The Catastrophic History of You And Me (9 page)

PART 3

anger

CHAPTER 15

you ain’t nothing but a hound dog

I
’ve never really been one of those people who remembers her dreams. I’ve literally tried everything—journals, tape recorders, getting the girls to tell me if I ever talked in my sleep—but zilch, nada, nothing. With the creepy exception of my recurring motorcycle nightmare, nothing ever really seemed to stick.

But not this time.

For some strange reason, on this particular night, something told me this was a dream I was going to remember. And when I finally came to the following morning, still curled up in Patrick’s lap, guess what?

It
was
.

I dreamed about Hamloaf.

Or, specifically, I dreamed about the time Hamloaf ate my favorite stuffed animal—a bunny I had named Mrs. Fluff. I’d screamed my head off when I had climbed into bed that night to find my beloved Mrs. Fluff missing from her usual spot under the covers. Her fuzzy pink nose. Her soft pink ears. The floppiest ever.

Vanished, without a trace.

At first, Mom and Dad said I must have left her somewhere. Over at Sadie’s house. In the laundry room. Under my bed. I denied all their accusations. Because I knew the truth. Mrs. Fluff wasn’t missing . . . Mrs. Fluff had been
kidnapped
.

Chaos morphed into pandemonium when Dad noticed a strange trail of slobbery cotton leading from the upstairs hallway, down the stairs, into the living room, and right out of Hamloaf’s doggy door. Yes. It’s true. The dog ate my bunny. He ate her pink nose, worn from where I’d kissed it a thousand times. He ate her floppy pink ears. He even ate her beautiful blue glass eyes. (One of which showed up a few days later, it should be noted, a little less blue and a little less shiny.)

“Everything,” I whispered, still only half-awake. “I remember everything.”

I remembered Mrs. Fluff. I remembered Hamloaf’s swollen belly as he lay stretched in the starlight, all passed out and full of bunny. I remembered being angrier than I’d ever been in my young, short life, and the remorseful look in his sweet, brown, hound-doggy eyes when he saw me crying. I remembered the way he’d pressed his soft, black, whiskery nose to my face to say he was sorry.

And then, for some reason, I remembered the way Mom had held me in her arms that night, telling me that Hamloaf was only a puppy. And that he hadn’t meant it. I remembered the smell of her hair and the warmth of her terry cloth robe. I remembered the way she’d made me feel better in that special Mom-Way nobody else on earth could ever do.

But this was more than memory. This was longing. Unexpected, overwhelming longing. This was holding hands when I was little, and the two of us being silly in our pajamas on Saturday mornings. This was us hurting each other because we could and being best friends and growing apart and the anger and resentment over what neither of us had fought hard enough to hold on to because—in the end—kids have to grow up someday. These were feelings I had locked away and buried in a time capsule, sealed off in a safe, secret place deep inside where nobody would ever find it. A place that somehow, over time, I had forgotten.

I missed my family.
I missed my mom
.

I opened my eyes, swollen from crying, and looked up at Patrick.

“Angel?” he said.

“I want to go home.”

“You want to talk about why?”

I shook my head. Stretched and got to my feet. Something felt hard and heavy in my chest, like a block of concrete had settled in there while I was sleeping. But something else had settled in there too. A
plan,
which I was looking forward to putting into action.

But first, home.

“So.” He sounded upbeat, like he was trying to lighten the mood. “I was thinking I’d show you this really cool spot not too far from here—”

“I want to go home,” I said again. “
Now
.”

He gave me a funny look. “A little bossy this morning, aren’t we?”

“If that’s what you want to call it.”

He scratched his head. “The thing is . . .”

“What?” I said. “The thing is what?”

“It could be a little bit of a problem, is all,” he said.

“And why would that be?”

He sighed and dug his hands into his pockets. “Listen up, Homeslice. I know you don’t like to hear it, but things are different now. You can’t just go doing every little thing exactly like you used to do—”

“Who says?”

“Seriously?”

I glared back. “Do I look like I’m joking?”

“Man,” he said. “Somebody woke up on the wrong side of the highway.”

“So just zoom us or whatever.” I held out my hand. “I’m ready.”

He crossed his arms. “Allow me to remind you that I am not your personal chauffer.”

“That’s funny,” I said. “Because I think that’s exactly what you are.”

“You’re really something else,” Patrick muttered before grabbing my hand.

I felt a jolt of electricity shoot through me.

“Ouch!” I yelped, and jerked my hand away. “Jeez! Electrocute me much?”

“Aw,” Patrick said. “The sparks are totally flying between us. Groovy.”

I rubbed my arm, scowling. “Nobody says
groovy
anymore, dork face.”

“Look,” he said. “Don’t shoot the messenger. You’ve got every right to be pissed off, but don’t forget.”

“Don’t forget what?” I snapped.

He kicked a big rock hard, sending it flying across the road. “Don’t forget I’m all you’ve got now, okay?”

His words stung, but I couldn’t help marveling at what I’d just seen. Somehow, Patrick had made that rock move. With his foot. He’d made contact with an object that existed in the Real World. Even though
he
didn’t. I was totally stunned.

“How’d you do that?”

“Sorry? You mean you don’t know everything about being D and G? Well isn’t that a shocker.”

“Okay, okay,” I groaned. “I get it. I’m sorry.”

“Say it first.”

“You’re the only one I’ve got,” I mumbled.

“I can’t heeear
you . . .”

“You’re the only one I’ve got!” I felt my face flush. “Now will you show me how the hell you did that or what?”

