by L. E. DeLano
“So you’ve watched me die…?”
“Over and over again. Either directly or in the memories of the other Finns.” His eyes are full of pain, so much that I have to look away.
“Why me?” I ask Mario. “What does the universe have against me?”
“We’re not sure,” Mario answers. “But it’s happened too many times to be a coincidence. And since Finn is indirectly involved, I thought I’d reach out to Rudy and we could all work together on this.”
Rudy nods. “When Mario approached me, we agreed to work together to figure out who was causing this kind of widespread targeting of one individual. It happens every so often,” he explains. “A Traveler goes rogue, gets some idea in his or her head about challenging the order of things, seeking vengeance on somebody across realities. It’s not unheard of to involve another Dreamer if you need to cast a larger web to track them down.”
“We’ve never seen it quite to this level before, though,” Mario says, and the concern is clear on his face. “Someone wants you gone, Jessa. All of you.”
“I’m a nice person,” I say. “I haven’t done anything to piss anyone off—that I know of.”
“Whoever is doing this is acting of their own accord,” Rudy says.
“Can’t you … ask around or something?” I ask. “If it’s a Traveler, they have a Dreamer. I mean, the Dreamer had to have sent them, right?”
“That’s not how it works,” Finn says. “The Dreamers give us direction about where to travel and what to do when we get there, but we’re not dependent on them for the ability to cross into other realities. We can do it anytime we want to.”
“Really?” I look at Mario. “I could have been jumping into other realities on my own?”
“If you knew how,” he says. “You’re born with the ability, but we don’t let you in on the secret until we feel that you’re ready to accept the responsibility that comes with it.”
“And sadly, it appears our faith has been misplaced,” Rudy says. “This Traveler has their own agenda.”
“You may not have done anything,” says Finn. “Not in your own reality.”
“Great.” I fold my arms over myself. “So you’re telling me that ‘alternate me’ royally hacked somebody off and now I’m marked for death?”
“That’s how it looks,” Finn says. “So I’m going to watch your back, and Mario and Rudy are going to watch everything else. Whoever it is, they’ll have to tip their hand sooner or later.”
“Well then,” I say, standing up and dusting off my hands and behind. “Guess I’d better get back. How do I wake up?”
Finn looks at me funny. “You’re taking this awfully well.”
Mario gives me an all-too-knowing smile. “She thinks she’s dreaming. She doesn’t believe a word of what we’ve said.”
“You told me I was dreaming,” I point out.
“And so you are,” Rudy says. “That doesn’t mean we’re not telling the truth.”
“It’s easy enough to prove,” Mario says. “You’ve met Finn already in person.”
“I met a cute guy and now I’m dreaming about him.” I shrug. “What’s so weird about that?
“You think I’m cute?” Finn looks surprised and pleased. Mario just rolls his eyes.
“I think you’re all figments of my overactive imagination,” I conclude. “But that’s okay. I’ll wake up and write it all in my dream journal and maybe I can use it in a story sometime.”
“You do that,” Finn suggests. “But before you go, why don’t you give me your phone number?”
My eyes narrow. “You’ve already tried to get it, remember? I don’t pass my number out to strangers.”
“I’m not a stranger,” Finn says. “And besides, it’s only a dream.”
“That’s what she said,” Mario agrees. “Nothing but a dream. Right, Jessa?”
I look at the two of them warily. “That’s right.”
Finn reaches over and picks up my pen, opens my notebook, and looks at me expectantly. I dictate the numbers, and he copies them down before closing the notebook and tucking it under his arm.
I get out of my seat and Mario gestures to the red door.
“Just open it and step through,” he tells me. “You’ll be back in your reality.”
“All right,” I sigh as I walk over. I grasp the knob and twist, pulling the door open. “It’s time to wake—”
The next word is on my lips as I roll over in bed. My room is dark and the clock at my bedside reads 2:48 a.m. It takes me a moment to get my bearings.
And then my phone rings.
8
The Decision
I stare at the phone, and my hand fumbles with it as I switch off the ringer. The screen is still lit, and the glare of it seems ridiculously bright.
I reach for it again and pull my hand back, sure that it’s going to stop ringing any second. I even glance around a bit, on the off chance that I’m actually still asleep. I can feel the vibration of it on the mattress, and I manage to pull in a breath despite the tightness in my chest. My hand reaches for the phone again, and I press answer.
“Hello?”
“You answered,” Finn says.
“You didn’t think I would?” My voice sounds entirely too high and thin. My heart is pounding.
“I had my doubts. Are you okay?”
“I’m not sure.”
“Completely understandable. Are you ready to know more?”
“I—Finn, I need some time, okay? And I can’t talk right now. I have to go to work early.”
“What time are you done?” he asks.
I know I probably shouldn’t tell him, but I do. “I’m off at twelve.”
“Meet me at Mugsy’s for lunch.”
“I don’t … I’m not sure.”
“I’ll be there,” he promises. “Good-bye, Jessa.”
“Bye.”
I end the call, and I can’t help but wonder if I’m suffering from some kind of delusion brought on by an undiagnosed brain tumor or something.
