Over and Over You

by Amy McAuley

  In three quick swallows, Maria finishes her wine. She hands me the glass without saying a word and gives Raphael a kiss on the lips. “Good-bye, my love.”

  She glides away, head held high. Her step falters. She regains her balance, smoothes and straightens her gown with her hands, and continues on, slower now, each step more arduous than the last. As the door closes, I catch a glorious glimpse of dread and puzzlement on her gorgeous face.

  “Good-bye, Maria.” I give Raphael’s hand a squeeze. “Good-bye, forever.”

  Dear Dream Journal:

  I looked up the word “orpiment” in Dad’s dictionary. It’s a deadly pigment made of arsenic. I killed her. I killed Diana.

  I climb up to my top bunk, phone in hand, and get comfy. I’ve been waiting all day to talk to Di. I have to make sure she’s still the same, still my best friend, and not mad at me. Ridiculous, but I can’t help it.

  The phone rings, as I’m about to call out. It’s Di. I’m sure of it.

  “Hi, it’s me,” she says.

  “Hey, what a coincidence. I was just going to call you.”

  I wait for Di’s voice to blare into my ear.

  “Pen, I’m so mad!” she finally says.

  I sit taller against the wall, frightened. “How come?”

  “I pushed myself extra hard at dance class, because I couldn’t get the ‘Rose Adagio’ right,” she says. “I got so frustrated, I almost bawled in front of everybody. And then, I snapped one of my pointe shoes and fell over. Now the only part of me that doesn’t hurt is my nose.”

  What a relief. Nothing’s wrong, other than her standard dance-meltdown.

  “So, you’re only upset about dance class. Everything else is okay?”

  “Everything else is better than okay.” Di’s mood does an amazing one-eighty flip. “Did I tell you? I’m Aurora. You know, from Sleeping Beauty. I sleep for a hundred years and wait for my handsome prince to awaken me with a kiss.”

  “Well, don’t pirouette near any spinning wheels, and you’ll be fine.”

  Di laughs. “But the prince is really cute.”

  “What about Scott?” I ask. I’m afraid the time may have come for Di to chuck Scott in the trash with the other disposable guys.

  “What about him?”

  “Aren’t you guys still going out?”

  “I guess. He is fun to be around, but he’s needy. Needy guys are annoying.”

  I don’t know what to say to that, so I don’t say anything at all. This time, it’s disappointing to be right about Di dumping somebody. Luckily, she changes the subject.

  When I get off the phone, I flip over and stare out my window. I can barely see the lake; it’s a slightly lighter shade of black than the sky. That’s my lake out there. And the Big Dipper is out there, too. The night before I came here, Ryan explained to me why stars appear to twinkle and why we can see the Milky Way, even though we’re in it. I wonder what he’s doing at this very second while I’m staring at the sky.

  A cricket chirps outside the window. He chirps again. How can such a tiny thing make such a huge racket? The little bugger will keep me up all night with his wing rubbing. I put on my headphones and press Play.

  I slink into the shadows, watching Raphael and a woman make their drunken way down the narrow corridor of an inn. Fumbling like buffoons, they tussle with one of the doors, get it open, and fall inside, laughing wildly. The door slams.

  Tiptoeing down the hall, I listen in on their too-loud conversation. He’s complimenting her features and telling her how he’d love to paint her exquisite beauty. Tears come to my eyes when I hear him mumbling about a scandalous engagement he may have to end. I gaze down at the ruby ring on my left hand.

  Then I overhear something else. And it isn’t conversation. I listen for as long as I can bear, torturing myself, and then run down the stairs to the tavern. Is the woman upstairs my replacement, not only in Raphael’s life, but in his paintings as well? I can’t let that happen.

  The barkeep strides across the room and backs me into a dimly lit corner, impossibly filling all space around me to prevent my escape. A cricket skitters out through a gap in his rotting sneer, then disappears into his nose.

  “That woman upstairs. You intending to do her harm?” he says, drawing closer. He ogles my hand. “I can help. For a price.”

  I whirl the ruby ring off my finger and reluctantly pass it to him. In his gnarled fingers, the ring becomes a small vial of yellow powder.

