Forget to Remember

that means you’re definitely not Cynthia. If you do match, you have to go.”
    Carol had caught hints from Rigo that he was afraid she’d disappear. She was glad he was concerned about her, but she was chafed by the idea that he always had to be with her. She wanted to run her own life. She was going to run her own life.

    CHAPTER 8
    Carol suggested they walk to the football game. It couldn’t be much more than a mile to the high school from the house, mostly downhill. Of course, it would be uphill returning. Since Palos Verdes went from sea level to 1,500 feet, a walker or jogger had to go either up or down. There wasn’t a lot of level terrain.
    Rigo said he’d walked to school and had even walked home. He admitted that after he owned a car, he pretty much forgot about walking. “I need to drive because I have to go directly to the restaurant after the game. Of course, I’ll take you home first.”
    “No, I’ll walk home.” Carol thought of the Ramirez house as home. It was the only home she knew. She’d started taking walks in the hilly neighborhood, between the time Rigo left for work and his parents arrived home. She wanted to gain strength and stamina. Walking uphill let her know how out of shape she was. She was sure she’d been physically fit before she was attacked.
    Once they were in Rigo’s car, it occurred to Carol he’d be late for work. “The game is going to overlap your working hours. Won’t you have to leave early? Friday must be one of the busiest nights at the restaurant.”
    Rigo grinned. “I’ve got a special dispensation from my boss to arrive late on the days we have home games. I just have to work harder when I get there. And I may not be able to eat dinner until late.”
    “You’re too skinny to have played football yourself.”
    “I don’t like any sport where you get hit by somebody twice your size. Tennis is my racket.”
    They parked in the high school parking lot, and Rigo paid the nominal fee for the tickets. Carol didn’t like not having any money of her own, and she vowed to change the situation. Maybe she was Cynthia Sakai. If so, she’d be financially set for life. That would be nice.
    She and Rigo had spent the last two days scouring the Internet for information about the Sakai family. They had looked at the missing persons photo of Cynthia. Carol remembered what Rigo had said about it.
    “This picture makes her look almost weird. I mean, she was apparently a model, but you’d never know it looking at this shot. I’m into old movies. One I like is a cult movie called Fast Times at Ridgemont High , which had Sean Penn in it. More important, a young and very beautiful Phoebe Cates was in it, surely one of the most gorgeous women who ever lived. Yet, I’ve seen a PR photo of her in which she looked almost ugly. I think we’ve got the same situation here.”
    “What made you think of Phoebe Cates?”
    “You did.”
    Carol knew Rigo was just trying to be nice. After all, she had scars and bald spots. She was wearing her beret. Still, a woman liked to hear compliments, however insincere.
    They walked into the stadium and sat in the bleachers. Most of the spectators were noisy students or parents. The teens couldn’t sit still. They were always running around to get something to eat or talking to their friends.
    Carol saw the view beyond the stadium was very similar to that from the Ramirez house. It was like looking down from the aerie of a hawk. She had seen several of the graceful birds soaring above the canyons, scanning them, trying to spot a juicy rodent to eat for lunch. From somewhere she remembered their vision would allow them to read a newspaper at a distance unimaginable to humans.
    She was glad she’d brought a sweater based on Rigo’s advice—purchased for her by Tina. Although the September afternoon was still warm, it was cooling off, and the sun was going down behind the bleachers. A breeze had sprung up. Rigo had told her the rule for living in a desert area like Los Angeles was that regardless of the daytime temperature, always take a wrap to wear at night. The dry air couldn’t hold the heat.
    She had vague memories of watching football games—the noise, the crunch of players hitting each other, the high spirits, the cheerleaders, the bands, the majorettes. Could she have been a cheerleader—or perhaps a majorette? She would like to get her hands on a baton, sometime, to see if she could twirl one. It didn’t look that