The City of Dreams -- Part 11

[This section gets a dedication.  It's a day late, but this is for Liz, my cousin who did the art on Pete and The Dog and on this page and who turned [AGE REDACTED] yesterday.  We were together in London while we did a semester at BYU's center there.  Of course, at the time I didn't really know what depression was, or that I was dealing with it, but we all survived, and Liz called me 'Drew' and helped convince me to dye my hair and we stood in the stones of Stonehenge.

[Now, thirteen years later, we know a lot more than we did.  Thanks for being my friend when I was young and stupid, Liz.]



I woke up.  Then I sat up.  The sheets around me were wet, my forehead was sweaty, and only my full bladder reassured me that none of the wet was from any more embarrassing results of being afraid.
I rolled out of bed, made my way to the bathroom by the light from the nightlight, emptied my bladder, and got a drink.  The tap water tasted awful, but I didn't want to go downstairs to get a drink from the filtered tap.  I wanted to go bug my sister.
Tamara's light was on and spilling under the crack of her door, so I knocked.  When there was no answer I turned the knob and pushed it open.
"Tamara?"
The light was from her reading lamp and she was asleep with her hand propping open a very thick novel.  I considered letting her sleep, but I wanted to talk.  I never want to talk, so I considered this a special case that made waking up a sleeping sister worthwhile.  I trusted that Tamara would agree.
It took calling her name a few times, bouncing the bed, and finally more extreme measures to get her awake.
"Don't lose my place!" she said, jerking awake as I pulled the book out of her hand.
"Good morning," I said.
She rubbed her eyes, rolled up onto one elbow, and looked at the clock.  "Perry.  You are insane."
"You fell asleep with your light on."
"Why didn't you just turn it off?"
"Because this is more fun."
"How is this more fun?"
"I don't know," I said, shrugging.  "It just is."
Tamara rubbed at her face again and looked at her fingers.  "Ohmygosh.  Did I take off my makeup?"
"Your face looks pretty naked from here," I said.
"Be glad that's the only thing naked," said Tamara.  "What if I'd been sleeping au natural?  Wouldn't you have been embarrassed."
"I would have politely covered you with a blanket.  And then woken you up."
Tamara looked at me--really looked at me--and scooted up to rest her back against the wall.  "You want to talk, don't you?" she said.
"Kind of."
"Which is Perry speak for 'I'm dying to tell someone but I don't know who.'"
I blinked at her.  "Why do girls have such an easy time saying things?"
"Physiology.  Boys have smaller language centers in their brains."
"Is that true?"
"No idea.  It's three in the morning, you woke me up, so I'm entitled to make up whatever I want about anything I want, and you have to nod and agree with me, or I go back to sleep and pour water on you in the middle of the night.  Then you'll be wondering if you still wet the bed, and you'll never know the truth.  Not for sure."
"I stopped wetting the bed years ago."
"Also a more common problem with boys than with girls," said Tamara, pulling her hair back and tying it up with something made of elastic.  "So what makes you want to talk at three in the morning?"
"I had a bad dream."
"What about?"
"A priest.  And light posts."  Then I stopped talking.  I wanted the words to come out, I willed the words to come out, but they weren't coming.  The stinky blanket, the heavy coat, they were back.  Not as heavy or stinky as before, but still enough to mess up everything that I wanted to come out of my head and get through the air to someone.  Anyone.  And Tamara was a good anyone.  Why couldn't I talk?
"Was that the whole dream?" asked my sister.  Her hair was more toward brown than Diana’s, pretty close to the color or Brie's hair.
"Most of it.  There's also a guy named Not."
"Like the thing with rope?"
"I...don't think so," I said, "though I suppose it could be.  I didn't think to have him spell it."
"But it's your dream, right?  Shouldn't you just know?"
"It's not exactly my dream.  It's more complicated than that."
Tamara shrugged.  "Complicated dreams is fine.  I get that.  I had this dream that I had to sell girl scout cookies to dogs, and schnauzers couldn't have thin mints, and dobermans couldn't stand coconut anything, and don't even get me started about the dulce de leche and the poodles.  But you didn't come here to ask about my dreams.  What was the bad part?"
I thought about it.  "Waking up.  And the street lights trying to kill me."
Tamara leaned her head back against the wall and looked at me.  "The killer street lights I get.  I think you'd better sit down to explain the other part.  Also, put a bookmark in that book, because if you lose my place then I'll have to kill you."
"What is this book, anyway?" I asked.  "It's huge."
"It's huge and Russian," said Tamara.  "I have to read it for school, and if you lose my place I'll have to find it again, and finding my place in the middle of all those 'ovskys' and 'oviches' and 'ovnas' is a nightmare worse than killer lampposts, so take that piece of paper off my desk and save us both a headache."
I put the paper in with exaggerated care, set it on her desk, and pulled out her chair.  I sat on it sideways, leaning on the back with my arms crossed, and looked at her.
"So, Perry," she said in what was probably supposed to be a German accent, "tell me about your father."
"You mean my dreams."
"Whatever," she said, completely American again.  "I like you, Perry, but it's now three-oh-five, and we have to leave for school in four hours, so unless this is a very, very frightening dream that will cause you trauma for the rest of your life, then it's a dream on a time limit."
I nodded.  "I talked with a priest."
"Confession?"
"No.”
"Do you need to confess anything?"
"We're not even Catholic, Tamara."
"I hear confession is good for the soul.  Speaking of which, the other night when we had lasagna, we also had cookies."
"I didn't get any cookies," I said.
"And now I've confessed.  We ate them all.  I feel so much better."
"Tamara."
"Yes, Perry."
"Can we be serious for just a minute?"
"Yes, Perry."
