The Dream Where the Losers Go (16 page)

“Now you’re not
that
sick,” joked Terry.

“I just heard on the news,” said Skey. “A kid at my school got beat up.” She rolled over to face the wall. “I wonder who it was.”

Setting the tea on Skey’s desk, Terry began to pull up a chair.

“I’m too tired, Terry,” Skey said immediately. “I feel sick.”

Terry hesitated, then put back the chair. “Get some sleep if you can,” she said. “Don’t forget to drink your tea.”

“Did you put honey in it?” asked Skey, her voice suddenly childlike and climbing into a lisp.

“Lots of honey,” said Terry, her voice warmed by an obvious smile. “Now rest.”

The door closed.

I
MMEDIATELY, SHE KNEW
the boy wasn’t here. In the long endless dark, there was no sense of him. She tried scanning with her mind, seeking with her instincts, but she couldn’t locate him anywhere. For a long while she sat in the vast echoing solitude that surrounded her, holding the rock. Then she tried feeling her way along the carvings, touching their stories and whispering them to herself, but it wasn’t her own story she needed to hear now, it was the boy’s. Finally she realized where he must have gone. To date, she had never gone there by choice, and she knew he wasn’t there by choice now. Taking a deep breath, she sought out the high white whine in her head, sent her thoughts into it and focused.

He was here. As soon as she arrived in the tunnel of light, she could feel the boy crouched somewhere, trapped in terror so fast, white and all-encompassing, it was like being plugged into an electrical socket. Huddled against a tunnel wall, she tried to scan for him, but it was impossible to penetrate the hostile brilliance. The light here hissed and screamed the way her mind did; there was no difference. This light
was
her mind, this system of tunnels an endless map of her own fear, and she had to crawl through it, meter by meter, looking for him.

T
HE EIGHT PM
news downgraded Lick’s condition to stable but didn’t release his name, saying only that the victim had regained consciousness. Anyone who knew anything about the beating was advised to contact police. Switching off her radio, Skey returned to her bed and sent her mind back into the tunnel of light. She had to keep searching for the boy, she knew he was in here somewhere, could feel him.

“Skey?” called a voice. From far away came a knock, and then her door opened.

“Don’t turn on the light,” Skey said quickly. Opening her eyes, she watched the dark room take shape around her, the open doorway like a wound of light.

“Your friend San is on the phone,” said Terry, leaning into the room. “Do you want to talk to her?”

“Yes,” said Skey. Scrambling out of bed too quickly, she had to hang onto her desk until the blood stopped rushing to her head. Then she pulled on a housecoat and walked blinking into the unit.

The girls’ phone sat on a coffee table outside the office, the receiver off its cradle. “San?” said Skey, sitting down in the chair beside it.

On the other side of the office window, Terry hovered casually.

“Just a minute,” said San, and passed the phone to someone else.

“Skey,” a male voice said abruptly. Skey’s throat tightened. It was Jigger. “You tell anyone?” he asked.

“No,” she said.

“You keep it quiet, you hear?” he said.

“Yeah,” she said.

“He’s not that bad,” said Jigger. “Just a few bruises. Teach him to fall for my girl, eh?”

Tiny white cracks were starting to open across her brain.

“What’s the matter?” asked Jigger. “First time I call you in that place to tell you I love you, and all you can say is no and yeah?”

Taking a deep breath, Skey pushed out a laugh. “C’mon San, you know he’s like that with all the girls. You can’t take him seriously.”

There was a pause as Jigger thought through her response. “Staff listening?” he finally asked.

“Yeah,” she said.

“Okay, I’ll pick you up tomorrow at 8:20,” he said. “You keep looking for a way to get us a key.”

“Yeah yeah,” said Skey.

Hanging up the phone, she looked around. The unit was still mostly empty, with just a few articles of furniture. Plaster glowed oddly where the walls had been patched. Suddenly it came to her, how impenetrable the lockup had seemed these past five months. Thick walls. Locked doors. Wired-over windows. Approved phone lists. Now she knew it took one kick and the walls crumbled. With one phone call, Jigger’s voice had kicked its way in, and there was no plastering over that hole. For months she had imagined opening the side entrance door to outside, it was night, Jigger was standing in the snow waiting, she pulled him in through the shadows to her room where they made love, night staff missing every endless touch, every whimpering cry. But this afternoon had ended that dream. There was no going back to it now.

