by Ginger Scott
“If you could. Yes, thanks,” Sal continues. He shifts his gaze to me, and I smile and lift my hand, giving him a thumbs up.
“Please do. Yes,” he says. My smile drops. I shake my head out of instinct, and reach for him—for my phone. He holds out a stiff arm and shakes his head at me while he backs away.
“Tell her he will be there. Right. At four.” Our eyes meet when he says the time. He pulls my phone from his ear and ends the call without a chance for more words to be exchanged.
“Lady doctor woman will be expecting you,” he says, tossing my phone at my chest. My mouth waters with an almost venomous flavor. That fucking asshole!
Sal strides across the room, glaring at me through half of his steps. He yanks the screen door open and walks out to the front slab of concrete that we use as both a driveway and a porch. Before he gets to the curb by the roadway, he looks over his shoulder and smiles, and it isn’t the expression of a parent. It isn’t even close.
Fuck.
I guess I’m going to therapy.
I figure if I have to show up, I may as well visit shop class.
This is why Mr. Garcia is my favorite teacher. I haven’t been here in days—hell, a week! I slip in mid-class while he’s showing some of the newbies up front how to use the jig saw. When he’s done he simply walks by my workstation and pats my shoulder.
“Nice to have you back,” he says on his way back to his front desk where he does nothing but binge-watch Breaking Bad episodes on his phone.
I almost say “Nice to be back,” but I like Mr. Garcia. I won’t lie to him. He deserves better.
It is nice to be in this room, though. I’m not sure whether it’s the constant sound of saws humming and the smell of burnt dust, or that everyone leaves me completely alone. It’s probably some combination of the two, but ever since I started this special experiment or whatever, I haven’t felt quite even anywhere. I’m either awake and depressed as shit or asleep and euphoric.
I can give thanks for my current mood to the sander buzzing in my hand. I’ve been smoothing out the rough edges of this bookend for the last thirty minutes. I don’t think we have a book in our entire house, so I’ll either leave this for Mr. Garcia or give it away to someone who reads. At least I can say I made it. It’s simple to look at, but it was really tricky to get that miter just right so the corners meet up perfectly. The L shape looks almost like a solid single piece of wood. You’d never know I pushed them together except that they’re two different kinds of wood, grains zig-zagging in opposite directions. The color is off a little bit, too. I planned it that way. I’m proud of it.
Whatever.
When the bell rings, I’m the last one to put my power tool down. I’ve got nowhere I need to be until four, but I can’t really hang out here; Mr. Garcia sometimes likes to go home early. He’d probably let me stay, but as I said, I like him. I don’t want to put him out.
“I think I’m just gonna take this one, that cool?” I pull the goggles off and toss them on the table before blowing away the build-up of dust on my workspace. He walks over and takes the piece from my hand, spending a few long seconds inspecting it with his glasses pulled down to the end of his nose. He glances to me briefly then back to my bookend, running his thumb over the smooth miter.
“It’s an A.” He hands it back to me and turns his focus to my workspace. “Clean up before you leave, K?”
I nod.
He’s out the door before I even get the shop vac plugged in. The custodian cracks the door open just as I’m finishing up. I don’t think he was expecting me because when he backs through the door and looks my direction, he starts and grabs his chest.
“Sorry. I was just . . . cleaning,” I say, holding up the sucker end of the hose. “I’m done.”
I unplug the vac and wind up the cord, pushing the machine into the corner with the dustpan and broom. We all keep this place nice. Shit, I’m nicer to this classroom than I am to the place I eat and sleep.
When I get back to my workspace, the custodian—I think his name’s Mike—is holding my project, tossing it gently in one hand.
“This is nice,” he says, setting it down carefully and bending at his waist to examine the smoothness of the top edge.
“Thanks. You do woodwork or something?” The way he’s looking at it, I just figure.
“Nah. I paint, though. Like murals and things. I’ve got one down on LaSalle at The Point Diner. On the side of the building. Check it out.” He straightens, grinning and proud, and I search my memories to recall if I’ve ever seen it. I know the diner. It’s close to the place I ran into . . . her . . . the other night. I don’t remember a mural or painting.
“I will,” I say, and I mean it, earnestly. I think he knows I do, because he seems satisfied, as if he’s done a good job marketing his skills.
I grab my bookend and tuck it under my arm, picking up my nearly empty backpack from under the work table. I brought the notebook today. I actually wrote a few things inside. Nothing Esher probably wants to talk about, though. More like . . . about bending the rules. Before I open the door to step into the busy hallway, I turn and catch the eye of my new artist friend.
“Hey, you want this?” I hold it up for him. His eyes train on it, locked in for almost two full breaths. Finally, he shakes his head.
“Nah, you should keep that, man. It’s art! Besides,” he says, shrugging. “I don’t read. That thing wouldn’t be able to serve its purpose.”
I breathe out a small laugh and nod, leaving the room satisfied that he knows what this is, at least.
For some strange reason, I head in the direction of my trig class. It’s the last hour of the day, and I have to kill time until Esher, but I could hide in the library instead. I’m not today, though. Some magnet or something is just pulling me in. But it’s trig; there is nothing about trig that tugs on any part of me.
