When Stella looked, she saw a silvery figure. She rippled like light through waves. She was a strange sort of person—small, but Stella could not tell if she was very old or very young. She had the strangest feeling that she might be both.
“You’re not . . . an Inspector, are you?”
She let out a silvery laugh that almost seemed to sparkle, like light over water. “No.”
“Can you help me? Do you know how can I get out of here?” Stella asked. “Is there—where can I find a door?”
The old young woman laughed again. “You don’t find the doors,” she said reasonably. “The doors find you.”
“I—I need to get back to my friend,” Stella went on. She felt the need to add, “He’s a mouse.”
“Is he a Door Mouse?”
“Yes.”
“Then he will find you along with the door,” the old young woman said. Dust motes floated and danced around the woman, shimmering like snow.
“Are you—are you a ghost? Or a memory?”
“Are those things different?”
Stella thought about this for a moment and decided that she wasn’t sure.
“Do I frighten you?” The ghost began to fade, slowly, from the edges.
“No.”
“Then does it matter?” She was still fading.
“I guess not. But—wait! Please don’t go.”
“I suggest you take a train to another station,” the ghost said. “You won’t find what you’re looking for here.”
The moment the ghost disappeared, the entire station went black. It was as if the room had dissolved and Stella was back at the beginning of time, before she—or anything—existed.
The Light at the End of the Tunnel
STELLA WASN’T AFRAID. SHE WAS curious and confused. It was difficult to know which way to go in the total dark.
She waited a moment until, with a sudden buzz and hum, lights came on around her. These seemed to be some sort of emergency lights, and they cast a warm campfire-like glow on the walls and pipes around her. “I guess the Inspectors reset the system,” she muttered to herself, and immediately regretted it, as her words echoed back to her in a way that suggested unseen things were whispering them to her on every side.
She crossed through a line of steel beams and found the tracks of what she guessed was the Memory Line. She looked in one direction and saw nothing but orange lights stretching on into darkness. In the other, they stretched on into light. Well, she thought, whatever is in that direction—at least I’ll be able to see it.
Stella started off in the direction of the light.
It took a while (How long? Who knew? In the Dreamway, time seemed to go about on its own schedule), but eventually the light grew brighter. Something gritty slid under her flip-flops, and when Stella bent to investigate, she realized that it was a layer of fine sand.
Soon, the silver rails began to gleam, and the light grew brighter.
A familiar smell wafted toward her. It took her only a moment to place it: french fries.
The sand grew deeper, and Stella stepped out from the arching tunnel and into the bright sunshine of a clear, summer day. The silver rails stretched out toward the shore and skimmed across the top of the water, disappearing into the distance.
When Stella turned back to face the way she came, she saw that she had walked out of a cave of sorts—a large triangle formed by dark boulders. Behind this and to her right was a boardwalk. She realized that this must be the source of the french fry smell. She was at a beach.
Before her was a red-and-yellow-striped beach umbrella. Underneath it was a woman in a black bathing suit and a large sunhat covering her pale complexion. A man with sable skin was building a sandcastle with a five-year-old boy with black curls. The man looked up at Stella and waved.
“Dad?” she whispered.
When the boy looked up, she saw that it was Cole. Five-year-old Cole in the navy-blue swim trunks with the whales on them. This was the summer they spent a week at the beach in New Jersey.
Stella tried to run to him, but it was hard to run in the sand, and her legs were small. When she looked down, she saw a pink bathing suit with a ruffle at the top. She hated this bathing suit. She outgrew it years ago. . . .
Is this a dream or a memory? Stella wondered. She could not feel herself walking or moving at all, but a moment later she was in the water. Cole was ahead of her, diving into the waves as they crashed toward him.
Stella remembered something—her mother had told her not to go into the water past her knees.
But Cole had gone in past his knees. He was swimming, with only his head showing above the water. She wanted to be with her brother.
Stella followed him. She shied away as a jellyfish brushed her arm. But no, she realized suddenly. It wasn’t a jellyfish.
