Of course, friends don’t play incriminating voice mails over the loud speaker at school or share pictures of you that she took without your consent. How can one mistake erase everything good we had? How can what I did really warrant all the venom Gigi is throwing my way?
It can’t.
I get to my feet and look around. First thing I see is the bulletin board that hangs just outside her closet. As always, photos of Gigi and friends cover every inch of it. The last time I saw it, I’d been featured prominently. When I look now, I see that, though the same pictures I’ve always known are still there, I’ve been defaced in every one of them. Devil horns, Hitler moustaches, a blob of ink blacking me completely out. I haven’t been erased from Gigi’s life. I’ve become the evil demon that’s infiltrated it and is going to be exorcised as painfully and publically as possible.
Fuming, I remember that whatever first upset Wes was on Gigi’s desk, so I make a beeline for it. Immediately, I discover the source of his displeasure. Scattered across the desk are the pictures of me from the clinic. The ones she taped to my locker and so many more. Beside them are scissors and a glue stick. And covering all of it are little wisps of dark human hair.
My hair. The hair she took from me without permission. The hair she glued to a doll to shame me at school. To tell me I am not the sum of my parts but only this, a monster, a freak. That nothing else about me matters but my disorder, and that I do not count.
The tingling sensation that I felt inside Grady is tenfold now. Whether that’s because of the extra Dexid, or because of the rage that’s infected my every cell, or both, doesn’t matter. I am in control. No rules. No limits.
I throw open her desk drawer and easily locate the instrument of my revenge. I surrender to the moment and let fury guide me. Gripping the scissors in my right hand, I march over to Gigi’s full-length mirror and regard her furious face as it stares back at me. Clutching a large section of her hair at the front, I draw the scissors to her roots and cut. Chunk after chunk, I lop off Gigi’s long, flowing tresses until all that’s left are uneven patches of mousy straw fuzz against a bright white scalp.
A pink lipstick stands at attention on her desk, just within reach. I grab it and, in big block letters, scrawl a message across the smooth glass.
Here’s your karma, bitch.
Then I scream, take the self-standing mirror in both hands, throw my head back, and slam it into the frame.
Whoosh.
Pop.
Back in Gigi’s banal dream, Wes helps me to my feet. “Burners,” he says, and I hear pounding against the patio door. I take one last look at Gigi sitting on the floor, her long, beautiful hair now the thing of dreams.
I smile.
Wes leads me out of the kitchen, and we escape through the garage. The monsters are fierce, but they aren’t particularly smart. As they search the house for us, we take advantage of our head start. We run through the dark fields that surround the home and just keep going.
Hand in hand.
Never slowing.
Never tiring.
All through the night.
• • •
“Three times. Three times, if you can believe it!” Tessa huffs as she flips through one of the glossy tabloids she subscribes to. “I mean that’s some serious nerve to still be calling him her boyfriend after she’s been caught making out with another guy, not once, but three times!”
“Mmm-hmm,” I vaguely agree. Though I’ve long considered it part of my best friend duty to feign interest in the messed-up private lives of the movie starlets and celebutants that Tessa holds so dear, today, I can barely fake it. As we sit on the Quad soaking up the sun of the first March morning warm enough to be considered spring, my eyes scan the crowd of my classmates in search of the only person whose private life holds any interest for me.
At the far end of the green, Jamie and Meat toss a football as a trio of pom girls cheers them on. Not far from them, Amber’s new hookup, Pete, is arguing with his recent ex, Jenny, who looks like she hasn’t eaten in days. By the garbage shed, our resident genius Amy Lawrence sits peacefully reading a book until Kiara (who may be a badass but is also a brain and Amy’s lab partner) plops down beside her. Amy scrambles for something in her bag (a pen? her firstborn child?) as Kiara claps her on the shoulder too hard, looking like an after-school-special bully.
In other words, a day like any other for all of them. But not for me. And not for Wes. A torturous ache takes up residence in my chest, and it swells with every new arrival to the Quad. My knees jiggle. I’m picking my cuticles raw. Where is he?
