by Drew Hayes
The clock was blinking seven thirty, which meant he’d managed to oversleep again. Hurriedly brushing his teeth and throwing on clean clothes, Vince paused briefly to shave in the mirror and style his light-chocolate-colored hair. It was so dull and ordinary, no wonder he’d given himself a mane of silver in his dream.
A ritualistic hunt for his sneakers, the modern manifestation of killing a buffalo, wasted five more minutes, so by the time he stumbled down the stairs into the kitchen, Vince was beginning to be on the cusp of truly being late. Coach was going to be pissed.
“Morning, champ,” his father greeted him, currently poised at the stove whipping a spatula through some recently cracked eggs. There was also the distinctive sizzle of bacon and the unmistakable scent of coffee filling the air. Father took all his meals seriously; he believed that the fall of modern society would come from lack of home-cooking rather than gangs or violence. The red apron that was draped across his torso was worn and threadbare, not to mention a bit frilly around the edges. Vince had told him for years he needed a new one, but it had been a gift from Vince’s mother before she passed, so Father was loathe to give it up.
As he took a seat at the table Vince’s head throbbed, images from his dream rising unbidden from the depths of his subconscious. His father, faking his own death, only to emerge years later as some legendary criminal. It was so ridiculous, yet for some reason Vince felt a pang of queasiness in his stomach.
“How you feeling today? Any new symptoms?”
“Symptoms?” Vince said uncertainly.
“Well, there’s the memory loss they warned us about,” his father said with a sigh. “You got cracked on the head during practice yesterday. Minor concussion, and given that you were taken down by the Daniels boy I’d say that was getting off light.”
“Right... right,” Vince said, new memories rising up to take the place of the ones from his dream. “Roy tackled me when I intercepted that pass, and I knocked my head on the ground.”
“Whew, glad that mind of yours is still working. We Reynolds men can’t afford to lose too many brain cells.” His father gave him a wink at the joke, and then slid a steaming pile of fluffy eggs onto a pair of plates. Bacon joined the former future fowls, followed by a cup of coffee on the side. He sat the plate in front of his son then sat across from Vince with his own.
The Reynolds men... but only Vince’s last name was Reynolds, wasn’t it?
A throb came from his temple and Vince shook his head. Whatever thought had been perched at the edge of his mind was lost in the impromptu head-banging, so Vince turned his attention to breakfast. The food was crisp and delicious, as always. For a police officer, Vince’s dad had a surprising amount of hidden culinary talent.
“You’d better hurry,” his father said. “Nick will be here any minute, and I hate the way that boy drives when he’s running late.”
“Nick?”
“Nick Campbell. Son, are you sure you’re okay? You’ve known Nick since you were kids, and he’s been driving you to school since he got his license. If you forgot him then maybe we need to go back to the doctor for more tests.”
“Right, no, I know Nick,” Vince said, his brain catching up to his dad’s description. “I just forgot he was picking me up. I’m fine: a little slow on the uptake, but fine.” He was, too. The concern and care in his father’s voice had banished the uneasy feeling that had been lingering in his gut. It was a stupid dream. His father was the best man he knew, whatever reason his subconscious had possessed for casting him in the role of villain was irrelevant. It wasn’t real.
Vince gobbled his food hurriedly while his father slowly turned his own attention back to breakfast. The man kept a wary eye on his boy, checking for any further symptoms that indicated a serious issue.
“So, you nervous about your upcoming finals?” It was a blatant topic change, and Vince accepted the spirit with which it was intended.
“I guess I am. More than I realized, anyway. I had a stress dream last night that was unbelievable.”
“Oh yeah? What happened in it?”
“Well, the first part is the weirdest. It was set in a world where people actually had super powers.”
160.
Nick’s ancient VW Bug protested his attempts to turn maneuvering simple neighborhood streets into a smash ‘em up video game, but the grinding cries from its engine went unheeded as its owner jerked the wheel and sent his passenger bouncing against a door that miraculously held closed.
“Fucking shitty drivers,” Nick mumbled, revving past the blue Ford that had committed the unforgivable sin of slowing down to take a right turn. The Bug gave out a weary sputter and lurched into a higher gear, sounding as if the effort had taken several years off its already dwindling lifespan.
“Are you sure you should be going so fast on these streets?”
“Hey, I don’t want to hear shit from you. I pull up and honk and it takes you five minutes to get to the car. You know damn well I run on a very efficient schedule with no wasted time. That five minutes has got to come out of something else now, but we both know morning practice shouldn’t be that spot. I doubt twenty laps for every minute late are good for someone recovering from a head injury.”
“Right... maybe I shouldn’t be practicing in the first place,” Vince pointed out.
“Of course you’re not practicing. Jesus, even your coach isn’t that big of a dickbag. He just requires everyone be present, even the injured. Thinks even the act of watching your team helps you get better at assessing strengths and weaknesses,” Nick reminded him. “I’d call bullshit, but the man produces results.”