"Do you mind if that minute starts right now?"
"Yes, Perry."
"Then why aren't you being serious yet?"
"Okay, give me a second."  She rubbed at her eyes again, then looked at me.  Then she busted up laughing.
"I'm going back to bed," I said, and stood up.
"No, Perry, don't do that.  Sit down."  She patted the bed next to her.  "Sit, Perry.  Tell me about the priest.  And tell me why you didn't want to wake up from your dream, because if I were being attacked by killer street lights, I'd probably want to wake up."
I looked at her.  "You're going to be serious?"
"Yes."
"Then why are you still laughing?"
"I'm just getting the giggles out.  National deficit, clubbing baby seals, Kung Pao chicken.  There.  Giggles all gone.  Really, Perry.  Sit."
I gave her a second, just to double check that she meant it, and realized I really did want to talk with someone.  Wanted it badly enough to wake up my sister in the middle of the night, enough to not really care if she laughed at me.  I sat down.
"So what was with the priest?"
"He said he thinks I'm depressed."
Tamara looked at me expectantly.
"And?" she said finally.
"That's it," I said.  "I'm depressed.  Suffering from depression."
"And?"
"Isn't that big enough?"
"Didn't you know that, Perry?"
"How should I know that?"
"Diana and Cindy and I have known it for months.  You've been a walking corpse."
My nose wrinkled.  "That's a gross image"
"But not too far from accurate," said Tamara.
"How did you guys know?"
"You're the only one of us so far who hasn't taken psychology, Perry.  Well, Cindy hasn't yet, but she'll probably sign up for it next year.  We told her it's an easy 'A.'"
"Why didn't you tell me?"
Tamara turned her hands over in a question.  "What is there to tell?  'Perry, we've been talking, and we've decided that you feel lousy.'  We figured you already knew that."
"But what do I do about it?"
"There's always medication."
"I don't want to take medication."
"That's what we figured, so we didn't bring it up."
"But medication helps?" I asked.
"Some people.  Therapy helps some people.  Diana read somewhere that exercise helps."
I leaned back against the wall.  "Is that why you all kept trying to get me into cross country?"
"That's part of it," said Tamara.  "Also, Cindy has a friend who runs who has a little crush on you, so it's kind of a favor, too."
"No she doesn't," I said.
Tamara smiled and shrugged.  "You're a cute boy, Perry.  Can I pinch your cheek?"
"Can I pull your bookmark out?"
"I've thought about it," said my sister, "and I think I'll keep my hands to myself."
"I have such smart sisters."
"I know," said Tamara, modestly.
We sat for a minute, quietly.  I think she was waiting for me to talk.  I wanted to talk.  I made some huge, gut wrenching effort and got my mouth moving.
"I don't think I want to be depressed.  It's not fun."
"It doesn't look fun.  I had been planning on trying it, but then you started, and I didn't want to crowd you."
"You do art, Cindy does cross country, and I do depression?"
"Exactly.  Every child should have room to shine."
I smiled.  "Have we started being serious yet?"
"Not really," said Tamara, "but is that okay?  I'm afraid if I get too serious you'll run away."
I thought about it.  I nodded.  "Yeah, I probably would."
"So now you know you're depressed," said my sister, pushing out of bed and going to her dresser.  "What are you going to do about it?"
"I don't know.  What fixes depression?"
Tamara shrugged and pulled out a drawer.  "You didn't like any of the things I suggested."
"Drugs, therapy, or running?  I hate running.  That's part of why the dream was so bad.  I had to run a lot to get away from the street lights."
She turned to look at me, holding flannel pajamas and pushing her drawer closed with her back.  "But in dreams, can't you run forever without getting tired?  Or fly?"
"These aren't those kind of dreams.  They feel...really real."
"Really real?"
"Really really real."
"Really really?"
"Exactly."
"Like how?"
"It's in a city, and it's just like I'm awake, but instead of a normal sky, the entire sky is the moon, and the stars chase around under it.  And the buildings move, and I already mentioned the light posts, and there's a girl I know from school."
"Aha," said Tamara.
I stopped.  "What was that?" I asked.
"What was what?"
"That 'aha.'"
"Just an aha.  A normal aha.  Nothing special."
"But why right there?  It's just a girl I know."
"And you're dreaming about her."
"It's not like that.  She's dreaming about me, too."
"Aha," said Tamara.
"No, not that way!  The City--the City of Dreams--it's a place that lots of people can dream about at the same time.  I'm dreaming, and Brie is dreaming, and the guy down the street is dreaming, and we all dream the same city.  It's like we're awake, but we're not here, we're there."
"Her name is Brie?" asked my sister.
"You're not hearing the important parts!  The thing is it's this crazy place where everything is different.  I run and get tired, and I scrape my knees, and I eat food, and it all feels real, but I feel different there."
"Different how?"
"I don't feel so tired all the time.  I don't feel angry without knowing why, and I don't hate everything I'm doing, and I don't feel like running away from people, and I--"
"Don't feel depressed," finished Tamara.
"Right.  I don't feel depressed."
"And so you don't want to wake up."
"Exactly.  When I'm awake I feel terrible.  And I screw things up."
"Did you screw things up with Brie?"
"I think."
"Which is why you woke me up in the middle of the night?"
I rested my head against the wall and looked up at the ceiling.  "It's a big mix of reasons."  I looked back down in time to catch Tamara yawning.
"Can those reasons wait for tomorrow?" she asked.
"Yeah," I said, not sure I could ever get my mouth loose enough to talk about these things again.  "Yeah, they can wait."
"I'm not going to let it go, Perry.  We will talk about this."
"Sure," I said.
Tamara looked at me.  Then she sighed.  "Whatever.  Get out, Perry.  I'm changing and going back to sleep."
"Sure," I said again, feeling doors closing that had opened in Father Thomas's living room.  "See you in three hours."
"Is your alarm set?" asked Tamara.  "Because I'm not waking you up."
"It's set," I said.

