My life has been anything but traditional.
My mother managed to wander off, leaving me with her mother, Meems, never to return.
By the time strange memories started surfacing when I turned eighteen, I had already become independent. Self-reliant.
More than willing to accept the slippage of my own memories in favor of better ones.
Filled with Biz.
None of it made sense, but when I was invited to attend Rockefeller Amherst, then recruited to the House of Eights, it felt like my destiny. Along with it came the clear sense that I couldn’t tell anyone what I know.
I began to tell Dr. Fraine in my second year, but before I could utter a word, panic stopped me. I am sure of only three things: I have a weak right hook, I inherited my mother’s ability to ignore Meems’ nonsense, and the memories are an important secret.
Rett knocks on the screen door, then whistles. “JJ?! I’m coming in. Hope you’re decent.”
I round the corner from the kitchen to see him using his foot to hold the door open while he adjusts the oversized pizza boxes and the bottles of beer rested on top of them.
He follows me to the mismatched furniture situated around the television. Leave it to Rett, one pizza is only sauce and veggies.
“Well, that revolting mess is yours.” I toss the box his way before digging into the greasy goodness of my meat lovers.
“Where are your ever so charming roommates?”
Talking with a mouthful of pizza I answer, “One Upper or Skinny Jeans?”
We spend the evening joking around about anything and everything, from Hobey picking up a squeal from a TV show, Rett landing another underwear modeling campaign, Meems sending me collages of men’s heads, to Hart’s inability to lighten up. We avoid even a whisper of conversation about our upcoming meeting. To speak of the Eights outside the walls of the sanctum is strictly forbidden.
Rett reclines back with a sigh, “JJ, I’ve got to-” He’s cut off by a racket from the front porch.
We crane our necks to the window to see my pug-faced, goblin housemate scraping the metal sculpture by the staircase across the wood slats, leaving it squarely in front of my door. He yells, “Put your crap inside. No one wants to trip over this garbage.”
It seems he forgets that it isn’t mine, but our landlord’s, the owner of D’Ornay Exhibits. Hobey starts his chant of “Go Cocksucker, go,” as Rett and I burst out laughing.
His muttered swearing follows him up the outer staircase to the second floor.
Day… made.
As Rett dumps our garbage, he calls from the kitchen, “Something weird happened to me.” That’s a common refrain from him. He can’t go anywhere without a story unfolding. It would be easy to chalk it up to his handsome face and chiseled abs, but he tends to charm the wrong people.
“Oh, yeah?” I shut the television off and throw my legs up on the wicker coffee table.
His face flushes as he re-enters the room, leaning against the pillar in the middle of the space. “I need to talk about this with someone… I probably should keep my mouth shut, but…”
Everett Wilson doesn’t get nervous. His usual level of nonchalance is legendary. Not once since I’ve known him has he been tongue-tied, but his struggle to get out what he’s trying to say makes me sit up straighter.
“I’m listening.”
He rubs his face before rolling his eyes. “You can’t tell anyone else.”
Dread rolls through me.
I’m already holding secrets that keep me up at night.
He paces while he begins, “I’ve been having vivid… dreams? Yeah, weird-ass dreams, since the summer before freshman year.”
I nod, encouraging him to continue, not trusting myself to speak. Is this an Eights thing?
“At first, I thought it was my schedule, the traveling for shoots, taking sleep meds… but,” he shakes his head, “it started to consume me. These dreams about… this girl…”
