Dream Smashers (3 page)

The boy’s hand is up her shirt, fondling,
caressing. Their bodies grind together on the moss and mud. She
doesn’t seem to care that her blond hair is caked with earth and
that her shirt and pants are equally covered. They move like one,
clothed physically, but seemingly naked to the world—exposed for
the lust they hold.

Evan’s family doesn’t talk about those types
of things. So, when it happens, if it ever happens, it will all be
new to him. New in the sense that he has never done it before—not
so much new in his head.

The couple stands, holds hands, and
disappears into the forest. The boy walks with a slight limp.

Evan takes a deep breath and washes the
desire from his mind.

The rain stops. Silence fills the forest.

He runs.

CHAPTER FOUR

Of all the times in my life I have been
scared this is probably close to one of the top three scariest—that
I can remember anyway.

One of the first scariest times happened when
I was seven. Jacinda had told Grams we were going bowling. Instead
she left me alone in a dark alley while she met with a guy with
long greasy hair and a lightning bolt tattoo on his left
temple.

The night air still hadn’t cooled from the
sweltering summer day. I remember the sharp smell of rotting
garbage and urine. She said she would only be a minute. She left me
behind a dumpster, counting the seconds until the longest minute of
my life would be over. A rat scurried past, whipping its tail
against my bare legs. I screamed and then cried when no one came to
rescue me. Jacinda had told me to not move an inch, else someone
might kidnap me. When the rat disappeared into the darkness, I kept
on counting until I fell asleep on the pavement.

Another scary time had been when my grandpa
lay in a hospital bed, dying from lung cancer. Gramps dying didn’t
scare me. What scared me happened after he died. Grams sat at his
side, holding his hand, while Jacinda paced the floor and mumbled
under her breath, anxious. I sat in the far corner to witness his
death from as far away as I could. He had been sedated because of
the unbearable pain. His yellow skin clung to his bones, exposing
his deepest skeletal features. The body that lay there, sleeping
with labored breath, hadn’t been Gramps, but the skeleton from
science lab, painted yellow.

His last breath came and went. The entire
room grew silent, as if we were waiting for him to breathe again,
except he never did. Gramps’ pale blue eyes somehow opened, his
mouth fell agape, and his shell stared right at me.

The quickness of it frightened me the most.
One second, Gramps had life, and another second he became nothing,
a discarded empty box after a long journey. The box had wrinkles
and tears and crumpled corners and writing and scribbles all over
it, but no evidence of where it had traveled or what it had seen.
The box that once meant and held everything now meant absolutely
nothing in the span of a single second.

And now, this scary time, probably the
scariest of them all, I’m about ready to pee myself.

The man smiles, but it isn’t a friendly
smile. Dishonesty lingers on his lips—his eyes reveal a dark heart.
He slides the glass door open. The broken floor crackles under his
black cowboy boots.

“Mornin’ gals.” His voice is smooth, rich,
like the coffee Grams drinks. “What’re ya’ll doing here?” He scans
behind us with equally dark eyes, shifting right to left. “What?
You don’t speak?”

“Sure we do. We’re just hangin’ out. What do
you want?” Rainy says, calmer than I have ever seen her. “You’re
that guy I’ve seen with my brother. Are you Ace?”

Figures. Rainy knows everyone. Even the
creepy guys.

Ace smiles. “Yeah. Who’s your brother?”

Rainy pops her gum. “James. Dude, and what’s
up with that dumb knife? Are you playing Rambo or something?”

I can’t believe she actually just said
that.

Ace glances at the knife in his hand. “Oh!”
His laugh exposes a mouth full of gleaming white teeth. At least we
know he’s not a tweaker. “I forgot I had this.” He snaps the pocket
knife closed, shoving it into the front of his black Levi’s. “No
wonder you gals look like you just saw a ghost. Shoot, I’d be
pretty scared too if some stranger walked in on me with a
knife.

“I’ve seen you two sneakin’ ‘round here a few
times in the past.” His eye twitches, or maybe it winks. “I’m just
making sure you’re okay and ain’t doing stuff you ain’t supposed
to.” A large hand glides through the shaggy mop of blond hair on
his head, exposing diamond studs in both earlobes.

From the look on Rainy’s face, I can tell
that she is admiring and probably daydreaming about his large
hands. So typical of her.

