Your Mother Must Be Cool, Michelle said.
She’s not, the girl said. Her lips were pushed together as if biting back impatience. Something lumped beside her on the floor, a giant duffle bag. A runaway. What must it be like to be a runaway at the start of the apocalypse? Michelle felt the impulse to help — if the girl was tough enough to clean away the rotting body of the neighbor and his rottweiler, maybe she could have that apartment. But helping a runaway had to be like helping any stray, but worse. Once helped, they would return again and again, your charge. Michelle couldn’t handle it. She didn’t want to be this girl’s apocalypse mom. She felt the hard moon inside her rising to eclipse her heart.
What Do You Want? she asked.
I’m here to see Michelle, she said primly, the smile growing wider. My name is Ashley.
Ashley had found Michelle on the dreamtime missed connections site. Michelle had dreamed she was on a boat with a boy and the boat was sailing through a beautiful cemetery. The etched marble mausoleums were hung with pictures of the dead in their prime, many were mustachioed young men with feathery hair who had passed. Michelle knew they had been gay men with AIDS. The lushness of the dream was thick with melancholy. Michelle and the boy leaned against the rail, a slight salt spray dusting their faces, and they kissed with the understanding that they would die. It was a nice dream, it had gravitas. A person named Ashley, located in Alaska, had identified herself as that boy and emailed a request to visit with Michelle while passing through Los Angeles. Michelle wasn’t holding her breath. She wasn’t sure she wanted to meet anyone from these dreams. She wasn’t sure what the point would be. Also, there were so many dreamtime lovers for Michelle they made her feel slutty and embarrassed.
Now here was Ashley. Her bouncy hair was product-free. Her skirt was tiered and fell down her legs. Her face was sweet cheeked and innocent, she could be paid to sell hope and purity. Hers was the smiling face on a box of dryer sheets or maybe advertising an HMO. Ashley. Very different than the boy who’d stood beside her on the boat.
Michelle’s stare lingered until she became aware of the girl’s expression of dismay. Ashley had recognized Michelle as the puffier, splotchier doppelgänger of her dream lover and her face bloomed a grimace. Ashley thought Michelle’s clothes were crappy, she had the roughed-up vibe of someone who’d been pushed from a speeding car. Her hair was a blue mess. She smelled of cigarettes. Michelle had thought she looked nice that morning, ready to meet Matt Dillon again, but nice is relative. In Ashley’s dreams Michelle had looked much nicer.
Oh, Ashley said. She did not attempt to mask her disappointment. You’re Michelle.
Yeah, Michelle nodded. Hello.
Hi.
Michelle tried to recover from the blow of the girl’s rejection and found she could not. She grew defensive. Well, You’re Twelve, she snapped, And A Girl, So Don’t Look At Me Like That.
I’m thirteen, Ashley corrected. Michelle laughed.
It’s The Same. Twelve Is The Same As Thirteen. Only A Thirteen-Year-Old Would Think A Year Made Any Difference.
Well, you’re. . Ashley tripped, halted, bit her tongue.
Old? Michelle said, daringly.
No, Ashley said. You’re not that old. But you look like you are. That’s what’s weird.
I Was So Great In The Dream? Michelle asked.
Better than this. Ashely shrugged. She looked at Michelle with a level expression. You’re an alcoholic.
How Do You Know?
Well, you can kind of just tell. But I’ve figured out a lot. Ashley felt a pulse of sympathy for this Michelle, whose hair was not curling and glossed with heath, as in the dreams, but stained a dull blue, scraggly as kelp. She didn’t know she was also another, better Michelle. Ashley hoped to show her.
The youth bent down and unzipped her duffle bag. A terrible spongy smell filled the shop. Sorry, Ashley acknowledged the odor. It’s my uniform. Michelle peered over the counter at the clatter of hockey gear.
You Play Hockey, Michelle said numbly.
Yes, Ashley said. I’m here for a game. Ashley slapped a folder on the counter and began pulling pages from it. Her movements were calm but Michelle could feel the underlying energy pulsing the stillness. The teenager’s strong vibes and her ability to rein them in felt to Michelle like a sort of authority, a skill beyond the average thirteen-year-old.
What Sign Are You? she asked curiously.
Aries. Capricorn rising. Virgo moon.
You Know Astrology? Michelle was impressed.
I don’t believe in it, Ashley said. But I know you do. You’re a Pisces, Aries rising, Cancer moon.
How Do You Know That? Michelle asked.
Ashley showed her a sheet of paper printed with Michelle’s statistics, her name, her medical information, job history, a timeline of major events in her life: her move to San Francisco, the publication of her book, the relocation to Los Angeles. The timeline rose toward the world’s predicted end and kept going. Michelle writes another book. She stops drinking. She writes another book and then another. She continues writing books, the world gone, long exploded. Six years after the end of the world she breaks up with Lu. Michelle looked at Ashley, confused.
You Know Lu? Michelle asked. I’ve Barely Written About Her.
Ashley shook her head. Not really. I did some dream hacking.
Michelle stared at the girl, waiting. Come On, Don’t Be One Of Those People That Makes Me Beg You To Tell Me Everything. You Walk In Here With A File About Me Like A Fucking FBI Agent, Tell Me What Is Happening.
Everything that exists can be found, somehow. The teen shrugged. I know how to break into places. Into dreams. For instance, I can be in a dream and find your computer and just look at your files, your writing, your browsing history, all that. And the story comes together. She shook her file folder, her eyes bright. I’m actually really excited to be telling you this. The only other people I’ve been able to tell are my other girlfriends.
Your Other Girlfriends?
Ashley waved her hand. I’ll get to that. Anyway, you can actually figure out how to watch other people’s dreams, she continued. And then enter them. After a while it’s really just another world. And it’s nicer than this one. There are still problems but everything isn’t so ruined. It’s like some alternative life, a second-chance world.
Michelle liked that, a second-chance world. As a writer she liked it. It had a ring. How Are You Able To Do All This? Michelle asked. Are You A Genius?
Ashley shrugged. You could do it too, she said.
Michelle fiddled nervously with her poky blue bangs. She pushed them out of her face. In This Other World, she said, I’ve Written More Books?
Ashley nodded.
Am I Famous? she asked. Am I A Famous Writer?