by Amy McAuley
“Don’t be flippant with me!”
Since when is apologizing being flippant?
“Sorry.” The automatic response slides out of my mouth and, unfortunately, it comes off sounding more exasperated than the others did.
Mom growls. The loud whack of her hand against the table-top jolts me to attention. “Get up to your room.”
I shuffle across the kitchen, walk up a couple of stairs, and droop over the railing. “Do I really have to go to Dad’s for the summer?” I ask, trying hard to tone down my anger, and failing miserably.
“You do now!”
Inside my head, I let loose a fierce barrage of swearing. I stomp upstairs.
“Stop pounding your feet like a three-year-old!”
Too bad I took my shoes off at the door. They’d come in handy now that Mom has left me no choice but to stomp down the hallway with louder and heavier steps.
A faint strip of light glows in the space beneath Kalli’s bedroom door. Her mattress squeaks. “Pen, can I talk to you?”
“Make it quick.”
The unicorn poster on the outside of her door flutters, and light fills the hallway.
“You’re mad about going away this summer, right?”
“You could say that.”
“You don’t have to be mad. It’ll be fun. Dad lives on a beach. And he’s got a dog.”
“He could have a giraffe and an elephant for all I care.”
“You shouldn’t be mean to Mom,” she says, putting her hands on her puny hips. “She doesn’t want us to go, but it’s only for two months. She gets to see us for ten months. That’s not very fair to Dad, is it?”
“I didn’t hear anybody ask me what I thought was fair for me. I have friends. I have a job. I don’t even like Dad all that much.”
Kalli frowns. “You can be a real jerk sometimes.”
The light fades, and when the door shuts with a soft click, I’m left fuming in the dark hallway. “I may be a lot of things. But I’m definitely not a jerk,” I say, but only loud enough for the unicorn to hear.
A girl who looks like me is leaning against a tree a few feet away. If I’m over there, whose body am I watching this dream from? It’s like I stepped out from behind a video camera to film myself, but left my eyeballs behind to watch.
“Hi, Astrid,” the girl says, curiously eyeing me.
I shake my head, confused. “My name is Penny.”
“No, it isn’t,” she says, laughing. “I’m Penny.”
I don’t like that she’s toying with me. “I am Penny. I can feel it.”
“Astrid, don’t you understand? Deep inside, we are the same.” She points directly at me. “It’s what’s on the outside that counts.”
I turn around. A full-length mirror hovers in the air in the middle of the forest clearing. The young woman in the reflection smiles when I smile. When I move, her dark-blond hair sways like a combed mare’s tail. I raise my hands, and she straightens her intricately woven cloak.
Two mirrors spring up behind the first one. Behind them, four mirrors magically appear, then six, all reflecting similar, yet different, versions of me.
The girl leaning against the tree says, “I found the key.”
“The key to what?” I ask, watching her reflection in one of the mirrors.
“My mind. I opened it and found you, Astrid. And I found the others. I found them all
“Open your textbooks to page one hundred and eighty … blah, blah, blah.”
The woman blathering away at the front of the Math classroom is my teacher, Ms. Watford. I dislike her, not because she’s bitchy, but because she’s odorous. It’s a scent that can only be described as wilting flowers meets old gym shoes meets death. She almost never leaves her desk, which means I have to keep a facade of rapt attention on my face at all times or she’ll nail me.
I tilt my head like I’m hanging on her every mind-numbing word and think about Dad’s new house. I’m beginning to wonder what it looks like. And since Dad’s a pretty irresponsible guy, he might let me do stuff that Mom doesn’t allow me to do. I’ll go without a fight, but I’d better get my own bedroom there. That would make the trip semi-bearable. If I have to share a room with Kalli, I’ll hitchhike all the way back home. Maybe. I have a slight fear of serial killers that might hinder that plan.
“Astrid.”
I jerk in my desk, startled by Ms. Watford’s bullfrog croak of a voice calling my name. “Yes?”
Her head turns and she scrutinizes me with squinted, beady eyes. “Does ‘Aston’ sound even remotely like ‘Penelope’?” she asks, enunciating every syllable. “Take your head out of the clouds, please.”
