These Dreams Which Cannot Last

by Matt Flickinger

  Michael takes their harnesses back to the top of the stadium and throws them up to the next group, already waiting at the top of the box. The rest of the group runs back up the stairs, leaving Zain and Charlotte to walk up the rest of the way alone.

  “They’re a cool group,” Charlotte says.

  “Ya,” Zain says, watching them whispering and laughing, and pushing one another on the bleachers. He adds team rituals to his lists.

  “You haven’t told them yet, huh?”

  Zain shakes his head, “I don’t know what to say to them. I don’t want them to be mad or sad. Or not be, I guess.”

  Charlotte stops on the bleachers. “Why do you do that?”

  “Do what?”

  “Diss on yourself like that?” she says, lowering herself to sit.

  “What do you mean?” Zain says, sitting next to her.

  Charlotte sighs, looking out over the darkened football field. “I happen to be an excellent judge of character, I’ll have you know. I only hang out with the most reputable of disreputable people.”

  “What?”

  Charlotte laughs. “You are a legitimately good person, Zain,” she says.

  Zain feels his face go hot.

  “They will miss you,” she says.

  “I guess,” he says.

  “Tell them, see what happens.”

  Zain looks over his shoulder, watching the team again. “It’s not fair,” he says.

  “What isn’t?”

  “I just don’t seem to figure anything out in time.”

  “Nobody does.”

  “That’s not true.”

  “At least you’re thinking about shit. So many people…” she stops, lifting her hurt ankle to rest on Zain’s lap.

  “What people?” Zain asks.

  “Most people. They don’t think about anything, just exist. Just do things, you know? They have one thing. Confidence or some talent or drive. Everything else is just extra.”

  “That sounds kind of cool, actually,” Zain says.

  “It’s not. Most people are lame. They don’t see anything for what it is. Don’t think about anything.”

  “What about you?”

  “What about me?” Charlotte asks. Her eyebrows are creased and shadowed in the moonlight. It’s not a smile, but Zain likes the look. Sort of pissed, maybe, but cute.

  “You care about things and people,” he says.

  “I see people. It’s different.”

  “Oh, okay, wise one,” he says. “So sorry.”

  Charlotte shoves Zain’s shoulder, wincing as her foot hits the bleacher.

  “I think you’re a legitimately good person, too,” Zain says. “Not that I see people as well as you do—”

  “You’re sweet.”

  “I see you,” Zain says, grabbing Charlotte’s face.

  Charlotte rolls her eyes, but kisses him anyways. Footsteps up the stairs shake the bleachers as two runners make the trip back up to the top.

  “Come on,” she says, removing her leg.

  “Up with the good,” Zain says, helping her stand.

  On the second round of repelling, the team changes up groups. Charlotte might have been down to go again, she said, if she could climb back up. Zain offered to help her, but she declined, confessing that one near death experience was enough for the night. “But you should go again,” she said. She talks with a few girls about yearbook and music as Zain climbs to the top of the press box with Michael and Greyson.

  Greyson goes first, leaning back and kicking off the wall immediately. Zain hooks in next. Even with Charlotte falling, he’s excited to try again. Leaning back without hesitation, he doesn’t step back, but jumps off, sliding down his rope. He times it so his second jump lands him at the bottom of the wall. He could totally get into this, he thinks. As he jumps off, he looks down to see Greyson stopped below him, his top hand in a fist. Zain grips the rope, stopping beside him, “What’s—”

  Greyson brings his fist to his face, pressing a gloved finger to his lips, then points down. Below them, someone is moving across the blacktop, pushing something. Every other sound but two disappears. All Zain can hear is his heartbeat and the squeaking wheels of the trashcan cart the janitor pushes slowly beneath them. Her head is down as she pushes. Suddenly, stops between the ropes. Zain holds his breath. Has she seen the black ropes, Zain thinks, gathered in coils on either side of her? The janitor bends over then and picks up a crumpled piece of notebook paper from the blacktop, throwing it into the trashcan on her cart. She wheels the cart into the moon’s shade, opening the door to the football coaches’ offices. Just then Michael zips down to stop next to them. “What’s up, gentlemen?”

