If I Speak True

By Jessica L. Brooks

Dahlia Kennedy's sixteenth birthday marks a decade of mysterious dahlias arriving and strange, lonely dreams of being in a forest. The only difference this birthday, however, is that for the first time, someone is there with her. And he's practically from a whole other era.

The more often Dahlia visits Rowan in his land of Ambrosia, the stronger their connection grows. But... is Ambrosia real? Is he real? What is going on between the two of them, exactly, and why does he insist that she keep it to herself?

As secrets usually go, however, it's only a matter of time before everything comes out. And when Dahlia finds out the truth of who Rowan is, who she is, and how he really feels -- it’s beyond anything she could have ever imagined.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Jessica L. Brooks
• Release date: Apr 28, 2014
• ISBN: 9781311548214

Jessica L. Brooks

Jessica L. Brooks is a lover of books, coffee, and all things owl-dorable. She writes young adult books about near-future dystopia (Pity Isn't An Option, Cozenage #1, available now) and magical realism (the Flora series, If I Speak True, Flora #1 & By Sun and Candlelight, Flora #1.5 available now), and loves to serve virtual cookies.Connect with Jessica on her blog, Let Me Tell You A Story, Tumblr, or anywhere else on the interwebs by doing a search for her username: coffeelvnmom.

Book preview

Chapter One

I don’t realize what day it is until I run down the steps and something shifts beneath my shoe. Time halts, and then lurches forward, just like my stomach, taking my breath away in the process. I feel the color drain from my face. All I have to feel is that lump beneath my foot, and I know.

My stomach sinks into the mush of dead grass at the bottom of the steps. That’s ten today. Ten whole years—3,652 days—of a random yellow, bright-as-the-sun-when-spring-first- comes-to-Shaver dahlia showing up on my birthday. Always first thing in the morning, always out in the open where everyone can see. A bright, frostbitten curse rubbed right in my face.

I mean, talk about not wanting to celebrate. Most people look forward to gifts and balloons and cakes—yay—when they first wake up, and here I am, freaking out about a stupid plant.

I hate it. I hate how my mom’s flipped out so many times, my sisters and I hide it the moment we find it. I hate whoever is leaving them. And most of all, I hate years like this when I wake up in a rush because of the dreams, and it hits me twice as hard, because somehow, I’d forgotten the flower was coming.

The toast I grabbed on my way out the door threatens to make a second appearance as I lift my foot, bend down, and pick up the dahlia. I try to piece together a timeline. Did this come before, or after everyone left me this morning? Did the neighbors see anything this time? Will there finally be a witness?

An ache bubbles up my chest. I’m too old for this; too old to let something so trivial make any difference. Even so, I have the right to be annoyed. I mean, what is the point of this? I bite down hard on my lip, am about to squish the stem to pieces when my phone rings. I pull it from my pocket. Hello?

Where are you? a voice shrieks.

Yanking the phone away, I glare at it, allowing my ear to recover. Seriously, Eva? I say, returning the phone to my face. "Could you have yelled any louder?"

Eva is my best friend. We’re both working at the bookstore this morning. Only she’s there already, and I’m not. So you can kind of see why she’s yelling.

Oops. She lowers her voice. Sorry.

A shiver forces its way through my body, leaving goose bumps up and down my arms. I grasp the phone tighter. I look around. Why does it feel like I’m being watched? Well it is January. After running around in a panic upstairs, standing out here in the freezing air is probably just a shock to my system.

Are you still there?

I stop pacing and look at the flower in my hand. I’m . . . I’m leaving right now.

"Now? You’re barely even leaving? Eva shrieks again, and I wince. Do you know what time it is? She asks, sounding put off. ’Cause Mr. P most definitely does."

Yes, I know, Eva. My breath clouds in front of me and disappears, and I wish I could disappear right along with it. There was an alarm issue. I shove throw the flower behind me. And everyone left, and— I stop because, why go there? Everyone’s sick of hearing about the flower by now.

Someone mumbles something in the background and Eva moves away from the receiver to deal with it. Careful to keep the evidence hidden, I turn my back to the neighborhood. Her words to me are quick and quiet when she comes back on the phone. Can-you-just-get-here-ASAP-Mr.-P-left-for-next door-but-you-know-how-he-is-with-his-two-sugars-don’t-make-me-look-stupid.

