Dream Smashers

by Angela Carlie

  “An underage club?” I hesitate. “Dancing?”

  “Yeah. I know the DJ who works there on Saturday nights.”

  Dancing and music and people. Uh, no. “I totally don’t dance.”

  “You don’t have to dance. We can just hang out or something.”

  Silence.

  I ask, “Do you dance?”

  Before she answers, Ms. Lightheart’s car zips around the corner at the far end of the street.

  Angel’s jaw tightens. “Oh God.” She turns around to face the bushes. “Stop for a sec. Pretend you’re looking at something.”

  “Uh, why?”

  “Because. That woman in that car is a total bitch and I don’t want her to see me. She knows my mom.” She grabs my arm.

  I stop, but I don’t turn around. “Why’s she a bitch?” But Angel doesn’t answer me. She must have her confused with someone else because Ms. Lightheart could never be a bitch.

  I can’t take my eyes off Ms. Lightheart, the rendition of the someday-new-me, driving toward me now, to remind me of my rules. That’s why she always shows up at these times, to jump-start my determination to work harder at being the new me, the better me who doesn’t have worries, and who doesn’t care about arguing or hurting feelings, especially when setting boundaries. Boundaries are a must to being carefree. I can’t remember if that’s a rule. If it isn’t, it should be.

  “Would you stop staring at her,” Angel whisper-yells. “You’ll make her stop.”

  “What? Why would she stop?” I put my hand on my hip, trying to feel natural standing on the sidewalk for no apparent reason. It feels awkward there, so I cross my arms in front of my chest instead.

  She angry-whispers, “That’s Darla. She’s my mom’s supplier. I don’t want her to see me!”

  I turn toward the road at Ms. Lightheart / Darla and then the car backfires. A plume of black smoke billows from behind it. The automobile of perfection farts. Not only does it fart, but it leaves skid marks for the world to see. This can’t be. Skid marks are for the imperfect, the real and tangible, the everyday mundane crap. Perfection doesn’t have dirty underwear, at least not in my definition of perfection.

  “Supplier of what? Avon?” I ask.

  Angel glares at me. “Uh, yeah. Okay. Whatever.”

  The leaves blow along the street. I pretend-talk to Angel, but my gaze stays constant on the dream car driving our direction. It’s a slow car, much slower than I remember. The woman inside, Ms. Lightheart or, eh, Darla, the woman of my dreams, whom I want to grow up to be, sits in the driver’s seat.

  She slows next to us and looks at us. Right at us. Ms. Lightheart is about to speak to me.

  “You there. You girl.” She snaps her fingers. “Come here.”

  Her voice doesn’t match my dreams. Ms. Lightheart should have a warm loving voice instead of a gravelly sick voice. I push that out of my mind because the most important part of her voice, her words, causes me to panic. Perfection wants to speak with me?

  Angel soft-punches my arm.

  I step off the curb, closer to the flatulent car, thankful that it stopped farting when she stopped driving.

  Her hair, once beautiful when held back in a pony-tail, is a mess from the wind that whipped it every which way possible. She no longer wears the retro-cool sunglasses. Gobs of mascara goop-up her eyes. Wind-blown crusted white stripes of salt flake on her face from eye to temple. Red lipstick, poorly scribbled outside the lines of her natural lip, creates a clown effect.

  “You Jacinda’s kid?” she asks.

  My heart turns to stone in my chest. I can’t move. I can’t breathe. How does she know my mom?

  “Earth to kid!” She snaps her bony fingers with plastic red tips at me.

  But I still can’t answer. Up close, she is kind of scary-looking, with leather skin covered up with a massive amount of make-up that clings to each wrinkle, enhancing their appearance. The beige seats in the back of the roadster are ripped and long threads dangle from their wounds. Dirt cakes the cream colored car so thick that someone left a message, ‘Eat Me,’ on the driver’s door.

  “Hey. You Jacinda’s kid or not?”

  “What’s it to you?” Angel stands next to my statue-body. “She don’t have to talk to nobody if she don’t want to.”

