Dream Boy (16 page)

“I’ll handle the townies,” Martin said. We were divvying up tasks, dreams and dreamers, to find out if the girl had been stalking anyone else. “Jared Wales, Esther Finch, Mitch Grogan, Charlene Muncy. But I’d like you to cover—”

“Jared Wales, the lawyer? He’s a dream?” He represented my mom in the divorce, and I’d always suspected he had a mini-crush on her, which was weird since he was much younger than she was.

“No,” Martin said. “He’s a dreamer. He dreamed Esther Finch.”

“The lemon-drop lady in the antiques store? You’re kidding.”

“To each his own,” Martin philosophized.

“What about Mitch Grogan; isn’t that Trina Myers’s stepdad?”

“Steph says she’s pretty sure Trina brought him here. I’ll get her to take care of that.”

“Okay,” I said. “And Mrs. Muncy?”

“She dreamed Coach.”

Geez. Mrs. Muncy had been busy. A football coach. A fireman. I wondered when she’d get around to the stable boy. Poor Mr. Muncy with his fast-food gut didn’t stand a chance.

“I’ll leave you Chilton High,” Martin went on. “I talked to Coach and Paolo already. And Stephanie, of course. Paolo said he’d track down Macy. But you’ve got the dreamers. The thing is, I think some of these people know what they did: dreamed. They get it. Other people think it was just a coincidence. So you’ll have to be careful how you talk with them.”

“Of course,” I said. “Who’s being difficult?”

“You know Daniel Kowalski, right?”

Eight months of hurt came hurtling through the space between us.

“Yes,” I whispered.

“Sorry.”

“It doesn’t matter,” I said. “Not anymore.”

“It might,” he began. “He dreamed Macy.”

I sucked in a breath of cold air, remembering his arms around her in the hall and that apologetic look he gave me over the back of her shoulder. I remembered how red my face looked in the girls’ bathroom mirror, tears that wouldn’t stop, the feeling that my world was about to end.

My world hadn’t ended, of course. But now, with the nightmare, it looked like my own private apocalypse was getting a second chance.

I raised my head and looked Martin in the eye. “I know how to talk to him,” I said. “It’s not a problem.”

“Good,” he said. “Serena is at the campground already, right? So maybe you can call her.”

“Serena!” I said. “Who did she dream?”

“Paolo,” he said. “Though he says she doesn’t know it. She won’t admit it, anyway.”

It was funny, really, that Serena wouldn’t claim her title. She was the biggest dreamer I knew.
Your
brain
just
processed
everything
superfast
and
you
thought
you’d seen her before when you really hadn’t.
She’d used that logic to explain Spice; she must have used it to explain Paolo, too.

“Oh, and there’s Spice,” I said.

“Spice?” Martin asked.

“Talon’s dog. She dreamed him and then he showed up.”

“Kind of like me?”

“Um, yeah, but smaller.”
And
stinkier
, I thought.

“Talon, Serena, Daniel, and one more.”

“Billy Stubbs,” I remembered.

“What about Billy Stubbs?”

“He dreamed Stephanie, right? But why can’t she talk to him? Otherwise I’ll just be like, ‘Oh, hi, Billy, I know we never talk except to exchange mad insults, but I just wondered: Have you had any bad dreams lately?’”

“You don’t have to talk to him,” he said, and I could hear a tense smile creep into his voice.

“Oh, come on, Martin, if I can handle Daniel I can handle Billy.”

“Billy Stubbs may love Stephanie Gonzales,” Martin said. “But he didn’t dream her.”

“Then who did?”

“Will.”

For a second, I didn’t understand. Then it hit me. “
My
Will?”

“
Your
Will,” he said, and it was as if his next words traveled to his lips through a throat full of broken glass. “Or Stephanie’s Will, if you’d prefer.”

“Says who?”

“Stephanie.”

“Well, she lied,” I said.

