In Your Dreams (Falling #4)(32)
“Daddy? Can I wear a robe to pre-school like Unco Casey?” Leah asks. She’s now standing next to me, tugging on the red, velvet sleeve on my arm.
“No, sweetie,” Houston says, standing from the table and reaching for her. He slings her up on his hip and touches her nose. “Uncle Casey is dressed like a bum, and I just don’t think that’s a good way to go to school.”
“All right,” Leah says, her voice disappointed. I’m rooting for the puppy eyes, because what’s wrong with going to school looking like a bum? Get your way, Leah!
Houston sets her down and pats her butt once as she sprints up the stairs to finish getting dressed.
“So what’s the deal? Why are you wearing your hangover robe?” Houston asks, sliding his notebook and laptop into his backpack.
“Uhm, probably because I’m hungover,” I say, not thinking that Joyce is standing nearby. She smacks the back of my head and points at me. It hurts. “I’m sorry,” I say to her.
She points at me once more with gritted teeth, just for emphasis. Over the years, Joyce has pointed at me like that a lot.
“Recording with Murph not go quite as planned?” Houston asks after his mom walks away.
“It was good,” I say, splaying my hands flat on the now-empty tabletop in front of me. I rap my fingers against the wood a few times, playing out Murphy’s melody in rhythm—only I can really hear it. “Hey, you still have your yearbooks?”
My transition into the real reason I’m here is neither suave nor subtle, and Houston chuckles.
“You still don’t really remember her, do you?” he asks.
“I do, I do,” I say, pulling my hat off and resting it on the table. Joyce walks by quickly and snags it, placing it on a hook by the door. I smile at it and run my fingers through my messy hair. “It just…I have this hazy picture, and now that we’re hanging out…”
I don’t know how to finish that sentence, so I shrug and roll my neck a few times.
“You want to know more about her,” Houston finally fills in.
“I don’t know…” I say, not able to look him in the eye. My lips purse.
He doesn’t prod. He also doesn’t say anything for about fifteen seconds, and it makes me really uncomfortable. For fifteen long seconds, my stomach squeezes and I picture her hands strumming her guitar, grazing over the small butterfly painted on the wood. I think about how one of the wings is larger than the other, and how her brother—Lane—probably painted it there for her. I think about that time in her house. I think about the stupid Bioré strip I let her put on my nose. And how cute hers was.
“You do,” Houston finally says through a light chuckle, breaking me from my thoughts. I nod just enough for him to notice and let my eyes meet his to admit my guilt.
He jerks his head toward the stairs, and I follow him into the hallway closet. He pulls a few boxes from a top shelf, finally sliding one out labeled HIGH SCHOOL STUFF, and then hands it to me.
“They’re probably in here, but I’ve gotta get Leah to pre-school and head to campus for my test. Just throw them in the box and leave it in the hallway when you’re done,” he says.
“Right on,” I say, bumping his fist.
He laughs under his breath, but I ignore him and step into his room, dropping the heavy box on his bed and discarding the various certificates and photo collages his mom made. I dive into our senior one first, because that one’s probably the closest to her looking like the version of her I know now. Our classes weren’t very big, so I get to the page of S students quickly and scan until I see her name.
Murphy Lynn Sullivan: Theater, Chorus, Future Business Leaders of America. I smirk at how that third one doesn’t match the other two—or her. I run my thumb toward the center of the book and then I land on a very plain, quiet-looking blonde. Her hair is wavy, like it is now, and it’s long enough to cut off at the bottom of the picture. It isn’t purple, and other than a large flower pin on the side of her head, tucking back a small braid, there isn’t much that’s flashy or memorable. All this picture does is confirm my hazy memory. This is how I pictured her, and I’m starting to think that maybe that’s what she was in high school—a haze.
I flip through the pages until I get to the section for group photos, stopping at the chorus one and running my finger over every penny-sized head until I find one in the middle that looks like it might be her. This photo doesn’t help, so I flip through more pages to the theater section, repeating my process on the group shot until I get to her. She’s standing in the front on this one, wearing a dress that looks a little more like the kind I see her in now. It’s red with large black polka dots, and she’s wearing black tights and Doc Martins. The image still isn’t familiar, but it makes me smile.
Hoping for more, I flip the page and am greeted with a spread of photos from the various plays performed at the school. I’m about to give up that she’s in here when one on the bottom right catches my eye. Her hair is darker in this photo—I think maybe dyed—and she’s wearing a dress that looks like its made of rags. She’s clutching another girl around the waist and looking out into nothing. Her eyes—the gray—my god.
My god.
She’s somehow appearing to cry without tears. I think about how if she hits it big in music, I’d put her eyes on her first cover. I should tell her that. Right after I tell her that I’m crazy, and that I apparently stalk her and stole my best friend’s yearbook so I could bring it home and look at this photo when I can’t sleep at night.