Before the accident, I would sometimes get headaches. But now, even after being out of the hospital for almost two weeks, they’re constant.

I should be used to the brain pain by now, but I’m not, and it's still there no matter how much ibuprofen I take. Like, what do headaches and California drivers have in common? They don’t stop. And unfortunately I’ve fallen victim to both, which sucks.

Ugh. Of all comparisons I could make, I don’t know why I made that one. Ever since the accident, just mentioning the word “car” sends me spiraling down the glittery path my therapist, Paul, calls “PTSD.” I thought that was reserved for war veterans and trauma survivors, but I guess it also works for seniors in high school who are hit by drunk drivers while they’re walking down Main Street.

I’ve joined the mental illness elite. Where’s my certificate, Paul?

I rub my temples, because WebMD says that’s supposed to help, but it doesn’t. It does, however, give me some sense of control. So I massage my head at least three times on any given day and pretend like the throbbing isn’t as intense as it really is.

“Headaches again?” Noelle asks from the other side of the dirty McDonald’s table.

The white surface has the fast food essentials. There’s a ketchup smear on the corner, crusty fries that were here before we sat down, and a crinkled napkin under the table with all kinds of grossness inside it.

“Yeah, sorry,” I say.

I shake my head like I’m shaking the pain out of my ears. I wish it were that easy. I soak a fry in ketchup — because just dipping isn’t good enough — and stuff it in my mouth.

“I don’t mean to be distant on our anniversary,” I tell her.

“I’m just glad you’re back to normal,” Noelle says, taking my hands in hers. “I’ve really missed you.”

I smile before holding my McFlurry up in the air, like I’m Lady Liberty. “I’d like to make a toast,” I say.

Noelle grins.

“To March sixteenth: our two-year anniversary,” I say.

She clinks her plastic cup against mine, like we’re royalty. Like we aren’t eating at a McDonalds in downtown Los Angeles because we can’t afford to go anywhere else. Like we’re different.

Like we’re in love.

But as I watch her smile, I could swear she’s hiding something.

It’s probably just the headache.

Sometimes I have flashback moments, and I could swear I’m starring in That’s So Raven. Only instead of experiencing future predictions, I see glimpses of the past.

When the Honda Civic sent me sailing through the sky, I suffered a pretty traumatic brain injury, which resulted in pretty serious amnesia. Slices of memory slip through the cracks sometimes, but they’re never enough to actually be solid.

I can remember the basics. I know my name is Josh. I was named after my grandpa who passed away before I was born. I know my birthday is the Fourth of July, which I absolutely hated as a kid — until Nelly, the soft-spoken senior who lives across the street, suggested that the fireworks were for me.

I know in a few short months I’ll be graduating from Lincoln High School. In the fall, I’ll be attending California State University. I don’t know what I’m gonna major in. But I don’t think I knew that before the accident, either. I know Noelle and I have been dating for two years now, and she’s a dream wrapped up in a blessing.

Still, certain words or phrases lead to pop-up messages in my brain that are blurry but familiar. Like on Saturday morning, when I’m pouring myself a delicious and nutritious bowl of Captain Crunch and Dad enters the kitchen. As a construction worker, he spends most Saturdays working on the streets. But today, instead of having grimy street-fixing hands, he’s basically taken a bath in lawnmower grease.

“How was your anniversary date with Noelle?” he asks, running his hands under the water in the sink.

“Incredible,” I say. “Noelle is the salt of the earth. The cream of the crop. A Friday night in a Monday morning kind of world.”

Dad smiles, which makes me happy.

When I was younger, the long days took a toll on him. “Time With Dad” meant “Time Getting Yelled At By Dad,” which turned into “Time Avoiding Dad At All Costs.” He was unhappy, Mom was unhappy, I was unhappy. Our family was a little, unhappy casserole.

