by M. Kircher
Dream On
By M. Kircher
Published by Astraea Press
www.astraeapress.com
This is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters, and events are fictitious in every regard. Any similarities to actual events and persons, living or dead, are purely coincidental. Any trademarks, service marks, product names, or named features are assumed to be the property of their respective owners, and are used only for reference. There is no implied endorsement if any of these terms are used. Except for review purposes, the reproduction of this book in whole or part, electronically or mechanically, constitutes a copyright violation.
DREAM ON
Copyright © 2014 M. KIRCHER
ISBN 978-1-62135-278-5
Cover Art Designed by AM DESIGN STUDIOS
First, and always, to God.
To Jake. NAF.
And finally, to Ki. Thanks for all the sci-fi books over the years, I owe ya.
Chapter One
"Mom," I whisper softly and give her shoulders a shake. But her eyes remain closed; her lips are half-parted and turned slightly up at the corners as if she's gazing at something wonderful. Maybe she is.
I sigh and lean in a little closer to her face. "Mom, are you just taking a nap?" I ask in a slightly louder voice and poke her cheek with my index finger. When she still doesn't move, my temper snaps. "Wake uuuuppp!" I yell right into her ear.
There's no response.
Great, I've lost her again. Feeling in the pit of my stomach that days of loneliness and silence are looming before me, I give up and back away from the bed.
I try not to blame her. Shoot, if there weren't bills to pay, books to write, groceries to buy, and school to attend, I'd let myself get lost in there for a couple of days too. But somebody has to take care of things out here in the real world; somebody has to make sure we stay together.
I tuck the embroidered sheet tighter around Mom's slender shoulders and bend to brush my lips on her forehead. Her shallow, measured breaths feel like a light wind blowing across my face. She doesn't stir at my kiss. Her head lays unmoving on the pillow, her white eyelashes fanning themselves over two porcelain cheeks and long, golden hair framing her face like a halo.
I push myself off the bed, the soles of my sneakers making scuffling noises as I drag them across the soft, cream-colored carpet that covers the floor of Mom's bedroom. It's not as if I need to keep quiet though — a herd of wild elephants won't wake her up now, not until she decides she wants to be awake.
And who knows how long that will be this time.
* * * *
I pad through the bedroom door, flicking off the lights and pulling the screen shut behind me. My heart sinks heavily in my chest as I walk into the kitchen and plop down onto one of the high stools tucked under the island in the middle of the room.
Two days this time. My hand slams down on the marble countertop, and I lose my cool for the second time in five minutes. Only two days! Is it so awful out here with me she can't even last a week anymore? I let my head hang and rest my elbows on the counter. My eyelids flutter closed, and I take a deep breath, then another. In and out. In and out. This is what I do to calm down when life seems overwhelming.
Life seems overwhelming a lot these days.
It wasn't always like this, though. The three of us were a happy family once, a long time ago. But then she started leaving me to be with him. We got evicted from place after place because Mom wouldn't work. There never seemed to be enough money, even when I ran errands after school to try to make ends meet. I remember how my teeth chattered when the heat was finally turned off in our last house, and how Mom's eyes slowly became dull and haunted. The only thing I could do was watch helplessly as she fell deeper and deeper into the other world.
There is one good thing about what we are. When we're asleep, we power down. Our physical bodies don't need food, or water, or anything except somewhere to curl up and dream. So at least I only had one mouth to feed — my own.
A twelve-year-old girl should never have to make her own way in the world. And yet somehow, I've managed these five years since. Because unlike my mother, I choose to live my life, not dream it away.
* * * *
Once my pounding heart slows and I feel myself relax, I take one last breath and open my eyes. The glowing numbers on the countertop tell me I've been standing here for fifteen minutes. Too long. There are only a few minutes to spare before I miss the morning train and am late for school again. Not wasting any more time, I scoop my bag and sweatshirt off the floor and head for the front door.
As I punch in the code to unlock the door and slide it open, I quickly scan the screen mounted on the wall of the hallway. There's a wall screen in each room of the house, and I always leave a couple of windows open so I can keep tabs on the serious stuff, like how much money is left in the bank, what bills are coming up this month, tests, homework assignments, and most importantly, when Mom's pages are due.
Which apparently, was yesterday.
Crap! I can't believe I missed a deadline. I'm always so careful about keeping track of the exact dates and times. A deep sigh escapes my lips as I quickly type out an apology to Evan, Mom's book editor, promising to have the pages for him by tomorrow morning. He doesn't know the books by his most famous client, Lily Dal Monte, are actually written by her seventeen-year-old daughter. I wait until I hear the deadbolts for the front door slide into place. Once they do, with two heavy, reassuring clunks, I take off down the stone steps leading from our secluded house to the street below.
My thoughts swirl as I make my way towards the main gate, frustrated that I've forgotten the pages. I've been so excited to have Mom awake, all my other responsibilities just slipped my mind.
