by M. Kircher
Oh, well this is great. His parents are scientists. This boy, who has somehow managed to breech all of my carefully constructed defenses and who now stands only a couple of yards away from my sleeping mother, has the most dangerous kind of parents ever. My mother the dreamwalker has a freakishly abnormal body any human biologist or disease expert would kill to study, if they ever found out she existed. This is beyond a disaster.
"What kind of scientists?"
"Huh? Oh, they're neurologists," Gabe answers. "Why?"
My stomach clenches. Oh geez, the absolute worst kind. I imagine a man and a woman with lab coats drilling holes into Mom's brain, trying to unlock its secrets.
I shake my head and point my finger into his face, ignoring his question. "You have to get out of here. Right. Now." I punctuate my words with finger jabs. "I'm serious. My mom hates visitors and gets super upset when people are around. You know, the whole writer thing and all. She has to have space to work without noise or distraction." I hope he buys this lie.
Gabe grins, and I can feel my heart sinking. "Em, come on. We have to work on the art assignment, and it's not exactly like you're chomping at the bit to come over to my house. And…there's also this other thing."
He glances behind him, and my gut twists again.
"What other thing?"
"There's a guy here who insists he has an appointment with your mom. He says it's kind of urgent."
And, to my complete and utter horror, a tall, skinny man emerges out of the trees behind Gabe and starts to walk up the steps toward the front door. I have never seen this man before in my life, and my heart starts to beat wildly at the possibilities. Who is he? What does he want? The man passes Gabe and comes up to me, sticking his hand out as though he wants to shake. I stare down at it in shock.
"I'm Evan Baxter, Miss Dal Monte," he says proudly and grabs my hand, pumping it up and down like he's just won an award. "You might not know my name, but I'm your mother's book editor. The Agency sent me to talk with her."
I don't say anything; I just stand gaping at the two dudes in front of me who are waiting for some kind of answer. My brain is frantically trying to think of a way to get them out of here.
I notice Evan is much younger than I pictured him, more Mom's age than elderly gentleman like I'd always imagined. His features are plain and nondescript. He has the sort of face you'd never notice in a crowd. The editor's short brown hair is cut short, and it spikes up in the front. There are a pair of black metal glasses perch precariously on his average-sized nose, and his enormously long legs have been stuck in a pair of gray pants that are just slightly too short. Under his charcoal-colored jacket, a heinously plaid shirt peeks out in a purple color so vivid, it hurts my eyes.
I never expected to meet this man face to face, but now that I have, I'm sort of disappointed. I'd always thought that if you worked at the Agency, one of the most prominent book publishers in the country, you'd have a certain air about you. Like you knew important things. But the tall man standing before me just seems nervous.
I bet he's not more nervous than I am, though.
"Mom's not home," I blurt out and back away from Evan, heading for the front door. "You both have to leave, okay? I can't have strange men—" I gaze pointedly at Gabe, "—or boys in the house with me when she's not here." I try to act nonchalant. "House rules, you know." My wavering voice does little to disguise how jittery I am.
"But you just told me your mom doesn't like visitors," Gabe protests and leaps up the rest of the steps to stand beside Evan and I. Without even asking if it's okay, he peers into the darkened squares of glass that flank our large metal front door. "So which is it? Is she home or isn't she? Hey, there's a light on inside," he announces triumphantly and turns to me with a grin on his face and a twinkle in his eye.
Confused, I peer into the glass pane and see Gabe's actually right. There is a light on inside the house. But how could that be? I turned everything off before I left this morning; it's part of my whole routine. I always double-check the locks and the lights to make sure the house appears as if there's no one at home. I don't need a snoopy deliveryman stumbling on something he shouldn't — like Mom, for instance.
Evan puts a reassuring hand on my shoulder, as though he and I are old friends. "Miss Dal Monte, I know your mother is a bit of a recluse, but I have strict orders to see her as soon as possible. The Agency is quite adamant she do a book tour. They've decided she's been out of the spotlight long enough and want to increase her sales. I've been sent here because she refuses to take even a single phone call to discuss this plan. It's imperative that I speak with her."