The City of Dreams -- Part 10

[Slightly shorter section this time; it really is a continuation of the last section, though, so don't complain at me too much.  I'll see if I can get another section written tonight, but don't count on it.  Fat Tony needs some good attention.  I want to start sending it out to agents by the end of the week, which is a little ambitious.

[And frankly, as far as my writing goes, I think a little ambition isn't a bad thing.]


"That was an adventure, wasn't it," said Not.
I just gasped.  The bush quivered at me with some curiosity.
"To think that we'd get to see something that probably very few people have ever had a chance to see," he went on.  "I mean, I've spent some time watching nature programs, and the show about the mating habits of fire hydrants was fascinating, but I'd never even heard of street light dominance rituals.  I feel invigorated."
My body was shaking, and it took me a minute to realize I was laughing.
"Not," I said, "you are nuts."
I could feel him smiling at me.
"Seems like you're feeling better," he said.  "Now you can answer my question."
"Which question was that?"
"Are you going to ask Brie out?"
I shook my head.  "She doesn't really like me.  I may be dense, but I'm not that dense.  If a girl liked me, I'd know it."
"Are you sure?"
"Yes, I'm sure.  She doesn't like me.  I mean, not in that way."
"No," said Not.  "I meant, are you sure you'd know it?"
"Why wouldn't I?"
"I don't know," said Not, and I could feel him give the abandoned dream equivalent of a shrug.  "It's just that you feel pretty self absorbed to me, so I'm not sure that you're always aware of what other people think about you.  I mean, I bet you think about it a lot, but I doubt you're always good at really seeing it."
I felt annoyed.  "I'm not self absorbed."
"Brie had to tell you what her name was."
"That's not the point," I said.
"You'd been in the same English class for most of a school year."
"But there are lots of people in my classes whose names I don't know."
"Exactly," said Not.
"You're annoying," I said.
"I'm just trying to point out that she might very well like you and you haven't realized it."
I shook my head, the grass rustling around my ears.  "Some people do more touching than other people.  I'm a non-toucher, and Brie is a toucher, but that doesn't mean she likes me.  If I went around thinking that every girl who ever touched me was in love with me, I'd think half the school was in love with me."
"Do that many girls actually touch you?" asked Not.
I thought about it.
"Is that a hard question to answer?" he prodded.
"Not that many, I guess," I finally admitted.
"How many?"
"None."
"So other girls don't touch you, and Brie does, and you don't think she likes you."
"But why should she?  It's not like I'm anything special, and she's got to have lots of friends, so why pick a guy who never talks to anybody, who walks around unhappy most of the time, and who doesn't look like much of anything?"
"I'm not sure you have a very clear picture of yourself," said Not.
"Sure I do," I muttered.  I was starting to feel distressingly like I usually felt when I was awake, and I didn't like it much.  Not should either go away or change the subject.   He didn't.
"Also, I don't think you have a good grasp of who Brie is, either.”
"She's a drama person.  Drama people are just like that."
"Like what?"
"Like she is!"
"And how is that?"
"They're more touchy and flirty and stuff like that.  It doesn't mean anything."
"It doesn't mean anything, or you don't want it to mean anything?"
"You are really on my nerves now."
"You could always wake up," said Not.
"Shut up," I said.
"Want me to change the subject?"
"Yes, please."
"Why aren't you with Brie right now?"
"That isn't changing the subject," I said.
"Sure it is," said Not.  "Before I was asking you if you were going to ask her out, and then we were talking about whether or not she likes you, and now I'm changing the subject."
"But we're still talking about Brie.  I wanted to move away from that."
"You didn't make that clear," said Not.
"I'm making it clear now.  Let's talk about something else."
"I don't want to," said Not.
"Why not?"
"I like her."
"Fine.  Go hang out with her."
"I like you, too, though.  Can't I hang out with both of you?"
"I was rude to her, all right?  I didn't really mean to be, but I was mean to her, and she's mad at me, and I need to apologize, but I'll probably just mess it up again, and I don't want to mess it up, so I'm putting it off, all right?  Does that answer your question?"
Not held very still for a moment.  "Yes, it does."
"Good," I said.  "Now can we change the subject?"
"I think," said Not, "not."
"Why, Not?"
"Because I can't figure something out."
"Are you going to tell me what it is, or do I have to guess?"
"I'll tell you."
"I'm waiting."
"I'm trying to understand why you're so convinced that you'll mess it up."
"Because I always do.  I always say the wrong thing, and my mouth doesn't work, and I carry grumpiness around me like a dark, stinky blanket.  Unless I'm making jokes, it feels like I'm just sharing that blanket with everyone I meet, and I don't want to share with Brie.  I mean, I do want to share with Brie, but not the gross blanket."
Not thought for a moment.  "That's when you're awake, though, right?"
"Yeah."
"How do you know that will be true while you're asleep?"
It was my turn to think for a bit.  "It is easier to talk in the City."
"Your feelings come out right, don't they," said Not.
"At least much closer to what I want to say, yeah."
"And you had fun with her last night."
"A lot."
"Then go find her.  Give it a try.  Apologize when you're not carrying your blanket."
I tried to get a good look at Not and failed, but kept trying anyway.  "Whoever abandoned you probably did want to be a psychiatrist," I said.  "At least a therapist of some kind."
"I thought about it," said Not, "but I don't think so.  It's just kind of easy to understand you."
"I'm that obvious, huh?"
"Like the back of my hand."
I looked down at my hand, lit from the glow of the bushes and trees around and above me.  "I've never paid much attention to the back of my hand," I said, "and do you even have one?"
"I do have hands," said Not, "but I'm not positive they have backs."
"What would an abandoned dream need backs to his hands for?" I said.
"Exactly," said Not.
I thought about what he was saying.  He had a lot of good points.  I was being grumpy more out of habit than anything else.  Unlike during my waking hours, apologizing to Brie didn't seem doomed to failure in the City.  Maybe I could say the right words, or at least say it with enough sincerity that she'd realize all my wrong words were an honest attempt to say the right thing.  We'd had a lot of fun, and then I ignored her, and then I didn't even tell her I was glad to see her.  If a girl started talking to me that way, I would have been waiting for her to tell me she just wanted to be friends.
"Why not?" I said.
"Why not what?" asked the dream.
"Why not apologize?  Why not do it here?  It has a better chance of working than trying to do it during the day.  Anything can happen in the City, right?"
"Well, technically, no, not anything can happen here," said Not.
"I think I'm going to ignore that comment," I said.
"Fair enough," said Not.
"So how do I find her?"
"I don't know," said Not.
I stared at him.
"Then why did you suggest that I go find her?  And how do you find me?"
"I find you because I find you.  The rest of the time I just wander around, which is another reason that I don't go hang out with Brie.  Last time you were the one who found her."
"I didn't find her.  She found me."
"And you're sure she doesn't like you?" asked Not.
"No," I said, "I'm not."  I wasn't sure.  I'd spent lots of the afternoon talking myself out off the possibility, but Not was  pretty convincing, and I wanted her to like me.  I wanted to like her.  "But whether she likes me or not, she deserves an apology.  I should find her and give her that much, and then anything after that--we'll have to figure it out."
"That's a very mature way to look at it," said Not.
"I thought so," I said.
"There is one problem, though."
"What's that?" I asked.  "You mean, a problem besides the fact that we don't know how to find her?"
"Right."
"Please explain."
"The trees are moving away."
"Why is that a problem?"
"Trees and street lights don't get along."
Suddenly the bush scuttled away from over me, giving me a good view of the downward glowing, red gaze of seven street lights.
"I guess they've finished their territorial dominance rituals," said Not.
"Crap," I said.
One street light, scarred and scraped from the recent battle, buzzed at me fiercely and reared his head back.  As it began to streak downward toward me I realized two things: one, I was never going to roll out of the way in time; and two, I didn't want to die.
Not even in a dream.

