"Mixed Up" by Gordon Korman, Chapters 1–5

Carolyn, 16, blows past me on the landing, planting an elbow in my sternum that plainly says: Me first.

Here he was, the baby of the family, and along comes some poor orphan who’s two years younger, with a sob story that would melt an iceberg. Presto, he has to share his room with the interloper.

Lost in my melancholy thoughts, I don’t see the elbow come shooting out at me.

Carolyn laughs out loud and mutters, “Walk much, or just read about it?”
“Yeah, you clumsy oaf!” Declan chimes in. “Watch where you’re going. That’s our carpet you just ruined!”

Besides, nobody saw Declan’s elbow. He has a knack for that.

Eventually, I’m alone in the kitchen, gagging down scrambled eggs on toast, Willis’s specialty. Ketchup makes it more bearable, but only a little.

I work up a Herculean swallow and choke it down.

The intensive care ward was crowded with doctors and nurses, each one wrapped in layers of protective gear. You could barely hear their muffled voices over the clicking, sucking, and beeping of the machines.

We went home from the clinic to hunker down until we got better.

In his hands, he’s turning over a roundish geode, with dramatic purple amethyst crystals on the inside.

Sometimes I try to talk to Declan like we’re two normal humans. That shows how delusional I am.

It hits the far wall with a crack and splits in two.
“What’s that racket?” Willis demands from downstairs.

He’s also the kind of person who falls asleep the instant his head hits the pillow. That’s what you get from having a clear conscience—ha ha.

Maybe I’m just jealous, because I lie awake half the night, sifting through old memories.

Nowadays, I replay it in my mind, searching for the stray cough or the fever- flushed face that supplied the virus I brought home to Mom.

It’s part of the memory. Also that these tomatoes are called Roma and they’re grown mostly for spaghetti sauce. I think harder, focusing on the recollection, waiting for the “oh yeah” moment that will explain where all this comes from.

He’s poised at the foot of the maple tree, utterly frozen, like he thinks I can’t see him.

He slaps the steering wheel in exasperation. “This is what you turn into when you hang around snap peas instead of people! They’re not strangers—you’re in class with them twice a week. In my day, I’d be the leader of the pack in the first five minutes. And you’re too shy to say, ‘Yeah, I’m coming with you guys.’”

Park slide turns into giant boa. I’m pretty sure I meant a boa constrictor, not the big fluffy feather boas old movie stars wore around their necks.

My middle school is a sprawling structure with a flat roof, kind of squarish, with big windows and a lot of metal.

It’s old style, with dark red brick, three stories, and a large, white-painted cupola on the roof.

But when I try to remember Mom...she’s kind of indistinct. I see her—but not in any detail.

There’s no way Latimore can catch me on those high heels. Sure, I’ll be in twice as much trouble when I come back, but at least I won’t have to give up my phone.
I’m poised for flight.

I sit down on the bed and cradle the plastic frame like it’s delicate crystal.

Declan is in the doorway, a laughing sneer on his smarmy face.

The glass is broken, the frame is cracked, but the photo is intact.

“Theo?” the doctor prompts. “Are we listening?”

“I want to harvest the new batch of snap peas while the pods are still tender.”

When I join my father in the stands, I can’t help noticing that most of the sparse crowd isn’t even watching the game. It’s basically a handful of moms chatting with each other, reading magazines, or scrolling on their phones.

And if you think he’s worked up now, you should see him when Kristi scores the tying goal with eighteen seconds left on the clock. He’s up on his seat, stomping and howling, his pounding footfalls vibrating the entire grandstand.

“What a game!” Dad raves when we’re down on the field congratulating a triumphant Kristi.

I guess he’s not my biggest fan, though, because he throws a rock the size of a grapefruit at me. It sizzles past my ear, takes a divot out of the wall, and breaks in two.

My thoughts are in turmoil.
What room was that? What kid? What geode?
Most of all, why am I remembering things that never happened?

It’s frustrating not to be able to remember...especially since I remember so many things I would love to forget.

And there are some diseases and conditions that mess with memory. Amnesia is the most famous, but I don’t think I have it. Amnesia victims lose huge chunks of their lives; I’m only forgetting little bits and pieces. Plus, amnesia comes from something like an accident or an injury, and I haven’t had anything like that.

Dementia is another condition they talk about on the internet, but that usually affects people sixty and older, so no way.

Another memory that keeps coming to me is of a burly, dark-haired, middle-aged guy who never stops lecturing and nagging.

“How are you, Reef?”
My heart sinks. It’s not a casual greeting. It’s a real question. She’s nice. She honestly wants to know.

Guess I’m not that smart, because I blurt out the first thing that comes to my mind: “How would her pocketbook get into my sock drawer?”
Their expressions remain grim. That’s when I clue in. “You think I took it?”

The principal’s expression is severe. “I know you’ve been through a lot, Reef. And I sympathize. We all do. But there are rules in life and laws in society. Stealing is never acceptable.”