Our boss, Mr. Pendlehoffer (we call him Mr. P) is a creature of habit. He believes in only one coffee per day, two hours into opening (you’d think early in the morning, but no). Everyone who knows him (so, basically the whole town, since Shaver isn’t that large) knows how he takes it: with two sugars—nothing more, nothing less.

Okay. Wait a sec. I go over what she just said in my head. "Stupid, Eva? Seriously? How would I make you look stupid?"

Because you keep doing this to me—

Really? To you? I’m shrieking now. I take a deep breath, trying to calm down.

I know you don’t mean to, that’s not what I meant. Oh, here he comes. JUSTHURRYUPOKAYBYE!

Well. Isn’t that nice. My lack of sleep and inability to get rides to work is now making her look stupid. I shake my head and stuff the phone back into my pocket.

Ten years = ten times way too many unanswered questions and ten times way too many unanswered questions = time to get over it. If I haven’t figured out who’s leaving the dahlia by now, I’m probably not going to. Besides, it’s already old news to everyone else. And if I ask around, it might get back to my mom, Helen. No point in starting more drama.

I run to the dumpster at the end of the driveway, and lift the lid. Taking in a deep breath (and accidentally sucking in the trash’s nastiness), I chuck the flower in, and take off down the sidewalk.



Today continues to go downhill. Arriving to work as soon as possible had been my only objective when I woke up late, for one, and I totally forgot to look at myself in the mirror. The result of this most unfortunate mishap? I hardly recognize myself as I rush toward the Shoreline Books’ front window. I look like a slob. An old, insomniac slob, who’s in dire need of a haircut, and whose face could use like two whole tubes of concealer.

Sixteen? Yeah, right. I don’t look close to my age.

I don’t feel like it, either.

For two, it’s been weeks since I’ve gotten a good night’s sleep, due to the dreams. They tease me, take me to the same places over and over, make me sit there bored for hours, while I try to come up with ways to get back home, where I’m supposed to be. Not that I’ve found one yet, I’m just saying. I’m tired of not sleeping. I’m tired of not being able to think. I’m tired of feeling tired of feeling tired. Yep. That’s me.

For three, I smell something awful. And considering the fact that I didn’t get to take a shower and my sister Aster used this sweatshirt to clean the bottom of her shoes yesterday, I’m pretty sure it’s me.

Our time cards and the machine you pop them into are located in this little room in the back of the store that looks like someone puked up the 1970’s. Mustard yellow and chocolate lab (not the kind you eat, or anything scientific, but the dog) brown and candy corn orange and ugly avocado green.

Morning. Mr. P saunters by, honoring me with his I’m-not-too-happy-about-your-being-late-again-and-am-off-to-think-up-something-obnoxious-for-you-to-do stink-eye. I hang up my jacket, nonchalantly. I stop moving as he passes, watch his face to see if he smells whatever I’m smelling.

He nods once, just curt enough to put me in my place, then goes off in search of his coffee. I breathe a sigh of relief.

Once I’ve clocked in, I go outside and stand in front of the window, trying to fix my hair. There are no mirrors in the bathroom or the break room. Who needs to see themselves when they read? Normally we don’t mind using the window if no one’s in the store, but this time of year, it stinks.

I walk back in, glancing at the clock above the door as I stuff my frozen fingers into my pockets. I’ve been here a full five minutes now, and no one’s said a word. Did everyone forget what day it is?

While I work my tail off for hours, Eva does nada. Unless you count hovering over the cash register, reading another werewolf book while I slave away on my birthday as work; if so, then she’s the hardest worker ever. Mr. P gave me the job of logging and re-shelving all of the after-holiday returns due to my lovely appearance and, most likely, recent punctual issues. Time is dragging by so sluggishly, it feels like I’m stuck in slow motion.

Stifling a yawn, I make a mental note to do whatever it takes tonight to get some sleep—Nyquil, super-hot bath, glass of warm milk, anything short of murdering someone—and let my mind take a little break. I’ve only been into my daydream (Upper senior Pierce Gregory, me, and a cup of coffee) for a few minutes when Mr. P comes by. He does a double take.

Who would return this? he asks, grabbing the book at the top of my to-be-sorted pile. "A Christmas Carol, right after Christmas?" A frown takes over his face.

