I get more proof when we get home. Mom and Dad don’t know it, but I learned years ago, when the conditions are just right and the heating vents in their room and my room are both open but the heat isn’t actually blowing in either room, I can hear them quite clearly.
What I hear tonight, as they’re getting ready for bed, is Dad telling Mom about his day with me. Then he tells her that he’s thinking about putting off the big kitchen renovation they’ve been planning for the last year. He wants to save the money for something much more important that he thinks might be coming a lot sooner than he expected.
My wedding.
I don’t know what to say to that.
I’m willing to bet that Mom and I have exactly the same expression on our faces right now, and that we both just went precisely the same shade of white. I don’t know how I keep from fainting at the shock of hearing those words.
There’s only one reasonable thing to do then. I jump out of bed and over to the thermostat, crank the heat as high as it will go and with the blast of hot air out of the vent, the voices of my parents are gone. I lay back down on my bed, grab Mister Pennington to me in a death grip, and try to put my father’s crazy words out of my mind and fall asleep.
***
Two hours later I’m still clutching Mister Pennington, and Lumpy is snoring at the foot of the bed. I’m finally just now drifting off to sleep. The last thing that goes through my mind before I’m out is that, maybe, my father’s crazy words might not be quite so crazy after all.
Ten: A Christmas Story
(December 23-25, 1989)
I wake up thinking of the color white. All I can figure is that I must have been dreaming about–well, what I overheard my father say last night. I can’t remember precisely what was going on in the dream, but it’s really not that hard to guess.
It seems unfair that I have to see everyone else’s dreams whether I want to or not, but I have so much trouble remembering my own. I still haven’t had any of those dreams since I’ve been home. I’m sure I’m not lucky enough to be done with them, but I am very grateful that I’m not seeing what Bob or my parents are dreaming about. I don’t think I could handle that.
Speaking of Bob, when he sees me walk past his room on the way to the bathroom, he sits up on his bed, snorts, and starts humming “Here Comes the Bride.” I freeze in my tracks. I’m completely at a loss–why would he be doing that? How could he know what I was dreaming about? He isn’t having the dreams too?
I’m looking at him in total shock, and he’s looking back at me like I’m from Mars. “What?” I growl at him.
He shakes his head in mock sadness. “You’re not the only one who knows about the heating vents,” he tells me. “Give me a little credit.” Well, that’s a relief. Sort of. I’m glad he’s not having the same dreams I am–although I guess it would make sense in a way if he was. It would definitely be a genetic thing, then, something inherited. It would even–in a way–be comforting somehow to know I’m not the only one going through this. But on the other hand I wouldn’t wish it on anybody, even my little brother.
Of course, now I’m wondering how long he’s known about the vents.
Oh, God, what if he can hear what goes on in my room, as well as our parents’ room? Was he listening in for hours on end when Beth was here last summer and we were up all hours of the night talking about everything and anything? That thought is almost more horrible than the nightmares.
OK, maybe it’s not quite that bad. But it certainly doesn’t make me happy. I try to come up with a witty reply but my brain lets me down, and all I can think of to say is: “Whatever, Bob,” with as stuck-up and superior a face as I can manage before I continue on my way to the bathroom. Bob just laughs and starts humming again. This is definitely not the best way to start the day.
***
I really wish Beth was home, instead of up in Vermont skiing with her sister. I want to tell her what happened with my Dad, tell her everything he said. I want to know what she thinks about it all. But maybe it’ll be better when I tell her in person. I can’t even imagine what she’ll say. I’m sure her initial reaction will be absolutely priceless.
But she is in Vermont, so I turn my attention to more pressing matters. Christmas presents, for one thing. I spend a good hour inexpertly wrapping all my gifts. I admit that I’m a little frustrated with my lack of skill at it–I’m planning to be a doctor, after all. I may end up doing surgery on actual live human beings, for God’s sake. You’d think I wouldn’t have so much difficulty applying wrapping paper to small square boxes, but I do.