  “Only the woman. You will not make a mistake?” I ask him, shrinking under his leering stare.

  His silence does nothing to put my mind at ease. He slinks away.

  Footsteps clomp down the stairs. I press flat against the wall and wait.

  Raphael and the woman round the corner, together. They pass by, unaware that I’m watching them. Raphael’s trembling hand unclenches, and a rose slowly glides through the air. The red petals fade to pink, then white, as their color seeps away like blood draining from a wound. At my feet, the rose hits the floor. White petals scatter, withered and lifeless.

  I look up toward the door to cry out, but both Raphael and the woman are gone.

  Dear Dream Journal:

  This afternoon I did some research on Kate’s computer while she was working in her darkroom. I learned that Raphael was so obsessed with his mistress Margherita (me) that he couldn’t work away from her. She had to be brought along to stay with him so he could complete his jobs. Sweet, but slightly creepy. He was engaged to Maria (Diana) because she was the niece of his biggest patron, and he put off their wedding for six years. Before they could actually get married, Maria died. Surprise, surprise.

  Raphael died suddenly, on his thirty-seventh birthday. Four months later, Margherita went to live with nuns in a convent for repentant women.

  I wasn’t sure what “repentant” meant, so I looked it up. It means feeling regret about having done something sinful.

  13

  Kate and I have been jogging together every night for almost two weeks. Trying to keep up with Kate has improved my jogging ability dramatically, and because she has so much to say, our jogs are never boring. Tonight we jogged for over an hour. I didn’t let on that that’s a big deal for me, but it is. I’m proud of myself.

  In the short time we’ve known each other, we’ve become surprisingly good friends. Well, I guess it’s not a big surprise to me since I sort of know Kate from my dreams, but under normal circumstances, our lightning-quick bond would be unusual. With most people, I’m reserved and I hold back a lot of stuff. Kate’s such an easy and fun person to talk to, I feel like I could tell her anything.

  And she wasn’t kidding when she said she’d pester me about the ruby ring in the Raphael painting. Anything spherical or ruby-like sets her off. We’ve turned it into a game. Whenever I hear her say “Speaking of rings and rubies,” I have three chances to guess the trigger object. We got lots of dirty looks in the grocery store yesterday when we couldn’t stop laughing hysterically in the produce section. Their display of ruby red grapefruits was humungous.

  Two hours ago, after our jog, Kate and I came down to Dad’s beach. We haven’t moved since. We’re out of gas from running, but not tired enough to sleep. Sitting on the beach at night is relaxing, the perfect post-jog activity. I think Kate uses these quiet breaks to reload her brain, then she pulls a lever and everything spills out.

  We talk about almost everything, and no subject is taboo. Kate’s story about losing her virginity was so graphic I felt like I was right in the Wal-Mart stockroom with them.

  There’s a chunk of my life, though, that I’ve kept secret from everybody, including Kate. It’s growing inside me. I’m becoming like one of those Jiffy Pop thingies, where the foil expands until it threatens to explode and shoot popcorn all over the kitchen. The foil holding back my secrets is stretched tight. And I’m beginning to smell smoke.

  With a sharp knife, I poke a hole in the foil to let out some stream.

  “Kate, do
n’t you think it’s strange that we ran into each other in roughly the same place almost every time we went running? How did you know when I was leaving?”

  “Me? How did I know when you were leaving?” She laughs. “I was going to ask you the same thing. I’ve been running at about that same time, on that same route, since I was twelve. Then, all of a sudden, you showed up. And you kept showing up!” She laughs harder. “I was seriously starting to wonder if you were stalking me.”

  We laugh together, then put the conversation on hold while a couple holding hands strolls past us on the beach. When they’re out of earshot, I let out a little more steam.

  “Kate, if I tell you something about me that’s crazy, will you think I’m nuts?”

  “I’m almost without a doubt, absolutely positive I won’t think you’re nuts.”

  I take a deep breath. “The day I came here, I had a dream that I was riding in a car. My dad’s car.” I bite my bottom lip, wondering if I should continue.