  “Yeah. You look just like your mother. Of course you’re Jacinda’s girl.” Darla winks at me and then she glares at Angel and points. “And you, Angelica Cox, you tell your mother she owes me. Big time, you hear?”

  “Whatever.” Angel rolls her eyes and jerks my arm away from the car.

  Darla’s face crinkles more, if that’s possible. Little crevices open up between her painted-on eyebrows. Rainy had been right. Deep down, I’m sure I knew all along that Ms. Lightheart didn’t exist. Maybe I needed something to have faith in. Something or someone. I chose wrong because before me is a dream smasher, pure and true to the very root of the definition.

  “Come on Autumn, let’s go.” Angel wraps her arm through mine. We crunch through leaves on the sidewalk away from the dream smasher.

  The engine revs, the skinny tires screech for a moment and then the once-was-perfect car farts again. I don’t look back. Summer has ended, autumn is at a close, and winter weighs heavy on my heart. It’s a harsh feeling when that happens. When the trees go bare, lonely sticks floating in the cold air, and when the sun stays hidden for days at a time. When there are no flowers to bring color, no birds to bring a cheerful background song, no bees, no bugs, only nothingness. When you realize that it won’t be another six months until life shows itself again.

  Empty, dead, gray.

  I wish Evan was here.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  Monday, October 12th

  I sit in the cafeteria, waiting for Rainy. School is weird. Not in the sense of freakish weird, but more along the lines that we are actually going weird. Both of us. Every day since she returned last Wednesday. Rainy insists on getting to class on time, which is a bit hard for me to fathom. They didn’t send her to rehab like we were told, but to California to stay with her grandmother she never met before. She only stayed there for a few days. I’m not sure what miracle occurred while she was there to cause her transformation. But whatever it was, it’s stuck with her these past few days.

  Think of Rainy and she appears, skipping into the cafeteria. Well, not skipping, but walking with an extra beat to her step, red sucker in mouth, dark glasses on eyes, giant, Madonna-like bow in hair, and lace gloves on hands. Typical. Attached to Rainy, these items make their way to the once deserted table where I’ve crashed my backpack and body into a hard plastic chair. We have our own table now. On occasion people come visit us, but for the most part, we’ve been hanging-out in Lonerville for a few days.

  Rainy pulls the sucker from her mouth. “Dude! Did you see that Angel chick hanging all over the new guy with the leather jacket?” She shoves the sucker back between her cheek and teeth, giving her the very attractive tumor-on-face look. “I bet she’s slept with a ton of guys before.” She smacks her books onto the table.

  “Rainy, she’s really not that bad. Actually, she’s pretty nice. Don’t you trust your brother to have any taste?”

  She rolls her eyes. “Whatever.”

  I give her the one-over. “Did you change your clothes? I could have sworn you were wearing jeans this morning. No, I’m positive you wore Levi’s because I’m wearing my Levi’s and I specifically remember thinking how weird it was that we both decided to wear our Levi’s on the same day.”

  “Yeah, I missed fourth period because my home-ec partner decided she would prefer to see the cake mix all over me instead of in the pan.” She sighs, crinkles her nose, and smoothes her black stretch pants with her hand.

  I laugh out loud. The thought of Rainy trying to cook at all is a joke, but imagining her wearing the food is a giggle free-for-all.

  “Oh! And get this. There was a voicemail on my cell phone. Caleb wants to go out on a double-date this weekend
!” She lets out an uncharacteristic squeal.

  I freeze, hoping that the squeal will go away. It does, but her smile doesn’t—which is a good thing. “Don’t do that ever again.”

  She looks about the cafeteria. “I don’t even know where that came from. He is cute though, huh?”

  “Are you serious? I remember a time when he wasn’t ‘all that’ and you ditched him.”

  “That was then and this is now. You’ve got a goody-goody-guy and it seems to be working out for you. Thought I’d give it a try, too.” She pushes her books out of the way and plops up onto the table. “Besides, I’m really digging the whole Jesus stuff. Jesus-freaks aren’t so bad after all.”

