by L. E. DeLano
“Why is he riding a lawn tractor?”
“He’s always wanted one, but your mother never bought one,” Mario replies. “So it shows up occasionally. I was hoping he’d be at home, but we’ll work with what we’ve got.”
I start to scan the room, really looking at it, and I realize it’s not … normal. The books seem to have much sharper edges; shadows between them highlight the differences in sizes, thicknesses, covers … it’s so extreme it’s fascinating. And the colors! So much bolder and stronger than I’ve ever seen them before. Almost like they’re colors on a spectrum I’ve never visited.
“This is cool,” I say, looking around.
“Reality is defined by the dreamer in the dreamscape,” Mario says. “In this case, Danny. This is how Danny perceives the world around him. We’re looking through his filter, so to speak.”
My eyes widen as the sound of the tractor cuts off. I can now hear the rumble of the heating system, the shuffle of books and papers, the clack of fingers on computer keyboards, and I’m drawn into the rhythm of it.
“So what are you hoping to find?” I ask.
“I don’t know exactly what we’re looking for,” Mario says. “Danny tends to focus on details that go right by the rest of us. You never know what you’ll find. So I suggest we both just go with it.”
“Go with it?”
Mario gives me an encouraging smile and waves me off, toward the children’s section. I walk around from behind the counter, trying hard to keep from tripping as the edges of the floor tiles are standing out, dark and intersecting in fascinating ways in front of me. I finally find Danny in the corner of the children’s section, seated on a mat with a group of kids. One of the library aides is reading a story, but the words are muted—I’m too absorbed in other things.
I sit down on the mat next to Danny, fixated on the way the light hits the window through a tree outside. I can see it in prisms, the ebb and flow of the scattered patterns as the wind lifts the branches. It’s like a moving kaleidoscope on the floor mat, and my fingers reach out to trace it, just as Danny does beside me. Sometimes the light hits my fingers, and I can see every line of my knuckle—some are straight, some are curvy. I wonder why that is? I count them, one by one, then I count them again.
I listen for the wind and hear the hum of the heater panel nearby. I can feel its vibration in the floor. I put my hand down to feel it just as Danny does, and the story drones on in the background, a wall of words that have melody but not a lot of meaning at the moment, not with everything else that’s going on.
It’s amazing to me that there’s a whole bright, vibrating world around us that they all seem to be ignoring. I wonder how much of the world has gone by me that I’ve never really noticed before. We all assume that Danny’s in this little bubble sometimes, and the truth is, he’s seeing more of the world than any of us.
“I’m glad you’re here, Jessa,” Danny whispers.
I look at him, and I feel like I’m really seeing him. “I’m glad, too,” I say.
“Want a ride on my tractor?”
“Sure. Can you give me a lift back to the front?”
We get to our feet and the reader and the kids don’t even seem to notice as we fire up the lawn tractor and drive in a slow circle past them and through the open door. I hop off when Danny rolls to a stop by the counter.
“I’m going to go through periodicals now,” he says to Mario.
“Good idea,” Mario replies, reaching for a stack of newspapers. “These came in today. You can put them in their drawers.”
“Who still reads paper newspapers?” I ask.
“Lots of people!” Danny replies, taking the stack. “This one’s about museums. I told Angela that you went to a museum.” He puts the paper down on the counter for me to see.
“Jessa.” Mario leans in over my shoulder. “Look.”
The article is on the lower corner of the front page of the newspaper geared toward museum curators, and it’s about an attempted theft a few weeks ago at the Museo Nacional de Antropología in Mexico City—their natural history museum. Because of it, many museums around the world have upped their security measures in response.
“Yeah, I know about the security,” I say. “When Ben and I went to the Museum of Natural History in New York, they practically strip-searched us.”
Mario makes a face. “I need to know what the target of the theft was. And I can’t find out from this paper.”
“Why not?”