The City of Dreams -- Part 9

[I've started posting in sections of about 2,000 words, or eight pages of book, or one hour of writing time--you can pick whichever unit of measurement works best for you.  It seems to be a decent size for reading online, and it's a good amount for me from a writing perspective, so there you have it.

[You may have noticed some differences in Not from Section 1 to Sections 8 and 9.  The reason for that is, the nature of Not changed as I wrote the first sections.  At first I thought that he was connected to the villain.  The villain who was eating up dreams, sucking them into nothingness.  You know, the villain that, from early in the story, we all knew Perry would have to face and defeat.

[Okay, so you haven't seen that villain, and that's because he (or she) disappeared.  Not became something else, the villain was removed from the narrative entirely, and the story became a completely different kind of story.  It became a book where 'nothing' happens, and I think it's better for it.

[Which brings us back to Not.  He's become more childlike.  Knowledgeable about some things, completely innocent about others.  It's how he should be, and he'll likely change more as the story goes on, but that's also how it should be.  Dreams are never complete.  At least not in the City.]



"This may not be the time or place," said Not, "but I was wondering why you're not with that girl from last night."
"Why would I be?"  I put my hands in my pockets--trying to look extra casual--and started walking away from both the street lights and the place where the church had been moments before.
"Because she's cute.  And nice.  I just assumed you'd be together."
The redly-glowing heads of the lights were following my movements.  The lights were all the exact same size, the exact same color of red, and they moved in almost perfect unison.  I was tempted to wave my arm off to one side, just to see if they'd all turn that way, like a little dance.  I resisted the temptation.
"I wouldn't even know where to find her," I said, walking sideways in a casual manner so as to keep an eye on the metal posts.  "I've only been here three times now, you may remember, and I have no clue how to find anything.  I don't even know why I show up where I do."
"Do you want my theory?" asked Not.
"I do," I said.  "Not."
"That was very well done!" he said, sounding genuinely pleased.
"Thank you," I said.  "And really, I'd like to hear your theory.  It seems like everyone has theories about the City."
"Not everyone," said the dream.  "You just attract people like that.  Or you're attracted to them, or both.  At least, that's my theory."
"And that decides where I show up?"
"Sure," said Not.  "Dreams are a malleable thing.  In fact, from what I understand, if you're in the right place between asleep and awake so that you realize you're dreaming, you can even change your dreams--the other kind of dreams, the kind that aren't in the City."
"Doesn't it work in the City as well?"
"I suppose you could try it," said the dream.  "Maybe you could get rid of the street lights."
"That's worth a try," I said.
"Go ahead," said Not.
"I did."
"They're still there."
"So I think we've established that doing that doesn't work in the City."
"And now they're following you," said Not.
"Maybe they're following you," I said.  "Did you ever think about that?"
"I did," he said.  "Not."
"May I hit you?" I asked.
"You may."
"Can I hit you?"
"I doubt it.  Also, they're only following you slowly, so there doesn't seem to be much reason for concern.  As long as nothing startles them or you, I bet you'll be fine.  Just turn a corner and get out of their line of sight and we'll head someplace where the dreams are nicer."
"Do you always tag along with me?" I asked Not.
"When I can.  You're nice to be around."
"Thank you," I said.  "Funny thing is, I actually believe you.  When I'm asleep, I feel nice to be around."
"Do you not feel that way when you're awake?"
"Not particularly."
That was when a garbage can barked at me.
It was a curious sensation for two reasons.  First, I'd always had a suspicion, even when I was awake, that garbage cans were just waiting, biding their time while we stuffed bags and bags of refuse into their mouths.  I knew it couldn't be pleasant, and one day the garbage cans and dumpsters of the world would snap and vent their rage on mankind as a whole.  Maybe, if you were lucky, you'd be around recycling bins when it happened and you'd get away with a minor beating and a stern warning, but the rest of us who were by an honest-to-goodness garbage can when it happened could expect broken bones and severe scorn.
Because of that little secret dream of mine, having a garbage can barking at me sent my adrenaline level through the roof.  Which made me jump.  Which brought me to the second reason why the sensation of a barking refuse bin was curious.  When I jumped, the street lights noticed.  I know that, because the instant after I jumped away from the garbage can, I whipped around to look at the street lights.  If I'd had more time to reflect, I might have decided that any whipping of any kind was a bad idea when dealing with tall, highly aggressive metal creatures, plowing a wide furrow through the street behind me--I might have decided that if I had had any amount of time for thinking.  Instead I was reacting, and reacting meant I was moving quickly.
The street lights must have interpreted rapid movement as fear.
"Run," said Not.
"I'm two steps ahead of you," I replied, already at a full sprint.
"Actually, you're more like a step-and-a-half ahead," said the dream, "and that's because I'm being courteous.  I know young men like to feel good about their physical abilities, and so I didn't want you to think that I was faster than you."
I was too busy trying to stay on my feet as I turned a corner to answer.  A barking garbage can had been frightening, but there was something about the rumble of a swath of crumbling blacktop and cement that was quite a bit worse.
"How do I lose them?" I said, still able to breathe decently, though I knew that wouldn't last.
"I have no idea," said Not.  "But I wanted to make a comment about the girl you were with last night before you wake up.  Do you mind?"
I'm pretty sure that my face sent a strong message as I glanced at Not.  If I'd put words to it, it would have said 'Are you kidding?!' but I was too busy running to get the words out.
"Turn right up here," said Not.  "There's a park not too far away."
I turned.  The streetlights kept swimming their way through the street behind me.  I could hear their rumble turn to follow.
"So, the girl, Brie," said Not.  "I think she likes you.  She may have seemed like a girl who is flirtatious with everyone, but I don't think so.  I think she likes you."
I was breathing far too hard to answer, so I didn't bother.  Instead, I crashed into the back of a parked car, pushed myself off with my hands, and kept running.  The car honked at me and kept honking--until a half-dozen or so street light heads started smashing into its roof and hood.  I knew they were doing that because I looked back when the loud banging started.  The car didn't keep honking for very long after that.
Also, unfortunately for me, it didn't provide much of a distraction for the street lights.  I kept running.
"How far?" I gasped out.  I'd never had a pain in my side during a dream before, but I had one then.
"Two blocks or so," said Not.  "Then the trees ought to give you some breathing room.  Street lights and trees don't get along too well."
I stored that bit of information away as something good to know and felt a bit of hope, since I could make out a halo of light ahead that I assumed was what a park filled with glowing trees would look like.
Unfortunately, at least for that bit of hope, part of that glow turned out to be red light from the heads of another small herd of street lights.  They looked up at me as I slid to a halt.
"Bad," I gasped.
"It does look pretty bad," said Not.  "Maybe this apartment building is open."
I turned toward the door, but the apartment building glared at me and snapped a metal grate down over its entryway.
"I guess that's not an option," said Not.
I looked back toward the stampede of street lights that had been following me for blocks only to discover that they were no longer stampeding.  In fact, they had slowed down, stopped, and were making angry electric buzzing noises as they looked past me.  I turned back to the new cluster of street lights and found that they were doing the same posturing dance, heads bobbing, lights buzzing.
"That's interesting," said Not.  "I didn't know that street lights were territorial."
I would have found it much more interesting if they hadn't been facing off over me, two groups of angry steel, posturing, with me in the middle.  I could imagine them, like mountain sheep in those nature movies, charging together and bashing heads.  The nature movies had never shown anything getting in the way of those charges, but I didn't think anything that did would come out of it too well.
"What happens?" I wheezed, hands on my knees.
"What happens when?" asked Not.
"Get hurt," I gasped.
"What happens if you get hurt in the City?  That is an excellent question," said Not.  "Unfortunately, I've never been awake, so I can't tell you.  My experience is limited to the dreaming world.  I do know quite a lot about the City, not so much about the other real world."  Then, apparently feeling bad that he couldn't answer my question, Not added a 'sorry' on the end.  I appreciated the thought.
Two of the streetlights, one from each group, had moved slightly ahead of their respective herds.  Each was buzzing loudly, and the heads of their companions were bobbing in unison, gradually getting faster and louder.
"I think they're about to charge," said Not.
I looked around, desperate for any kind of cover.  All the buildings around me were closed up tight and huddled into themselves.  No cars, not even a barking garbage can.  I was alone, in the open, between two aggressive herds off angry city lighting.
"So do you think you'll ask Brie out?" asked Not.  "I do think she likes you."
The street lights charged.
The street where we were was a broad enough place that you wouldn't think I'd have any trouble staying out of the way.  I'd just have to notice which way they were charging, pick another part of the road that was well out of the way, and watch while the sparks flew.  The problem was, when they charged, they did it in a weird, weaving rush that left skewed trails in the street behind them.  First I dodged left, then back right, then left again.  Finally, convinced that no direction was going to be good for me, I ran for the wall of the nearest building and slid into the corner where sidewalk met brick and huddled there.
The two alpha-street lights crashed into each other, and there really were sparks.  They rained down in a shower around me, yellow and brilliant, even in the vivid silver light of the moon.  The buzz from the lights was loud over me, drilling into my skull with a pain sharper than a headache.  I covered my ears as the lights reared back and smashed into each other again and again and again, a fireworks show that was far too close for my comfort.
"On the plus side," said Not, "they’ve forgotten about you."
That, at least, seemed to be true.  The street lights pulled back from each other, a brief pause as the herds kept up their bobbing, buzzing dance.  Then they rushed together again, and I decided it was then or never.  Staying as small as I could, I crawled on my hands and knees toward the possible refuge of the park, hoping I could slip past the second herd of street lights while they were busy egging on their leader.  My hands and knees scraped on the sidewalk as I scuttled along, but I couldn't convince my body to go slowly or carefully.  Speed was the only thing my body understood, and my mind didn't have many complaints about it.
"Looks like you'll make it," said Not.  "These street lights really are fascinating.  And frightening, I think.  I have to wonder if we're related.  We're both creatures that grow out of dreams, you know.  That isn't to say that we're directly related, since I'm pretty sure that I come from one person's dreams, and these street lights are more a product of collective dream consciousness, but even so, we're all dreams.  Cousin-dreams, maybe.  Something to think about."
I didn't think about it.  I just scampered, craning my neck to look up at the bobbing lights dominating the center of the road as I willed myself as small as I could go against the street's edge.  I had never realized before how really tall--and intimidating--a street light could be.  I'd always been glad for their light before.  I wasn't sure how I'd handle it next time I had to go walking at night.  Bring a flashlight and stay away from the street, probably.
I made it far enough past the herd that I risked climbing cautiously to my feet, tried to walk quietly away, and ended up running, glancing back over my shoulder.  None of the lights seemed to see me, but it still felt like an hour before I was gasping on the ground, lying hidden in a faintly glowing bush, somewhere in the middle of the park.

The City of Dreams -- Part 8

[Once again, how I feel about my writing and the quality of my writing seem to be entirely independent functions.  If what I'm posting today is good, it does not reflect how I felt while I was writing.  If it isn't good, then tell me gently.  Also, I'm not fishing for compliments.  I'm asking for them outright.]


