legs. My knee falls on something hard. Something hot. I feel it through the blanket. I must have knocked the halo to the floor. Before the nightmare or during? I don’t know.
I shift and pull it from beneath my knee. There’s not much light to be found, not much light for the halo to grab and reflect, but it seems to have found every bit of it. I slide it beneath my pillow and climb back onto the bed. The minute my head hits the pillow, colors swirl on the insides of my eyelids. Red and orange, blue and green, purple. Again and again, lulling, mesmerizing me until at last I’m asleep.
This time I don’t dream.
But I don’t sleep long either. A couple hours at most. When I wake, it’s to the sound of the Beach Boys and the smell of bacon.
Dad’s singing, which should really never happen. He drums dual spatulas on my quilt-covered bum for ninety-eight seconds solid before his rendition of “Surfer Girl” gets so bad I lose count. I curl into a ball, hoping to burrow through my mattress to a place where there are no singing, drumming lumberjacks.
But he’s incorrigible.
“Stop drumming. Stop, stop, stop. I’ll get up. I will. Hey! I will.”
He ignores me, moving the spatulas down to the exposed soles of my feet, where they make a slapping sound. “Do you love me, do you, surfer girl? Surfer girl, my little surfer girl. Surfer girrrrlllll . . .”
“Please, please stop singing.”
I throw the pillow over my head, but he continues on and I’m forced to plot his demise. My plan requires a well-aimed ninja-kick to distract him and catlike reflexes to grab the makeshift drumsticks. But he’s fast for such a big guy, and the moment I throw my halfhearted kick, he’s across the room, smiling at me from between the slots of a spatula.
“Mornin’, baby,” he says. “I made pancakes.”
I shove the hair out of my face, trying to huff and puff, but I’m a sucker for pancakes.
“You know you want some.”
I shove at the sheet and blanket, trying to find my legs. “Can I shower first?”
“Sure,” he says, his red freckles brightened by his performance. “Made bacon too, but that’s been disposed of.” He taps the spatula against his brawny gut.
“That’s all right,” I say, finally freeing my right leg. “I’ve had more than enough ham this morning.”
“Hardy har.”
“Hardy har yourself. Now, out. Let me shower.” Left leg’s finally free. “And just so you know, I’ll be mad at you until after I’ve had my first pancake. You put chocolate chips in them?”
“Nah, we ran out.”
“Then I’ll be mad until I’ve had at least two pancakes.”
“Fair enough,” he says, closing the door behind him.
I’m a mess, I feel it. My neck is sticky with dried sweat and my head aches. My sheets are knotted and my quilt’s flipped sideways.
I hate waking up like a zombie. Especially the mean kind. I zone out for a sec, the poster above my desk catching my eye. The child Cosette stares back at me, the words Les Misérables a banner over her sorrow. It’s my absolute favorite musical. There isn’t a lick of dancing in the whole production, but something about it swirls in my gut, rallying me to the cause of freedom. I can’t watch it without weeping, without feeling the need to sweep up a flag and wave it madly.
Ali tried to convince me to try out for it once, but there’s so much singing. The whole glorious thing is singing. And, well, I sing like my dad, only with far less bravado and never, ever with spatulas.
Ali was brilliant as Eponine. I must’ve watched her onstage a zillion times during the run, but I’d do just about anything to watch her play it one last time.
I flick away the tear that’s cooling on my lashes and move toward my desk. Something about the child Cosette pulls me closer. She hasn’t changed, the girl. She’s sweeping away just like always, but for a moment I see Olivia Holt. That same tragic expression Olivia had when our fingers brushed stares back at me from the battered child’s eyes. I turn away, refusing to feel sorry for the drop-dead gorgeous woman who gets kicks out of parading her wealth before the less fortunate. I can’t think of a single person who needs my pity less.
I unknot my sheets and make my bed, not because I’m dutiful, but because I need to ensure the halo’s tucked