Dreamers Often Lie (15 page)

W
ater splashed my face.

Too much of water hast thou, poor Ophelia . . .

I threw my head back, gasping, and banged into someone in a letterman jacket. The guy—some senior whose name I didn’t know—gave me an annoyed look as he strode away.

Shaking, I wiped the droplets off of my cheek. My hand was dry. I wasn’t drowning. I was in the science hall, standing next to a drinking fountain, with my book bag slung over my arm.

I pressed myself against the wall, getting out of the flow of traffic. The hall was jammed with people talking, slamming lockers, hurrying in all directions. I pulled my phone out of my bag. 9:04. I’d already gotten through anatomy.
Had
I already gotten through anatomy? I looked down at my body. Boots. A skirt and snagged gray tights. A different sweater from yesterday. I’d managed to dress myself. If I’d avoided talking to anyone so far, maybe no one would have
noticed that I was a body wandering around without its brain.

I shoved the phone back into my bag. My anatomy textbook and notebook were inside. Nothing else. American literature came next. I needed . . . What were we reading? Something about
red.
Scarlet. Crimson.
Beauty’s ensign yet is crimson in thy lips and in thy cheeks, and death’s pale flag is not advanced there.
Who said that? . . . Romeo. In the tomb. God,
stop it.

I stumbled down the hall in the direction of my locker.
The Red Badge of Courage. The Scarlet Letter. The Crimson and the Black.
There were too many books about
red.
Red petals melting into the snow. Red spatters in my hair. Romeo lifting my hand.

No. No. No.

The ache swung.

I put out a hand to catch myself and almost groped a passing freshman. For a second, I leaned against the bricks, trying to steady myself. Then I shuffled to the end of the hall, staring at my feet the whole time.

But as soon as I turned the corner, there he was. Pierce. Leaning against my locker door, his hands hooked in his pockets, his perfect profile turned away as he scanned the crowd. Waiting for me.

I lunged into the nearest classroom.

Inside, a bunch of freshmen were setting up a DNA helix made of marshmallows. They stared up at me.

“Um . . .” I groped for the first freshman theater kid name I could find. “Is Lia Gomez in this class? I have to tell her something about rehearsal.”

They shook their heads.

“Oh. Thanks anyway.”

I tiptoed back through the door.

Pierce was still leaning against my locker, looking like a magazine ad.

I couldn’t do it.

I couldn’t walk up to him and smile and act sane. Not after the things he’d said last night. Not after the argument with Sadie. Not with this giant blank spot dragging right behind me like a weight chained to my ankle. What if I lost myself again and said something, did something that gave everything away?

I took a step backward. Then I turned and ran.

I ran all the way up to the third floor, winding past the art rooms, keeping my head down, walking like I had somewhere important to go. I was already going to be late for my next class. There was no way I could go back to my locker, get my things, and make it up to English on the second floor.

I picked the third-floor bathroom tucked away at the end of the choir hall instead. Most people forgot it even existed, maintenance workers included. It was still full of hand-cranked towel and soap dispensers, and probably hadn’t been painted in forty years.

It was empty when I entered and locked myself in a stall. Curdled things sloshed in my stomach. My head seared. I leaned my forehead against the cool metal wall. Fragments of magnified graffiti blurred in front of my eyes:
Lisa H. is a . . . 412-83 . . . B&S 4 EVER.

A bunch of choir girls burst in.

They gathered at the mirrors outside, checking their hair, their voices ricocheting off the tiles.

“Can’t believe she gave
her
that solo . . .” one of them said, slamming into the stall next to mine.

“Apparently she loves nasal, slightly flat sopranos.” The lock on my stall rattled. A fist knocked at the door.

“Knock, knock, knock,” Shakespeare’s voice muttered. He’d appeared next to me, wedged between my side and the toilet paper dispenser. “Who’s there, i’ th’ name of Beelzebub?”

The fist knocked again.

I realized I’d been holding my breath. “I’m—someone’s in here.”

“Oh. Sorry.”

Another stall door creaked. Flushing. Talking. Someone sang an arpeggio. Then the bell rang, and the choir girls scurried out.

The bathroom went echoingly silent. I closed my eyes, still leaning against the divider. The ache was like a presence beside me.