“It’s just a short blurb—the rest of the story is on page four.” Mario opens the paper, and the inner pages are completely blank.
“What’s wrong with it?” I ask.
“We’re seeing things that Danny has pulled from memory or imagination. If he didn’t see the entire article, we won’t find it here.”
Mario hands the paper back to Danny, who climbs on his tractor and takes off at race-car speed.
“What’s so important about a theft from a museum?” I ask.
“Just a hunch. Especially since the museum is in Mexico…”
“And before I saw her in New York, Eversor supposedly booked a flight to Mexico,” I say, connecting the dots. “Does this have something to do with whatever she and Rudy are planning?”
“Possibly. It’s hard to know what it was the thief was after. Can you find that out for me?”
“Ten seconds on a Google search,” I assure him. “No prob.”
“Good. Let’s go.”
He walks back to the red door, which is standing in place of the office door that’s usually behind the counter. I follow him over, and we’re back through and into the classroom.
“Hey—” I say, stopping short as Mario nearly runs into me. “New York.”
“What about it?”
“Eversor said she found me at the museum by luck. Does that mean she was there already?”
“Possibly,” he agrees. “Were there any special exhibits at the museum that day?”
I think back. “Um … lots of whales. And a whole display on ancient libraries that Ben was going nuts over. Egyptians, Aztecs, Vikings…” I tick them off on my fingers. “Wait—they had an exhibit about oracles and mythology. Could that be it?”
“Perhaps. I need to think about this awhile,” he says, rubbing his chin. “In the meantime, keep your eyes open. Just in case.”
“I will.”
He walks me over to the red door. “Oh, and good luck at your recital. Not that you’ll need it.” He gives me a smile.
“My first dance performance. It’s going to be interesting.”
“You’re doing a very nice thing.”
I shrug. “No biggie. She’d do the same for me.”
“Well, get some rest so you’re fully charged. I’ll keep sifting through everything we’ve learned here. Whatever we’re missing—we’ll find it.”
“Maybe I could ask Ben to help,” I offer. “I mean, he knows about me already. He might remember something about the museum that I forgot.”
Mario hesitates just briefly. “I suppose it’s worth asking. But it’s probably better for you to limit your time with him—at least until we find Eversor. He got lucky this time.”
“I’m not so sure that’ll fly with him.”
“I see.” He gives me a searching look, and he doesn’t seem very happy. “You know the stakes, Jessa.”
“I do. But now we have some direction. It’s a start.”
“So you’re back on board? No more talk of quitting?”
“I’m back on board. And Eversor’s not getting anywhere near the people I love.”
He gives me a genuine smile. “Atta girl. We’ve got her running, and now we know in what direction.”
I give him a reluctant nod and step through the door. My eyes pop open to see the ceiling above my bed.
He’s right. I’m not doing Ben any favors here, but I also know that he won’t walk away from me. Not while I’m in danger. And I can watch his back a lot easier if it’s lean
ed back on the couch next to mine. Eversor is determined to hurt the people I care about, and that means my family and Ben.
My mind plays back over my visit to Danny’s dream, and I turn and walk to my door, opening it as quietly as I can before stepping across the hallway and into Danny’s room. He has one muted night-light shaped like the genie from Aladdin, and it casts a bluish glow over everything in the room. I can hear his breathing, slow and even.
When we were really young, we used to share a bed, and I fell asleep to the sound of Danny’s breathing every night. Mom and Dad always gave us separate rooms, but we didn’t want to sleep by ourselves. I don’t remember when I outgrew it exactly—probably when I got into my preteens. Danny would still invite me for a long time after but he adapted to the change eventually.
I sit down quietly on the edge of his bed, but I guess not as quietly as I thought.
“Jessa?” His voice is groggy.
“Sorry, Danny. Didn’t mean to bug you.” I start to get back up.
“Did you have a bad dream?” he asks.
“No. I had a good dream. I just wanted to say hi,” I finish lamely. That line would only work on Danny. Anybody else would think I was nuts.