“Oh right,” he said. “Sweet, pure Will isn’t capable of—”

“You sure you want
me
to talk to him?” I interrupted.

“I can talk to him, if you’d prefer,” Martin said. “I’d be glad to. I just thought you might have better luck. Pierce through that veil of sarcasm he substitutes for a sense of humor.”

Will
has
an
amazing
sense
of
humor
, I wanted to say, but I stopped myself. I knew how much Martin disliked me hanging around Will. If he wanted me to talk to Will, to be alone with him, he had to believe Stephanie was telling the truth. And if she was—oh, but that was impossible. This was Will we were talking about. If he dreamed about anyone it would have been someone like that Japanese exchange student, not Stephanie.

“Fine,” I said. “I’ll talk to him, if it makes you happy. Talon, Daniel, and Will.”

I’d already planned to go to Talon’s house that morning so we could paint our toenails. Talon said as long as we were both going to homecoming we might as well go through the motions. Teenage rites of passage and all that.

Before I went in, I tried calling Serena. No answer, so I left a voice message and then a text:
You ok? Call me. Really important!

“Did you decide for sure which dress you’re wearing?” Talon asked when she met me at the door. She pulled me to her room and plopped down on her bed, where a half a dozen bottles of nail polish nested on her pillow. “I got pink and blue just in case.”

I looked at her.

“What?” she said. “I borrowed them from my mom. Except the black,” she added. “I bought the black at CVS. And this white nail marker, so I could do a skull and crossbones on my big toe. Pretty, right? And check out the shoes.” She held up a pair of black stilettos with spiked silver heels. “These could be considered concealed weapons in most states.”

She unscrewed the cap on the blue polish and handed it to me, but I just stood there so she put it on her bedside table.

“Hey. Did someone die? What?”

“I’m wearing the pink dress,” I said.

“I knew it must be awful.”

“No,” I said. “Well it is, but there’s something else.” I took a deep breath and started. “This is going to sound crazy…” It tumbled out faster than I’d intended: Martin, the dreamworld, the others, her dog, the whole thing. And it
did
sound crazy, but Talon, true to character, hardly blinked.

“Martin,” she said. “I knew it. And Spice, that makes sense. Of course. She would have figured out how to get away. I always knew she was smart.”

She shook her head when I got to the part about Paolo and Serena. I skipped the part about Will. I hadn’t confirmed it yet, had I?

When I finished talking her eyes were wide, her cheeks flushed.

“Vapor,” she said. “Stephanie Gonzales. Spice. Martin. Paolo. Even
Mrs. Finch
. They were vapor until we dreamed them. Gives one a certain feeling of power, no?”

“Vapor,” I echoed. I wasn’t interested in the science of it. And I didn’t feel powerful, though I was trying to.

Talon shook the bottle of black, uncapped it, and started painting her toes. She was getting paint all around the nails, and even when she tried to scrape the extra away with her fingernail, the toes looked splotchy and bruised.

“You know what this is like?” she said, looking up. “It’s like
Frankenstein
!”

I eyed her feet sympathetically.

“Not my toes, you idiot. The Vapors! We created them,” she said. “Put together a few stitched-up body parts and a spark plug or two, and bam! You’re somebody’s daddy.”

“They’re not monsters,” I said. I still hadn’t gotten very far in
Frankenstein
, but I didn’t think a half-dead brute with bolts in his neck quite captured the essence of Martin or Paolo or Spice. Stephanie Gonzales maybe. The nightmare, definitely.

“And we’re not their daddy,” I added. “It’s not like we’re responsible for them.”

Talon finished her pinky. The black blobs on her feet were like some kind of Rorschach test: Bat? Butterfly? Oil spill?

“But we are!” Talon dipped her brush in the polish and started on her left foot. “We brought them here. Of course we’re responsible for what happens to them.”

What was it Martin had said?
Like
it
or
not, we’re connected.
I guess that means all of us. The dreamers. The dreams. And the nightmare.