Eva sighs. She wraps a long, curly strand around her finger. Such a travesty, Mr. P. Not everyone has good taste like you.

Travesty?

Oops. It comes out of my mouth before I can stop it. I bite my tongue to keep from saying that the word was first used in 1673 and doesn’t really apply to this situation. I’m not a school geek or anything—my grades are decent, especially in the subjects that hold my interest—but usually, I’m ahead of the curriculum compared to the rest of the class. Not because of my sheer brilliance, or anything, just . . . When one has a strict mother and no social life, working ahead the next couple of chapters is what one does to make the time pass.

Nerd. A voice in my head says. You’re a nerd and it’s your birthday and your friend doesn’t even like you.

Before I can distract Eva from the travesty comment, she sets her book down on the counter, and focuses on something behind me. Worrying I’ve crossed the line for challenging her word choice like I do sometimes, I brace myself for the usual not everyone’s as smart as you, okay? comment, but her jaw goes slack instead. "What’s Bobblehead Biology doing way over there?"

Over where? I ask, following her gaze.

She cuts around the counter and heads for the M shelf directly to my left. "Right here. Next to Lawrence Manning’s Mr. Mars is from Paris."

Let me see that, I demand. She shows me the cover. I take the book from her, and then, it’s my turn to frown. What the? Bobblehead Biology was written by Arthur Dune. D’s aren’t even close to M’s. How’d that get there?

Dahlia? Mr. P asks, looking me up and down, as if he’s finally just noticing my appearance. I think of the flower this morning and it takes everything in me not to say, don’t remind me. Are you all right? I have been meaning to ask. You don’t . . . look well, as of late.

I take a quick account of myself, hand him the book, and shrug. I’m okay, Mr. P. Just . . . not sleeping much.

So, you’re still in high school, then.

Eva laughs.

I raise my eyebrows. Yes. Last time I checked.

Good. That’s good to hear. Eva draws a question mark in the air, and I shake my head as Mr. P pushes his glasses back to the crater in his nose, where they perpetually rest. "I was about to suggest you read in the kindergarten section as a refresher, but if you’re sure you are still in high school, I will let that malfunction slide."

Yes. Yes, thanks, Mr. P. I try to smile, but my mouth is so tired, it betrays me and slips upside-down.

The sleepiness I thought I’d gotten a handle on kicks in again full-force right around closing time. I don’t have any more book mishaps, and go through the motions necessary to get everything done, but still, it totally sucks. It feels like my brain’s been wiped clean; I’m doing things without even realizing it. I’m a zombie who just wants to sleep, which makes no sense because isn’t that the whole point of zombies? Them going for days upon days and never needing slumber?

I go to get the vacuum from the utility closet, and as I close the door, Eva’s standing behind it. She scares the crap out of me.

Ohmyheck. I gasp, clutching my chest.

She bends over, silently laughing the way she does when something’s really funny, gripping her knees to keep herself from toppling over. It’s not until I’ve run the vacuum over the whole front part of the store, and stick it back into the closet again, that she finally recovers.

That was so not cool, Eva. Why’d you sneak up on me like that?

Sneak? she asks, fanning herself with her hand. Oh, that was good. You should have seen your face. She wipes her eyes. I called your name like ten times.

Really?

She nods.

Hmm. I must have been thinking.

Whatever you were thinking about, it looked pretty painful.

What do you mean?

Eva scrunches her nose up and squints, looking like she’s stepped on a nail and simultaneously sucked on a lemon.

I looked like that?

Yeah. It was pretty feral.

We laugh, and I make her promise to never let me look like that again in public.

Things seem to be going well. Eva is talking to me again like she’s supposed to. You see, there are usually two main happenstances in the birthday scenarios of life: Either 1) you love birthdays so much, you tell everyone about yours all day long, or 2) you keep your mouth shut and pay close attention to see who remembers. There are other scenarios, of course, but we’re looking at the most applicable. And, either way, here’s the thing. No matter which scenario you’re a part of, your best friend is one of the people, the main person, who should acknowledge your birthday regardless.

After cleanup is finished, and everything is turned off except for the one little bulb above the window, the three of us walk out of the store. Eva always, always offers me a ride to my house, but tonight, she doesn’t. We wait for Mr. P to lock everything up as usual. He has a ritual in the evenings—no one leaves the storefront until everything’s taken care of. One second I’m watching him fumble with the key ring, trying to put it back into his pocket, and the next, I look over, and Eva is climbing into her Bug and leaving. No goodbye, no see you later, just her long, dark curls waving goodbye to me in the bitter wind while I stand here like an idiot.