“You can sleep here, if you want,” he says, shifting over to make room. “I don’t mind.”
“Thanks.”
I lie down next to him and pull the edge of the comforter over me.
“Danny?”
“Huh?”
“You’re a good brother.”
He reaches out, patting my head. “Thanks! You’re a good sister. G’night, Jessa.”
And I fall asleep to the sound of his breathing, watching the patterns of blue light as they play across the walls.
10
The Visitor
You call that syrup? Ben signs to me, staring down at my plate of pancakes. I’ve just returned from the restroom at the diner—it’s a name I don’t recognize—and he’s making fun of my breakfast.
The pancakes soaked it up, I remind him as I take my seat, then I raise a hand to stop him. Don’t you dare put more on there! I sign.
He stops the syrup in mid-flow, causing some to drizzle down the side of the dispenser. Then he scoops it up with his finger and stuffs his finger in his mouth.
I make a face at him. Where are your manners? I sign.
I’m not signing with sticky fingers, he tells me.
Such a gentleman, I sign back.
Here we are. He took me out to breakfast this morning, and we’ll be spending some of our day together. Right now it’s food, then he has to work until six at the movie theater, and then we’ll hang out at my house. We may get a little alone time in my room later, but with both Mom and Danny home we have to be careful.
I feel my cheeks heating up as the memories slide in, warming me and making me feel a little flustered. Ben gives me a quizzical look as I drop my fork.
Do you need some syrup for your fingers? he signs. Might keep the fork in your hand.
Do you have a syrup fetish or something?
He raises and lowers his brows in a way that makes me laugh out loud. Then I cover my mouth because I know that was probably very loud just from the vibration of it. He pries my hand off my lips, pulling it across the table, and drops a kiss on my fingertips as I laugh again, softer this time.
I’m suddenly hit with a memory of Ben all dolled up in a top hat at a steampunk ball, bending over to kiss my hand before we danced. I barely knew that Ben over there. He wasn’t a romantic interest, not with pirate Finn in the picture.
My hand tightens as a shaft of pain hits my chest. Why do I let my mind wander like that? That’s not what I’m here for.
I feel Ben squeeze my hand. Hey, he signs. You’re a million miles away.
Sorry. Just thinking.
Well, stop that. I’m trying to get the syrup off your fingers. He stuffs the tips of my fingers in his mouth and I pull them away, laughing again.
You are such a goof.
I’m a lovable goof.
You are. Very. The words are through my fingers before I can even fully frame them in my mind. My hands could sign I love you in my sleep, it comes so naturally over here.
We finish our pancakes, talking some more about school, about taking Danny to a holiday fair tomorrow, about what Ben’s going to buy his mom for Christmas. Before I know it, the time has sped by with us just being … us. Free and easy and practically finishing each other’s sentences.
I can’t deny how nice it feels. Not painful. Not tumultuous. There was nothing whirlwind about the way we got together over here. We took our time, and it paid off. Maybe Ben is right. Slow and steady is the safer—and smarter—course.
I have to wash my hands, I sign, glancing up at the clock again.
What? Didn’t I do a good-enough job? he signs back, reaching for my fingers again. I shake my head as I stand.
Oh no, you’re not using me to fulfill your freaky fetish.
He still has my fingers, so it’s easy enough for him to pull me down to him. I feel a little guilty, but it would look too awkward if I pulled back now.
The kiss is short, sweet, and somewhat sticky.
And I think to myself as I press my sticky hands to the mirror glass that a girl could do a lot worse than having someone who makes you laugh.
Thanks, I sign. That helped. I think.
She points down to my dresser, and we make the transfer. A moment later, I’m staring down at the note she left me.
Don’t rush. But don’t make him wait too long, either.
He deserves to be happy.
He does. And maybe … with time, we can both get what we deserve.
He’s taking you to rehearsal at 1 p.m.
