by Debra Kristi
I have noticed. Couple that with my crazy dreams, and you have fodder for a new psychological mystery. If the heroine is a nutcase. I snort. Another stupid mystery. Story of my life, and I’m sick of it.
“What are you laughing at?” Crystia asks. “Please get home. I don’t want to deal with Mom by myself.”
“I’m not far,” I say. “Be there shortly.” I hang up and shove the phone into my back pocket. Picking up the pace, I break into a jog and hug the inner edge of the sidewalk. I try to migrate as far away from the returning red sports car as possible. It barrels down the street with girls howling from the inside. There is no mistaking Skylar behind the wheel. Or her bestie, Paige, in the passenger seat.
The car slows. My muscles tense, and I shift closer to the inside wall, away from the curb. They get closer and closer and…what’s that? One of the girls has something in her hand, and she’s tossing it out the back window.
Straight at me.
A large plastic cup bounces off my ankle, exploding red sludge over my shirt and shorts. I throw my hands up and holler. It’s just like the red that exploded on me that night. Flashes explode in my face. Laughter vibrates in the air around me, a carload of girls’ hysteria, and Skylar’s car accelerates down the street and out of sight.
I so hate her.
I stare into my tea, and green eyes stare back. Not literally, but they might as well, because they’re all I see. Unnerving and mesmerizing. Since my episodes began a month ago, I’ve been trying to place them with a face and name. Four weeks of thrashing in my sleep, making my bed look like ground zero, and his eyes were all I could remember.
Until this evening’s jog. It came to me during the release of endorphins, as if I should have always known.
The green eyes belong to the boy from my long-ago dreams—to him. Why has he returned? And why do I recall his eyes in the face of so many different guys?
A dip of the spoon, a swirl of the cream, and the eyes vanish, only to be replaced by another image, the odd shape of the pinyon pine. A lead weight drops in my chest. I wonder if this is what the rest of my life will be like, sitting in dark spaces playing with my drink, at war with myself. Unsure if I want to avoid the past, or embrace it.
Alone in the kitchen, I slouch back into the chair and look out the open window toward the detached garage. It’s a lame attempt to distract myself. To avoid the pressure that’s been building for days, the things slowly clawing their way into my psyche. Those things make caffeine necessary. Sleep will be distressing, and it has nothing to do with Mr. Green Eyes.
Lights flicker in the garage windows. A crash follows, and the small space is swallowed by darkness.
“Oh, for the love of Gradnar!” The cry comes from within the black.
A smirk tugs at the side of my face. I don’t mean to smile at Mom’s misfortune, but her cussing catches me off guard. Even if it is an odd word choice. I’ve heard several strange words slip from her lips lately. In fact, everything about her is off. We can’t even seem to talk anymore.
“I got it, Mãnah.”
I blink at the sound of Ryland’s voice in the garage with my mom. Heat burns across my cheeks. Crystia told me they were finished, so why are they still working, and why is he still here? Better yet… How come my best friend can hang out and talk to my mom better than I can? It’s not fair. Not only that, he called her some cute nickname. Not Mrs. Janssen, as most teens would have. Not cool. I start to look away when I notice my sister, Crystia, rushing toward the house. I count to three.
Crystia bursts through the side door. “Mom’s in a stinky mood.” She leans against the door, takes a deep breath.
“Doesn’t that pretty much sum up her life lately?”
“Yep.” Crystia drops in the seat beside me and, grabbing my phone, starts messing with the small calendar app I left open. Her lips curl into a frown, and her eyes take on that sad-puppy look I can’t tolerate. Her finger points to the date and the hateful icons I’ve plastered across it.
My chest squeezes tight. I nod and look down at the tree image in my tea. It’s already dissipating. Two years of questionable choices all stemming from that night bleed dry with regret. Now all the memories are returning to haunt me.
I cup the mug between my hands, allowing the warmth to radiate through me. Concentrating on releasing my worries and fears, I close my eyes and listen for the hum of the earth, something I began to hear after the car accident. It calls to me, beacons to me, but I don’t understand where it wants me to go or what it wants me to do.