I groan and throw an arm across my eyes. This is nuts. This is nuts. This is nuts. I repeat it over and over in my mind, but even so, some part of me knows it’s true.
I lie there awake for a few hours until I finally drag myself out of bed and into the shower, and then I spend entirely too long choosing exactly the right sweater to pair with my jeans. I am brushing my hair when a text lights up my phone.
Crap. I’d forgotten all about Ben.
he texts.
I grab my phone, typing back:
It only takes a minute for the reply:
I pause a moment, considering. I’m really not in the mood for a horror movie. But then again, after lunch with Finn—or worse, without Finn, because this will have all been a delusion—I will probably need a little “normal.”
I put the phone away and brush my teeth. I add a touch of lip gloss and a swipe of mascara, and then I’m heading downstairs to the kitchen, where my mother is pouring a cup of coffee.
“Looks like I timed it just right,” she says. “I thought I heard the water stop in the shower.” She pushes the mug toward me. “I made pancakes, if you want some.”
“Just one,” I say distractedly.
She stares at me, a frown creasing the space between her eyes. “Everything okay?”
I look up guiltily. Am I that transparent? “I’m just tired. I didn’t sleep well.”
She puts a hand to my forehead. “You don’t have a fever. But you don’t work till later, right?”
“I work at nine today. Tomorrow’s an afternoon shift.” I take a sip of coffee. “Oh, by the way, I’m going to the movies with Ben tonight.”
“We’re going to the movies?” Danny calls out from across the room.
“It’s a scary movie, Danny. You wouldn’t like it.”
Danny makes a face. “I want to see Penguin Palooza.”
Mom smiles, shaking her head. “Danny, we’re going to see it tomorrow, okay?”
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br /> “Okay.” He goes back to his television show.
Mom turns to me. “We’ll be at work till five, and then I promised Danny we’d get pizza. I’ll see you when we get home. Why don’t you go lie down for a little while—you’ve got time.”
I give her a nod, but I know I won’t get any more sleep.
I head back upstairs, whittling away the time by working on my homework. I’m hit with sudden inspiration and open up my dream journal, reading over the entries there. It’s not surprising but definitely unsettling when I realize that I’ve been dreaming about Finn—who is now real and here with me—for months. I may not have known his name, but reading my notes brings the memories of the dreams back, and I connect the fragments easily into a picture of him. Or, more accurately, of us.
I’ve detailed walks in the park, trips to the beach, quiet meetings in coffee shops, and bizarre memories of swimming with dolphins, eating fruit the size of my head, even dancing someplace with palm trees in the background.
And if he’s telling the truth, I’ve lived every bit of it.
For as long as I can remember, I’ve been told I have a wild imagination. I’ve had vivid dreams and lost myself in daydreams, and I always felt that was a sign that I was meant to be a writer.
When I was four, my family visited the aquarium. My parents were, as usual, chasing after my six-year-old brother, who had no interest in fish but did have a strong obsession with running up and down the handicap ramps by each set of stairs.
He took off at one point, knocking into a stroller and nearly tipping it over. My mother ran over to make sure the baby inside was all right and apologize to the parents, and my father took off after Danny.
I wandered over to the dolphin display, watching the light behind the giant wall of glass filter through the water, daydreaming about swimming with my dolphin friends in an underwater dolphin kingdom, when something odd happened.
I stood there, spellbound, staring with wide eyes at the girl staring back at me, and I was mesmerized by my own reflection.
They found me there nearly ten minutes later, and my mother scolded me even though Danny was the one who ran away first. She only remembers today that I was lost and scared her half to death.
But I remember these two things:
First, that Danny, as always, had all their attention.
Second, I remember the way my hair rippled and swirled in my reflection on the other side of the glass.
The years passed and things changed and yet they didn’t. They say when you’re left alone a lot as a child, you either act out to get attention or you turn inward, relying on your own creativity to keep yourself company.
This is why I write. If it’s true, all of this has always been a part of me, and to find out there’s a reason is a relief just as much as it makes me feel like a fraud. If it’s true, I don’t have a great imagination. I’m not creative or gifted or any of that. I’ve only been transcribing events that occurred to me someplace else.
Which makes me not as much of a writer, I think.
I slam the journal shut and do my best to ignore the rock in my stomach. It’s not working. This is some serious freak-out-level crazy. And I have to decide whether I believe it or not.
I hear the door slam downstairs as my mother and Danny leave for work. I glance over at the clock, and I realize I have to leave for work soon myself. Then I have to meet Finn for lunch at Mugsy’s.
If, of course, I actually believe a stranger is talking to me through my dreams and I should meet this stranger for lunch. Because that’s a totally smart and sane thing to do.
I manage to make it through my shift at Wickley’s market handing out samples of organic granola and gluten-free brownie bites that are surprisingly good. At the end of my shift, I have a couple of brownie samples left over that I shove into the pocket of my hoodie for Ben. That’s against the rules, technically, since I’m supposed to throw them away, but that just seems wasteful to me. Ben will be happy to devour them.
I look down at my phone. It’s five after twelve.
