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5. EXPERIMENT
(CHEATER)

"Why don't you take off?" Mike asked.

It was turning out to be a slow day at Newton's, much slower than usual, even for this time of year. The only two customers we'd seen since opening—two backpackers fresh off the trail—had been hanging out in the store for quite some time, but neither had made a single purchase. Mike had even spent the last hour answering their questions about several of the lightweight packs we kept in stock, but that hadn't helped the situation. Now they were standing by the backpack display, trading stories from the trail. Mike had taken the opportunity to escape and had wandered toward the front of the store, where I was reorganizing our stock of hiking boots.

The footwear aisle had been in shambles when I'd arrived for work that day. Mismatched boots of different sizes and colors were tied together by their laces. Some boxes were empty, and others overflowed with three or four boots, none of them a match for any of the others. According to Mike's parents, a harried mother of three had breezed into Newton's just before closing the night before, desperate to find a last minute birthday gift for her husband. While she had shopped for a new sleeping bag, her kids had amused themselves by reorganizing the boots on display. That was why I'd spent most of the last few hours untying knotted shoelaces and trying to rematch the mismatched pairs. Under normal circumstances, it would have been tedious and frustrating, but today I didn't mind. It seemed like an appropriate activity. I'd been thrown off-balance by the dream I'd been having when my alarm had gone off that morning, and I still hadn't regained my equilibrium. Reorganizing the boots gave me at least some sense of control.

I glanced down at the shoe in my left hand. The rest of the shelves were finally reorganized, but I couldn't find a match for this one last boot. It was alone, useless without its mate. I knew how it felt.

"I can stay," I said without looking up. It wasn't like I had any plans for the afternoon.

"I'm telling you," one of the hikers said. His voice, just a bit too loud for indoor conversation, carried up from the back of the store. "I've seen grizzlies pretty close up in Yellowstone, but they had nothing on this brute." Mike and I leaned around the end of the aisle to glance at the two men. The speaker looked like he could do with a shower and a change of clothes. He didn't seem like he spent much time indoors, regardless of the season.

"Not a chance," his companion responded. He was taller and leaner than his friend, but he didn't look any less in need of a break from the trail. "Black bears don't get that big. The grizzlies you saw were probably cubs." Mike sighed.

"Seriously, as soon as these two give up, I'm closing the place down." He tried to keep his voice low as he said it, but he didn't need to. The two men in the back weren't paying any attention to us. I glanced down at the shelves in front of me, noticing, for the first time, the end of a shoelace sticking out from beneath the bottom shelf. I leaned over to retrieve the final boot—the mate to the one in my hand—and placed them back in their box.

Turning my head, I glanced out at the rain falling relentlessly on the other side of the entry doors. It wasn't supposed to let up all weekend.

"On all fours it was taller than you," the first man insisted, his voice growing louder. "Big as a house and pitch-black. I'm going to report it to the ranger here. People ought to be warned—this wasn't up on the mountain, mind you—this was only a few miles from the trailhead."

The second man laughed. "Let me guess, you were on your way in? Hadn't eaten real food or slept off the ground in a week, right?"

It seemed fairly obvious that that was the case for both of them.

"You sure?" I asked. Mike nodded.

"Dad told me I could close if we didn't have any customers. These two aren't buying anything, so they don't count."

Mike was right. There was no point in staying. I reached up to take off my vest as we headed toward the front.

"Hey—uh, Mike—right?" the first man called. Mike grimaced at the sound of his name.

"I'll see you Monday," I said as he turned back to the two hikers.

"Yes, sir," Mike replied.

"Say, have there been any warnings around here recently—about black bears?"

"No, sir," I heard him answer as I stashed my vest behind the front counter and headed for the doors. "But it's always good to keep your distance and store your food correctly. Have you seen the new bear-safe canisters? They only weigh two pounds and are completely water . . ."

Pulling the hood of my coat up over my head, I stepped out through the sliding doors into the deluge. I did my best to hurry as I limped through the downpour, but I was still soaked by the time I got to my car. Sliding behind the wheel, I turned the key in the ignition and waited for the engine to warm as I stared out at the rain.

I didn't have any plans for the rest of the day. My teachers had gone easy on the homework—unusual for a weekend—so there wasn't enough of that to keep me busy. I didn't really feel like going home, anyway. My mother had gone shopping this afternoon, and I would be there alone. I didn't really want to sit at home alone with nothing to do but think.

I couldn't decide what I was feeling. For a while now, my life had been a predictable cycle of nightmares and periodic bouts of depression and denial. It was the predictability of that routine that had kept me going over the last few months, and I had come to rely on it, but the dream had disrupted the cycle. It had shaken me to the core.

