The Space Between by Brenna Yovanoff Page A

wanted to show him. In the dream, his mother would still be in her hospital bed, surrounded by tubes and monitors. The room would be too small and too cold, just like it had when she’d lain dying in the ICU at Mount Sinai. He could almost smell the antiseptic and the sour, acrid smell of disease. He could picture her face—horribly, painfully thin—and he knew that when she opened her eyes, the corneas would be a sick, faded yellow.
    He pulled his knees up and ground the heels of his hands hard against his eyelids. “I’m already awake,” he said aloud. “I’m not dreaming, so get out of my room.”
    “Are you sure about that?”
    “I’m sure .” Truman’s voice sounded hoarse, and as soon as he said it, he began to doubt himself.
    The man just laughed a low, ugly laugh. It rose and faded, then disappeared altogether as the closet door swung shut. The room was quiet.
    Then a truck rumbled by outside and Truman came suddenly, violently awake. He flailed up from the mattress, kicking at the sheets, trying to untangle himself.
    His hands were shaking and every time he blinked, he could see the black-haired girl, flashing that silver smile, whispering his name, but it was all mixed up with the voice from the closet and he needed more than anything to drown out that slow laughter.
    He rolled out of the bed and crossed the room to the desk, where he dug through the drawers until he found an unopened can of High Frequency. It was room temperature and tasted like cough syrup, but it had more active ingredients than any other energy drink at the Stop-N-Go.
    In the last year, he’d gotten pretty good at not sleeping. There were cold showers, cigarettes, caffeine pills, and black coffee. At school, he lived on nicotine and adrenaline, pounding energy shots at his locker or smoking behind the dumpsters between classes. It only lasted so long, though. Eventually, you had to sleep.
    He drank the High Frequency, wincing at the taste. Then he got dressed. He started a load of laundry so his stepdad, Charlie, wouldn’t have to. He made the bed and brushed his teeth and combed his hair—all the little things a person did when they weren’t crazy. He didn’t go near the closet.
    In the kitchen, Truman found Charlie sitting at the table in his undershirt and eating cold pasta out of a plastic container. He’d peeled his coverall down to his waist and was reading the newspaper. Truman squeezed past his chair and they nodded at each other. Charlie worked the graveyard shift at Spofford Metals, and didn’t usually get home until eight or nine in the morning, and by then, Truman had usually left for school. Their lives ran more or less adjacent, but rarely intersected.
    “Hey now,” Charlie said, setting down his paper without looking up. “Shouldn’t you be at school? I thought we talked about this.”
    “It’s spring break.” Truman dropped a fresh filter in the coffee maker. “It’s been spring break for like five days.”
    “Huh.” Charlie nodded vaguely, hunching over his pasta. “Any big plans?”
    “Not really. Maybe I’ll hit the library later—got a project for biology.”
    They both knew it was a lie, but neither of them said anything. It was the kind of lie that just made life much easier for both of them.
    Truman drank his coffee and ate a handful of dry cereal, telling himself he didn’t care about the way that he and Charlie ignored each other. By the time Charlie had finished his dinner and left Truman sitting alone in the kitchen, he almost believed it.
    He poured another cup of coffee and drank it, even though he was starting to feel uncomfortably wired. Then he left the apartment.
    Out in the stairwell, he stood with his back against the wall, trying to decide what to do. He could be responsible for once and actually go to the library, but that might be a bad idea. It was quiet there, and warm, and if he sat down at one of the study tables he was going to fall asleep. He pressed his cheek against