“That is really, really cool, Marcus,” I say.
Just like when he first told me about carving, his cheeks are pink, and after a bit, I realize we are just standing there smiling at each other.
“So, the dreams,” he says.
“The dreams,” I say, remembering what I came for. “I still don’tknow what happened with JasonandI don’t know who the Instagram bully is, but I think the dreams could show me both. Which is why I think we should make one happen. A specific one.”
Now, he looks at me like I’m crazy. “Damn, Cartwright. I didn’t realize that, in addition to making a mean yearbook, you knew how to control REM sleep.”
“Somebody has been doing their research.”
Marcus smirks.
I sigh. “There has to be a way, right? I mean, there’s a science behind everything, and we know it involves me and you and a place and a memory.”
Marcus seems to consider this for a moment. Then he looks at me. “Are you thinking what I’m thinking?”
“Maybe,” I say. Feeling a tickle of excitement, I add, “Let’s say it on the count of three. One. Two. Three…”
“Mind melding,” I say at the same time Marcus says, “Pot brownies.”
“Are you kidding me?” I don’t bother to hide my disappointment.
But he maintains his arrogance. “Mindmelding. That’s your brilliant plan?”
“Our minds would be overlapping, sharing thoughts—only this time instead of it happening on its own, we’dmakeit happen,” I explain. “I thought we could try to go to this one memory; it’s the closest thing to a fight that me and Jason ever got into. You guys had an away game, and I hadn’t been able to reach Jason all night. But then there he was on TikTok, doing shots with his boys and these cheerleaders from another school.”
Marcus narrows his eyes. “And that’s the memory you want to seebecause?”
“Well, it is Jason and me at our most imperfect. Even if we did end up resolving it very maturely,” I can’t help but add. “There could be something in the memory that shows when things started to fall apart. Plus, if someone does have it out for me, they’d probably be thrilled about me and Jason fighting. Maybe this dream can show me who my haters are. All we need is to get into that specific memory.”
“Just get into it,” he says, solemn. “Like a cabinet or a bank. An enemy compound. We’ll scale the walls. Break in.”
“You don’t sound like you have a ton of faith in me, Riddick,” I say, hands on hips, pretending to be annoyed.
“Oh, I have faith, Cartwight,” Marcus deadpans.
I hide my smile. “You should. I have methods. Do you have time now?”
Marcus sighs and makes a big show of checking the clock in the garage, but fifteen minutes later, we are sitting crisscross applesauce on a blanket Marcus pulled out of the back of one of the cars. It covers the dusty, oil-stained floor of The Fix, since Marcus claims to be too filthy to go inside. With our outstretched hands connected and eyes closed tight, we try to think the same thought.
I find myself hyperaware of absolutely everything, from how sweaty my palms are to how taut my skin is against my knuckles to how long his fingers are.
“Zadie,” Marcus whispers. “You’re stroking my hands.”
“Oh my God!” I jump. “Sorry, I was just trying to…It’s part of the mind-melding process.”
“No, I know,” Marcus says, with faux seriousness even as my face heats up. “It’s one of your methods. You want the digits to really connect, right?” He is trying not to laugh and also clearly doesn’t buy my “mind-melding process.”
“Just close your eyes,” I order as Marcus chuckles and we rejoin hands. I breathe in deep because it’s taking all my concentration not to trace the lines across his hands again. It feels comfortable, easy. I can’t even begin to understand why.
After more than five minutes of silence and attempting tomeld, something tells me to peek with my right eye. I’m horrified to see Marcus staring straight at me. “Marcus! Do you not understand the concept of closing your eyes?”
“I was,” he insists. “I just needed to scratch my eye.”
I shut my own eyes again, trying to set a good precedent, but I can hear the smile in his breath. I feel my cheeks warming at the realization that he’s just been staring at me. Howlonghas he been staring at me, and what was he thinking? A month ago, it wouldn’t have mattered one bit to me. Or, at least, I would have denied that it mattered even an iota. But now, in this upside-down world where he has seen into some of the most special and sacred memories of the past year, it turns out I do care what he thinks.
I wonder ifhecares what I think.