It hadn't been so simple in the beginning. She had told me to pretend she had died, and at first, that's what it had felt like. Suddenly she was gone, and the shattered, empty place where my heart had been couldn't seem to process it any other way. But still, I knew it was a lie. She was out there, somewhere, and it felt like a part of me had gone with her, leaving an aching emptiness behind.

I'd been angry with myself in those early days. I'd hated myself for being so careless at the birthday party, and I'd blamed myself for everything that had happened that night. The feeling still came, though less often now. I'd learned that self-loathing achieved nothing and that anger only left me feeling emptier. Once, on a very dark day, some tiny voice had whispered that I should be angry with her, but even on my darkest of days, how could I blame her? How, when I still remembered the unsheddable tears in her eyes? I understood why she had left, and I could never hate her for it.

Some days, when I opened my eyes to the first dull light of morning, I would let myself pretend that this was all some horrible dream. I could make myself believe, until I got to school, that the last four months hadn't really happened, that the dreams that haunted me every night were no more than that—baseless nightmares, instead of memories. I could pretend, in my own little fantasy world, that maybe she would be waiting for me, standing beside her truck in the parking lot. Or maybe she and Alice were just on a hunting trip and would be back tomorrow. If it was sunny in the morning, maybe she would show up at lunch, after the clouds rolled in, or be hiding in my living room when I came home from school. Maybe she would be in my bedroom, her head resting beside mine on the pillow when I awoke in the middle of the night . . .

That was what denial was like, and having my unfounded hopes shatter when she didn't appear made those the hardest days to live through.

But the days that lasted forever were the ones when the nightmare played over and over again. When I pushed my way through the day, even though I was dying inside. Life without her was empty, colorless, a long monotonous stretch of pointless moments following one after another. The world didn't make sense without her. How could it?

And as horrible as it was to relive them every night, the nightmares had been a part of the routine, something I could rely on, in some horrible, twisted way.

They always began the same, with the kiss I would never forget, but after that moment, they began to diverge from reality. I could still remember standing there, my eyes clenched shut, trying to deny everything that had just happened, but when I finally opened my eyes in the dream, I couldn't see anything. All the light had gone from the world. It was like I was blind. I couldn't find the path. I couldn't see which way it went. I didn't know how to get back out of the forest. I fumbled along on my hands and knees, trying to feel the trail beneath my fingertips, but there was nothing but damp leaves and moss, no indication of which way I needed to go. It started to get colder.

That was when I realized I needed help. I stayed there, on my hands and knees, calling out for someone to hear me, for someone to find me, but no one ever heard. No one ever came. Every now and then I would hear voices in the distance, some of them familiar, some of them not, but no one could hear me. They didn't even seem to be looking for me. They were just going on about their lives, oblivious to the fact that I was lost, blind, and alone in the cold.

And then it would start to rain.

I'd give up then, curling into a ball, calling out her name as I shivered in the cold rain. That was when I always awoke, her name on my lips and a cold sweat running down my back like the rain pouring down over me in the darkened forest. I was pretty sure I was saying her name out loud, too, because my mother had appeared outside my bedroom door the first few times I'd had the dream. She didn't bother anymore. I'd learned now to turn on my bedside lamp, to reassure myself that I wasn't blind as I sat in the shadows of my bedroom, struggling to get air back into my lungs. It helped a little . . . sometimes. Some nights I went back to sleep. Other nights I just stared up at the ceiling, terrified that if I closed my eyes, the darkness would take me back to that rain-soaked forest, and I'd end up calling out to her all over again . . .

Even now, sitting in the parking lot at Newton's, I shuddered against the memory.

Shoving it to the back of my mind as hard as I could, I adjusted the now warm air of the heater, attempting to dry myself from the rain outside.

Why hadn't I had the nightmare the night before? For the first time in longer than I could remember, I hadn't found myself sitting up in bed, shuddering at the memory of being left alone in the cold. Instead, there had been another dream, a better dream.

I stared down at the steering wheel as I replayed it all in my mind. It was heart-breaking . . . tormenting . . . elating. It had been so real, so much more real than any of the nightmares I'd had since that horrible day. I could still feel her pressed against me. I could still smell her. It was the first dream—other than the nightmare—that I'd had in so long, but it was better, so much better, and it had been so real.

I wanted to dream it again. To see her again. To smell that intoxicating perfume once more. And I ached to know what she had been trying to tell me.

"You just need to keep looking," she had said. Looking where? What did she mean? If I went home and tried to go back to sleep now, would I continue the dream where it had left off? No, not likely. But what had caused it to begin with? After months of aching and wishing for some dream other than that same old nightmare, something had triggered this. What had been different? Had I done something to bring it about? Was it the movie? Port Angeles? The girl at the coffeehouse? There had to be something.

