These Dreams Which Cannot Last

by Matt Flickinger

  “Is this your father?” she says, setting the open journal back on the table.

  Immediately, Zain’s heart is beating like a hammer against his chest.

  “What? No!” he says.

  “I just thought—“

  “It’s not!”

  Other people in the class look over. Zain’s face is hot. He looks down, away from the faces of his classmates, at the picture of the man’s face gazing down on the small lifeless figure on the street. The man doesn’t look anything like his father.

  “I’m sorry. Art can help us process. I know it’s probably been hard—”

  “It’s not.” Zain says, slamming the journal closed. Over his shoulder, Ms. Feeney sighs. Her voice creaks in her throat, but she doesn’t say anything. Zain grabs his pencil and flattens out the paper of his project, the World War II man boy looking out from the picture. Big god damn mistake. Finally, Ms. Feeney moves on, down the row of students, her turquoise beads click clacking.

  Zain spends the rest of class with his head down, finishing the pencil lines of the D Day scene. He doesn’t look up once. Not even when the piece is ready for paint. Zain just keeps shading over the faces that he should be painting. When the bell rings, he puts the project on the rack quickly. He’s zipping his backpack when Ms. Feeney calls him over to her desk.

  Great, he thinks. What now? A weird apology? A lecture? She is so awkward. She’ll probably just sit there rolling the beads on her necklaces, trying to think what to say, and he’ll be late for his next class. Whatever, he thinks, he can outlast her. There is only four minutes until the late bell and he can stay silent that long, then take off to his next class. When he gets to her desk, Zain grips his backpack straps and stares out the window over Feeney’s desk. She stands next to her chair, but doesn’t sit. Just stands next to her chair like a goon. So awkward, he thinks.

  “What?” Zain says.

  “I’m sorry. That’s not how I should have…” Ms. Feeney stops and starts again, “I’m not very good at this.” She looks like she’s going to cry.

  “It’s fine. I’m going to be late—”

  “There’s a contest that I think you should enter.” Ms. Feeney turns to the chaotic desk behind her, “visions from the border, or something like that…” She says, shuffling papers.

  “What?” Zain says.

  “Here it is,” she says, pulling a paper from one of the tipping stacks. “It’s a regional contest. Pieces about living on a border, any kind of border. From here to there, or…Stuck on one,” she says, handing over a pink flier.

  Zain takes the paper and reads it silently, “Border Visions: What kinds of borders do we inhabit? What kinds do we cross over?”

  Ms. Feeney continues, “The piece from your sketch pad with the man over the little boy, I thought you could rework it.”

  The door opens and two giggling girls enter the room behind them.

  “I have a class now,” Ms. Feeney says, “think about it. Entries are due after Thanksgiving.”

  Zain looks up from the flier. Ms. Feeney pinches one of her necklaces, her thin lips twisting into an odd smile, her lips parting just enough to show her teeth. There is something green stuck between her two front teeth.

  “Thanks,” Zain says, folding up the flier, “maybe.” On his way out the door, squeezing past incoming art students, Zain pulls his phone from his pocket. Maybe he doesn’t know how to text Charlotte about the big things. Maybe he could start with something small. Surely, a thank you isn’t too big.

  21

  Charlotte Hanson’s Day Off

  Charlotte has been good. Hasn’t ditched a single class in four weeks, but she’s getting itchy. A mental health day is necessary, especially with what’s coming. While Christmas and Spring breaks offer time to herself, Thanksgiving break won’t. Not this year. Her sister will be home from college on Sunday and her parents are taking the whole Thanksgiving week off, all nine days. Charlotte needs some personal time before all the obligatory “quality” family time begins. Her mother has been outlining the week’s agenda with increasing frequency and detail for the past two weeks. So, on Friday morning, her mind made up, Charlotte showers and heads downstairs to join her mother and father at the table for a cup of coffee. She even allows her mother to fix her a fried egg on toast. As her parents grab briefcases and lunch boxes, Charlotte checks her phone and tells them Toni is on her way. She thanks them for breakfast and heads back upstairs to grab some homework she forgot. Watching through the curtains as the car pulls down the driveway, Charlotte takes a deep breath. A whole day to herself. What to do, she thinks.