  I know exactly what she’s talking about. It’s like I’ve found a single person in the world who I can ‘just be’ around. Someone who doesn’t care how messed up my parent is or how cool I’m not at school. Don’t get me wrong, I’m cool, just not the kind of cool that makes people popular. Me and Rainy are our own special brand of cool.

  “It’s a double-date? Like, with me and Jesus-freak?” I ask.

  “Yeah. They want to take us to downtown Portland for dinner or something.”

  “That’s an hour away. Besides, I don’t like the city at night. Maybe we should hangout somewhere in town.”

  “Drab,” she says.

  “What do you suggest?”

  A match ignites behind her eyes and she jumps up from the table. “I’ve got a wicked boss idea!”

  “Dare I ask?” I pull a red apple of delish sweetness from my bag.

  “Ice skating!”

  My heart falls.

  Immediate understanding flashes over her face. “Oh, that sucks. I forgot.” Her bottom lip protrudes, a perch for a tweety-bird. “My bad. Let me think.” She taps her forehead.

  “Don’t be such a dork. You can totally go ice skating and I can watch you fools fall on your faces. That, in my book, would be a ton more fun than strapping swords of death to my feet.” For some reason, I’ve never been able to skate. Rainy has tried to teach me, but every time, I hurt myself. Last year, when I broke my ankle, Grams said, “No more skating. Ever again.”

  “Yeah, well if you weren’t such a klutz.” She shakes her head all sarcastic like.

  “Ha!” I swing my fist, but she flinches away from it.

  “Slow and klutzy. Enduring qualities.” She laughs.

  “Whate-v-e-r!” I chomp into red skin and juicy crisp apple pulp. “Don’t you have a class to be in or something?”

  “On my way.” She grabs her books off the table. “I guess your Jesus-freak isn’t needed to volunteer on Friday—frigging saint—and will pick us up after school that day.”

  “How do you know this stuff? Did you call Sylvia Brown before coming back to school or what?”

  “Dude. I told you that Caleb called.” She rolls her eyes and skips toward her next class, her too-much-moussed-hair bouncing behind her.

  The bell rings. Great, now I’m late.

  On my way to class, Angel dances through the hall toward me. Her hair breezes and eyes jog. I still don’t know what’s up with her and the super-model thing. “Hey Autumn.” She turns her nose up out of habit, I think.

  “Hi.”

  “You still up for dancing at Scour?” she asks.

  “Ugh. Really?”

  “Yes. It’s crazy cool. Promise.” She continues dancing down the hall to wherever she’s going. “I’ll call you.”

  So not looking forward to dancing—a fate worse than death. Or ice skating, even.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  Friday, October 16th

  Indoor ice skating. Home of the brave and crazy—the delusional people who think they are meant to dance on ice. To glide, flip, and jostle their way around and around and around a big giant chunk of flat, slippery water complete with music and flashing lights to create the psychedelic experience. Um, no, I don’t think so.

  “You sure you’ll be okay sitting here?” Evan puts a warm arm around my shoulder.

  I shudder. “Uh huh. I’ll be more than okay.”

  “Ha! She’s safer here. Believe me when I say this.” Rainy pushes between us and laughs. “You should have seen her the last time she tempted her luck on skates. Dude, that was fricking awesome. You should have been there.”

  “Shut up.” I sit on the purple carpeted bench and lean against the matching carpeted wall. From here, I have a perfect view of what will be a night of splendid entertainment.

  Rainy finishes tying up her skates with neon green laces, grabs Caleb’s hand and ventures out onto the ice rink. “See ya chica.” She winks at me and merges into the world of crazies.

  Evan laughs under his breath while watching them on the rink. “Amazing transformation. Don’t you think?”

  “Oh, I don’t know. She looks the same to me.” Actually, even more retarded than ever with a neon pink tutu around her waist, striped stretch pants on her legs and pig-tails in her hair. I wrap my plain tan sweater tighter around my front and brush my plain brown hair out of my face.

  His warm hand brushes my cheek, shooting a glow of heat through my body. “No. That’s not what I mean.” His hand moves to my hair and twirls a strand with one finger.