The boy was alone, somewhere in the tunnel of light. Getting up from her chair, Skey returned to her bed and rose into the white terror of her mind.

I
T WAS 9:25, CLOSE
to lights out. Skey had come out of the tunnel of light to take a break and was sitting, both arms resting on her knees while she stared at the scars. Twisted and jagged, they were like hieroglyphs, an indecipherable language. Meaningless, but they meant her. Why had she done it? She couldn’t remember making the actual decision

They had been at Jigger’s cabin on the May long weekend. Jigger had permission to be there with his guy friends—
Trevor, Balfour and Pedro. His parents didn’t know the girls had also come along. The girls’ parents thought they were at each other’s homes. It had been easy to fool them. Parents wanted to be fooled.

“Jigger’s such a nice boy,” her mother was always chanting, like a refrain.

That night the gang had been heavy into various chemicals, a variety of altered states. Music had been pounding in the living room, but it had seemed distant, as if coming from another time and place. She could remember walking down a hall and into the kitchen. She had been naked, but she didn’t know why. Pausing for a moment, she had stood scanning the empty room, then walked to a nearby counter, picked up a half-empty bottle of gin and smashed it on the side of the sink. Without pausing, she had lifted the bottle’s jagged edge and dug it into her left forearm.

As the memory faded, Skey continued to sit and stare at her arms. A heavy ringing filled her ears and her brain felt sluggish, as if she had gone deep into herself, so deep she could barely breathe. She could remember doing the act—slashing her arms with the bottle—but not the reason why.

Tap tap.
On the other side of the wall, Ann was beginning their nightly conversation.
Tap. Tap tap tap.
All of a sudden, white rage surged through Skey. Swinging around, she pounded her fist against the wall. From the next room came a muffled gasp and the squeak of bedsprings as Ann sprang back.

Almost immediately, there was a knock on the door. “Skey?” called Terry.

Huddled on the bed, Skey was shaking. “Yeah yeah,” she mumbled.

The door opened and Terry’s eyes zeroed in. “You all right?” she asked, slightly breathless.

“Yeah,” said Skey. Breathing deeply, she closed her eyes.

“What was the bang?” asked Terry.

Skey shrugged. “Sorry,” she said. “There’s no hole. I didn’t leave a hole.”

“You punched your wall?” asked Terry.

“Just once,” said Skey.

“So what’s bugging you?” asked Terry.

I can’t remember
. She almost said it, then caught herself. “The guy on the bus,” she shrugged.

“You want a go at the punching bag?” asked Terry.

“No,” said Skey. “I’ll be fine.”

Terry hesitated, then asked, “What color are you feeling?”

A hiss passed through Skey and she said, “White.”

Terry’s eyes widened.

“I’m going to sleep now,” said Skey and crawled between the sheets.

“All right,” said Terry. “But keep it down in here. If I hear any more, we’ll have to move you to the Back Room.”

“Yeah yeah,” muttered Skey.

S
HE CLOSED HER EYES
and her brain lit up: white ceiling, white walls, white floor—hissing, screaming white. Somewhere in this labyrinth, she could hear the boy giving off restless moans, then a long string of swear words. He didn’t seem to be moving and she thought she could feel him curled into a ball, trying to shut out the light.

But he couldn’t shut it out, just as she couldn’t—this light was coming from inside their minds. Shuffling forward, she
gripped the rock in one hand while she felt her way along the carvings with the other. In this wall, they all seemed to move like water or blood, flowing toward him.

S
KEY STEPPED HESITANTLY
into the cold outside air, not listening as the door closed behind her. Overnight it had snowed, and she left tracks as she crossed the parking lot, weaving between parked cars and nodding to teachers and administration staff who were coming in for the day.

“Yeah yeah,” she said, brushing off their greetings. It was three blocks from the gate to the bus stop. Two blocks until she would see him tapping the steering wheel. A block and a half until she would have to say good morning and smile.

“Skey,” called a voice.

She turned to see Jigger’s car parked on a side street, Jigger standing beside it, holding the passenger door open. He had parked in a different spot this morning, closer— hiding and waiting, hunting prey. “C’mon,” he called, “over here,” but she stood frozen, staring at the boy and the car, both of them picture perfect in the morning sun.

