Dream Boy (9 page)

At four thirty, right around the time football practice would be letting out, I left the darkroom and headed over to the field with the idea that I might get a ride home with Martin. Coach Masterson had the guys running plays, so I hung back behind the bleachers. There was some loose change on the ground. I picked up a nickel and a dime before I thought about how pathetic it would be to become known as the Girl Who Picked Up Coins Under the Bleachers. I decided to stoop only for actual bills, but I didn’t see any.

The sun caught the silver of a crushed soda can and I kicked it toward the back fence. Just beyond the chain links, something long and black glinted in the grass. I flinched. A snake?! A big fat…oh, a big fat
hose
.

I probably just had snake on the brain since seeing Will’s photo. But it got me thinking. If Martin could walk out of my dream, what’s to stop anyone showing up in Chilton? Or any
thing
. Like those snakes. Or that lost girl. Or whatever else we can dream up.

Maybe, I thought, I should try to dream something amazing. World peace or endless cupcakes or Gandhi. As if I had that sort of control
.
As if anyone did.

My dream dictionary app has a calculator feature that shows how many dreams someone has had in their lifetime, based on the average person over the age of ten hosting around five dreams each night. According to the app, I’ve had approximately 12,485 dreams since my tenth birthday.
None
of which have come true. Except this one.

With that kind of record, it was clear: Martin was a fluke. Or maybe I should say
miracle
. When I looked out to where he was dashing across the field, his body almost musical as he flexed and ran and dove, the word
miracle
definitely fit. He was beyond perfect. Way too gorgeous for our shabby little world. I tried to think quietly, and it must have worked because he didn’t look at me, the way he had in the locker room, the way he had at lunch when I hid behind the pole. Masterson had them run a lap—Martin, graceful, in the lead—and then they all started heading toward the locker room.

Just as I was about to step out and call to him, Stephanie—Chilton’s other “miracle”—came out the back door of the gym. She was wearing shorts that cut just below her butt, as if they weren’t shorts at all, but some sort of bathing suit. It was crisp out—not shorts weather. I could smell burning leaves. Stephanie stood with one hip stuck out like she was waiting for a bus. As the guys ran toward the locker room entrance, Martin stopped. Billy stopped right behind him, but Stephanie waved him on, saying something high and sharp that I couldn’t quite make out. I was too far away to hear his response, but he stomped past them while Martin, hands on his knees, caught his breath.
Was
this
their
date?
I thought, and then cursed myself for thinking it so loud.

Walking together toward a big tree at the edge of the school grounds, Stephanie and Martin looked like they went together, a couple who belonged in a sportswear catalog.

They were on the opposite side of the field now. The only way to get near them without being seen was to go around the school building.

I walked quickly—not a run, but fast enough to lose my breath. I always thought of Chilton as small. Why was the school so big?

When I finally reached the other side, they were sitting under the tree. I still couldn’t hear what they were saying. It seemed impossible to get any closer without them noticing me. Maybe I could disguise myself—wrap a shirt around my head or go to the theater department and nab a wig. Suddenly, the image of me with a T-shirt turban coiled over a frizzy gray hair extension flashed into my mind. First I was picking up change under the bleachers like some pitiful troll. Then I was thinking about dressing up like one. Was love supposed to turn people into trolls? Is that how it worked? Was this Crazy Annabelle, the Sequel?

Stephanie flipped her hair over one shoulder and reached up to stroke Martin’s arm.
Stop
it, stop it!
This time I couldn’t quiet my thoughts, but even so, Martin didn’t look my way.

Instead, he stood and held out his hand to help Stephanie up. He was shaking his head as they walked back toward the gym.

The wind blew their voices my way, but I could only make out parts of sentences.

“—so far—” Stephanie said. “—safe.” (Or maybe “waif.”)

“—looking?”

“—living a lie,” Stephanie said. “—orary.”

“—living—” said Martin. “—choice.”

What did he mean? I was his choice? He had no choice? What???

I had stayed after school for two hours so that I could score fifteen cents and hear a grand total of ten words. One of which was really only a half-word. All this drama for “orary”!