“We’re fine,” I say. “Thank you for your
concern. And if you don’t mind, we should probably be getting off
to school now.” I scrunch my face and raise my eyebrows at Rainy,
trying to get her attention. “We don’t want to be late for art
class or anything.”

“You go to the high school down the street
here? War-shington High?” He points to the far wall. “I can give
you a ride if you want.”

I say, “It’s Washington High.”

“Yeah, that’s what I said, War-shington High.
The one down the street.”

“That would be cool.” Rainy shrugs and looks
at me with inquiring eyes.

“Nah, we can walk. It’s not that far.” I
glare at her.

“Really? That’s too bad. See, I just finished
pimpin-out my Charger and was gonna take it for a spin.”

Rainy’s eyes pretty much pop out of her head.
“A Dodge Charger? Oh my God! That’s a sweet car, isn’t it? My
brother used to want one.” She runs to the front door, swings it
open, and screeches. “That’s awesome!” And out the door she goes. A
flock of small birds on the lawn flutter into the air.

Oh, yay. I roll my eyes and sigh, pick up
Rainy’s bag and follow her out the front door. “Rainy, we just
can’t go for rides with strange guys we don’t know.”

Ace walks out of the house. Rainy jumps into
the passenger seat with more excitement than a little girl who gets
to ride a pony. “Get in Autumn. We’re going for a ride.”

I shake my head. “We don’t know him. I’m not
going anywhere with a stranger.” No way, no how, and especially
with a stranger that walked up to our hideout with a knife in his
hand.

“Dude, Ace,” Rainy says. “This is my friend
Autumn and I’m Rainy.”

“Oh, hey.” Ace opens the driver’s side door
and slides into the seat. “You coming?” He looks back at me.

“Come on, Rainy. You’ve checked out the
hotrod. Can we go to class now?” I wave for her to get out of the
car. She isn’t having it though—the sparkle in her eyes worries
me.

“What’s the huge deal?” she asks. “I swear
the stick up your butt gets deeper each day. He’s just gonna drive
us two frigging blocks.”

“Yeah, what’s the big deal?” Ace smirks.

I glare at Ace, and then tug Rainy out of the
car. “Can I have a word with you?”

Rainy sighs. “Whatever. We’ll be right back,
Ace.” She flashes a cheesy-smile and waves to him before we walk
into the doorway of the pit.

I step close to Rainy. “You don’t know what
he really has planned. Maybe he’ll drive by the school, then what?
What if he’s got a gun or he takes that knife of his and shoves it
into your neck? Are you going to scream for help? Do you think
anyone will care in this part of town?”

“Chill out. We’re just going for a ride. You
do what you want, but I’m going.”

A loud horn calls for Rainy. She pulls her
computer bag off my shoulder and runs out the door.

I run after her. “Fine! You want to risk your
life, you don’t need my permission. I’m not going to stop you.”

“Whatever. I’ll text you after school about
the date.” She jumps into the car. “I guess she ain’t coming. You
gonna show me how fast this rig can go or what?”

The engine revs before the car lurches
backward, out of the driveway. The tires squeal, sending smoke into
the air, then the car zooms down the single lane road toward the
school.

Great, just what we need: more pollution. I
watch them until the car disappears down the road.

***

Jacinda gave me up when I was two, about the
time when she got real bad. Well, Grams and Gramps forced her to by
threatening to cut her financial support if she didn’t, or so I’ve
gathered from the brief conversations with Jacinda since then. We
never had very personal chats, just spats and shouts here and
there. She only comes around when she’s coming down.

It’s not a pretty sight, usually violent. Not
toward me, of course. I stay in my room. I called the police once
when it looked like she was going to hit Gramps. She never did and
left before the police got there.

I don’t know what I’d do if she ever got
violent with me. Most of the time, I hate her so much that I think
I might punch her. Other times, I just miss her. Well, I don’t
think it can be considered as
missing
her since I don’t know
her. Maybe I miss the idea of having a mom—a real mom. Maybe
someday she’ll get clean and want me to live with her. Not that I
would, but maybe.

The overcast sky renders the daylight gray. A
faint breeze blows newspaper and food wrappers along the single
lane road with small forlorn houses begging for love.