It was a piece of notebook paper.
Deep in the dream in the sea
Eyes stinging, mouth choked with salt
Overhead, the blue sky burns,
Ignores the soft white feathers of cloud.
My toes feel a swirl of sand, nothing solid, as
The waves crush forward
Something brushes my leg, wraps around my ankle,
I twist and writhe as the tentacle
Climbs my leg—the air, the air—
It’s like a dream, out of reach—
Back in the Real World
GASPING FOR AIR, STELLA FOUGHT and clawed and, finally, drew a breath. She sat up. The light behind the curtains was gray. She was in her room again.
Relief poured through her. All she felt was gratitude, overwhelming gratitude that it had been a dream. The poem had pulled her out of sleep again, and now she was back in her world.
Her sheets were a tangled mess, so she spent a few moments arranging her bed. As she flicked the comforter into place, the calendar taped to her wall fluttered. She had forgotten to cross off yesterday, so she took the purple marker from its cup on her desk and filled the square with an X. Then she shuffled into the kitchen in her pajamas.
Tamara sat at the table, her face pale and puffy, her hair disheveled. Cole stabbed at his breakfast cereal, his face rigid as a mask. The air in the room felt brittle, like walking into a freezer.
“What’s wrong?” Stella asked.
Cole didn’t look up, but her mother pulled at the chair closest to her and nodded at Stella to sit. Stella didn’t move. “What’s wrong?” she repeated.
“I got a communication from the unit,” Tamara said gently. “They’re on blackout.”
Stella felt herself sway slightly; the tentacle slithered up her leg, the water pressed against her, she couldn’t catch her breath. “Is he . . . dead?”
There was a moment, just half a moment, before her mother said, “No.”
Cole’s spoon clattered into his bowl. He put his hands over his face. Stella could hear him breathing.
The last time their father’s unit went on blackout, it was because someone had been killed. The army needed time to notify the family. Stella thought about her calendar.
“He’s supposed to come home in thirteen days,” she whispered.
“He’s fine.” Her mother stood and crossed to give Stella a hug. “He’s okay. It’s not him.” But that was horrible, too, because Stella didn’t want to hope that someone else was dead. Someone else’s father or mother. She didn’t want that. As if she’d had the same thought, her mother said, “It could be something else entirely. We just don’t know.”
Cole slapped his hands against the table and stood up suddenly. “Are you okay?” Stella asked, but he didn’t reply. He stood still for just a moment, then stalked out of the room.
Tamara’s hazel eyes watered. “I’m sorry.”
Stella knew she should say something. Something like, “It’s okay,” but it wasn’t. Instead, she just hugged her mother.
“You don’t have to go to school,” Tamara offered.
“Are you staying home?”
“No, I h
ave to go to work. I’ll be home by three.”
“Then I’ll go to school,” Stella said. Her eyes flicked to the clock. “I’d better get ready.”
“Do you want something to eat on the way?” her mother asked.
“Would you toast me a bagel?”
“Sure—usual way?”
Stella hugged her mother again and went to her room to change. She took off her pajamas, and something fell out of the pocket and landed on the floor with a clink. It was a silver necklace. The one from the Dreamway—the one with the A formed into a star.
Stella sat down on the floor feeling as if she were an insect that had just noticed it was trapped in a jar. This necklace—it was here. It was in her hand. Up until now, there was a large piece of her—the majority, really—that had believed it was all a dream, that it truly was the same as Renee’s being stuck in a giant cookie, that the real world was safe and, well, real. But now she didn’t know what to think.
Is Cole literally trapped? Is that part real too? She had to talk to him.
The silver chain gleamed over her fingers as she studied the symbol again. It was never easy for her to fasten jewelry, but she had found a way to place the fastener in her rigid right hand and hold it still while she manipulated the hook in her left until it found the catch. After several minutes, she managed to get it on. Then she pulled her shirt over it. The high crew neck covered the pendant, which grew warm against her skin.
