"Meaning, I don't know," she repeats. "What if this is all just a big fat waste of time?
What if my nightmare didn't predict correctly? What if there is no opening in the fence?"
"You need to have more confidence in your dreams than that." Porsha nods, letting out a sigh. She adjusts the onyx bracelet around her wrist and then reaches for the crystal in her pocket.
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We continue on, trying to work fast before the sun breaks. I run my fingers over the links of the fence, trying to sense something. That's when I feel it. It's like my whole hand has warmed over; the skin at my fingertips tingles, radiating up my arm.
"What is it?" Porsha asks, obviously noticing how I'm shaking all over.
"We're close," I whisper, the anxiety mounting in my chest.
"How do you know?"
"I just do." I feel it--there's something in this forest that I need to see--to find. "The opening's around here somewhere."
Together, Porsha and I scour the individual sections of fence, pushing at the brush and overgrowth to get a better look. Porsha lets out a frustrated sigh but continues to follow my lead. Several sections later, both hands now tingling with warmth, I find it. "Here!" I shout.
We push away the brush that surrounds the hole--a rusted tear in the fence where the metal has clearly been cut away--and crawl through. A loud bang fires in the distance. Porsha and I exchange a look, probably wondering the same thing--if it was a gunshot. If we're already too late.
At the same moment, the sun pokes its way up through the trees, signaling that it 15
too late.
"No!" Porsha shouts.
My chest constricts. My head feels suddenly dizzy. I remove the knitted scarf from around Porsha's neck and tie it to the fence, just above the hole, so we're able to find our way out. "We can't stop now," I say.
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There's a ringing in my ears that grows more piercing with each step. I hold my fingers over the sound and stumble along, following a narrow dirt path that leads us through the woods. The sun's light slices across the dried out trees and brush, making it easy to see. I pause a moment to look back at Porsha, trying to keep pace with me. Her mouth is moving, but I can't hear what she's saying. The high-pitched ringing in my ears is blocking everything else out, making my head feel even dizzier.
I turn back, trying to keep stable, trying to avoid the branches that stick out in my path. After only a couple minutes, I see movement up ahead--a group of boys, I think. One of them is pointing something--his arm's extended--and so I'm guessing it's a gun. I move closer, just a short distance away from them now.
That's when I see him.
Kneeling on the ground, he turns to look in our direction--at me. I shake my head and look harder, feeling my skin tingle. It can't be him.
But it is. I know it is.
My mouth trembles. My body turns limp. He looks away like I don't even matter. The ringing screeches in my ears and my head spins. I think I scream. I think my legs begin to wobble. Colors swirl in front of my eyes. I want to look at him again, but I can't-I feel sick. My body feels limp. A haze of hands--Porsha's, I think--swoops around me. But it's too late. I've already hit the ground. All the lights have gone out. 301
Shell
Still crouched on the ground with his back to Clay, Shell hears movement behind him in the woods. He turns to look. There are a couple girls heading toward them. One of them stares at him, her body swaying from side to side, like she's going to pass out. Shell shifts his focus to Clay, who's glaring at the girls, the gun dropping slightly in his grip. Shell plunges into Clay's middle, fists first, sending Clay reeling to the ground. 302
The gun flies from Clay's grip, into a throng of bushes. Brick runs to retrieve it. Meanwhile, Clay is able to roll himself out from under Shell. Clay struggles to his feet; Shell manages to stay in a kneeling position. Clay goes to kick Shell in the face, but Shell intercepts, grabbing Clay's foot and throwing him off balance. Shell springs up just as Clay falls backward. His head slams down hard against a rock slab. Shell pins him to the ground, a stick pressed into Clay's neck, but it appears as though Clay is unconscious. Shell glances over at the girl who fainted. She's positioned on the ground away from him, her dark hair spilling out over a patch of snow. "Is she okay?" he asks her friend. The blond girl nods, waving a hand over the fainted girl's face and unzipping her coat, trying to revive her. "She's starting to come around."
