asks me questions—all kinds. About the places I’ve lived and the books I’ve read and the things that make me laugh. I’m positive I’m boring him, but he listens like he’s riveted. Like the things I say are the most interesting things a person could hear.
I ask him questions, too. He tells me about the time his first and only pet—a Bernese Mountain dog named Jack—ran away. He tells me about his first trip to the ER, when he ended up with thirteen stitches on his right elbow after attempting a barspin on his buddy’s BMX. He tells me about his favorite birthday to date—when he turned eight and his dad not only bought him a surfboard, but taught him how to use it. Luka rode his first wave on his fourth try and never looked back. The thrill was addicting. Listening to him talk about it makes me want to surf. He says someday he’ll teach me. I’ve never been more eager for someday .
Later in the afternoon, Luka starts to doze. I let him. After the lack of sleep he’s gotten over the past two days, he has to be exhausted. I lay on my stomach next to him, safely tucked away on my side of the mattress. When his breathing turns soft and rhythmic, I can’t help myself. I stare, fascinated by the relaxed way his arm curls over his head. The long, dark eyelashes fanning his cheek. The straightness of his nose, the flatness of his abs, the thin strip of exposed flesh between the hem of his shirt and the waist of his jeans.
My heart thrums faster.
Luka stirs.
I look away. I will not have him waking up to me staring. How creepy can a girl get? I page through the dream journals, my mind rabbit-trailing in a thousand different directions—my parents, Pete, Leela, Luka, and where I’d be if he hadn’t gone to Dr. Roth for help. I envision Dr. Roth swinging on the noose and then my grandmother, shackled inside a white box of a room, and suddenly, I am somewhere else. I’m still lying on the motel’s bed, because I can feel my body against the mattress. But I must be somewhere else, too, because the bed is surrounded by a bright circle of sentinel-like creatures.
Each one radiates the same light that Luka threw out with his hands, only their entire bodies glow with it. Beyond the circle is the man who calls me Little Rabbit. The man who no longer has one scar, but two. The second one is angry and red, running the length of his once unmarked cheek. He’s surrounded by an entire army of white-eyed men, and he’s directing them like a puppeteer, flinging out his hands so they charge at me over and over and over again, gnashing their teeth as they attack. The bright light keeps them away.
But surely, it is only a matter of time before one of them breaks through.
“Tess.” Someone shakes my shoulder. “Tess!”
My eyelids flutter. The light and the army disappear. I am lying in bed, surrounded by nothing but cheap motel décor. I sit up so fast my head spins. Somehow, the clock reads 8:55. I’m not sure how it’s possible, since I’m positive I never fell asleep. I was never unaware of my body on that bed. Yet three whole hours passed like a snap.
“Are you okay?” Luka asks, his hand on my arm.
My heart beats wildly. “Yeah. I’m fine.”
Luka’s face fills with the same suspicion I felt when he shrugged off my question about his nightmare. He will want to know what happened, but how can I tell him when I have no idea what happened myself? Was that real, what I saw? I scoot off the bed and pick up the phone from the nightstand. “It’s time to call Leela.”
*
My heart doesn’t settle down. Not when we call Leela and not when we prepare for her arrival. We make quick work of packing up our stuff, put all of our garbage in the two plastic bags from Walgreens, and check the place meticulously for any clues we might leave behind that would tip off the housecleaning staff that Motel California was unknowingly aiding and abetting a highly, deranged and dangerous, escaped mental patient. Luka stuffs
I ask him questions, too. He tells me about the time his first and only pet—a Bernese Mountain dog named Jack—ran away. He tells me about his first trip to the ER, when he ended up with thirteen stitches on his right elbow after attempting a barspin on his buddy’s BMX. He tells me about his favorite birthday to date—when he turned eight and his dad not only bought him a surfboard, but taught him how to use it. Luka rode his first wave on his fourth try and never looked back. The thrill was addicting. Listening to him talk about it makes me want to surf. He says someday he’ll teach me. I’ve never been more eager for someday .
Later in the afternoon, Luka starts to doze. I let him. After the lack of sleep he’s gotten over the past two days, he has to be exhausted. I lay on my stomach next to him, safely tucked away on my side of the mattress. When his breathing turns soft and rhythmic, I can’t help myself. I stare, fascinated by the relaxed way his arm curls over his head. The long, dark eyelashes fanning his cheek. The straightness of his nose, the flatness of his abs, the thin strip of exposed flesh between the hem of his shirt and the waist of his jeans.
My heart thrums faster.
Luka stirs.
I look away. I will not have him waking up to me staring. How creepy can a girl get? I page through the dream journals, my mind rabbit-trailing in a thousand different directions—my parents, Pete, Leela, Luka, and where I’d be if he hadn’t gone to Dr. Roth for help. I envision Dr. Roth swinging on the noose and then my grandmother, shackled inside a white box of a room, and suddenly, I am somewhere else. I’m still lying on the motel’s bed, because I can feel my body against the mattress. But I must be somewhere else, too, because the bed is surrounded by a bright circle of sentinel-like creatures.
Each one radiates the same light that Luka threw out with his hands, only their entire bodies glow with it. Beyond the circle is the man who calls me Little Rabbit. The man who no longer has one scar, but two. The second one is angry and red, running the length of his once unmarked cheek. He’s surrounded by an entire army of white-eyed men, and he’s directing them like a puppeteer, flinging out his hands so they charge at me over and over and over again, gnashing their teeth as they attack. The bright light keeps them away.
But surely, it is only a matter of time before one of them breaks through.
“Tess.” Someone shakes my shoulder. “Tess!”
My eyelids flutter. The light and the army disappear. I am lying in bed, surrounded by nothing but cheap motel décor. I sit up so fast my head spins. Somehow, the clock reads 8:55. I’m not sure how it’s possible, since I’m positive I never fell asleep. I was never unaware of my body on that bed. Yet three whole hours passed like a snap.
“Are you okay?” Luka asks, his hand on my arm.
My heart beats wildly. “Yeah. I’m fine.”
Luka’s face fills with the same suspicion I felt when he shrugged off my question about his nightmare. He will want to know what happened, but how can I tell him when I have no idea what happened myself? Was that real, what I saw? I scoot off the bed and pick up the phone from the nightstand. “It’s time to call Leela.”
*
My heart doesn’t settle down. Not when we call Leela and not when we prepare for her arrival. We make quick work of packing up our stuff, put all of our garbage in the two plastic bags from Walgreens, and check the place meticulously for any clues we might leave behind that would tip off the housecleaning staff that Motel California was unknowingly aiding and abetting a highly, deranged and dangerous, escaped mental patient. Luka stuffs
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