by Anne Eliot
“Should I mention there is only one gallon left in the whole world? And it's going fast,” Kika huffs, insulted. “I'm sure it doesn't repel guys. Though you might be right about the bears.”
“Just in case, you might apply that stuff with a lighter touch. Although…” I take in another breath, feeling steadily better. “Corey—he—knew right away your lotion was peach—he guessed pie, not cobbler, though. Said he loved it. So you could be on to something,” I add, shaking my head, remembering.
“It worked and you mocked it? How dare you make me doubt. You should bow to me, right now.”
“Tomorrow. I promise. I'll be your slave.”
She giggles and my heart swells with warmth. The nightmare can't compete with my sister. She's always had some special brand of magic. Asleep or awake, any space she occupies somehow instantly becomes the sweetest place on earth. Right now, that place has morphed into this messy, peach-infused, darkened room.
Kika moves her shoulder closer to mine before speaking again. “I heard you cry out. You practically shook the walls,” she whispers.
“Ugh. That loud?” I sigh. “If Mom heard, she's probably emailing Dr. Brodie right now, trying to get me an appointment.”
“I was going to come in, but you quieted right away. I figured you'd gone back to sleep. Was it bad?”
“The usual,” I lie. But now that I've had time to process it, I think the nightmare has changed more than I'd thought. The images had come at me faster. Clearer. The police officer had been wearing a gun in a black holster, and he'd had a walkie-talkie thing too. I've never remembered looking at those so clearly before.
Dr. Brodie told me the dream, after all this time, could easily be a mixture of current memories and past ones. He told me I shouldn't trust them as any sort of definite truth or memory. He also told me that despite how drunk I'd been, if I truly ever did remember, that it would all feel different. I'd simply know what was real and what was wasn't.
Remembering is remembering. Not a foggy, messed-up dream.
Only I don't want to remember anymore. I haven't wanted that for a long time.
At first, I'd spent every waking moment trying to decipher my nightmares. Wishing I could remember. But last year I'd decided to ignore the whole thing. That's when things started to get better. I don't obsess over the past any more. I just want to move on.
Kika asks, “Is it getting to be like before? You sounded like you did when—”
“No! Not even close.” I refuse to let her finish. I don't want to talk about how it was when I'd lost it. Screaming and crying night after night, month after month. That was when everyone in our house had circles under their eyes—not just me. When they all thought I'd be crazy—forever.
“It's just a bad night, fine—a bad week. But that's bound to happen sometimes, right?”
“If you weren't shaking so badly right now, I'd believe you.”
If I weren't shaking so badly, I'd believe myself, I think.
“Don't tell Mom and Dad. They'll just act all weird. I'm off my usual schedule because of the internship. Things will settle. Honest. I'm fine.” I turn to stare up at the ceiling fan and Kika finds my hand. She holds on to it extra tight until the last of the shudders have left my spine.
“Wish one of my checklists could fix you,” she says in a voice as deflated as I feel.
I force my tone to sound cheery. “You have fixed me. Because of your last list, I'm well on the pathway to normal on all fronts. I've got places to go, people to see and a cute boy's texting me every day.” I ramp up my subject change. “Which reminds me, I need the list you promised me about the text messaging. What does g-t-g mean?”
“Duh. ‘Got to go?’ You're hopeless. I'll get it to you first thing.”
“Thanks.”
Kika sighs. “I know you want privacy and all that, but will you at least admit you like this Corey Nash? At least tell me something about him? You owe me for the lotion that trapped his heart, after all. I want details.”
“Okay.” I smile and turn to lean on my elbow so I can peer down at her. I'm stalling. Searching for something true to tell her after two weeks of evasiveness and full-on lying. “He's tall. Lanky, but solid and strong looking. And he says I make him laugh. That part is annoying really, because you know that I pride myself in being NOT funny.” Kika giggles as I continue, “He also mumbles to himself. Like all the time. It's cute. And his voice. OMG. You should hear it. It's all low rock star…and…goose bump worthy. And his eyes. I can't even explain them. They're magic. Dark forest—sparkling green.”
