I can’t wait to be alone somewhere, just me and my journal, figuring things out. Luckily for me, my mom is off work early today, so she can hang with Danny and I can take my time getting home. So after school, I head over to Mugsy’s, where I order my usual caramel mocha with cinnamon and then slump into a booth.
I try to distract myself by working on my flash fiction, but I’m just not feeling the flow. Finally, I push myself up and out of the booth, leaving my notebook, bag, and coat in place as I walk up to the counter to check out the selection of baked goods. I’m pretty much the only one here this time of day unless Ben comes along. Ever since we started hanging out, we’ve been semi-regulars at Mugsy’s, as long as he doesn’t have practice.
I take my time choosing between the cranberry-and-white-chocolate scones and the fresh, hot blueberry muffins that just came out of the oven.
Why do I have to keep seeing his eyes? And I’m not just seeing them, it’s like I’m obsessing over him or something.
This has to stop. I have other homework to do. English lit and calculus have assignments due by tomorrow—maybe I should work on those instead of that stupid story. I make my purchase and return to my seat, only to find a disturbingly familiar somebody sitting across from my side of the booth, reading the story in my journal intently.
“Hey!” I snap, trying to tug it out of Finn’s hands. “That’s private.”
“Then you shouldn’t leave it open on the table where anyone could walk by and see it. Like me.” His finger follows along, and he freezes for a moment. I hear him suck in an audible breath, and then he slowly pulls his hand back from the paper. His eyes are still down, but his hand is now clenched in a fist.
“You wrote this today?” he asks, still not looking up.
“It’s an assignment. For creative writing class.”
He looks up at me and starts to say something, but his jaw tightens and he clears his throat, like he’s having a hard time getting the words out.
“It’s really good,” he says. “The imagery is fantastic.”
I slide into the booth across from him, biting my lip so he won’t see just how pleased I am with his comment.
His eyes meet mine, and the sadness in his gaze pulls at me. For a moment, I’m back in my story, looking up at those green, green eyes.
“But this is more than a story. You remember this, don’t you?” he asks, pointing to the page.
My eyes flare, but I get a grip on myself. “It was based on a dream I had once.”
He closes the journal and stares down at it until the silence becomes uncomfortable. I’m not sure what else to say.
“I remember it, too,” he says softly. “I was there.”
“You think that really happened?” I play with the paper wrapper on the muffin, unsure if I really want to know.
“I’d read about a new treatment being offered at a university across town,” he says in a soft voice. “We didn’t have change for the bus. You said you were strong enough to walk. I didn’t realize how sick you really were.” He stops a moment, swallows hard, and goes on. “Your heart gave out before we got there.” His grief pulls at me, and I have to remind myself that this is not a well-balanced person I’m dealing with.
I can’t help myself. I reach across the table and cover his hand with mine, and he looks up, startled. Then he smiles a slow, genuine smile, and I pull my hand back. God, what was I thinking, leading him on?
“Finn,” I say, gently but firmly, “you have to realize that most people don’t believe that dreams are real. And I think you need to talk to someone about that.”
He stares at me. “You think I’m crazy.” It’s a statement, not a question, and an exasperated statement, at that.
“You have to admit, it’s not … normal.”
“You and I have an entirely different definition of ‘normal.’ And I can explain all of it to you if you’ll just let me.” He leans across the table. “Jessa, you are in danger.” He punctuates the last word with his finger thumping the table.
I shake my head. “You said that before, but—”
He sits back, hands splayed on the table, and lets out a huff of air. “This isn’t working,” he says to himself. “We’re running out of time. I’m going to have to do it.”
I look at him warily. “Do what?”
He gets to his feet. “I’ll see you tonight, Jessa.”
“I—I have plans,” I blurt out as he’s walking away.
Finn just shakes his head, as if he doesn’t care, and he keeps on walking.
He’s crazy. He’s honest-to-God crazy. He thinks my dream was real. There’s just one problem with that.
The additional backstory he supplied about my writing project is exactly the backstory I had in my head, as well.
When you wonder if you’re going crazy, doesn’t that make you not crazy?
I cling to that hope.
6
Mario
I’m sitting in a classroom, and it’s empty of students, except for me. The walls are an unrelieved white, without a poster or even a clock to break them up. In one corner is a bright red door, sticking out like a sore thumb. The teacher is a middle-aged man with dark, curly hair and a wide smile. He’s wearing a yellow polo shirt and khaki pants, and he’s perched on the corner of the desk with one leg swinging carelessly.