“I guess so.” Vince was having trouble keeping the memories straight in his head. He knew their undefeated football team had won a championship that year, he could even remember holding the trophy with the rest of the team. What he couldn’t remember were the small details, like what plays they’d used to pull off their come-from-behind victory. Shouldn’t he remember something like that? Meanwhile his dream memories kept popping up, making him wonder why Nick wasn’t wearing his sunglasses. He’d opened his mouth to ask several times, only to realize how insane that question was since the real Nick only wore them when he was driving and it was bright out.
The Bug gave one final burst of speed as Nick maneuvered it into the east Lander parking lot. It was a sizable university, and much of the student body lived off campus, so there were parking facilities set up all over the place. With the approach of finals, many were choosing to use their daytime hours holed up at home and buried in books, which meant Nick was able to score a spot near the front of the lot, drastically cutting down on their walking time.
“All right, Cinderella, this is as far as the carriage takes you,” Nick said, snapping up his backpack from the rear seat and killing the sputtering engine. “I’ll meet you at the cafeteria in Hoffman Hall for lunch at eleven. Try not to go all mentally-deficient boy and get lost before then.”
“I’ll do my best,” Vince said, a little more honesty in the statement than he would have preferred. He was having real issues with keeping everything straight, so it was seeming increasingly possible that he could get mixed up and go to the wrong place. At least his next destination had been laid out for him. The Lander Stadium loomed before them, just a few minutes’ walk from the east parking lot. He needed to get to practice. Hopefully a little time to just sit and watch people play would give him a chance to clear his head.
* * *
“How’s it going?”
“How the hell should I know? All I do is provide the framework, their mind usually fills in the rest. I did what she told me, but if I had to guess it’s probably not much fun to be him right now.”
“Why not?”
“I usually put them in a place without any doubt. The world they see is the real one. They just accept it since the assurance is coming from their own brain. She made me keep some doubts in there this time, so I’d guess it feels a little bit like he’s losing his
mind.”
“Damn. Is Mary almost ready to go in?”
“Yeah, we’re about to start.”
“Good. Fucking hell, I really hope this works.”
* * *
“Nice hit, Daniels!” Coach George’s voice boomed across the field; somehow the barely-above-average-height man produced enough sound in his body to fill an entire stadium with his usually critical shouts. “But keep that shit confined to the big guys. I can’t have you cripple my whole fucking team before next season.”
“You got it, Coach,” Roy called back, helping Thomas Castillo back onto to his feet. The tan boy accepted the gesture wordlessly; holding grudges for being tackled in football made as much as sense as getting angry at a waiter for bringing you the food you ordered. Both lined up on opposing sides; in this scrimmage, Thomas was acting as quarterback for the jersey wearing team, who were currently on offense. It seemed a little unfair that Coach George would put Chad, their first string quarterback, on the same team as Roy, who led their league in sacks, but he was a man who believed you forged a better blade by putting it in a hotter fire. He was demanding, unpleasant, and at least halfway insane. People fought like drunken weasels for the chance to play under him.
“How you feeling, Vince?”
Vince turned his head away from the scrimmage to see Hershel Daniels, the towel resource manager, take a seat next to him. The world went tilty for a moment as everything seemed to lose cohesion. How could Hershel be here when Roy was on the field? Because they were fraternal twins, not two people sharing the same body. Vince was slowly getting a handle on re-imposing reality over the dream delusions that dogged him.
“I’m better than I was yesterday,” he replied after his brain stabilized. “The doctors don’t think it was anything too bad. Just got my bell rung.”
“Glad to hear it. Roy felt awful last night. He has a hard time gauging his strength on the field.”
“Tell him I’m fine. And remind him I intercepted the ball, so he was supposed to tackle me. That’s why we practice.”
“I’ll try and get through to him.” Hershel turned his own attention to the field. “Looks like we’ll have another strong team next year.”
No, we won’t. We’re fighting just to stay afloat. Nick says if we don’t decimate in the final match we could lose people from the program. They need me. No, they don’t, because they aren’t real.
“Sure does,” Vince agreed, flashing his friend a large smile. “Hey, this may sound like a weird question, but I have history after this, right?”
161.
Vince did indeed have History of War next, though he wondered what he’d been thinking scheduling a class so far across campus with so little time to make the trip. He burst into the lecture hall, thankful the professor still seemed to be arranging notes on his desk. Professor Fletcher was an older teacher, and as such he’d taken tenure and said goodbye to much need for impressing people or punctuality. He was still a dynamite educator, passionately articulating stories of the ancient Greeks’ battle strategies, or dealing with more modern examples all the way through World War Two. He knew the little pieces of history that made it interesting, breathing life into what most students only ever saw as dead people and old stories.
A quick scan of the room revealed a familiar face, and Vince plopped into a seat next to Camille and pulled out his notebook.
“Made it by the skin of my teeth this time,” he whispered, feeling relieved that he didn’t have to do the walk of shame down the hall’s steps as Professor Fletcher lectured on. The man didn’t stop once he started, and it somehow made the awkwardness of coming in late even worse.
Camille didn’t immediately respond; instead she glanced at him, turned bright red, and found something very interesting on her paper to stare at. That was weird; why wasn’t she talking to him? The class hadn’t started yet, and Professor Fletcher wasn’t the kind of man who cared about people chatting before he began speaking.