She doesn't take any calls because she's always in la-la land, but I can't exactly tell Evan about dreamwalking. What am I supposed to say?
"Gabe let you in, didn't he?" I accuse, pointing at the interfering kid.
"Yes, your friend was helpful, as well as the nice gentleman at the gate," Evan tells me with a brisk nod of his head.
I sigh. How could Gus have betrayed me like this? He should know better. Especially because if anyone reports unauthorized visitors, it could cost him his job. Gus probably thought he was doing me a favor, letting in a cute guy, someone from Mom's work. I make a mental note to have a stern chat with him if I ever get out of this mess.
But just then, right as I'm about to tell both Evan and Gabe that I'm the one who left the light on and Mom is definitely not at home, the outside floodlights burst on, and the doorway is engulfed in a bright white light.
"Emily!" My mother's musical voice floats out of the house as the front door slides open. Mom steps outside, her blond hair framing her face in glowing waves. She's wearing a white sweater and khaki pants, and she appears just like an angel guarding the doorway to heaven.
My mouth hangs open for like the twentieth time in one day. I am floored. Utterly floored. Why is she awake all of a sudden?
"You didn't tell me you were bringing friends home with you," Mom beams. I stare at her, and so do Gabe and Evan. What in the world is going on?
Chapter Six
Before I even know what's happened, Gabe, Evan, and I are all standing in the front hallway. Mom's arms wrap around me, welcoming me home. When was the last time she hugged me? I can't even remember.
Gabe and Evan watch awkwardly as Mom pulls me close. "What are they doing here?" she whispers urgently, and now I know what the hug is for. Though I can't understand why she opened the door in the first place. "Have they hurt you?" she asks. Oh, so she's trying to protect me now? I don't believe that, not for a second.
It's been a long time since she's actually thought about anyone's welfare except her own. I try to calm the anger boiling inside of me. Erupting in rage right now won't do either of us any good.
"Not hurt," I whisper back, "but we have to get rid of them." I let go of her and straighten up, smiling at Evan and Gabe through clenched teeth. "Why don't you guys go make yourselves at home in the living room while Mom and I get us all something to drink?" I try to make it sound like an invitation, but it comes out more like an order.
Thankfully, Evan doesn't seem to notice. He's too busy staring at Mom. Good grief, not him too. It's only been like ten seconds, and already he's a gooey pool of a human being. Mom's always had this effect on men, even when Dad was alive. He never cared much, thankfully. But it's always grossed me out. Mom is just too beautiful for her own good.
"Sure, sounds great," Gabe voices cheerfully, while Evan just stands there and nods. Gabe has a smug expression on his face that rubs me the wrong way. Oh so he thinks he's won, does he?
"Over this way." I indicate and all but shove Gabe and our new besotted editor friend past the kitchen and into the living room.
Mom beams encouragingly behind me. "Yes, please be comfortable," she chimes in, and I shoot her a disapproving look from behind Gabe's leather jacket.
"He's cute," she mouths silently at me, and I roll my eyes. One second she thinks I'm in danger, the next she's scoping out guys for me?
Ugh.
The two unwanted visitors plop down onto our huge gray couch, and I walk over and click on the fireplace, making sure to turn it all the way up. Without a word, I leave them there and head back toward the kitchen. Let 'em sweat a little.
"We'll just be a minute!" Mom calls out as I grab a glass pitcher from one of the overhead cabinets. She twists on the spigot, and I hold the pitcher under, letting crystal water splash into the bottom.
"Why are you awake? Did something happen?" I whisper urgently, hoping the sound of the running water will mask our conversation. "And why would you invite them in? I can't believe you'd do something so thoughtless."
As soon as the bitter words leave my lips, Mom's face falls. Her shoulders droop, and her eyes lose their sparkle. Why she is always like this? This fragile piece of glass, just waiting to be smashed apart. And why can't I ever lose it like she does? I'm the kid here, for crying out loud.