“I’m sorry, Ms. Watford,” I stammer, but she turns her attention to Aston Miller on the other side of the room.
Great, I’ve just been publicly humiliated for brain doodling. The real kicker, though, is that I answered for snooty Aston Miller, who happens to be a guy. Now everybody in the class thinks I’m a spaced-out loser. And Scott sits two desks behind me. News of my idiocy will reach Ryan’s ears by lunch. At least no one dares laugh at me with the Bride of the Grim Reaper standing at the front of the room.
I am the History Teacher’s Pet. I wear that title proudly. I will never ever be the Math Teacher’s Pet, and that’s fine by me. To be Ms. Watford’s pet, I’d have to be a hideous little gargoyle or something. I slump against my desk and imagine Ms. Watford melting into a giant pile of goo on the floor, trying my hardest to make it come true through telepathy. It never works. She never explodes or burns or melts.
I stare off into space with the end of my pen in my mouth. Hmmm, we haven’t had a fire drill in a really long time, I muse, watching the hypnotic movement of the wall clock’s second hand. I take the pen out of my mouth and absentmindedly fill the edges of my Math notes with stars, and circles that I turn into suns, and triangles that become sails for tiny boats.
Ms. Watford’s background chatter is drowned out by the shrill buzz of an alarm. The fire alarm. I freeze in mid-doodle and stare around the room as everybody jumps up from their desks. Wow … that was a weird coincidence.
5
While eating my cereal this morning, I started crying. One minute I was fine, the next, I was boohooing like somebody had died. It’s a good thing Kalli and Mom were engaged in a vicious battle for the bathroom at the time. And last night, I bawled like a baby over some dumb phone company commercial. As much as I want help with whatever’s going on inside me, I don’t want people to know I’m losing my marbles.
I’m in the middle of slipping on my shoes to go to school when the door squeaks, and Di jumps into the laundry room. “I brought you something. It’s a present.” She brings a spiral-bound book out from behind her back and holds it out for me to take. “You can use it at your dad’s.”
I take the book and study the cover art. The beach scene in the background, clear blue water and a rocky cliff, looks normal. On the shore, melting clocks hang limp from a tree branch and a wooden box and the melting profile of a face. A closed pocket watch on the wooden box is covered in big black ants.
“It’s a dream journal,” she says, practically bouncing in place.
Oh no. Di got me a journal to write my crazy dreams in.
“You don’t like it, Pen? I got the idea from Val.”
“No, I love it. I’m trying to figure out the cover, that’s all.”
“It’s a picture of a Salvador Dali painting called Persistence of Memory. When I saw the book, I knew it would be the perfect dream journal.”
Persistence of Memory. A shudder twitches through my shoulders and into my face.
“It’s surreal. Just like a dream,” I say.
Di laughs. “Well, it should be. Dali was a Surrealist.”
I don’t know what a Surrealist is, but Di’s brain absorbs art history like mine absorbs useless trivia. “Thanks, Di.” I stick the journal inside my backpack. “I’ll start using it today. I promise.”
Dear Dream Journ
al:
For the first time in recorded history, Ms. Watford left her desk just now. The class is shocked. Rumors of her possible whereabouts are flying. My guess is she hobbled back to the grave.
I’ve decided to use this book to write about my dreams after all. Maybe if I get them down on paper, they’ll leave my head, and I won’t think about them so much.
Marie Antoinette:
1) Diana was my best friend. She was killed by an angry mob and her head was paraded past Marie Antoinette’s jail window.
2) Hans was my lover. In the dream, he was wearing a lion mask, and he set a red rose on the bed. He was ripped to pieces by an angry mob, too.
I also had a dream that I was a girl named Astrid. Please, please, please, let that be the only one, and not the beginning of a bunch more wacko lucid dreams.
I’m curled up on the couch in the living room, in the dark, watching TV with the volume off. Until eleven I watched TV with Di, Scott, and Ryan. Then they deserted me, citing some lame reason like they have to get up early for school. It didn’t help that Mom walked into the living room and said, “It’s time for everybody to go home now.”
