by L. E. DeLano
Ben raises a hand that’s clutching a half dozen Twizzlers. “You owe me big!” he calls out before he turns back to the table.
I don’t have long to try to find him before my mom shows up to whisk me away. It’s doubtful that he’s still around. I could look in the store. It’s worth a try.
I head through the doors into the store, glancing around but not seeing him. I finally decide to start at one end and just methodically—and hopefully not too obviously—glance down the aisles. I start down in lumber and am almost at the other end of the store with the lawn and garden stuff when a voice calls my name.
“Jessa.” The voice comes again. “Over here.”
I look in the direction of the voice, and there he is—dream guy—only this time he’s leaning against the wall back by the entrance to the outdoor stuff, and he’s motioning to me.
I stand frozen in the middle of the aisle, and my mind tries to make sense out of this, because this can’t be happening. I had half convinced myself that I’d been seeing things, maybe just some wishful thinking, since I had the dream running around in my head. I had expected to possibly see some guy who might just potentially bear a passing resemblance to the man of my dreams. To have him fit the mold perfectly, two dozen feet away and calling me by name, is freaking me out in a serious way.
I wet my lips nervously and then I glance around. After all, some guy I saw in a dream—who somehow knows my name—is motioning me to walk over to a dim corner with him. This has classic-horror-movie scenario written all over it. The attractive stranger who turns out to be a serial killer or something. I don’t even know him, really.
Except, I do. Or at least I feel like I do. I know the way he stands, the shift of his weight from one foot to the other as he waits for me to answer. I know that if he smiles, he’ll have a dimple on one side. I know just how far my arms need to reach to circle his neck.
I take a deep breath, and then walk over to stand in front of him.
“Do I know you?” I ask. He’s still staring at me, straight on, like he’s trying to absorb every detail. It makes a shiver run down my spine.
“Sort of,” he says finally.
“That’s not an answer.”
“Yes, it is. It’s just not one you like.” He shoves his hands in his pockets and rocks back and forth on his heels. Is he nervous?
“So…”
“So…?” He says it like the ball is in my court, but he’s the one who’s playing the game. He’s starting to irritate me now.
“You called me over, remember?”
“Yes, I did.” He takes an audible breath. “My name’s Finn.”
Something in me shifts and clicks, like gears that were put into motion and then locked into place. Finn. His name is Finn and my only thought is, Yes, that’s right.
“Seriously, how do I know you?” I ask him. “I know we’ve met before, but I don’t think you go to my school.”
“No, I don’t,” he says. But he doesn’t expand on that, and I’m starting to get tired of being the only one having a conversation here.
“So how do you know my name?” I narrow my eyes when I ask, so he knows I don’t think this is funny. It has zero effect, because apparently, he disagrees with me. The corner of his mouth lifts.
“We’ve met, but you probably don’t remember where.” He’s looking at me in a way that seems really familiar, but he isn’t giving me any more details.
“Why did you want to talk to me?”
I look over my shoulder at the sound of beeping behind me. There’s a worker driving one of those tiny forklifts, getting something off a shelf nearby. I turn back to Finn, and I try to seem like I’m in control, when in reality, I am still trying to wrap my head around this. He’s got me off balance, and I don’t like it at all.
Finn must finally realize how he’s coming across, because his voice softens.
“I was wondering if you wanted to … go get coffee or something. Then we can talk a little more. Get to know each other.”
“I don’t usually get coffee with secretive guys. And my mom will be here soon.” He arches a brow at me but says nothing more, and I stand there awkwardly, trying to think of a graceful way out. He knows he’s making me uncomfortable, too. I can see it on his face.
I am just about to say something rude when my phone chirps. It’s my mom, and I’m torn between relief and frustration. I don’t know how much longer I can stand here and be stared at by a guy with no social skills, but at the same time …
This is crazy.
“I have to go,” I say, backing away. Only I’m not watching where I’m going, and I nearly walk into the forklift, and the guy operating it lets out a startled sound and hits reverse. Finn lunges forward and pulls me toward him just as a large pallet of paving stones slams into the ground where I had been standing.
“Oh my God!” the forklift driver says. “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine,” I gasp, looking up at Finn. He’s let me go and moved himself between the forklift and me. I have to look around him to see the driver.
“Really,” I reassure the guy. “I’m okay. Sorry I walked into you.”
He surveys the pallet of mostly broken stones with dismay. “I’ve got a customer waiting for these,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck. “When my boss sees this, he’s gonna have a cow.”
“I’m sorry,” I say again. “I’ll tell him it’s my fault if you want.”
“You sure you’re all right?” Finn asks.
“If you’re hurt, I have to fill out a report,” Forklift Guy says uneasily.
My phone chirps again.
“I’m fine,” I repeat to both of them. “I really have to leave.”
On shaky legs, I turn and walk toward the doors.
“Give me your phone number, at least,” Finn says, falling into step behind me.
I shake my head, repeating, “I have to go.”
My mom is waiting at the curb as we walk through the doors, but I feel like I owe him something.
“Finn,” I say, trying the name on for size.