I do finally get it all done, however badly, and after that I’m sitting in the kitchen and eating lunch. Mom walks in carrying the mail, and calls out to Bob that he’s got a letter. I see it in her hand, and my heart skips a beat. It looks like my school’s crest is in the spot where the return address should be.
“Mom, is that…” is all I get out before Bob comes running in. He takes the letter from her hand, and as he does I see clearly that it is from Crewe University. It has to be some kind of joke.
It’s not. Bob tears open the envelope–a very thick envelope, by the way–and begins to read the letter out loud: We are pleased…early admission…class of 1994...
Dear God. He’s going to be at college with me. He’ll be in my dorm.
I take a deep breath. Then another. He’s the biggest pain in the neck I know. But it would be totally crappy to spoil this for him, wouldn’t it? It’s a big deal, and he’s got every right to be happy and proud. If I’m any kind of decent human being at all I’ll respect that and be glad for him.
I am and I do. I get up and hug him–awkwardly, but it still counts. I tell him I’m thrilled and impressed and a lot of other things that, as I say them, I realize I do actually mean. He’s my brother, after all. I may not be able to stand him most of the time, but that doesn’t mean I don’t love him.
***
At eight o’clock, Dad calls everyone into the living room. He’s got the fire going nicely. The pizza he ordered got here a couple of minutes ago. And the VCR is warmed up with the annual triple-feature: Charlie Brown, the Grinch and then Year Without a Santa Claus. This is one thing Bob and I do agree 100% on–it wouldn’t be Christmas without them.
It’s a perfect evening. We watch Charlie Brown pick out his sad, scrawny little tree and learn the true meaning of Christmas; we watch the Grinch plot and scheme and then have his epiphany; we watch Heat Miser and Snow Miser do their big musical numbers, which is my favorite part from any of the shows.
Afterwards, we all drink hot chocolate and, following longstanding family tradition, we each open one small present. Dad makes out the best; his gift is from Mom, and it’s a book-on-tape for the car. It’s one of those Robert Ludlum spy novels he likes so much. Bob’s is the most oddly appropriate, from me: a Crewe University t-shirt. Mom’s isn’t too bad, a woolen hat that Bob picked out for her. And I think mine is the most sentimental: Mom had a great picture of Beth and me at the beach last summer that she put into a cute little frame for me.
We won’t open the rest of the gifts until Christmas morning, but it’s nice to get just the one early. And now that we’ve done everything according to tradition, it’s time for bed. It’s going to be a big day tomorrow.
***
Sara is in a window seat, looking out over the wing of the plane. She’s barely awake, watching the clouds fly by, looking forward to seeing her family, but missing Brian and wondering if she’ll be able to see him over Christmas.
There’s a sudden jolt; it must be turbulence, she thinks. Perfectly normal. Then another, and another and then the “Fasten Seatbelt” sign comes on. Sara wonders why there’s no murmuring from any of the other passengers, until she looks around and sees that there aren’t any. No flight attendants, either. The plane bucks up and down, and there are no announcements, no anything.
&nbs
p; She unbuckles her seatbelt, and, hanging on to seats for balance as she goes, she makes her way up the aisle towards the cockpit. She can see all the way up there; the curtain that separates First Class from Coach is drawn aside, and the door to the cockpit is wide open.
As far as she can tell from her vantage point, there’s nobody up there, either. She continues on, barely keeping her feet, until she’s at the door and she can see there is no pilot, no co-pilot, no anybody. Apparently she’s all alone on the plane, all by herself at 35,000 feet.
It makes perfect sense to Sara that she should sit herself down in the pilot’s seat and put on the headset. It doesn’t seem odd to her that when the radio crackles to life, it’s Beth’s voice she hears. Sara asks for instructions, advice, directions, but over the radio Beth has nothing helpful to tell her. “You’ve got to land that plane on your own!” is Beth’s last word before her voice dissolves into static…
…she’s still sitting, still looking out a window, but now Sara is in the back seat of a car. She runs her hands over the leather seats; she feels the warm air blowing from the heater. The car is very familiar, as though she’s been in it before, and the driver is familiar as well–even only seeing the back of his head, she knows she’s encountered him before. Outside the window, she recognizes the athletic complex on the South side of campus, and now the car’s turning and then at the next block turning again. She follows the driver’s head, knowing somehow that his attention is focused completely on the bus stop on East 107th street. Sara sees two people there, and she knows that the driver only expects, or wants, to see one.