“What?”
“I mean blue-green…really deep blue with teensy green flecks. They change all the time. And he's growing out his hair to look like surfer hair,” I add quickly, trying to recover from my slip. I've said all along Corey's got blue eyes. My bad.
I conjure Corey's face and hold onto it, pushing away all thoughts of Gray. “His personality makes him very impish. And he's—how can I explain him—he teases everyone. He's sweet, and he kind of flirts all the time. But not in a creepy way. He's charming,” I add.
“Nice,” Kika says, still half lost in her giggles.
“Yeah…well.” I meet her gaze. I'm grinning back, but I can't hold on to Corey's image.
As I continue, it's Gray's in front of me all over again. “The way he looks at me—sets off major heartbeats. If you must know, standing still, this guy fills my brain with taffy, makes me act like a fool, and stops my heart with butterflies at least twice a day. I have them just mentioning the guy, if you must know.”
And I do. So annoying.
Kika grins. “Wow. Really? Butterflies mean you have a serious crush. I know that much!”
I swallow, denying it to my sister and to myself. “I'm not going to make a big deal about a few tummy flutters because…dead people, old people, even furniture would get butterflies if they met this guy. You should see him in person. The yearbook does not do him any justice. I wonder if he's my type or if I simply enjoy looking at him?”
“It sounds like he's your type. And I like the yearbook photo. I can see what you're talking about.”
“He—um—asked me on a date. I think I'll go.”
Kika, chomping on the bait, smiles and claps her hands. “OMG! OMG! What will you wear? OMG! A date? Do guys actually say: “Do you want to go on a date with me”?”
I turn over and tuck the blanket tightly over both of us. “He asked me to go hiking. I think he used the words group date, so it probably means nothing. He did say he'd pack my lunch. That's something sort of sweet, isn't it?”
Kika sighs and flips over so we're both staring at the slowly turning ceiling fan. “What if your first kiss with him is on a mountainside with the sun shining, and there's green grass and little wildflowers all around, and birds are chirping and—”
“—and we live in Colorado at the end of June? So you can add in a bunch of dust, delete the green part, turn the flowers to dandelions and brown grass, and kill the chirping unless you mean squawking Magpies. Add in the rest of our friends staring at us. And don't forget to throw in a torrential afternoon lightning storm followed with quarter sized hail?”
She laughs. “Oh yeah. Kissing in the rain! Awesome romance!”
I laugh too. “I'm not kissing any guy on a ‘group date’ after I've been sweating like a trucker from hiking. What if—he's had garlic in his lunch?” I'm blushing bright red right now and thankful for the dark room.
It's too weird imagining a first kiss with Gray…or is it? The guy is my boyfriend, after all. My chest squeezes…how I wish I had the nerve to make him kiss me as part of the contract. But I was the one that made up the zero benefits rule. Although, I did reserve the right for changes. No. No.
Kika saves me from my insane thoughts. “As long as you've had garlic, the kiss could still be a go. There's a chance you'll be saturated in the same ingredients ‘cuz he's making your lunch.” Kika giggles.
“Holy…that's true.” I meet her gaze and we both bu
st out laughing.
Chapter Nineteen
Gray
Hey, GF. I'm 2 blks away. Warning: Flying solo. Sidekicks ditched us.
I've pulled over onto a side street in Jess's neighborhood and send my text message as promised just before the scheduled 9AM pick-up. I'm a bit worried she's going to flip when she sees I'm alone in the car.
I breathe a small sigh of relief when she answers right away: K. Red D. Warning!! MOS DOS!!
I have no idea what MOS DOS means. Maybe it's Spanish?
Jess's texting skills have become a point of argument between us. Her little sister gave her a whacked list of texting acronyms. She brought it to work on Friday, but I refused to ‘study it’. It was the first ‘no’ I'd given her about anything. Man had she been ticked off. Yesterday, when I'd asked for a translation of one of her cryptic messages she'd responded with all caps: AWGTHTGTTA?!!!
Apparently that meant in full shout: Are we going to have to go through this again?!!!
At least she's consistently hilarious.
