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That smiley face is an understatement. The chat window says he’s typing for the longest time, and then it stops. I start to type something but then it says he’s typing again so I wait to see what he’ll say. A few moments pass with him typing and then not typing. Maybe he doesn’t know what to say. I put my hands on the keyboard, figuring I’ll say something, and then his reply comes through.
Elijah0Delgado: Looking forward to it. See you at 7.
Elijah0Delgado has signed offline.
Chapter Twelve
In my dream, I’m in the guest bedroom of my grandparents’ house. It’s supposed to be my own house, I guess, but dreams are weird and the dream version of myself doesn’t care what room I’m in.
Because Sasha is here.
We’re wearing matching pajamas from Victoria’s Secret, the pink ones with sunglasses all over them, the word PINK big and sequined across the front of the matching tank top. (Mom had freaked when I came home with that pink striped bag, saying that anything from that store was entirely too expensive and I shouldn’t let the Cades spend excessive amounts of money on me.)
Vaguely, I wonder why my dream has drudged up those pajamas from the deep recesses of my memory, but mostly I’m just excited. Sasha is here, sitting on the bed with me, her bright eyes shimmering from the glow of the TV.
And it’s not the twenty-two-inch flat screen like what I have at home or a wall-mounted monster like what Sasha has in her room — it’s an old box TV with wood-grain paneling, the kind I’ve only seen in movies.
“Ready to watch the greatest movies ever made?” Sasha says, her voice giving me chills.
Although the edges of my dream are blurry and white, I look right in her baby blues. “I miss you.”
Her eyes roll straight up. “You can’t miss me, we’re in a dream.”
I shake my head and wonder if this is what lucid dreaming feels like. “Don’t be funny right now. Be Sasha. I need Sasha. I know this is a dream, but I miss you.”
I wonder if I can cry in dreams. “I miss you so much.”
“You don’t have to miss me,” Sasha says. She reaches out, wraps a hand around my arm and I swear — I swear to God — I can feel her skin on mine. “I’m with you always, Rocki.”
Everything is blurrier now, the edges of my consciousness poking through this dream. I squint and focus on my best friend, wanting to memorize every feature on her beautiful face. As I stare, her soft smile morphs into a smirk, her eyes getting a little shadow from scraggly black bangs. Suddenly Sasha is Elijah. Now his hand is on my arm. I reach out to touch him.
And then I wake up.
***
A real movie marathon with Sasha would mean pajamas, messy hair and possibly a dozen bottles of nail polish to keep us busy during the scenes we know by heart. But I’m up thirty minutes early for a movie marathon with Elijah. I hide anything remotely embarrassing from my bathroom (zit cream, box of tampons, printed photo of Andre from the band Zombie Radio) and then put on a pair of jean shorts and a T-shirt that looks nice but not like I’m trying too hard.
And then I ruin the entire look by wearing enough makeup to perform on Broadway. With a sigh into my vanity mirror, I wash it all off and reapply some powder and mascara. Good. I don’t need to impress Elijah.
Say it again, Raquel: You don’t need to impress Elijah.
Mom always leaves for work about fifteen minutes before I go to school, so at six forty-five, I emerge from my bedroom, backpack slung over my shoulder.
“Morning!” Mom says while she empties two creamer packets into her travel cup of coffee.
“Blah,” I say, as I heft my backpack to the kitchen table and then dig in the pantry for a Pop-Tart. I need to keep up the facade that I’m going to school.
She doesn’t suspect a thing. My doorbell rings at exactly seven, and I nearly pee myself as I’m walking to the front door. Why is this so nerve-racking? I’m excited to watch movies with Sasha, and Elijah is a cool guy. No need to fret.
With a deep breath, I open the door. He’s wearing those same jeans and another black T-shirt, only this one has shorter sleeves and it’s a little smaller, hugging tightly to his arms. His biceps are taut as he holds a drink tray with two coffees in one hand and a white bakery bag in the other.
Stop checking him out, you idiot, I tell myself.
“Hey,” I say lamely, stepping aside so he can enter. “How’d you drive a motorcycle with coffee?”
“I’m not that talented,” he say
s with a little laugh. I close the door behind him and he turns around to face me in the foyer. He seems two feet taller than usual and I wonder if that’s because we never really stand this close together.