“Sar,” Tessa says, tossing her magazine at me. “This is not trivial stuff. I’m doing important sociological research into the lifestyles of the randomly rich and pointlessly famous! This is my future I’m cramming for here.”
“Sorry,” I say.
“It’s cool.” She shrugs. “You’re usually pretty good at pretending you give a crap.”
“I do,” I lie. “My mind’s just somewhere else.”
Tessa reaches over her outstretched legs and retrieves the magazine she threw at me. “Somewhere else like the West Gate?” she teases.
The West Gate. How can I have been so stupid? Why did I think I’d find Wes here, in the Quad, when all our previous encounters have been over there? I shove my books into my bag and jump to my feet, the ache in my chest thumping in gleeful agony. “I have to go. I totally forgot where I’m supposed to be,” I stammer.
“Supposed to be? Sarah, I was kidding. Homeroom’s in five. You don’t have time to go.”
“I’ll see you in class,” I say, fumbling with the zipper of my bag. I’m in such a frantic rush that I begin walking before I’ve stood up. I make it one bent, twisted step before I plow right into a solid mass of flesh. I straighten up and am eye level with a flannel-clad, broad chest.
Large hands cup my face and lift my chin skyward. My eyes sweep up, past the taut jaw, above the full lips, beyond the crooked nose. They stop on the deep-set, searching green eyes that sparkle wildly. The hands cradling my face tighten slightly and pull me forward.
Wes presses his lips onto mine, our mouths open, and I close my eyes.
My thighs go rigid, and I flex my feet. I wrap my arms around his back and pull him closer. He inhales deeply through his nose, gasping for air without taking his mouth from mine. Then he releases his grip on my face. One hand forages through my hair and, finding the back of my head, pushes me deeper into him as his other arm coils around my waist. I feast on him as he devours me. My back arches, and a small moan escapes from my lips. It’s only a hint of indecency, but it’s indecent nonetheless. I hope it’s quiet enough so that only Wes hears. It’s for no one but him.
If I had even the tiniest bit of my wits about me, the remote ability to consider anyone but myself in this moment, I might notice Tessa’s gaping grin as she tries not to giggle at the sight of us. I might worry that Jamie will fumble the football as he sees me, and his heart will hurt. Might give a thought to the spectacle Wes and I are making and consider a modicum of decency. But I don’t. There’s nothing but Wes and me, and this most fan-freaking-tastic first kiss anyone could ever imagine.
Finally, days, weeks, years later, we pull apart. We look only at each other—no embarrassed side glances, just eyes, mouths, eyes again. His breath is ragged, and he licks his lips. I hear myself panting and don’t even care as I flush. Wes holds out his hand, and I take it. His grip is firm and familiar, and he leads me into the building, eyes still trained on mine. It’s amazing neither one of us walks into a wall or a trash can. But we’re floating, gliding, drifting together as one. It’s now just a fact.
Wes Nolan and I are destiny itself.
Chapter Fourteen
“If you could enter anyone’s dream and sleepwalk in their body, who would it be?” Wes asks as he squints up at me, his head resting in my lap
. We’re lounging on the empty football field, near the goal line. We’ve cut all our classes for the day, and I couldn’t care less. Between the warm wind, the spring-awakening grass, and my super dreamy new boyfriend, there’s nowhere else I want to be. I shift slightly to block the sun from his eyes.
“Living or dead?” I ask.
“Either,” he replies.
I consider this. “George Washington.”
“George Washington? Seriously?”
“Why not?” I ask as he frowns.
“I mean, okay, he was the first president and all, but of everyone in history to choose from, why a soldier who couldn’t tell a lie and had bad teeth?”
I smile. “To see if he really slept everywhere they say he did.”
Wes groans but can’t hide his grin for long.
I lean down and kiss it. “What about you?”
“Easy,” he says. “Freud. I mean, if he had that many crazy theories about people’s thoughts and desires based on their dreams, his must’ve been freaking awesome.”
