by Amy Martin
Chapter 7
I try to wrap my head around what Kieran’s said. “So, you dream about the future and it happens?”
“Kind of.”
“Do you dream SAT scores?” I blurt out. “Please tell me you dream SAT scores. I’d love to know in advance how I’m going to do on that thing.”
I wish my bizarre sense of humor wouldn’t kick in when I’m nervous, but relief washes over me when Kieran looks up and grins. “Nope. In fact, now that you bring it up, I’m kind of pissed. Seriously—all the things I dream about, and I can’t dream about stuff like that? What the hell?”
“But you said you only kind of dream about the future,” I point out.
“Yeah. I guess it’s different than having a premonition of something, because from what I’ve read about premonitions, people dream or get visions of entire scenes or incidents and stuff, and that’s not what happens to me at all. I just get little flashes. It’s like trying to read a book and finding out pages are missing. Like, I had a dream a few months before we moved here and saw part of our house—the front door and the porch area. But I didn’t really dream anything else. I didn’t dream my parents picking out the house or anything.”
“So did you tell your parents when you came here ‘Hey—I’ve seen our house before?’”
“I mentioned the dream after we moved, but even if I’d said something before they started house hunting, it’s not like they would’ve made a decision based on what I told them. I mean, sometimes I dream things that don’t happen at all, so I can’t exactly predict the future or anything.”
My brow wrinkles as I concentrate. “So you still have free will, basically. You don’t dream things completely enough to prepare or try to change the future.”
“Exactly. I only saw part of the house, so it’s not like I could have led us right to it if I’d come here with them when they were looking for places to live. In fact, after we moved, I’d been in the house for about fifteen minutes before it sunk in that I’d seen part of the place before, because all I get are these little blips. So if I did dream about your SAT scores, I’d probably only dream your math scores or something like that.”
I look away, out the windshield and across the river at the outline of the swaying trees, trying to collect my thoughts. “So how are you sure you’re really dreaming the future before it happens?” I ask. “Like you said, everybody gets a sort of ‘Yeah—I think I had a dream about this once’ moment sometimes. How do you know all your dreams aren’t random instead of just some of them?”
Kieran folds his arms over his chest, making me worry for a second that he might be mad at me for challenging him, but when he starts talking again, I can see his breath and I realize he’s probably just cold. “The dreams sort of come in waves with, like, patterns to them,” he explains. “I mean, sometimes, I’ll just get a flash of something—like the front door to our house—and I’ll see it later. Maybe that’s totally random. But other times, I’ll dream the same thing or the same types of things over and over, and they’ll show up in real life.”
“Okay,” I say, voice flat, and he gives me an example without my needing to ask.
“I’ll tell you about how I first noticed it. My dad’s always encouraged me to keep a dream journal. So whenever I dream, I try to write down what happened or draw pictures of things as soon as I can. I’ve got a whole bunch of notebooks at home going all the way back to when I was eight or so. Anyway, in fifth grade, I started having these dreams about Kayla getting a medal for something. Not too long after, she joined a track club and was starting to race about every other month. When I looked back over my journals after her first several meets, I noticed every time Kayla medaled, I’d dreamt about her medaling a few weeks before.”
“How did Kayla react?” I wonder aloud, because I don’t think I’d like knowing the outcome of one of my games beforehand.
“Well, at first I didn’t tell her, because I wasn’t sure what I was seeing. Once I recognized the pattern, I told her after one of her races. And, I mean, in the dreams, she’s just getting a medal, but I can never tell what kind, so I don’t know if she’s actually won the race or if she’s getting one of those medals they give out sometimes to everybody who finishes. Anyway, she made me swear never to say anything to her because she didn’t want to know about her races before she ran them. So I put everything in my dream journal and we don’t talk about it.”
Once Kieran’s finished his explanation, I wrack my brain for something appropriate to say, but nothing comes.
