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Janie smiles ruefully. “Normally, I sleep fine, if I’m alone in a room. When I was thirteen, I finally asked my mother if she would do me the favor of passing out in her bedroom rather than in here. There’s something about a closed door that blocks it.” She pauses.
“But what happens, exactly?”
She closes her eyes. “My vision goes first. I can’t see around me. I’m trapped. If it’s a bad dream, a nightmare, I guess I start to shake and my fingers go numb first, then my feet, and the worse the nightmare is, the more paralyzed I become.”
He looks at her. “Janie,” he says softly.
“Yes.”
He strokes her hair. “I thought you were dying. You shake, you spasm, your eyes roll back in your head. I was ready to steal the nearest cell phone, stick a wallet in your mouth, and call 911.”
Janie is silent for a long time. “It’s not as bad as it looks.”
“You’re lying.”
She looks at him. “Yes,” she says. “I suppose I am.”
“Who else knows? Your mother?”
She looks at her plate of uneaten pizza. Shakes her head. “Nobody. Not even her.”
“You haven’t been to a doctor about it or anything?”
“No. Not really. Not for help.”
He throws his hands in the air. “Why?” His voice is incredulous. And then, suddenly, he knows why. “Sorry,” he says.
She doesn’t answer. She’s thinking. Thinking hard.
“You know, nobody’s ever gone there with me, like you did.” Her voice is soft, musing. She gives him a sidelong glance. “I don’t understand that part. How did you get there too?”
“I don’t know. All of a sudden it was like I had two different angles to watch from: one of them as an observer, the other as a participant. Like virtual reality picture-in-picture or something.”
“And don’t even tell me you’d believe a word of this if you hadn’t come through it with me.”
He nods soberly. “You’re right, Hannagan.”
It’s 10:21 p.m. when Cabel says good night at the door. He leans against the frame, and Janie kisses him lightly on the lips.
He hops off the step and starts walking home, but turns back in the driveway. “Hey, can I see you tomorrow night? Sometime around nine or ten?”
She nods, smiling. “I’ll be here. Just let yourself in—Carrie always does too. It’s cool.”
TRUTH OR DARE
October 16, 2005, 9:30 p.m.
It’s Sunday. The house is clean. Janie had the day off. She ran out for groceries in the morning, vacuumed, dusted, washed, polished, shined, and steam-cleaned.
Now, Janie is asleep on the couch.
Cabel doesn’t come.
Or call.
11:47 p.m.
She sighs, clicks off the lamp, and goes to bed, miserable.
October 17, 2005 7:35 a.m.
Janie grabs her backpack and heads out the door. She’s pissed. And hurt. She thinks she knows why he didn’t show up.
On Ethel’s windshield is a note, under the wiper. It’s wet with dew.
I’m sorry,
it says.
Cabe.
Yeah, well. Not as sorry as I am, she thinks.
She passes him on the way to school.
He looks up.
And eats her dust.
He’s late for school.
She doesn’t speak to him.
1l:19 p.m.
He’s sitting on her front step.
She’s pulling up to the house
after work.
She gets out of the car, crunches over the gravel, and stands in front of him.
“Yes?” she says.
“I’m sorry,” he says.
She stands there, tapping her foot. Searching for words. She blurts them out as they come to her. “So, you got freaked out. I’m a lunatic. An X File. I figured it would happen.”
“No—” he stands up.
“It’s cool. No, really.” She runs up the steps, past him, and fiddles for her key in the dark. “Now you know why I didn’t want to tell anybody.” The keys rattle in her fingers, and she cusses under her breath. “Least of all, you.”
She drops the keys. “Goddamnit,” she sniffs, picks them up again, and finds the right one.
“And if you tell anybody,” her voice pitches higher as she gets the door open, “you’ll learn a new definition of flagrant foul! You big . . . fucking . . . jerk!”
She slams the door.
11:22 p.m.
The phone rings.
“Asshole,” she mutters. She picks it up.
“Will you let me explain?”
“No.” She hangs up.
Waits.
Pours a glass of milk.