My eyes shift down Main Street toward Mugsy’s, which is only a seven-block walk from here. But I’m not going there.
No, I’m not.
It’s a pretty nice day, though. Founder’s Park is only four blocks away in that same direction, and I could sit on a bench in the crisp air and look at all the trees turning colors while I write. It’ll give me real-world inspiration.
With that half-formed thought in my head, I start walking. I find a good spot on a bench and yank my journal out of my bag, opening it to where I left off on my latest story, but of course, I have to thumb through a few pages to get there and doesn’t my stupid thumb land right on the page I shouldn’t be looking at.
Dark hair, green eyes.
I click the ballpoint on my pen a couple of times as I push past that page and find where I left off, and I put my pen to the paper almost hard enough to poke a hole in it. And I write.
I keep writing, glancing nervously at my phone—which is sitting on the bench next to me—at two-minute intervals. Finally, I slam the journal shut with a disgusted sound.
You are an idiot, Jessa. Just get it over with. Go to Mugsy’s. Just be done with it.
I shove everything back in my bag.
This is crazy, and I know it’s crazy.
I’m going anyway.
9
Through
I slide into the seat at Mugsy’s across from Finn at seventeen minutes after twelve, setting my bag down next to me, and then I stare at him, uncertain of what to say.
“Still freaked out?” he asks.
“What do you think?” I ask in a fierce whisper. “People don’t normally communicate between dreams and real life.”
“I told you … we have a different definition of ‘normal.’”
I gesture to the tall cup of coffee in front of me. “Is that supposed to be for me?”
Finn nods. “Caramel mocha with a dash of cinnamon.”
“How do you know that?”
“Because I know you, and most of the time, you order that—or something like it.”
“Most of the time?”
He takes a long drink. “I’ll get to that later. But first, you have to let me prove this to you.”
My eyes go wide, and I can feel my tightly clenched hands start to sweat.
“You mean … we’re going to do it? Travel?”
“It’s not painful,” he reassures me. “Or even very hard. And we’ll only stay as long as you want to.”
He stands up and holds his hand out to me.
I have no idea why I take it.
I let him pull me along to the back of the shop, where the lone restroom stands unoccupied. Thank God. He opens the door, and with a quick glance around, we both step inside and he pulls the door shut behind him.
“We do this in the bathroom?”
He rolls his eyes. “We need a mirror. I’m going to show you the basics,” he says, pulling me in front of him to face the mirror. “You’re going to start by looking for the differences.”
“What differences? It’s a mirror.” I look over my shoulder at him.
“It’s a conduit that just happens to be a mirror. That’s how you need to see it and every reflective surface from now on.”
“You mean I could do this with anything I can see myself in?”
“That’s right.” He nods. “For now, we’ll stick with mirrors because they’re the clearest. Eventually we’ll work up to other things. Lids on pots and pans. Teaspoons. Water. Even highly polished wood, if you’re strong enough.”
I look back at him in disbelief. “Polished wood? Really?”
“As long as you can see enough of yourself and you know where you want to go. You’ll get the hang of it.”
He gently takes my chin and guides my face forward again.
“Our counterparts have been prepped to travel by Mario and Rudy, so they’ll be expecting us. We start by giving the signal.”
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He puts his hand to the mirror, touching it gently with his fingertips. Then he motions me to do the same.
“Now … look for the differences,” he says.
I look carefully at the reflection in the mirror. My eyes sweep across the room, side to side, but nothing seems out of place. I touch the glass. There is no give to it. It remains solid and the room remains unchanged.
“This is useless,” I huff. “I’m not this … thing you say I am. I’m not.”
“You’re a Traveler,” Finn says firmly. “Just look. Concentrate. Look at only yourself and don’t stop until you see the differences.”
I turn back to the mirror, staring at my own eyes as they reflect back to me, first with irritation, then with boredom. She has the same dark-blond hair. The same blue-green eyes, which are mostly blue at the moment. The same deadpan expression. The same gray Hollister shirt. My eyebrows need to be plucked. Crap. I’d better remember to do that tonight before bed, if I have time after studying for the quiz in Spanish. My mind begins to drift, but I keep looking firmly at my own face, staring myself down until I feel sure that I’ve lost the ability to focus my eyes. I struggle back to reality, forcing myself not to zone out.
And then she blinks.
She blinks.
The other Jessa.
I draw in a startled breath and I’m about to turn away when Finn’s hands come up to hold my head, keeping my face to the mirror.
“Steady,” he murmurs quietly. “Keep looking. What else is different?”
I stare long and hard now, taking in every little nuance of the face in front of me, seeing the reflection as it really is: not me. What is that high on her left cheek? As I look harder, it seems to bloom before my eyes. It is a scar, semicircular and faded but visible.
The white paper-towel holder on the wall begins to shimmer, transforming before my eyes into a highly polished chrome. The one boring picture of a coffee mug in a brown wooden frame begins to fade, then grow, becoming larger and brighter until it changes into a brightly colored tapestry filled with bronze and copper colors, hanging from an enormous glittering golden bar attached to the wall.