I pull up in front of her house. Before I have a chance to put it in park or honk, the girl is slamming into the passenger seat.
“Let's go.” She's out of breath.
I'm so disoriented by her short, dark brown hiking shorts that my foot slides off the clutch and I stall the car.
Legs. Smooth, tanned, long, beautiful legs.
“What are you doing?” she asks. Her eyes dart away as she gestures wildly toward her house.
Cinnamon-sunshine, legs, and…car died.
My mind clears a little. I follow her pointing finger in time to spot two people who'd trailed behind Jess and were now heading straight for us.
Parents. Parents!
She starts waving and smiling, but is talking to me through her smile. “Drive away. As in NOW, or you'd better be ready to pretend your name is Corey Nash and explain why you don't have blond hair and blue eyes.”
My heart has never pounded so fast.
Jess's mom calls out, “Honey, wait! We'd love to meet your friend.”
I remember this woman's voice from years ago and panic. Explaining my looks are the least of my worries where these people are concerned. If they recognize me, I'll be shot on sight.
I slam my foot into the clutch, throw the car into neutral and turn the key, revving Bessie, my 84 Honda Accord, back to life in a way I know might make her stall again.
The car complains and shoots out her triple backfire, but she stays alive. The exploding noise seems to startle Jess's parents, and they freeze momentarily on the walkway.
“Honey! Young man? Yoo-hoo. Corey? Just one minute please.” Jess's mom jerks forward like she's been released from an invisible catapult. Her father is frowning and shooting me and my car a heated glare that rivals one of Jess's.
I pull my ball cap down and hunch my shoulders, pretending not to hear. In two seconds I back out of the driveway, pulling away from the curb with a lurch.
Jess leans out her car window and calls out, “Bye! We're late. Got to pick up the gang. See you this afternoon!” She waves wildly, smile on double-high now.
I can't breathe at all.
We don't speak for three whole blocks.
On my part, the silence is for two reasons: 1. I think I've swallowed my tongue, and 2. Jess has stretched and crossed her ankles, which makes me notice her legs again. I make the mistake of glancing over at her just then.
Crap!
Three reasons now: 3. Her cute prairie-girl braids are over-the-top adorable and, are playing a part in my complete mental shut down!
This girl is perfect…my crush will be forever.
“Holy crap!” It feels good to say it out loud. “And crap!”
“I tried to warn you. I texted MOS DOS,” Jess says, wrongly assuming I'm talking about what just happened. “That should have tipped you off.”
“MOS DOS means parents?! Girl, are you deliberately trying to kill me or simply get me killed? If you'd typed MOM and DAD you'd have used the same number of letters, and that would have actually made sense!”
“I didn't think of that.” She looks so surprised and then chagrined I feel bad for yelling. “But…everyone in the texting world knows that MOS means Mom Over Shoulder. And DOS means—”
“I get it. I officially flunk you on texting. Delete all memorized text message abbreviations from your mind. And accept no more texting advice from your eighth grade sister. She's a menace and you know it.” I shoot her a grin and finally, have to laugh. “I almost had a heart attack back there. MOS DOS? Really?”
“Oh my God.” Jess laughs along with me. “I am sorry.” She bursts into a long fit of giggles. The happy, bright sound brings the air back into my lungs. “You should have seen your face,” she adds.
“You should have seen yours. I can't believe you told them we were going to get the gang. This is not 1955. And, gosh golly, I don't want to bum you out but, today, there is no gang.” I shoot her a glance. “Just me. Michelle bailed for a shopping trip with her mom, and Corey's grounded for back-talking about chores. You okay with that?”
“Oh. Yeah, I'm good.” She shrugs as though she doesn't care, but I've spent enough time with her now that I can tell otherwise. She's nervous. I take note of the dark circles under her eyes. She also looks really tired.
“How was your night?”
“Good. Actually.” She's nodding—too much. I'm sure it's a lie.
“I want to know what a good night means to you.” I dart a glance directly into her eyes, wondering if she'll open up. Her expression has turned wary so I keep my attention on the road. “Did you sleep?”
