The door opens. It closes again. Light spills out from the cracks when it’s closed, blinding me when it opens. From the varying light, I can see that it’s a hallway, the door at the end the sliding kind. It opens again, and I can hear cheering from the other side.
“Ladies and gentleman, welcome-” The door slides shut again, shutting out the noise completely. There’s a strange pressure on my chest that gets heavier the closer I get to the sliding door, so I hang back aways. I’ve never gotten this far in the dream before, so the next time the door slides open, I squeeze my eyes shut and run at the light. I can hear more and more as I get closer. People screaming, cheering. Yelling a name that I can’t make out. The door shuts, and the pressure returns. Then, an explosion rocks the hallway, and I am thrown to the ground. The door begins to slide open again, and I can catch “Well, folks, doesn’t look like it’s a good day for-”
“Clara!”
“Hn!” My hair gets stuck in my mouth as I jerk out of bed–and straight onto the floor. I keep spitting and rubbing my mouth until my lips hurt, but one hair is still stuck in my mouth.
“Clara Willis!” My mom shouts, probably from the kitchen.
“I’m awake!” I yell back. I try and brush my overly-intrusive hair out of my face, and fumble for the glasses I know are somewhere near my bed. My fingers brush the familiar wire, and I stick them on, glad to see a clearer world. My comfortable surroundings return in sharp detail. I leap back over my blue-green bedcovers to my bathroom, the one that I got when we moved. After taking care of my businesses, I brush my teeth. The bristles tickle the spaces between my teeth as I take in my own familiar face. Clara Willis, the only girl who can be 16 and have her everything enter the room second to her nose. The rectangular rims of my glasses are once again pushed up too far on my beak. No pimples at least, but the bushy cloud of hair around my face won’t win me any more friends. Well, I won’t stand out. I slip on a faded blue pair of jeans and a quiet green shirt, read to deal with another day of too much school and too few friends. At least I got farther in the dream this time. I’ve never heard anything before, much less about how it’s a bad day for somebody.
I bounce down the stairs, and my mother yells out from the kitchen, “Toast!”
“Yes, toast!” I scream back, “And you’re still yelling!” My mother was caught by a gas explosion in our old home. She wasn’t badly hurt, but her hearing was “dampened,” as the doctors described it. They say she was actually very lucky, not getting hit by any shrapnel or anything. I was very lucky because I was away. Not much fun getting a call from Mom about how our house is barely standing. She still refuses to wear the hearing aid, “Because it’s for olden folk!”
“Are you ready for school?!” Mom yells again, but at least a little quieter.
“Yes, I’m all ready!” I shout. Anna Willis appears in the doorway, the light shining behind her hair. My mom used to be a pageant girl, and she’s as pretty as she was in the pictures from twenty years ago. It’s the screaming that really throws people off, right after the beauty. I wonder if I’ll ever look like that. Her hearing aid shows only as a slight bump, and I suppose wearing it is fine, but actually using it is something else completely…
“Have a good day at school!” she shouts, and hands me two pieces of toast, hopefully stuck together with jelly or something. I notice she’s painted her nails, and her face is done up this morning, another step forward. The same gas explosion that practically deafened her blew shards of metal through my dad’s heart. I don’t think about it too much, because I feel too hollow, like my insides have been carved out like a Halloween pumpkin. My mother hasn’t been the same since, but at least she makes an effort for us. I think it was the life insurance policy that covered the move and our new house, and whatever’s supported us so far. I can’t help but worry about my mother, more than I can feel for what happened to my father.
I turn to the door and begin to walk out, but not before throwing back, “Now the knob on the hearing aid should be turned to the left!”
“Yeah, yeah!” She yells back, as I close the door. I live maybe three streets away from my school, The New School. It’s brand new, sponsored by tens of companies, in exchange for certain product placement, of course. Textbooks are McPherson Press, the food and drink sponsored by Gatorade, the sports center by Everlast. I prefer the outside of the school to the inside. Outside the building is beautiful, beige granite and high-arching windows. Inside, filled with ads.
aplitta 