by Alyson Noel
Knowing he probably wouldn’t like it, knowing that as soon as he was released from whatever torment played out in his head, he’d find some lame excuse to rail on me about invading his privacy (or some other infraction either real or imagined), I went in anyway.
Slowly inching my way toward him until I was close enough to reach for his balled-up hand and grasp it in mine, allowing my energy to stream and merge with his, until I’d eased my way inside his head.
At first, it was impossible to make sense of much of anything. It was messy, chaotic, and extremely confusing—like a super-disorganized bedroom with big piles of papers and clothes and books and stuff littered all over the floor—and it was a while before I was able to get myself settled and get it all sorted out.
Unlike my thoughts (and my room!), which had always been more or less orderly and clear, his weren’t even close. So, I went deeper, eventually sinking so far inside, it was as though I’d become him.
I stood there, feeling tall and awkward as I tried to get used to being inside his body, watching everything play out before me as though it were actually happening to me. Though it all seemed so random and confusing all I could really make out was a school.
From the looks of the lockers and the hand-painted signs that lined up and down the hallway where I stood—all of them touting football games, bake sales, and upcoming dances—I figured it was a high school.
Then, just after I’d finally nailed that, I was on the move. Running with a pair of legs that were far more powerful than the short, skinny ones I was used to, racing to keep up with some girl whose long, dark hair lifted and waved in such a way, I’d convinced myself it was an invitation to follow.
She slipped around a corner and into a library, and I ducked in right behind her. Shielding myself behind the tall shelves of books where I watched, part of me hoping she’d notice me, part of me hoping she wouldn’t, willing to give just about anything to see what she scribbled so furiously in her notebook.
My eyes roamed her, noting the way her hair spilled over her shoulders, the way her backpack leaned against the leg of her chair, the way her boots were crusted with a thin layer of mud, the way her purple ballpoint pen continued to fly across a sheet of lined paper, as my mind swirled with words, declarations, things I longed to tell her but knew I never would.
Too scared to approach her, I chose to just watch her instead. My head spinning with a series of jumbled-up images, a long string of snapshots and phrases, trying to sort through all the random pieces of Bodhi’s memory, the haphazard scrapbook of his brain.
I knew the girl was Nicole—the same girl whose image lured him into the bubble—but what I didn’t know was what he could possibly be so angry about. I mean, in order to be trapped in Rebecca’s world, you had to get pretty riled up about something. And, up to that point anyway, I hadn’t seen a single thing worthy of that kind of rage.
I mean, was it the way she ignored him?
The way she pretended not to notice him, despite the fact that he made a point to always be where she was?
And if so, was that really worth getting all tripped up over?
While I obviously can’t speak for Bodhi, I can say that for me, it all seemed a little ridiculous. And not being the most patient person in the world (not even close), well, the truth is, I started to get more than a little frustrated with him.
So frustrated I’d just made up my mind to pop right back out of his body and try to find another way to reach him, when his whole world went so dark and dim, I had to squint my eyes and strain my ears to make any kind of sense of it.
And still, even then, there were only four things I could really make out:
1. A bell
2. A girl
3. A boy
4. A body
Those four images repeating themselves like a series of fast takes caught in a continuous loop. Though no matter how many times I watched, none of it made any more sense than it had the first time around.
A bell—a girl—a boy—a body—
A quick snippet of each flashing over and over again.
And just when I couldn’t take another second, couldn’t bear another glimpse of it, the images became clearer, more defined, until they eventually settled into some kind of order—though it’s not like it made it any easier.
I listened as the bell rang so loudly I actually winced at the sound of it.
I watched as a classroom door flew open and a girl I recognized as Nicole spilled out. Her shoulders stooped, head bent in a way that encouraged her long, dark hair to provide cover for her tear-stained cheeks—the result of the long string of insults being hurled her way.
And while I wasn’t the least bit surprised when I caught a glimpse of myself in a classroom window and realized that I—er, I mean, Bodhi—was the boy (I mean, after all, it was his memory I was experiencing), still, it was a version of Bodhi I wasn’t quite used to seeing.
Though his outside appearance remained more or less the same (maybe a little more solid, a little less filmy than how he usually looked), it was still really odd to view him as a living, breathing person who could neither fly nor glow and had no idea that he someday would.
Never mind the fact that he was so incredibly unsure and insecure and overly preoccupied with coming off as cool—it was kind of hard to watch him (and even harder to be him) without feeling more than a little embarrassed for him.
But it was only a moment before the focus returned to Nicole.
Still crying.
Still stalked.
Still harassed by a group of classmates who followed her wherever she went.
Bullying her in a way that wasn’t just a pattern of behavior—but a favorite pastime of theirs.
I stood off to the side, my voice rising above all the others as I heatedly defended her. Screaming at them to stop, to leave her alone, to find a better, more productive way to spend their free time. A better way to build themselves up.
And then the bell again …
The series of scenes continuing to repeat, and yet still not making the slightest bit of sense no matter how many times I watched them play.