“You’re freaking awesome,” I singsong. As soon as the words escape into the ether, I cover my face. “I can’t believe I just said that.”
Wes sits up and pulls my hands down. “You’re freaking awesome too,” he says, smiling broadly. He tackles me. I scream, and he tickles me until I cry uncle. As my giggle-gasps subside, I look up into his face hovering above mine. It’s no longer playful or warm but dead serious. Hungry. I lick my lips and swallow hard. I start losing track of the public area we’re in.
Then he kisses me. He kisses me and kisses me until it’s so obvious where things are headed that we have no choice but to stop. He collapses beside me on the field, and I rest my head in the space between his chest and shoulder, staring up at the blue sky and the foamy clouds as they float by.
“We can do it, you know,” he says wistfully. “I mean, not with dead people, obviously. But anyone alive that we have access to and can dose with Dexid—they’re ours. And the more pills we take, the better we can control them. Last night proved it.” He twirls my hair with his fingers. “Did you notice that when one of us was inside Gigi, the Burners stayed away? I don’t think they can come near us when we’re in a dreamer. God, this is great!”
I feel him tighten in the same way he did when we kissed. “We can follow the dreamer’s mind and lead their bodies. Be anyone. Go anywhere. Do anything. Sarah, we are so…”
“Screwed,” I say at the same time as he says, “Powerful.”
“What? Screwed?” Wes untangles his legs from mine and sits up. Reluctantly, I do the same. “You’re joking, right?” He laughs the way sane people do when confronted with the rantings of a crazy person. I look away from him and contemplate a newly sprouted blade of grass.
“We’re warped,” I say. “What we did last night—if we really did do it—was pretty messed up.”
“If we really did do it?” he scoffs, completely ignoring my introduction of morality into the conversation. “What do you mean if? You saw Grady yesterday, and you were inside Gigi last night. I hate to break it to you, kid, but we’ve got superpowers. No amount of denial is going to change that, so why not fight the good fight?”
“The good fight?” I laugh. “Which part of the night was that? When we invaded a defenseless girl’s privacy, or when I nearly scalped her?”
“Have you forgotten yesterday?” he says sharply. “The photos, the shrine? The hair missing from your head?” He reaches out and runs his hand over the significantly shorter section of hair just above my neck. I pull back.
Truth be told, I haven’t let myself think too much about Gigi and what she did to me the day before or how I upped the ante last night. Ever since I woke up this morning, all I wanted to do was find Wes in real waking life and kiss him. A lot. Of course, I knew it was only a matter of time before the topic of Gigi and what we did came up. What I didn’t anticipate was the utter glee with which Wes would recollect it.
“No, I haven’t forgotten anything,” I say. “But do you really think what happened last night was…”
I trail off, uncertain how to finish the thought. Am I unconvinced that it was real or that it was deserved? My blue-sky afternoon with Wes starts to feel overcast, and I fear he’s going to run for cover. But to my surprise, he puffs out a long breath and pulls me to him.
“Okay, Sarah, okay,” he whispers into my hair. “Let’s not fight about this. We all process things in our own time. I’ll give you yours.” He kisses the top of my head and springs to his feet. Though he grins down at me, there’s no hint of the smile in his eyes. “Listen, I’ve got a scheduling issue I’m supposed to fix with the program office before the end of the day. See you later?”
“Sure,” I say with as much indifference as I can fake. “I’ve got a team meeting I should go to anyway.”
Wes grabs his things and leans down to give me a kiss. It’s soft and sweet but lacks the barely restrained lust that’s characterized our previous ones. As he throws his messenger bag over his shoulder, he winks at me, then walks away. And just like that, the boy who couldn’t keep his hands off me can’t seem to put enough space between us. He’s halfway across the football field before I can even wonder whether or not I want to run after him.
