Traveler (Traveler #1)(22)

I roll out of bed, spread the covers back up, and slide into some plain gray sweatpants and a black T-shirt before I brush my teeth. I took a shower before bed last night, and my hair is skewed from sleeping on it wet. I shove it back into a ponytail, and I’m staring at myself in the mirror.

My eyes shift away from the face in front of me, noting the hoodie hanging over the back of the chair behind me, the book on the edge of the bed, the messy coverlet.…

But I made my bed. I resist the urge to turn around and check. I know it, though. I had set the book on the end of my neatly made bed. I would bet money on it. As I look longer, the hoodie on the back of the chair seems to deepen from navy into black. My carpet gives way to hardwood, with a rug over it. My room seems to grow longer and wider, and a computer desk appears next to my bed.

I put my hand to the glass, and she does the same. A moment later, I am through.

My room is very different. She’s really into black-light posters, for some reason. And it’s messy—not only is the bed not made, but clothes are strewn everywhere and the dresser is cluttered. Books are lying on the floor, and I don’t recognize the titles.

I move out of my room, down the stairs, and into the rest of the house, which appears to be quiet, for the most part. The place is wild to look at—the walls are all different colors than they are in my house, shades of blue and green instead of sand and tan. There are strange bohemian pictures and pieces of artwork everywhere, and the curtains have been replaced with pouffy, patterned scarves, draped artlessly over elaborate curtain rods.

“Interesting,” I say. “It looks like Walt Disney threw up in here.”

There’s got to be somebody around somewhere. I realize that I know my way through the house, even though it’s not really anything like mine.

I continue on through the house until I reach the French doors, which open up onto what I know before I see it is a spacious deck, overlooking a very large, very green backyard. The kitchen is off to the left, and I’m surprised for a moment to see my brother, rummaging through the cupboards. His hair is shorter, and he’s not quite as chubby, though still solidly built.

“Danny? Hey, are you looking for something?” I ask.

He turns and looks me right in the eye. “Do you know where Mom put the Oreos? I swear, she hides them from me. I think she wants them for herself.”

I stare at him, openmouthed.

“Jess?” He waves his hand side to side. “You’re zoning out on me.”

“N-no, I don’t know what she did with them,” I manage to answer.

He lets out a sigh. “Okay. Change of plans. Guess I’ll make popcorn.”

He goes back to rummaging, and I am frozen.

I cannot imagine Danny without his autism. It’s as much a part of him as his brown hair or his love of video games. Part of me says I don’t know this other guy, but I know I do.

I know he played football in high school, linebacker. He also sang in the chorus and had a solo in the final concert of his senior year that made everyone cry because it was so good. He works part-time at the loading dock of a manufacturing company across town, and he also goes to college. He’s studying public relations.

He’s Danny. My Danny, but not my Danny.

Suddenly, I’m frightened. I want to go back. But at the same time, I’m fascinated. I can have a conversation with Danny. One where I don’t have to play word games to get information from him or hear him quote movie dialogue while I try to figure out how that applies to what he’s really trying to say to me. He can just talk, and I can just listen.

“Lunch is out back, if you want it,” he tells me over his shoulder. “Mom ordered from that new wings place.”

I swallow my apprehension and decide I’m going to stay just a little longer. I open the sliding glass doors and stop dead in my tracks.

My parents are sitting together on side-by-side lounge chairs next to a moderate-sized pool.

We have a pool. And my parents are together.

“We’ve got wings!” my mom calls out.

I look at them, wide-eyed.

I realize that I’m blowing my cover here. I’d better act more … normal. But this does not feel normal.

“Hi,” I manage to say.

“You hungry?” Dad asks, reaching out to offer me the bucket of wings.

“I don’t think I can eat.”

“Are you feeling sick?” Dad asks.

I take a moment and just look at them. They look like this is no big deal. Like the way we used to be. My parents divorced when I was nine and they’re still civil with each other, but it would be a stretch to say they parted as friends. My dad still lives in town, and I see him one night a week and every other weekend, but I can’t stop staring at him now.

They look content—with life, with each other. And I have a lump in my throat so big I know I can’t speak. I shake my head no.

“It’s because she came downstairs last night and ate a ton of snacks,” Mom says, reaching for the wings bucket and heading back into the house. I give my dad an awkward smile and trail behind her, still feeling like my head is swimming.

“That’s not healthy, you know,” Mom scolds me as she puts the rest of the wings in a plastic container. “Missing sleep and loading up on junk is only going to make you sick.”

“I know,” I say. “I just couldn’t sleep.”