But I'd rather have an angry book editor, hundreds of miles away, holed up in his little cubicle of misery, than hear one more lecture from Mr. Thorne about being late to school. And I definitely don't need to try to finagle my way out of another parent-principal conference with Thorne. He's sort of obsessed with Mom, even though he's only met her once.
As I fly down the main road of our super-private community, I wave at the guard posted by the large metal gate that blocks my route out to the world.
From inside his tiny hut, Gus waves back. "Don't be late again!" he calls out to me and winks. He tips his hat, a tan-colored monstrosity the neighborhood makes him wear as part of his uniform.
"That's the plan," I yell back and imitate his gesture even though I'm not wearing a hat. It's our little morning routine. I squeeze through the small opening he's made for me in the bars, and wave as I rush off to catch the train. My sneakers slap hard against the pavement as the cold autumn wind blows right through my dark blue sweatshirt; I should have worn something warmer.
As I race toward the train platform at the end of the street, I gaze back at the big gate and let it comfort me. No one knows this is where my famous mother lives. No one's ever been able to find her.
And until I turn eighteen, it needs to stay that way.
Chapter Two
The glass feels cool against my forehead, and the landscape blurs into a smudgy kaleidoscope of green, and brown, and gray as the train rushes its morning load of commuters out of the suburbs, and into the city. My breath mists the pane, and I remember how Mom used to draw little animals on the windows when I was small. She'd breathe onto the glass and then quickly sketch a dog or cow with her fingertip. The tiny creatures would be suspended in the air for a brief, magical moment, and then they'd fade, lost forever. I roll my head on the glass and let the memory slide away. No use dwelling on the past.
I twist my body away from the window and scan the other passengers. It's a bad habit of mine — people-watching. I love to make up stories about their lives, what they do for wor
k, who they're going to meet each day, and the scandalous things they've done in secret. It's my way of coping with the isolated world Mom and I live in. My eye catches a man in a sports jacket, and I quickly bounce my gaze away, not wanting him to notice I'm staring.
Mom lives alone by choice. But me, I live this way to survive.
I gaze down at the screen in my lap and try to focus on the material for today's history test. My studies haven't been as focused as they should, because of Mom. Life always seems to fall apart when she's awake.
There's a soft beeping noise on my wrist screen, and I glance over to see a new message ping into Mom's account. It's from Evan of course, checking on the precious pages. His tone is anxious, but he states he's fine with giving Mom a small extension. 'A small one,' he makes sure to repeat so that she gets the picture.
"Got it, taskmaster," I grumble to myself, rubbing circles into my forehead with my index finger. I try to clear my brain and focus on history, putting Evan's message out of my mind for the time being. Living a lie takes a lot out of you. Some days I feel less like a seventeen-year-old girl and more like an eighty-year-old crone, stretched and dry, and ready for the dust to claim me.
Come on, Em! Concentrate. But I can't. My attention drifts to the other passengers again.
Wait, who is that? My mouth actually hangs open in shock. The 7:30 a.m. train has the exact same passengers every day, but right there, four rows in front of me, is the most gorgeous guy I've ever seen. How could I have missed him? Because not only is this guy beyond hot, he's certainly not trying to blend in.
The new guy has black hair styled into this sort-of wavy Mohawk thing, and three silver piercings hook over his right eyebrow. There are two small black discs in his earlobes. His pants are dark and tight, and the sleeves of his gray hoodie are tattered, the hem speckled with tiny holes. His chin is square, and I see another silver ring jutting out of the corner of his bottom lip.
I gulp. He's super tall, with a pair of broad shoulders and narrow hips. A swimmer's build, I think to myself, although his clothes don't exactly scream "jock". There are buds in the new guy's ears, and I notice he's absently thumbing through a music pod in his left hand.
Then I'm completely flabbergasted, because in his other hand, this rebellious-looking punk is clutching one of Mom's books. And by the expression on his face, he's deeply absorbed in it.
This is so completely odd. Mom's books are popular, sure, but teenage boys are not her usual fan base — her work tends to attract more of the kindergarten crowd.
I'm intrigued. I wonder if New Guy goes to my school? I haven't seen him in the hallways or in any of my classes before, but this train only shuttles into Southern's district. So where is he going, and why is his nose buried in a children's story?
Before I fully realize what I'm doing, I gather my things and move a couple of seats closer to him. I try to be nonchalant, but the more I try to stare at anything else besides him, the more I'm drawn to this mysterious guy. It doesn't seem as though he's noticed me, so I sneak another peek. Of course, it's just my luck that at the exact moment I let myself fully gawk, the train bends around a turn, and New Guy looses his balance. As he rights himself, he glances up and catches me gaping at him like some kind of buffoon.
I can feel a hot, burning sensation travel up the length of my neck and pool into two bright spots on my cheeks. My head snaps down toward the floor of the train, and I silently pray for it to open up and swallow me whole.