  “Janitor,” Greyson whispers. “Time to go.”

  The three of them descend quickly, landing softly on the pavement. Greyson signals up to Fernie, who pulls the ropes up as the boys run silently over the courts. As they reach the edge of the stadium, Zain looks back around the corner to watch the janitor, coming out of the office, and continuing on to the next room.

  Michael laughs and slaps Zain’s shoulder as they run around the corner of the stadium. “Classic!” he whispers. “Rock girl almost bites it and then we all almost get busted by Lupita the night janitor!”

  The rest of the group is descending the stairs. Charlotte limps down, Erika walking beside her. Fernie stands on the press box, coiling the ropes. Stuffing two ropes into his backpack, he wraps the other rope around his arm and drops his legs over the front edge of the press box. He drops, landing on the top step. No sound, no problem, totally bad ass.

  The team gathers on the track, whispering about the night and saying their goodbyes. A few of the girls hug Zain good night, Laura telling him she really likes Charlotte. Michael wraps Zain in a big hug, too, “Classic night, Meat!” Zain nods, but doesn’t say anything, nothing about leaving. As the team takes off, he watches Erika and Charlotte take the last step down from the stadium onto the track. Charlotte hugs Erika before limping over to Zain. Erika doesn’t look at Zain as she passes.

  “I didn’t know she was back,” Charlotte says.

  “Erika?”

  “Ya. We were kind of friends in middle school.”

  “I thought she was a new student.”

  “It’s cool that she came back.”

  “From where?” Zain says.

  Charlotte looks at him, “she was pregnant.”

  Zain watches Erika run through the gate, disappearing into the darkness. A tiny little life, he thinks.

  “You guys okay getting home?” Fernie says.

  “We’re good,” Charlotte says. “Thanks, Obi Wan.”

  Fernie laughs, “no problem, Han.”

  Zain holds out his hand, “thank you.” Fernie crunches his knuckles in a handshake. “Keep your head up, Meat. And take care of your girl. ”

  Zain watches him run out of the gate.

  “That guy is definitely a badass,” Charlotte says.

  “Totally,” Zain says.

  “You have to be home right away?” Charlotte asks.

  “You should probably get home. Ice that ankle.”

  “It’s feeling better.”

  “That’s the adrenaline,” Zain says.

  “Are you turning me down here?” she says.

  “No. I just—”

  “Use that big brain of yours, Zain,” she says. “You’re finally alone with your girlfriend, on your last weekend in town.”

  “Right,” he says. “I guess I didn’t think about it.”

  “I bet you did,” she says, smiling.

  Zain can’t help smiling too. “Where to?” he asks.

  “Ever seen the moon over the river? It’s pretty magical.”

  “No,” Zain says.

  “Can we stop by my house first? Grab a blanket, some ibuprofen, and your backpack?”

  “Sure. How’s your ankle?”

  “I can make it,” she
says. “It’s just a little sore.”

  Zain stops at the gate, letting Charlotte walk through first. He looks back over the track, at the stadium benches glowing in the moonlight.

  Charlotte stops beside him. “You have that look again,” she says.

  “What look?”

  “The one you get when you’re deep in it. Drawing or sorry about something.”

  He sighs, “I think I want to tell you something.”

  “Sure. You can tell me whatever.”

  “Two things really,” he says.

  “Tell me two things then,” she says. Looking at her eyes, so kind, he thinks he might actually be able to tell her.

  “First,” he says, “I wanted to thank you.”

  “For what?”

  “For tonight—”

  “I’m sorry,” she interrupts. “I don’t think I made a very good impression on your friends,” she says.

  “I don’t care about that. You did, though,” he says.

  Charlotte leans against him, limping slightly as they leave the school grounds.

  “What I really wanted to thank you for was kind of…everything. All of our adventures.”

