Lying Out Loud(25)

Not for the first time, I found it was easier to be honest in text form than in real life.

Not really.



Is it your mom?



Yes.



Do you want to talk about it? I’m here to listen. You’ve listened to me complain plenty about my parents.



Actually, I’d rather talk about anything but that right now.



We can do that, too.



We shouldn’t have. I shouldn’t have.

But we did.

*

The next day, my hunt for employment finally paid off.

I got an e-mail from the bookstore at the mall, inviting me for an interview.

I sat down with the manager after school on Monday, but only for a few minutes. I got the sense they would hire pretty much anyone.

“It’s retail,” the manager, Sheila, said. “We get pretty busy around the holidays.”

“So this would just be seasonal?” I asked, a little disappointed. Any job would do, but I was going to need one well past the end of the year.

“Yes,” Sheila said. “But there’s always potential for you to be hired on in the new year, too.”

“Potential is good.”

“So you’re in?”

“Definitely.”

While I felt a little guilty about mooching off the Rushes, at least now I’d have money to pay for my gas and lunch without having to lie or borrow from Amy. I could also start saving up for new clothes, since I hadn’t packed many winter outfits when I left my house.

“Also,” Amy said when I told her the good news that night, “you can get me a discount on books.”

“Because you don’t have enough of those,” I said, gesturing to the overflowing bookcase next to her desk. “Have you even read all of those? Or even half?”

“It’s more about the collection,” she said.

I rolled my eyes. “One day, you’re going to be on a reality TV show, buried under your collection and needing a serious mental health intervention.”

“And you’ll be the concerned friend who, instead of finding me the help I need, decides to get me on TV.”

“Hey, girl. I need my close-up, too.”

We both burst into giggles, for once not worried about being too loud or waking her parents. I have to admit, it was nice to be done with the sneaking around. Between that and the new job, a huge weight had been lifted off my shoulders.

Unfortunately, there were still a couple more I couldn’t seem to shake.





I had this recurring nightmare that started when I was eleven, when things with my mom began going south.

Or more south than they’d already been.

The dream began in my bedroom back home. I was doing something — homework or reading, I was never really sure — when I heard the front door slam. From there, it was always the same. I’d get up and call out to my mom, but there would only be silence. Thick, unnatural silence. Even the birds outside my window seemed muted all of a sudden. So I’d leave my bedroom and find that the house was nearly pitch-black. The sun, which had been shining through my bedroom window, vanished. I’d keep calling for my mom and hunting for a light switch, but they weren’t where they were supposed to be. And neither was the furniture. I’d reach to put my hand on the counter or go to sit on a chair and find nothing there. Eventually, I’d go to my mom’s room, sure she’d be there. Sure she’d be able to fix whatever had happened to our house.

But the door to her room was like the entrance to a black hole. The darkness was thicker. Darker than black. I screamed for Mom, but the hole swallowed it up.

That was when I’d wake up, shaking and desperate for a sound, any sound, just to know I wasn’t alone.

Sometimes I’d go months without having the dream, and sometimes it happened every other night.

It had been a while this time. I guess Amy’s snores had chased any nightmares of silence away. But the day after I got my new job, the nightmare came again.

I woke up with another scream on my lips, and I had to bite it back. The room was so dark that, for a minute, I couldn’t remember where I was. Next to me, Amy snored, loud and long. It was a small comfort, but after a few seconds of deep breaths and calming thoughts, I still couldn’t relax, let alone get back to sleep.

“Amy,” I whispered, nudging her arm and feeling only a little guilty about disrupting her beauty sleep. “Hey, Amy.”

Apparently, I wasn’t interrupting anything tonight because all she did was snort and roll away from me.

Don’t be stupid, I thought. You’re not alone. She’s right there, even if she can’t hear you. Go back to sleep, Sonny.

But the room seemed too dark, and the idea of closing my eyes, of adding another layer of blackness, made my heart thump uncomfortably in my chest.

“Screw it,” I mumbled, throwing the blankets off of me. I climbed over Amy, grabbed her cell phone from the dresser, and tiptoed out of the room.

The minute the light in the rec room flickered on, it was instantly easier to breathe. Like the darkness had actually been pressing down on me, crushing my chest. I walked over to the couch and flopped down on my back, Amy’s phone still in my hand. One of the benefits of borrowing her phone while mine was out of commission: She had a smartphone. Which meant games. I’d already downloaded a few free ones, along with some humorous, inappropriate text tones that Amy hadn’t found quite as funny as I had.