Dreamers Often Lie

by Jacqueline West

  “Focus,” warned Mr. Ellison, strolling through the aisle between us. “Put your gloves on. Take out your scalpels.”

  “Want me to start?” Emma offered briskly.

  I stared at the frog’s delicate yellow underside. “It seems kind of mean, doesn’t it? That it died just for us to do this, and then we won’t even touch it with our bare hands.” I brushed one fingertip over its belly. The skin slid with my touch like a silk water balloon.

  Emma gave a skeptical sigh. “Yeah. Okay. I’ll cut.”

  She pulled the scalpel through the skin, and I pinned it gently to the tar at the bottom of the pan. The vinegary smell grew stronger.

  “Start identifying the organs,” said Mr. Ellison. “You should be able to see the lungs, the heart, the liver . . .”

  Something gray and grizzled brushed my cheek.

  I turned. Three old women craned over my shoulder. Dirt clung to their matted hair. Smoke seemed to rise from their ragged black clothes. “Stomach, pancreas, small intestine,” they incanted, but it was Mr. Ellison’s voice coming from their mouths. “Eye of newt and toe of frog . . .”

  I jerked. My hand hit the edge of the pan, and Emma’s scalpel slashed out of line, straight through the frog’s stomach. Emma gasped.

  “Sorry.” I could barely hear myself over the watery thunder in my head. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”

  The three witches were gone. Mr. Ellison moved closer.

  “Careful there, Miss Kraus. You’re not giving the frog a gastric bypass.” He sauntered on to the next table. “Interesting. This one’s liver is substantially enlarged . . .”

  “I’m so sorry,” I told Emma again. “My hand just slipped.”

  “It’s fine,” she said tightly. “Just hold it still so I can make the next cut.”

  I clenched the sides of the cool metal pan with both hands. Six and a half more hours until rehearsal. Try to act like a sane person until then. Just pretend.

  Across the room, the intercom buzzed.

  “Mr. Ellison?” said an amplified voice. “Would you please send Jaye Stuart to Mrs. Silverberg’s office?”

  I froze. Had anyone else heard this voice?

  Several pairs of eyes flicked toward me. Mr. Ellison gave me a drowsy blink. “All right, Miss Stuart. You’ll just have to catch up on what you’ve missed tomorrow.”

  I reached for my book bag. “Sorry, Emma,” I said one more time, although she actually looked relieved to see me go.

  Once I was out of the anatomy room, I let my face slip. Nausea and panic bubbled inside me. For a second, I was tempted to go to the nurse’s office instead of the counselor’s, to put on my best quietly tragic sick face—my toned-down Camille face—and let her make the decision to send me home.

  No. Rehearsal. Six hours and twenty-five minutes to go.

  I stacked the bones of my spine into a column, like we did in warm-ups. Each vertebra sliding into place. Skull balanced on top, lightly, like it was hanging from a string. Then I headed toward the second floor.

  The counselors’ offices were lined up in a row. Name plates glinted on the battered wooden doors. Before I could stretch out the final few steps, the third door in Counselor’s Row flew open.

  “Jaye!” Mrs. Silverberg beamed out at me. “Good to see you! Come on inside!”

  I flattened my face into a pleasant blank and squeezed past her into the room.

  Mrs. Silverberg’s office was a small blue box. The walls were coated with inspirational posters of stock nature photos and Zen sayings. A dark wood desk and three upholstered armchairs took up most of the floor space. I settled myself on one puffy seat.

  “So!” said Mrs. Silverberg, plunking down on the other side of her desk and clasping her ring-glittery hands. “You’ve finished one full day and come back for more!”

  I widened my smile slightly. “Yep. I’m back.”

  “That’s fantastic!” From her tone, you would have thought we were discussing plans for a surprise party. “And how has it been going?”

  “Fine.” I made my smile even wider. “I mean, I’ve got a lot to catch up on, but everyone’s been really understanding.”

  “And you’re feeling good about coming back so quickly?”

  I flexed the corners of my mouth, trying to keep the smile from going tight. “Yes. I’m really, really glad to be back.”