Normally, I wouldn’t have a problem with her not offering me a ride, even though it doesn’t happen often. But walking home in the evening right now, when the sun’s already slunk down past the horizon and nodded off for the night and the sky has turned a deep violet, the cold morphs into a chill of a different kind. The kind where moisture forms icicles that cling to everything—even the baby hairs in your nostrils—and the cold is so harsh that it stings your face.

It feels like my skin is splitting and about to fall off in bits and pieces all over the sidewalk. Kinda like how my eyes feel right now, since throughout all seven-plus hours of work today, Eva didn’t acknowledge my birthday one single time.

I trudge toward home, my arms tucked around myself, looking like so many freshman Lowers do at orientation: uncomfortable, unsure of who they are, as if hugging themselves raises some sort of impenetrable wall of protection. But it doesn’t help. I don’t feel protected. I feel insanely uncomfortable and incredibly annoyed. And why wouldn’t I? No sleep and brain-dead and cold and the entire family left me alone this morning and . . . my birthday sucks.

The more steps I take, the harder it is to hold the book I’d bought right before we’d closed. I let out a long, disappointed breath, which hurts my lungs and makes me cough and it takes a while to recover. After I’m breathing normally again, I tuck the book back under my arm. Achy. That’s how I feel, deep in my joints, in this kind of cold.

Achy and unimportant.

By the time I pass Terrance’s house two doors down from mine (he’s a junior like me and works with Eva and I at the bookstore), the temperature feels as though it’s dropped from numb to there-are-no-words-for-this-kind-of-torture. The wind hurts my lungs so much I’ve resorted to breathing through my nose, my mouth, then back to my nose again. My arm’s so stiff, I can barely hold the book. I try to shove it under my other arm, but my fingers won’t bend anymore, and I drop it.

I’m so tired and so done with this entire day that my first thought is to actually throw myself down with it. But the ground is hard and cold and moist. I’d probably get stuck to it or something at the rate things are going. I’m almost home, so with a sigh that I immediately regret as my lungs pang in response to the air like knives, I stoop down and scrape the book from the concrete.

And guess what my eyes land on when I stand up? David’s blue Camaro, parked in front of the curb.

{ 2 }

Chapter Two

Turns out, no one forgot my birthday after all. My sisters (Aster and Acacia), my mom(Helen), and my best friends (David and Eva) were ready and waiting in party hats, the ones you’d never wear in public in a million years unless someone paid you money, when I came into the house. Even Aster was wearing one. Helen must have bribed her. I try to act happy about it, you know, smile appropriately and all, but to be honest, my mind just isn’t in it. A long, crappy day doesn’t suddenly turn perfect because someone offers you cake.

David begs me to go into the kitchen, bopping me in the forehead with the bill of his hat while Eva blows the party-blower thing and pokes me right in the eye. We trail into the kitchen like ants heading to a picnic, and David rushes to our little table and yanks the lid off the pink, rectangular box so forcefully, it almost knocks his hat right off his head.

I start to laugh, until I see three frosted yellow flowers clinging to a blue border at the upper-right corner of the cake. Reminding me of the porch this morning. And the stupid dahlia. And the fact that I have no more answers a decade later than I did that very first year.

I curse at the flower under my breath.

Huh? Acacia asks.

Eva gives me a concerned look and delicately pries the lid from David’s fingers.

I tell Acacia never mind and sit down. She passes plates around the table for everyone except for my antisocial sister, Aster, who’s already escaped and slunk off to a different part of the house; and my OCD mom who is back in the living room, cleaning again.

David inhales his entire slice of cake before the rest of us have ingested two bites—this is pretty much how he eats everything. You gonna eat that? He asks, eyeing my plate.

Nah. I nudge it toward him. You know how much I hate frosting.

See. Eva rolls her eyes and points to David. I told him we should get an un-frosted cake, but he went into this long speech about—she lowers her voice, trying to sound like him—things coming to an end.

"The end of the world, David corrects. He points at her with his fork, and sticks out his blue tongue. If you’re going to say it, Eva, say it right. That’s how I said it."