Jigger’s such a nice boy
, her mother’s voice said in her head.

Shoes crunched the snow-covered sidewalk behind her, and she whirled to see Balfour coming up on her right. At the same moment, Trevor stepped out from a tree and Pedro appeared from behind another parked car. Counting heartbeats, Skey took a single step toward Jigger, then another.

“What d’you think?” she asked carefully. “I need an armed guard?”

Jigger’s face was just as careful. “Today the Dragons decided to pick you up,” he said.

“I live in a lockup,” said Skey. “I thought you guys were supposed to be a break.”

Without a word, Balfour’s hand pressed itself against the small of her back.

“Everybody in,” said Jigger.

Trevor and Pedro slid into the back seat, Balfour followed her into the front and pressed in on her right. Then Jigger came in for a kiss on her left, bringing the usual scent of tobacco and aftershave, the usual soft lips.

“G’morning,” he grinned.

I
N HOMEROOM
, the pornographer sketched listlessly. All over the classroom, eyes kept flicking toward Lick’s empty desk and away again. Already, everyone knew.

The expected announcement came over the PA. “Yesterday afternoon,” said Mr. Leonardo, the principal, “there was a vicious attack on one of our students, Elwin Serkowski, who is now listed in stable condition at the South Side Hospital. Anyone who knows
anything at all
about this attack is asked to come forward with information.”

From across the aisle, the pornographer glanced at Skey.

“What are you looking at?” she snapped.

Without speaking, he held up a full-page sketch of Skey and Lick at their desks, clothes on, nothing obscene. A picture of two friends talking.

Skey’s eyes filled with tears. “Can I have it?” she whispered.

He shook his head.

“You’re really good,” she said.

“Maybe,” he said.

“What’s your name?” she asked.

“Amid,” he said.

“Hello, Amid,” said Skey.

B
ALFOUR WAS WAITING
outside her History class, just before lunch. “C’mon,” he said. “Forget the jacket, we’re heading out.”

“Bals,” she protested, “it’s cold.”

Pulling off his sweatshirt, he handed it to her. “Wear this,” he grinned.

“No thanks,” she said grimly.

Everyone else had already piled into Jigger’s car. It was a full load—Rosie, Balfour, San, Trevor and Gillian in the back, Pedro, Skey and Jigger up front. Before they headed off for lunch, Jigger stopped to do ten minutes of business at a street corner three blocks from school. Then they ate take-out from an A&W, listening to tunes as Jigger fed Skey what she was allowed to take in. From the backseat came the usual banter, Trevor sticking his fries under the neck of San’s sweater and nibbling, Balfour with one of his hands constantly under Rosie’s shirt. Rosie cooed, the guys called out comments to passersby, and San and Gillian giggled. Once upon a time, in a life long ago, Skey remembered laughing with the others. How long ago had that been? Yesterday? Last week? Before, or after, the scars?

“Friday, we rule,” roared Balfour, throwing back his head. “Oh, I’ve been dreaming about that place, all those girls in their skimpy lingerie, asleep in their beds.”

“Can it, Bals,” Jigger said sharply.

Skey felt it then—the moment everyone sucked in their breath and held it. Glancing into the backseat, she caught San’s eyes sliding off her own, and Trevor looking quickly away—as if she had caught them watching to see if she understood.

“Open the cage and free the little birdies,” Balfour sang softly, eyeing her.

The hair rose on the back of her neck, but Skey tried to make it casual. “What d’you guys want to do in there?” she asked. “Murder us all in our beds?”

“Pleasure,” muttered Balfour. Rosie rolled her eyes and giggled.

Gently Jigger pulled her around to face him. “Night Games,” he said, stroking her neck. “You know us, come and go. No one’ll know we’ve been there except you.”

“So this isn’t going to turn into one of Balfour’s fantasies?” Skey asked slowly.

Jigger laughed shortly. “We want to see where you live,” he said, “not get thrown in the slammer. You think
we
want to do time in a lockup?”

On the radio, a song ended and the twelve thirty news came on. “Elwin Serkowski,” said the announcer, “the young man who survived a gang beating yesterday afternoon has regained consciousness, but he’s not talking. Apparently, he isn’t saying a word. Police are asking anyone with information...”