Except, perhaps, the tutor.
I navigate the hallways like one of the alive people, as if I’m not a ghost who doesn’t count in this place. My backpack is so empty that it bounces with my steps. I feel as if I’m just modeling it.
Ugly fucking model!
I laugh silently to myself, an almost skip to my step, when I round the last corner to the hallway I haven’t been down in, well, let’s say I’m surprised I still know where this classroom is, and I stop hard. Someone crashes into my empty backpack.
“Damn,” the guy says, brushing my shoulder with a little extra force as he walks around me. His jersey tells me all I need to know. He’s a football player. He’ll probably come to me for pain killers before the season is over.
The dream me stirs in my belly, and I ponder all the things I could do to let him know who I am, what I rule, and why he should fear me, but then the vision before me takes over again.
Sometimes you can see two people and just know that they are more—more honest with each other, more happy together, more . . . coupled. Damsel is standing with the worst of them all. Even I know everyone at this school calls him Cowboy. He fucking lives for that shit. I don’t think she’s so easily impressed, though.
He’s leaning outside the door, waiting for the teacher to let in the line of students waiting outside. His shoulder is pushed against the brick while he faces her, and she nervously bounces her shoulder blades off the wall while she leans back and swings her heavy backpack at her knees. Hers isn’t empty.
The quarterback douchebag leans into her, inches between his mouth and her ear, and I study her eyes while his lips move. She’s so focused on his words, a slight curve to her lips showing she’s happy. And then it happens.
She laughs.
She laughs my laugh. The one that’s for me. The one I’m supposed to have the special power to create. They’re too far for me to hear it, but I’ve committed that sound to memory, and I imagine it as if its inside me right now.
I’m glad I’ve stayed away. I wouldn’t want to get close and feel anything. I feel betrayed enough as it is. I bet he doe
sn’t know her hopes and dreams. Probably doesn’t know the shit that makes her cry in the girl’s bathroom. He sure as hell didn’t forge some medical consent-type forms to get her into this program.
And it’s not his dreams she shows up in. It’s mine. I sure as hell didn’t put her there. She came into my head on her own. Intrusively.
But now she better stay out. She’s not welcome. And Mr. Cowboy Quarterback better not come looking for something to make his bruises feel better. All I want for him is pain.
22
Villain
I was going to bail from this place entirely. I don’t go to trig for sure. Hell no! I’m not about to force myself into bad thoughts while I sit in a classroom with the two of them. She probably wouldn’t even notice I’m there. Besides, I’m going to flunk out of school. I should just quit showing up, period.
I have to see this Esher meeting through, though. What can I say, I’ve got a soft spot for Sal. I want Lady Doctor Woman to leave his phone alone, even if he threw me under the bus. Plus, I have my list of questions for her, and now that we’re almost to the halfway point of this Morpheus thing, I’ve got a lot of work to do in order to accomplish what I’d like.
Over there.
Doc and I have been staring at each other for about four minutes. I think she senses my hostility, and I don’t want to point it at her. It’s not her fault that girls are utterly predicable. Nice guys finish last. Not that I’m a nice guy; I’m not even in the damn race.
Damn it! Why am I still thinking about this?
“Is that your notebook I see?” She’s being the bigger person and breaking the ice. Kinda obvious, though. I’m holding a notebook that says MORPHEUS on the cover. I’ll cut her some slack.
“Yeah, I . . . actually took some notes and had a few questions.”
I begin to open it in my lap but she reaches across the desk with her palm open, her shiny red nails clicking against the desktop.
“Mind if I take a look?” she asks.
I stare at her long and hard, playing through various scenarios of how this could go. I shouldn’t show her because I’ve actually written some pretty incriminating shit in this thing, but then again, it’s all just a dream, right?
“Sure.”
I leave it open to the page I used to track my territory, and rest it on the center of the desk. She pulls it closer, spinning it around so it faces her. Her eyes dart from one edge of the page to the other, like a computer processing information to spit out later.
“This is in Southside,” she says, tracing the pointed tip of her index fingernail along Loman. “I know this street.”
“Yeah? You got clients there?” I lean back, smug.
“No,” she says. “I lived there for a while.”
She’s taken back some of the swagger in the room with that little fact. We both know that we both know what Loman Street is. It’s a place for the desperate and fallen.
“What’d they lock you up for?” I laugh out the question because I know she’s not like the guys I’ve added to my crew. She’s different.
“It was my mom. She overdosed.” Esher’s truth is sobering. It also hits close to my own reality. I was four when I found my mother like that.
I like my dream world better, so I quickly change the subject.
“This is where I spend a lot of my nights. You know, when I’m dreaming. I’m sure you see it, though.” She says she doesn’t see our dreams, but I like to play dumb with her. In the past, I’ve found that people sometimes say too much when I do. They say things I can use, things that help me become stronger.
She slips.
“I only know your vitals.”
I wait, hoping she’ll elaborate. She doesn’t.
Hmm.
“Right, well. Like I said, I wanted a map. I thought maybe being able to look at something would help me remember details.”