Okay. The smurf says it’s the end of the world! You happy now? She shakes her head and turns to me. I don’t know why he has to be so dramatic.

Whatever. David jabs at my frosting. It gets all over his fingers and he looks at his hand as though he’s never seen it before. Hey, Casie, can you hand me a napkin?

Acacia sets one on his head. Here ya go, Dave.

I laugh as he scrunches up his face. Why he doesn’t like nicknames for himself, no one knows. He refuses to let us use any.

I believe you know how I feel about that, Casie. He frowns, sneaking some of Acacia’s cake when he thinks she’s not paying attention.

She catches him and shoos his hand away. How come you’re allowed to use my nickname, then?

Because Casie sounds good, David explains. You’re tiny, and you have short, dark hair. It’s got that hot tomboy quality going for it, and you can pull it off. But Dave? As in first grade, I pick my boogers and spread them across the reading table, Dave? He slices his throat with a finger. Social death by nickname.

But that wasn’t you, I say. That kid had much darker hair, and he moved away when we were in, like, fourth grade. Plus, I like Dave. I attempt an English accent. Davey Boy, fetch me that pitcher?

David bows in a grandiose gesture and reaches into the air. As you wish, he says, batting his eyelashes.

Aha! Wasn’t I saying he was dramatic just yesterday? Eva says, nudging me with an elbow. Off in the living room, Helen starts the vacuum. Eva lowers her voice when the noise stops. They’re having tryouts for the spring drama performance, David. You should totally try out!

Ew, no. David’s eyebrows furrow. Not a chance.

But Davey. Eva winks at me, and I can’t help but laugh as she says, You’re so good at it!

"But, shut up. And . . . it is drama."

You could totally do something Shakespeare-ish, though. I ignore David’s mock-surprise. Think about it. Swords. Romance. Fighting. Rumors. Conflict. You totally like all of those things.

And that’s where you’re wrong, Dalls. David pushes away from the table. When did I ever say I liked swords?

Helen turns on the vacuum again, and David saunters out of the kitchen, saying the bathroom is calling his name. When he’s completely out of the room, Acacia leans over. So. You really had no idea about the party?

Not a clue. Really. I thought everyone forgot about today.

Been there. Tried that. Doesn’t work, sadly, Aster says, sauntering in. I narrow my eyes at her as she opens the door to the fridge. Why she always has to act like this is beyond me. When we were younger, Acacia once told me it was because she was jealous of me. Aster? Jealous? For what? She gets to do everything first. She’s the oldest!

I’m still trying to come up with a retort when David reappears in the doorway, shaking his head. Ugh, he grunts. He holds his hand next to the side of his mouth and whispers, "She must be adopted."

I’m about to tell him I wholeheartedly agree aside from the discrepancy that she and Acacia were born seconds apart and all, when Aster yells, "What was that, Davey?"

This is how they are. Sometimes I wonder if something is secretly going on between them. She says something Aster-ish, and then David counters it with his quick wit. It always ends the same way: Aster walking off in a huff, him walking away smiling.

While David and Aster banter back and forth, Acacia takes advantage of the noise and continues. I saw the dahlia in the trash when we got home. My eyes grow wide. No, no worries—I covered it up.

Oh thanks. I think about the repercussions of Helen seeing the flower she thinks stopped coming a few years ago. Mom probably would have cancelled this if she’d known. And done who knows what else.

I open my mouth to add she probably would have done more than just cancel it, when David starts coughing like a crazy person.

"Hack! Hack A-hack-hack-hack! Mother! He coughs into his fist. A hacka-hacka hack!"

Mother? I raise an eyebrow.

He gestures to the hallway.

Oh. Oh, mother. Helen is coming.

Except . . . she doesn’t. We sit silently for a few moments, but she never shows up.

Eva stands, pours herself some lemonade, and slinks over to the doorway, where she’s met by David. The two of them stick out their heads, turning to the left then the right, like little prairie dogs on some sort of mission. Finally, David nods to Acacia. We’ve been given the all-clear.

So, was the flower the same as always? Eva asks quietly.

Pretty much, except I didn’t realize it was there until I’d stepped on it. This morning was pretty crazy, as you know.

Yeah I know. Eva eyes Acacia. "And she was supposed to wake you up."

Acacia’s jaw drops and she sits up straighter in her chair. "Uh, have you seen her lately?"

