The Last Hunter - Descent - Jeremy Robinson [13]
“You were born in South Africa?”
She nods. “I spent the first year of my life there. And I still feel a strong connection to the country even though I have no memory of the place and have yet to return.”
“You can’t remember it?”
“I was only one when my parents came to the States.”
I look at the plate of cookies, feeling awkward. Once again, she looks inside me and sees what no one else ever has. She gasps. “You can remember Antarctica, can’t you?”
I give the slightest tilt of my head. I can. “Clark Station smelled like rust. There was a lot of it on the walls, and around the doors. My parents' room was decorated with Indian wall hangings—India Indian, not American Indian.”
Her open mouth confirms the accuracy of what I’ve said. I remember much more, but I’ve made my point.
“I knew you were smart, Solomon, but I had no idea...” She puts her cookie down. “Do your parents know?”
I shake my head, no. They already treat me special enough.
She nods as though she understands why, and I think she really might.
“What was the very first thing you remember?” she asks.
“You mean after I was born?”
Her eyes go wide for a moment. A wide smile follows as she realizes I’ve just made a joke. She picks up the cookie again and takes a bite. “Yes, after you were born.”
“First memory?”
“Very first.”
I pause. I know the answer. But I don’t want to freak her out. I think she’ll see through it if I try to lie. So I tell the truth. “You.”
The cookie falls from her hand.
“Your face,” I say. “You delivered me. You were smiling just like you are now. When I saw you, when I looked into your eyes, I felt...loved.”
“And you stopped crying,” she says, and I can see tears in her eyes. Good to know I’m not the only crybaby going on this trip.
“I remember our eyes meeting,” she continues. “And then you just stopped crying. I thought it was a fluke, but you stared up at me so intently.”
“And then Dad took me,” I say, “and I didn’t like it.”
“He wasn’t used to holding a baby, never mind a newborn.”
“Let’s go, you two!” Dr. Clark yells from the front door.
Aimee wipes her eyes and dumps the cookies into a Tupperware container. She picks up a bag and heads for the door. “Let’s get a move on, Sol. I’ll keep quiet about your memories if you keep quiet about those cookies in your pocket. Otherwise we’ll have a riot on our hands.”
I smile as I follow her to the door. For the first time in a very long time, I’ve made a friend. And it’s not Merrill, whom I admire so much, or Mirabelle, who is age appropriate and beautiful, it’s Aimee Clark, who is not only the first person I met upon entering the world, but is also the nicest.
I make a mental note to be far away from her when I step off the plane and onto Antarctica. If I get violent, I don’t want her anywhere near me.
4
The car ride to Logan Airport is cramped. Not only am I still surrounded by luggage, but I’m also wedged in tight with Mirabelle Clark. I have never been this close to a girl for this length of time. I’ll be dehydrated from sweating before we even reach the dry air of the airplane cabin.
But it could be worse. She doesn’t smell like a girl. Few things irritate me more than the chemical scents women and girls douse themselves in. Scented soaps, perfumes, deodorants—they’re all bad. The worst ones are those made from animal pheromones. Don’t people realize what they’re spraying on themselves? Gross.
She also seems to have no interest in talking to me. Instead she’s playing twenty questions with my dad. More like one hundred and twenty questions. They’ve been talking photography since they shook hands. Dad seems to be enjoying the conversation as much as Mirabelle. The only interest I showed in photography was when I read all of dad’s camera manuals and how-to guides. As a result, there are several points in the conversation when I could correct both of them on the proper way to light, frame or filter a shot. But I learned to keep my mouth shut about such things long ago. No one likes a know-it-all.