The Dream Where the Losers Go (22 page)

“You need to come back,” she said.

“Come back where?” Lick asked guardedly.

“Back to your body,” she said. “Back to the real world.”

“Where it all happened?” hissed Lick. “Even this place is better than that shit.”

“Lick,” she said urgently, “you’re in the wrong place.
Things got mixed up. Reversed. You’re supposed to be there, and he’s supposed to be here.”

“What are you talking about?” demanded Lick.

Taking a deep breath, she launched into it. “You did forget about your brother,” she explained carefully. “
Part
of you did. You made a part of yourself forget what your brother did to you, and then you sent that part of you away. He’s always lived apart from you, here in the dark tunnel where he could forget, so part of you didn’t have to know.”

“This is weird,” muttered Lick.

“I know it’s true,” she continued slowly, “because I did the same thing. I got...raped by some guys. That’s why I came here, to the dark tunnel, where there could be some peace. Where I could forget. This is where I met the boy in the tunnel, the boy who didn’t remember the other part of his life. The boy who told me that names are secrets.”

“You told me that,” said Lick.

“He told me first,” she replied. “The boy in the tunnel told me his name was a secret because he had no name.
You
have the name. I think you and he traded places when those guys from your school beat you up. You came here and pushed him out, and now he’s stuck out there, in your body, wandering around. And he doesn’t remember anything.”

“Lucky him,” muttered Lick.

“But he doesn’t remember your mother,” she said. “He doesn’t remember your school. He doesn’t even remember his own name.”

“So, tell him,” yelled Lick.

“He doesn’t know what it means,” she protested. “Elwin Serkowski doesn’t mean anything to him. He’s always lived here.”

Lick lapsed into silence, his breathing heavy in the dark.

“He’s part of you,” she said, leaning toward him. “He’s the part of you that has peace and quiet in him.
Your
peace and quiet. You need him. He needs you.”

“Bullshit,” said Lick. In the darkness she could hear his heart thudding deep and slow, pushing everything she had said away away away.

“Listen to me,” she said desperately. “Please. Names are not secret, not anymore. Yours is Lick. Mine is Skey.”

Beside her, Lick breathed in sharply.

“Why did you wash off your arm, Lick?” Skey asked softly.

“Because...,” Lick’s voice quivered, and he paused. “Well, because Mom told me what’s real is real. You don’t need to hold onto the echo.”

“I’m real,” said Skey, her voice quivering too.

As she spoke, the darkness around them wobbled slightly. She wasn’t sure how much longer she could hold onto this place with her mind.

“I remembered what I made myself forget,” she said quickly. “The guys who raped me—it was the Dragons. Jigger and Trevor and Balfour and Pedro. All of them. They raped me last May. After it happened, I cut my arms and made myself forget. Then I dreamed myself here to forget even more.”

Lick remained silent, breathing in the dark.

“I found you here,” Skey continued. “The other part of you, the part of you that had forgotten. But I found you
there
too. At school. Every time I turned around, you were there.”

“Yes,” Lick whispered.

“I kept...touching you,” Skey said. She had started crying. “I needed to touch you, but I didn’t know why.”

“That was fine with me,” said Lick.

“Can I?” she asked quietly. “Can I now? Touch your hand?”

Lick sighed, the sound whispering through the surrounding dark. “Yes,” he said.

Reaching forward, she felt his fingertips slide over hers, then brush her palm.

“What’s this?” he asked in surprise.

“Just a rock,” she said.

Trembling slightly, their hands came together around the rock.

“C’mon, Lick,” she said. “Let’s go home.”

Their hands gripped tighter. For a moment the darkness continued to surround them, and then it dissolved. Briefly, Skey felt herself holding two overlapping hands, Lick’s and the boy from the tunnel’s, and then the body of Elwin Serkowski appeared opposite her, seated on the bed with his eyes closed. As she watched, his expression took on a look of wonder, as if something new was coming to him, he was breathing different air. Slowly his eyes opened, and she saw that they were alpine green. Lick. The boy from the tunnel. They were both here, together in one face, smiling at her.