  After two hours mini-binging the shit teen drama series Toni recommended, Charlotte turns off Netflix and tosses the remote onto her bedside table. She could smoke a bowl, but lately the thought of being high hasn’t seemed appealing (the streak of not getting high, a bit of an accomplishment). She could start a new story, the drowning Anthony piece a lost and (almost) forgotten cause is tucked into the bottom drawer of her desk. The blank page she loaded into the typewriter a few days ago droops. Writing would be too much like work, she decides. She stands and opens her curtains on the late morning and presses her hand against the cool glass. The sky is clear and sunny, trees swaying in a slight breeze. It’s too nice to sit inside. A Ferris Bueller day, for sure. Without a friend with a classic Ferrari in a glass garage, she’ll have to settle for something else. “Yes!” she says, as it comes to her. This is definitely a sit by the water kind of day. She ties her shoes and grabs her gray hoodie and her journal, locking the door behind her.

  It’s just a short mile walk to her spot by the river, another mile if she stops by school first. Some company might be nice. Zain could bring his own journal, she thinks. The one he bought after she suggested it. The journal he actually drew in and showed to his Art teacher. The one he thanked Charlotte for so cutely in the text because “when ms. feeney saw it she thought I should enter a piece into an art show so thank you.” At the end of the cul-de-sac, Charlotte doesn’t hesitate, she turns left toward school. A day to herself by the water, with Zain. Now, how to get him out of class, she thinks. Still no classic Ferrari (or car at all), so she’ll have to use what she has. Charlotte pulls out her phone, 11:16. She’s got time, and connections.

  Ms. Zuniga stops her lecture about Asian mountains when the classroom door opens. The class holds a collective breath, everyone but Zain. It’s a big deal when anyone enters a classroom in River Valley High uninvited, never more so than a student aide. Those little check boxes on the white note from the admin building hold so many possibilities. Could be a summons to an assistant principal, or a call to the counselor, or the all-powerful note of freedom instructing a student to bring all things, because he or she is leaving for the day. The notes are never for Zain, so he returns to the doodle of a parrot in a fedora clinging to the red margin line of his notes.

  Ms. Zuniga sighs and takes the note. “Another one! Why do we even have school the day before a break?” she says, reading over the note. “Mr. Thompson,” she says, the rest of the class letting out a disappointed breath, “get your things. You’re leaving.”

  “What?” Zain says.

  “Excuse me,” Ms. Zuniga corrects.

  “Sorry. Excuse me. But me?”

  “Yes, gather your things, please,” she says. Ms. Zuniga returns her attention to the map displayed on the overhead screen. Zain throws his notebook and textbook into his backpack and zips it up.

  The front office is busy with parents checking students out early from school for fall break. Zain doesn’t see his mother anywhere. Why would he? She’s at work, he thinks. Or not. Either way, she never picks him up early. After a few minutes of looking around, Zain sees the office aide that brought the note strolling in from the outside doors. She is tall, dressed in all black, and hot in the same way as Charlotte, except she looks like she’s trying harder. The shade of the bright pink letters on her t-shirt match the laces on her black
shoes precisely. She walks straight through the lobby, leading with her chest (big and distractingly bouncy), to stand by Zain. She looks over her shoulder at one of the secretaries who has noticed Zain waiting in the lobby. Her eyes shifting lazily between Zain and the secretary.

  “You have a note?” the aide says loudly. She motions with her fingers for him to show her. Zain holds out the crumpled paper. “Ah, yes,” she says, “you’re all set,” motioning toward the door. Giving Zain a quick glance that only he can see, the students aide’s lips mouth “GO!” Zain pockets the note and heads quickly for the exit. As soon as he’s out the doors, he grips the straps of his backpack and jogs toward the main street entrance. Someone is standing at the crosswalk, gray hood pulled down low, waiting for the light to change. As he steps up next to the thin figure, Zain smiles.

  “Mr. Thompson, do you have all your belongings?” she says in a low voice.

  “Yes,” Zain says. The light changes. As they cross the street, Charlotte lowers her hood, “do you have your art journal?”

  “Always,” Zain says.

  “Good,” she says, “you’re going to need it.”