Gee thanks, Acacia.

Acacia pats me on the shoulder. I’m not saying it to be mean, I’m just saying you obviously aren’t sleeping very well. I figured you needed as much rest as you could get.

She definitely does need more rest, Helen says, walking in.

We start up small talk, the kind that can’t worry her in any way possible (keywords: super-boring stuff).

David clears his throat after a few minutes of boring torture. Well, we should probably get going since I have to give Eva a ride and all.

I wonder if everyone else is thinking about how lame it is to call it so early on a Saturday night, but conversation is incredibly limited with Helen around, and besides, I’m tired, so I just nod.

David stands, making sure to gather as many cake leftovers as possible. When he scrapes the frosting off the entire piece leftover, Acacia offers him some plastic wrap.

Eva presses her pinky to her chin and thumb to her ear when we reach the front door. Call me, she mouths.

I’m so tired. I yawn like the pathetic person that I am. I think I’ll just talk to you tomorrow.

Oh sure.

Milady. David sets the plate on his head and does another bow, pointing the way out to the porch.

What was it you said last night when we were on the phone, again? Eva snaps her fingers. "Oh yeah. I’m going straight to bed. But look at how late you were this morning!"

"But I do go to bed! It’s just . . . I can’t sleep when I get there. I put a finger to my lips in case Helen’s around. If I don’t crash, I’ll call you, okay? I promise."

We reach the bottom step where David’s waiting. Have a good night, birthday princess, he says, karate-chopping my shoulder. I realize he’s going to whack the other side too and duck just in time to save my head from his ninja chop. May you have plenty of hours of sleep tonight, and wake up feeling refreshed and—he tilts his head—looking a lot better than you do right now!

{ 3 }

Chapter Three

This is what happens to me every winter: dreams take over my head, threaten to ruin my grades, and thoroughly jack up my appearance. The dreams start just before Christmas, and completely ruin my sleep to where I’m pretty done with the whole situation by the time my birthday rolls around. Just like the flowers on the step, the dreams don’t change much from year to year. They last for a few months, then gradually fade away, not coming back again until the following January.

But. When I do dream, in this strange amount of time around my birthday, I see the same things, every time, just not necessarily in the same sequence:

An island in the middle of the ocean.

A small beach.

Caves.

Lots of trees.

And the main dream, the one I’ve had so often I can it explain down to the tiniest detail—a small clearing, right smack dab in the middle of the forest, cut horizontally by a creek. It doesn’t take long. After sitting under the moon for hours staring at the water and doing nothing, night after night, time starts messing with my body. I wake up, go to school, do homework and things, but as this time of year passes, it begins to feel as if I’m hardly sleeping. In fact, everything feels so realistic at times, it’s easy to forget that it isn’t. The cool, abrasive rock that I sit on in front of the water. The creek, so freezing I can’t even enjoy it. The stars, so many more than I ever see from my own street here in Shaver, appearing so much brighter and closer together. Even the ground: After waking up a couple of times I could have sworn there was still dirt between my toes.

The older I’ve gotten, the more restless the dreams make me feel. I convinced myself about halfway through winter break this year that if I could get a handle on things, the puffiness and dark circles under my eyes would disappear. It is a logical theory, if you think about it: more sleep + a functional brain = better thinking process (not to mention, a much younger, livelier appearance).

The only problem with this mind-blowing theory? The dreams are winning.

I feel like a Mack truck has plunged right through my head. I’m tired, I can’t wait to sleep, and then as soon as my head hits the pillow my eyes get that obnoxious, wide-awake, dry feeling and I start seeing things.

Pulling the covers over my head, I visualize what I’m going to wear to my first day back to school on Monday. Not that I care. Well, I do for one reason only. It’s been days since I’ve seen number three on my No Way They’d Even Bother Leaving a Flower list: Pierce Gregory, senior at Hayden High here in Shaver and the king of Upperness.

I close my eyes and imagine the impossible: Pierce walking up to my house, his platinum hair all set and perfect, his matching smile blinding my eyes in a good way. Despite me following him around since sophomore year (like a leech, Eva says), Pierce is still completely unaware of my existence. Well, I take that back. He may have noticed me once, for about three seconds. But then again, being the Lower who threw up all over his shoes during PE a few years ago isn’t exactly the kind of thing I want him to remember.

It doesn’t take