Lick let out a quiet string of swear words, and a huge grin split Skey’s face. “You can say that again,” she said.

They were still holding hands, hers beneath his. Gently she turned their gripped hands upside-down and slid hers away, leaving the rock in his palm. “For you,” she said, smiling. “So you can come and go.”

Lick and the boy from the tunnel looked at the rock, then at her. “I think,” they said in sync, “I don’t need it anymore.”

With these words, the rock disappeared. One moment, a small gray rock with white markings and rough edges was
sitting in Lick’s palm, and the next it had returned to the dark tunnel and the meeting place from which it had come.

“Neither do I,” said Skey.

Lick shifted slowly on the bed, as if getting used to his body again. “Weird,” he muttered. “I feel different. I’m still me, but there’s not all those little fidgets running through me all the time.”

“You’re more relaxed,” said Skey.

“Mm,” said Lick. “I’ll probably never be relaxed, but it’s quieter in my head. Darker, sort of like twilight.”

“Between the dark and the light,” said Skey.

“Uh-huh,” said Lick. “And I still remember what happened with my brother, but it’s feels over now. Finished. It’s not happening to me
right now
, anymore. It’s memory, not me.”

A smile broke across Skey’s face, morning on the ocean. “I like you,” she said.

Lick was hit with a sudden massive attack of the fidgets. Then his body quieted. Reaching out, he stroked a finger along the side of Skey’s face, and she felt arousal run through her like a soft-breaking wave.

I remember you
, smiled the eyes of the boy from the tunnel.
Your stories in the wall.

Skey took Lick’s hand and watched his face burn its usual fierce red as hers flushed in response. There was no dragon’s claw here, just shy skin holding shy skin—very, very human. How she wanted this touch, it was true, she felt such joy in it. But at the same time, she knew that touching needed to come slowly for both of them. They would feel their way together gently, she promised herself. It would be like listening to stories told in the dark. Listening carefully. Touching carefully. Listening in love as they touched.

E
PILOGUE

I
T WAS THE THIRD WEEK
of February, and Skey and her mother were packing the last of her things. There wasn’t much—the entire job had taken less than ten minutes. All that remained was the small rock that sat on the dresser.

“What’s that?” asked her mother, frowning at it.

“Just a rock,” said Skey, slipping it into her pocket. “My dreaming rock.”

She had picked it up yesterday out of the snow, on her way back from school. It was an ordinary looking rock— gray with white markings and very smooth, nothing her skin could snag and tear on. She had stood in the lockup’s parking lot, sliding the rock between her fingers while she observed the wire-crossed windows, and the rock had felt like old pain—a rounded ache, with the sharp edges gone. It was something to remind her of this place.

She hadn’t returned to the tunnels since that afternoon, months ago, in Lick’s bedroom. Every time she thought of the coming trials, she felt fear, huge waves of it. Sometimes she couldn’t breathe, but then she could again. Things went on, she took one step, then another. Then another.

J
IGGER
, T
REVOR
, B
ALFOUR
and Pedro were still in the youth detention center. One month from now, she would stand witness at their trials. Her weekly sessions with Larry were helping her to prepare for it, and she would continue to see the social worker even though she had been discharged. Talking to him wasn’t that bad, once she had gotten used to the lime chair. Now she sat in it regularly. Her mother no longer attended these sessions. Conversations worked better without her.

One month away. Quickly Skey glanced at the elm outside her window and whispered their pact:
Keep going, keep going.
In response, the tree bowed in ancient grace to her and the wind. She nodded back.

“Your father will be glad to see you,” said her mother, moving toward the door.

“Who?” asked Skey carelessly as she closed the small suitcase on her bed.

“Your
father
will be coming over later to welcome you home,” said her mother pointedly.

“Let me see,” said Skey, counting on her fingers. “June, July, August...it’s been nine months. Geez, it’s nice of him to make the effort tonight. Actually, I’ve already asked two of my friends to come over for dinner to help me celebrate.”