"I'm sorry, Emily, I'm not thinking straight." Mom pushes her hair back from her forehead with a trembling hand. "I couldn't find him," she whimpers, and her voice breaks. A tear slides down her cheek. "He wasn't there. No matter how hard I tried to find him and willed for him to come to me, Aldo just wasn't there. What am I going to do?" More tears stream down her face.
I try to keep my emotions in check. I put the full pitcher of water on the counter, twist off the spigot, and take a deep breath.
It's Dad she's talking about, of course, although Mom always calls him by his first name, Aldo. He's the reason she sleeps for days and weeks at a time — so they can be together in her dreams. When she's dreaming, Mom can pretend Dad is still alive and no terrorist's bomb ever blew him to pieces. I understand it on an intellectual level, but my gut knows what she's doing is toxic. Part of being human is the ability to grieve, to let go of something important. And Mom just can't let go.
"You couldn't find Dad? This is the reason you decided to wake up?" I try to be calm.
"I didn't know what else to do, Emily. My dreams, they were all wrong this time. When I got up I tried to find you, but you weren't here."
"There's this thing called school, Mom. You might have heard of it."
Mom nods, but I can tell she's not paying any attention to me. "I saw you outside, with a man's hand on your shoulder. I panicked — I didn't think."
"That man is your book editor, Mom. And now that he's here, we're in a world of trouble. You're going to have to talk to him and try to get him to leave," I whisper angrily. "Why don't you ever realize what you're doing?"
"I know, Emily, okay? I know it was stupid. I'm just not myself right now. The last dream really threw me, and I have to figure out a way to find your father again."
Her watery eyes plead with me for understanding, and I bite back the angry retort that's on the tip of my tongue. I want to remind her that Dad is dead and no amount of dreaming about him will ever bring him back. I want to demand that she stay awake for me, her daughter, who is quite alive and still needs her out here in the real world. But I know it won't do any good.
"Okay," I tell her, and I take a deep breath. "Here's what we're going to do. Evan's come to convince you to go on a book tour."
"What?" Mom's hand flies to her chest as I calmly take four glasses out of a panel, which is partially hidden behind wide white tiles lining the middle of the kitchen wall. "I can't do a book tour!"
"I know." I sigh, exasperated. "Just work with me, okay? You're not going to do the tour, but you need to go out there and convince Mr. Editor you're willing to think it over. It's the only way we'll get rid of him."
"What about the cute boy with all the metal in his face?" Mom asks. "Did you invite him here?"
I grimace and shake my head. "No, I'm not that dumb," I answer. "He followed me home. He just wants to meet his favorite author — which is you, if you didn't already figure that out." I grab the pitcher and motion for Mom to grab the glasses. "You deal with Evan and leave Gabe to me."
"Okay," she says, her voice quivering. "I'll try." I give her what I hope is a bracing look, but inside I seriously doubt she can handle this. What a complete disaster.
Together Mom and I march into the now sweltering living room like we're heading out into battle. As soon as we enter the room, I start sweating. The electric fireplace is blazing hot. Good.
I plop the pitcher down onto the wooden coffee table situated right in front of the fireplace and gleefully realize both guys have taken off their jackets. I see beads of moisture running down both sides of Evan's temples, and Gabe's Mohawk seems to be wilting fast.
"We like it warm, " I announce, a nice big, fake smile on my face. "I hope that's okay with you two. Would you like some water?" But before either of them can answer, I fill up two glasses to the brim and plunk them down right in front of the guys.
"Evan, why don't you and Mom discuss the book tour while Gabe and I go talk about our homework assignment in my room?"
Mom shoots me a panicked look, and I know it means she doesn't want me to leave her alone with Evan. I ignore her silent plea and grab Gabe's arm. "Come on. Let's go," I say, and I tug him off the sofa and toward the staircase leading to the upper level of our house.