He smiled. “First things first.” He grabbed my hand, pulling me close. Before I knew what was happening, it was as if we’d taken off on the most barf-tastic roller coaster ride of all time, spinning through the air at speeds so insane I wanted to throw up just thinking about them. My stomach was in my throat, my feet were on fire, and I couldn’t even hear the sound of my own voice against the wind, screaming for it to stop.

Then, suddenly, it did.

“Home sweet home,” said Patrick.

I opened my eyes. Felt my whole body shaking and spasming and generally freaking out as gravity and inertia caught up with the rest me. “D-d-don’t ever d-d-do that again.”

“I’ll make a note of it, Angel,” Patrick said.

I didn’t like him calling me Angel. Just like I did
not
appreciate all the cheese-themed nicknames, or the way he always seemed to get information out of me without ever really telling me anything about himself. But for now, I was willing to let all of it slide.

Because we were standing in my driveway.

11 Magellan Avenue.

The house was drenched in shadows. All the windows closed. All the curtains drawn. As if whoever lived here had moved away years ago. Or simply stopped caring.

It had only been a few weeks since my death, which wasn’t long at all, especially in the grand scheme of All Eternity. But seeing the way the cool autumn light hit the roof—the muddy, yellow, uncut yard; the dried-up leaves in all of their messy decay; the eerie whisper of the ocean just a few blocks west—it suddenly seemed like so much longer.

The place felt warped. Twisted. A ghost of its former self.

Just like me.

I couldn’t take my eyes away.

“What happened here?” I asked.

“What always happens,” Patrick said. “They lost somebody.”

The sound of a door opening caught my attention. A little boy with unkempt dark hair, jeans, and a black sweatshirt jogged out and flew down the steps, not bothering to close the door behind him. He dropped his soccer ball on the driveway and kicked it hard against the metal garage door.

BAM!

BAM!

BAM!

It was Jack. In a flash, goose bumps broke out all over my body. He was so close. He was so
real
. His cheeks bright rosy red and his nose all stuffed up from the chilly autumn air. I wanted to run to him, to wrap him up in a giant bear hug and never let go. I watched him wipe his nose on the back of his sleeve. Then drop the ball and blast it again toward the garage.

BAM!

I took a step up the driveway, but stopped, realizing the total Dickensian bitch of it all.

“He can’t see me.”

“True,” said Patrick. “But on the plus side, your hair’s a little scary right now anyway, so maybe it’s for the best.”

I reached for my unruly waves to try and smooth things out, but stopped when I realized Patrick was just taunting me.
Again
. I started to give him my usual glare but stopped when I heard the screen door swing open a second time.

“Jack!”

My mother’s voice.

And then I saw her, leaning halfway out the front door. Her green sweater, the super-soft one Grandma got her for Christmas last year. Her tortoiseshell glasses. Her dark, wavy ponytail. Was it a little shorter than I remembered?

Mom
.

I felt my throat close up and tiny little pinpricks shoot across the back of my neck. I wanted to run to her. I wanted to run to her so bad.

“Jack, honey, please don’t kick so hard against the garage. It’s too loud. Daddy’s trying to sleep.”

“Sleep?” I said. “
Still?
What time is it?”

It had to be at least eleven in the morning. And my dad was an early bird. He always got up at the crack of dawn so he could squeeze an hour of surfing in before heading to work. No
way
could he still be sleeping! He used to get annoyed with us if we slept past nine, even on the weekends.

“Okay.” Jack’s voice was distant. Like he definitely wasn’t listening and he definitely didn’t care. Without meeting her eyes, he threw the ball down, took a running leap, and kicked again. This time, even harder than before.

BAM!

Mom shook her head. She was annoyed, I could tell, but didn’t have it in her to ask him again. She let the door slam behind her as she went back inside.

“One big happy family,” said Patrick.

I ignored him. Walked up the driveway and sat down about ten feet from where Jack was kicking his ball.

Jack Cheddar
.

He was beautiful. Just a beautiful, sweet, sullen boy. Turning nine in a few months. A thought popped into my head.

What if he’s forgotten me
?

He pulled off his sweatshirt and threw it on the ground. Then he sat down cross-legged on the grass, reached into his pocket, and pulled out a deck of cards. I’d been teaching him how to shuffle over the summer. He’d nearly gotten it. But his hands were still just a little too small to master it. He split the deck in half like I’d shown him (fewer cards makes it easier), but when he went to make the bridge—trying to bend the cards in a smooth, rounded arch—they slipped out of his fingers and flew all over the grass.

“Shoot,” he muttered.

“Try again,” I called out. “Use your thumbs this time.”

He repeated the same exact steps, but just like before, the cards went flying. “Damnit!” He gave up and went back to kicking his soccer ball.

There’s nothing I can do. I’m totally useless. A complete and total waste of space.

“Well, not technically, since you’re not
technically
taking up any space,” Patrick said. “You know, if we’re being technical.”

I smacked my hand against my forehead. “Oh my god, do you EVER shut up?”

He smiled. “Not really.”

I would’ve come up with some kind of witty retort, but the sound of yelling caught my attention. I got up and walked over toward the kitchen window to get a better look. There they were. Mom and Dad. Sitting across from each other at the kitchen table. An untouched mug of coffee sat in front of him; an unread newspaper and empty plate in front of her. She was crying. He had his head buried in his hands.

“You’ve got to stop,” she said. “How much longer are you going to put us all through this? How much longer are you going to put
Brie
through it?”

Me? They’re fighting about me?

“I need to understand,” he said. “I can’t let it go until I do.”

“You’re obsessed,” Mom said, her voice breaking. “You can’t fix her. She’s gone, Daniel. When are you going to accept it?”

“It doesn’t make sense, Katie.”