Green eyes again. Wisps of hair scatter across his face. His hair—dark. These things flash through my mind, welcome old memories I can’t fully grasp but hunger to.
“Life is crazy mysterious.” Crystia’s voice pulls me back to the moment. I look up, catch her scrutinizing me. “I mean, that was a pretty crappy thing that happened to you…and Jeremy.”
I squeeze my eyes shut at the name.
She instantly changes subjects. “Speaking of crappy things. What happened to your clothes?”
I open my eyes and notice Crystia staring at my shirt. I didn’t change when I got home but went straight for the tea. Sitting before her is an ice-blended-cherry-splattered me.
“Skylar.” It’s all I need to say.
She nods. “Mongrel needs to be neutered. Maybe we should have Ry handle that.”
We both turn our heads toward the window. As if on cue, Ryland’s engine starts up, and his car pulls out of the driveway, takes off down the street.
“He’s good for you. I mean, really good for you.” Crystia turns back and peers at me. I’m sure she’s sending me some kind of message hidden in the lingo, or not so hidden, but I’m too tired to try to decipher it.
“Yeah?” I take a sip of my drink, forever killing the design playing in my cream.
She leans forward. “Really? That’s all you have to say about him?”
I sit up straighter. “What else would you have me say?”
Crystia looks thoughtful, her gaze wandering my face for a moment before she speaks. “Okay. If we’re not going to consider Ry, then let’s talk about—”
My hand flies up, halting her. I know what she’s going to say, and I really don’t want to go there right now. Sleep and dreams have always been a complex subject for me, the current situation a mere peek into the whole bizarre matter.
Crystia rolls her eyes. “Seriously?”
“Tomorrow is a big day. Why are you still up?” Mom stands in the kitchen doorway. We haven’t heard her enter the room.
Crystia looks from Mom to me, eyes wide. “Talk to you later,” she whispers as she rises from the chair, then zips down the hall toward her bedroom.
Mom is hidden in the shadows of the small entry. I can’t discern her expression, but I suspect she’s watching Crystia’s departure. If only I could peek into Mom’s mind and figure out what’s been going on with her lately. Her footsteps near, ushering in the inevitable parental lecture. I feel it. But for what? I can’t think of anything I’ve done wrong. Not like that seems to matter lately.
“Where were you?” Mom says, a stern tone to her question.
I look up at her, shock and surprise coursing through my blood. “I went for a run. Why?”
She swipes the sponge from beside the sink. Begins to scrub at the counter like she’s trying to rub down to a new color. Warning bells go off in my head. Her frustration’s showing. She’s exhibiting the classic signs. Classic for her, that is. “I don’t care for you going out alone. Especially at this hour.”
Abandoning my chair, I move next to Mom, pour my tea down the drain, and watch the liquid stain the spotless porcelain. Now Mom will have something more to clean. I don’t smile, even though I long to. Instead, I lean against the counter and pin her with my gaze. “Since when? Never bothered you before.”
The tells of her emotions are showing like the frayed edges of a worn jacket—a heavy sigh, ridged body movements. She turns on the water, washing as
much residue down the drain as she can, using the sponge to attack the stubborn stains. “Well, it does now.” Running a hand through her hair, she turns to face me, opens her mouth a breath, and says…nothing.
“I don’t get it, Mom. What’s going on with you? You’ve been all…” I step back and wave my hands around her, not sure which word I want to use. “Freaky lately. Is something going on with the shop, or a guy? And why are you taking it out on me?” My face pinches. Irritation is not a pretty look on me.
“Oh, honey.” She enfolds me in a hug, holding me firm against her breast for countless seconds. They feel like minutes. “I am so sorry if I’ve made you feel like I’m taking something out on you.” She steps back, runs her index finger along the edge of my hairline. “I just worry so about you. Want you to be extra careful.”
I eye her suspiciously. I sense the lie in her words. It’s not in the curve of her lips or the lines around her eyes, or even the way she moves her body. It’s a tug I have in my center core. Not that I’m going to say anything about that. “I’m always careful. Why are you so suddenly worried? Did something happen? Did someone die?” My eyes widen and brows rise. The mere thought sends chills through me.