"Where do you keep coming from?" I asked.
"I'm around," said Not.  "And I'm Not."
"These puns are going to get old some time," I said.
"What puns?"
Father Thomas was smiling.  "Why don't you both come back to my office," he said.  "I think it's time for something to drink.  You like orange juice?"
"I love it," said Not.  "But I don't drink."
"I'd love some," I said, and we all made our way to a side door that led out into a more modern looking addition, something that from the inside seemed very much like a house built onto the side of the older gray stone and carvings of the church.  A short hallway and we were in a well-lit little room with overstuffed chairs, magazines on a table, and pictures on the wall of Father Thomas and other people I didn't know.  In some of the pictures the priest looked younger, and in some he looked older.
"Sit down," said Father Thomas.  "I'll be back in a minute."
"Do you care which chair you get?" I asked Not.
"Of course," he said.  "Not."
I blinked at him and sat down in the one closest to me.  He hovered somewhere in the area of another.  A few magazines hopped upright on the table and fluttered their pages to get my attention, but I politely said no thank you and they settled back down.
"Why do you keep following me?" I asked.
"I'm--"
"I know," I interrupted.  "You're Not."
"I wasn't going to say that."
"What were you going to say?"
"I'm attracted to you," said Not, hard to look at as always.
"I'm not sure how to take that," I said.
"It's not romantic," said the maybe-man.  "Though, based on the reaction of the girl who was spending time with you yester-night, you aren't an unattractive person.  Have you ever thought of using that to get free food?"
"What?"
"From what I understand, girls will sometimes bake or share food with a boy that they're attracted to.  I admit, my real world experience is limited, but I've seen it happen in the City with some consistency."
"Are you crazy?" I asked.
"I'm not sure," said Not.
"Here we are, then," said Father Thomas.  "Three glasses of orange juice.  I brought you one, Not, even though you don't drink."
"That's very thoughtful," said Not.
"And this is for you, Perry.  It's not exactly like orange juice I've had when awake, at least not in recent years.  It's much more like the orange juice I had as a child, so I hope you don't mind pulp in it."
"Pulp is fine," I said.  I didn't really like pulp in my orange juice, but it wasn't as bad as when I was younger.  Since junior high I could get pulpy orange juice down without gagging, and one sip told me the flavor on this juice was good.  Very good.  I said as much.
"I'm glad," said Father Thomas.  "I've tried to find it's match in the waking world, but I live too far from any orange trees.  I think fresh picked and fresh squeezed is my only chance, but I've been assigned to cold places recently."
"You're a priest in real life?" I asked.
"This is real life," said Father Thomas, smiling, "but I know what you mean.  Yes, I'm a priest awake as well as asleep.  It's become a part of me, and I'm glad.  There was a while when I would come to the City as a professional ping-pong player."
"Is there such a thing?" I asked.
"I don't know, but that didn't stop me from dreaming it."
"How come I haven't come to the city as something different?"
"Haven't you?"
I thought about it.  "I guess I have.  Kind of.  I'm happier here."
"Happy is not a bad thing to be," said Father Thomas.
"No, it's not," said Not.
"Yes," said the priest.  "Let’s not forget Not.  It seems you've attracted an abandoned dream, young man."
"Is that what he is?"
"I told you that's what I am," said Not.
"What are abandoned dreams?"
Father Thomas's smile went sad.  "Are you up for a bit of guesswork from an old man?"
"Sure."
The priest took a drink from his juice and settled back into his chair, crossing his legs.  "This place is called the City of Dreams.  I don't know who gave it that name, but it seems a good enough description.  We only come here when we sleep, and anyone who looks around can see that the normal rules of our waking world don't apply here.  No, thank you," he said to the small table that had wandered over to him, "I wouldn't care for a magazine right now."
He took another drink.  "So in a world made of dreams, there must be all types of dreams here.  Good dreams, nightmares, an amalgam of mankind's desires, swirling together into a surprising place where we meet.  Here.  The City.  Some dreams that make their way here are dreams people believe in passionately.  I've seen great kindness in the City, and great selfishness.  I've seen violence and gentleness.  All these things wash their way to the shore of a church at some time, and we do our best here to help with them."
"What does this have to do with me?" asked Not.
"You, my dear Not, are an abandoned dream.  Someone wanted you very badly, or still wants you.  You are a fragment of a person's aspiration--we might even call you a piece of his soul.  You are desired and forgotten, all at the same time."
"That sounds very said," said Not.
"I think it is," said Father Thomas.
"So why is he attracted to me?" I asked.
"I have no idea," said the priest, "though perhaps you can tell me.  Do you have any idea?  Take a close look at him and tell me what you can see."
I turned to face Not again.  I blinked.  I squinted.  I couldn't.
"He's too slippery," I said.  "My eyes keep darting off to the side.  It's not comfortable."  I don't like it, I thought.  Trying to look at Not makes me feel sad.
I turned back to Father Thomas, and his eyes were on mine.  He looked at me for a moment more, his face serious, and then he smiled.
"That's all right," he said.  "We don't always have to understand everything.  Does having Not around bother you?"
I thought about it.  "Not really, I guess.  He does pop up at odd times."
"Dreams usually do that," said Father Thomas.  "Would you like more juice?"
"Yes, please."
Father Thomas walked out of the room and called back to me.
"Tell me about yourself, Perry. What do you like to do in the waking world?"
"What do you mean?" I asked.
"What are your hobbies?"
"I'm in choir at school."
"Do you like choir?" asked Not.
"I think so. I mean, my friends are in choir."
"But it's not your passion," said Father Thomas, coming back into the room with my refilled glass."
"I hadn't ever thought about it," I said.
"Well then, what else do you do?"
"I read a lot."
"About what?"
"Fiction mostly. Stories. Sci-fi and stuff. Fantasy."
"Watch much TV?"
"Depends on the day."
"What's your favorite show?"
I thought about it. "I don't really have one, I guess."
"I'm having a hard time getting a picture of your life, Perry. You've told me a few things that you do, but I suppose I wanted to know what you were interested in. What makes you tick?"
I don't know how I knew, but Not was looking at me. I looked back at him. It made me feel sad, but for that moment I didn't mind it so much. There was something about being in the City that freed up the the muscles in my jaw, made it easier to talk, to say things that I never knew how to say when I was awake. It made it okay to be a little bit sad.
"I don't like much of anything when I'm awake," I said. "I don't know when it happened, but I stopped enjoying things."
"How do you mean?" asked Father Thomas.
"I used to feel excited about pretty much anything. My sisters called me hyper, and I guess I was. I really loved the stories I read, loved TV shows. I could have told you every major location in Middle Earth, what happened there, and even a lot of the dates. I new the first three books of Isaac Asimov's FOUNDATION at least as well as Asimov did, because I figure he forgot a lot of it after he wrote it, but I read it so often I didn't forget anything."
"I hate to interrupt, but what's 'Middle Earth?'" asked Father Thomas.
"It's a made up world in 'The Lord of the Rings.' By J.R.R. Tolkien."
"I've heard of him," said the priest, nodding. "Go on. Do you not like things that way anymore?"
I shook my head. "I don't know what happened. You know those fancy crackers you get that have seeds and specks in them? Life used to feel like that. Now life is all saltines."
"Saltines aren't necessarily bad," said Father Thomas.
"No, they're not. But I like the kind with seeds better."
"Hmm," said Father Thomas. "And you don't know when this happened?"
I shrugged. "It just crept up on me."
"Like a rug," said Not. "They sneak into all kinds of places. Hard to keep them out."
Father Thomas smiled at Not, then looked back at me. "You, young man, are depressed."
"What?"
"You are suffering from, what sounds to me, like chronic and severe depression."
I shook my head. "I'm not depressed."
Father Thomas shrugged a little and took another drink. "It's something to think about, but everything you're telling me filters through my nearly fifty years of trying to help people, and if I had to make a snap diagnosis, I would say that you are depressed."
"But I'm not suicidal or anything."
"I'm very glad to hear it, but not very many people who suffer from depression are. It's more like a cloud over everything they do. It's like a world that used to be in color has suddenly become black and white."
I stared at him. "That's exactly how it is," I said.
"Do you feel that way here?" he asked.
I shook my head.
"Interesting," said the priest.
"What does that mean?" I asked.
"I have no idea," he said. "Perhaps we can find out some other time. You'll come visit me again?"
"Why can't we figure it out now?" I asked. I wanted to. Suddenly my problem had a name: depression. I wasn't sure if I was glad about that or not, but I felt something in my stomach. A little fire there. A name meant that people knew about this. If people knew about it, they might know how to change it. Fix it. Fix me.
"I'm afraid we can't figure it out now," said Father Thomas, "because I'm about to wake up. It comes with being old. I haven't managed to sleep through the night in thirty years."
"What wakes you up?" asked Not.
"The Call of Nature."
"What does it sound like?" asked Not.
Father Thomas suppressed a smile. "Like a flushing toilet."
"What an odd sound," said Not. "I understand some things very, very well, but other things are strange to me."
"Dreams are never complete," said the priest. "At least not in the City. Goodbye, Perry. Do come again."
"Of course," I said. "If I can find this place."
"You will," said Father Thomas, and he was gone.
Not and I were suddenly standing on the street. At least, I was standing. Not was sort of hovering.
"I don't think we should stay here," said the abandoned dream.
"What makes you say that?"
"There's a gang of street lights over there. They can get territorial."
I looked around and noticed that all the cars and the few people that had been on the street before were nowhere to be seen. Down the road a little was a cluster of six or seven street lights, much taller than me, and much more made of metal. Also, the light from their bulbs was a very angry red.
"How do we do this?" I asked.
"I suggest you move slowly. I'm not positive, but I think they can sense fear."
"That's a problem," I said.
"Why's that?" asked Not.
"I'm pretty sure I'm afraid.”