After going through something like a mid-life crisis, he got a gym membership, lost eighty pounds, and hasn’t been the same since. Sometimes I think he’s judging me when I don’t eat healthy (like when I have three bowls of Captain Crunch, for example). But I’d take that over mood swings any day of the week. Dumbbells just about turned his world around, and I’m here for it.

He’s always loved Noelle. When I first introduced her to my parents, Noelle managed to wrap both of them around her finger. Ever since, they’ve been gunning for us to get married (after high school and some college, of course). I swear, if I don’t marry Noelle, my parents will.

But that’s not a concern of mine. Because I know we’ll end up together.

“Sounds like you guys were meant to be,” Dad says over his shoulder. “I mean, it’s not rocket science.”

Insert dramatic That’s So Raven scene.

I remember being in a basement somewhere, wrapped up in a blanket. I’m sitting on the couch, watching TV, but I can’t picture what’s on the screen. My amnesia is like that sometimes, which really, really sucks.

I also remember feeling enveloped by love and happy brain chemicals. There was someone sitting next to me, but they’re an eraser mark in the landscape of my damaged brain archives.

I’m confident it’s Noelle.

Even though I know it’s not Noelle’s basement.

The only good thing about the accident is that my teachers practically let me get away with murder. All the homework and assignments and tests that I missed were completely forgiven. That means this is my first time being a straight-A student. I don’t think it’ll last, but the good thing is that every time I ask for more time, I get it.

Do I milk that for all it’s worth? Absolutely.

Should I? Probably not.

Will I continue to do it? You betcha.

Getting back into the school grind is relatively easy as well, considering that I don’t know very many people. Last year, the school district built a new high school. They cherry-picked students from the surrounding schools, because all the older schools were bursting at the seams. I was one of the chosen ones who basically had to socially restart for my senior year.

I remember struggling when school started. My memory is fuzzy as far as the last six months go, so I can’t remember much after that. I know I lost contact with most of my old friends and my well of friendship had pretty much run dry at the beginning of the year.

At least Noelle was chosen, too.

“Josh, you know you’re supposed to limit your screen time,” she says.

We’re sitting in the cafeteria during lunch and I’m mindlessly scrolling through Instagram again. It’s a habit I’ve gotten into that I’m not exactly proud of. But when you’ve forgotten the last six months of your life, Instagram is a great way to reclaim pieces and fill in the gaps.

My three Instagram friends post about basically everything, and it’s odd seeing images that feel so familiar but so distant. Like an old friend who you know, and you know that you know, but you can’t remember where from.

Instagram is less than fantastic for headaches and head trauma, though. The doctors have made that crystal clear. We’re not sure if I’ll ever get all my memories back, but taking things easy and letting my brain heal has to be a priority.

I slip my phone into my pocket. “Sorry. You’re right.”

Right at that moment, a boy steps into the cafeteria. He has jet black hair and thick, caterpillar-like eyebrows. He’s strong, but lean, and wears a perfectly tailored white polo. We make eye contact and broken memories stir somewhere inside my mind, but I can’t remember any specifics. It’s like the memories are pounding against the front door, but it’s locked and I can’t find the key.

The boy turns quickly and speedwalks down one of the hallways. He doesn’t look over his shoulder.

“Did I know him?” I ask, turning to Noelle.

“Colton? No, of course not,” Noelle says quickly. “You’ve never spoken a word to him in your life.”

“Huh…” My voice trails. “He seems so… familiar.”

“I think he works at the flower shop," she says. "You probably recognize him because you picked up my corsage right before the accident.”

That makes sense. The accident happened on the Friday before the Winter Formal — at least, that’s what everyone tells me. I can’t actually remember it. Noelle tells me we were gonna go to the dance together, but we spent that Saturday night in the hospital instead.

“Gotcha,” I say.

Noelle changes the subject and tells me about a customer who came into Starbucks, where she works, the other day.

I try listening. I really do.

But, like paint chipping off a wall, something inside me says there’s more to Colton. I want to pick at the edges.