missing the bus I hear a female voice in the background mumble something about popcorn. “In a few minutes, Mom,” Christine replies. “I’m on the phone.”
“How is your mom anyway?” I’m glad to have the focus off me but that’s not the only reason I’m asking. I really do want Christine to feel like we can talk. Behind those concerns a large portion of my brain is still obsessing about the guy on Walmer Road and I tighten my grip on the phone and begin pacing my room, restless like a caged thing.
Christine hesitates. “She’s okay.” Christine drops her voice to a feathery whisper. “She … it was just a panic attack. She’s been under a lot of stress because she …”
I stop walking and give Christine my full attention.
“She … lost her job last summer.”
People never know the right thing to say when they hear I lost my father and I don’t know the right thing now but at least Christine’s mother is still around. “I’m glad she’s all right,” I venture. “So … you two are watching a movie? I heard her say something about popcorn.” From what I
do
know of Christine she wouldn’t want me to feel sorry for her.
Christine’s tone brightens. “She’s a total popcorn nut. If she has to go more than two nights in a row without it she has to rush out to the supermarket. But anyway, we were just going to watch
MacGyver
.”
That sounds nice and I smile into the phone. “Okay, well, I don’t want to make you miss it.”
“See you tomorrow, then?” Christine asks, because after all, I’m supposed to be sick.
“
Oh
. Yeah. I think I’ll be better by then. See you tomorrow.”
As I hang up I feel an odd flutter of satisfaction in the pit of my stomach.
Christine trusts me
. But it’s not long before I’m lost in thoughts of the boy on Walmer Road again. If anyone could read my mind I’d be embarrassed. To have trailed a strange boy home and then prowled around his street is beyond simple crush behavior. The rational side of me knows that as well as anyone else would but the other side won’t give way—today it’s in charge.
As the night wears on I climb into bed where I toss and turn for hours, sleepless, before opening my drapes to stareat the moon overhead. The very same moon that presided over rampaging dinosaurs millions of years ago.
My mind begins to melt with thoughts of mass extinction, just as it did at the museum earlier. I sweat through my pajama top and have to change into a T-shirt.
When I curl up in a ball under the covers again, the image of the green-eyed boy feels like comfort.
Like home
. Calmed, I drift into a dream that feels every bit as real as the majority of my waking life.
In the dream the world is a different place but the moon is the same, as close to eternal as any of us can comprehend.
In the dream I live in an old house—a mansion filled with unexplainable objects that I don’t question. Not all of the people within my dreamworld are human. But everywhere, the air is rife with fear and uncertainty.
In this dream place, which is here but not here, I stare through a looking glass at a tall boy with dirty-blond hair. He’s a close friend or maybe even family, someone I’ve always known. He’s protected me, consoled me. He’s someone I can’t do without but I can’t reach him. The looking glass serves as a fence—it keeps us apart.
He’s not himself. He snarls at me through the glass, gnashing his teeth as he lunges.
He detests me. The fire inside him wants to destroy everything. It hates without end and that should scare me but it only makes me sad.
I’m inconsolable at the thought of living in the world without him. I need him back.
When I wake up I’m crying like a child. Sobs rack my body and I can’t catch my breath. The noise is loud enough that I’m afraid it will wake my mother or Olivia and I grab my pillow and weep into it. For the blond boy from my dream. For everything my heart feels it’s lost.
The pain
“How is your mom anyway?” I’m glad to have the focus off me but that’s not the only reason I’m asking. I really do want Christine to feel like we can talk. Behind those concerns a large portion of my brain is still obsessing about the guy on Walmer Road and I tighten my grip on the phone and begin pacing my room, restless like a caged thing.
Christine hesitates. “She’s okay.” Christine drops her voice to a feathery whisper. “She … it was just a panic attack. She’s been under a lot of stress because she …”
I stop walking and give Christine my full attention.
“She … lost her job last summer.”
People never know the right thing to say when they hear I lost my father and I don’t know the right thing now but at least Christine’s mother is still around. “I’m glad she’s all right,” I venture. “So … you two are watching a movie? I heard her say something about popcorn.” From what I
do
know of Christine she wouldn’t want me to feel sorry for her.
Christine’s tone brightens. “She’s a total popcorn nut. If she has to go more than two nights in a row without it she has to rush out to the supermarket. But anyway, we were just going to watch
MacGyver
.”
That sounds nice and I smile into the phone. “Okay, well, I don’t want to make you miss it.”
“See you tomorrow, then?” Christine asks, because after all, I’m supposed to be sick.
“
Oh
. Yeah. I think I’ll be better by then. See you tomorrow.”
As I hang up I feel an odd flutter of satisfaction in the pit of my stomach.
Christine trusts me
. But it’s not long before I’m lost in thoughts of the boy on Walmer Road again. If anyone could read my mind I’d be embarrassed. To have trailed a strange boy home and then prowled around his street is beyond simple crush behavior. The rational side of me knows that as well as anyone else would but the other side won’t give way—today it’s in charge.
As the night wears on I climb into bed where I toss and turn for hours, sleepless, before opening my drapes to stareat the moon overhead. The very same moon that presided over rampaging dinosaurs millions of years ago.
My mind begins to melt with thoughts of mass extinction, just as it did at the museum earlier. I sweat through my pajama top and have to change into a T-shirt.
When I curl up in a ball under the covers again, the image of the green-eyed boy feels like comfort.
Like home
. Calmed, I drift into a dream that feels every bit as real as the majority of my waking life.
In the dream the world is a different place but the moon is the same, as close to eternal as any of us can comprehend.
In the dream I live in an old house—a mansion filled with unexplainable objects that I don’t question. Not all of the people within my dreamworld are human. But everywhere, the air is rife with fear and uncertainty.
In this dream place, which is here but not here, I stare through a looking glass at a tall boy with dirty-blond hair. He’s a close friend or maybe even family, someone I’ve always known. He’s protected me, consoled me. He’s someone I can’t do without but I can’t reach him. The looking glass serves as a fence—it keeps us apart.
He’s not himself. He snarls at me through the glass, gnashing his teeth as he lunges.
He detests me. The fire inside him wants to destroy everything. It hates without end and that should scare me but it only makes me sad.
I’m inconsolable at the thought of living in the world without him. I need him back.
When I wake up I’m crying like a child. Sobs rack my body and I can’t catch my breath. The noise is loud enough that I’m afraid it will wake my mother or Olivia and I grab my pillow and weep into it. For the blond boy from my dream. For everything my heart feels it’s lost.
The pain
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