Page 41 of See You in Your Dreams

Though it goes against my every instinct, I squeeze my eyes shut, attempting to concentrate. I swear I canfeelthe shadows lapping eagerly against my feet, but I don’t give in to thedistraction. Instead, I focus on seizing control. This ismydream, and I won’t let it overwhelm me.

A light breeze ruffles my hair, and I open my eyes, holding my breath. The creeping shadows are gone, along with the table and its romantic trappings. In their absence, the cafeteria is just a cafeteria once more.

I did it!

Even so, I waste no time hurrying to the exit. I emerge back into the hall and find it free of any students. Perhaps they’re all still in class?

“Ash?” I call again. “Greta? Cat?”

The only reply is my own voice echoing back to me.

As I walk down the empty corridor, it doesn’t take me long to realize that something is amiss. There are no turns, nor branches. The single hall continues straight ahead as far as I can see, unbroken save for unmarked doors set at regular intervals along each side.

I slow to a halt, my unease growing. What had happened to the spontaneous dance numbers and romantic candlelit dinners?

Maybe I made a mistake leaving the lunchroom instead of waiting for Ash to return. I turn around only to discover the same monotonous hallway stretching infinitely in that direction as well. Any sign of the cafeteria and the doors I’d exited through has vanished.

“Screw this,” I mutter, squeezing my eyes shut again. “Come on Dylan, wake up! You’re in control here, remember?”

But this time when I open my eyes, I discover that nothing has changed. If I’d really dispelled the shadows in the cafeteria, that must’ve exhausted whatever limited power I had here. Either that, or I suck at lucid dreaming.

My gaze settles on one of the unmarked doors lining the hall. This hallway’s not getting me anywhere. Maybe I’ll have better luck with whatever’s behind Door #2.

Nerves prickle my skin as I grip the doorknob and open the door. Beyond it, I see…

I blink, hardly able to comprehend the scene that greets me. It’s my living room, or at least the furniture from it, somehow superimposed over the usual classroom. It must be Christmas because I see a tree replete with lights and ornaments, along with a half-opened pile of presents. Everything appears strangely faded, like a photo left too long in the sun.

Washed-out figures populate the tableau like ghosts. There’s Mom eating a tray of Christmas cookies on the couch while tending to a baby Patrick, a much younger Tommy tearing into a gift, Dad dressed in his favorite fuzzy robe handing out presents after checking the names on them, and…me.

Despite knowing this is a dream, it’s surreal seeing an eight-year-old version of myself. I watch dazedly as the scene plays out, time quickening and slowing so that certain parts pass in a blur while others advance in real time.

When I see the complex LEGO set I’m working on—a recreation of theMillennium FalconI later learned my parents had found for a steal at a yard sale—the memory comes back to me with a jolt. It had been one of the best presents I’d ever received…until Tommy ruined it. Sure enough, a faded version of my brother approaches and ‘accidentally’ kicks the half-built spaceship, sending pieces flying.

A hint of the devastation I’d felt back then flickers through me as I watch my dejected younger self. But the vision doesn’t end there. Dad yells at Tommy, forcing him to help gather the scattered LEGO bricks. Then, he helps me rebuild. Instead of following the guide, we forge our own fantastical creation. Even Tommy eventually joins in.

That had been an awesome day, even if the memory’s somewhat bittersweet now, knowing how things end up. Quietly, I shut the door and move on to the next, then the next. Each dooropens onto a different scene snapshotted from my life. Some good, some bad, but each a moment that for whatever reason left a deep impression on me.

In one, I’m sitting with Tommy and Patrick, watching with rapt awe while Dad strums an old rock song on his guitar and Mom sings along. In another, I’m sobbing into Mom’s side while a vet puts our sick dog Sir Gallant to sleep. I’d been heartbroken for weeks after that, but it had also been what first planted the seed of one day becoming a vet myself.

I’ve just shut the door on a memory of myself from near the beginning of high school freaking out over my first crush on a boy when the hallway around me suddenly shudders. Deep cracks ricochet along the walls, spreading like black vines along the floor and ceiling.

Dread clogs my throat. It’s like the cafeteria all over again. A sense ofwrongnesspermeates the space, infecting the dream like a cancerous rot.

I briefly consider attempting again to influence what’s happening or force myself awake. Then, a more violent tremble rocks the corridor, and I settle for running instead. Plaster rains down around me while the floor bucks beneath my feet like the back of some terrible beast attempting to hurl me aside. I barely keep my balance as I careen onward, clouds of dust obscuring my sight.

My feet land on something soft and springy, and I slow uncertainly, looking around as the dust clears. The crumbling hallway is gone, leaving me outside the building on the grass. In the near distance, I spy the picnic table and oak tree where Ash and I used to eat lunch.

Unsure what else to do, I start toward the familiar landmark. Halfway there, another faded memory materializes around me. Horror grips me when I realize it’s the day I came out to my dad.

Not wanting to relive his disappointment and disgust, I attempt to shove past the scene, but it shimmers and reforms ahead of me, shifting to a few days later when I’d come home from school and discovered his guitar and the rest of his belongings gone. It had been as if every last vestige of him had been stripped away and ripped out of our lives.

Like he’d never even existed at all.

Blinking back tears, I look past the faded tableau to the picnic table and spy another figure now seated there, dressed in a familiar leather jacket.

“Ash!” I cry, running across the grass.

Ash doesn’t reply. As I draw nearer, I realize he’s staring straight ahead, his green eyes wide with terror. I slow and follow the direction of his gaze, sucking in a breath. He’s witnessing a washed-out memory of his own.