Empty-handed, Brick moves from the bushes to stand over Clay. "He isn't moving," Brick says. "Is he . . . ?"
"Dead?" Shell asks. He crouches down farther, so that his cheek hovers just above Clay's mouth and nose. "No, he's still breathing. He's just unconscious. He hit the rock pretty hard."
"Maybe he's faking," Brick says.
Shell doesn't think so, but he checks anyway. He jams the point of the stick into Clay's palm a few times, but Clay doesn't so much as flinch. "Let's get out of here . . . before he wakes up."
"We have a van," the blond girl says.
"Where?" Shell gets up.
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The blond girl points behind them, toward the dirt trail. "There's a hole in the fence back there," she says.
Shell nods and moves to help them up. "Give me a hand," he tells Brick. He goes to lift the fainted girl. That's when he notices--when he's close enough to see how familiar she looks. He recognizes her from his dreams--the girl on the beach. His soul mate.
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Shell
Shell lifts the girl into his arms while her friend leads them to the fence, out of the forest.
"Jacob," the girl whispers. Her eyes are still closed, as though only half-conscious. 'Am I dreaming?"
Shell doesn't know what to say and so he just focuses forward, trying to move quickly, noticing the bright yellow scarf tied to the fence, just above a hole. The girl unties the scarf, wrapping it around her neck and scooting through
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the hole feet-first. "Now you," she says, pointing to Brick. "We can help pull her through."
Brick crawls through the hole and Shell kneels down, sliding the girl toward the opening. A moment later, he hears a shifting sound in the brush behind him.
"Hold it!" Clay shouts.
Shell looks back. Clay is still a distance away but charging at him at full force. Shell works hard, pushing the girl through the hole, while Brick and her friend pull from the other side.
Finally through, Shell stands back up. Clay is there, a long, thick branch held high above his head. He moves to pound it down on Shell's head, but Shell ducks and dives into Clay's middle, knocking him to the ground. The branch flies from Clay's grip. Shell straddles Clay, slugging him across the jaw a couple times.
By the time Brick has scurried back through the hole to help Shell, Clay is already down, knocked unconscious again. Brick and Shell dive through the hole and jump into the van, the doors already open, the motor already running. No sooner do they close the doors back up than the van peels out and they're gone: finally free. 306
Shell
The van jolts from left to right as the blond girl tries to steer backwards through the gravel on the dead-end street. When she gets to the end, she backs into a clearing, the tires spinning as she shifts into drive, stepping down on the accelerator. "Where should we go?" she asks.
No one answers. Shell tries to catch his breath, figuring that Brick is probably doing the same, probably just as confused and relieved as he is.
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"Maybe we should go to the hospital," the girl continues. "You guys look pretty banged up."
"No way," Brick says. He's sitting beside her in the front seat. Shell knows it's because Brick's a minor that he doesn't want to go; the hospital would surely ask about his parents and find out soon enough that he's a runaway.
"Then where?" the girl asks. "I mean, I know this probably sounds totally random right now, but I don't exactly have my license yet and--"
"Who are you?" Brick asks, interrupting her.
"I mean, where did you come from? Why were you in those woods?"
The girl shrugs. "It's sort of a long story."
"Do I know you?" Brick asks, shifting in his seat. "Because I kind of feel like I do."
"It's Trevor, right?" she asks.
His mouth falls open. "How do you know my real name?"
"Your real name?"
"Nobody's called me Trevor in years."
"Well, I've been dreaming about you," the girl says. She reaches into the glove compartment for a couple Wet Naps. She tosses one to him--for his face--and another to Shell. "My name's Porsha, by the way."
Brick nods, ignoring the wipe, as though completely rapt by this girl--this girl who's been dreaming about him.
Shell remembers the dream Brick told him--how a girl's voice came to him in the middle of the night. The girl knew his real name and asked him where he was. A shiver runs down the back of Shell's neck. He's sure now that
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there was more to that dream, that somehow Porsha and Brick have a connection--maybe sort of like the connection he has to the girl sitting beside him. He glances at her just as her eyes flutter open. "How are you feeling?" he asks. Instead of answering, she slides in closer and embraces him. He can feel her tears dripping down his neck.