“The thing is…” I said softly. “The thing is, there’s a girl, a nightmare. She tried to kill me.”

“But just in your dream, right?”

“Martin was just in my dream, too.”

Talon looked calm, but I saw the brush tremble in her hands.

“Listen,” I said. “Have you had any dreams lately? You know, bad dreams? It’s important.”

“I don’t remember any,” she said. “And if they’re bad, I usually remember.”

“Yeah,” I said. “You would. Believe me. How about any dreams with a little girl?”

“We could check my dream journal.” With two toes still bare, she recapped the polish, reached under her bed, and pulled out a tattered five-subject notebook. The cover, which had once been red, was scrawled with band names and doodles in every direction.

“Dude, how long have you kept that thing?”

She pointed to the middle of the cover, where a black Sharpie heart encircled the words
Vic
Vomit
& the Esophagi
.

“Guh! That was like, what, seventh grade?”

“Eighth,” Talon corrected. “Here’s last night,” she said. “We can go back from there.”

In purple ink, a line had been drawn down the middle of the sheet. “What’s that for?” I asked.

“The Doctor told me to do it that way. I write the left side before I go to sleep. It’s supposed to be real life, just a regular journal, whatever I’m thinking, what’s bugging me, or even a list of the stuff I did. Then I write the other side in the morning. That’s the dream.”

Talon’s left was blank except for a few scrawled lines:

There’s a place I don’t go anymore,

that place with the yellow door,

and behind are all the questions in my mind

and beneath is a blue wooden floor.

And you’re there—

hair on fire, eyes calling me liar

—you’re waiting for me there…

“You write poetry, Tal?”

She tapped the lines. “No, it’s lyrics. Wendy Kletter. From that song ‘Addiction.’ The yellow door is supposed to be a pill.”

“Oh.” It sounded to me like it was supposed to be a door that was yellow, but I guess I never really got poetry. I shrugged and looked at the right half of the page.

going down steps think i’m supposed to be changing the lightbulb

but don’t have any lightbulbs

spice cuts under my legs and i’m going to trip

she’s blue-brown like always

i end up on the sand there’s sunlight

a pale blue blanket

these crabs that are supposed to talk

everyone’s talking about how they talk

I scanned the rest of the page: more crabs, a tiki torch, a guy with a guppy tattoo, two flippers in the sand.

“This wasn’t scary, right?” I asked. I didn’t see anything even vaguely threatening. Maybe the guy with the tattoo? But come on, a guppy?

She shook her head and flipped back a page.

Friday had a really big bra and a picnic with weasels. Thursday, a man who lived in the sewer. We kept flipping back, but I didn’t find anything scary, except for maybe Talon’s lack of punctuation. On Tuesday, she dreamed about teacups on the courthouse lawn. Just above it, on Monday, the dream-side was blank, but on the left were two words:
Will
and
homecoming
.

“That’s probably enough,” I said. “No offense, Talon, but you’re seriously weird.”

“Thanks.” She smiled smugly and started to tuck the book back under her bed.

“Hey.” I reached out to stop her hand. “I just remembered: You said that dream about your dog was in here, right? Can I see it?”

“Sometimes I think all my dreams are about Spice,” she said, pulling the notebook back onto her lap. “The Doctor says I have stunted energy. She says my subconscious obsession with Spice has something to do with my green chakra, soul/heart consciousness or something.” She plucked the waistline of her emerald T-shirt and grinned. “Which is clearly why I look so great in green.”

She was right—both about green, which she did look good in, and about Spice. On every page of the last week, Spice had been somewhere, digging up teacups, eating a chunk of cheese—not the main player, but there.

Talon flipped through the notebook again, this time from the front; after a minute of scanning, she handed the open book to me. “This is it.”

at the mall food court will—me—annabelle

there’s this prissy chick who’s all ladidadida lookatme

& some old dude & this crazy little dog &

that library guy with the chin music

…i’m pretty sure annabelle has been checking out

more than books lately (like his butt!)