As I approach the school parking lot, a
familiar noise blows toward me, similar to only one other car that
I’ve heard before.

A cream colored convertible roadster zips
down the road, bringing with it a rush of optimism. Hope for a
brighter future, for any future at all, for wealth and style, for
beauty, and for an untroubled life. Because if Ms. Lightheart can
have it, so can I.

A sign that there is more out there in the
world than drug-addicted mothers and dead grandfathers and uncaring
best friends, and that I won’t be stuck eating breakfast with the
same ladies, chain smoking and sipping coffee every single
morning.

Most importantly, it’s a sign affirming my
decision not to get into that muscle car with that guy. If I did,
this glimmer of light wouldn’t have been given to me.

The car passes. Inside sits the same woman
that has been in my dreams for the past four years. A little older,
hair a bit shorter, different clothing (a beige windbreaker), and
no dog, but she’s the same free spirit.

I wave, sheepishly. Not seeing me, she flips
her hair away from her face. It shimmies in the wind, and she
continues down the road to the land of dreams. Ms. Lightheart is
perfect.

My heart feels like a fuzzy fairy-wish
blowing in the breeze. Even though the clouds cover the sun, gray
now seems a bit sunny. She renewed my hope and reminded me that I
need to start working on living like her. I’m sure she went to
school every day. People usually have to go to school to get good
jobs to have money. Money is important to living a life void of
worry.

The quiet school parking lot is like a car
graveyard. A rock fills my stomach at the thought of walking into
class late. Mrs. Smith won’t care, but I hate having everyone’s
attention on me.

An article in Teen Gossip Magazine said that
when starting a new way of life, or quitting a bad habit, Monday is
the best day to begin. Yes, Monday will be a new beginning, a
ground breaking day for my real life. A life filled with perfect
attendance days and straight A’s and a carefree attitude. I will
stop procrastinating and start living the dream—on Monday, that is.
Since I’m already late, I might as well start over fresh on
Monday.

But for now, I need to plan my fresh start.
Carefree needs a plan, a map to escape this doomed life, and my
bedroom is always the perfect place to concentrate on such tasks.
Grams is probably at the senior center this time of day. Even if
she’s not, I can play up a sick stomach or something as an excuse
for being home early.

***

My home, a red brick, ranch style house with
rusted chain link fence encircling the front yard of grass that
hasn’t returned to life from the dry summer, is jammed between
similar houses. The once lush rose bushes that Gramps pruned every
year protrude from the bare earth like skeletal arms.

The front gate squeaks, reminding me Grams
asked me to grease that earlier this week.

I dig through my bag to find the key.

The door is already ajar.

Grams’ green Buick isn’t parked in the usual
spot in front of the house. Strange.

A familiar discomfort gurgles in my
bowels.

I tap the door open further with my foot.
“Hello?”

Silence.

I push the door open wide. The once
meticulously clean interior is trashed and in shambles. The couch
cushions are scattered on the living room floor and covered with
broken glass from the tipped curio cabinet, its contents of antique
china missing. Also on the floor, flung about, are spoons—hundreds
of spoons along with the boxes that kept them hidden in Grams’
closet.

I’ve seen this before, many times. It could
be the same type of situation as in the past, or it could be
something new, like an actual dangerous robber. My gut tells me,
though, that it’s the same old shit. To confirm my suspicions—or
commit suicide—I step inside. “Hello. If anybody’s here, please
leave.” Oh that’s really going to scare the stranger-danger off. I
clear my voice and muster up the meanest voice I’ve ever portrayed.
“You better get out of my house!” There, that sounded scary. I take
several more steps forward.

A woman’s gargled voice comes from the
kitchen. “Who do you think you are? Coming in here and telling me
what to do?”

I freeze. Okay, fourth scariest time in my
life commencing right now.

A shadow of a person looms through the
kitchen doorway. It turns into a thin person’s body with stringy
hair and dark eyes sunk deep into her face. Her cheek bones
protrude from her skull, or maybe it’s the skin stretching over her
cheek bones. Bruised arms, legs, and hands extend from dirty
clothes. Open sores cover her and sweat trickles from her pores. If
this were a cartoon, green air would be rising from her body. A
perfume of body odor, stale cigarettes mixed with old beer and
rotting garbage invades my nostrils.