After several moments, she breaks the embrace, perhaps sensing how distant he seems. He takes the opportunity to study her--her long dark hair, her golden brown eyes, the X
on her neck. "I know you," he whispers.
The girl is trembling. She clasps her hands over her mouth, more tears streaming down her face.
Shell doesn't know how to respond. "What's your name?" he asks, noticing how he's trembling as well, how Porsha is watching them in the rearview mirror. The girl looks confused; her eyebrows furrow and her mouth forms a tiny frown.
"What's your name?" he repeats.
The girl shakes her head, her lips puckering up like she's going to be sick.
"Are you okay?" Shell asks.
"It's Stacey," she whispers. "Don't you know me?"
"I dreamt about you," he explains, wiping her tears with his thumb.
"Jacob," she whimpers, pulling him closer, resting her forehead against his chest. Shell pauses at the name, knowing somehow that it's his.
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"Jacob?" Porsha gasps. She turns to look back at him, the van swerving to the right. She has to grab the wheel to regain control.
Stacey kisses his cheeks and whispers into his ear--how much she loves him and misses him, and how he's never to leave her again.
He allows her to continue for several more minutes before finally pulling away. "I remember Some things," he whispers.
The girl nods, beginning to understand maybe. She reaches into the pocket of her coat and pulls out a crystal rock. She places it into his palm. "Do you remember this?" He clenches it, reminded of his pentacle rock. "I don't know," he says. "Maybe. I'm feeling a bit of deja vu, I guess."
"You gave this to me for protection and strength," she explains.
"I want to remember," he whispers, looking at the X on her neck. The girl takes his hand and places it there, running his fingers over her skin. "We need to get you home," she whispers.
Shell nods, wanting more than anything to know what home is.
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My heart races. My mind won't stop reeling. I want to scream at the top of my lungs-- Jacob is alive! Trevor is safe! We're out! We're free! But it's comatose-quiet in the van now. I think even my heart is beating louder.
All I want to do is hold Jacob. I want to jump into his lap and wrap my arms around him until my arms break. But instead I lean back into the seat, sensing how uncomfortable he is by my affection.
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I wipe my tears--a mix of elation and sadness--and try to catch my breath, grateful that my head has stopped whirring, that the ringing in my ears has ceased as well.
"Maybe we should go to the police," I say, ever eager to delve back into my role of responsibility.
"No!" Trevor says. "No police."
"Maybe we should just get a little farther away first," Jacob says. I nod, my heart roiling at the sound of his voice after not hearing it for almost five whole months now.
Porsha makes an attempt to turn on the radio, but the sound is all fuzzy and she ends up shutting it off. I glance over at Jacob again. He tries to smile but then looks away, making my heart squelch.
I know this is uncomfortable for him, but it's also hell for me. I mean, why aren't we talking? Why does my skin itch for no reason? Why can't I get comfortable in my seat?
I take another deep breath, telling myself that it's quiet because nobody knows quite what to say. What do you say? What words will make it real, make it all make sense, do justice to everything we've been through?
I look over at Jacob again, waiting for him to meet my eye, but he doesn't. Instead, the van ends up swerving to the left and I feel my cheeks get fireball hot.
"I'm really not comfortable driving the highway," Porsha says, shifting the van into park. I look out the window, noticing that we're sitting in the middle of an IHOP parking lot.
"What are we doing?" I ask her.
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"Pulling over; what does it look like? Does somebody else want to drive?"
"Let's go inside," Trevor says, wiping at the blood on his face. "We can get cleaned up and order some food."
Jacob agrees and we go.
While the guys head off to the bathroom, Porsha and I get seated at a circular table by the window. She asks me about Jacob and I tell her that it's true. It's him. He's alive.
"How can that be?" she asks, her face a giant question mark. "I mean, are you sure it's him?"
