Henry Franks A Novel - By Peter Adam Salomon Page 0,17

banish sleep or the half-formed memories of his dream.

His heart beat too slowly, and it seemed to be more of a conscious decision to breathe than it should be. The thought, inhale/exhale, repeated itself.

“Breathe, Henry,” he said.

He rolled out of bed and rubbed his hands over his face as he walked to the bathroom. His fingers came away wet and red. He stared at his bloody palms. In his reflection in the mirror above the sink, his nose was bleeding and he’d rubbed blood over the bottom half of his face.

When he was finished washing up, his nose was sore, his eyes puffy, and his pale skin seemed translucent where he’d scraped it raw with the towel. The snooze alarm sounded as he was about to get in the shower. He dragged himself back to his room to shut it off and collapsed onto the edge of the bed, head in his hands. His nose started bleeding again.

“Breathe.”

Henry walked to the end of the Harrison Pointe subdivision to wait for the bus. The sidewalks were cracking where the roots of the trees were trying to escape and Spanish moss hung so far down that he had to duck under it at times, but he still managed to get some tangled in his hair.

At the bus stop he stood alone, the only student not wearing shorts. He kept his eyes on the ground until a pair of sandals appeared, pink-painted toes sticking out. Henry glanced up, far enough for his vision to travel halfway over long tan legs, a small scab healing on the right knee, before returning to her toes.

“Who died?” Justine asked.

“What?”

“You look terrible,” she said. “Well, all in black as always, so maybe you’re in perpetual mourning. But, seriously, new heights of goth, very impressive.”

He looked up at her, meeting her gaze. His eyes still red from rubbing and his pale skin glistening with sweat, he swallowed whatever he had been about to say when he saw her smile.

“Henry?” she said. Her hand reached out but she didn’t touch him, then she took a step closer and dropped her voice, her smile melting away in the heat. “I’m sorry, did someone die?”

He shook his head. “No. Just...” He lowered his eyes. “Just a dream.”

The bus pulled to the curb with a hydraulic groan, the door opening on hinges in need of oiling, and they filed on board. Justine sat down in the seat in front of him as the bus pulled away.

“I’m a good listener,” she said. “Well, I’m a better talker, but … ”

Henry rested his head on the window, the glass cool to the touch despite the heat, and looked at her. The bra strap once again matched her tank top, blue this time. “You don’t match.”

“What?” she asked.

“Your toes. They don’t match.”

She laughed, and he could feel other people on the bus looking at them. “I matched yesterday. Didn’t you notice?”

He shook his head.

“You’re blushing,” she said. “You noticed.”

“Sorry.” He smiled, and then looked out the window at the imposing bulk of the Georgia Regional Psychiatric Hospital. The towers at each corner of the barbed wire fence cast a shadow over the trees lining the road.

“Who died?” she asked. “In your dream?”

“I don’t know.” Henry shook his head before looking back at her. “Strangers.”

“You didn’t know them?”

“I can’t remember.”

“Your dream?” she asked.

“No. If I knew them before.”

She turned around in her seat, resting her arms on the back. “That’s what the doctor’s for, right?”

“So I’m okay with not remembering.”

“Are you?”

He shrugged.

“What do you do when you’re there?” she asked.

“Talk.”

“You? You never talk.”

“I’m talking to you.”

She smiled. Pink lips tilted upwards, honey eyes sparkled in the summer sun, the whole framed by brown hair pulled back into a ponytail. Stray strands had escaped and curled down along her neck, sticking to her skin in the heat.

Inhale/Exhale, he thought. Breathe.

Just breathe.

eleven

The school bus baked all day in the August sun. Even with the windows opened, it was still baking when the driver pulled into the parking lot to wait for students. Dressed for summer, they placed sheets of paper on the benches before sitting down on the hot vinyl seats.

As Henry walked down the aisle, Bobby was sitting in Justine’s seat, his arm resting on the back of the bench. The bus slowly filled up and Henry briefly tried to lower his window but gave up without success.

“Justine,” Bobby called down the aisle. “I saved a seat for you.”

Henry looked up; even from a distance he could