I sit on the grass for a while, not liking the loneliness his absence creates. After a few minutes, I gather my things and head toward the athletic center. Though I had every intention of skipping this meeting when an afternoon with Wes’s eyes and lips and hands was the alternative, now that our clandestine encounter’s been redacted, a little distraction seems like a good enough idea. It’s likely Gigi will be there. She is our captain after all. But whether I’m ready to admit this to Wes or not, the triumph of last night has bolstered me a bit. Getting a little power back feels good.
As I swing open the doors of the girls’ locker room, Kiara and Amber are waiting for me. A piece of paper reading LAX MEETING CANCELED is tacked to the bulletin board. The sick feeling of consequence punches me in the gut. I start to back away, but Kiara’s hand shoots out and holds me tight.
Saying nothing, Gigi’s groupies lead me along the rows of lockers. Though there’s no mean-girl giggling, neither do they look triumphant. A mixture of anxiety and confusion marks both their expressions. And that makes me more nervous than anything else.
It’s equally unnerving to see the locker room empty. Missing is the tangy, oppressive smell of steamy sweat; the community of girls lined in front of locker doors in various unselfconscious states of undress; the cacophony of smack talking and laughter echoing off the tiled walls. Unlike Hollywood’s version of the locker room as sacrificial altar, mine has always been a safe haven in which I either prepare for battle or boast about my scars. Now it seems like the vacant ruins of a world from which I’ve been removed. I wonder if Hollywood has it right.
I move cautiously, half expecting Gigi (clad in a ski mask and toting a butcher’s knife) to jump out at any time. But aside from the constant trickle of a leaky faucet, the gelatinous squishing noise that our sneakers make against the damp floor is the only sound. When I reach the end of the row, I turn toward the open area between the lockers and shower stalls.
I freeze.
Before me is a frail girl in sunglasses and a hoodie pulled up to cover her head. She stands slightly hunched with her arms crossed tight at her chest. At first, she doesn’t look at me. I’m not even sure she knows I’m here as she whispers something to herself, rapidly and with barely a pause for breath. Her head shakes from side to side, a slow pendulum at first. But the movement grows until she’s thrashing it about, like a child as he tries to shake off a bad dream.
Then she stops. Without looking directly at me, she takes off her sunglasses and pulls down her hood to reveal a black eye, uneven close-cropped hair, and a bald spot on the side of her head.
Amber gasps.
“Oh my
God,” says Kiara.
“Did you think this was a fashion statement?” Gigi snaps at her friends, who have clearly and typically followed their leader’s orders without questioning the why or what for. They’ve simply delivered me because Gigi asked. In this moment, I find these two way more sickening than their mean-girl master. But that may be due, at least in part, to how pathetic Gigi looks. I want to say something, to return to the Sarah from two days ago, the one with remorse. But I don’t. I can’t. I’m frightened and, to be honest, completely fascinated by the sight of what I’ve done. My dream came true. I made it happen. Gigi’s the proof.
“It’s real,” I whisper in awe to myself.
Gigi sprints toward me, stopping just short of making actual physical contact. Kiara drops my arm as she and Amber take a step back.
“What did you say?” Gigi demands, her voice shrill, her words fast and jumbled together. I say nothing, only stare. Her eyes are beady as they dart around, searching my face, my body, for something. An answer? A clue? Gigi’s crossed arms tighten, and her hands pulse as they grip her biceps. She looks utterly unhinged. Then she closes her eyes and takes a cleansing breath. It’s a ritual I’ve seen her do a thousand times when faced with a particularly tough opponent just before she eats her for lunch.
When she opens her eyes again, she’s the tough, uncompromising, game-day thug I know. Staring me down, the fury of a bull spitting out from her flared nostrils, Gigi thrusts her face up in mine.
“How did you do it?” she demands through locked jaws. “Did you drug me? Sneak into my room? Tell me, Sarah, because it was you. I saw the note. I know. I know it was you.”
I open my mouth to speak, but what on earth can I say? She’s right. It was me. I did this to her. When I don’t say anything, she goes on.
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