Servants of the Storm by Delilah S. Dawson Page A

trying to remember a dream. But my feet know where to go, so I let them take me there.
    I turn a corner into a pitch-black alley, and someone knocks into me so hard that I almost fall over. Heavy hands fall on my shoulders. I flail around, screeching and clawing at the air and wishing I had my pepper spray, or my keys at the ready, or something in my hands. I should know better.
    “Jesus, Dovey, where were you?” Baker says, his fingers gently squeezing my shoulders like he’s not sure I’m real. “I was freaking out!”
    I wrench out of his grasp feeling shaken and irritated.
    “I told you I had to go somewhere.” It comes out overly prissy, but I can only hope he won’t press for further details that I can’t provide because I don’t know them myself. I’m sure of only one thing: there was something I needed to do, some reason I left rehearsal. But I can’t remember where I’ve been or why, nothing since I walked out the door of the Liberty.
    “Oh, yeah. Your secret quest.” He grins and slings an arm around my shoulder. “Getting me a present, I hope.”
    “Your birthday’s not until May,” I grouch, and he laughs.
    “My unbirthday, then.”
    “I’ll put that on my uncalendar.”
    He’s closer than he should be, and his arm feels strange on my shoulders. He should have let go by now. With his Caliban makeup still on and his hair full of twigs, he looks otherworldly, and the too bright way he’s looking at me makes the world spinslightly off balance. I shrug away, and he mutters “Cool” and slouches around to his side of the car. We both get in, and his fingers flicker restlessly against the dash.
    “So what happened in rehearsal?” he asks. His voice is deeper than I remember.
    I have to think for a minute before it comes back to me.
    “Oh. Mrs. Rosewater got all bajiggity, asking me if I was on my meds. So I got mad and stormed out. End of story.”
    “Where’d you go?”
    Rattled at my fuzzy memories, I exhale through my nose. “Went for a walk to cool off.”
    He nods but doesn’t say anything else. As I drive the quiet streets, he watches me thoughtfully in the dark spaces between streetlights. Soon I’m pulling up to his house, just a few streets over from my own. I’m on autopilot again. Just a little numb. But deeply bothered by something I can’t quite recall.
    “Hey, Dovey? Can I tell you something?”
    I turn to face him, and he’s just as intent, just as wild as he was in the little hall at the Liberty. The details are coming back to me: his blueberry-bright eyes, the magic in the air, Tamika’s kindness, Jasmine’s dig, my too small leotard, the fox-hat girl, Mrs. Rosewater’s hand on my shoulder, something about Old Murph. But I’m still a little dazed.
    “Sure,” I say.
    “Whatever you’re doing differently, keep doing it. Okay?”
    I snort. “Yeah, I’ll keep tripping on togas and storming offstageduring dress rehearsal. That’ll be great for the play.” I’m glad he can’t see me blushing in the dark.
    “I’m just saying . . . I mean . . .”
    Baker turns away, and I stare at his profile. The bones of his face are more defined, the baby fat almost gone. His half-monster Caliban makeup highlights the sharpness of his cheeks and chin, the furrow in his brow. I’ve never seen him look so serious, so adult. In my mind he’s a perpetual little boy, always pudgy, always laughing, filled with sass but so earnest. What I see there, in my memory—it’s not real. He’s someone else now.
    He turns back to me with a fierce light in his eyes and says, “Look, it was hard as hell losing Carly. And then I lost you, too. It’s just good to have you back, to see you being yourself again. And if you want to talk about it, I’m here.”
    “Thanks.” I know he wants me to say more, but I can’t.
    He waits, watching me. But that’s all I’ve got. I shrug. He nods in good-natured defeat and slides out of the car. Before he shuts the door, he leans in and