—in real life, I mean

in the dream we’re all just hanging…

i’m like,
where’s the glue
? has anybody seen the
glue
?

the old dude gives the dog a french fry or something

the dog is choking

the old guy yells

spice spice

that’s the dog’s name

annabelle runs over & grabs the dog from him

she opens the dog’s mouth

and pulls out a bone

“It’s official: I now know way too much about you,” I said.

Talon shrugged. “I’m an open book.” She took the journal from me and pushed the blue polish into my hands.

“In memory of the perfect dress,” she said.

I decided to talk to Daniel next. Talon. Daniel. Will. Sandwich the worst of it in the middle, like burying pimento cheese between two giant slices of bread.

He was no longer programmed into my cell phone. I had deleted him at the end of a small ceremony in which I had burned the notes he’d written me and given away the necklace he’d gotten me for my birthday. It was a gold necklace (though not real gold) and a sand dollar dangled at the end of it, though it wasn’t like the beach or sand dollars had ever figured prominently in our relationship. I found out his sister had picked it out, at Belk, which at the time I thought was kind of sweet. Really, it was kind of lazy. Or kind of Daniel.

Deleting his number didn’t mean I’d forgotten it, though. I didn’t know many phone numbers by heart, what with cell phones making it unnecessary. But I knew his.

“Annabelle,” he said when his picked up. Which meant he hadn’t bothered to delete me. “What’s up?”

“Hi, Daniel,” I said. His name felt strange on my tongue. Cold, like licking an ice cube. “I wondered if we could talk.”

“We’re talking now, right?” No anger. But then, he was the one who had dumped
me
.

“In person,” I said. “It’ll only take a few minutes.”

“I don’t know. I’m kind of busy.”

“Ten minutes,” I said. “Can you give me just ten minutes?” I tried to keep my voice controlled. In my head I was thinking:
You
can’t give me ten minutes after everything I gave you?

When he responded his voice was breezy and arrogant, but there was something soft there, too. Or maybe I just imagined it. “You know where I live,” he said.

• • •

Daniel’s house was about two miles from mine. It was a long walk, a not-so-bad bike ride, and a really easy drive. I borrowed my mom’s car and drove.

When I got there, Daniel’s red pickup, which rivaled my car for time in the shop, was in the driveway.

I thought maybe he’d wait for me outside, but he was nowhere to be seen. I knocked on the front door. His mother answered.

“Annabelle,” she said. Her smile was like warm bread. “How are you? Daniel didn’t tell me you were stopping by.”

I wanted to explain to her that it was business, that she didn’t need to smile like that, that I wasn’t really friends with her son. Instead I just smiled back.

“He’s in his room. You can go on up if you’d like.”

Part of me wanted to. I was curious to see how it had changed in our months apart. I wondered if the things I had given him—a rock from the Roanoke River that looked like a little bird, a bottle of cologne, because I was playing at being a grown-up—were still on his dresser. I wondered if he had the same sports sheets on his bed.

“That’s okay,” I said. “I’m good down here. Could you ask him to come out, please?”

“Of course,” she said. This time when she smiled, it was the kind of smile a receptionist gives you at the doctor’s office, when she tells you the doctor will be with you in a moment and really means half an hour.

But a minute later, Daniel’s feet came thundering down the stairs. He came out on the porch, letting the front door slam behind him.

“Hey,” he said.

I could have been anybody.

“I—”

He smiled, and I looked away. I suppose I didn’t hate Daniel so much as I hated myself, the way I’d acted when I’d been with him. And even more, the way I’d acted when he dumped me. But somehow, it all amounted to the same thing. I steadied myself by thinking positive thoughts—a trick I’d read about in a magazine and tried out after the breakup to keep from crying in public places.

I
am
a
cool
person. I have friends. My mother loves me.

It didn’t work then and it wasn’t working now. I walked over to his truck and leaned against it.