Then Stephanie leaned into Martin, the way I leaned into Will sometimes. Okay for friends, but too close for Martin and that she-wolf. My brain shouted at her to back off. But she just clasped his shoulders and whispered something in his ear.

I felt like I needed to take a shower, or at least wash my hands. Okay, I told myself. This was insane. After Daniel, I had promised never to let another guy make me so nuts. And here I was, booking the first flight to Crazy Town just because, well, because the hottest girl in school was stroking some guy’s arm. My guy’s arm. But regardless. Get over yourself, Annabelle Manning. For one thing, you’ve known him for, what, the entire span of a weekend? So it’s not like he’s really
your
guy. Even if he did come from your dream. And for another thing, he either likes you or he doesn’t, and no amount of psychosis on your part is going to change things. Unless it changes things for the worse.

I went to the front of the school and sat on the curb. Will’s Jeep wasn’t in the parking lot, so I called my mom for a ride. When her old Volvo finally came rolling up in the circular drive and I jumped in, I was, I firmly told myself, leaving Crazy Annabelle behind.

“How was your day?” Mom asked when we stopped at a light.

What could I possibly say to a question like that?

It was great: Martin asked me to homecoming.

It sucked: Stephanie Gonzales was boobinating my new boyfriend.

It was great: I got proof positive that, as suspected, Stephanie is not human.

It sucked: No one cares if she’s human or not when she wears those shorts.

“Swell! And how was your day, Mom?” my mother said to make up for my silence. “Why, Annabelle, thanks ever so much for asking!”

“Sorry,” I grumbled. “How was your day?”

“Busy, and I’m dead on my feet,” she said. “Macaroni and cheese for dinner tonight, if you don’t mind. I’m too whipped to come up with something else.”

That much, at least, was normal. I wonder sometimes what exactly she does at work—do they strap her to a treadmill and make her run?—because she’s
always
dead on her feet. It doesn’t seem like you’d get such a workout as the activities coordinator for a retirement home. I mean, her clients don’t move very fast. The place is called the Preserve, which makes it sound like it should be some kind of wilderness camp for bears, but as far as I can tell, it’s just a normal retirement home with the normal boring wall art and embarrassing smells.

When we got home, Nick was sitting in the kitchen at the computer.

“Annie,” he said. He’d called me that when he was little.

My mother tossed her keys on the counter. “Nick, you know you’re not supposed to get on there without an adult present.”

“I need to show Annabelle something,” he said. “It’s important.”

He clicked the mouse and I peeked over his shoulder. It was an email from “LaskaDawg.” My dad.

My father rarely called us, and he wrote emails even less frequently. When he first left, we heard from him once a week. Then it became once a month. Then every month or two. Now we pretty much only heard from him on birthdays, when he sent twenty dollars cash—which my mom said did
not
count as child support—without even writing a note. And when we did talk, our conversations were of the I’m-Fine-Salmon-Are-Pink-Hope-Everything’s-Peachy variety. “You know how it is on a fishing boat,” he said. But actually, we didn’t know at all.

The email was copied to both of us, so I knew it would be in my inbox, too.

It was written all in lowercase letters.

annabelle
lee
and
saint
nick
sorry
so
long
no
talk. good haul in august. salmon spawning now so season is over. still swamped but had to drop you a line to tell you the news. i’m getting married! can you believe it? her name is elana and she’s great. wedding in dec. over xmas, maybe. elana insists you two be there so guess what? i’m flying you out! told you she was great! pic enclosed. hope all is good with school and that your mom is healthy. xoxo dad

“Whoa.” There didn’t seem to be anything else to say.

Nick clicked on the attachment and brought forward a picture of my dad, barely recognizable behind a full beard, with a blond woman, her face red with wind. She had a nice smile, I thought, disgusted.

“Did you see this coming?” I asked Nick.

He shook his head. “I can’t believe we’re finally going to get up there!”

“What?” my mother said. “What are you talking about?”

“We’re going to Alaska over Christmas,” Nick said. He didn’t mention the marriage part.

