It wasn’t like him to have done that. He wasn’t into tranquilizers or antidepressants—not even the ones personally prescribed for him. It bothered Reece even now, fingering the pills in his pocket as he passed his own bathroom on the way to his bedroom at the end of the hall with silent, morose Caleb still walking behind him.
“Actually, I gotta use your bathroom,” Caleb said.
“Make yourself at home. I’ll wait for you in here.”
In his bedroom, Reece stood by the window, checking his phone. For what? That was the perennial question. He hadn’t gone out with anyone for over six months, which eliminated one entire category of possibility and distraction. Aside from a new exchange student who’d shown zero interest, the pickings at Horizon High were slim. Nothing to be done about it.
Reduced libido was one of the side effects of the prescription Reece was taking—though, of course, depression itself wasn’t great for sex drive. His parents certainly believed in medication, and he didn’t want to burst their bubble, which had been stabbed mercilessly already. Summer had been shitty for everyone.
By September things had started feeling better. Classes starting, everyone busier, and at least a few dinners when Reece’s father forgot to stare meaningfully into his eyes and ask, “And how are you feeling today?”
In truth, he felt good, but also on edge, keyed up. Two or three days ago, Reece had started sensing it: something was coming, forcing him to be on high alert. He’d had trouble sleeping. His scalp tingled; when his mother noticing him scratching, she asked if he needed dandruff shampoo. He kept thinking he had to pee, but then he’d try and nothing would come out. If he told anyone, they’d think he had some kind of venereal infection. For obvious reasons, he knew that wasn’t the case.
Reece found himself reading headlines with greater interest. North Korea ready for a nuclear attack? Zombies spotted somewhere? Not according to the Minneapolis Star-Tribune.
He kept studying faces and expressions, wondering if anyone else noticed anything unusual. Finally, this morning at school, he saw a woman with a limp and blue cowboy boots out of the corner of his eye. Then he got a closer look at her face. And he knew. Forget history class. He’d stepped back and stared. It was her.
Reece knew her name without asking. Ruth. He thought he needed a clever plan, but it all fell into place: her forgotten ID, her shitty—sorry, poorly maintained—laptop, and as always, the helpful interference of his math teacher, who never failed to involve himself in things that weren’t his problem. No complicated stalking necessary.
Reece remembered her from the dream, looking at him—from above, to be specific—worried, giving him instructions. What else? He needed to calm down and make himself remember—let himself remember—as much as he wanted to forget.
Some parts of the dream were pleasant, even blissful. Others, not at all.
The setting—Griffin Memorial Hospital—was likewise not so congenial. Worst of all was the face of his mother crying when he emerged from sleep, groggy and half-drugged, barely able to focus on her anguished lament while he tried to hang on to that confusing dream, which had seemed of utmost importance, even then.
Reece tried not to think about the day of his hospitalization or the embarrassing family fallout, only about Ruth’s spoken message in the dream: It didn’t work. Draw the symbol. Don’t give up. Be firm. And just—be honest, Reece. I’ll believe you.
But that was dream Ruth.
Real Ruth had been another story: indecisive, suspicious, the very last person to trust Reece. Then again, she didn’t seem to have the information dream Ruth had. Which was, at least partially, his fault. He had to get a handle on his own dream and tell her everything he knew, even if it was confusing. He wasn’t like Caleb, a timid rabbit who thought you could hide behind a bush and be safe.
“Hey,” said Caleb, pushing the bedroom door open.
“You can sit down if you want,” Reece said, pointing at his made bed.
“That’s all right.”
Reece waited for Cal to explain himself. If he was coming by to quit the Rockets, it would sabotage their routine.
“So,” Reece said, beginning to lose patience.
“Is that a poster of a male model hanging over your bed?”
“Dumb shit, that’s not a male model. It’s Sergei Polunin. I thought you knew something about dance.”
No reply.
“Unreasonably gorgeous,” Reece said, “but he’s an athlete. The Royal Ballet’s youngest dancer, but he crashed and burned a couple years later. Supposedly he’s more stable now.” In response to Caleb’s frozen expression, Reece softened his tone. “I can text you the link to a great documentary about him.”
“Not my thing.”
Reece really wasn’t in the mood. “Polunin’s girlfriend is a beautiful ballerina, if that helps.”
He didn’t know if Caleb was trying to get across annoying homophobia or fake bravado. All of it seemed like a cover for something else. He’d heard how much Cal/Kale/Tool/Caleb had been harassed at school. It had started freshman year, and it probably wasn’t Caleb’s fault. He seemed confused. Like an easy mark. And he still hadn’t explained why he was here.
“Look, is somebody bothering you at school?”
Caleb coughed into his hand, sat down on the edge of the bed, then thought better of it, standing up with his hands crossed over his crotch. Absurd.
“Then what?”
Caleb pulled his phone out of his pocket and barely looked at it.
“Look,” Reece said. “We need you in the Rockets. You’re good. And more important—sorry—but you’re short and light.” And graceful, which Caleb probably didn’t want to hear. Most guys couldn’t tell where their arms and legs were, flying through space. They bumped into other people just walking down the hallway. “The show’s coming up soon. We’re counting on you.”
It was going to be a halftime spectacle for the last football game of the season. After that, they’d do an end-of-semester holiday thing and then gear up for talent show in the spring. But this was the important one with the big crowd: jocks, parents, alumni, people from town. It would be held outside on the football field. A welcome change from the stale auditorium.
“Besides,” Reece said, trying another strategy, “it’s a fun group. Mikayla is going to start training with us. Didn’t you go out with her last year?”
Caleb tucked his chin into his chest. “Not really. One school dance.”
Mikayla was meek, but also tiny: definite potential to replace Caleb as a flyer. Reece had to keep his options open, but he wasn’t going to make it that easy for a member of the team to quit. And maybe Caleb was here for something else. Sometimes they asked questions about math, which Reece was good at. Other times it was about Reece’s suicide attempt, especially if they were thinking about their own early-exit plans.