Almost (7 page)

“You okay?” she asks, voice tight. Worried. Waiting for me to admit to the nightmare.

“All good,” I say, using a cheerful tone. I need to play this perfectly or I'm toast. I angle the monitor light away from my body and burrow into the comforter before pretending to type. When Mom doesn't leave, I'm forced to look up. Hopefully my
serene
expression is locked in place, but there are no guarantees. Not after the nightmare.

If she catches on that it's resurfaced, I won't be allowed to start my internship when school lets out next week. Instead, she'll make me head back into therapy.

I layer on a small smile. “I…I'm too excited to sleep so I thought I'd check out some campuses. Forgot to lower the volume before playing a video. Sorry if it woke you.”

“Shouldn't you be getting sleep for finals?” she asks, but it isn't until she yawns, tightens the belt on her baby-blue fleece robe and leans on the doorframe to assume her
attorney-lecture-stance
that I risk releasing one full breath of air.

“I'm sure your father will agree that it's premature for you to be on college websites. We've reserved the right to pull the plug on our decision at the end of the summer,” she says, thankfully not watching me as she yawns again. She's bought in to my lies.

“Dr. Brodie gave me thumbs up. Why can't you believe it?” I bark out, still trying to hold as much of my breath as possible.

“College is a long way off. One step at a time. The fact that you impressed them into offering you a second, unpaid internship is a great start. You're a
very
lucky girl. And—”

You're a very lucky girl.

You're a very lucky girl.

The police officer's words from my nightmare mesh with my mom's speech and explode into painful lightning inside my head. Mom has a talent for saying just the wrong thing at the worst possible time.

And catching me, post nightmare, would qualify as the
worst possible time
. My stomach twists into a ball and my legs tense until they ache from me holding back the tremors.

I've never told Mom or anyone the exact words that trigger me into losing it. I know it's not on purpose. The words hit me again.

You're a very lucky girl.

You're a very lucky girl.

I try to maintain a calm expression as drops of sweat slide down my neck. My hairline prickles painfully. Soon moisture will roll down my forehead and she'll see it.

You're a very lucky girl.

I force my eyes to stay open and cross my arms over my rolling stomach as the leftover panic from the dream now builds steadily inside me like a giant wave. I bite the insides of my cheeks and train my fuzzed-out gaze in the direction of Mom's still moving lips.

Lucky. Lucky girl.

I steel myself to deflect the strobe light images: a silver belt buckle, purple tipped seashells, a crystal bowl, hands on my skin, and the color white all around me.

Very lucky girl.

I bite harder and concentrate on the metallic taste of blood on my tongue, well aware that I must get my mom out of this room. It's a major feat to check back into the conversation, uncross my arms, and try to switch my expression to
vacant
.

Vacant, in this condition is not easy, but it's the best choice to piss her off.

“…and, summer aside,” Mom's blabbing on, “there's still the matter of you surviving
senior year
. You have to also score well on the SAT's
and
the ACT's,” she finishes.

I slouch deeper into the laptop monitor and click the mouse.

Click. Click. Click.

“Jess, are you listening?” Out of the corner of my eye, I see her fling her arms out in total frustration. Her voice goes up two decibels, right on cue. “Dad and I want you to prove that you can branch out—beyond this room. We want you to—”

“Be normal. I'm on it,” I manage to say, bored voice, eyes glued to the computer. One more mouse click and then: type, type, type, type.

“Prove it, then. Sleep. See if you can make it to school minus your skeleton's face and the under-eye circles.”

“That was low, Mom. Even for
you
.” I release a long puff of air, hoping to sound offended instead of half-dead from holding my breath. I stage the cold glare and flick it toward the door, but I'm unprepared to meet the absolute anguish I find in her eyes.

Regret and apology flash between us like the sudden glimmer of a butterfly's wing.

Shame stings my eyes because of all the lies I'd told so easily during dinner. Lies about the internship. Lies the whole family had bought without question.

I waver, imagining me taking them all back—imagining the soft lavender-scented warmth of my mom's hug when I tell her my nightmare's been back for a week. I don't want to piss her off like this, but the alternative means the family goes back to square one.

Good bye
progress
. Good bye future.

I pull my gaze away from hers. My hands have started to shake and my legs will soon get worse. I have to hurry. The shadowy memories push at me, and demand to play themselves out. There is no stopping them once they've started to surge like this.

...

Lucky. Lucky, lucky girl.

Nothing happened. You're fine. Just fine.

Please. Don't leave me…

“Jess…I—”

“
You
go to sleep, Mom,” I shout. Shouting always hides the tremors that take over my voice. “Skeleton's face or not, I can stay up all night. Unless you and Dad are going to
pull the plug
on that too!”

“Look, I'm sorry I said—”

“God! Just—get out! GET OUT. GET OUT!”

She reels back like I've slapped her and she slams the door.

Relieved, and in survival mode, I pull my legs up so I can place the weight of my thousand pound head on my knees. The remnants of the nightmare fling into me. Razor sharp stones. Strobe lit, indecipherable memories of the words caught in my head.

...

You're a very lucky girl.

Let's go! Dude, nothing happened. Nothing really happened.

Wait. Please. Please, don't leave me here.

I'm sorry. I'm so sorry…I can't…

Look at her. She's so hot it's almost worth getting caught.