“Jessa.” He raises his brows and looks at me.
“Thanks for pulling me out of the way.” Even though it’s your fault I wasn’t paying attention.
He nods, and I open the car door.
“I have an incredible memory,” I say pointedly. “Sooner or later, you’ll come back to me.”
“I’m counting on it,” he says, and something in his eyes makes me hesitate before I finally slide in and close the door. The car pulls away from the curb, and Finn stands watching us with his hands jammed down in his pockets as we drive away.
3
Welcome to My Life
I open the door to my house, eager to find a quiet place for my thoughts, and I find chaos instead.
My brother, Danny, is two years older than me, five inches taller, sixty pounds heavier, and at this moment he’s kicking the wall over and over and shouting at the top of his lungs.
“Won’t work! Won’t work! It doesn’t work!”
I toss my bag down on the floor.
“Danny. Danny!” I put my hands on his shoulders cautiously, and he turns tear-filled eyes to meet mine for a brief moment.
“The batteries won’t work. They won’t work. The batteries won’t work,” he repeats, clearly frustrated.
“Stop kicking,” I say, leading him away from the wall. I rub his back in a soothing motion. “Now tell me slow. Where don’t the batteries work?”
“In the remote. For the Xbox. I put them in and they don’t work.” He covers his eyes with his fingers, pressing hard.
“Did they fit?” Maybe he grabbed the wrong size or something.
“They don’t work. I put them in and they don’t work.” His voice rises again with pure frustration.
I hold out my hand. “Let me see.”
Danny rubs his eyes once more, then walks over to the end table next to the couch and picks up the remote control for the Xbox, handing it to me.
“Those batteries are bad. They don’t work.”
I pull the door off the battery compartment and see the problem immediately.
“They’re in wrong, Danny. See? One goes this way, and the other one goes that way. Opposite.” I turn one of the batteries around, and the remote’s indicator buttons light up.
“See?” I say. “Danny? Danny, look at me.”
He takes his eyes off the TV, finally making eye contact.
“Look at what I did with the batteries, so you know for next time, okay? One this way, one that way. And if it doesn’t work, try going opposite again. Okay?”
“Okay. It didn’t work.”
“I know, but it works now.”
“Did you fix it?”
“I fixed it.”
“And it works now?”
“Yes,” I sigh. “Do you want to work on the library decorations now? I promised you.”
He sits down on the couch, reaching for the bag of Goldfish crackers he’s always munching on.
“No. I want to do it later. I’m playing Super Mario Galaxy. Is the remote fixed?’
I reassure him again that it’s working as he starts the game up and sees it for himself. Most days Danny is no problem, beyond the usual annoying sibling-type stuff. But when something upsets him, he gets stuck on it and won’t let it go. He’s probably going to talk about that remote for the rest of the night and mention the batteries again the next time he picks it up, too.
Sometimes, autism can be really tiring.
“Where’s Mom?” he calls out as I scout the cupboard in the kitchen for a Pop-Tart.
“She told me she was going to rake the leaves,” I call back.
“Is she using the rake with the green handle?”
Why this is important, only Danny knows.
“I think so,” I answer.
I pour myself some iced tea to go with the Pop-Tart, scoop up my bag off the floor, and try to get Danny’s attention by waving at him. “Danny! Tell Mom I’m in my room.”
Danny doesn’t hear me at all. He’s too focused on the game now. I climb the stairs to my room and flop down on the bed, then close my eyes and replay the events of the last hour.
You think I’d be a little more freaked out over the fact that I almost died, but that’s nothing compared to the feeling of seeing the man of your dreams in the flesh. And how does he know me?
Obviously, we’ve met somewhere before, and I wasn’t kidding when I told him I have an incredible memory. I really do. I certainly wouldn’t have forgotten him. I know that face, from the glossy darkness of his hair to his long, long lashes to the way he gets a dimple on one side when he smiles.
This must be what going mad feels like.
How does he know me?
And why is he being so cryptic about everything?
I think I’m through being freaked out. I’m just angry now. Who does he think he is? Is this some kind of joke for him? Like he met me in passing once (and my mind registered him, of course—how could it not?), and now he’s being all secretive just to mess with me. What a jerk.
The jerk who saved my life.
I flip open my notebook with a sound of disgust and try to concentrate on my Spanish assignment, but it’s not working.
So the jerk sees me working the candy table (I further muse), and when he realizes I forgot his name, he decides to have a little fun at my expense. Maybe he gets a thrill out of creeping girls out. And then he asked me to meet him for coffee! He’s got some serious nerve.
As I’m running the scenario through my head, I realize it would make a great beginning to a horror story. Halloween is right around the corner, and my creative writing teacher is sure to ask for something in the genre.
I glance down and can’t help but laugh at myself, because I recently tried my hand at sketching my dream guy, but I am lousy at that kind of stuff. He looks like a bad pumpkin carving with a wig. If I need a thoroughly creepy monster for inspiration, this drawing would do the trick. Words are a better way to paint. Well, they are for me, anyway. I am just reaching for my pencil when my mother appears in the doorway.
“Hey, you,” she says. “What do you want for dinner?”
