dream.”
“I’m pretty sure it’s my dream,” he says. “Not yours.”
“I don’t think so.” I sense something warm nearby, but I can’t see it. Even so, its presence is this palpable, pulsing, undeniable thing—an invisible sun come down from the sky to share some of its energy. Or maybe it’s not energy, but courage. Because a question I’d never in a million years have the guts to ask in real life escapes without any hesitancy. “Remember the homecoming pep rally?”
His green eyes smolder.
“Did you see something in the gym?” I ask.
“Did you?”
I nod.
So does he. “Me, too.”
Even though this is just a dream, even though I’m totally projecting, my relief is intense and immediate. In dream world I am not crazy. “I see things like that sometimes. It’s why we moved.” The memory of the séance makes me shiver. It’s an unwelcome feeling in such a happy place. “I’m going to the Edward Brooks Facility because my parents think I’m crazy.”
He takes a strand of my hair between his fingers.
I shiver again, only this time, the shiver is not due to fear. “Sometimes I wonder if they’re right. Sometimes I think I’m going insane.”
He steps closer. “You’re not.”
But his voice sounds far away and the rocky sand beneath my feet sinks. I’m sinking, sinking, sinking until the sound returns. Wind whips my hair about my shoulders. Gone is the beach and Luka. I’m standing on the Golden Gate Bridge. I know because of pictures, not because I’ve ever been there before.
A girl stands on the ledge—she can’t be more than fifteen. Fear surges through me, because surely one big gust of wind will have her plummeting into the water below. That man stands beside her. The one with the pale skin and the greasy hair and the emaciated face. He taunts the girl. He whispers in her ear. “You are ugly,” he says. “Nobody loves you. Nobody wants you. Everybody would be happier if you were dead.”
The girl’s mascara runs black down her cheeks as she scoots closer and closer to the ledge and suddenly, I am angry. Pissed off. Seething, even. Because this man has pulled me away from Luka and he speaks words that scrape too close to home. I do not want this girl to believe any of it. I do not want her to jump on account of lies. The anger that tears through me is fierce and hot and before I can stop myself, I lunge at the man’s throat. Using every bit of strength, I tear him away from the girl and the two of us are falling off the bridge.
Falling, falling, falling …
He wraps his cold fingers around my neck and smiles a smile that is terrifying. “I knew you were a fighter.”
Chapter Fourteen
Interrogation
I t’s the first time I’ve fought in a dream. You’d think I’d wake up empowered. Instead, I feel jittery and weak, like a diabetic in need of sugar. I saw Dr. Roth on Monday. He hypnotized me. And now I have had nightmares two nights in a row. It can’t be a coincidence.
A faint throb pulses in my temples—the beginnings of a headache—as I shuffle into the kitchen, wearing the same ratty jeans from yesterday and a slightly more respectable purplish gray sweater.
“Your eyes look stunning in that color,” Mom says.
I grab a bagel from the toaster.
She cups my chin and rubs her thumb beneath my eyes. “Still having bad dreams?”
My throat tightens. I’m so ready for this to be over. To outgrow these nightmares, if they are something I can outgrow. I pull away from Mom and pick up the butter knife next to the opened container of cream cheese while Dad crosses his ankle over his knee and holds the paper open wide. “Hard to believe it’s been sixteen years since Newport.”
Mom pours me a glass of juice and shakes her head, like she doesn’t even have words. Dad reads snippets of the article out loud. For some reason, it settles me. Puts things in perspective. I was only one when the attack happened, when a terrorist group bombed the Naval Underwater
“I’m pretty sure it’s my dream,” he says. “Not yours.”
“I don’t think so.” I sense something warm nearby, but I can’t see it. Even so, its presence is this palpable, pulsing, undeniable thing—an invisible sun come down from the sky to share some of its energy. Or maybe it’s not energy, but courage. Because a question I’d never in a million years have the guts to ask in real life escapes without any hesitancy. “Remember the homecoming pep rally?”
His green eyes smolder.
“Did you see something in the gym?” I ask.
“Did you?”
I nod.
So does he. “Me, too.”
Even though this is just a dream, even though I’m totally projecting, my relief is intense and immediate. In dream world I am not crazy. “I see things like that sometimes. It’s why we moved.” The memory of the séance makes me shiver. It’s an unwelcome feeling in such a happy place. “I’m going to the Edward Brooks Facility because my parents think I’m crazy.”
He takes a strand of my hair between his fingers.
I shiver again, only this time, the shiver is not due to fear. “Sometimes I wonder if they’re right. Sometimes I think I’m going insane.”
He steps closer. “You’re not.”
But his voice sounds far away and the rocky sand beneath my feet sinks. I’m sinking, sinking, sinking until the sound returns. Wind whips my hair about my shoulders. Gone is the beach and Luka. I’m standing on the Golden Gate Bridge. I know because of pictures, not because I’ve ever been there before.
A girl stands on the ledge—she can’t be more than fifteen. Fear surges through me, because surely one big gust of wind will have her plummeting into the water below. That man stands beside her. The one with the pale skin and the greasy hair and the emaciated face. He taunts the girl. He whispers in her ear. “You are ugly,” he says. “Nobody loves you. Nobody wants you. Everybody would be happier if you were dead.”
The girl’s mascara runs black down her cheeks as she scoots closer and closer to the ledge and suddenly, I am angry. Pissed off. Seething, even. Because this man has pulled me away from Luka and he speaks words that scrape too close to home. I do not want this girl to believe any of it. I do not want her to jump on account of lies. The anger that tears through me is fierce and hot and before I can stop myself, I lunge at the man’s throat. Using every bit of strength, I tear him away from the girl and the two of us are falling off the bridge.
Falling, falling, falling …
He wraps his cold fingers around my neck and smiles a smile that is terrifying. “I knew you were a fighter.”
Chapter Fourteen
Interrogation
I t’s the first time I’ve fought in a dream. You’d think I’d wake up empowered. Instead, I feel jittery and weak, like a diabetic in need of sugar. I saw Dr. Roth on Monday. He hypnotized me. And now I have had nightmares two nights in a row. It can’t be a coincidence.
A faint throb pulses in my temples—the beginnings of a headache—as I shuffle into the kitchen, wearing the same ratty jeans from yesterday and a slightly more respectable purplish gray sweater.
“Your eyes look stunning in that color,” Mom says.
I grab a bagel from the toaster.
She cups my chin and rubs her thumb beneath my eyes. “Still having bad dreams?”
My throat tightens. I’m so ready for this to be over. To outgrow these nightmares, if they are something I can outgrow. I pull away from Mom and pick up the butter knife next to the opened container of cream cheese while Dad crosses his ankle over his knee and holds the paper open wide. “Hard to believe it’s been sixteen years since Newport.”
Mom pours me a glass of juice and shakes her head, like she doesn’t even have words. Dad reads snippets of the article out loud. For some reason, it settles me. Puts things in perspective. I was only one when the attack happened, when a terrorist group bombed the Naval Underwater
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