I Remember You
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For fans of THE FUTURE OF US comes an engrossing story of two teens, whose love for each other is tested by time and fate.
Lucas and Juliet couldn’t be more different from each other. But from the moment Lucas sees Juliet, he swears he remembers their first kiss. Their first dance. Their first fight. He even knows what’s going to happen between them—not because he can predict the future, but because he claims to have already lived it.
Juliet doesn’t know whether to be afraid for herself or for Lucas. As Lucas’s memories occur more frequently, they also grow more ominous. All Juliet wants is to keep Lucas safe with her. But how do you hold on to someone you love in the present when they’ve begun slipping away from you in the future?
From the Hardcover edition.
card catalog, where I identified Library of Congress subjects that led me to other cards in other drawers and eventually to a new computer system that used keyword terms to find articles in the New York Times and the Washington Post as well as books. I searched “war + Iraq + snipers.” I searched “head injury + hallucinations” and learned that the proper term for what Lucas thought was happening was “delusion.” I saw medical terms I’d learned from my dad combined with concepts like “recovered
was matted to his forehead, which was slick with sweat. “Lucas?” I said. The trainer stepped away and I approached the exam table. Lucas blinked at me kind of funny, and for a second, everything I’d learned about head injuries the day I ensconced myself in the library came back to me. Were his pupils dilated? Different sizes? Did he know the day of the week? The year? He sure was blinking a lot. Then his face opened up into a smile. A Lucas smile—the smile of a boy who says “Hell, no” when
“I don’t see what’s funny about drugs.” I quickly squashed my laughter. “No,” I said. “Drugs aren’t funny.” She was still looking at me like she was waiting for something. “Lucas doesn’t take drugs.” She kept staring. “He drinks beer,” I offered. “I know that,” she snapped. “You think I don’t know that?” And it was seeing her frustration that made me realize I couldn’t withhold the truth. “There is something,” I began before I could think better of the impulse. Mrs. Dunready’s eyes immediately
narrowed. “It’s going to sound strange.” I think I actually closed my eyes, the way you might when you’re ripping off a Band-Aid or waiting for a loud noise. “He thinks the headaches he’s been having are coming from memories.” I swallowed. “He feels like he’s having memories of the future.” “What?” Mrs. Dunready hissed at me. Her face was contorted, as if she’d just noticed that I was a mutant zombie baby killer. “He thinks he knows what’s going to happen to him in the future. That he’s lived
hairbrush. I haven’t used it. I haven’t had the time. I have been writing and not writing, daydreaming, then writing some more—it’s been hours. I’ve barely registered the whine of the plane engines, the hum of the ventilation system, the soft questions of the German flight attendants. Am I done with my drink? Do I need a blanket? I stare at them as if I don’t speak the English they address me in, and they move on. By the tiny pinprick of light coming from overhead, I have been writing so fast