The City of Dreams -- Part 7

[Having a timer to push my word count is extremely invigorating.  Also, knowing that I can turn out two-thousand words in an hour gives a great feeling of power.  RAWR!  (That was me feeling powerful.)  So here's the next section of the story, bringing today's word count to over 4,600.  This book might actually get finished!  Then I can start writing my 'Lord of the Mansion' story.  Or the second 'Pete and The Dog.'  Or 'The Babylon Cycle.'  Or 'Night Kingdom.']



The drama room wasn't a long walk from the choir room.  It was, however, a trip across at least two different social circles.  I had to make my way past the band geeks--not a rude term; that's what they called themselves--and the orchestra people--which, really, is not a very original way to describe yourself--and enter into drama territory.  Honestly, I didn't know what they called themselves, but they were a distinct group.
Brie wasn't in the hallway, so I tentatively opened the door into the drama room.  It was a new experience.  I'd seen glimpses of the room from outside the windows, but that was as far as I'd ever gone.  Now I was stepping inside.  The room was disappointingly normal.  There was a small, raised stage on one side, but the desks, random tables, and TV on the wall made it just about like any other classroom in the school.
There were a few clusters of people eating lunch, mostly on the loud side, which I'd expected.  What I didn't expect was the fact that I couldn't see Brie in any of them.
That left me with a dilemma.  I could turn around and walk away.  I mean, it wasn't like the world would end if I didn't apologize to Brie for a few more hours.  At least, I didn't think it would, though I suppose I wasn't an expert on the ending of this world or any other.  Maybe it was like the butterfly-flapping-its-wings thing, where a butterfly in Brazil makes Chicago snow over.  Maybe if I didn't apologize to Brie, the world actually would end, and it would be my fault.  For some reason that didn't seem too far fetched at the time.
But if I walked away, Sook would be on my case.  I like Sook.  She's funny, and she hardly ever messes up her 'r's and 'l's anymore, which is pretty amazing for a Korean.  I used to think it was charming how she couldn't say them, and then I tried to learn Korean.  Turns out they have a letter that's somewhere between 'r' and 'l.'  I had a really hard time saying it.  Then I swore I would never make fun of people learning English again.
Like I said, Sook would be on my case, and while I was certain I could mess things up with Brie to the point that she would never talk with me again, I knew Sook wouldn't go away that easily.  First, I didn't want to lose Mike's friendship, and he was pretty attached to her.  Second, Sook had this way of tackling problems head-on.  And she was a pesterer.  If Mike or I did something stupid, she'd pester us until we fixed it.  It was annoying, mostly because she was usually right about what we'd done wrong, and apologizing stinks.
So if I left the drama room without at least trying to find Brie I knew Sook would be on my case.  I was too tired to have her on my case.  It was a far better option to suck it up and talk with someone.  Someone I didn't know, because I didn't see anyone in the room that I knew well.  I may have mentioned that sometime in the last year I stopped remembering names.  There was a reason for that: I didn't like meeting people anymore.
It was unavoidable, though.  I took a deep breath, picked a small cluster of girls at random, and walked over.
"Hi," I said.
A girl in dark clothing with straight, dark hair falling over her face looked up at me.
"Hi, Perry," she said.
Dang it.  She knew my name.  That left me two options: admit I had no idea who she was, or bluff my way through.  I chose the option that might require more explanation in the long run but less right now.
"Have you seen Brie?" I asked.
"Which Brie?"
Dang it again.  I had no idea what her last name was.
"The one with brown, curly hair, moved here recently."
"Brie Mitchell, right.  She's not here."
"Was she here for lunch?"
The friends looked at each other, shaking their heads.  "Don't think so.  Though she usually is."
I breathed in and out.  "Thanks," I said.
"You want me to tell her your looking for her?"
"No, that's okay.  Thanks again."
I headed back to the door and left the drama room to the sound of laughter behind me.  My brain told me they weren't laughing at me--and I'm sure they weren't--but my gut said otherwise.  A guy never likes to leave a room to the sound of laughter, at least not unless he said something really funny.  Or was making a dramatic exit.  Asking about a girl and leaving to the sound of laughter was not a good combination.


The rest of school passed in a blur.  Sook let me off the hook--'for now'--but the message was clear: find Brie and apologize.  Something that I could even do over the phone now, she pointed out, since I knew Brie's last name.  Mitchell.  I remembered it.  It stuck in my brain the same way that her first name had stuck there, which proved to me that I cared.
I wasn't sure I wanted to care.  Everything was hard.  I did my biology homework instead of paying attention to the lecture, sang all the words in choir without really remembering any of them, and stared at the window all during world history.  It was not a good day.
By the time I got home I was done.  I wanted the world to stop.  Pull the global emergency brake and shoot myself off into space at a vector and velocity that I could probably calculate now, considering what we'd been learning in calculus.  It was an appealing image, the thought of floating out into space, empty, calm and did I mention empty?  Also, I would be alone.  I wanted to be alone.
Fortunately that was very possible.  Mom and Dad were out, Cindy was running cross country, and Tamara was off to her part-time job selling trendy clothes to people who were seldom as trendy as what they wore.  I'd never really bothered with a job since Mom and Dad were happy to pay for my dates--enthusiastic, even, every time I'd gone on one, which was a little disconcerting--and I didn't spend much money other than that.  I borrowed any manga, anime, or movies from Mike, and otherwise I was content with the local library and its extensive audio-visual selection.
That afternoon I didn't even have to raid my library shelf.  Some station was having a Batman marathon, running back-to-back-to-back episodes of the really old Batman TV shows.  Not the animated show, but the live action episodes with the barrel-chested Batman, the death traps at the end of every other episode, and the 'POW!', 'PAFF!', and 'BIFF!' flying out of the screen at you whenever someone threw a punch.  I popped a bag of kettle corn, made lemonade from one of those buckets of powder, and sat down to try to figure out why the villains always put Batman in a fiendishly devised death device...and then left.  They always left.  They never stayed around to make sure he was dead, and never just shot him.  Maybe there was a villains' code, something that said they could not, under any circumstances, be there when the hero was killed.  If they did, their villain's license would be revoked, and no villain wants his license revoked.  Then you’d just be a two-bit crook, and that's pathetic.  I wouldn't want to be a two-bit crook.
That was where Dad found me, on the couch.
"What's up, Perry?"
"Batman's fighting the Archer," I said, "which means that even the 'pow's and 'whap's have bad English accents.  'Poweth!'"
"I remember this episode," said Dad, sitting next to me.  "Isn't this the one where he gets put in a death trap, and then the Archer leaves, and he gets out with something on his utility belt?  'Bat utility rope,' or something like that?"
"All the episodes are like that, Dad."
"Oh," he said.  "It's been a while."
"In the movie," I said, "he even has 'Bat shark repellant.'  Which, if you think about it, is something we all should keep with us at all times."
"Are there sharks in the lake that I didn't know about?" asked Dad.
"You can never be too careful," I said, taking another handful from my second bag of kettle corn.
We watched for a while as Batman and Robin did their coordinated fight moves then walked up the side of a building.  Batman and Robin did the walking.  Dad and I just watched.
"How was school?" asked Dad.
I shrugged.  "Nobody stole my lunch money."
"Do we give you lunch money?"
"No."
"I guess that makes it extra good that nobody stole it."
I smiled.  "Exactly."
"Make any new friends?" he asked.
"Dad, this isn't kindergarten.  We don't make new friends in high school.  We're locked into fixed social circles that we'll rigidly cling to until we graduate, and in ten years when we come back to the reunion, we'll hang out with exactly the same people again."
"So no new friends."
"Kind of," I said.
Dad's eyebrows went up.  "You 'kind of' made a new friend?"
"More like I probably lost a new friend."  The television was spouting a commercial that ended in a logo that I didn't recognize.  "I don't even know what that commercial was for," I said.  “It just showed lots of old people fishing and hiking.”
"Investment company," said Dad.  "You want to talk about it?"
“About what?”
“Losing a new friend.”
"Not really."
"If I ask you later tonight, will you want to talk about it then?"
"Not really."
"Can I have some of that popcorn?"
"Sure."
Dad grabbed a handful, the TV jumped back to the Caped Crusader, and I lost interest.
"I'm done," I said.  "You want to watch the rest?"
Dad shook his head.  "I only sat down because you were here."
I pushed the button on the remote and stood up, picking up stray bits of popcorn from the floor.  "You want the rest?" I asked, holding out the bag.
"Sure," said Dad.  "You positive you don't want to talk about it?"
"I have homework," I said.  "Thanks, though."
"Yeah," said Dad, and I walked out of the room and up the stairs.  I didn't really have homework.  I'd finished it all in class, but when you're a grumpy wad of used chewing gum--which was kind of how I felt--then you don't really want to go sticking to other people.  You might spread the grumpy around.  And used chewing gum is gross.  So I went into my room and pulled out the next novel on my English reading list.  It was a book about a girl who, if my guess was right, was destined to die a meaningless death after years of suffering.  I skipped to the end just to check.
I was right.