  Breathless. Flushed. My ribs are caught in a clamp—restricted from expanding and contracting.

  His eyes, endlessly blue, soft, hold me with only a look. Such looks are reserved for God’s graces, for things of beauty, for sunsets and snow covered mountain tops. I am none of these things, and yet, he looks. And he smiles.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  Evan holds his breath. Her deep eyes, ever concerned, ever loving, dissect, yet, still unbelievably kind. Soft milky skin beneath Evan’s hand, silk hair around his finger, full parted lips that he so desperately wants to touch.

  There’s a feeling, Evan’s read about in books, when two separate souls collide that were never meant to be apart, but are. When nothing and everything matters and all the protagonist sees is the beauty of creation—love—right in front of his face. He always thought that was just fiction.

  He thought wrong.

  This feeling, it’s like the exhilaration of winning first place of a half-marathon that he’s been training hard for months, but better. Like jumping off a bridge into a pristine emerald pool of crisp water, but better. Like skiing down Mount Hood on a clear blue day with the sun shining through the evergreens and perfect powder under his feet, but better.

  Autumn smiles, blushes, breaking eye contact.

  “Hey,” Evan says. “Where you going?”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  His breath is close, warm and sweet, and real. Everything about Evan is real. He’s not a dream, though it feels like he should be. One-hundred percent pure Evan. I’ll be sure not to wash him—he might shrink.

  Music plays in the background. Great, Smells Like Teen Spirit will be stuck in my head every time I think about this moment. And I will always remember this moment until the end of time. I’ve never felt anything like it.

  He smiles, but not with his mouth or his face, but with his energy. It beams out of every single intricate cell that makes up the material part of this beautiful creature—like invisible jelly-beans with flashlights.

  How is this even possible? This feeling, like nothing bad ever existed in the world. Nothing bad can happen with him near. Ever.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  Evan leans in, slow, gentle. She looks up at him with anticipation. He stops, just inches away. Not because he doesn’t want to kiss her, but because he wants to savor this moment and memorize every second of it.

  A small gasp escapes her mouth.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  Fresh-baked oatmeal raisin cookies, the scent of a fresh-cut Christmas tree, sand between my toes on a warm summer day at the coast. My favorite things, the most awesome things in the world, but none compare to his warm, strong lips. I could totally live with him attached to me like this.

  The television scree
ns across America will flash the breaking news: Two teens from Washington are attached at the lips forever—it’s a good thing they like each other.

  He pulls away, gently pulling the bandage, slow and steady.

  “Wow.” He sucks in his bottom lip, as if it’s a piece of candy.

  “Yeah,” I whisper back.

  “Oh my fucking god!” Rainy screeches—ruining everything—the same annoying squeal she gave the other day. This better not become a regular thing. So annoying. “That was awesome. Do it again. Caleb didn’t get to see it all.”

  I can’t help but laugh. Nothing Rainy does could possibly take this happy-OMG feeling away.

  “Jesus-freak! Dude! You’ve gotta be some kisser.” She plops down in between us. “Here plant one on me, let me try.” She puckers her lips like a fish—if fish had lips.

  I push her off us and she rolls on the floor in a thunder of laughter. “Two little lovers sitting on a purple carpeted bench at, like, an ice skating rink, K-I-S-S-I-N-G.”

  Caleb puts his hand over his mouth, covering his laugh.

  “That’s okay. Laugh it up,” I say.

  Evan pulls me close and holds me tight from behind, his breath on my neck. Everything is right in the world.

  ***

  “Would you look at all the stars,” Caleb says.

  In unison, we gaze upward into the sparkly sky of the universe. As we do, the lights from the ice rink switch off. Closing time and no one around except for us, the pavement and the stars.

  “Brrrr! It’s flippin’ cold!” Rainy skips closer to Caleb. They walk arm in arm several feet ahead of us as if they’ve been a couple since the beginning of time.

  Evan laughs and nods toward Rainy and Caleb. “Stranger things have happened.” His breath becomes fog in the crispy air.