She pulls a sweaty tendril of hair out of her eyes. At forty-six, her blond hair is showing some gray, but only if you catch it in the right light.
The hair color is one of the few traits we share. Everyone tells me I look like my mom, because my dad’s hair is dark brown. When my parents were still together, everyone called Danny and me the “mini-me’s,” since we each resembled one parent more than the other. If you went beyond the superficial, you could easily see the differences. Not a lot of people do that, though.
I look up from my notebook. “What do we have to eat?”
“The usuals. Soup. Pasta. Bagel Bite Pizzas.” She ticks the options off on her fingers. “I think we have some leftover taco meat from the other night,” she offers.
None of it sounds good. Probably because it’s always the same stuff—easy stuff that a mom with two jobs and a yard to take care of can make quickly.
“I’ll just heat up the taco meat later,” I say. “I’m kind of in the middle of something.”
“Suit yourself,” she says. She wipes her damp neck with the hem of her T-shirt, which unfortunately has dirt clinging to it.
“Mom. You just put dirt all over your throat.”
“What?” She swipes at it again. “Better?”
“Worse. You look like you’re growing a beard.”
“Sexy. And itchy. I need a shower.” She steps into the room, checking herself in the mirror over my dresser. “Finish what you’re doing and then come down. I don’t want you eating at nine o’clock at night.”
“Mom! Can I have popcorn?” Danny’s voice calls from downstairs.
“Danny!” she calls back. “It’s dinnertime, buddy.”
“I need my dinner so I can have popcorn!” he shouts.
She rolls her head on her shoulders. “Okay! I’m coming!”
I watch as she turns to go down the stairs. For as long as I can remember, Danny has been pampered like that. My mother’s shower will have to wait until she makes him dinner and then he gets his popcorn. Danny comes first. It’s just the way it is. The way it always is.
I get up and close my bedroom door to drown out the sounds of the Xbox and pots clanging as my mother starts dinner.
I rub my forehead with my fingers and pull my Spanish homework closer. Maybe I’m reading too much into this whole encounter. Finn is a guy I’ve obviously met somewhere before, and he bears a resemblance to a guy I’ve been dreaming about, so my stupid brain locked the two together and now I can’t remember dream guy any other way. Finn was probably just trying to be friendly, but he’s got bad social skills. He’s not being a creep. He’s just a normal guy.
I turn to get another notebook out of my backpack, and I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror over my dresser.
“Snap out of it,” I say to my reflection. “It’s all just a coincidence.”
Only it doesn’t feel like a coincidence. It feels like fate.
4
Stalker
I spent a mostly sleepless night thanks to a green-eyed somebody, and now I barely have enough time to get out the door this morning. Thursdays are always hard because Mom works her second job. Some days, she and Danny work together at the retirement home, but Thursdays she works early at the drugstore, and that means I have to make sure that Danny has his breakfast. He can put his own Toaster Strudel in the toaster, but sometimes he can’t get the frosting pack open and he’ll hack it apart with scissors trying to open it himself. Today he manages fine, but he can’t find his favorite cup.
I finally locate it with the dirty dishes in the half-full dishwasher, clean it out, and hand it to him, and then I realize I am going to have to run all the way to school if I don’t get a move on.
I wave good-bye to Danny, reminding him that I’ll be home at two forty-five
, and then I run down the steps and out onto the sidewalk. It’s getting colder in the mornings now, but we haven’t had snow yet. The neighborhood is decked out for Halloween, with pumpkins and scarecrows all over the place.
I’ve lived in Ardenville my whole life, grown up in the same house and walked the same street to school. When my parents divorced, Dad stayed in town, and he lives only a few blocks away, so the walk doesn’t vary much. It’s a nice place to grow up—if you like sameness and quiet and a place with no surprises.
The sound of footsteps coming up alongside me breaks into my thoughts.
“Can I walk you to school?”
I am seriously so startled I let out a shriek. He knows where I live? Now I am really starting to get alarmed. He’s in my dreams, he’s in my reality … and that can’t be coincidence. Maybe my subconscious is trying to warn me. I try to keep my voice calm.
“I’m fine, thanks. The school is right down the next street.” So don’t go thinking you can pull me into your murder van or anything.
“The walk will go faster if you have company,” he offers.
“I don’t need company.” I pick up my pace, nearly jogging because I’m walking so fast.
“Jessa…,” he says, holding his hands out. “I just want to talk.”
“I have to go!” I start running and don’t stop until I get to the doors of my school. When I look back, he’s gone.
I end up spending most of my class time for the rest of the day worrying about whether I’m going to run into Finn again—and alternately kind of wishing I would. Which makes no sense. He could be a serial killer, for all I know of him.
Except he doesn’t seem dangerous. Isn’t that what people always say about serial killers, though? He was the nicest guy … really polite … I have to stop letting him take over my brain.
When lunchtime comes, I pick at my food, glancing around because I half expect Finn to step out from behind the serving line, tearing off his hairnet and a lunchroom-lady mask to reveal that he’s still watching me.
“You okay, St. Clair?” Ben asks.