“Not much, and that's why it was a good night.” She stares out her window. Again I feel that she's lying. “What did you bring for lunch? Can we eat first? If I don't eat real food with these babies, my tummy hurts.” She flashes two Red Bull's nestled inside her pack, obviously taunting me.
“I hate that you always drink that stuff,” I say, letting her win on the subject change. Today is my attempt at ‘turning it all off and getting back to business’. I can do this. Despite her damn legs, I can do this.
“Red Bull's tasty,” she adds. “You should try some. Maybe it will get rid of that glazed look you've had since Thursday. If you ask me, I'd say you're the one not sleeping,” she teases.
I shrug, wishing I could tell her that ‘glazed look’ is me, trying to fuzz-out my gaze so I can't see her cute face so clearly. “Tasty or not, that stuff isn't exactly a recommended pre-hike drink. Will you be able to hike after not sleeping all night?”
“Honestly? I have no idea. But I can't attempt it without my daily dose of caffeine assistance, so back off my staple food…I need it, and I love it.” She closes her bag.
“Deal. Will you tell me more about the nightmares? Why you have them?” I ask gently, risking a glance at her now closed off and defensive expression.
“Pfft. Tell me why you don't like Coach Williams? Or, how come you don't play ice hockey for our school anymore? Corey and Michelle told me you're really good. As in you're free-ride scholarship good. I saw Coach Williams at the rink the other night and asked him about you. He said he's holding a spot for you on his team. Anytime.”
“Did he, now?” I cover, not surprised that Coach made good on his threat to check up on Jess. This is my chance to shut up and leave it all alone—but instead I decide to tell her some of it. If I open up to her, maybe she'll open up to me. “Coach Williams and I had a fight. It's stupid, simple, and private. But it was big enough to put me off ice forever, okay?”
“Whoa. A fight? About what?”
“Nope. Your turn.”
“I don't like talking about my nightmares. They're stupid, complicated and private. Just like yours. You wouldn't understand. Let's just say they put me off sleeping for life,” she quips, tossing my words back at me.
I cringe as I catch the truth and meaning behind what she said. “Tell me a little? Are you some sort of insomniac?” I try again.<
br />
She crosses her arms. “No. Well…yes. But not a willing one. I crave my bed like some people crave chocolate, but if I fall asleep when it's dark outside the nightmares are worse—dreadful, endless. So I try not to encourage them.” She looks at me through her lashes—like she doesn't want me to notice she's watching my reactions to what she's saying. “After three years of therapy and never being able to understand them, staying awake all night is way easier than chancing my random nightmares. And it works. I don't get them if I nap during the day.” She lets out a long breath. “You'll think I'm crazy now. People who are sane don't do therapy year after year. Oh—and newsflash—the therapy never worked on me.”
I feel slightly sick. Helpless. “I'm sorry. Really sorry.”
She shrugs and stares out her window. “Don't be. I don't want pity. I don't deserve it. The nightmares—they're partly my fault because I can't get over them. Not directly, of course, but after my parents spent thousands of dollars, after I've tried every pill available, we've all found out I'm simply not curable. In the big scope of things—it's not so important.”
“What?” I almost shout, angry that she seems to totally believe that. “You, not being able to sleep is major important. Jesus, Jess.”
She shrugs. “Other people have way worse things to deal with than nightmares and not sleeping. Like poverty, cancer, war. There's people who live with no legs, or a family member dying. My random sleep schedule is small in comparison. Besides, I'm used it. I'm like an ER doctor. Always on the night shift. No big deal. Honest.” She pulls her arms tighter over her chest.
“Yeah, but you're on the day shift with me,” I say softly.
“Yep.” She laughs a wry little laugh.
“So…you're exhausted, all the time?”
“Like a model's always starving.” She jokes, but I'm not laughing. “I try to hide the not sleeping from my parents. During school I can pull it off, but this summer…it's been more difficult. With the internship plus my clingy new boyfriend I can't catch up. I've been forced to sleep at night…only that's not going so well.”
“Because of the nightmares. You've been having a lot of them?”