When I woke up in the City, I wasn't anyplace that I recognized.  It was a more rundown part of town and the old brownstone buildings next to me looked grumpy.  They were waking up and getting into pushing matches with each other, plaster and molding chipping off as they bumped shoulders.  Two guys were sitting on the hood of a car, and the car was glaring at me.
I suppose I hadn't thought about it, but a city made of dreams would have to have this kind of place as well.  Not all dreams are as nice as hanging out with Brie.
Which I wanted to do.  I was in the city, and I could breathe again, and I missed Brie.  I was an idiot.  I'd completely screwed things up at school and I had to fix it somehow.  Only problem was, I didn't have any idea which way it was to Big Ben's market, and I didn't even know if she'd be there.  In the meantime, the streetlights around me were starting to wake up and they weren't glowing the pleasant kind of yellow that I'd seen in other parts of the city.  In fact, the one above me looked particularly red.  I wasn't sure I wanted to meet a red streetlight.
I glanced around, trying to pick the most likely direction to safer dreams, and saw a church up the block and across the street.  Looked like as good a place as any, so I checked both directions, saw no traffic at all, and headed across.  I jumped when a rough looking scooter barked at me, but other than that made it to the church without incident.
It was an old-style church, with the high roof, gargoyles, and a big stained-glass rose window facing the street.  For all that it looked Gothic and imposing, it felt safe to me.  Warm.  A small door inside the immense front doors opened and pale, yellow light spilled out onto the silver-lit street.
I stepped inside and looked around.  There were a few people in the pews, sitting quietly or praying, and there was organ music swirling in greens, whites, and yellows around the pillars.  The streams of color tickled at my palms as I held out my hands to feel them.  It was powerful music, large and triumphant and majestic.  I took a deep breath and smiled.  A person could do just about anything listening to music like that.
The organ stopped and, after a minute, I heard steps coming down a narrow spiral staircase to my right.  I realized that the organ loft must have been above me, and it wasn't long before the organist made his way down to the ground level.  He was a tall priest, what was left of his white hair carefully combed, organ music in his hands.  His eyes lit up when he saw me.
"Welcome to Saint Michael's, young man.  We don't get many young people in.  Churches aren't what most people dream about anymore, unfortunately.  I'm Father Thomas," he said, holding out his hand.
"Perry Crows," I said.
"It's nice to meet you, Perry."  Father Thomas looked over my shoulder.  "And who is your friend?"
"I'm Not," said Not.

The City of Dreams -- Part 6

[Woke up at two this morning.  Finally, around four-thirty, I decided it was time to get some writing done.  An hour's worth of writing later, and this is what you get.  Poor Perry.  Depression is no fun.]


