Not nearly as chipper as on his first day, Matthew stumbled sleepily into the kitchen to greet his mother. She was sitting at the table in her work clothes, munching on a piece of toast and orange marmalade, looking wearier than Matthew had ever seen her. He sat down opposite her and stole the toast she had yet to eat, at which point she finally looked up at him, a concerned, motherly look on her tired face.
“What happened yesterday?” she asked carefully.
Matthew stared at her blankly, a piece of unchewed toast dangling from the corner of his mouth. She had never asked him about what was going on before, unless he was crying or something. What had she noticed that would have brought on such a drastic change in character? Suddenly Matthew’s overtired mind remembered that he had yelled openly at Ira in the house, something he had never before been driven to do, and it took all he had not to leap from the table and run. Instead, he managed to swallow his toast and respond with a lame, “What do you mean?”
“Yesterday,” Sarah started, still cautiously, as though she was treading on very tender ground, “you came straight into the house and went to your room, and at dinner you didn’t quite seem like yourself. I just wanted to know if everything was all right. You’ve never been so distant before, so…” She paused, waiting for Matthew’s response.
“Nah, it was nothing,” Matthew said, indescribably relieved. To think he had thought she was talking about Ira! “I was a little stressed since it was the first day and all, but other than that…” He shrugged theatrically, hoping his explanation would satisfy her.
“Oh,” she said quietly.
Why did she seem so afraid of him? Matthew, puzzled and slightly frightened by her strange behavior, leaned across the table and took her small, wrinkled hand in his. She looked up at him, and for a short, fleeting moment Matthew thought he saw a hint of immeasurable pain and sadness in her eyes that he had never seen before. When Jon had left, there had only been sadness on the actual night of the abandonment, but after that he had only ever seen a sort of cold emptiness in her eyes. But now, as she sat before him at the kitchen island counter, wondering about why he, Matthew, had been acting strangely, she was in more pain than she had been over losing her husband. Matthew’s heart ached at the sight of her, always thinking of someone, anyone, but herself.
“I love you, Mom,” he said earnestly. The hint of a true, while tiny, smile gleamed in her face.
“I love you, too, Matt. You’re all I’ve got.”
They hugged across the table, and Matthew felt that her warm face was warm with tears.
Still half asleep and slightly late, Matthew stumbled into his seat in his first period class, Calculus AB. He nearly fell back asleep once he was in a reclined position—that is, until he felt a quick jab between his shoulder blades. He jumped in his seat and turned around quickly, finding himself face-to-face with Natali Graham, Brooke’s best friend, and also her smartest—she was one of only six girls in the class, and she was certainly the only cheerleader. Natali and Matthew had always been friends, mostly they had both put up with Brooke for so long, but now she looked angrier than he had ever seen her.
“What’s up, Nat?” he asked, feigning a smile.
“What the hell is your problem?” she scolded under her breath, and the phrase was beginning to get old. Matthew had a feeling she would have been screaming had she not been in class. “How could you treat Brooke like that?”
“Look, Natali,” Matthew began quietly, secretly hoping that starting his sentence with ‘look’ wouldn’t cause Ira to emerge again, “it’s really no big deal. I need to talk to Brooke and sort everything out, but it’ll be okay—”
“No big deal?” she squealed, barely containing her voice to a whisper. “Brooke called me last night and was sobbing until almost three o’clock! Sorry, but I would consider that a big deal.”
“I wasn’t…myself yesterday, all right? I’ll talk to her and get everything sorted out and—”
“Mr. Thorne, would you mind leaving your girl-chasing antics for break and lunch? Thank you,” the teacher rattled sheepishly, not leaving his chalkboard for an instant, sending the classroom into a fit of hysterical giggling.
Matthew felt his freckles turn red on his nose and he slumped lower in his chair. “Sorry,” he mumbled. He turned to look back at Natali, but she was frantically copying the notes she had missed after yelling at Matthew from the blackboard and wouldn’t look at him. Matthew sighed. It was going to be a long day.
“What’s up, Nat?” he asked, feigning a smile.
“What the hell is your problem?” she scolded under her breath, and the phrase was beginning to get old. Matthew had a feeling she would have been screaming had she not been in class. “How could you treat Brooke like that?”