  22

  The River Bank

  Zain stops running when they reach the entrance to the park. He reads the sign to himself, “$10 per visitor, no overnight camping.” Charlotte walks past the sign and the empty park Ranger booth without looking at either of them. “Come on,” she says. Leaving the pavement, they follow a grass trail down to the river. The water throws hectic midday light around the mesquite trees dotting the shore. Zain looks across the river at the tall grass on the Mexico side. Somewhere in all that un-mowed grass is the trail he walked with his parents last fall, a million years ago.

  Charlotte sits and pulls a notebook and pen from her hoodie and sets them on the ground between them. Feet inches from the water, she leans back on her hands, closing her eyes.

  “This is a great spot,” Zain says.

  “It’s my favorite,” she says.

  Zain shrugs off his backpack and pulls his knees up, looking out over the water, the breeze cooling the sweat on his back. Charlotte breathes slowly beside him. For a moment Zain can’t figure out what is different about her. Then it comes to him. Today is the first time he’s seen her in daylight. The streetlight face from his memory is paler, smoother. In the colored dancing lights of the party her face was like a dream, frenzied and fleeting. Here, in the bright sun, though, he can see little hairs along her jaw, a cluster of acne scars dotting her cheek. She is realer right now than ever, he thinks, and more beautiful. Zain slides his journal and a pencil from his backpack. He has her silhouette outlined when she opens her eyes. Zain looks out at the water, tilting his notebook away.

  “I used to come here with my family,” she says.

  “Really?” Zain asks, making a mental note of the shade on her neck.

  “We would come here once or twice a month,” Charlotte says.

  “Not anymore?” Zain asks.

  “Not since my sister left.” Charlotte crosses her legs and closes her eyes again, leaning her head against her shoulder. Zain works fast, retracing the line of the sleeve stretched halfway down her shoulder, shading the three shirt wrinkles gathered across her stomach, relining the slight rise of her breast, then the wisps of hair at the top of her head.

  “Before then, really,” she says.

  She doesn’t explain any further and Zain doesn’t ask. They sit on the banks in a comfortable quiet. The only sounds, the water lapping against the muddy bank, the dull scratch of pencil across paper, and their own quiet breaths.

  The breeze blowing off the top of the river is cool, but she feels warm. Charlotte is not sure how it happened, but running has become as much a part of their relationship (not that they are in a relationship) as awkward silences, unanswered texts, little undiscovered truths. Her chest is warm, more from the inside than the out. A pleasant surety pulses through her limbs. Who knew runner’s high was a real thing? She lets the light burn through her eyelids until the darkness turns red again. When she opens her eyes, Zain looks away to the water. She’s caught him looking a few times over the last twenty minutes. Every time, he looks out at the water in mock concentration. Adorable, she thinks.

  “Thanks for springing me,” he says. Springing him? Charlotte is convinced Zain is from a different time. At first she thought it was just nerves. Maybe he didn’t text because he was too nervous, like he didn’t know what to write so he just wouldn’t. Except that he never texts, not with anyone. He must have friends (she hopes), teammates at least, but she has never seen him text anyone. He’s hardly on his phone at all. There have been other signs, too. Like his musical knowledge, totally nil. Like not just inexperienced, doesn’t know what he likes yet. More like Zain is unaware of most popular music existing. On her walk to school to spring him, Charlotte put together a run-to-the-park playlist on her phone. A few favorite abstract EDM songs, some hip hop, but mostly pop stuff. Three songs Zain asked about are hits that have been playing in regular circulation on top 40 stations for the last two months. He didn’t ask like he was trying to place where he’d heard them before. More like he’d never heard them. The kid is an anachronism, she thinks.

  “You’re welcome,” she says. “I’m going to owe Toni one now—“

  “Was that Toni?” Zain asks.

  Charlotte nods, “the office aide that sprung you. I’ll buy her a bottle of Schnapps. It’s her jam.”

  Zain looks confused again.

  “Schnapps alcoholic beverage is her favorite,” Charlotte says.

  “Right on,” Zain nods.

  “Yes, right on. What are you drawing?”

  Zain shifts, lifting the already concealed page toward his chest.