  “This story better get a whole lot more interesting.”

  “It does. As I was riding along, the car changed, and I noticed a cigarette burn on the seat. The car in my dream was the same one my dad gave me when I got to his place. It even has the burn mark.”

  “Whoa, you’re psychic. Now that is interesting.”

  I shake my head. “No, I’m not. There’s no such thing as being psychic.”

  “Um, evidently there is, Psychic Penny.”

  Shaking my head again, I say, “I don’t think so.”

  “Oh, I see. It was a big coincidence then. Is that what you’re saying?”

  Moonlight ripples across the surface of the lake. I stare across the water. “I don’t know what to think.”

  We sit in silence for a while. I rest my chin on my bent knees. Kate’s gaze annoyingly pokes at me. Poke, poke, poke.

  “That’s not the only time something like that happened to you, is it,” she says.

  My toes puncture the cool, damp sand. I scoop some up, tilt my foot, and let the sand clumps fall. “You’re right. It’s not the only time.”

  “You can tell me, you know. I won’t laugh. I’ll think it’s cool.”

  I grab a tiny flap of the shiny foil and pull. Popcorn spills all over the beach.

  * * *

  This morning, Kate showed up outside the patio door with a camera. She forced me to put way more effort into my appearance in one morning than I have all summer.

  “Sit on that rock over there,” Kate commands when we get to the beach.

  I sit down and make a stupid face.

  “Put your other face on,” she says. “The one that’s not scary.”

  My cheesy school-photo smile and stiff pose were banned within the first two seconds of this photo shoot. I’m supposed to act like myself.

  Kate snaps a picture of me sitting sideways on the rock, hugging my drawn-up legs and staring off into space. Staring off into space—that’s totally acting like myself.

  “Excuse me, sir,” Kate says, running over to an old man who’s strolling down the beach. “Can you take a picture of my friend and me?”

  He shrugs and takes the camera from Kate’s hand. When we’re arranged together, just how Kate wants us, she shouts a bunch of instructions. He looks at the camera like it’s a VCR in need of digital clock programming, shrugs again, and snaps the photo.

  Kate races over to rescue her precious camera from the clutches of Old Guy. “Thanks.”

  “Can I send a couple pictures to Ryan?” I ask when she gets back.

  “Yeah, no problem. I’ll make two sets and then we’ll both have one.”

  Throughout the rest of the day, we travel around the town on foot, and finish up the roll of film in Kate’s backyard.

  “Want to stay for supper?” Kate asks, lowering her cell phone. “My mom says it’s okay. The only catch is, it’s my night to cook.”

  I take a break from typing an e-mail to Ryan on Kate’s computer. “Sure. You’re not making a reversible meal, are you?”

  She snaps her fingers. “An excellent idea!” Into her phone, she says, “Penny’s staying. We’re making a special lasagna.”

  When she flips the phone shut, I say, “Where did the idea for reversibles come from?”

  “I can’t tell you. It’s too weird,” she says, mocking me.

  “Har har.”

  “It all started because I’m a lefty. When I was a kid, I sometimes wrote words backwards, right to left, instead of left to right.”

  I try to picture that in my head. “You mean you could read them in a mirror?”

  “Exactly. It’s called mirror writing. When my dad got me into art, I learned that Leonardo DaVinci wrote that way, too, so I started to mirror write on purpose. It made my diary too much of a pain in the ass for my mom to read.”

  “That’s smart. I like it.”

  Kate shoves a blue-and-yellow pillow off her bed and takes a seat. “Things kind of took on a reversible life of their own from there.”

  I go back to typing my reply to the short e-mail Ryan sent a few days ago. Before I can finish, a new one arrives. The subject lines of his e-mails are usually silly one-liners. The latest one reads, If a cow laughed, would milk come out her nose?

  The e-mail came with an attachment. I click on it as fast as I can, excited, like I’m unwrapping a present.

  “Ryan sent me a picture from their fishing trip. Want to see what he looks like?”

  She’s already snooping from her bed, but she scoots to the end to get a better look.