“I hope he’s paying for it,” my mom said.

“He says he’s flying us out.”

“Isn’t that the coldest season?” said Mom. “And the darkest? He couldn’t ask you during the summer like he’s supposed to?” She poured some salt in the macaroni water—way too much salt. “Damn.” She tried to fish it out with a big metal spoon, then dumped the whole pot in the sink and started over.

I knew it had been four years since my dad had left and these things happened and blah blah blah. But it still didn’t seem right that he was marrying someone else. My mom hadn’t even gone out on a date.

Plus, it’s been pretty ugly around here since he left, money-wise. Not like we’re going to live at the Rescue Mission or anything. But we’re not bathing in champagne every night, either. What gets me is that my mom could have had a real career if she’d lived somewhere like New York or L.A., but she stayed in Chilton for my dad. And then he jumped ship and she’s stuck here, like great-aunt Caroline says, with the kids and the bills and the old people.

Now he was getting married. And he wanted us there.

Or, wait. Elana wanted us there. My dad didn’t actually say
he
wanted us.

My mother got the water on to boil with the right amount of salt this time and dried her hands with a dish towel.

“Now,” she said. “What’s this about Alaska?”

Nick looked at me, a look that said,
she’s going to find out sometime
. I gave him a look back that said,
and
she’s already pissed off.

“Dad’s getting married again,” I blurted out.

My mom turned a little pale, but she stood up straighter and poked out her chin. “Well,” she said. “Good for him. And good luck to her, whoever she is.” She put her hand on her head, like maybe she was getting a migraine. “Who is she?”

“Elana?” Nick said, but it was a question more than an answer. It was really the only thing we knew about her—her name, that she had blond hair and a red face, and that she was “great.” I started to list in my mind all the things I didn’t know: if there was any actual reason my dad
thought
she was so great…if she had a last name or if she was just “Elana” like Adele or Rihanna…if the blond was from genes or Clairol…if she was really as young as she looked (twenty-nine? maybe twenty-six!)…if she was from Alaska or had just ended up there too on account of her bliss…if she had kids of her own that were going to start calling my dad “Dad”…

My mom came up behind us and looked over Nick’s shoulder at the computer.

“The beard suits him,” she said. “Keep an eye on the water, Annabelle, I’ll only be a minute.” And she disappeared into the bedroom.

“Do you think she’s crying?” Nick asked. I was impressed. Sensitivity wasn’t usually his strongest virtue.

“No,” I said. “Maybe. I don’t know.” I paused a minute. “How do you feel about it?”

“I’m happy about Alaska,” he said. “I’ve always wanted to go.”

“Me, too,” I said.

“Everyone thinks it’s awesome that my dad lives in Alaska.”

“I know exactly what you mean,” I said, and I did. Everyone thinks it’s cool to have a dad who lives there, but it’s only cool if you get to go to Alaska and see real glaciers and moose—not just pictures of them on a postcard.

The water boiled and I added the macaroni. I thought about adding peas, which my mother sometimes puts in the macaroni and cheese to give it extra health. But then I figured if she was leaving it to me, we could skip the pea part. By the time everything was ready, my mother had done whatever it was she needed to do and she kept the conversation nice and perky. She said she was glad my father-the-fish-mogul was doing well enough to bring us out to the Last Frontier, even if was going to be too dark for us to see it.

After dinner, I called Martin to hear his voice, but when I told him my father was getting married, he just said, “Hey! That’s great!”

“Is it great?” I asked.

“Of course marriage is a great thing. You want him to be happy, right?”

“Sure,” I said.

Then I told him about my dad living in Alaska, but I don’t think I said it right because Martin thought that was great, too. “The Land of the Midnight Sun!” he said. “Cool!”

“Yeah, it’s cool,” I said glumly. “Guess this is my big chance to get there.”

“Wait,” he said. Digesting. “You
don’t
want him to be happy?”

“No,” I said. “I do.”

“But you’re upset about him getting married?”

“Well, yeah. Can you…can’t you tell?”

“Let me see,” he said and there was a short pause. “No.”