“Look, Natali,” Matthew began quietly, secretly hoping that starting his sentence with ‘look’ wouldn’t cause Ira to emerge again, “it’s really no big deal. I need to talk to Brooke and sort everything out, but it’ll be okay—”
“No big deal?” she squealed, barely containing her voice to a whisper. “Brooke called me last night and was sobbing until almost three o’clock! Sorry, but I would consider that a big deal.”
“I wasn’t…myself yesterday, all right? I’ll talk to her and get everything sorted out and—”
“Mr. Thorne, would you mind leaving your girl-chasing antics for break and lunch? Thank you,” the teacher rattled sheepishly, not leaving his chalkboard for an instant, sending the classroom into a fit of hysterical giggling.
Matthew felt his freckles turn red on his nose and he slumped lower in his chair. “Sorry,” he mumbled. He turned to look back at Natali, but she was frantically copying the notes she had missed after yelling at Matthew from the blackboard and wouldn’t look at him. Matthew sighed. It was going to be a long day.
Matthew walked home at four forty-five after school. He had spoken to Coach about joining football when it started (their school was the only one in the district that did not require future athletes to attend a summer-long program in which to practice the sport), and had been yelled at all day about “what he said to Brooke” (who had been mysteriously absent all day). He was now exhausted beyond all reasonable comprehension, although there had been one highlight to this ridiculously tiring day: he had yet to talk to Ira, a feat he knew he would not be able to face in his current state.
Now running on fumes and replying solely on automatic pilot, Matthew removed his key ring from the side pocket of his backpack and inserted the little bronze key into the front door lock and pushed his way inside. He heaved himself across the foyer to the foot of the seemingly endless staircase where he grasped the handrail and hoisted his body upwards, beginning the trek toward his bedroom. Once through his door he fell forward onto his unmade double bed and immediately succumbed to his fatigue as he fell into an impossibly deep sleep.
As he slept, his mind, though at rest, was spinning with the happenings of the last forty-eight or so hours, swirling in a massive sea of directionless thought and broken strands of conversations. From one side he could hear Brooke’s shrill, sobbing voice emanating throughout the caverns of his subconscious, shouting at him. “I hate you, I hate you, I hate you!” it echoed, round and round in his head. Then his mother’s face swam in front of him, “What happened yesterday? I’ve never seen you so distant.” Josh’s voice fading in and out of static, saying “Just talk to her, I’m worried for her.” He conjured images of school, his mom, cell phones, Josh as a cheerleader…everything possible was conceived there, in his head. Again, he remembered that he hadn’t called Brooke yet.
Then, suddenly, Ira was there, standing amidst the other swirling images as a beacon of stability and focus. Ira did not become distorted as the others had; in fact, his form was becoming clearer and clearer, canceling out all the other indistinct figures, until soon it was just Ira standing alone amidst nothing, just blackness, Ira smiling a twisted, mischievous smile and as he saw it before him, an overwhelming sense of foreboding overtook him and his whole body shook. As much as he knew he needed and wanted the sleep, he wanted almost desperately to be released from the dream in which Ira could so easily keep him trapped forever. What if he was not asleep, but in fact was comatose? No one would ever know. No one would ever find him. He struggled to wake himself without really knowing he was doing so. Next thing he knew Ira was speaking to him, his voice echoing in the cavernous space of his psyche.
“Don’t you worry, Matthew,” he boomed, voice overpowering any superfluous sound or any noise Matthew might have made. “I have everything under control.” His laughter then emanated through Matthew and everything else around him, rattling his bones and making his heart thump loudly. He was afraid, for the first time, he was afraid of Ira, the one person he thought he could trust. Soon, Ira was fading into the darkness of the background and Matthew saw only black, but the sound was returning as Ira faded, the absence of his thunderous voice now allowing for other sounds—cars swerving and honking through light traffic, the pitter-patter of raindrops on cement, tears falling onto a leather jacket, a high-pitched scream of terror, the crash of something hard against cement, scraping and dragging, and footsteps. No images accompanied these sounds, which made them somehow all the more horrific.
Matthew finally woke and found himself in a cold sweat. He sat up immediately, wanting to remember the finer details of the dream, but something else caught his attention before he could really think about it. He looked around himself and realized—rather slowly, considering the magnitude of his discovery—that he was not in his bedroom, but rather lying strewn on his stomach across the steps that led to his front door. He could not remember arriving there. He only knew that he had gone to his bedroom and fallen asleep, where he had the dream about Ira. After that, all he knew was awakening here, on his front porch.