Then Vince realized his error. He and Camille were friends in the dream, but in reality they only knew each other in a cursory fashion. They had several of the same friends, but rarely spoke to each other besides rapid greetings. Their social circles were like a Venn diagram, intersecting only in a relatively small portion. He’d always got the feeling she didn’t care much for him, actually, but he had no idea what he’d done to offend her. In fact, he didn’t even sit here in this class; usually he took notes up near Will.
A quick turn over his shoulder revealed his friend looking down at him, confusion evident on his face. Vince started to move, but of course Professor Fletcher chose that moment to begin his lecture. Easing back into his seat, Vince looked over at the girl once more, catching her eyes glancing at him from the supposedly safe corners of their sockets. They darted back to the paper immediately, and he didn’t suspect they’d be journeying in his direction again anytime soon.
As Professor Fletcher droned on, Vince found himself struck by the curiousness of Camille’s role in his dream. He’d cast the girl he barely knew as someone very close to him, one of his best friends. That seemed odd, given how little they’d ever interacted in the real world. Maybe he’d noticed her more than he realized. Or maybe it was just that his dream had been composed of such a large cast that he’d had to pull from all over to fill every role. He’d cast his father as the villain, for goodness sake. There was no sense in reading too far into it.
Class wrapped up fifty minutes later, the professor’s dismissal followed by a flurry of activity as students shoved papers and pens into their backpacks. Vince joined in, wondering how he was going to explain his odd gaffe to Will. If he leaned on the head injury explanation too many more times they were going to send him back to the hospital for additional testing. That would worry his father, plus he was reasonably sure it was a waste of time. Maybe he could tell Will that he’d been hitting on Camille. Nah, Will was too smart for that one.
Vince was so absorbed in thought that he almost didn’t hear the soft mutter that came from Camille’s lips. Looking over, he saw she was red again, and her eyes were facing straight forward. She wore a look of determination, and she hadn’t made any moves to put her pens or notebook away.
“I’m sorry, I don’t think I caught that,” Vince said politely.
“Eleven years,” Camille repeated, this time just barely loud enough to actually be heard. “Eleven years, and when you finally talk to me, all you say to me is some comment about almost being late to class.” She grabbed her supplies and jammed them into her bag; at least two pens and a sheet of paper were destroyed in the bout of furious packing. She stood up from her seat, though with her height it didn’t make much of a difference, and finally looked Vince in the eye.
“You’re an ass,” Camille spat, turning on her heels and rushing out before Vince could conjure any sort of reply. He merely stared, dumbfounded, as the small girl dashed up the stairs and ran out of the lecture hall.
“I see that legendary Reynolds charm is still as potent as always,” Will said from behind Vince, snapping him out of his stupor.
“I have no idea what I did to deserve that,” he said. He didn’t, either; neither in the dream world or this one could he remember an action that warranted such venom.
“Women, eh? Can’t live with them, and I don’t know how to cook.” Will smacked his friend on the shoulder and gave him a smile. “Come on, that was funny.”
“Huh? Uh, yeah, I guess it was.” Vince finally shook off the strange feeling he’d had since Camille’s tongue-lashing, scooping his own bag off the floor and standing from his chair.
“It still doesn’t explain why you sat there in the first place,” Will pointed out as the two began to ascend the stairs. “I know it’s been long enough since you and Sasha broke up to put yourself back out there, but maybe you should try someone a little more affable. And who doesn’t apparently hate your guts.”
“I wasn’t... yeah, maybe you’re right,” Vince agreed. Will had given h
im an out from admitting he didn’t mean to sit there in the first place. Vince might not be able to lie worth a damn, but he could certainly let someone else fill in the blanks for themselves. He was pretty sure that was morally tolerable, but admittedly not preferred. “I hope my next class goes quick. I cannot wait for this day to be over.”
“The gods listen for that sort of statement,” Will informed him. “Which means you’re in for a hell of a long day.”
162.
Vince made it to lunch without much more difficulty. His sense of a split world was reduced by the fact that his next class was geometry, and he was awful at math no matter which reality he was currently in. He met up with Nick at Hoffman, only to discover this was a ritual involving more than just Vince and his chauffeur. It seemed all the students from Melbrook Avenue grabbed food together when their schedule allowed. Roy and Hershel were the first to arrive after Vince and Nick, followed not long after by Alice. She dropped her purse and backpack next to Nick, then immediately picked up where they’d left off in their most recent fight. It had always struck Vince as strange that people who squabbled so constantly would also continually choose one another’s company. Mary was the last to arrive, grabbing a free seat to Vince’s left.
“How you feeling today?”
“A little tired of everyone asking me that, honestly,” Vince said. He began backpedaling as soon as the words were out of his mouth. “I’m sorry; I know you’re all concerned, I’ve just been having some slight concentration issues.”
“I know how it goes,” Mary assured him. “I’ve gotten my share of head bonks from messing up while climbing trees.”
Why hadn’t she just stopped herself telekinetically? Because that was the dream, duh. Besides, even dream Mary had trouble grabbing humans with her ability; she was so powerful it was too easy to crush them.