I nod. "They never found his body."
"That's insane," she says, looking half as dazed as I feel. "I mean, it's crazy."
"Crazy or not, I don't believe in coincidence," I remind her. "We were meant to come here. I was meant to help you--for so many reasons."
Jacob and Trevor join us a couple minutes later. The waitress gives us our laminated menus and we order platefuls of pancakes, hashed browns, and scrambled eggs. But I can't even think about eating. There's a rusty taste in my mouth and my eyes sting, like I could cry at any second.
I take a deep breath, relieved that my awkward energy hasn't smoldered Porsha and Trevor's conversation. They've been chattering away for the past fifteen minutes at least. I open my mouth to say Jacob's name, to start up some form of conversation, but Porsha interrupts me, announcing that she's going out to the lobby to call her dad. After she leaves, it's quiet again.
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"Hungry?" Jacob asks, after a few moments of uncomfortable silence--even more uncomfortable than inside the van.
I shrug and bite my bottom lip, wondering what happens next. I mean, Jacob is here, sitting next to me, and yet this feels so anticlimactic.
"I'm starving," Trevor says, grabbing his stomach.
"Me, too." Jacob smiles at me. "I haven't had pancakes since I can't remember when."
'A comedian." Trevor laughs.
I feel myself smile as well, grateful for the break in tension. Porsha returns to the table a few seconds later. "How's your father?" I ask. "Was he upset? He must have been really worried about you."
Porsha shrugs. "He'll get over it. Besides, I told him you'd be over to explain everything." She smiles at me and then focuses back on Trevor. "He said you could stay with us for a little while," she tells him. "He's got friends who work in Social Services; he'll work out all the legal stuff. Besides, our place is huge. We have tons of spare rooms."
"Sounds great." Trevor smiles, a tiny visible gap between his two front teeth. "Now, if I can only get used to being called Trevor."
"We could rename you," Porsha suggests, 'hut I request that it be something that begins with a the."
"How come?"
Porsha hesitates and then rolls up her sleeve, revealing the burn mark. Trevor's mouth drops open. He shakes his head and gaz
es into her eyes, not knowing what to say. "I feel like I've been looking for you forever," she tells him.
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It even gives me tingles.
I smile at the two of them, happy that they've found each other--and that he's finally safe.
Our food arrives and Jacob and I make insignificant small talk. He tells me how good the pancakes taste, how at the camp he mostly got cold cereal and rice for breakfast. I talk about my coffee--how I've been drinking it black lately, how I no longer like the flavored kind. At least I think these are things that I say. I'm not really thinking about food. I'm wondering what's going to happen now. I mean, where do we go from here?
I fake a bite of scrambled egg and watch Jacob as he enjoys his pancakes. I want to ask him about his parents--when he plans to call them, if he's looking forward to seeing them, if he even remembers who they are. "Your parents and I have been in touch a few times," I say, finally. "I could call them for you . . . you know, so they know this is real." Jacob doesn't respond right away, and so I feel bad about the suggestion--like maybe I'm pushing too much and trying too hard. But then he finally looks at me and smiles.
"That would be great," he says, his voice barely above a whisper. I smile too, continuing to push my food around on the plate, noticing a huge pit growing in my stomach by the moment. I know I should be happy--and I am--but there's a sadness, too.
This just isn't how I thought it would be.
"I hope being with my parents and seeing stuff from my childhood will help me remember," he says.
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"They live in Colorado," I say, accidentally dropping my fork. It clangs against the plate. I snatch it back up and do my best to muster a smile. It just never occurred to me--that Jacob would be leaving me again.
"I'm not leaving you," he says, as though reading my mind. "I want to spend time with you as well. I want you to fill me in on stuff--what we did together, all our old memories."
My heart does a somersault inside my chest, reassured that we're obviously still connected. A part of me wants to jump up and down. But there's another part that can't help feeling sorry for myself. He looks at me with those slate-blue eyes and I just want to crawl up inside him and stay there forever.
But he doesn't know who I am.