And could I replicate it? That was the real question. Could I discover what had caused it in the first place, and make it happen again?

I had to experiment, I decided, a strange, manic energy seeping slowly through my veins. I had to find the trigger. If I could find what thing or what combination of things had brought her into my dreams, maybe I could bring her back—in my dreams, at least, if not in reality. And what had she been trying to tell me? It suddenly seemed to be of the utmost importance. I needed to know. I needed to dream of her again, and then maybe, just maybe, I would be able to understand.

So how did I start? I stared out at the rivulets of rain running down my windshield.

Zombies. I would start with the zombies. I glanced at the clock on my car's dashboard. There was an afternoon showing of Dead End today—I'd seen it listed at the theater last night. If I left now, I should have time to get to Port Angeles before it started.

I drove home through the rain, grabbing some of the cash from my sock drawer before running back out into the downpour and heading to Port Angeles. For the first time in a long time, I had a plan, a purpose. It felt strange.

Sitting in the theater, I discovered how much easier it was to watch the movie now that I knew when it was safe to pay attention and when I needed to look away. I had a whole new set of theater-goers to study when things got too romantic onscreen. It helped, although sometimes I noticed things I didn't want to notice, like the heroine at the end who gave up and let what was left of the guy she'd once loved turn her into a monster.

I'd considered becoming a monster too, once, back in the days when I thought my future would follow one of two paths. Little had I known there was a third possibility lurking in the shadows.

It was late afternoon when I stepped out of the theater. The first part of my experiment was complete, but I wasn't sure the movie, itself, would be enough to bring back the dream. What else might do it then? What else could I do to recreate the sequence of events that had led me to dream of her? There was the hamburger and french fries at the fast food place down the street, but somehow it didn't seem very likely that McDonald's had been the secret ingredient that made her appear. I'd stepped out into traffic, nearly getting run over by the black sedan, but again, that seemed a bit unlikely . . . and a bit extreme, as well. Maybe I'd hold that in reserve for now.

The only other thing I could think of was the girl at the coffeehouse, but how would I find her again? I pondered this as I stared across the rainy street. I had no idea who she was or where she would be. She might not even live in Port Angeles, so what should I do? I could stand here in the rain, watching the door of the coffeehouse, just in case she came by again . . .

Yeah, that wasn't creepy at all.

Frowning, I considered my options for a moment, then crossed the street. I made sure to check for traffic this time.

It was a small place, filled with cozy looking chairs and dimly lit by lamps at each table. It was artsy, the way coffeehouses often are, and at the counter, a barista who looked to be about my age was chatting with a girl in a University of Washington sweatshirt. At the sound of the bell above the door, she looked up at me and smiled.

My eyes swept the dim corners of the shop, searching for the girl I had seen the evening before, but there were only a few patrons in the front room, and none of them seemed familiar. Farther back, I could see about half a dozen people crowded in a circle around a man with a guitar. I hesitated, then realized the barista was staring at me. Had she said something? I didn't remember. Glancing up at the chalkboard menu, I asked for the first two items I saw—a cup of herbal tea and a scone.

I sat down at a little table in the corner and tried not to stand out.

The few patrons sitting out front were mostly middle-aged, their noses stuck in financial magazines or novels. If I turned my head and leaned back slightly in my chair, I could see into the back part of the coffeehouse. In the circle around the man with the guitar, I could see only the backs of heads, but none of them seemed to have the mahogany hair that had tricked my eyes the night before. I picked up the newspaper someone had left on the table in front of me and tried to blend in. Ten more minutes, and then I would go home, I decided. I struggled to tune out the music coming from the back.

As I pretended to read a story on local tourism, I wondered what had possessed me to try this ridiculous scheme. It was wild, crazy. It made no sense, stalking a stranger, but it was more than I had felt like doing in months. I studied the people around me out of the corner of my eye, trying to ignore the little voice in the back of my mind as it grew louder. What was I doing, anyway? Was I really, truly losing my mind? Stalking a girl I had never met just to see if the sight of her would trigger the memory of someone else? Annoyed by myself and the sound of the Simon and Garfunkel cover coming from the back of the shop, I dropped the newspaper onto the tabletop and pushed back my chair to stand, but as I glanced out the front window toward the rainy afternoon, luck, for the first time in a long time, turned out to be on my side.