Even though I don't want to, I force myself to glance back up. New Guy has stuck Mom's book into the tattered pack hanging off his shoulder and is now staring out the window with his arms crossed. A twinge of guilt shoots through me. He seemed to be enjoying the story so much, and I think I've embarrassed him.
"That story is one of my favorites." The words pour out of my mouth before I can stop them.
New Guy twists his head in my direction. I can tell I've startled him. "Huh?" he asks and pulls out an earbud.
"It's one of my favorites," I mumble, and I gesture weakly at the corner of the book poking out of his pack, then pretend to study the tiles on the floor. When I glance tentatively back up, the guy's dark eyes seem interested.
"You, uh, read them too?" he asks quietly, and when I nod yes, he takes the other earbud out of his ear. He winds the cord and shoves the music pod into the back pocket of his jeans. I realize he's just staring at me now, waiting for me to continue, but I have no idea what to say. I'm not used to making conversation.
"Um. Well yeah, I read them. Kind of," I stutter.
"What do you mean? Kind of? How can you 'kind of' read a book?"
I run my hands through my own dark hair and tug on the ends. How am I supposed to answer his question without seeming as if I'm full of myself? Of course, that's exactly how I sound when I do manage to blurt something out.
"So you don't know who I am?" I ask, and then immediately feel like the biggest idiot in the world. I'm sure my cheeks are bright red again. The toe of my sneaker grinds into the floor of the train as my brain scrambles to find something coherent to say and work myself out of this mess.
He peers down at me and squints. "Should I?"
I laugh nervously. Why do his words send weird flutters through my stomach? I jam my hands into the pockets of my blue hoodie and grimace.
"Uh no, I guess not," I manage to sputter. "It's just… I thought you might go to my school, and well, everyone there sorta does. Know me, I mean." I gesture to his pack again, where the corner of the book peeks out. "My mom writes them, those books. People know me because of her."
I spend a lot of time at school trying to be invisible, which is harder than it sounds when your mother is famous. Especially mysterious, unavailable famous. No one truly wants to be my friend; they're just curious about Mom. But they don't know about the life we live. If anyone knew, they'd turn us into the police, let scientists poke and prod us, and sell stories about us to the magazines. So, around Southern, I'm the girl who doesn't talk to anyone. I'm rich and stuck-up. It's the mask I hide behind to keep Mom and me safe.
I peek up at New Guy and see his eyes widen. A huge smile breaks over his face.
"No way!" he exclaims, and plops down on the seat next to me, his cooler-than-thou attitude totally vanished. He pulls Mom's book out of his bag. "I love these," he confesses way more enthusiastically than I would have ever expected, given his extremely "screw you" appearance. "Your mom's a genius," he gushes, and I start to feel sick to my stomach.
If only he knew.
I shrug and try not to notice how my arm tingles where his shoulder brushes up against it. A tiny voice tells me I'm being beyond stupid right now, talking to this guy and breaking all of my rules. I tell the voice to shut up.
"I'm Gabe," he says, introducing himself and sticking out his hand. I half-turn and shake it awkwardly because we're sitting so close together. Blast these tiny seats.
"Emily, but call me Em," I reply. And then, after a moment of silence, "Don't you think you're a little, you know, like old for kid stories?" I could kick myself as soon as the words bumble out of my mouth. But to my surprise, Gabe doesn't act offended.
"Well…" he stammers, looking sheepish. I would have never thought it possible for someone with a lip piercing to be sheepish, but somehow, he's convincing. "It's not like I broadcast it or anything. I just love how creative she is. The stories, they're so different than anything I'm used to. It's like they're my escape from reality." And then Gabe seems suddenly uncomfortable. He clears his throat and gazes out of the window. The train sways back and forth as we leave the rolling hills of the suburbs behind and rush into the city.
"Why do you need to escape?" I ask him. "Is there something bad happening to you?" I need to staple my lips shut.
Gabe flips randomly through the pages of the book, his eyes trained on the story. It's the one about the flying boy who lives on a planet where the trees are made out of lightening.
"No," he answers shortly. "Forget wha
t I said. I just like your mom's books, that's all." Then he changes the subject. "Where do you go to school?"
"Southern," I answer. And then, just because I'm curious and I've already broken my no-talking-to-anyone rule, "What about you?"
"Same, actually. I just transferred in about a week ago." He pulls at a bit of frayed string on the sleeve of his hoodie. "How come, if you're so well-known or whatever, I haven't seen you around? Hey, does your mom ever come in for teacher conferences and stuff?"
And so we've come the end of my little fantasy. He goes to my school, and he's interested in my famous mother. This conversation is more than over.
Don't answer personal questions. It's my number one rule. Above "don't talk to anybody unless absolutely necessary" and above "don't make friends." I've already risked too much by talking to Gabe. He doesn't know what a complete social outcast I am at Southern, but soon he will. It's better to just end whatever I thought this was now, before I make things harder on myself.