She wraps her arm around my shoulder, guides me out of the kitchen toward the hall. “Oh goodness, nothing of the sort. I’m a mom. It’s my job to worry.”
I bite my lip and nod. Her explanation doesn’t register as complete, and it bothers me. The distance growing between us—I don’t like it.
At my bedroom door she takes my hands, squeezing them. “You are my world, Ana. You and Crystia. I only want to see you stay safe and healthy, always. Which means,” she appraises me, “you need to get more sleep. Starting now.” She turns me toward my room and pats me on the back, pushing me into my space.
“Goodnight, Mom.” I barely glance over my shoulder.
“Goodnight, hon. Sweet dreams.” And then she’s gone.
Paying little attention to what I grab, I pull a change of clothing from my dresser drawer and sit on the bed. Sweet dreams. Yeah, sure. No problem. Let’s pretend my dreams haven’t been messed up, especially lately. She knows better.
I fall back on the bed, press the heels of my hands against my temples, and yell, “I wish this wasn’t my life!” Another lie—sort of—but it fits my mood. I don’t even care if Mom hears.
And then it isn’t my life. I don’t remember falling asleep, slipping into a dream-walk, but I do. And it’s anything but dreamy. No Dohlan to delight me. Haven’t seen much of him this month. I’m running with great purpose, my green-eyed guy at my side, toward an ugly swamp of hate and loathing. It’s evil without a face, and I’m meant to stop it.
My fingers shift nimbly, twisting and twining a fine, tight braid in the young girl’s hair. The strands are brittle, the result of a bad dye job. My knees bounce to the rock tune humming through my ear buds, the music urging my hands more out of habit than learned technique. The fresh aromas of gardenia and jasmine waft around me, creating a much-needed escape for the senses. It’s been an overlong day already, starting at the crack of dawn, and I am anxious to end this gig and go home. Caffeine and aspirin have done zilch to fuzz the feelings last night’s dream left upon me—duty, guilt, accountability. Wish I could remember it. Or maybe not. Maybe I don’t want to remember. Instead, I focus on the customer sitting before me. She’s almost done, I’m about ready to put the final flower in place.
A significant crowd maneuvers among the venders at the monthly Farmer’s Market. My mom’s extraordinary floral talent has made her shop, Lily’s Lovelies, remarkably popular. People drive from neighboring towns to our meager community of Faredale for her work.
Tucking the final bit of baby’s breath in place behind a petite jasmine bud, I step back and admire my work. The French braid, decorated with fresh flowers, nicely shows off the girl’s copper highlights. I hand her a mirror, and the corners of her lips curve up at the sight of her reflection. Satisfied with my work, I send her to Ryland to pay, and then pause to evaluate Crystia.
At the other end of the booth, Mom is in a selling frenzy. I tune everything out and let my thoughts drift to the tunes in my headphones. The short reprieve is welcoming, and I snatch my paper coffee cup off the table, anxious for a mild jolt of caffeine. The delicious mix of French roast with cream reaches my lips, sends a satisfying rush of liquid warmth through my body. The caffeine isn’t enough of a jump-start when I’m running on empty, but every wee bit helps. I close my eyes and exhale.
My stomach constricts, and my nerves tingle, like static electricity dancing along my internal sensory connections. No. It’s a full-body overload dropped into a system shutdown. The drink slips from my grasp.
Crystia kicks the cup, then shakes her coffee-splattered pant leg. “What the heck, Ana!”
Her voice sounds muffled, as if she were trapped in a bubble. But I know she’s not. And I should respond, except I don’t. I’m enchanted, my extended arm gradually sinking back to my side. All the yoga in the world wouldn’t have prepared me for this moment.
Through the street crowd, I’ve spied him. A stranger tugging at me, drawing me to him, as if I’m caught in his snare. Oddly, for a stranger, he’s not unfamiliar. I gingerly step toward him, heat and frenzy pumping my legs forward. My brain says wait and stops me cold. The pounding in my chest jerks and quickens, rushing in time like a windmill in a storm. I can’t help but stare. Images flash before me. Memories, maybe of him—the one with green eyes. Everything inside tells me it’s true.