“It’s okay if you don’t believe me,” he says, cutting through my awkward silence. “If I were you, I wouldn’t buy this, either. I mean, I’m not all that sure my parents and Kayla really believe this happens, so I definitely don’t expect you to. But they’ve always told me not to tell people—I guess so people don’t get even more freaked out by me than they already are—so it’s like this…thing I’ve been carrying around for so long. Whether you believe me or not, just talking about it is sort of a relief.”
Honestly, I’m not sure I believe Kieran dreams the future, but what I believe doesn’t matter. He believes, and because he’s my friend—and because I’m the first person outside his family he’s chosen to trust with this information—then I should support him in that belief. After all, thinking you dream things before they happen isn’t actually harmful or anything. If he were sitting here telling me he believed he was a superhero and tomorrow he was planning on Kayla driving him to the Sears Tower so he could leap off the top and soar over Chicago fighting crime, then maybe I’d tell him I didn’t believe him. And I’d also suggest he and his dad have a long talk less of the father-son variety and more of the counselor-patient type. But believing you kind of sort of maybe get a small glimpse of the future sometimes? That’s no big thing.
“I believe you.”
“Really?” he whispers, his eyes so wide I’m a little afraid his eyelids might turn inside out. “Because this is way out there—I get that.”
“I don’t have any reason to think you’re messing with me. So it’s cool. Talk to me about this kind of stuff whenever you want.”
“Thanks,” he says, exhaling as if he’s been holding his breath for years. “That means…you have no idea…”
“Kieran, we’re friends. You can tell me anything.”
On my mention of us being friends, his face darkens a little, and I know I’ve said the wrong thing. But before I can think of what to do to rewind the moment, Kieran’s pulled his phone from his coat pocket to check the time. “Okay. I’m so dead. And I’m freezing.” The cold makes his words almost visible as they leave his mouth. “You should probably take me home.”
In silent agreement, I start the car, turn the defrosters on, and back away from the water so I can pull forward and around in a semi-circle to drive us up the hill toward the main road.
“I promise I won’t tell anyone what we talked about,” I assure him as I ease out onto the blacktop and gun the engine.
“I appreciate that. If anybody else knew about this…”
He doesn’t continue, but I understand. Kieran’s already the school weirdo, fair or not. Some rumor going around that he knows the future won’t win him any new friends unless he can prove he dreams about pop quizzes or chem lab results.
We ride along in silence and in minutes, we’re approaching the Laniers’ driveway. I glance sideways, expecting Kieran’s head to be drooped forward, the stress of an almost certain parental confrontation causing him to drift off. But he’s sitting up straight, eyes wide open and staring ahead into the darkness.
“Want me to come in with you?” I offer, pulling up next to Kayla’s Jeep and cutting the engine. “Maybe they’ll go easy on you if I’m here.”
Kieran turns to me, mouth scrunched up in a grateful pout. “You don’t need to get home?”
“My mom will understand.”
“I wish I had your mom,” he mumbles, before raising his voice to a normal level. �
��Are you sure?”
“Yeah,” I insist, although I’m not really sure at all, but I’m desperate to do something to make up for my “we’re friends” comment at the river.
A tiny smile pulls at the corner of his mouth. “Okay.”
We get out of the car and walk together towards the house, the moonlight bouncing off the beveled window in the front door, and I wonder whether Kieran viewed this scene in his head for the first time at night as we’re seeing it now. I don’t get the chance to ask as Kieran pulls a key from a pocket on the side of his backpack and jogs up the three steps to the porch. He unlocks the door and lets us in to a hallway I remember from the million or so times I came over here before Mr. McCaffery’s death, the same heavy wooden panel still set into the wall with five coat hooks, three of which are already occupied.
“Here,” Kieran offers, holding his hands out to me after dropping his backpack to the floor. I realize he’s offering to take my coat, and I wriggle my arms free from the sleeves as he grabs the coat by the collar and hangs it up next to one I recognize as Kayla’s.
“Kieran.”
A baritone behind me makes me jump. I turn around to find myself a few feet from a man standing just outside the entryway to the living room. And he doesn’t look too happy.