Then, I remembered.
There was more.
A fourth scene I’d glimpsed only the haziest hint of …
A body.
And the next thing I knew, I was propelled from the school to a nice, modest house where a parade of cops and paramedics and crying, distraught people streamed in and out.
All of them hovering around a stretcher—like the kind you see in movies.
A stretcher holding a small, slim, sheet-covered, completely lifeless form …
And I knew without being told that the body was Nicole’s, and that Bodhi blamed himself.
I fought my way out. So uncomfortable with being inside his guilt-ridden mind and self-hating skin, I was desperate to look him in the eyes and confront him myself.
Tugging hard on his arm as I said, “But you tried. You tried to stop it. I saw you—I heard you—I was you!” Practically screaming at him, so desperate to free him so that I too could be released from all this.
But Bodhi wasn’t having it. He just shook his head, eyes blazing with anger, voice laced with bitterness, when he said, “Oh, really? And just exactly what is it you heard, Riley? What is it you actually said when you were me?”
I squinted, having no idea what he was getting at—I mean, hadn’t we experienced the same thing?
Following the length of his pointing finger all the way to the place where it played out again.
A bell, a boy, a girl …
Finally realizing the truth:
The real reason no one reacted when Bodhi and I both screamed those words—the real reason we were so easily ignored.
We hadn’t actually spoken them.
Hadn’t uttered anything at all.
Those words never found their way out of Bodhi’s mouth, much less past his heart.
I didn’t know what to say. Didn’t know how to eve
n begin to try to comfort him.
All I knew for sure is that anger and guilt mixed together made for a pretty strong brew—one that could trap a person forever.
“I was gonna say something that day, I had it all planned out, but then, at the very last moment, I chickened out and put it off until Monday instead.” His voice was solemn as he continued to stare straight ahead. “Figured I’d take the weekend to get up the courage to try and convince her that she was smart and beautiful and unique and cool, and that nothing those other kids said was the slightest bit true. I mean, don’t get me wrong, I knew she didn’t like me. Or at least, not in the way I liked her. I was just some stupid, runty freshman, and she was the exotic, older new girl.” He swiped his palm across his face, across his eyes, and I quickly looked away, pretended not to notice. I just waited patiently beside him, sensing he might need a moment or two before he was ready to continue.
“I just wanted her to know I was on her side—but, as it turns out, I never got to say any of that because Monday never came. Or at least not for her, anyway.”
I stood there beside him, watching a family entrenched in a grief so big and raw, it threatened to consume me as well.
“I guess she couldn’t take it anymore, felt she had nowhere to turn. And so…” He looked at me, eyes filled with sadness as the words reverberated between us. “I went to her funeral.” His shoulders slumped. “And I used to leave a flower in her mailbox every day on my way home from school, or at least until they moved, anyway.”
“And those other kids? The bullies?” I asked, feeling almost as awful as he did.
He looked at me, shaking his head in a world-weary way. “Things were different back then. A slap on the wrist, an anti-bullying seminar in the school auditorium, and a whole lot of nonsense about how kids will be kids.”
“And that’s why you’re stuck, then?” I scrunched up my nose and peered at him. “Because you think you were accountable?”
“I participated with my silence.” He shrugged. “I was accountable. I did nothing to stop it.”
To be honest, I had no idea what to do at that point—had no idea what to say. So, I did the only thing I could think of, I squeezed his hand tighter and imagined a small golden bubble of love and forgiveness shimmering all around him, remembering how it’d worked once before, and hoping it would work once again.
And when he looked at me, well, that’s when I saw it. Saw the hate and anger being edged out by the small glimmer of silence displayed in his gaze.
“Hold on to it,” I urged. “Hold on to the silence for as long as you can. There’s no room for the bad stuff in there.”
And the next thing I knew, he was back. Answering the thought in my head about whether he’d ever seen her again, when he said, “The Here & Now is a big place, Riley.” He looked away, running his hand through his hair, before plucking that chewed-up green straw from his shirt pocket and popping it between his front teeth. “I thought I saw her once from a distance, but that’s it.”
I squinted, wanting more. Unable to believe he’d just leave it like that.
“I didn’t approach her if that’s what you’re getting at. And I really don’t think I should have to explain myself.”
“But why not?” I gazed up at him, surprised to still find the smallest trace of the insecure boy he had been, or at least where Nicole was concerned. “Why not talk to her? You’d think she’d be glad to see you—a familiar face if nothing else.”
“Trust me, there’s nothing familiar about me. She didn’t even know I existed.” He bit down hard on the straw, clearly frustrated with me. “It’s high school stuff, Riley. Stuff you wouldn’t understand.”
I rolled my eyes and turned away, but not without letting him see just how angry that made me. Honestly, that was a pretty low blow. I mean, it’s not like it was my fault I’d never be thirteen, in fact, it’s not like—
I scowled at the ground, my anger rising, flaring, threatening to consume me completely, and that’s when I noticed a patch of scorched earth beginning to spread just under my feet. And that’s when I stopped those thoughts right in their tracks, watching in astonishment when the scorched earth disappeared once again.