  Giving me a shove, she says, “Look at those eyes. He is hot!” She gets up and walks to the door. “I have to go to the grocery store. Want to come?”

  “Sure. I’ll be down in a minute, after I read the e-mail.”

  Hi Pen. Still swimming from 4-6 every day. The new guy (Legs) gave me a fly endurance workout. Kicks my butt. Tell Kate I made her protein powder fruit dip. Awesome. What else does she eat when she’s training? Whey powder smoothies? I have a good recipe. She can really bench 130 lbs? Wow. Won’t challenge her to arm-wrestle! Hey, check out the trout I caught at the cottage. TTYL. Ryan. (Miss you)

  BTW, did you know that belly button lint is almost always blue?

  I take one last, long look at Ryan and his fish. I miss him so much. I miss Di, and I even miss Mom. When I go home next month, I’ll miss Sandy, and Dad, and Kate. Why can’t all the people I care about be in my life at the same time?

  Kate and I are running through the countryside. I feel good. Alive. I give Kate a quick smile. She smiles, too. The soft crunch of our feet hitting the ground is the only noise between us.

  A raven suddenly speeds down through the air, as if hurtled from the sky, and splats on the road with a nauseating thwunk, its neck twisted at a severe angle. Kate and I cry out in surprise and disgust, skittering to a stop. Another blue-black bird strikes the road near my foot, and I slip on the gravel. Jagged pebbles stab my hands and arms.

  A downpour of dead birds rains from the sky. Unable to dodge them, I tumble forward, falling and falling, through a dark cavernous space.

  I emerge from the darkness into the starlit clearing, with Raven by my side. From an adjacent path, Diana and Leif also enter the clearing.

  “Where’s Erik?” Raven calls out.

  Leif grips her shoulders. “He didn’t make it out of the sea. He drowned.”

  Growing angry, Raven shakes her head in disbelief. “No, you’re wrong.”

  “He was struggling and exhausted. But he refused to turn back.” Leif sends me an accusatory glare. “He didn’t want to risk losing.”

  This can’t be happening. It wasn’t supposed to end this way.

  Diana and Leif grab hands at the edge of the cliff. Powerless, I watch their bodies fade from sight until there is nothing left where they stood.

  “No!” I scream.

  Twigs snap on the path. I spin around, surprised to see Ryan withdrawing into the forest. He shakes his head at me.

 
“What have you done, Astrid?” Raven whispers. “Erik was my brother. He loved you.”

  I try to get close to her, but she pushes me away.

  Moving closer to the trees, she says, “I can’t stay here.”

  “Don’t go!” I cry, desperate. “I’ll never see you again.”

  She retreats into the shadows and disappears.

  14

  “The stuff the psychic told you is coming true,” Kate says as we’re jogging past the beach playground. “So how come you wouldn’t even consider that you might be psychic, too? You have proof, but you still don’t believe.”

  I keep running full steam ahead.

  “Very informative answer, Psychic Penny.”

  “I don’t know why,” I say, with more annoyance than I was aiming for. “This isn’t a dream. It’s my life. Maybe I don’t want to accept that I might be psychic. I don’t want to be different. Or crazy.”

  I suck in a deep breath, reminding myself never to talk that much while running again.

  “You’re okay with not having an explanation for what’s happening to you?”

  “Less talk, more breathe,” I say, getting a cramp under my ribs.

  Kate knows that I have lucid dreams, and I told her about the reading Margie gave me at Mom’s party. I also told her about the fire drill coincidence during Ms. Watford’s class, my inappropriate heckling of Louis during History class, and hearing Leslie’s thoughts inside my head. I didn’t tell her what the dreams were about or that I’ve had past-life dreams about her. That would change our friendship too much, and not necessarily for the better. I couldn’t take the chance.

  “All right, clam up, but I don’t think you’re crazy at all,” Kate says. “What does your friend Diana think? Does she know about your dreams and the millennium dude?”

  “She does. But not much.”

  We run downhill. I take the chance to catch my breath.

  “Bet you miss Di and Ryan. When are you going to go visit them this summer?”

  “I can’t. They’re hundreds of miles away.”