2020 Revision

Spending New Year's Eve at a private doctor's office isn't the ideal day for me. I have nothing against being with my family, but I would have much rather spent today at home, popping fireworks or helping my father cook barbecue. We waited until the last minute to go to the doctor's because my mom claimed December would be the most packed time to visit. To be fair, I don't see how they couldn't have taken me to a private doctor before. There's no one but us in the waiting room.

This entire month has been a pain. I've been on my phone longer than usual, checking through Instagram and TikTok and watching these videos of people summarizing their decade. Most of them are fourteen, fifteen-year-olds with nothing to worry about. Every now and then I'd come across a crying seventeen-year-old struggling to get through their video full of memories they'll never remember. It's these videos that actually make an impact in me. 

I had considered making a video of my own, just to have something refresh my memory if the procedure truly worked, but the more I thought about it, the more I realized how creeped out New Me would be when he'd watch it. He'd get headaches trying to decipher how he could have possibly filmed that and not have any knowledge of it. I'm not willing to put him through that kind of torture. 

Penny's playing with the building blocks the kind nurse let her borrow. I smile down at her, my only reason for staying as relaxed as I am today. She's been in my life for almost two years, and because of her, I'm a better person than I used to be. She's made me realize there's more to me than anger, that I can love. Her hair is a shade of blonde lighter than our mother's, while I got our father's pitch-black hair. There's an innocence about her, and those blonde curls of hers, that makes me devote myself to her safety. I hope I remember her once this is over. 

Her real name is Penelope, but she doesn't like being called that because it's "too long." Penny's been her nickname for as long as she's been able to speak, and at times, I forget all about her full name. 

"Wanna play, Ni?" She calls me Ni for short. She's the only one I allow to shorten my name. 

"Only if I can have the blue blocks," I say, kneeling on the floor with her. There's a childish grin on my face; something's thrilling about stacking blocks. I could do this for hours with her if it means I'm making her happy. 

"But blue ones!" A pout, and I'm guilt-tripped instantly. 

"All right, all right," I say, ruffling her hair, "you can have the blue ones." 

Fireworks outside drown out her giggles. She's not scared of them. If anything, I'm the one whose skin jumps when hearing the thundering of fireworks. It takes me back to New Year's Eve two years ago, when I was a stupid fifteen-year-old boy celebrating his birthday in the most chaotic ways possible. 

I've done bad things. I've been a bad person. There have been times in these past months where I sat and thought about how little I deserve Penny. Before her, I was a wreck. Typical teenage angst mixed with adrenaline powerful enough to damage others. I'm glad Penny's changed me. Even though this procedure may erase every moment I spent with her, I'm satisfied to know all knowledge of my previous self will no longer exist in my mind. 

Penny stacks two blue blocks on top of each other and I grab her attention by saying, "If I forget my name, call me Malcolm."

"Malcolm," she repeats, slightly butchering the name. 

"Nigel," my mother says firmly. She puts down a beauty magazine and makes strict eye contact with me. She doesn't have to say much for me to know what she's trying to tell me. 

"If this thing's whole purpose is to erase our memories, then I want to start a new life as Malcolm," I start, then add a 'perfect child' smile. It hurts to think my parents have no idea of the person I was. They assume I'm their picture-perfect son: no flaws, no disobedience. I hope New Me won't find out what I did, forget that I'm hiding that from my parents, and expose me to them. 

"You'll always be Nigel to us," my father answers before my mother. "We'll make sure you remember yourself as Nigel."

The same nurse who had given the building blocks to Penny opens the door. She smiles. "Nigel Tillman, Dr. Siemo is ready to see you." 

My family stands up at the same time I do. My mother grabs Penny and my father leads the way into Dr. Siemo's office. It's a relaxing office with couches instead of stiff chairs and beige colored walls to satisfy the eye. The doctor sits on a stool chair facing away from us, hands scribbling on a piece of paper. There are all sorts of medical equipment surrounding him, but the one that catches my attention the most is the huge needle on display. 

Dr. Siemo introduces himself to my parents, gives Penny a stress ball, and smiles politely at me. If it weren't for his white hair, I might be able to say he looks young. There are no wrinkles on his face, and his skin is tight and smooth, but his hair is losing its color. 

"Better late than never," he jokes. He stands and makes me sit on the same stool he had been on. The needle stares at me, waiting to dive into my skin. I look away from it. 