Focus, vigilance, concentration—just like the prince said.
I had to guard against my temper, my anger, and Bodhi did too. This place encouraged it, thrived on it, whether it was justified or not, it didn’t make a difference. As far as Rebecca was concerned, it was fuel all the same.
“Can you see it?” I asked, not sure which world he was in: the one of old high schools and scorched earth, or the one I could see—the one of lost and tormented souls.
He nodded, looking all around, seeing there were hundreds of them, then sighing as he said, “We need to find Buttercup and get the heck out of here.”
But I quickly shook my head. While I may not understand the world of tragic high school romance, thanks to Prince Kanta, this horrible world of hate, I did understand.
“No.” I looked at Bodhi. “First we need to find Buttercup, then we need to find my friend the prince, then we need to find a way to free all of them.” I motioned toward the sea of tormented souls as Bodhi stood beside me and winced, adding, “And only after we’ve done all of that, can we even think about leaving this place.”
17
Having known him since he was just a tiny pup, I gotta say, I had a pretty hard time believing that Buttercup could have anything to be angry about.
Even compared to all the other well-cared-for pets on our block, there was no doubt he’d lived the cushiest, most insanely pampered life of them all. One that had no shortage of doggy treats, car rides with the windows rolled down, and nice outdoor spots for napping in the sun. And the times we did play pranks on him—like the times Ever and I dressed him up for the holidays in Santa, Easter Bunny, or even cupid costumes, or the time we dabbed a chunk of peanut butter onto the tip of his nose and laughed ourselves silly as we watched him bark and run circles as he struggled to lick it off—well, you could tell he was in on the joke.
You could tell he was having fun.
So why we found him all curled up into a tight little ball of angst, with his eyes shut tight, teeth gnashing together, paws thrashing and kicking as he whined and whimpered like he was the object of the most horrifying torture was beyond me.
Buttercup had never been tortured. Never been given a reason to carry on like that. And, to be honest, it kind of annoyed me to see him acting like he had.
But when I saw the way the trees started to appear again, the whole burned-out, shriveled up sight of them, I tossed that feeling aside and instead dropped down to my knees.
I was staring at my dog, having no idea what to do, when Bodhi said, “What’s his problem?” He glanced between Buttercup and me with a confused expression that served as a perfect match for my own.
I lifted my shoulders and sighed. As hard as I’d tried, I couldn’t recall one traumatic moment in Buttercup’s life—or even his death for that matter.
He’d just seamlessly transitioned from a breathing state to a not-breathing state as though it were really no different. Making straight for the bridge with no hesitation, his tail wagging, paws scurrying, as though some wonderful adventure awaited us all.
I placed my hand on his head, combing my fingers through a soft tuft of fur just under his chin before scratching the spot between his ears. Figuring that if I was connected to all those other souls, connected to the energy of the very ground I knelt upon, then why wouldn’t I be connected to Buttercup too?
I concentrated on merging my energy with his, allowing it to stream and meld until I found myself inside his canine head, where I was amazed to see my dog’s own personal version of a hellish experience:
The moment he was pulled away from his mama and his five other littermates so he could come live with us.
I admit, the second I saw that, I started to feel angry again, but knowing that came with consequences, I quickly moved past it.
Still, what was I supposed to make of that? I mean, really—was he serious? Had he really viewed the move to our house as some kind of wretched experience?
But then I remembered.
Remembered how he actually spent that first night—or, should I say, how we all spent that first night.
All of us forced to take turns getting out of our beds so that we could try to comfort him as he cried and whimpered and refused to relax.
It was awful.
For us—for him—but probably mostly for him.
He had no way of knowing that the way he felt at that moment wouldn’t go on forever.
He had no way of knowing just how good it was about to get.
Though I had no idea how to get that point across to him, had no idea where to even begin.
Thanks to Rebecca and this horrible bubble she’d created, Buttercup was stuck in the one and only truly bad moment he’d ever known, and as far as he was concerned, he’d never known anything else.
So, I did the only thing I could think of—I curled up beside him and continued to scratch that spot between his ears. Trying to fill my mind with vibrant, happy memories of all the fun times we’d shared, hoping they’d somehow find their way into his brain and maybe even carve out a little space for that sweet, quiet silence to creep in.
And it wasn’t long before the whimpers died down, the whining ceased, and Buttercup lifted his head, popped his eyes open, and jumped to his feet.
Bodhi heaved a big sigh of relief, as I wrapped my arms around my dog and gave him a giant squeeze. Cradling his muzzle with both hands, I peered deep into his big brown eyes to make sure he truly was back.
Then I looked at Bodhi and said, “We have to go find the prince.”
But Bodhi was already shaking his head.
Already lifting his arm and pointing toward the very spot where Rebecca now stood.
18
Her dog stood right alongside her, looking nothing like the Snarly Yow/Black Shuck/Hell Beast I remembered from before.