  Mrs. Silverberg nodded. “That’s nice to hear. Well, if you do feel that you need some additional time or help, just let us know. Some of your teachers are concerned that your regular schedule might be pushing you too hard.”

  Who’s concerned? Mr. Hall? I corked the questions. No fear on your face. Keep your voice calm. “No, I’m fine. I wanted to get back to my regular schedule.”

  “Of course.” Mrs. Silverberg braced her chin on one glittery fist. “We just want you to know that if you need a little leeway—extra assistance, or extended deadlines, or a break from certain activities—the staff here would understand. And we’re all one hundred percent committed to helping you graduate on time.”

  I scanned Mrs. Silverberg’s features. Everything was sparkly and steady. “That’s nice. Thanks.”

  “Well—that covers the academic front.” She leaned forward. “And how are you doing emotionally? The accident must have been a lot to deal with.”

  She paused. I kept my face attentive, my smile pleasant. I didn’t answer.

  “And then coming back here, to all the stresses and responsibilities of high school . . .” Mrs. Silverberg trailed off, waiting for me to pick up the cue.

  If she was watching closely, she might have seen my nostrils flare. I needed to work on my breathing. “It’s been a little overwhelming. Like you said.” I looked down at a framed photo on her desk to keep her from looking straight into my eyes. In the picture, three dripping children stood in front of a sun-splotched swimming pool. “But I think wanting to come back here, to rehearsals and classes and my friends, is what keeps me motivated. It’s what helped me recover so quickly.”

  “Are rehearsals going well?”

  I caught a flinch just in time. Had Mr. Hall talked to the counselors? Had he told Mrs. Silverberg that he was worried about me? Was that why I was sitting on this squishy chair in this little blue room right now?

  Mrs. Silverberg’s smile gave no clues.

  “Pretty well.” Hopeful. Light. “I mean, I think they are. I’m a little behind, but I love the play. I love my role. I want to do my best. I don’t want to let this stupid thing hold me back.” I patted my forehead. The scent of vinegar shot up my nose, and I suddenly remembered that I hadn’t washed my hands since touching the pickled frog.

  “And I’m sure it won’t. Not with an attitude like that.” Mrs. Silverberg’s smile softened like melting butter. “Your father would be so proud of you.”

  The words were a kick in the lungs. Wrong, I wanted to shout. He wouldn’t have been so proud of my commitment to some wordy old play. He would have been nonplussed, at the very best. Nonplussed and disappointed. Nonplussed/disappointed/bored. I sat, paralyzed, for a second, fighting the fury back before it could explode through me.

  Then I put on my graciously humble face. My Vivien-Leigh-accepting-an-Oscar face. “Thank you,” I murmured. Below the edge of the desk, out of Mrs. Silverberg’s sight, I wiped my froggy fingers on the upholstered chair. “That’s nice to hear.”

  Mrs. Silverberg sent me back into the hallway with a sloppily scrawled pass. I stood there on the scuffed tiles for a few seconds, trying to imagine going back to anatomy class, the sliced-open frog on the tabletop, the witches whispering in my ear, and felt the hallway begin to smear around me. The walls wavered. The floor dribbled like pancake batter. I reached out for something solid, and felt my hand lock around the corner of a plastic desktop.

  “Everybody with me?” said a voice.

  Mr. C
osta turned away from the board and let his gaze sweep the algebra classroom. His nearsighted brown eyes traveled from face to face, landing at last on mine. He waited for a nod.

  I managed a tiny head twitch.

  Mr. Costa turned back to the board, and I looked down at my desk, trying not to hyperventilate. There was my notebook. There was my pencil from American Players Theater. How had they gotten here? How had I gotten here? How had I gotten through the last six hours?

  I squeezed my eyes shut. Still, sealed inside my eyelids, I could feel the room rocking from side to side. Less than an hour until rehearsal. Almost there.

  “So, if we add 2b squared, c to the fourth, and 5b squared c to the third . . .” Mr. Costa’s voice marched on.

  You’re all right. No one noticed anything. Empty stage. Empty stage.