I'm so sorry…

She lied to us.

It's not her fault.

She's fine. She's fine. Nothing happened.

I believed him. He said I was beautiful… It is my fault.

...

As the initial violent spinning lessens, I'm able to count.

Dr. Brodie taught me counting helps find the end. It works.

At 100, I move to my next ritual. I turn my attention to the jellyfish nightlight. I count farther and wait for the light to change from a pulsing white blob back into a cute mood lamp with three jellyfish swimming inside.

Like I said. I love this thing. The jellyfish are friends. Sort of. Witnesses, mostly.

Either way, I can't survive this without them.

When I'm able to see the details of their transparent, paper-thin tentacles, I know it's safe for me to move. That's when I stop counting. If I stop too soon, I end up crying like a freak and sometimes I can't stop. It scares my family. Heck, it scares me too.

Tonight, I don't let myself move until I reach number 459.

Not the worst number, but last month I had made it down to the 20's. I thought it was going to count down to zero and finally be over for me.

I believed what everyone else believed. That I was getting better. Guess not.

I reach for a pen and scratch the number into the column of numbers I've carved into the wood on my desk. My history book is still open on the final exam Study Guide. At least the stupid nightmare allowed me six good hours of sleep before surfacing. That's way more than my usual. I'll be feeling good for the first round of finals.

Better, I'll be able to hang around with the family and have breakfast instead of driving off early to nap. We can all sit together and talk about my new job…and how much I really like my new friend. My new friend that is also a guy.

My heart races in a good way as green eyes and a dimple erase all remaining shreds of the nightmare from my mind. I imagine the proud, happy smiles of Mom, Dad, and Kika when I mention that my new friend is really
cute.
I won't even have to lie about that. It will also kill them when I refuse to tell
his
name. Not yet.

Oh. What Progress!

Glimmers of success, and the possibilities ahead replace my last jagged heartbeats with an amazing feeling of hope.

Chapter Six

Gray

It's Monday lunch hour. I've been avoiding talking to Jess all day, mostly because I've been telling myself I need more time to think of exactly what I'm going to say to her. Besides, I have no idea how we're supposed to start this whole rent-a-boyfriend thing. But of course, that's not the direct truth. I'm simply afraid, as usual. Gray Porter, the chicken-shit, loser is afraid of Jess Jordan, the hundred pound girl. Again. Still. Always. At least I can admit it. Besides, she seems to be avoiding me, too.

“Crap,” I mutter and step back a little as I spot Jess exit the building.

She never hangs outside at lunch, but nothing's on schedule during finals. Today, everyone's cleaning out lockers and milling around. My friends have also spotted Jess walking across the quad. We usually comment on anything out of the ordinary crossing our vantage point on the high steps leading to the teacher parking lot. Jess Jordan, when sighted, is always an easy target for conversation.

“Look. Jess Jordan's stealing one of the Bunsen burners and some beakers to boot,” says my best friend, Corey Nash. He's moved to the edge of the steps to get a better view of the giant pile of stuff she's hauling toward her car. “That girl would
so
be the type to have some sort of secret school supply theft ring. She might be selling stuff on eBay or Craigslist right now. She probably makes millions, and no one's caught on yet!”

“Doubtful. She already has more money than God,” Claire Bradford pipes in, trying to catch my eye.

I ignore her. Claire's not part of our usual crowd. She's been hanging around a lot. Corey says she's flirting with
him
, but our friend Michelle says she's into me. I hope not. She's pretty, but she's mean and she talks way too much. Like right now.

“She's not stealing,” Claire continues. “She has her very own set of weirdo science junk.” Claire smiles, and tosses her super straightened—almost stiff looking hair around her shoulders.

“How do you know?” Corey asks, sliding closer to her. I almost laugh because he's totally trying to look down her shirt. Claire's so focused on me, she has no clue.

“Jess was my lab partner this entire semester. Mrs. Smith loves that girl. They're constantly chatting about supplies and actual science. I think Jess helps the teacher order the stuff for class…like for
fun
. Jess Jordan is such a geek.”

She flips her hair again, and I can tell she's hoping I'll turn to look at her.

I don't.

“Brutal,” says Corey, shooting Claire his sympathetic, ‘interested look’. Corey's hoping his focus on Claire will get him some action. But mostly, he wants to make Michelle jealous for rejecting him last month. “How'd you survive working with her?” Corey mock-shudders.

“I got an amazing grade. But, she was just so harsh. If it weren't for the part where she called me stupid with her eyes every single day, I'd beg to be her partner next year,” Claire says.

“Come on,” I defend Jess. “She's not so bad. She's…nice actually. If you get to know her.”

“
Smoke-crack-much
, Porter? Jess Jordan is like every female super villain I can think of: hot, smart, dangerous and frightening as hell,” Corey snickers. “No way is she nice.”

Adding a sulky pout, Claire joins in, “I can't believe you'd say she's hot.”

I try again. “Jess is anything but a super villain. And yeah, she's amazing hot,” I add because I know it will make Claire mad. And because it's true.

Corey blinks at me. His smile fades when he gets I'm serious. Thankfully, he's too stunned to speak. For Corey Nash, this a rare moment.

Michelle finally joins us along with half of her cheerleading squad. The three of us have been best friends forever.