It must be nearly two o’clock, but with sleep come dreams, so I’m putting off going to bed for as long as I can. There’s no way for me to know if my dreams will be the normal kind where I show up for an exam naked, or more of the psychotic kind where my best friend is bloody or dead. I haven’t felt this nervous about bedtime since second grade, when I wore turtle-necks under my nightgowns to prevent vampire attacks. I was weird then, and I’m still weird.
As soon as this TV show is finished, I’ll go up to bed. I will. For sure. Unless, of course, another good show comes on. But I’ll definitely go to bed after that one.
Beams of moonlight filter into the forest, silhouetting the evergreens. The birch trees cast an eerie white glow.
Sensing a presence next to me, I turn my head. There, nearly melding with the darkness, is a large raven. It coasts through the air, wings spread wide, regarding me with curious brown eyes that glisten like marbles.
“Run faster, Astrid,” the raven says, in the voice of a young girl.
“I can’t,” I cry, frustrated. “I can’t run any faster.”
The raven’s wings beat hard. “You must. Time is short. Hurry.”
I force my heavy legs to move. The raven effortlessly soars off down the path, and I send an envious cry after it.
“I can’t do this!” I shout into the darkness.
The raven’s firm voice reverberates through the forest. “You can.”
I stumble out of the trees into a starlit clearing–in time to see Diana and a young man step to the edge of a rocky cliff that juts out over the tumultuous sea far below. He drops a red rose and takes Di’s hand. This can’t be happening. I need to shout to them, but no words will come out. Their beautiful cloaks glide out behind them as they leap into the air. And they plummet out of sight.
In my ear, the raven whispers, “You were too late.”
Dear Dream Journal:
I had another bad dream last night. Di and the millennium guy I dreamed about before jumped off a cliff into the ocean. I didn’t get there in time to stop them. If I had just run faster, and gotten there seconds sooner, could I have saved them?
6
Summer vacation is mere seconds away. I’m the only person in the room, probably in the whole school, paralyzed by depression. If my parents loved me as much as they claim to, they’d let me stay home with my friends and my new boyfriend this summer.
The bell rings, and excited cheers fill the classroom. I gather up my stuff and struggle to standing. When I get to my locker, which seems to take forever, I take a seat on the floor in front of it, not caring if I get trampled. I rest my face on my knees.
A large hand rubs my back.
“Hi, Ryan,” I murmur.
“What’s wrong?” he whispers in my ear, and his breath tickles my skin.
“My life sucks,” I want to wail, but instead I say, “Nothing.”
“The party at Trevor’s tonight will be huge.” He tucks my hair behind my ear. “We’ll have enough fun to hold you over until you get back from your dad’s. Okay?”
I slowly lift my head, feeling totally bogged down. “Okay.”
“My parents went away to the cottage last night,” he says in my ear.
I smile, but it’s probably not even visible.
Ryan stands and puts out a hand to help me up from the floor. Right in front of a ton of other people, he leans over and gives me a long kiss. His lips seem to absorb my sadness. When he pulls away, I’m so tingly I’ll probably electrocute the next person who touches me.
* * *
If I get much more drunk, I’ll be pickle-ized or something. I know the smile on my face is stupid, but I can’t get rid of it. It only goes away when I take a slurp of beer. Well, I guess it goes away pretty often then.
“Hi, gorgeous.”
My head moves in slow motion. Ryan takes a seat on the couch beside me.
“Hi yourself.” My lips do a weird sputtery thing. “You think I’m gorgeous? You’re crazy. You know who’s really gorgeous? Diana, that’s who. She’s been my best friend for, like, the past zillion years,” I say, staring into his beautiful green eyes. “And you know what? Every time she’s been my best friend, she’s died.” I pause, methodically rubbing the bottom of his shirt. “And I always feel guilty, you know? Like it’s my fault. Like I’m not taking good enough care of her. Do you get what I’m saying?”