  “Adventures?” she says, lifting her head from his shoulder.

  “We’ve been on so many cool adventures.”

  Charlotte laughs, but not in a mean way. “We have,” she says, “haven’t we?”

  “Yes!” he says.

  “You’re welcome,” she says, “and thank you.”

  “It’s the most fun I’ve ever had.”

  “Me too,” she says. “Totally worth it.” She rests her head against him again as they walk and he can feel her smile on his shoulder. “What’s the other thing?” she says.

  Zain stops to look up at the sky. The clouds have all drifted away, a cool breeze promises a cold morning.

  “Whatever it is,” she says, “you can tell me.”

  Zain squeezes her hand, then moves his hand to the back of his head. He sighs, pulling on the short hair at his neck. It is time. With everything she has given him. Bringing him into her life, even if it was just introducing him to so much he will never get the chance to fully understand, before he leaves all of this place behind, he has to tell someone. This perfect someone. “I want to tell you about my dad,” he says.

  42

  These Dreams Which Cannot Last

  They grip the sides of the blanket, huddled close as the sun rises behind them. Zain wipes his raw eyes again. The river laps and spills over the shore. Since they sat up, since they finished, his eyes haven’t stopped watering. It’s not like crying, not anymore, but they won’t stop. Charlotte doesn’t speak, just keeps an arm around his waist holding him here after so many firsts and lasts.

  Charlotte was right, the moon on the water is magical. He wasn’t planning on telling her so much, doing all that, but there, huddled close in the moonlight it happened. He told her all about his father, the natural joy and optimism that kept Zain grounded, sane maybe. How his father taught him to cook and how Zain hasn’t touched the stove since. He was crying by then, but went on, knowing she would ask, telling her because he needed to. Even if he didn’t know why. He told her how his father’s death was unexpected, a brain aneurysm. How his mother found him lying on the floor of the bedroom a couple hours after he said he was going to lie down. About his last words to her. Just one of my headaches, he’d told her, I’ll be up soon. How his mother never picked Zain up from school, but she did that day and right away he knew something wasn’t right. Zain included all the little details of the day that never meant the same after that. Like how, when he saw his mother in the pick-up lane instead of his father, he left his pudding cup on the middle school’s front steps, ignoring Jackson when he asked if he was going to throw it away. He used to love pudding, now the thought of it makes Zain shake and gag. He told her about riding next to his mother, who wouldn’t even look over until they were parked at the little park his father used to take him to as a kid. Pushed him in the swings one Christmas Eve before anyone else was awake. How after too many silent minutes his mother told him his father had “passed away.” How he didn’t understand at first. And then, when he did, how he’d cried and his mother held his head while he soaked her blouse with his tears. It was the first time he told anyone about that day. Charlotte held him and cried with him and held him closer and kissed him deeply. They kept kissing, moving closer until kissing turned into more. Another first. Their first. Maybe only time, but he doesn’t want to think about that. Just how wonderful and special and unexpected it was, like everything with Charlotte.

  “I keep having this dream,” Zain says, finally. “I’m in this room. There’s a couch and a chair. And these two doors. At first, I just stood there, looking around. At the couch and chair and at the doors. I was so confused, like I didn’t know what I was supposed to do. But then it turned into a scary place. Darker.”

  He feels Charlotte’s fingers spread, squeezing his hip.

  “That’s when I tried to get out. But both of the doors were locked. There used to be light under the doors, but it disappeared. First one, then the other. All of the light disappeared. One of the doors is cold now…” he stops, looking at the other side of the river. “I didn’t know you could feel cold in a dream,” he says. The sunrise lights the tips of the long yellow grass, “I didn’t know I was trapped.”

  It has been so long since he has said anything, but Charlotte wants him to talk. Maybe it will help, she thinks. After hearing everything, though, she doesn’t know if anything can. Zain is so much stronger than she ever guessed and in so much more pain. “Have you escaped the room?” she asks.

  “Not yet.”

  “You will,” she says, even if she can’t know if that is true. “I started a story yesterday.”

