I tuck the story back with the drawings. Alissa was a better artist than she was a writer. She never told me she wrote CoH fanfiction, but it’s not at all surprising.
I fold the papers all together again and tuck them back into the fourth book, and as I’m closing the cover, something changes. Maybe it’s the love and effort she put into that fan work. Maybe it’s the scent that wafts up from the pages. Maybe it’s just my own sentimentality coming to bite me, because I’ve been brokendown today, because I haven’t been able to get out of this house and get back to my routine.
If Alissa loved this story so much, there must be something to it. If she wanted me to have these books, there must be a reason why.
Don’t I owe it to her to read them? To try to understand?
It’s not like I have anything else going on. I grab the first book, sit back against my pillows, and open it.
Interstitial
AHUNTER’S DOPPELGÄNGER
—the manifestation of their subconscious—
IS THEIR BIGGEST ENEMY.
Chapter 3
Ihad nightmares when I was little. Horrible nightmares, almost every night. Driving cars that sped out of my control. Getting dragged under water by something huge I couldn’t see. My dad sitting quietly in a chair and ignoring me, and then he would disappear and Mom would be the one ignoring me, shoving me out of the way as she searched for him. In those dreams there were usually also giant vultures that circled the house, and animated suits of armor that wanted to catch me and shove me inside themselves to trap me.
Reading the opening of the first Children of Hypnos book, I start to remember why I didn’t get very far before. It reminded me of being small, having those nightmares, waking up in a cold sweatand wandering into Mom’s room so I could sleep on the floor next to her bed. You’d think sleeping on the floor in a dark room would make a kid more scared, but knowing that Mom was there, listening to her quiet breathing, turned the room into a safe space. There was nothing coming through the doorway, or out from under the bed, or through the dark windows. Not while she was there.
It’s been a long time since I’ve had one of those nightmares, and an even longer time since Mom was okay with me sleeping on her bedroom floor. Reading this book just reminds me of being a scared little kid.
But I keep reading, for Alissa. I’m in control of my own emotions. I can make it through.
I read for the rest of the day, using her riddle note as a bookmark. Mom brings home pizza for a late dinner, and while we eat, I say, “I’m going back to school tomorrow.”
“Okay,” she says. I expected her to push back, say something like,You need more time,it’s too soon, you’re not ready.“Let me know if you need more money to add to your lunch account. Do you have practice tomorrow?”
After dinner, I retreat to my room and read for the rest of the night. I finish the first CoH book at three in the morning. Dreamhunter Emery Ashworth and her dreamhunting partner, Wes, have escaped Emery’s murderous doppelgänger—though not unscathed—and uncovered some sinister truths about their world. The thing I like the most about the story is the idea thatthe things that frighten us, haunt us, can be destroyed. Dreamhunters have that power.
I get three hours of sleep. I have one dream I remember, and in it I have a giant hammer, like Wes, and I’m running after Alissa, who carries Emery’s Peacemakers. We are fighting nameless, faceless enemies. I revel in the physical exertion and the clarity of purpose. I am made to hunt, and Alissa is the perfect partner.
Then I wake up to an obnoxious alarm jingle from my phone, and I am once again a regular person, held down to the earth by the limits of my body.
Mom is in the kitchen drinking coffee. I grab a bowl of dry cereal for breakfast, the only kind of food I can stomach this early in the morning. The smell of the coffee makes me gag.
“How are you feeling this morning?” Mom asks.
“Fine,” I say, but I am not. I feel heavy. Inoticeeverything. Normally I go through my day by routine, everything in its place, happening at its time. And even though only one thing has changed—Alissa will not be where I expect her to be—everything seems to be different in a way that makes me pay too much attention. The cereal bowl is slick. The light over the kitchen table is very bright and very yellow. I walk into the living room, smelling the stagnant air and watching dust motes swirl near the window, and forget why I’m here until I see my sneakers by the couch.
Yes. I need shoes.
I listen to music on my way to school, but songs I’ve loved foryears sound all wrong. Empty. They’re just noise. I slam the stereo off and drive the rest of the way in silence for the first time since I got my own car.
I know Alissa won’t be there, but it’s still strange to go to my locker before first period and see she is not there, waiting for me. I forget my combination for a moment, then forget how to spin the dial properly to open it.
I make it all the way to first period, counting to fifty-three steps before I realize everyone is pointedlynotlooking at me. It’s not the normal disinterest, and I can tell. They’re pretending to ignore me. My classmates, people in the hallway who know who I am and know my relation to Alissa, and especially the teachers; they are all hyperaware of me, their combined attentions like laser sights trained on my head. It’s worse than if they were looking at me. If they were looking, I could address the issue. Because they aren’t, bringing it up will only give them the opportunity to deny the truth.
I dig a dark line into my blank notebook page until the bell rings. I try to do what I’m supposed to, what normally comes easily to me, and pay attention to chemistry. I’m doing well until Ms. Lane says, “...on page one hundred seventy-two of your books.” The word “books” makes me think of the second Children of Hypnos book, waiting for me at home. I wish I’d brought it with me so I could read it. I would so much rather be reading than sitting here, being purposefully ignored.
My pen tears through the notebook page. I shift my hand and start another line.
The rest of the day is more of the same. Mr. Dean in English asks me if I’m okay. I say yes. Mrs. Lopez in calc asks if there’s anything she can do. I want to sayStop talking to me, but instead I only say no. At lunch, I sit with a few track teammates who do their best not to linger on anything serious, but Alissa’s empty seat beside me is a black hole.
Haley, our best girls’ high jumper, is the first person to address the elephant. Lunch is almost over, and conversation has died down, most everyone checking their phones or looking over their homework for the next class. Haley’s eyes linger too long on Alissa’s seat, and she catches me watching her.
