The End of Forever, chapter one

Home alone.

The words have endless possibilities. You can do pretty much anything you want, provided that you’re careful. Although, I don’t really do anything exciting. Most of the time, I just spend some quality time singing at the top of my lungs, something I’d never do were anyone listening.

But not today.

Dad was at work. Mom was taking my brother, Aaron, to one of his football practices. She would be out for a while: an hour at least. I know, because she asked me if I’d be all right for longer than that amount of time. She does this a lot: staying at our practices. Probably, she’s making sure that Aaron isn’t going to kill anybody.

Obviously, I was fine with it. I mean, a chance to have the house to myself? For a whole hour? With parents as overprotective as everyone knows mine are? It was all I could do to keep from salivating.

Besides, there was something I wanted to do today.

I open the door to the stairwell and reach for a cord hanging from the ceiling. I pull, and a rickety ladder comes down, the base banging to a halt on the stairwell. For a second I hesitate: the attic (which, obviously, was what the ladder led to) was looking pretty creepy. And the ladder didn’t look like it could hold much more than ten pounds. I start to wonder if this was such a good idea.

Going into the attic might not seem like the biggest deal, but I barely EVER go up there. Once, Dad let me up, when I was little, to get down the Christmas decorations. Mom found out, and she wasn’t very happy. She’s scared of the attic, or more specifically, of falling off the ladder. I was never allowed up there again.

I’ve asked, tons of times. Every time I do, my answer comes in the form of that particular incident, which is probably the only reason I remember it at all. I have the worst memory in the world.

So here I am, Lea Border, thinking about this and debating whether or not to go up the ladder. Because, I admit it, I’m scared too. I’m scared of pretty much everything, and creaky old ladders are pretty close to the top of my list, right under water slides, roller coasters, the high dive, wasps, and heights.

I’ll be facing the latter, too, I thought, as I glance nervously at the concrete basement floor.

I close my eyes and start up, trying to imagine myself as some bold explorer. It doesn’t work. All I can picture is myself, Lea Border, scared out of my wits.

The attic is dark. Some light escapes from the open trapdoor, but not enough to satisfy me. I’m not really scared of the dark (finally, a fear that I DON’T have,) but darkness in an unknown place is a whole different story. Plus, there was a hole in the floor, and a low ceiling to bump my head on.

Somehow I find the light switch. The attic seems safer with the light (even I’m not scared of a few boxes, some clothes, and an old crib) and I start looking around. One box has my name on it. I open it.

It’s nothing very special: just some toys and books. I go through it anyway. I don’t recognize anything. Not like that’s a surprise.

Towards the bottom are some picture books. I spend a few minutes looking through them, amused. I used to READ this? I thought in astonishment. I plunge my hand in farther.

Then something snags on my sleeve. I pull my hand away, and a green spiral-bound notebook pops out. On the cover were countless doodles, and the words LEA’S JOUNAL.

I kept a journal?

Deciding that LEA’S JOURNAL was much more interesting than a bunch of easy readers, I opened it. Words scrawled across the page.

I had terrible handwriting, I thought. Then I start reading:

June 14, 2004
I don’t like journals. People always wind up reading them, especially when you write something like: private, keep out. Anyway, what’s the point? It’s just a useless book of paper. You want to share secrets, well, that’s why they invented best friends.

The only reason I’m writing this is because I don’t have anything better to do. Mom’s mad at me. I tried to get into the attic today, but I couldn’t reach the dumb chord. I fell down the stairs trying. So after freaking out and giving me an ice pack and about 10,000 band-aids (and I felt perfectly fine) she sent me to my room. She must think that, by fourth grade, I’m too old to be falling down stairs.

Plus, she’s scared of the attic. Seriously. Who’s scared of the attic?

Later:

I’m gonna quick finish writing this. I had to stop earlier, because mom was coming to yell at me, and I didn’t want her to see what I wrote.

When she was done yelling at me, she let me out, saying “I hope you learned something from this.” Yeah, right. Tomorrow I won’t even remember it, and she knows it. But I guess she figured that she can’t keep me in there for forever. There has to be some sort of law against that.

I’m going. And this is NOT going to be a reoccurring thing.

June 15,2004
Fine. I’m writing again. Don’t get too used to it.

I’m excited because we’re going on vacation soon, to the beach. Maybe this time, I can convince Mom to let me go into the ocean. Last time, she freaked out, and started screaming about rip tides.

Seriously.

The journal continued. I stare at it, trying to find myself in the pages. It doesn’t work. “That’s why they invented best friends?” I stare at this line very hard. I had friends? When? Currently, I’m the school’s official “friendless freak.” What happened?

The girl in the journal (I can’t accept that this is me) is everything I’m not. She’s brave, albeit stupid, and she has friends. Best friends, even. The writing sounds nothing like my own. It’s silly, and sarcastic, nothing like the serious writing style I thought I always had.

I stare harder at the journal, finally giving up. The horrible memory was the only thing that connected present from past. I climbed out of the attic, clutching the book in my hand.