  “Ya?” he says.

  “For creative writing. We have to write a story for our final, based on a word. My word is escape.”

  “Really?”

  “I drew it from a hat,” Charlotte says. She laughs. Zain smiles.

  “During eighth period, I was looking up quotes, trying to figure out where to start.”

  “Good idea.”

  “I came across this one that is kind of perfect.”

  Zain nods. Charlotte is glad to see he has stopped crying. As he brings his knees up, resting his arms on them, the blanket falls off his shoulders. He doesn’t pick it back up, just stares over the water.

  “It’s by Frederic Chopin,” she says.

  “The composer?”

  She wasn’t sure if he was listening or not. “Ya, that’s right.”

  “I used to take piano lessons, before…” his eyes drift away again and Charlotte wonders if he’ll start crying again, but he doesn’t, just stares.

  “I didn’t know that,” she says.

  Zain nods. “What is the quote?” he asks.

  “He said ‘people are never happy,’ no.” She needs to get it right, so she starts again, “Man is never always happy,” she says, “and very often only a brief period of happiness is granted him in this world.”

  “That’s pretty good,” Zain says.

  “It’s okay. That part is a bit obvious, actually. The second half of the quote is better. He says ‘Why escape from this dream which cannot last long?’”

  “That is better,” Zain says, then shakes his head, “what does it mean?”

  “I’ve been thinking about that. He might have been saying that suicide is dumb, because nothing terrible, no nightmare, lasts too long. But I kind of think maybe he meant that we should hold onto the brief periods of happiness when we get them. Not worry too much about the bad times to come.”

  Finally, Zain looks over at Charlotte. “They come either way,” he says.

  “Ya.”

  “I like that,” he says.

  “Me too… I’m really happy that I met you, Zain.”

  “We’ve been each other’s good dr
eam,” he says.

  And with that, Charlotte cries now, quiet tears falling down her cheeks. Zain pulls the blanket from behind him, wrapping her shoulders. “Even if it was just for a little while,” he says, kissing the top of her head. “Thank you.”

  They sit on the banks of a not so grand river, not so alone, long after it is time to go.

  43

  Escaping River Valley

  Creative Writing is Charlotte’s last final of the week. When Ms. Bridgford calls her name, Charlotte stands.

  “You’re going to share?” Ms. Bridgford asks.

  “Looks like it,” Charlotte says. She leaves her crutches leaning on the desk behind her and limps up her row to the front of the room.

  Ms. Bridgford nods, taking her clipboard in hand, smiling. “Whenever you’re ready, Ms. Hanson,” she says.

  Charlotte reads the title, “Escaping River Valley,” and looks around the class. Her voice shakes and breaks throughout the story. But even when her classmates giggle, she continues, gets through it:

  There are five ways to escape River Valley.

  One: Wait. Stay only as long as you must, even if it might be forever, hoping while you wait that the place never saturates. Marry a man or woman, a lover or friend, or stranger, who will get you out, eventually. Drink wine and raise kids or leave them alone. Go to the right events, and wait. Even long after you have forgotten escape.

  Two: Study. Make the grades, or music, and when the time comes, just go. Leave it behind.

  Three: Die.

  Four: Dream. Dreaming comes in two forms. You can escape with the little ways you find along the way while trapped in the valley. Dream or drink or smoke or whatever. Once sufficiently fucked up, stare bleary-eyed at the horizon. Scheme and dream of escapes you’ll never actually risk, knowing always that none of it will last. Or you can live in the dream, refusing to let the place surrounding you define who you are. Whether you can consider or understand, or not. Live in the dream, because even the worst ones don’t last.

  Five: Luck out. Bad luck or good luck, it’s all the same if it gets you out. Be born into a not-so-perfect family that breaks at the right time. Soon enough, even if you find something worth staying for, you’ll be out. Gone forever. But not before you can sit bundled up with your knees to your chest, next to me. Pressed together under the blanket my sister left, clenching the edges of everything in our cold white fingers.