The bell above the door chimed as she stepped in out of the rain. The blue raincoat. The hair spilling down over her shoulders. I tried not to stare as she turned to hang her coat on the rack just inside the door. The remains of my heart skipped several beats, but in the back of my mind the voice was already whispering that something was wrong. I could see now that the hair wasn't quite right, more red than mahogany and too straight to be a perfect match. The shape of her face was wrong, too—longer and thinner than it should have been, rather than heart-shaped. Her upper lip wasn't full enough. Wrong. It was all wrong. Turning back to the center of the room, she caught me watching her. I looked away just a second too late.

"Do I know you?" she asked hesitantly. Her eyes were narrowed slightly, as if trying to place a memory.

I wasn't about to admit that if I looked familiar, it was because she'd seen me standing in the middle of the street like a lunatic the night before.

"I don't . . . think so," I answered, trying not to give off a creepy vibe. I reached up to shuffle the newspaper I'd just set down on the table. I needed to do something with my hands.

She lowered her chin in thought—the gesture so unlike what I'd been hoping for—and studied me with her blue eyes. With every moment, I could feel my hopes slipping away. My stomach twisted in my gut, disappointment souring the excitement. I tried not to let it show on my face.

"Are you sure? I feel like I know you from somewhere . . ." her voice trailed off, and her eyes widened in recognition. "Wait, do you work at the bookstore down the street?"

"No," I answered quietly. "I don't work in Port Angeles. I'm just . . . visiting." The height was wrong, too, I realized now. She was just a bit too tall.

"Oh, well. Who knows, right?" She shrugged and glanced down toward my untouched plate. "Enjoy your scone. Mattie's scones are the best." With a parting smile, she turned toward the counter, stopping for just a moment to exchange a few words with the barista. I glanced down at her feet. She was wearing some sort of wooden clogs that would have sent Alice into a fit. Apparently, even my subconscious had been right about that.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw her continue toward the back of the shop, where she slid into an empty seat near the musician. I sighed and turned my attention back out the window to the rainy street outside. Leaving the scone and the tea untouched, I left the coffeehouse, walking slowly back down the sidewalk in the rain.

In the end, she hadn't been anything like I'd thought, but what had I been expecting? A perfect match? The similarities I thought I'd seen the day before had been nothing more than a desperate wish made by a tired and heartsick mind.

I made my way back to my car as evening set in. As I drove back home through the rain, I wondered if I had done enough to bring back the dream. I felt like I'd hit on the most important parts of the previous evening, but the girl—should I feel badly that I didn't even know her name?—was she close enough to bring back the dream? Maybe she wasn't the same as I had thought her to be, but there had still been that first glance, that heart-stopping moment when the similarities had knocked the breath out of me. Would that moment be enough?

It was dark by the time I pulled into my driveway. The time was close enough to when I usually got home from work on a Saturday that my mother wouldn't notice. I was grateful for my timing, at least. How on earth would I have explained my experiment if I'd gotten home late?

Dinner was leftover lasagna. I ate dutifully while my mother tried to pull out details of my Friday night trip to the movies with Josie and Jacob. I managed, with as few words as possible, to leave her with the impression that it had been fun to get out for a change and that maybe we'd do it again sometime.

After dinner was homework in the kitchen while my mother watched the news and an old black and white movie from the forties. The Calculus Mr. Varner had assigned took me longer than it should have. My thoughts were focused on the dream from the night before, wondering if my experiment would work, or if my sad discovery about the girl at the coffeehouse would be enough to send me back to my regular nightmares.

Eventually it was late enough that I couldn't put it off any longer. As my mother turned off the TV and headed for bed, I put away my now finished homework, turned off the lights, and headed upstairs. I lay in bed staring up at the ceiling and wondering if there was anything more I could have done to bring on the dream. There was just one thing I could think to do. Switching on the lamp, I reached into the drawer of my nightstand.

It wasn't that I didn't want to see it, although I honestly couldn't bear to look at it most days. It was more that I was hiding it away, like a pirate burying secret treasure. Here was where I kept the framed picture from prom, in its own special place, where I could take it out and look into her face whenever I needed to see her . . . whenever I could bear to see her.

She was still there, smiling out at the camera, impossibly lovely. I could still remember that moment, and I relished the ache it left behind. Running my fingertip down the glass that covered her cheek, I closed my eyes against the image, sealing it in, then placed the photograph back into the drawer of my nightstand and reached up to turn off the lamp. I settled back under the covers, praying that this would work, that I would find myself back on that silent street in Port Angeles with an angel standing next to me . . .

But when I awoke in the early hours of morning, it wasn't to the image of a beautiful girl with caramel eyes. It was to the memory of a dark, rainy forest. Cold sweat beaded on my forehead, and her name was on my lips.

I stared up at the ceiling, dejected, until pale light trickled in through the windows, and by the time my alarm began its incessant beeping, I was already headed down the path to another familiar day of depression.