She looked at the calendar over her bed as she dressed quickly and hurried to Cole’s room, but he wasn’t there. She checked the bathroom, the kitchen, the living room—he was gone. He left without me, she said to herself, and this was such a strange thought that she wondered for a moment if she was dreaming again. Cole never left without her, unless she was sick, and even then, he always said goodbye first.
Am I dreaming? She slapped herself across the face.
It hurt the usual amount.
“I really have to stop doing that,” she muttered. She didn’t know what was reality anymore, and all the slapping wasn’t helping.
Her gym class had moved on to running sprints, which Stella did not enjoy, but could, technically, do. So she didn’t go to the library that afternoon. Instead, she and Renee trotted across the gym at what was—for Renee—a leisurely pace, which meant that she had ample oxygen to tell a long-winded story about how her mom had picked out a new couch online.
“Is—it—pant, pant—nice—pant, pant—?”
“It’s boring, but nice,” Renee said. “It has these cool buttons on it—”
Stella tried to pay attention to the story and to ignore the feeling of annoyance that clamped down on her chest. She was the slowest in the class, and it made her frustrated and embarrassed, even though she knew that there was no reason to be embarrassed.
A breeze blew against her neck as Cole dashed past, running into the padded mat that lined the far wall. His hair was limp against his forehead with sweat. He didn’t even glance at Stella as he ran past.
“Nice running, Turbo,” growled a voice as Connor sped past her.
“What did he just say to you?” Renee demanded.
“Nothing,” Stella snapped. She sucked in oxygen. It was hot in the gym, and she was having trouble getting air.
Renee paused in her long-winded couch story, letting the space fill with sneaker squeaks and grunts. “He’s the worst,” she said under her breath as Connor said something to Matt. They both looked at Stella and laughed.
Stella didn’t reply. She focused on breathing instead.
After gym, Stella slipped back into her jeans and fresh T-shirt. Renee had dashed off to hand in a social studies paper that was late. Stella had to pass the library to get to her next class. She considered stopping in to say hello to Alice, but Ms. Slaughter was standing at the door and called, “Stella!”
“Hi.”
“How are you feeling? All okay?” The librarian tilted her head slightly to look into Stella’s face.
“I’m fine,” she replied. She wasn’t fine, of course. Her brother was disappearing, her father’s unit was on blackout, and she was stuck here in the real world. But it could be worse. It could always be worse.
Ms. Slaughter looked like she was going to ask another question, but Stella couldn’t bear it, so she changed the subject. “You know, I’ve always wondered who made that mural,” she said quickly. “It’s so pretty.”
Ms. Slaughter looked over her shoulder at the mural that sparkled on the wall of the library behind her desk. It was a mosaic: swirls of water edged by green shrubs beneath a silver bridge. The sky was done in shades of gray and purple, with a silver moon that gleamed in a fragment of a circle at the horizon.
“Oh.” Ms. Slaughter’s face clouded over. “A friend of mine made that, actually. My first year at the school, four years ago. Pedro.”
Stella studied the mosaic. “Does he still make murals?”
“No, he—well, he got sick.” Ms. Slaughter looked down at her desk. “Well, you’d better get going,” she said quickly. “You’ll be late for class.”
Stella thought she saw a dark shadow pass over Ms. Slaughter’s desk, but it shifted and moved toward the floor, creeping along the boards until it passed Stella’s feet. The pendant at her neck felt suddenly cold, and she shuffled away to avoid the shadow.
But it had disappeared.
Or perhaps there never was a shadow at all.
Her locker was down a set of stairs and off to the right, but when she reached the landing, she saw Cole through the glass in the door. She paused with her hand on the safety bar, watching him. Connor loomed over Cole, who stared straight ahead, as if he were looking into the darkness that Stella could only sense.
“Hey, I like the way your sister runs,” Connor said. “One of these days, I’ll just reach out and tip her over.”
Cole didn’t reply.
“How’d she get so messed up?” Connor went on. “Did you drop her on her head when she was a baby, or something?”