Matthew stood shakily. He brushed himself off lightly while turning around slowly to take in his surroundings fully. Blood rushed to his head and his temples throbbed. He turned toward the front door and walked slowly up the rest of the steps. He tried the handle and realized, to his dismay, that it was locked. He pensively put his hands into his jeans pockets and, to his surprise, felt something familiar—the jagged metal of his keys, which he removed from the pocket slowly and examined them closely.
My keys never leave my school bag, he thought as he ran his fingers over the bronze teeth of his house key. I know myself too well; I always lose them, so they never get moved. That means...I must have already known I'd be out here.
As he silently turned the key in the doorknob, Matthew noticed for the first time that it was barely dawn, that the sunrise’s light was only just starting to brighten the horizon. He couldn’t have fallen asleep in his bed any later than five. He opened the door as quietly as he could and, avoiding the one squeaky floorboard, crept into the house and up the stairs to his bedroom, where he sat on his swivel desk chair and laid his head in his hands.
What is going on?
He thought for a long time about what could have happened, but nothing he thought of made any sense. He knew he did not sleepwalk, because even if he did he would not have thought to take his keys. Besides, something like that would have presented when he was younger, wouldn’t it? He tried to keep Ira as far from his mind as possible, but it proved difficult as the morning progressed. He was tired from thinking (and, presumably, from sleeping outside), but he was afraid to sleep, lest Ira make another appearance in one of his dreams. After fighting the exhaustion that threatened his body for another few hours, Matthew heard Sarah arise and shuffle downstairs. Matthew immediately leapt up and followed her down, certain she would be able to keep him awake.
“Hey, Matt!” Sarah exclaimed as she caught sight of him turning into the kitchen. “What are you doing up so early? It’s only six!” She looked him up and down with a hint of exaggerated repulsion. “Are those your clothes from yesterday?”
“Yeah, well—” Matthew tried and failed to suppress a mighty yawn. “You know how it goes, I guess…I couldn’t sleep last night and I figured I might as well come down here and keep you company as opposed to—” He yawned again, and his body stretched. “As opposed to hanging out in my bedroom all morning.”
“Well, all right,” Sarah said, her voice mockingly suspicious. She poured herself a mug of steaming hot coffee from the automatic coffee maker. “Want to come watch the news with me?”
“Sure, whatever.” Matthew yawned again, this time successfully stifling it until his mother left the kitchen. They both sat on the black leather sofa as Sarah switched on the television. She immediately flipped past the morning cartoons until she found a reputable news station. Matthew smiled—this was so unlike her, as she usually preferred the morning talk-show versions of the news for the banter, but with her son present, she usually tried to make herself seem more adult and sophisticated. Matthew stared at the screen, desperately forcing his eyes to stay open, and soon he found himself dozing against the cushions. The unfittingly cheerful jingle that signaled breaking news hailed Matthew’s attention back into the world of the living and he sat up, eagerly expecting the macabre images that were sure to follow.
“Hello, I’m Judy Lopez. I’m standing just outside the perimeter of Orange Grove High School, where a grisly murder has taken place.”
Matthew sat upright, as did his mother. Orange Grove—his school!
“The bloodshed can probably be seen from here, and the loss can be felt for miles around. Seventeen-year-old Brooke Eckeard, senior and cheer captain here at Orange Grove, was brutally murdered on the very field where she used to practice cheer.” The reporter held up Brooke’s school photo, which the camera immediately set into close-up.
“Oh, my god…” Sarah breathed. She turned to Matthew and laid her hand, warm from the coffee mug, on his knee. “Is that…your friend from school? The one who liked you so much?”
As he nodded silently Matthew’s heart leapt into his throat. Brooke was dead?
“She was killed by blunt force trauma to the back of the head when it was smashed against the side of a building. The police went to her parents this morning for information—here is what they said.”
Brooke’s mother came onscreen. Matthew swallowed a lump in his throat when he looked at her, for she was the image of Brooke, only about thirty years older. The woman spoke and it was obvious that she was trying not to cry.
