gearshift that you’d think he’s had years of experience driving a car, not that he’s just a fourteen-year-old without a license. I’m envious of that confidence. Where does it come from? How can I get it? My hands twist in my lap, and I look out the window at the landscape rushing by.
“I knew it,” he says suddenly, raising his voice over the loud rush of wind.
I glance at him, the swooping bangs of his copper hair blowing wild. “Knew what?”
“That you were cool, Baby V.” He spares me a glance, cheeks dimpling with a grin. “That you were one of us.”
He releases the gear shift and slides his hand down my forearm until our hands link together like pieces of a puzzle. He makes the move look so easy and nonchalant, but my stomach is bombarded with a stampeding burst of butterflies. Reynolds McAllister is holding my hand!
Oh my god, I can’t wait to tell Sydney.
Reyn drives the car one-handed, coasting down the long road that leads back to town. It’s a dark and rural, at one end of the lake. The Club is way out on a big piece of property. Out the window, I see a flash of light in the grassy fields lining the road. Fireflies, I think. But then, I realize it’s something else. My stomach lurches and I sit up, twisting my hand from his. “Watch out! There’s a—” I start, but it’s too late. The next moment is a flash of pale brown fur, the squeal of tires, Reynolds fighting against the wheel. I throw my hands up, a scream bursting—
I bolt up, gasping for air, and instinctively look next to me.
There’s nothing and no one there—just the empty side of my bed.
“Jesus,” I gasp, hand shaking as I check the time on my phone; 2:47. Rubbing my clammy face, I try to shake the nightmare. The reoccurring nightmare. Or well, mostly. It’s been a long time since I’ve dreamed it as it happened. Usually, it’s off a bit. Sometimes I’m the one driving. Other times, Reynolds is next to me, and he’s already bloodied up, mouth curling into a sick, malevolent smile. I haven’t had the real memory in so long, that sometimes I worry I’ve lost the pieces, like they just dissolved inside my brain at some point.
I’ve fought the nightmares off for a long time, mostly with the meds, but now that I’ve cut back, they’ve returned with an unholy vengeance.
Without turning on the light, I ease out of bed. I learned a long time ago not to let anyone in the house know about my nightmares or insomnia. Mom can’t stand thinking I’m alone and suffering. A thin coat of sweat makes my pajamas cling to my body and I take them off, dropping them to the floor and grabbing another pair out of my dresser. Once I’ve changed, I see the light coming from the house next door and push aside the curtain to take a peek.
The light is faint, coming from a lamp that’s out of sight. All I can see from here are Reynolds' bare legs, stretched out on his bed with a book open on his stomach. His face is out of view, so I’m able to watch him for a moment, wondering what keeps him up at night. Is it the same nightmare that I have? Or is it guilt?
Whatever it is, I think, dropping the curtain and heading back to bed, there’s a bit of satisfaction knowing that he can’t sleep either.
4
Reyn
Starting back at Preston Prep is an avalanche of overload. It was only a few mornings ago that I was living the Mountain Point life, and now all of a sudden, there are all these things. Decisions, for one. What to eat. When to sleep. When to wake up. What to do. What to study. School and football give me plenty of structure, but even the structured time here is unstructured as hell. I keep finding myself paralyzed in the face of it all, as if a choice between writing the date above or below my name on my AP Lit report is some life-altering decision.
I tap the pen against my notebook, casting my gaze around to see what everyone else is doing.
“What was up with that Vandy girl’s freakout in Art earlier?” The guy behind me whispers to his neighbor. “I straight-up thought she was about to cry.”
His neighbor lowers her voice when she replies, “Well I can’t believe Mr. Kent