I was awake just long enough to stare at the clock, find out it was two in the morning, and crash back into my pillow.  Five minutes later, by the clock, I stumbled out of the bed to the bathroom, stubbed my toe on a box someone had left in the hallway, and still managed to fall asleep again.  I don't think I particularly wanted to be awake, but the only dreams I had were not the slightest bit real and involved collecting monsters to fight against evil teenage girls that wanted to date me.  I'm pretty sure I was fighting them because they were evil and not because they wanted to date me, but it wasn't really clear in my dream.
My alarm kicked me out of bed far too soon.  I didn't want to shower, but I did.  I didn't want to eat breakfast, but I did.  I didn't want to get a ride to school with my just-older sister, Tamara, but I did.
"You look like crap," said Mike in calculus.
"I bet you say that to all the girls," I said.
"No, seriously.  Did you not sleep last night?"
"I slept."
"How much?"
"Lots."
"So what's with the face like you've come from a funeral?"
"Just don't feel like being here today."
"You and everyone else in the building," said Mike, laughing.
"Yeah, but I really, really don't feel like being here."
"Something bad happening?" he asked.
"Probably," I said.  English was next period.  It would be fine.  Brie was nice.  I was funny.  Everything would be fine.  I wanted to go back to bed.
"You need some Tylenol or something?" asked Mike.  "I've got some in my backpack.  Sook always gets headaches, so I just started carrying a big bottle with me."
"Shouldn't take those too often," I said, putting my forehead down on my desk.  "It'll kill your liver."
"Head now, liver later.  How do you pick?  Do you need to go home, Perry?  You don't look good at all."
"Yes, I need to go home.  No, I'm not going to."
"You're not making any sense," said Mike, "and I need to concentrate to finish this assignment.  Some of us have to focus on calculus."
"You can copy mine later," I said.
"Now I really know you're not feeling well.  You never let me copy."
"Mike, if you find me a pillow right now, you can copy my homework for the rest of the year."
"And then what would I do on the AP test?" he asked.
"You can copy that, too."
"Go to sleep, Perry."
I didn't, though it would have been nice.  Why was I so nervous?  True, I was never much of a flirter, but I'd never had problems talking with girls.  Touching them wasn't exactly in my comfort zone, but I could talk with anyone.  I just didn't always want to.
And that should make meeting with Brie easier, right?  Because I did want to talk with her, and that should make meeting her in English really easy.  Then we could go to lunch together and hang out and get to know each other when we were awake.  Easy as can be.
Except that I felt horrible.  Numb, like the dentist had pumped in Novocain all over my body.  I flopped my arms around under my desk, like I was struggling my way out of the dentist's chair.  It probably made me look like an idiot, but it made me feel just a bit better.  A bit.
"I don't get it," I said.
"Don't get what?" asked Mike, not bothering to turn around.
"Why do I feel the way I do?"
"Maybe you're getting the flu.  Don't breathe on me."
"I'm sure that's it," I said.  "Come closer and I’ll cough."
"No way," said Mike.  "If I'm getting the flu, I'm getting it from Sook.  That way I'll at least have a little fun doing it."
"You two make me sick," I said.
"Don't worry," said Mike.  "I'm not kissing you."
"That was exactly what I was worried about."
"I thought so.  Now shut up.  I need to concentrate."
"This class is unoriginal," I said.  "Everything is so derivative."
"Was that supposed to be funny?" asked Mike.
"I guess not," I said, and clammed up for the rest of the period.
The walk to English was too short.  Mike was saying something on the way about a new manga series he was reading that involved evil teenage girls and collectible monsters--a little bit too much of a coincidence for my comfort--but I wasn't paying much attention.  I was watching the hallway, looking for Brie, hoping at least one of us could end up sick and out of school for the day.  Maybe she wasn't even real.  Maybe I actually had made her up, and I'd look over my shoulder and she wouldn't be there.  It would be some girl named Crystal who dyes purple streaks into her hair and likes bands that use the letter 'z' everywhere they should use an 's.'
"You are walking really slowly," said Mike.  "You want me to buy you a Coke?  You need some caffeine or something."
"Caffeine gives me headaches."
"Then you can have some of my Tylenol."
"Won't that kill me?"
"No, that's Coke and aspirin, and even that's made up.  I checked it on the internet."
"Right.  And of course the internet will be right about that."
"The internet is right about everything," said Mike.  "And if you don't walk faster we'll be late."
"Let's skip English," I said.
"Dude, if you're sick, just go home."
I'm definitely sick, I thought, I just don't know how.  "I'm not sick," I said.
"Then walk faster."
"You go ahead, Mike.  Leave me.  I'll fend for myself, foraging for bags of chips and leftover food from the remains of other kids’ school lunches."
"Survivor, High School Edition?"
"Something like that."
"Oh, look.  There's our classroom.  Walk faster, Perry."
It happened so quickly, there wasn't much I could do about it.  The bell rang, we ran the last few yards to the door, through it, and into our seats.  I didn't have time to look around before the teacher started talking about our our assigned reading--or at least that's what I told myself.  No time to look around, although I could have looked around while she was talking.  I could have.  Maybe I would.  Just over my shoulder, and then I'd know, though part of me knew already.  She was there.  The City may have been a dream, but it was real, too.
I did it.  I looked over my shoulder, and there she was.  Her hair was brown and curly, and here eyes looked blue from a distance, though I couldn't be sure.  She was looking at me, but not smiling.  I could understand that.  I'd ignored her for the first ten minutes of class.  If I were her I would have been pissed.  Was she angry?  I couldn't tell, but she didn't wave at me.  She just blinked and I looked back at the teacher.  I should have stayed home.
After a while we broke into groups to discuss the book.  I think I said something, and I'm sure it was witty and insightful and intelligent, but I couldn't remember what it was.  I kept looking over to where Brie was, but her back was to me, and she only looked over once.  I was screwing it up.  I hadn't even met her in real life and I'd already killed my chances.  I thought about leaving.  I could ask to go to the bathroom and then go home and climb into bed.  Or watch TV on the couch.  Mom was across town visiting her parents until late, helping Grandma with a quilting project, so no one would make me do anything until at least dinner, and if I pretended to be asleep then Dad might let me be until bed time.  It sounded like a very decent plan.
Instead I just sat there.
"Listen up," said Mrs. Palmer.  Eventually everyone quieted down and looked at her.  "Since no one is talking about the book anymore, and I've already talked it to death, we're done for the day.  Besides, I need to finish preparing your test."  That got the groan it deserved.  "I knew you'd be excited," she continued.  "Don't leave the classroom, or at least don't be loud if you do, and enjoy your early lunch.  Now I'm going to ignore you."
"Dang it," said Mike.  "Sook's teacher never gives her an early lunch.  Now I have to hang out with you until she gets out of class."
"Should I apologize?" I asked.
"Today?  Yes.  You're much less fun than usual.  What's the matter?  You keep looking over there.  Is there a cute girl?"
"No," I said.  "I mean, that's not why I'm looking over.  I mean, it is, but it's not because she's cute."
"Dude," said Mike.  "You're flustered."
"Sort of."  Brie was looking at me again.  "I need to go talk with someone," I said.
"Sure," said Mike.
I picked up my backpack and walked over, weaving my way through the desks.
"Hey," I said.
"Hey, yourself," said Brie.  She was cute, in a not-much-makeup kind of way.  "What's with ignoring me?"
I shrugged.  "Sorry," I said.  "Nervous."
"Nervous about what?" she asked.
"I don't know," I said.  This wasn't going well.  I could feel it in my bones.  At least I could have, if my bones were somehow sensitive to awkward social situations.
"You don't have to talk to me," said Brie.  "It's not like we signed a contract or something.  And I didn't do the wave."
"You don't have to do the wave," I said.  "And I want to talk with you."
"Sure doesn't look like it," she said.
She was looking at me, straight on, and her eyes were blue, actually.  Blue and angry.  I deserved it, I knew.  I was being a jerk, though I didn't mean to be.  I was trying.  I just didn't know how to tell her that.
"Things are different for me when I'm awake," I said.
"Forget it," said Brie, standing up and grabbing her books.  "I thought we had fun, and I thought we'd have fun at school, too, but clearly you're not thinking the same way I am, so we don't have to do this.  Go hang out with your friends."
"That's not what I meant," I said.
"What did you mean?"
"I don't know," I said.  "I don't feel good."
"So go home," she said.  "I'm going to lunch."
And she walked away.  I wanted to follow her, but I didn't.  Instead I sat down in an empty desk.  I sat and stared after her, then stared at the wall.  It wasn't my best day.


"Mike said you were talking with Brie," said Sook.  We were in the choir room, as usual.
"Yeah," I said.
"She's nice," said Sook.
"Yeah."
"And pretty."
"Sure," I said.
"What did you talk about?"
I shook my head.  "Doesn't matter."
I kept eating my lunch but I noticed the look that went between Mike and Sook.  It was the same kind of look that I'd seen between my parents on one of my blackest days.  This was a very black day.
"I didn't even know you two knew each other," said Sook, pushing ahead anyway.
"We just met.  Yesterday."
"Where?"
"It's...hard to explain.  And it doesn't matter.  I don't think she wants to talk to me anymore."
"Why not?"
"I was kind of a jerk in English."
"Seriously?"  Sook looked surprised.  "I didn't know you knew how to be a jerk.  I bet you get the 'Nice Guy Award' in the yearbook voting."
"Not this year," I said.  "I don't talk to enough people."
"But still," said Sook.  "You're not mean to anybody."
"I didn't mean to be a jerk.  It just came out all wrong."  Everything comes out all wrong, I thought.
"So what are you going to do about it?"
"What do you mean?"
"Are you going to apologize?"
"Why?"
"Because she's nice.  And pretty.  And it's the right thing to do."
What's the point? I thought.  "Sure," I said, "when I see her again."
"When are you going to do that?"
"Tomorrow.  English."
"I know where she eats lunch," said Sook.
"Why do you know that?"
"The drama room."
"She's in drama?"
"You didn't know that?" asked Mike.  "She was in the musical.  Wicked Witch of the West."
"That was Brie?"  I was genuinely surprised.  "She was great."
"Her voice is normally pretty mellow," said Sook, "but she turned it up a notch for the show.  I was impressed."
I was, too.  Brie had a mean cackle.
"So are you going?" asked Sook.
"Going where?" I asked.
Mike hit my shoulder.
"Ow."
"You deserved it," he said.
"I'll apologize," I said.  "I'm just--I mean, I don't think--just not today.  It'll all come out wrong again.  I don't want to make things worse."
"From the way she walked away," said Mike, "I'm not sure you can."
Sook looked at me.  Mike looked at me.  I took a look at myself.  I wasn't happy with what I was seeing.
"Fine," I said, stuffing what was left of my lunch back into its bag.  "Drama room."
"You know the way?" asked Sook.  "I'd be happy to walk you there."
"I'll be fine," I said.  There's no way I'll be fine, I thought.