  Cautiously, I lifted my eyelids.

  Mr. Costa’s jowly face had narrowed. His forehead was higher. His hair was longer. A gold hoop dangled from one ear.

  “2b, anyone?” His now-blue eyes met mine. “‘To be, or . . .’”

  The kid in the desk in front of mine turned around. He wasn’t a red-haired junior anymore. He was Hamlet in a Pink Floyd T-shirt.

  “Are you following any of this?” he whispered, holding up a skull covered with pencil-scrawled integers.

  I shot out of my desk. Everyone around me looked up.

  “Um—Mr. Costa?” I croaked. “Can I be excused?”

  Mr. Costa’s brown eyes settled on me. He gave an understanding little nod before tapping the board and pulling everyone’s attention back. “So, how can we simplify this?”

  I grabbed my books and tore out of the classroom.

  In the nearest bathroom, I took out my phone and stared at the date and time until the digits began to swim. At least I’d only lost a few hours this time, not days. Still, the thought that my body had been wandering around without my mind was frightening. Violating. Like something had been stolen right out of my pocket.

  I soaked a brown paper towel in cold water and pressed it against my forehead. Its fibers were rough on the raw skin. The stalls were empty, so I stood there for a few minutes, leaning against the sink and blinking into the water-specked mirror. My eyes were bloodshot. My skin looked like wax.

  When the rocking feeling had settled slightly, I rinsed my mouth with a handful of rusty water and staggered back into the hall.

  There was no way I could go back to algebra class. I’d already come dangerously close to blurting something bonkers and giving myself away. Better to have them all think I was hurting than know that I was crazy.

  Without being sure where I was headed, I hurried off in the opposite direction.

  After the fluorescent light of the hallways, the dimness of the auditorium was a shock. I had to stop just inside the doors. I leaned back against the solid wood for a while, letting my eyes readjust while the headache swelled and slowly shrank again.

  A row of work lights burned above the stage, probably left on by crew members working on the set over lunch. When I was sure I wasn’t going to trip over my own shoes, I shuffled down the aisle toward them.

  Titania’s platform was positioned upstage left. I dropped my stuff in the seats, climbed the steps, and sank down onto the grass-colored velvet. The buzz of the lights was lulling. The padding under the velvet was soft. Very slowly, the panic began to drain away. I could feel it trickling down through the platform, into the boards, filtering through the hollow darkness under the stage. I pictured myself floating on a swell of muddy water, like Ophelia, my skirts buoyed up by pockets of air. My body weightless.

  “There is a willow grows aslant a brook, that shows his hoar leaves in the glassy stream . . .” I heard myself say the words aloud. I was pretty sure they came from Hamlet, but I didn’t know how or when I’d learned them. They drifted through me like that muddy stream. I kept my eyes shut and let the words pull me. “There with fantastic garlands did she come of crow-flowers, nettles, daisies, and long purples, that liberal shepherds give a grosser name, but our cold maids do dead men’s fingers call them—”

  “Hey,” said a deep voice.

  I screamed something that might have been a word. Probably a rude one.

  Something lanky and black flickered in front of me.

  “God—I’m sorry.” The thing held out both hands. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”

  I rolled to a sitting position, tilting my face away. My heart was pounding. Each pulse sent reverberations through my skull. Through the messy strands of my hair, I peered out at the flickering thing in front of me.

  Blue eyes. Black hair. Dark clothes.

  Romeo.

  No, Rob.

  Rob.

  “You,” I said blearily.

  His face was worried. “Are you all right?”

  I skipped the question. “I didn’t think anyone would be here. It’s still sixth period.”

  “I know.”

  “You know? Then what are you doing here?”

  “Skipping chemistry. You?”

  “Skipping algebra. Sort of.” I tried to rearrange my floppy hair. “Mr. Costa won’t care if I don’t go back. The teachers are all pretty tolerant, considering . . .” I indicated my monster scar. “So, you’re skipping another class?” God. Are you the hall monitor? “I mean—I didn’t see you in anatomy this morning.”

