moment you realize you’re free.
It turned out there was an entire world waiting for me beyond those familiar pizzeria doors—just like Patrick promised—a world made up of old memories and dreams, some of which belonged to me and some of which did not. Smells were smellier. Colors were brighter. Chocolate was chocolatier. Days were longer, and nights were draped in starlight like I’d never even imagined.
The whole place was one big
Choose Your Own Adventure
novel. I slept when I felt tired (pizza booths are pretty comfortable, actually) and ate when I felt hungry and skipped when I felt like skipping. There was a theater down the road from Slice that only played my favorite movies, like
When Harry Met Sally
and
Sleepless in Seattle
and
You’ve Got Mail
and
Across the Universe
and (come on, don’t judge me)
Beauty and the Beast
. There was even a water park nearby with tons of different slides and a giant wave pool and the most amazing lazy river where I could nap in my inner tube all day, floating and drifting along in the sunshine.
But the real fun started when I learned how to make wishes. I mean
real
wishes. The kind where you squeeze your eyes shut and imagine the most insanely perfect beach and the most insanely perfect hammock, and then when you open your eyes, it’s all right there in front of you. I wished for a potbellied pig. I wished to horseback ride through green, grassy meadows and fall asleep under the stars. I even wished for Patrick to teach me how to surf—hilarious, considering he’s the least surfer-boy type of person ever and wouldn’t even take his bomber jacket off in the water.
“You’re weird, you know that?” I called to him from my board.
“So what?” he called back. “It helps me stay afloat!”
We sat on our boards until dawn, making fun of each other until the sun rose, all golden and perfect and peaceful.
The best part was, every single wish came true. Every single wish was better than the one before it. There were no worries. There were no problems or nightmares or troubles or fears. It wasn’t real life.
It was
better
.
Then one morning in the middle of breakfast—which in this case happened to be an Oreo milk shake—Patrick asked me a question that changed everything.
“So, do you want to get back at him?”
I paused, mid-slurp. Looked up. “What do you mean? Get back at who?”
He groaned and fell over on the table. “Seriously, Cleopatra? You’ve seriously already forgotten?”
Huh? What am I supposed to be remembering? And why’s he calling me Cleopatra?
He smacked his head when I didn’t answer. “My dear, you continue to amaze me.”
“Why?”
He reached over and grabbed my shake. “You’ve got Phase One
bad,
kid. Real bad. Luckily, you’re sort of cute when you’re in denial.” He took a slurp from the straw. “Oh, that is GOOD.”
“Hey!” I swatted at him. “Get your own!” My eyes wandered to his outfit, as they did from time to time, and I found myself cracking a smile.
He caught me staring. “What’s so funny?”
“Nothing.” I shook my head. “Never mind.”
“No.” He was suddenly interested. “Say it.”
I bit my lip. “It’s just that, um, jacket.”
He looked down. “What’s wrong with it?”
“Oh, nothing.” I stifled a giggle. “I mean, if you’re a fighter pilot. And it’s 1982.”
His mouth fell open. “I resent that. And anyway, like I’m about to take advice from a girl named after a big hunk of cheese.” He shook his head. “So as I was about to say before you went all Fashion Police on me: Does the word
payback
mean anything to you?”
I paused. “What, like revenge?”
“Sharp as a tack today, aren’t you, Cheeseball?”
“All right, enough with all the cheese jokes,” I said. “What about revenge?”
“Well,” he said, grinning. “I just thought, maybe you’d like to have a little fun is all.”
“And who, may I ask, are we revenging upon?”
“Oh, you know, Snuggle
It turned out there was an entire world waiting for me beyond those familiar pizzeria doors—just like Patrick promised—a world made up of old memories and dreams, some of which belonged to me and some of which did not. Smells were smellier. Colors were brighter. Chocolate was chocolatier. Days were longer, and nights were draped in starlight like I’d never even imagined.
The whole place was one big
Choose Your Own Adventure
novel. I slept when I felt tired (pizza booths are pretty comfortable, actually) and ate when I felt hungry and skipped when I felt like skipping. There was a theater down the road from Slice that only played my favorite movies, like
When Harry Met Sally
and
Sleepless in Seattle
and
You’ve Got Mail
and
Across the Universe
and (come on, don’t judge me)
Beauty and the Beast
. There was even a water park nearby with tons of different slides and a giant wave pool and the most amazing lazy river where I could nap in my inner tube all day, floating and drifting along in the sunshine.
But the real fun started when I learned how to make wishes. I mean
real
wishes. The kind where you squeeze your eyes shut and imagine the most insanely perfect beach and the most insanely perfect hammock, and then when you open your eyes, it’s all right there in front of you. I wished for a potbellied pig. I wished to horseback ride through green, grassy meadows and fall asleep under the stars. I even wished for Patrick to teach me how to surf—hilarious, considering he’s the least surfer-boy type of person ever and wouldn’t even take his bomber jacket off in the water.
“You’re weird, you know that?” I called to him from my board.
“So what?” he called back. “It helps me stay afloat!”
We sat on our boards until dawn, making fun of each other until the sun rose, all golden and perfect and peaceful.
The best part was, every single wish came true. Every single wish was better than the one before it. There were no worries. There were no problems or nightmares or troubles or fears. It wasn’t real life.
It was
better
.
Then one morning in the middle of breakfast—which in this case happened to be an Oreo milk shake—Patrick asked me a question that changed everything.
“So, do you want to get back at him?”
I paused, mid-slurp. Looked up. “What do you mean? Get back at who?”
He groaned and fell over on the table. “Seriously, Cleopatra? You’ve seriously already forgotten?”
Huh? What am I supposed to be remembering? And why’s he calling me Cleopatra?
He smacked his head when I didn’t answer. “My dear, you continue to amaze me.”
“Why?”
He reached over and grabbed my shake. “You’ve got Phase One
bad,
kid. Real bad. Luckily, you’re sort of cute when you’re in denial.” He took a slurp from the straw. “Oh, that is GOOD.”
“Hey!” I swatted at him. “Get your own!” My eyes wandered to his outfit, as they did from time to time, and I found myself cracking a smile.
He caught me staring. “What’s so funny?”
“Nothing.” I shook my head. “Never mind.”
“No.” He was suddenly interested. “Say it.”
I bit my lip. “It’s just that, um, jacket.”
He looked down. “What’s wrong with it?”
“Oh, nothing.” I stifled a giggle. “I mean, if you’re a fighter pilot. And it’s 1982.”
His mouth fell open. “I resent that. And anyway, like I’m about to take advice from a girl named after a big hunk of cheese.” He shook his head. “So as I was about to say before you went all Fashion Police on me: Does the word
payback
mean anything to you?”
I paused. “What, like revenge?”
“Sharp as a tack today, aren’t you, Cheeseball?”
“All right, enough with all the cheese jokes,” I said. “What about revenge?”
“Well,” he said, grinning. “I just thought, maybe you’d like to have a little fun is all.”
“And who, may I ask, are we revenging upon?”
“Oh, you know, Snuggle
Similar Books