When I finally opened my eyes again, Shakespeare was gone.

Now what? I couldn’t avoid Pierce forever; rehearsal was creeping closer. If I could make it until then.

I slipped back out of the bathroom. 9:16. Already late for American literature. Still bookless. As I climbed down the staircase, my vision began to swim. By the time I reached the first-floor hallway, I was squinting like a driver with a dirty windshield. The ache thrummed. Walls were melting. Doors and lockers and posters and windows all smeared into each other until there was nothing to hold on to—except for one dark, solid shape headed straight toward me.

I blinked. The windshield cleared.

Rob Mason was walking swiftly in my direction. I felt a strange surge in my stomach, like something that had been crawling had suddenly grown wings. He was wearing a long black wool coat, and a bag on a leather strap hung over his shoulder. He’d clearly just arrived.

He saw me and slowed. His face stayed blank.

“Hi,” I said.

“Hey,” he answered. There were melting snowflakes in his hair.

I couldn’t think of what to say next. The new thing in my stomach was too distracting. Rob didn’t say anything either.

For a second, I thought he might not have recognized me. But how many girls with patchy hair and giant head wounds could he know? Unless . . . Unless I’d imagined
every conversation we’d ever had. I rewound through our interactions as Rob stood still, watching me with his cool blue eyes.

“You’re running late too?” he asked.

I wasn’t ready for him to speak. I think I actually jumped.

“What? Oh. Yeah. I mean, no.” I laughed idiotically. “I was here already. I just—I didn’t get to class on time. You?”

“Overslept. And I earned my first tardy slip.” He flashed a yellow note. “At
this
school, anyway.”

“Congratulations.”

Rob still didn’t smile. Suddenly what I wanted more than anything was to make him smile at me again.

“Hey,” I began. “Did I . . . do something?”

He frowned slightly. Getting worse. “What do you mean?”

“I mean, you just—you seem—I don’t know. Different. I just wondered if I did something.”

Rob shook his head, still frowning. “No. Not at all.” He turned toward the stairs. “I’d better get to trig. The teacher seems like the angry type.”

Keep him here. Keep him talking.
“Oh? Who do you have?”

“I can’t remember her name. The one who looks like Hillary Clinton with Bill Clinton’s hair.”

I laughed. Rob’s face stayed blank.

“Mrs. Duvall? I never thought about it, but that’s exactly what she looks like.”

“Well,” said Rob. “See you later.”

“Yeah. See you.”

He turned around. Watching him go jerked something awake in me. Something that wanted to see his face again, even after it had just turned away.

“Wait,” I called after him. “How would you feel about being a little bit tardier?”

He stopped. “Why? What do you mean?” His tone was polite.

I moved toward him, glancing at the closed classroom doors to either side. “We’re running out of days when we can use our New-Kid, Head-Injury-Girl excuses. So . . . let’s go somewhere.”

“You’re asking me to cut class with you?”

“Yes. Unless—you can’t. Or you don’t want to.”

A tiny smile started to reshape his mouth. “Where do you want to go?” he asked. “We could hang out in the auditorium for a while . . .”

“No. I want to get out of here.”

Rob nodded. The smile grew deeper. “I’ve got a car.”

• • •

W
e drove through a neighborhood of huge Victorian houses that had been turned into boutiques and cafés. The streets were snowy and narrow. Thickly bundled people hurried up the sidewalks. Rob pulled up in front of a brick building surrounded by empty patios and crooked wrought
iron gates. Dead vines clung to the bars, rustling softly. An old-fashioned neon sign reading
CAFÉ
burned above its deep-set windows, and warm reddish light glowed from inside.

“How did you know about this place?” I asked, looking out through the passenger door.

“I saw it while I was driving around the other night. It looked like a good spot.” He unlatched his seat belt. “Have you been here?”

“No. I never even noticed it.” I unlatched my belt too. “Do you do that a lot? Just—drive around?”

“Yeah. Me and Merle.” He patted the dashboard. A huge silver belt buckle was glued above the stereo. “He came with me across the country from Oregon. All that time stuck alone together. Now we’re like cell mates: I know he’s a piece of crap, but I like him anyway.”