She knows which of the two it is. She’s a pretty girl with black hair, about Sara’s own height or maybe an inch shorter, slim, no coat despite the cold outside, just a school sweatshirt. She’s jogging in place to keep warm, and then she’s past. Sara thinks she knows the girl, but she’s not sure. The car makes the block again, and again the girl isn’t alone, and the driver speeds past. Sara still can’t be sure about the girl. The third time past, finally, she’s alone, and the driver slows. Sara stares hard, not believing what she’s seeing, not wanting to believe it…
***
I can’t breathe. My eyes are open, but I can’t see through my tears and I can’t breathe. I’m coughing, my throat is all scratchy, I’m trying to get something up. I spit out–I don’t even know what, something disgusting. I keep coughing, and finally with one very painful effort, the rest of it, whatever it is, comes up.
I can’t see what it is, I can’t really see anything. I try to wipe the tears out of my eyes, try to breathe deeply, try to block out the pain in my head. I get my feet under me, and I can barely stand. I don’t feel steady at all; I hang onto the bed for support. I take one step and trip on something soft, and I’m just able to grab the bedpost and keep my balance. I look down, and through barely-open eyes, I see Mister Pennington on the floor.
His right arm has been nearly ripped off.
Bitten off, I realize suddenly, and not by Lumpy. By me. While I was sleeping. Because I must have stuffed Mister Pennington’s arm into my mouth to hold back a scream.
No. God, no. Please. Please let it not be.
I don’t know who I’m begging to, and they’re not answering me anyway. I know exactly what I saw. Who I saw. It was Jackie, from the dorm. The guy is after her. He’s picked her out for his next…
No. I have to do something. If it isn’t already too late.
It can’t be too late. I have to talk to her. I have to warn her. But how? My head is throbbing, and it’s hard to think. I’ve got a phone in my room. I can call her. But I don’t know her number. I don’t even know how she spells her last name.
I need a moment. I open my bedroom door and walk out, right past Lumpy. He’s staring up at me with what I think is worry. He rubs his nose up against the back of my leg, and the cold, wet feeling is a tiny bit of comfort.
I walk to the bathroom, drink a cup of water in one gulp, and with a painful retch I cough it back up, splattering all over the mirror. I try again, one sip at a time, and this time I keep it down. I don’t think I can keep aspirin down, though, so I’ll just have to live with the pain in my head for a little while.
Back to my room. The phone is right there. But how do I get her number? Who would know it? Would Mona? She’s the RD. She has emergency contact numbers for everyone in the dorm. Will she be there? I hope so.
The phone rings ten times, and I’m just about to hang up when it’s answered by a groggy voice. “Hello?”
“Mona?” I try to force my voice down, but I don’t really manage it. I can hear how hysterical I sound.
“Who is this?” Her voice sounds a bit more alert.
“It’s Sara. Sara Barnes. I need you to give me Jackie’s phone number. Jackie, freshman Jackie, in room 201”
“Sara? What’s going on?” I hear concern there now. I’ve got her worried. Good.
No. Not good! What am I going to tell her? “I–I only just realized this morning,” I start, trying to think of something that will sound reasonable. “I’m–I’m missing a pair of jeans. I had my credit card in the front pocket, and I don’t have them now. I think I was packing, and I left them in the laundry room and she was the next one there. I think she just took them and packed them by mistake. I wanted to ask her, before I go and cancel the card.”
Now she’s annoyed. “And you need to know right now, at seven-thirty in the morning on Christmas Eve?”
