

  “From when you worked on the trucks!”

  Oops—I’ve got to watch that. When your life is built on lies, you’d better remember the details.

  “Right!” I tell her. “But they didn’t let us ride in the back. I’m pretty sure this is illegal!”

  It only makes her laugh harder. “The cops would have to climb through all this to arrest us.”

  By now, I’m laughing too. It’s a bumpy ride through the city streets, so I get a little seasick. But it’s cool, because Portia’s there. You can see why people are drawn to her. She has an enthusiasm for everything she does, and it’s contagious. Bouncing around with the boxes, having your guts scrambled shouldn’t be fun. But it is, thanks to her.