“Brooke was here, at home, until about nine o’clock. That’s when the phone rang. I answered, and it was one of her friends, who wanted to speak to her. When she got off the phone, she was…”
The woman choked a little on her words, wiped her eyes, and pressed on.
“She was all smiles, because the boy she liked asked to see her. She left that minute, and the next I knew it was just past midnight, and…”
Sobs mixed with her words as she kept talking. “And the police were knocking on my door and telling me my baby was dead.”
How? Who would have killed her? She might not have been the sharpest tool in the shed, but she was a nice girl, just like he had told Ira—
His heart nearly stopped beating. No, he told himself, staring passionately at his hands without really seeing them. That’s not possible, I would know…
But he didn’t know. He had no recollection about what had happened the night before, so really anything could have happened. Except…
“The dream…” he whispered, and his mother looked at him quizzically. “The sounds…” Matthew stared into the screen again.
Brooke’s mother cried into her hand on the TV for a moment, and then she looked up, puffy-eyed, and stared intently into the camera. “But I know who it was. Brooke had told me a little while ago about this boy she liked, but he said she was stupid and not worth his time. Now some guy calls my house and calls my daughter out after hours? You tell me.” Her voice was dripping with contempt behind her tears.
The reporter was back onscreen.
“Mrs. Eckeard does not know who called her house, and the police say the phone trace has only brought forth a local payphone, and no luck yet with prints or DNA. But they are doing everything in their power to find the killer. I’m Judy Lopez, back to you in the studio.”
Now running on fumes and replying solely on automatic pilot, Matthew removed his key ring from the side pocket of his backpack and inserted the little bronze key into the front door lock and pushed his way inside. He heaved himself across the foyer to the foot of the seemingly endless staircase where he grasped the handrail and hoisted his body upwards, beginning the trek toward his bedroom. Once through his door he fell forward onto his unmade double bed and immediately succumbed to his fatigue as he fell into an impossibly deep sleep.
As he slept, his mind, though at rest, was spinning with the happenings of the last forty-eight or so hours, swirling in a massive sea of directionless thought and broken strands of conversations. From one side he could hear Brooke’s shrill, sobbing voice emanating throughout the caverns of his subconscious, shouting at him. “I hate you, I hate you, I hate you!” it echoed, round and round in his head. Then his mother’s face swam in front of him, “What happened yesterday? I’ve never seen you so distant.” Josh’s voice fading in and out of static, saying “Just talk to her, I’m worried for her.” He conjured images of school, his mom, cell phones, Josh as a cheerleader…everything possible was conceived there, in his head. Again, he remembered that he hadn’t called Brooke yet.
Then, suddenly, Ira was there, standing amidst the other swirling images as a beacon of stability and focus. Ira did not become distorted as the others had; in fact, his form was becoming clearer and clearer, canceling out all the other indistinct figures, until soon it was just Ira standing alone amidst nothing, just blackness, Ira smiling a twisted, mischievous smile and as he saw it before him, an overwhelming sense of foreboding overtook him and his whole body shook. As much as he knew he needed and wanted the sleep, he wanted almost desperately to be released from the dream in which Ira could so easily keep him trapped forever. What if he was not asleep, but in fact was comatose? No one would ever know. No one would ever find him. He struggled to wake himself without really knowing he was doing so. Next thing he knew Ira was speaking to him, his voice echoing in the cavernous space of his psyche.
“Don’t you worry, Matthew,” he boomed, voice overpowering any superfluous sound or any noise Matthew might have made. “I have everything under control.” His laughter then emanated through Matthew and everything else around him, rattling his bones and making his heart thump loudly. He was afraid, for the first time, he was afraid of Ira, the one person he thought he could trust. Soon, Ira was fading into the darkness of the background and Matthew saw only black, but the sound was returning as Ira faded, the absence of his thunderous voice now allowing for other sounds—cars swerving and honking through light traffic, the pitter-patter of raindrops on cement, tears falling onto a leather jacket, a high-pitched scream of terror, the crash of something hard against cement, scraping and dragging, and footsteps. No images accompanied these sounds, which made them somehow all the more horrific.
Matthew finally woke and found himself in a cold sweat. He sat up immediately, wanting to remember the finer details of the dream, but something else caught his attention before he could really think about it. He looked around himself and realized—rather slowly, considering the magnitude of his discovery—that he was not in his bedroom, but rather lying strewn on his stomach across the steps that led to his front door. He could not remember arriving there. He only knew that he had gone to his bedroom and fallen asleep, where he had the dream about Ira. After that, all he knew was awakening here, on his front porch.