“That’s smart. It’s good to know your . . . territory.” I knew she knew more than vitals.
We go back to staring at one another for several long seconds. I wonder if the smirk on my face matches hers. She would make a worthy adversary. So much worthier than Eddie or Paul. I’d still win, but she’s a good competitor—a decent good guy to my villain.
That’s what I am, too. I know it now. I am the villain. It’s why they all call me V over there.
“So, Ms. Esher, what would happen if, say, someone didn’t wake up while they were on Morpheus?” I skip ahead because really, why waste either of our time? It’s what I want to know—how to be there instead of here, and how to be there for as long as I can.
“I need to advise you that if you’re telling me you’re thinking of harming yourself—”
“Oh. No!” I interrupt before she even goes there. “No, I want to keep breathing. It’s just . . . I wonder what would happen if I spend more of my time in my dreams?”
Her eyes dart from my right eye to my left, hovering for a moment or two on each as if she’s checking my pupils and calculating my level of bullshit. I’m fine with it because I’m being totally transparent. I can’t be more direct without spilling every detail of my criminal masterplan.
“I suppose you can sleep as long as your body needs to sleep.” Her answer is not helpful. It’s clinical.
“Yeah, but . . . I’ve never slept better. And in four weeks this camera-mabob or whatever is going to . . . pass.” I read that the components actually break down before the passing, but still, fucking gross.
“Yes.”
Ever so vague. Touché, Ms. Esher.
My mouth makes a tight straight line and I exhale through my nose, frustrated but not defeated.
“Okay, look.” I pause, leaning forward with both elbows on the desk. This move is so much more commanding in my dreams because I’m not wearing some old skater shirt I’ve had since eighth grade and the same pair of ripped jeans for the third day in a row. But this is what I have to work with here. I need to imagine I’m in the suit, and that I’m packing. “I would really like to get to the bottom of things, sort some stuff out. And four weeks . . .” I shake my head. “Not enough time.”
Her eyes narrow and her smile grows skeptical.
“You know that Morpheus doesn’t make you sleep, right? It just watches what happens. Whatever you’re dreaming, whoever you see in those dreams, that’s all you.”
Again—she chooses her words well. Whoever, huh?
“She told you she saw me.” I don’t ask it because again, our time is limited. Why bluff?
Esher doesn’t respond, because why talk in circles? She is probably holding on to some ethical code about sharing personal therapy information. I nod, deciding to take her silence as affirmation.
“She tell you what I was doing in our dream?” My brows lift playfully high as I cock my head to the side.
Again, Esher gives me nothing. Same smile that’s barely there—always barely there—on her face. I bet she’s a computer, recording bits of data like the camera pill I swallowed with a girl who would rather spend time giggling at lame jokes made by toolbox football players.
I sit back, folding my arms, still wishing I was in my damn suit. I hold her stare, licking my lips a few times while I search for the best route, the right words. Maybe I just need information.
“What does the data say? About me? How am I feeling?” I challenge her on her terms.
She waits a full three seconds before glancing to the folder at her left. I wondered when she’d bring that up. She glides it to the spot in front of her, moving my notebook out of the way. She flips it open and trails her finger down the single paper inside. The folder’s only purpose is to keep that tiny paper about my emotions private. Feels super secure.
“You need to understand that it’s really hard to understand patterns until we’ve had a little more time to draw from.” She’s stalling.
I wind my finger in the air.
“Yeah, I get it. What’s going on in my head?” I don’t bother looking at the numbers and dotted l
ines. I’d need her to interpret them for me, so I might as well wait for her summary.
“Every single reading for you . . . is the same.” Her long lashes sweep open as she moves her focus from the data sheet to my face. It’s a rather hypnotic glance, and my already tired body feels a little limp just from her motion. She’s toying with me, and I don’t like it. This isn’t what I signed up for. I signed up for easy cash, and maybe an escape from my home life. This is straight up psychological bullshit.
“You’re saying I’m like what? Blank?” I give her a sideways look. She remains still and steady in her gaze.
“I’m saying that no matter what happens to you, no matter what you dream or what your map looks like in your head”—she taps at her temple. It’s a bit patronizing—“you remain unaffected. Your emotions are basically a flatline. Nothing makes your pulse race, nothing makes it stop. Your brain activity is calm, your sweat glands are like ice. Your serotonin levels remain slightly lower than normal, your muscle twitching all basic.”
“So, what does that mean?” I wait while she closes the folder and leans to her side, slipping it into her bag. When she sits back up, she looks at me as if she almost forgot the question I just asked. But eventually, she answers.
“I don’t know,” she says.
Some answer.
“Then what am I doing here?” I mean, I know why I’m invested in this, but why is she? What good is flat data? Don’t I basically punch holes through her theories?
“You tell me.” Her answer interrupts my racing thoughts, and I start to give her a knee-jerk response, something I would say to my mom or to Paul. My lips are poised to speak the words, but before I can unleash some snide, profanity-laced retort, I change course.
“I can’t tell you what I’m doing here.” I stand and round the oversized leather chair. I sling my bag over my shoulder and stop just inside the office door. “But I can tell you what I’m doing there.”