"We apologize," says my mother. "We didn't want to take him earlier since that's when the offices are most busy."

"I understand," the doctor says. He grabs a notebook from his desk and turns to a blank page. "What's your date of birth?" 

He doesn't look at me or my parents, as though he's waiting for either of us to answer. Pen in hand, he writes down what I assume is my name at the top of the page. 

"December 30th, 2002." My voice is loud enough to prove to him I'm the one he should be asking questions, not my parents. After all, this is my memory on the line. 

Dr. Siemo chuckles. "My wife shares the same birthday. December 30th. Do you usually celebrate today?"

"Yes, sir." 

"So does she. She has sensitive hearing so she travels to her uncle's ranch, far from where people live. Far from where people pop fireworks." 

His casual conversation is there to ease my tension, I know, and I find it works well. I'm able to ignore the needle behind me and focus on the way his smooth hands grip the pen, ink scratching on paper. 

His next question catches me off guard. "Is there something you're afraid to forget?"

"Penny," I say, not wasting a second to think it through. Her little head jerks up, but I doubt she understood why I called her name. "My little sister. I don't want to forget her." 

"You might be in luck," Dr. Siemo starts, "the injection might keep your memories of relative bonds." 

"Might?"

"Might."

"It's not certain?"

"You know the purpose of this action, correct?"

I never thought about that. The news has said this shot is like a flu shot: it's your choice whether you want to take it or not, but it's better if you do. Most schools won't even let students attend class if they were born in 2002 and have not taken the shot. It seems everyone's in favor of it, like it's a normal, essential shot. I've only ever put thought into what it will do, not why it's enforced. 

Dr. Siemo answers for me, "It's an experiment, Nigel. Scientists and psychologists around America want to test how teenagers will respond if given a chance to start fresh. They want to discover if there's a major influence in the increase of teenagers diagnosed with depression and anxiety disorders." 

"I'm not depressed," I say. 

He laughs softly, making a joke out of my statement, then goes back to his explanation. "With 2020 rolling in, the start of a new decade, the year many teenagers turn eighteen, they figured now would be a perfect opportunity to go forth with the experiment." 

"So," I pause, looking for the right words, "we're just lab rats?" 

"There's better ways to look at it." He folds his hands together and makes direct eye contact with me, those sparkling blue eyes of his urging me to silence down. "You're starting a new year, a new decade, as a completely new person. You get to start over in ways many people dream they could. Of course, your memory will still keep the basics: how to breathe, how to eat, how to walk, how to speak, how to think, and even your education." 

"But I won't be able to remember my family," I whisper. 

"They won't be strangers to you," he says, then he adds something I wasn't expecting. "You're lucky. You were born on the 30th of December. By theory, the sooner your birthday comes, the sooner your memory is wiped."

I catch my breath, looking down at the way my feet hover over the floor. "What if I don't want to do this?"

"Nigel!" It's my father, arms crossed. I can tell he wants to leave this office just as badly as I do. 

"I'm sorry!" I look at both my father and Dr. Siemo. "It just sounds...scary." 

Dr. Siemo puts a hand on my shoulder. "I know it does. You're not my first patient to react this way, and I understand." 

'Understand what?' I want to say. 'You clearly weren't born in 2002.'

"You're a junior in high school, correct?" he asks. 

"Correct."

"You might want to take your second semester off," he says. "Take online classes during the summer and you should be fine."

'I should be fine? Is that the best sympathy you can offer?'

I can't let my anger control me, not again. I take a deep breath as the doctor grabs the needle from behind me. He turns to my parents, hiding the needle from Penny's eyes. 

"I'm sending a bottle of pills to the pharmacy," he says. "Make sure he takes two a day. When he wakes up and before he sleeps." 

My mother nods. 

"There's pills too?" I can't hide the quiver in my voice.

"There's liquid medication if you can't swallow them."

"That's not what I meant-"

But Dr. Siemo is already getting to work. He rubs some liquid on my arm and prepares a square bandage. The needle is full of an orange substance, mustard orange. It's not a pleasing color to look at. "You'll feel a bit dizzy."

I already do. It's hard to breathe knowing I might not remember anything tomorrow.

"Wait!" I cry out, stopping Dr. Siemo. "Will I remember this?"

"Only if you want to." Then he plunges the needle into my veins.