  “Yeah. They’re pretty tolerant of us new kids too. If I say I got lost, or I didn’t understand the schedule, or I didn’t realize that the day ended at three o’clock instead of two fifteen, they usually buy it. For the first week, anyway.”

  “You’ve done this before.”

  “Skipped class? Yes. Terrified a girl with a head injury—I think this is a first.” He took a step away from the platform. “I’m really sorry. I’ll leave you alone if you want.”

  “No,” I said. Too quickly. Then, partly to cover it, partly because the question was pounding harder and harder in my head, I said, “How can I be sure you’re even really here?”

  Rob’s left eyebrow went up. “The fact that I just scared the crap out of you isn’t proof enough?”

  “Nope.” I shook my head carefully. “I’ve seen other people who I know weren’t really there. And I’ve heard them too, so hearing you doesn’t count.”

  “Hmm.” Rob reached into his back pocket. Then he crouched down on the floor in front of the platform. “There. Proof of my identity.” He held out a leather wallet.

  I took it. Its leather was ancient, buttery and smooth at the corners. It fell open at the folds like a broken-spined book.

  “So this is what an Oregon driver’s license looks like.” I raised the card toward my nose and read the small print aloud. “Robert Coltrane Mason. Coltrane?”

  “Family name. My mother’s side.”

  “I don’t know. It seems pretty improbable.”

  He pointed to the wallet. “You can cross-check it with my other IDs.”

  I opened the pocket behind the license and pulled out a wad of paper and plastic. “Geez. How many library cards do you have?”

  Rob settled on the stage floor, folding up one long leg beneath him. “I never throw any of them away. They help me remember where we’ve lived.”

  I flipped past the library cards. “It might be a challenge to earn this free latte at Seattle’s Finest Coffee,” I said, holding up a blue punch card. “You decided this was worth saving too?”

  He shrugged, smiling slightly. “You never know.”

  “Here’s a card reminding you that you had a dentist appointment eight months ago . . .” I pulled out a ticket stub. “And you saw something called The Ravages at someplace called The Morgue.”

  “Oh, yeah.” He laughed. “A punk show in Portland.”

  “How was it?”

  “Pretty bad. But really loud.”

>   “At least you got your money’s worth.” I leafed to the bottom of the pile. “And . . . oh.” The last thing in the stack was a photograph. It was in black-and-white, its corners almost as battered and soft as the wallet itself. In the picture, a beautiful girl with long, wavy dark hair and an old-fashioned swimming suit leaned against a boulder, with a rocky seashore spreading out behind her. The photo could have been an antique, or it could just have been a filtered shot of a cool vintage girl. The kind of girl who knew how to make pin curls and where to find Bettie Page–style swimsuits and who probably went to punk shows in Portland.

  I felt a jolt of ice in my stomach.

  Was it actually jealousy? Don’t be an idiot, Jaye. Or at least don’t act like one.

  “Who’s this?” I asked, keeping my voice light.

  Rob craned to look at the picture in my hand. “Oh. That’s Vera.”

  Even lighter. “Is she a friend of yours or something?”

  “I don’t actually know her name.” Rob sat back again, bracing one arm on his raised knee. “She just looks like a Vera. When I bought the wallet at a secondhand shop in Belltown, she was inside.”

  “Oh.” I ran one fingertip over the photo’s most battered corner. “And you just left it in here?”

  “Well—yeah. It seemed right. I mean, she’d been there for decades already.” He nodded toward the photo. “Look at the back.”

  I flipped it over. A message was written in faded, feminine cursive: To Teddy with all my love. June 1942.

  “I wonder what happened to Vera and Teddy,” I said, after a beat. “If they ended up together, or . . .”

  “Me too,” said Rob, when I didn’t finish. “He kept the picture for a long time, anyway. Or somebody did. And then whoever it was eventually gave his wallet to the Salvation Army.”

  I put the picture at the bottom of the stack of cards and slid them all gently back into the leather pocket. “It’s sweet,” I said. “That you kept it.”

  “So.” Rob held out a hand. “Now you know all the weird contents of my wallet. Does that qualify as proof?”