"Seriously?" he asks, seeming surprised. "You're taking me to your room?"
"We have homework to discuss, right?" I grit my teeth. "And I'm sure Mom and Evan have loads to talk about, in the short time he'll be visiting us today. You know, being a big-shot editor and all."
"Yes," Mom agrees, gathering herself. She turns to Evan on the couch. "You must have a lot of work to get back to."
I nudge Gabe up the stairs to my room. As we climb, I hear Evan accepting the glass of water Mom offers him. She needs to charm this guy right out the door. I gulp. Hopefully he'll be distracted enough by the heat and Mom's face that he won't notice she doesn't know a thing about her books. She didn't write any of them, after all.
I did.
I shuffle down the carpeted hallway, my grip still tight on Gabe's arm, and he silently allows me to lead him. Reaching my bedroom door, I shove him inside, even though the guy is almost twice my size. Sometimes nervousness can make you feel stronger than you actually are.
I slam the door behind me and fold my arms, narrowing my eyes and glaring up into Gabe's ridiculously handsome face. "So, you never answered my question earlier today at school." My voice is low and threatening. "You know, when you pretty much molested me at my locker and then tricked me into being partners with you? What is it, huh? What. Do. You. Want?"
Chapter Seven
"Want?" Gabe asks innocently, as if he doesn't know what he's been doing all week. He thoughtfully rubs the black disc in his left ear. "First of all, I did not molest you today, so stop being a drama queen. I was just saying hi. And it was Ms. Phelps who made us partners, remember? I had nothing to with it."
I open my mouth to argue, but he holds up a hand.
"I've tried to talk to you a couple of times. There's no law against talking, at least not one that I'm aware of. Your mom is my favorite author, and you can't blame me for being interested when I find out her daughter goes to my school." Gabe rubs his hands on his jeans and then starts to walk around my room, his eyes raking over my bed and examining the crap on my shelves. He glances briefly at the dreamcatcher I have hanging over my bed, and my heart pounds. I keep it there for fun. I know it doesn't actually work, that the only bad dreams it can catch for me are the ones I don't dream. But I like it there; it helps me feel slightly safer as I nod off every night.
However, I don't need Gabe asking any questions about the useless trinket; I don't want to have to explain anything else to the nosy boy. Thankfully, Gabe's gaze sweeps across my bed and lands on my desk. There's nothing incriminating there, I hope — just another screen for homework, my music pod, and some readers with my schoolbooks loaded onto them. He picks up my music pod and thumbs through the songs. His pierced eyebrows rise appreciatively at my choices.
I should be annoyed at his complete disregard for my p
rivacy, but I'm just glad he's not talking about the dreamcatcher.
"But you, on the other hand, have been acting completely crazy," he continues, putting the pod back down and turning to me. "You jump off the train at the wrong stop and walk an extra three blocks to school in the pouring rain for no discernable reason whatsoever. You ignore me like I have the plague or something, and then I find out you have no friends. None. Even the popular kids think you're stuck-up. The geeks just think you're mean. You ignore everybody and refuse to fit in anywhere. And from where I'm sitting, that's a pretty hard thing to do."
He crosses the room and steps close to me, peering down into my eyes. My feet are rooted to the floor, and my knees have locked up. I can't move. His breath is hot on my face, and I'm suddenly quite aware of the lack of inches between us.
"You're hiding something, Em," Gabe insists. "And I intend to figure out what it is."
"You're the one who's crazy," I shoot back dismissively and slide my gaze away, tilting my chin down toward the carpet. "I'm not hiding anything." A nervous laugh bubbles out of my throat, and my eye catches the music pod perched on my desk. I lunge for it. "Here," I tell him and thrust the pod into Gabe's hands. "We have to get to know each other, right? You can borrow my pod, and I'll take yours, just till tomorrow. Now you can say you've been to my house, seen my room, and met Mom. We'll listen to each other's music and know everything there is to know about each other. The assignment will get done, okay?"