Cole lunged at him, punching him in the stomach. Connor doubled over, and Cole cracked him again on the side of the head, and then turned. He closed his eyes for a moment, and then they snapped open. He looked directly at Stella, his eyes burning fierce and bright, like stars. And then he disappeared.
He winked out, like a candle flame, and Stella let out a scream. But in the next moment, he had reappeared. His eyes tightened into slits at her, and he stalked away.
Fear held Stella frozen in place as Connor gagged, struggling to breathe. After only a moment, she pushed open the door and asked, “Are you okay?”
“Get away from me,” he snarled, still sucking in air. Straightening up, he looked after Cole, who had disappeared around a corner. “What the hell?”
“I have no idea,” Stella replied.
“I’m not talking to you.” Connor glared at her and walked off.
Stella stood still for a moment, overcome by thoughts of her brother.
Cole was beginning to frighten her. His strange eyes, which were alternatingly vacant pools or burning stars, his peculiar walk, which was so unlike his normal, bouncy gait, his flat voice—all of these things were evidence that he wasn’t who he said he was. He was . . . vanishing. His soul really was being sucked out, like a bowl of pasta al dente, Anyway had said.
And the worst part, for Stella, was that the only person she wanted to talk to about all of this—was Cole.
“Is he all right?” asked a voice behind her. When Stella turned, she saw Alice.
“What?” Stella asked.
“That was your brother, right?” Alice blinked up at her. “Is he okay?”
“I don’t know.” Stella stared at the space where her brother had been moments before.
Alice looked thoughtful. Then she sighed and rolled off toward the cafeteria. As she passed, Stella noticed Alice’s notebook tucked in its usual place, to the right of her leg. There was a symbol on the front—an A that looked like a star.
Th
e whole of Stella’s mind was occupied with Cole, though, and so she didn’t wonder about that symbol, or ask herself why it was so familiar.
Later that night, Stella struggled to keep her eyes open as she worked on her homework. Dinner had been forgettable—tacos from the truck up the street. Stella loved them, but it was their standard Thursday night meal.
Cole had sat at the table, silent. Tamara didn’t seem to notice his silence; she was lost in her own world too. Later, Cole had retreated to his room, where the utter quiet told Stella that he was wearing headphones or sleeping early. Stella had changed into her pajamas and settled onto her bed to read.
Stella closed her eyes for a moment, letting the poem she had just read swirl in her mind. Her homework assignment was a poem called “Ozymandias,” and for some reason, the ruin in the desert had reached into her chest and squeezed her heart. She sank onto her mattress, imagining it was the “lone and level sands . . .”
“Sweetie.” Tamara popped her head into Stella’s room. “You need to take the trash out.”
Stella’s eyes snapped open, her brain taking an extra moment to reorganize and sort the world she had been reading about from the real one. The trash. Yes, that was her chore. She closed her book and placed it on her bed, then stood up. She smoothed the covers and plumped up her pillow. This was something that she and her mother had in common—when they were frightened, or sad, or confused, they became slower in their movements. Everything became deliberate. The house, strangely, became tidier, because they were living carefully, as carefully as possible.
Stella padded into the kitchen in her flip-flops and pulled the garbage from the can below the sink. A putrid smell wafted up, and she cut it off by twisting the top of the plastic bag and tying it shut. The kitchen was bright—Tamara had finally replaced the burned-out lightbulb in the under-cabinet fixture—but the surprising brilliance revealed the stain of tomato sauce on the curtains over the sink, the coffee grounds lurking in the corner, the slight rot on the banana.
Stella took the garbage and made for the hallway.
The incinerator chute was in the nook that also housed the service elevator. When they had first moved to the building, Stella had been fascinated with the idea of the chute, which had a door on every floor. The trash fell down, down into the basement, where it was delivered to the incinerator. It was satisfying to stuff it into the compartment and close the door, and then listen to the gentle scraping noises it made as it tumbled toward the basement.
The Dreamway Page 9
