Secrets of Splat Night

    I remember what I had for breakfast this morning (Toaster Strudel). But that’s about all I remember.

    The doctor calls it “retrograde amnesia.” I’ve forgotten everything from before I fell off the roof. They tell me I broke my fall . . . with my head. Also my shoulder, because it’s bandaged up too, and my arm’s in a sling. 

    Another result: Everything I ever knew has been wiped clean. My house, my school, my friends, my family. I even had to learn my name—Chase Ambrose—off my medical chart. When you look at your own mother and see a total stranger, it hits you pretty hard.

    My life is still here, but I have to search for it. I follow clues, like I’m some kind of detective. I can tell from all the trophies on the shelves in my room that I’m good at sports, especially football. That makes sense. If you go by the pictures on my phone, I hang out with a lot of large, tough-looking people. The stars of the slideshow are these guys named Aaron and Bear, who everybody says are my best friends. I don’t really see it yet, but hey—who knows less about me than me?

    At least I have friends.

    Right now, the phone screen shows a selfie of the three of us. We’re crammed into a stall in the boys room at school. Behind us, the toilet is spraying like a geyser. We’re soaked. I’m waving an empty bag that says it used to contain 20 pounds of flour. Aaron has me in a headlock. And here’s the thing: We’re all laughing like crazy. I guess it would be funnier if 

    I could remember it.

    Suddenly, there’s a chime. A calendar reminder comes up on my screen:

    SPLAT NIGHT—11 p.m.

    I frown. I have no idea what this is supposed to be. 

    Obviously, I set up the reminder so I wouldn’t forget about it. But I had no way of knowing I was going to fall off the roof between then and Splat Night. If I did, I could have set up another reminder to explain the reminder.

    I tap the screen and an address comes up. So this is an event, not some show I wanted to watch on TV. The 11 p.m. part tells me I shouldn’t ask my mother about it. She’s usually asleep by 10:30.

    I don’t want to go, but how can I blow it off? I have to find myself. If I cared about Splat Night enough to post a reminder, then it’s part of who I am.

    We’re behind the building now. We step over a low fence. The rolling lawn gives way to soft earth. “What is this place?”

    “It’s the Graybeard Motel garden project,” Aaron replies. “A lot of the old folks plant vegetables out here, because—let’s face it—what else can they do?”

    “Skydiving,” Bear answers. “Bungee jumping. No—the cords keep tangling around their wheelchairs.”

    “But what does this have to do with Splat Night?” I ask.

    “Allow us to demonstrate.” Aaron reaches down into some leafy plants and comes up with two tomatoes. “You want the ripe ones. They make a bigger splat.”

    He hands one to Bear, and they lead me to the rear of the garden. There’s a small hill. At the bottom, cars whiz by on a four-lane highway. Aaron counts, “One . . . two . . . three!” and they hurl the tomatoes out into the road.

    Splat! Aaron’s scores a direct hit on the windshield of an SUV. Bear’s bounces off the trunk of a sedan and explodes. Tires squeal as the shocked drivers brake and swerve.

    Aaron and Bear crouch down, yanking me down with them. They’re laughing and arguing over who’s the better shot. I can’t believe it. This was my idea of fun? Stealing vegetables from old people and chucking them at cars?

    “Your turn, Ambrose,” says Bear. He presses a large, overripe tomato into my hands.

    I don’t throw it. I can’t. Part of it’s my injury. 

    The main reason, though, is—why should I want to?

    Don’t be a wimp, I almost scream at myself. You want to find out who you are. This is it! Splat Night is your thing. And who does it hurt? A few drivers who’ll need a car wash? Old people who are short one tomato out of dozens? Come on. Throw it!

    “You can’t wait till the car’s right there,” Aaron lectures. “You have to try to guess how far the car will move while the tomato is in the air . . .”

    He and Bear give me a few more pointers. Apparently, there’s a science to Splat Night.

    I have to do it. If I don’t, it’s like telling them I don’t want to be their friend anymore. All right, I’ll miss on purpose. I grip the tomato and let it fly. The tomato barely breaks apart when it hits the road. My bad shoulder throbs like crazy.

    “Ambrose—you’re wasting tomatoes!” Bear says angrily.

    Aaron silences him with a punch that would stop a rhino. “Shut up, Bear! Our boy just got out of the hospital!”

    Both of them launch into a list of excuses for why my tomato throwing isn’t up to my usual high standard.

    That’s OK. My best friends are more than willing to fill in for me. It’s a bad night to be driving on Route 106.