Free The Memory Thief by Rachel Keener

your hair.”
    “She’s got a few years before that, though,” another woman said. “Can you imagine how long it will be by then?”
    “No,” Hannah said, savoring her first bold lie. “I’m nineteen. On my way to meet my fiancé.” She held her hands up around
     her collar and smiled. “Mother made the dress. There’s light pearl beading around here. Four inches of lace on the hem. Mother’s
     an excellent seamstress.”
    The women smiled, and they talked of flowers, reception food, and honeymoon trips. At the bus station in Columbia, Hannah
     found a pay phone and looked up Sam’s number. His father answered and told her Sam was getting ready for a game that night.
     She went to the women’s restroom and dressed for him. Her skin tingling with joy, as it felt the smooth cool cotton of her
     black CSM shirt once again. She washed her face and smoothed her hair. And when she noticed how her hands trembled, how unsteady
     her feet seemed, she found a vending machine and bought a bag of shortbread cookies.
    She returned to the pay phone and called a cab. When the cab arrived, her voice shook as she told the driver to take her to
     Columbia High. And when she saw the word
HOMECOMING
painted on the entrance sign, her fist opened. Spilling her cab money across the floor.
    In all her years of school, she had never been to a football game. Never heard the drums of the marching band thumping and
     clicking wildly. Never pushed her way through a revolving gate, or handed her ticket to a man wearing maroon face paint. She
     was smart enough to know that none of the commotion was about her. Yet she still couldn’t shake the fear that someone would
     ask her to leave. That everyone knew she did not belong. That she was not from Carolina. Did not go to Columbia High. And
     wasn’t really about to get married to Sam, their star football player.
    She didn’t know where to sit. There were numbers and a letter on her ticket. But as she stared up into packed bleachers that
     stretched toward the stars, she had no idea where L42 was. So she stood apart, her shoulder leaning against the gate, her
     arms crossed in front of her.
    She didn’t know Sam’s jersey number. And as boys with helmets and shoulder pads poured on and off the field, she could not
     find him. Soon the crowd was on its feet and the boys were running wildly and everybody was screaming and clapping. In the
     middle of all that noise, with the drums and the screams and the cheers, Hannah heard one thing: “Yay, Sam!”
    She looked at the far end of the field and there was a boy holding a football. He was jumping and slapping high fives with
     his teammates. The cheer came again, from one of the girls down front: “Woo-hoo, Sammy!”
    Number forty-seven. Now, with his number, the game had meaning. Hannah watched him run. Watched him catch the ball. She found
     herself whispering prayers for him. That he would score. That he would win. That somehow he would know that she was watching.
    At halftime Sam marched out on the field, still in uniform but with his helmet off. His arm was around a girl in red. She won queen and he won king. And with their crowns teetering on their heads, they kissed quickly while the crowd went
Awwwww
.
    Hannah turned away. Not because of the kiss. Or the crown. But because with his helmet off, she could see his face. And he
     was
happy
. He was satisfied. He was a teenage boy having the time of his life. She didn’t look in a mirror often, but she knew her
     face never looked like that.
    After the game, she waited for him to leave the locker room. Most everyone else had already left. Only Hannah and a few cheerleaders
     remained. She heard them talking about a homecoming dance that was starting.
    As the players came out, a few of them looked at her and nudged each other. Hannah wished that she had worn her hair smoothed
     and braided. She could feel it tangling and fuzzing from the night air.
    “I’ll be darned, but would you look