“What? Here?”
Now Iknowsomething is wrong.
Penn’s features scrunch together, like whatever he has to say physically pains him. He talks quickly, as if that might help. “I was hoping to stay with Ryan for a few weeks while my apartment gets some repairs, but his studio is way too small. So then I thought maybe I could stay here. With you. And in exchange, I’ll help you out at The Disco Diner. You mentioned—”
“The…Disco Diner?”
He shrugs. “Ryan told me business has been tough, and—”
“Stop.” I hold up a hand, cutting him off. “This is insane. All of it.”
“Well, damn,” he says with a clipped laugh. “Guess that’s a hard no.”
“Is this a prank?” I sputter. Then I gesture to what appears to be a wraparound porch painted rosy pink with lilac-colored trim. “What even is this place?”
Penn cocks his head. “Are you messing with me?”
“No. Areyoumessing withme?”
“Ruby, we’re…” He looks one way, then the other, and only when my focus shifts past him do I realize exactly where I am.
There’s a prickling across my skin, a thousand imaginary needles poking at my pores while the DJ in my brain delivers his grand, booming finale right against my optic nerve.
I bring my hands to my mouth and stare in disbelief.
Right in front of me, across the street, is my childhood home. Beside it, Penn’s.
I push past him and race down the colorful porch steps, whirling around to get a better look at the place where I just woke up. A place I could draw from memory.
It’s the old Victorian that sat framed inside my bedroom window as a kid—the view I woke up to for years. But the building is no longer painted a pale, fading yellow with white trim. It looks almost psychedelic. Like one of my old Lisa Frank notebooks in mansion form.
A low, crazed laugh rumbles out of me like I’m Cruella de Vil.
This isn’t real. It’s just a dream.
The strangest, most visceral dream I’ve ever had.
Penn definitely laced that Pop-Tart.
My fear dissolves into delighted curiosity as I rush back up theporch stairs, a pep in my step. I’ve never been so consciously aware of a dream. I should linger here for a while. Try to remember every absurd detail so I can tell Bridget all about it.
“This is incredible,” I declare to a still-perplexed Penn, hands on my hips. “And it all feels so real.” I poke at his biceps, incredulous as I meet his eyes again. “Even you.”
Often, my dreams’ costars are faceless, or else they’re vaguely accurate versions of people from real life, but Dream Penn is very much himself, with five-o’clock shadow covering his jawline and the telltale scar sliced through his left eyebrow. He even feels solid.
His gaze drops to where I’ve touched him before he looks at me. “What are you doing?” He motions to the scarf-bib I’ve got going on. “Is this your way of turning me down? Just act so weird that I give up and leave?”
I snort. “Honestly, not a bad tactic.”
“Look,” Penn says on a sigh. “I knew you wouldn’t love the idea of me staying in your Barbie Dreamhouse—”
“True.” I shrug. “Not even in my dreams do I want your company, Pennywise.”
His lips twitch at the old nickname. “Oh, c’mon. Not even in yourwildestdreams?”
There’s a challenge in his gaze.
“Nope. Not even this one,” I say, reveling in his confused expression.