Matthew stood shakily. He brushed himself off lightly while turning around slowly to take in his surroundings fully. Blood rushed to his head and his temples throbbed. He turned toward the front door and walked slowly up the rest of the steps. He tried the handle and realized, to his dismay, that it was locked. He pensively put his hands into his jeans pockets and, to his surprise, felt something familiar—the jagged metal of his keys, which he removed from the pocket slowly and examined them closely.
My keys never leave my school bag, he thought as he ran his fingers over the bronze teeth of his house key. I know myself too well; I always lose them, so they never get moved. That means...I must have already known I'd be out here.
As he silently turned the key in the doorknob, Matthew noticed for the first time that it was barely dawn, that the sunrise’s light was only just starting to brighten the horizon. He couldn’t have fallen asleep in his bed any later than five. He opened the door as quietly as he could and, avoiding the one squeaky floorboard, crept into the house and up the stairs to his bedroom, where he sat on his swivel desk chair and laid his head in his hands.
What is going on?
He thought for a long time about what could have happened, but nothing he thought of made any sense. He knew he did not sleepwalk, because even if he did he would not have thought to take his keys. Besides, something like that would have presented when he was younger, wouldn’t it? He tried to keep Ira as far from his mind as possible, but it proved difficult as the morning progressed. He was tired from thinking (and, presumably, from sleeping outside), but he was afraid to sleep, lest Ira make another appearance in one of his dreams. After fighting the exhaustion that threatened his body for another few hours, Matthew heard Sarah arise and shuffle downstairs. Matthew immediately leapt up and followed her down, certain she would be able to keep him awake.
“Hey, Matt!” Sarah exclaimed as she caught sight of him turning into the kitchen. “What are you doing up so early? It’s only six!” She looked him up and down with a hint of exaggerated repulsion. “Are those your clothes from yesterday?”
“Yeah, well—” Matthew tried and failed to suppress a mighty yawn. “You know how it goes, I guess…I couldn’t sleep last night and I figured I might as well come down here and keep you company as opposed to—” He yawned again, and his body stretched. “As opposed to hanging out in my bedroom all morning.”
“Well, all right,” Sarah said, her voice mockingly suspicious. She poured herself a mug of steaming hot coffee from the automatic coffee maker. “Want to come watch the news with me?”
“Sure, whatever.” Matthew yawned again, this time successfully stifling it until his mother left the kitchen. They both sat on the black leather sofa as Sarah switched on the television. She immediately flipped past the morning cartoons until she found a reputable news station. Matthew smiled—this was so unlike her, as she usually preferred the morning talk-show versions of the news for the banter, but with her son present, she usually tried to make herself seem more adult and sophisticated. Matthew stared at the screen, desperately forcing his eyes to stay open, and soon he found himself dozing against the cushions. The unfittingly cheerful jingle that signaled breaking news hailed Matthew’s attention back into the world of the living and he sat up, eagerly expecting the macabre images that were sure to follow.
“Hello, I’m Judy Lopez. I’m standing just outside the perimeter of Orange Grove High School, where a grisly murder has taken place.”
Matthew sat upright, as did his mother. Orange Grove—his school!
“The bloodshed can probably be seen from here, and the loss can be felt for miles around. Seventeen-year-old Brooke Eckeard, senior and cheer captain here at Orange Grove, was brutally murdered on the very field where she used to practice cheer.” The reporter held up Brooke’s school photo, which the camera immediately set into close-up.
“Oh, my god…” Sarah breathed. She turned to Matthew and laid her hand, warm from the coffee mug, on his knee. “Is that…your friend from school? The one who liked you so much?”
As he nodded silently Matthew’s heart leapt into his throat. Brooke was dead?
“She was killed by blunt force trauma to the back of the head when it was smashed against the side of a building. The police went to her parents this morning for information—here is what they said.”
Brooke’s mother came onscreen. Matthew swallowed a lump in his throat when he looked at her, for she was the image of Brooke, only about thirty years older. The woman spoke and it was obvious that she was trying not to cry.