Despite my pancakes on the other side, this body hasn’t eaten breakfast yet and I’m starving. It looks like I spent my time here lying in bed and texting Ben. I can remember now how hard it was for her to keep it friendly. She just couldn’t resist giving me a little nudge by finally agreeing to let him watch my rehearsal. He had no idea she was me, of course. I can’t help but wonder what he’d think if he knew that. After all, he dated her for a week.
I help myself to some toast and absently flip through channels until Ben shows up, and when he rings the bell, I feel … okay, I feel weird. Not butterflies or anything. I’m calm but willing to be more, if that makes sense. We’re spending time together. We’ll take it from there.
“Ready to rock?” he asks as he picks up my dance bag for me. “I still can’t believe you’re gonna let me watch.”
“It’s not me you’re watching,” I remind him. “If it was, you would have never agreed to sit through a whole rehearsal.”
“Wanna bet?” He grins widely as we climb into the truck. “After the spectacle I made of myself on the ice? You think I wouldn’t kill to see you traipsing around in a leotard?”
“I’m a little more graceful than you were.”
“A little.”
“Hey, I’ve got a job for you. From Mario.”
“Dreamsicle guy?”
I roll my eyes. “You can do better than that.”
“Working on it,” he says. “What do you need?”
“We need to find out about a recent attempted theft at a history museum in Mexico City. Mario thinks it may have been Eversor. Find out whatever you can, okay?”
“That’s it?”
“So far. I just figured since your dad’s a history professor…”
“I might be able to dig a little deeper for you,” he finishes. “No problemo.”
“I’m going to need you to speak English here,” I snark. “This is America, not your home country.”
“Muérdeme me,” he replies.
I stick my tongue out at him and we laugh. And he keeps me laughing, all the way there. We say a quick good-bye before I make my transfer, and when I return three hours later, my muscles are sore and he’s gushing with praise.
“Holy guacamole!” he says. “You can really move
! I mean, I know the music is hokey, but you were such a standout!”
“I have an unfair advantage,” I say sheepishly. “She’s been dancing for a while.”
“That can’t be all her,” Ben says emphatically. “You have to have some latent talent in there that she’s channeling through. Come on. You were ridiculously good.”
I can’t keep the smile off my lips as I help pack the props away. My—her—memories are seeping in now.
Ben didn’t complain a bit as we ran the numbers two times each, stopping to figure out where our props went and testing the sound system levels—which delayed us more. He even made a run to McDonald’s for a load of fries, which we all devoured as they fixed the colored gels on the lights. The other me summed it up perfectly in the note she left me:
Ben is a hero.
Tell him that from me.
Lauren, my dance teacher, gives me a nudge as I hand her my props.
“So Mr. French Fries is with you?” she asks.
“Sort of.” I look over at Ben and he raises his Coke in salute. “It’s complicated,” I finally add.
“He doesn’t look complicated to me,” she says, closing the lid on the prop box. “See ya tomorrow.”
“Yeah, see ya.”
It is complicated. But then, maybe I’m the only one who’s making it that way.
I stuff my face with what’s left of the cold fries as he drives me home, laughing out loud as he puts on his best dance moves while we’re stopped at a red light.
“Two o’clock at the auditorium at Haven House tomorrow,” I remind him.
“Wouldn’t miss it,” he says. We stare at each other a moment, until it’s nearly awkward. “Tomorrow, St. Clair.”
“See ya tomorrow,” I say, and when he leans in and kisses me, I feel a weird—but good—sensation someplace in the middle of my chest.
“Better that time?” he asks.
“Yeah.”
“Good. I was fixing to get a complex about the whole thing.”
Time to get real. I owe him some honesty. “I like you, Ben.”
“Well, I should hope so. I just kissed you.”
“I mean—” I struggle to find the right words. “I don’t know if this will work out. I mean, I’m willing to try. I just don’t want to hurt you. Ever. And I can’t promise—”