Her mother stiffened. “And who might they be?” she asked guardedly.

“Don’t worry, they don’t belong to a gang,” Skey assured her. “You remember Lick, the guy Jigger beat up? And I also asked a girl named Tammy Nanji. She’s tutoring me at school.”

“Well,” her mother said huffily, “your father won’t be over until later. I suppose it’ll be all right. I’ll order pizza.”

“We just need to make a salad,” said Skey. “And dessert.
I asked Tammy to bring the real food. Her mom makes this great stuff.”

Her mother sniffed dubiously. “Just make sure they’re gone when your father arrives,” she said. “This is a special day for him.”

As Mrs. Mitchell turned once again to the door, Skey felt a realization open deep within her. She and her mother were different. They looked similar, but biology did not rule. Mrs. Mitchell still stood as she always had, a careful figurine impeccably arranged, waiting for the odd glance her husband might send her way. How much of her mother, Skey wondered, studying the woman before her, was hiding in tunnels of dark and light, crawling away from her own truth? How much had she forgotten?

Pushing up her sleeves, Skey stared at the scars on her forearms. She would always carry them, it was true—she would always be marked. But she knew her own stories now, she knew the truth. With the deepest breath she had ever taken, Skey claimed her future as her own. Never, under any condition, would she become her mother.

“Mom,” said Skey, “my friends will come when I need them. They care about me that much. I want you to meet them. I asked Tammy to bring enough food so you could join us.”

Her mother gave her another dubious look. “Maybe,” she said.

As they came out into the unit, Skey saw Ann hovering nearby. Her sleeves were also pushed up, displaying scars, but in the past three months Ann had gained weight. When she moved now, her bones slid close to the skin, but they weren’t as sharp-edged. Ann’s flesh was rounding her into old pain.

“I’m still here and you’re going,” she said forlornly.

“I’ll call,” said Skey. “Maybe you can come to my house to visit.”

Ignoring her mother’s sharp gasp, she walked over to the other girl. The hole between their bedroom walls had been fixed months ago, allowing them to continue their nightly wall-tapping game, but they had recently created another version for daylight. Now, as Skey raised her hand, Ann met her with an answering grin. Gently they began tapping on each other’s foreheads.

Tap tap
, they said with their fingertips.
I’m here too. Lonely on the other side, but I can hear you, tap tap tap. I can hear you, tap tap. I am with you, tap. Lonely, but with you, tap tap. Tap tap tap. With you, tap. Friend.

W
ITH A FLOURISH
, Terry unlocked the side entrance door and stepped back. Carrying her suitcase through the open doorway, Skey stood in the falling snow and grinned the grin of an escapee.

“Not gonna miss me at all, eh?” Terry grinned back.

“A little,” said Skey. “I’ll remember you. I’ll remember this place.”

They stood, Skey outside, Terry inside, the open doorway between them.

“So,” said Terry. “Tell me, Skey—what color are you feeling?”

“What color are
you
feeling?” responded Skey.

Terry grimaced. “This means deep thought,” she said.

Skey laughed. “I’ll call you in a couple of days when you’ve got it figured out,” she said, and turned to follow her mother to the
BMW
.

But Terry wasn’t giving in easily. “Skey,” she called, the grin now in her voice. “C’mon, think for me. What color are you feeling?”

The answer came to Skey, wide and sudden as sky. “Blue,” she shouted over her shoulder.

“Three o’clock on a summer afternoon?” asked Terry.

Skey turned and began walking backward. “Three o’clock,” she said, “and it’s really hot, and the radio’s playing, and I’m lying in the sun, and I’ve got nothing to do and I can do anything I want.”

She was almost at the car.

“Now you’re talking,” called Terry.

“I can do anything I want!” shouted Skey. Her entire body was singing. “I can do anything I want!”

Table of Contents

Cover Page

Title Page

Copyright Page

Dedication Page

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Epilogue