“Mmmm, no.” Ryan points toward the keg. “Diana’s right there. Why don’t you go over and talk to her?”
Di’s body is firmly pressed against Scott’s, which is risky because his vengeful ex-girlfriend, Leslie, is at this party. And she’s been giving Di a hard time lately.
Leslie’s leaning against the wall near the stereo, holding two full drinks. Guess she’s trying to get blasted two times faster than normal. Her friend Marissa looks on, with her typical sarcastic scowl, as Leslie yaps nonstop like a little poodle. I hate poodles. They are so kickable.
I step over the legs of people seated on the floor, as gracefully as a herd of elephants barreling over to a water hole. “Di, I love you more than anyone.”
“I love you, too.” She uncaps her flavored water and takes a sip.
“You know what?” I say, swaying to and fro like I’m standing in a canoe. “If Leslie thinks she can get away with hurting my best friend, I say screw her!”
This statement sends a deer-in-headlights expression shooting across Scott’s face.
Di laughs and gives me a one-armed hug. “Good for you, Pen. Go kick her ass.”
The room is packed with people. I make my way over to Leslie, and leer at her.
She chugs one of her drinks and sets the glass on a speaker. “What’s your problem?”
“You’ve been harassing my friend Diana,” I say, putting on my evilest face.
“What of it?”
“You’re going to stop. Are you understanding me?”
“Listen,” she says, scowling. “Tell your whore friend to stay away from Scott.” She gives me a shove, and I hear her say, “Ryan is way too good for you, you cow.”
The room whirls around me. I stumble backward and bump into Ryan.
“What’s going on here?” he asks.
“She just shoved me and called me a cow.”
Leslie’s mouth drops open and her face goes red in an instant. “I did not!” she cries. “But, hey, if the udder fits…”
I try to lunge forward, but Ryan pulls me back.
“Shut up, Leslie. I mean it.” He leads me to the arm of the couch, where I take a seat. “Pen, I came up behind you before Les shoved you. I didn’t hear her call you a cow.”
In his eyes, I can see that he wants to believe me, but he didn’t hear her say it.
Totally confused, I say, “No, she did. I heard her.”
But did I hear her words with my ears or ins
ide my head?, I wonder, thinking back on our encounter. Am I hearing voices now? Is that what’s going on? Several people are gawking in my direction. A giant wave of embarrassment crashes over me.
“What happened?” Di hollers, arriving out of nowhere. “Did she hit you?”
I take a deep breath, eager to talk about something else. “She didn’t hit me.”
We glance at the other side of the room, where Leslie is chatting it up with half the football team, probably telling them what a spastic freak the cow on the couch is.
“What do you say we head over to my place now?” Ryan says.
Di pulls me to standing. “Good idea.”
* * *
“It’s late, Pen. I should go home.”
I tilt my head back on my lawn chair and look at Di upside down. “Already?”
“I don’t want to get run-down. Rehearsal’s coming up.”
I walk with Di to the side of Ryan’s house. At the end of the driveway, Scott is patiently waiting to walk her home.
“What am I supposed to do for the next two months?” Di says. “Tell your dad he can take Kalli, but you have to stay here.”
I wish she’d quit looking at me like I’m abandoning her. I feel bad enough about having to leave.
“Trust me, I’d stay if I could. But it’s not up to me.”
“But who’s going to eat my M&M’s after I pick the brown ones out for myself? Who’s going to braid your hair when it’s really hot out? You know hair isn’t your thing. You’ll be all sweaty and stringy.”
“Thank you.”
Di tugs on her long, fringed bangs, like she does when she’s upset. “E-mail and instant message me every day. Does your dad have a webcam?”
“I doubt it. Since he doesn’t even have a computer.”
“What?” Di cries, probably waking half the neighbors. “Is he prehistoric? Does he expect you to chisel messages into rocks? How am I supposed to talk to you for free?”
My plan was to make a lot of long-distance phone calls. I assumed Dad would be okay with that. He goes almost a whole year without needing to spend money on us. Now that I think about it, maybe I should come up with a more feasible plan.