  “You don’t have to tell me—”

  “I’m drawing the day,” he says.

  “Today?”

  Zain nods.

  “I thought you only drew your dreams.”

  “It’s a day full of surprises,” he says and smiles, looking her in the eyes.

  Charlotte smiles and rolls her eyes. That was almost a good line. “You going to show me?”

  Zain’s smile fades a bit and his eyebrows press together. “Maybe later,” he says.

  “Okay.”

  “Are you going to write something?” he asks looking down at her journal in the grass.

  “Maybe later.”

  Zain closes his sketch pad and places it carefully next to her notebook. He stretches his long legs out in front of him and looks out over the water to the opposite bank. Charlotte looks down at their journals sitting side by side. Zain has taped a piece of paper to the cover of his. On the paper he has written “dreAM journal” in an original Zain font. They sit in comfortable silence, looking over the water for a long time.

  “I’ve been here before, too,” Zain says, finally.

  Charlotte jerks out of a half-sleep daze and opens her eyes. “Yeah?” she asks.

  “A year ago. We used to do Sunday drives. We parked up there.” Zain looks away and points up the river to the next park entrance. He has pulled his knees up close to his chest and is bouncing his toes. Charlotte weighs asking if he means we as in his whole family or just his mom and him. She decides against asking as he continues. “We hiked up the trail on this side until it ended. We were out of the park and the river was low so we crossed over to the other side.” He pauses and Charlotte looks across the river. The world on the other side looks just like this one, except for the longer grass. “When we were on the other side we turned back this way,” he says, “and I got ahead of my parents. The grass was really tall, taller than it is now. I liked running through it, taking the turns without knowing what was next, you know?” He stops, but not for a response, she thinks. “Around one turn I came up on this Mexican family. These two kids were fighting. Or, they were before I got there. The little brother was crying. The dad was gripping their shoulders, hard but not too har
d maybe. He didn’t even look up at me, he just talked to the kids like they were the only ones in the world. He…” Zain stops. His face is twisted now in that sad way that makes him look so much younger. A new heat radiates in Charlotte’s chest, hotter than the warmth from the run. She wants to touch Zain’s back, tell him he doesn’t have to say anything else. “I don’t know,” he says. “I don’t know why I’m telling you this.”

  “It’s okay,” Charlotte says.

  Zain coughs a short, joyless laugh before continuing. “It was weird,” he says, scratching the back of his head. “I watched this whole private moment and then just ran away because I wasn’t supposed to be there, you know? Even though I kind of didn’t want to leave. When I got back to my parents, they were holding hands like everything was fine. But they never held hands and it wasn’t fine. Any of it.” His feet are bouncing more rapidly now, slipping out toward the water. “Not with those boys or with my parents or for any of us. I just didn’t know how much worse it could get. How much worse it would get. How could I know that?” He stops, looking out over the water. Charlotte cant’ tell if his face all scrunched like this looks more mad or pained. “I didn’t tell them about it,” he says, “but I think my dad could tell something was wrong. He always saw it. If I knew what was going to happen, I might’ve told him—” Zain’s voice cracks and he tries to breathe in, but the breath catches in his chest. He wipes his cheek against his shoulder, sniffing, and looking away. “I’m not very good at understanding. Considering things,” he says, “I suck at it. You know?” He brings one of his hands up and slides the butt of it over his cheek. He doesn’t say anything else, just sniffs stuttering breaths in through his nose.

  Charlotte stacks Zain’s journal on top of her own and sets the books behind them. None of it makes perfect sense, but she knows what comes next. She sits up on her shins and turns, sliding a knee between his legs. He stiffens when she drapes her arms over his shoulders. “It’s okay,” she says. For a few seconds, they sit, him looking away, Charlotte looking over his face. There is a smudge of dirt on his cheek from where he wiped his tear away. Zain drops his knees and falls into her, leaning his forehead into her neck. He breathes out a deep, shuddering sigh. Crouched low in the cut grass, she holds the back of his head as his tears wet the neck of her shirt. His thin hands push into her lower back, fingers spreading like cables searching for grounding. When he brings his face up she presses her lips against his. Slipping her hands over his ears, then cheeks, she holds his face, and parts her lips.