“Brooke was here, at home, until about nine o’clock. That’s when the phone rang. I answered, and it was one of her friends, who wanted to speak to her. When she got off the phone, she was…”
The woman choked a little on her words, wiped her eyes, and pressed on.
“She was all smiles, because the boy she liked asked to see her. She left that minute, and the next I knew it was just past midnight, and…”
Sobs mixed with her words as she kept talking. “And the police were knocking on my door and telling me my baby was dead.”
How? Who would have killed her? She might not have been the sharpest tool in the shed, but she was a nice girl, just like he had told Ira—
His heart nearly stopped beating. No, he told himself, staring passionately at his hands without really seeing them. That’s not possible, I would know…
But he didn’t know. He had no recollection about what had happened the night before, so really anything could have happened. Except…
“The dream…” he whispered, and his mother looked at him quizzically. “The sounds…” Matthew stared into the screen again.
Brooke’s mother cried into her hand on the TV for a moment, and then she looked up, puffy-eyed, and stared intently into the camera. “But I know who it was. Brooke had told me a little while ago about this boy she liked, but he said she was stupid and not worth his time. Now some guy calls my house and calls my daughter out after hours? You tell me.” Her voice was dripping with contempt behind her tears.
The reporter was back onscreen.
“Mrs. Eckeard does not know who called her house, and the police say the phone trace has only brought forth a local payphone, and no luck yet with prints or DNA. But they are doing everything in their power to find the killer. I’m Judy Lopez, back to you in the studio.”
Sarah Thorne studied her son, not sure whether he was going to cry, scream, or vomit. She carefully removed her hand from his knee and set down her coffee. Then, after observing him for a few more moments, she leaned across the sofa and drew him into a hug to which he did not respond. She held him close, feeling his body trembling slightly, and it took everything she had not to start asking him questions. She did not want to interrogate just after hearing the news, but at the same time Sarah herself had a feeling of morbid, insatiable curiosity that made her want to ask a million questions at once.
They both jumped when the phone rang. Sarah let go of Matthew and ran for the phone. “Hello, Thorne residence?” she answered.
“Is Matt there?” the frantic male voice on the other end nearly screamed.
“Er, yeah, he is, hang on a sec…” Sarah extended the receiver to Matthew.
Matthew took it wordlessly. “Hello? Hey, Josh.” His voice was monotone, but he sounded choked, like he was doing everything he could to sound emotionless rather than cry. Sarah held her breath while Matthew sat and listened to Josh on the other end. “Yeah, I saw…I know…Sorry, man…yeah…okay…see ya….bye.” He pressed the “end” button and handed the phone back to Sarah.
“What did he want?” Sarah asked quietly, afraid he might be angry with her for asking questions.
He wasn’t. In the same monotone voice he answered, “To ask if me if I’d seen the news, and to tell me he would miss her, and to tell me that I was a dick for never going out with her.” He looked at her finally, his face forcibly blank but his eyes full of emotion. “I’m going upstairs, okay?” he asked.
Sarah nodded and gave him a quick hug when he stood, which he reciprocated. “Let me know if I can do anything,” she said as he walked away. She watched him head up the stairs and sighed.
Please…please let him be all right…
They both jumped when the phone rang. Sarah let go of Matthew and ran for the phone. “Hello, Thorne residence?” she answered.
“Is Matt there?” the frantic male voice on the other end nearly screamed.
“Er, yeah, he is, hang on a sec…” Sarah extended the receiver to Matthew.
Matthew took it wordlessly. “Hello? Hey, Josh.” His voice was monotone, but he sounded choked, like he was doing everything he could to sound emotionless rather than cry. Sarah held her breath while Matthew sat and listened to Josh on the other end. “Yeah, I saw…I know…Sorry, man…yeah…okay…see ya….bye.” He pressed the “end” button and handed the phone back to Sarah.
“What did he want?” Sarah asked quietly, afraid he might be angry with her for asking questions.
He wasn’t. In the same monotone voice he answered, “To ask if me if I’d seen the news, and to tell me he would miss her, and to tell me that I was a dick for never going out with her.” He looked at her finally, his face forcibly blank but his eyes full of emotion. “I’m going upstairs, okay?” he asked.
Sarah nodded and gave him a quick hug when he stood, which he reciprocated. “Let me know if I can do anything,” she said as he walked away. She watched him head up the stairs and sighed.
Please…please let him be all right…