Yes! “I’m sorry about that. I just–I had a dream,” well, that much is true, anyway. “I dreamed that somebody stole my card and ran up ten million dollars in charges and then the Visa people came and kicked us out of our house and repossessed my dog. I was pretty freaked out, and then when I couldn’t find my card, well…” And Beth said that I wasn’t imaginative. If only she could have heard that.
Mona sighs, and almost laughs. “You still could have waited an hour. But I understand. Let me go and get her number,” she says, and a minute later she’s back on the line. I make her repeat it twice, just to be safe, and I thank her. We wish each other a merry Christmas, and she hangs up.
There’s a knock at the bedroom door, and then a moment later it opens. Mom and Dad are both standing there. Mom says, “We heard your voice. Are you OK?” From their expressions, somewhere between worried and annoyed, they heard most of what I said. Great.
“If you lost your credit card, it’s not that big a deal. We’ll just cancel it. You don’t need to track down the girl from your dorm,” Dad says. “Unless you think she stole it on purpose?”
“Oh, God, no! It isn’t even about the credit card at all, I just didn’t want Mona to think I was crazy,” I tell them, my voice shaking. I’m not sure why I don’t just keep on with the lie. “I’ve got the card, look,” I say as I go over to my purse, on the floor next to my desk. I pull out my wallet, show them the card there all safe and accounted for. “See?”
“So what is it about?” Mom asks, looking much more worried now. Actually, I do know why I didn’t let them think it was the card. Because they’re not idiots, and they’d realize that there’s no way I would be this upset, this much of a mess, over a stupid credit card. And then I’d have to tell them it was a lie anyway.
“I–I didn’t want to say anything, but since you know–look, there was a girl who got abducted, it was in the paper and everything, it happened right near campus. This was a couple of weeks ago. And Jackie, the girl from my dorm…”
It comes back to me in a rush. I know she’ll be on campus over the holiday. I overheard her talking about it. She wanted to keep up with her swimming, and her family lives nearby, only twenty minutes away from school, so she was going to take the bus over to campus during the break.
My parents are looking at me like they think I’m crazy. “Anyway, Jackie’s going to be on campus, all by herself, right near where the girl got abd
ucted. And last night, I dreamed–I dreamed that it was her.”
Dad looks almost relieved at those words. I can tell what he’s thinking: the dream upset me, but that’s all it is, and now that I’ve talked about it I’ll see how silly I was to get all worked up and I’ll calm right down. “It was only a dream, honey,” he says in what would normally be a soothing voice. Not now, though.
“No!” I shout it with so much force that even I’m freaked out. Mom and Dad look at me in shock. They’ve never heard that in my voice before. Neither have I. “It’s not just a dream! I have to tell her, she can’t go around by herself where somebody could hurt her, don’t you understand?”
I should probably tell them the whole truth now, all of it. But I don’t. What I did say is enough, though. They can see that I’m deadly serious about this. “Go ahead, call your friend,” Mom says, avoiding my eyes. “I’ll get breakfast going in the meantime.”
They leave me to it. I close the door, and sit on the bed, staring at the phone. What do I tell Jackie? I think that what I told my parents is probably best. I stare at the phone some more. What if she’s not there? What if…
Enough of this. I pick it up and start dialing. Four rings before a man’s voice answers. “Merry Christmas!” is how he greets me. There’s no grogginess in his voice; clearly Jackie’s family are early risers.
“Hi. Is this–are you Jackie’s father?”
“I certainly am,” he answers. She’s alive! She’s OK! Thank God! He wouldn’t answer like that if anything had happened to her.
“I’m Sara. I’m a friend of hers from school, I live right down the hall from her in the dorm. Is she around?” Please be there. Please.
I hear him calling out, “Jackie, pick up the phone. There’s a Sara from school for you!” Yes. I breathe a huge sigh of relief. Maybe it’s my imagination but the headache seems to have disappeared, just like that.
A few seconds later, another phone clicks on the line. “Sara?” Jackie says, and there’s a second click as her father hangs up. “What’s–why are you calling?”
Dream Student (Dream Series book 1) Page 17