Daniel followed me. “So what’s up?”

All I had to do was find out this one piece of information and I could be out of there.

“Let me rephrase that,” Daniel said, studying my face. “What’s wrong?”

I wasn’t going to tell him everything. There were things I didn’t want him to know—like the fact that the first boyfriend I’d had since he dumped me was, to use Talon’s word, “vapor.” And true, Macy White had been vapor. But as far as I knew, the other girls he’d dated hadn’t been.

I thought about lying. I thought about telling Daniel I needed to do a psychological survey for an independent project about dreams. But Will said my eyes always gave me away, and I’d forgotten my sunglasses.

“I’m collecting some information on dreams,” I began, which was true. “Bad dreams. I need to know if you’ve had any.”

He gave me a strange look. “You came here to talk to me about my dreams?”

“Yes.”

“We haven’t spoken in months and you want to talk about dreams,” he said. “Why?”

“I’m collecting information,” I repeated.

“For who?”

It wasn’t the question I expected. I didn’t answer.

“If you’re looking for closure—” he began.

“This isn’t about that,” I said.

“I know it was rough for you. I’m sorry.” Where had
that
come from? It was like I’d dropped a few coins in the slot and out came this tidy little apology.

“It’s been
months
, Daniel. I’m over it. Could you please just answer the question?” My voice was tight, stretched. “Have you had any bad dreams these last few nights?”

I looked directly at him, and his eyes searched mine.

“One,” he said, and looked away. “A few nights ago.”

“Could you—could you tell me about it?”

“You don’t want to know.”

“I
need
to know,” I said.

“What’s going on?”

“Nothing,” I said.

“It’s not nothing,” he said. “It’s too much of a coincidence to be nothing.”

“What did you dream?”

“I dreamed someone died,” he said.

“Who?”

He looked guilty, the way he’d looked when I told him that Talon had seen him with Macy White behind the band room.

“You,” he said.

“
I
died?
” I forced my voice into a little box—and I put that box into yet another little box somewhere in the back of my throat. But even as I tried to sound calm, the rapid thrum of my pulse pounded against my neck, like something trying to get out.

“I told you it was too much of a coincidence,” he said. “I mean I hadn’t dreamed about—It’s been awhile and suddenly I was dreaming about you dying.”

“Was there a girl in the dream?”

“Seriously? What’s going on, Annabelle? A
girl
?”

“Not like
that
. A little girl. Did you see a little girl?”

“I didn’t see anything really. I just knew,” he said, and it was the first time I remembered him looking afraid.

“I was running. It got dark. I tripped over something. When I tried to get up, I couldn’t. But I saw something in the distance. Like the beam of a flashlight. And I knew you were…gone. Then I woke up. That’s it.”

“Nothing else?”

“Nothing,” he said.

“Okay.” I nodded, but instead of leaving I took a breath. “So,” I asked casually, “you going to be at homecoming?”

“Yeah, sure,” he said. “Are you?”

“Yeah,” I said. “Yeah. I guess I should probably go get ready.”

“It’s only eleven thirty,” he said.

“I’m a girl.”

“You don’t have to remind me.” He gave me a smile, the kind that was just for me, and I remembered why I liked him once. And also why I didn’t anymore.

“I’ll see you,” I said.

“You’re not going to tell me what this is all about?” He put his arms on either side of me, caging me in. “Something’s up, Annabelle, I know you.”

“You used to.”

“Are you going to tell me? Or not?”

“Not,” I said, slipping under his arm. “Not yet, anyway. I’ll tell you later. If I have to. And hopefully I won’t have to.”

“Thanks for stringing me along,” he said.

“Yeah, well. It’s your turn,” I told him. I got back in my mom’s car. “I’ll see you later. Be…” I wasn’t sure what to say? Be good? Be careful?

“Be what?”

“Just be,” I said, sounding both cryptic and like a flower child from the 1960s. I slammed the door, put the car into gear, and drove.