It's A Shame I'm A Dream

Aiden was jittery the whole night after returning home from the beach. It was so bad he nearly dropped a knife on his toes while he was setting the table. He was swearing loudly and leaping out of the way as his mother walked in, sorting through the mail.

“Don’t use language like that in the house,” said Mrs. Walker at once without looking up; she was still under the impression that Aiden had attended school today: He’d managed to intercept the phone call and pass of another’s voice with the voice-changer device he’d gotten in a spy kit for his eighth birthday (and found last-minute in the darkest corner of his closet).

He muttered something incomprehensible and carefully lined up the utensils. Mrs. Walker retreated to the kitchen and Aiden heard the creaking of the oven door. A lovely smell wafted its way to the dining room, but Aiden’s stomach gurgled in repulsion. He was in too much of a right state to appreciate food.

They all sat for dinner and Mrs. Walker served the roasted chicken. Luckily Aiden’s rearranging of his plate went unnoticed as Brad was being interrogated about the marks he’d gotten on his history test. When Brad accidentally knocked over his can of Mountain Dew reaching for the potatoes, Aiden took his chance to slip back into the kitchen and painstakingly align his pieces of chicken in order with the whole. Moments after he started soaping his plate in the sink, Mrs. Walker entered, shaking her head. She grabbed the paper towel roll and exited.

Relieved and still jumpy, although he wasn’t quite sure why of the latter, he ran upstairs and into the shower, cranking the heat knob. The bathroom was soon full of steam, so that he couldn’t see his reflection anywhere. Hot water poured over his hair and splashed down his back, attempting valiantly to loosen his tension but to no avail.

Only when Aiden was back in his room, dressed but hair still dripping wet, did he finally come to terms with the source of his anxiety. It was as if he were completing a puzzle, knowing there was a last piece but not sure where it yet fit. Now, all the pieces fell into place as he saw his cell on his bedspread, and realized that all along the butterflies in his stomach had harbored when his subconscious had known, while he had not, that he wanted to call the girl he’d met at the beach.

But that was ridiculous, he thought as he flopped onto his sheets, scrolling through his address book. An unfamiliar name stood out – Kristina. Swallowing, his thumb hovered over the green send button.

I’m being silly, he thought bitterly, dropping the phone back into the folds of the blanket, she couldn’t have been serious. It was probably all just a prank, so that when I do call, some prostitute’s going to pick up.

And what if it wasn’t? a tiny voice whispered from the back of his mind. What if she was a real person, named Kristina, who happens to be very charismatic and truly worried for others?

Oh, great. He was having conversations with voices in his head now. This could not be leading anywhere positive for his psychological future.

I don’t know anything about her.

She doesn’t know anything about you. And yet, she seemed to see right through me….

Everything that had happened, Taylor’s death, her letters, Skylar, his episodes, late-night thoughts – all ran through his mind like a filmstrip on fast-forward. Aiden knew he wasn’t going mental, but bottling up his feelings – well, that couldn’t be good either.

He checked the time. 11:11 PM.

It was now or never.

The coffee shop was unnervingly bright and warm and mellow. From its ocher walls hung assorted abstract paintings in reds and browns and yellows. The bell above the heavy glass door tinkled merrily as Aiden pushed his way inside. The black jacket he’d had to adorn when he’d snuck out of the house suddenly felt too thick; he shrugged it off and made his way to a two-person table where he had a clear view of the door.

It was only seconds before a slim waitress approached him, smiling widely.

“Hey, Aiden,” she said casually. She must go to Mountain View as well. “What brings you out here at this time of night?” Her tone was eager to a point where Aiden had to look away.

“I’m meeting…a friend,” he said noncommittally. At that precise moment the bell chimed again and he recognized the feathery white-blonde hair peeking out from beneath the hood of a red sweater.

The waitress he was supposed to know looked round; her face darkened but she kept on her smile, though now it looked rather forced. “Just yell if you need me,” she said sweetly, obviously assuming Aiden knew her name as well, and danced off.

The blonde – Kristina – spotted Aiden and hurried over, footsteps delicate in her low-top black Converse. She looked just as pretty and fragile as she did at the beach.

“Hey,” she said, sliding into the chair across from him, blue eyes bright. “I’m here.”

“Yeah.” Aiden found it hard to form words. Was he foolish in his acceptance of the life preserver she’d thrown?

“You thought I’d stand you up, didn’t you?” she asked shrewdly.

“What? No,” he said quickly, the words tumbling out before he could stop them, “I thought you were messing with me.”

Kristina watched him for a moment. “Fair enough,” she said finally, “but I’m not. You thought, because I was a stranger to you, that when I asked you to call me if you needed anything, I was just pulling your strings? Not everyone in the world works like that, sweetie.”

He had to admit, he was impressed. And kind of liked the way she called him ‘sweetie.’

“Sorry,” he apologized, “I just don’t meet a lot of people like you.”

Seemingly mollified, she leaned forward. “So what did you call me here to talk about?” Her charisma was back, and infectious.

“It’s just…” Aiden was struck by how hard it was to start his story, especially with her watching. “My friend, she was a freshman…and she died.”

It was like pulling the plug on a dam.