I smiled. “Does that make Minnesota the prison?”

Rob shrugged. “I thought it would be. I’m still figuring it out.” He opened his door. “Come on.”

Inside, the coffee shop was dim and warm. Mismatched paisley couches and lamps with silk shades filled the corners. Steam coated the windows, beading into pearls that froze and melted again as they dribbled downward. No one gave us a second glance. Still, the excitement of doing something wrong zinged in my chest like miniature fireworks.

We took our red enamel mugs to a table at the back.

I rearranged my scarf, making a partial shield for my
face. “Is it way too obvious that we’re not supposed to be here?” I whispered, tugging one side higher. “Like—could someone just look at us and
know?
”

Rob gave the rest of the shop a quick glance. He shook his head. “No. They probably think we’re just two more college kids talking about our godawful folk-punk band.”

“I think I look more like a terrible poet, personally.” I twirled the spoon in my cup of coffee. Regular coffee. Rebellion coffee. “I haven’t done this in a long time.”

“Stirred your drink?”

I grinned. “Skipped school
. And
had actual coffee
.
” I took a sip. Bitter and dark and delicious. I could practically taste the caffeine. “I’ve had to be obnoxiously good ever since the head stuff. My sister drives me to school. Pierce drives me home. I haven’t been anywhere but there and the hospital in weeks. Oh—and Pierce’s house, last night. But that was kind of a kidnapping situation, so I don’t think it counts.”

Rob leaned back in his chair. His face was distant again. “Kidnapping?”

“Friendly kidnapping. Friend-napping.”

“Wow. Even the felonies are nice in Minnesota.”

I laughed. Still, I wished I hadn’t brought up Pierce’s name. I didn’t want the thought of him, perfect and golden, hanging over my shoulder.

“So,” I picked up. “Where did you and Tom and Nikki and everybody go yesterday?”

“Someplace with eight thousand kinds of pie.”

“Norske’s?”

“That was it. I think Tom ate four slices. For such a skinny guy, it was truly impressive.”

“Yeah . . . there aren’t a lot of family dinners at his house.”

Rob nodded. “I picked up on that. He’s a nice guy. And Nikki. She’s very cool.”

“Yes, she is.” I looked down into my mug again. “I wish I could have gone with all of you.”

Rob shrugged. “You were with your friendly kidnapper.”

I wasn’t sure if this was just a joke. There was something hard and chilly inside it, like a chunk of ice sliding down into a warm shoe.

“Hey. Yesterday, did he—did Pierce say something to you? After rehearsal?”

“Not really.” Rob was still leaning back in his chair, almost as far from me as he could get. “I just hadn’t realized you two were together.”

“Me and Pierce?” It still sounded so impossible. “We’re . . . It’s not like we’re dating. We’ve never even gone out for coffee. I mean—” I heard the words and wished I could reel them back in. My cheeks burned. “Not that that would mean—I don’t know. Where did you hear that?”

“From him. Well—he sort of implied it.”

I made myself meet his eyes again. “What do you mean?”

“He told me to stay away from you, or I’d be very sorry.”

“
That’s
what he said to you after rehearsal?” I put my face in my hands. “God. I’m so sorry. It was—he doesn’t understand.”

“I get it.” Both his voice and his face were harder than usual. “I’ve known a lot of guys like him.”

“He’s just being protective. Misguidedly protective, but . . .” I felt a sudden need to explain him. To explain what he was to me. At least, as long as Rob went on watching me with those unnervingly beautiful eyes. When had I started thinking of them as beautiful? I stared down into my coffee again. “We practically grew up together. Pierce and my sister and me. His dad and our dad were best friends. Business partners. Unofficial brothers. They used to laugh that Sadie and Pierce should get married someday and then we’d all finally be related for real, and the business could become this family empire. Sadie and Pierce were the same age, they were into all the same things. But they were never actually that close. I think they were both too competitive. It was me and Pierce who were best friends.” I turned the mug between my palms. “We grew apart eventually. For the last two years, we didn’t even talk. But now—I don’t know. He’s trying to fix things.” I turned the mug again. “There. That was way too much stuff that you probably didn’t even want to know. Let’s talk about you instead.”