The jade-eyed guy from my dreams is standing in the middle of the Farmer’s Market.
And he shines. Shines through the masses. Not because he’s so attractive, which he is, but because he appears to glow from within. Some minute part of me fights to walk over and embrace him. I half-choke on the absurdity, shove back the thought, suck in my breath, and force myself to blink.
He can’t be real. He’s a hallucination.
The world spins, tipping this way and that. My stomach drops, and wooziness fights to overtake me. My ears whistle like a swarm of tiny bees buzzing by, and I clench my fingers and toes. Is this what it feels like the moment before you faint? Embarrassing. Please don’t let that happen. Especially not here and not now.
Pressing my palms to my eyes and shaking my head gently, I attempt to clear my thoughts. When I sneak another peak, he’s standing across the street next to the grains wholesaler. He’s not doing anything but standing there with his hands in his pocket, watching me. Help me Gaea! I whip away, attempting to hide my face. My hair obstructs my sight. I stumble and trip.
Luckily, someone catches me, preventing my unsightly face-plant on the asphalt. Strong hands grasp my arm, steady me, and brush the hair from my face.
Ryland studies me. “Everything okay?” He’s got that scrutinizing expression. The one that suggests I’ve gone mental.
“Um,” is all I manage to say. Worst word choice ever to help my mental-state-of-mind case, but my brain is still trying to work through what I saw.
Before I can pull my shit together, Crystia’s chattering in my ear.
“He was hot with a capital ‘H,’ and he was looking right at you!” Her finger slams into my shoulder blade, emphasizing her point. Her smile is so bright and wide it could be featured on an orthodontist’s wall.
“Crystia!” Heat rises on my face. I’m uncomfortable talking about guys in front of Ryland, especially hot guys. Besides, this is me we’re talking about. Guys don’t look at me. Except, he was looking. That was certain. Maybe he was staring at my ugly birthmark.
I glance back, and my mystery guy is gone. Of course he’s gone. He was probably never there—except—Crystia saw him. A deep emptiness weighs in the center of my chest. I’ve never met the guy, yet he seemed so familiar. And somehow, I miss him. He stirred something within me. Memories.
I spin back on Crystia. “You saw him?”
She nods, an of-course look on her face.
“The guy w
ho was right over there.” I point across the Market. “Dark hair, jeans, henley, and a tan?”
“Yep. That’s the one.”
I bite my lip and watch the people walking by. Since when do dreams walk the streets of Faredale?
Ryland scours the market, his face drawn in straight and discontented lines. “Who’s been watching Ana? Point him out to me.”
My face drops, and I assess Ryland before exchanging glances with Crystia.
She tilts her head and shrugs. “Jealous much?” she mumbles.
Ryland’s nostrils flare. “Right.” His tense shoulders relax, and he abandons the search in favor of granting us his full attention. “Market’s winding down. We pack in thirty.” He steps back across the booth toward Mom.
Crystia bats her baby-blues at me. “Jealous.”
Laughing, I turn to the customer waiting for me. Time to get back to work. Crystia’s attempting to bait me. Probably Ryland as well. She has trouble understanding our friendship. Boys can’t be friends with girls without wanting something more, she says. I disagree. Ryland and I have been friends ever since he helped me from the wreckage that night.
As I fall back into the rehearsed repetition of braiding, my hands moving to the rhythm, my thoughts start to swirl around the guy with the mysterious effect. I hate feeling out of control. I rarely allow it. Except with Dohlan, and that’s different. That’s clearly not real.
So what is it about this guy? Why do I feel like I already know him? If I had run to him, what would I have discovered? Would I have found the green eyes belonging to my mystery dream guy? Those eyes have haunted me ever since the accident, and the need to understand disquiets me. So much so, they have been bleeding into my every half-dazed thought this last month.
I pick a bright-pink band from the assortment at my right. A few wraps, and I snap the band in place. Everything is normal again, as if the snap of the band snapped the abnormality out of me. The weird, irregular twist in my gut is gone. I’m positive the change has nothing to do with the hairband and everything to do with him.