But before I do, I have one other question: “How is this possible?”
H says, “It’s possible because it just happened.”
And then I wake up.
My sheets are damp. I touch and smell them. Nope, didn’t piss my pants. It’s sweat. I look around the darkened room. I check the time.
Three A.M.
I feel tired. That’s nothing new. I yawn and sort of say out loud, “Does this feeling tired shit get any easier?” And then I hear a scratching noise coming from the other side of the wall, almost like I’m getting an active response.
I sit up in bed, wondering if I should be worried.
Out of breath and really kind of lost, I don’t want that dream to stop. I want to sleep but I feel like it won’t be possible. No matter what I do to try to sleep, it’s that same sort of tossing and turning where I end up sort of asleep but not really anywhere close. And then it gets to be morning and, you know, back to school.
Another day, but I can’t help but feel like I’m taking back some of what’s changed since running the gauntlet. I can feel my grip on giving a shit really finally… faltering. And I’d like to think that it’s a good thing.
6
HALVERSON DOESN’T EVEN LOOK AT FATHER ALBERT’S note. Makes me think I could have folded up any sheet of paper and said I got checked out. He kind of just says, “Frankly, I’m just happy to see that you’re going to be okay,” and then lets me get to class. I’m late to first period because of him though. After last night’s dream, most of my day feels like one long stretch, like a high I didn’t know I was having. It’s all blurry and nothing I do really seems to mean anything.
In third period, we take a test that I didn’t study for, but then again, I’m starting to think that everyone’s given up studying this late into the school year. But during the test, I look at the questions and read them over and over again, but none of them make any sense.
I read question number one and I see my own question typed out: “Where do you come from?”
A, B, C, or D. D is always all/none of the above.
I answer D, none of the above.
Next question: “What’s your name?”
A, B, C, or D. I can’t read the options so I go with D.
Down the line, all thirty questions are a mixture of questions I want answered and answers that don’t seem to ever show.
I catch myself staring into space, chewing a pencil. The teacher seems to notice too, makes a face. I shrug and go back to the test.
The last question kind of freaks me out:
“Are you good or bad?”
It’s right out of those haunting flicks. There are so many of them. The documentary ones are the worst because they try to get real footage of possessions. It’s always that question — are you good or bad? — when priests and other experts try to make first contact.
It’s like they can be only one or the other.
I’m both scared and kind of interested. It’s mostly because I know that H wouldn’t answer that question. H. I almost don’t realize that I’m calling it H now. Funny and weird how it feels like the dream wasn’t a dream, was as real as anything else, but then I can forget about certain parts. I just take it as plain truth, reality, and then I start using the information — H—and I’m caught off guard by it. But just for a moment.
I hand in the test and the best I can probably hope for is a D.
Probably failed though.
Then it’s lunch and Brad and all his stuff that today, of all days, I really can’t take. I don’t even try to be a part of the conversation.
Blaire shows up, asks me, “How are you feeling?”
I didn’t know I was sick or something, but I say, “Fine.”
Today’s the first time I don’t buy lunch. I sit there and sort of listen to Brad talking about how his team, meaning the baseball team that he decided to like and follow this season, is going to totally dominate. On no real grounds, of course. It’s something to talk about. Brad’s all into it. But then again, I don’t know anything about the sport. I never really cared for it.
I find myself thinking about the dream.
The kitchen table part.
I analyze it like I wasn’t actually a part of it: What did this mean? What did that mean?
It’s not really about getting anything else from the dream. It’s just fun to analyze it. To think about it, you know?
It feels like a totally different take on the world, a world that normally doesn’t seem like anything but a plain truth, obvious and kind of dull. There’s so much out there and it feels like it’s all defined. Just like college. Just like careers. Just like networking. Just like society to be that segmented.
This is where I should go see Jon-Jon, but fuck Jon-Jon. I can’t deal with his betting pool and opportunistic ways.
This is where I think about maybe going to the bathroom and just sitting in a stall for a whole period. It seems attractive. I really feel like everything’s wearing thin, all the people being nice to me, all the people talking to me all because of H. All because I did something they all pretend to do and the only difference is I actually did it. I went through with something, and H happened to run after me on the way out of the tunnel.
I don’t know.
I just feel like H is becoming the least of my concerns now.
Everything else feels like homework, like something that makes every day a bummer, because I have to do and feel and act in a way that I don’t want to. But maybe it’s always been this way and it’s only now that I’ve lost any and all cares about it.
No, I’m not going to talk about Nikki. She’s just another face in the crowd. A pretty face, but no doubt ten times shallower than most. She just wants what she wants and has a big enough ego to go through with it. And thinking about crossing paths with Nikki is enough to make this day end.
Forget the bathroom stall. I walk right back to my car.
I sit there sometimes staring at my phone. Becca texts me a few times but seems really busy.
I expect word to get out about my date with Nikki, but no one cares or it’s really that Nikki doesn’t say anything, although if she really were the cliché I know she is, a fucking stereotype, she would make up some story that ruins me.
Go ahead and ruin me.
It would get people to stop talking about me like they actually care about me. People who sometimes get my name wrong, calling me Hunter Warren or Hunter Walden like that book. I’d really dig just driving into the woods and just building a house there. Thoreau had it right. It was the one book I actually read a lot of when almost everyone else couldn’t get past the first ten pages. That book is more than the words in it; it’s all the ideas, the whole life outside of society, outside of all… this. It comes down to being different, I guess. Or something. That was my interpretation of the book, anyway.
Man, I’m tired.
But I can’t sleep. Not in this car.
I look down at the phone, another text. Someone.
Then a text from Brad, who just says, “Bro we’re going to party hard man.” And then that reminds me about the party. The one that is now at my house. The one that is now really happening.
And soon. Like this weekend, not next weekend.
Yeah, just want to sit in this car.
Then I get a text from Blaire.
She’s thinking about skipping and I text back a two-word answer, “Do it.” Just not feeling up to chatting about anything.
She texts back, asking me again, “How are you feeling?” She knows I was lying before.
“Blah,” that’s my response.
I watch the cursor blink. She must be typing something long. I sit there, eyes closed, until the phone buzzes.
“I understand,” she says, “first you think you’re going crazy and that you shouldn’t be annoyed at everyone. Everyone’s paying attention to you, treating you like you’re popular. I know you wanted this. You feel weird because now you’re living for two. You’re going to go through a lot of changes, maybe quicker than most. I just worry about you, Hunter.”