Free The Unquiet by Jeannine Garsee Page B

Millie be so unfeeling, so unreasonable?
    Then Tasha’s elfin face breaks into a shaky grin. “You guys are right. Screw the pool—I’m going to Homecoming! It’s my life, right? Who cares what she says?”
    High fives all around.

     
    After dinner, I relate Tasha’s dilemma to Mom as we carve pumpkins together. “And can you believe what she said about how Tasha’s not popular, so why bother going?”
    Mom says neutrally, “Maybe Tasha’s exaggerating.”
    “Or maybe Millie’s a bitch,” I grumble.
    Mom opens her mouth, then changes her mind. “Well, I guess she can be. At times.”
    I don’t repeat the earlier part of our conversation, how my friends kept harping about Mrs. Gibbons hanging herself in my room. I don’t want her to suspect that, yes, maybe I
am
a bit paranoid about sleeping upstairs, after all. I wasn’t before. But they sure got to me today.
    I jab the knife into my pumpkin to scrape out an eye socket, wondering suddenly about Frank and if he’s called here lately. Or, if I called him, if he’d hang up on me.
    Probably. The day Mom and I left California, he ducked away from me when I tried to hug him. He barely said goodbye. It still hurts me to think about it.
    But I bet it doesn’t hurt me as much as what I did to him.

3 MONTHS + 24 DAYS
     
    Wednesday, October 29
     
    In my dream, I’m playing my guitar onstage in front of the whole student body. Halfway through whatever I’m playing—it’s not even clear in my dream—someone in the audience yells: “MURDERER!”
    One by one they all take up the chant: “MURDERER! MURDERER! MURDERER!”
    I jump off the stage and try to run, but the mob surrounds me, smothering me, slashing me with their claws, and I can’t escape …can’t escape!

     
    The thing about dreams is that they’re only dreams. If you don’t dream, Dr. Edelstein once explained, you can develop emotional problems. At best, you can’t concentrate. At worst, you hallucinate. Dreaming is how people cleanse their brains. A “cerebral enema” was her exact description.
    At breakfast, the first thing Mom says is, “I heard you talking in your sleep. Another bad dream?”
    “All my dreams are bad.” Seriously, they are.
    Mom bangs silverware into a drawer. “I can’t believe he’s making you wait till January for an appointment.” She means the new psychiatrist Dr. Edelstein referred me to. Someone in Cincinnati, not here in town, thank goodness.
    “I could threaten to bomb the school. That’d get me in quicker.”
    “Don’t even joke about that!”
    Well, isn’t she in a delightful mood? Days like this I wish she’d go back to smoking.

     
    In art, when I see Cecilia Carpenter, I’m not sure how to approach her. Lacy was so nasty to her; what if Cecilia takes it out on me?
    Taking a chance, I pop out of my chair and slide in next to Cecilia, two tables away. “Hey.” Yes, I’m saying “hey” like everyone else around here. “Sorry about the other day. You know, with Lacy?”
    Cecilia smirks. “Why are you apologizing for Lacy?”
    “Because Lacy won’t.” When her smirk spreads to a smile, I add, “I should’ve stuck up for you. I guess I wasn’t expecting it.”
    “
I
should have expected it. She’s so, she’s such a—”
    “Shrew?”
    Cecilia giggles. “Yeah. Too bad, because I really like Meg. Tasha, too. Tash and I took gymnastics together, and then”—she gestures downward—“I got fat. And please don’t sayanything stupid like ‘Oh, you’re not that fat.’ It’s no big deal. I know what I look like.”
    Relieved by her candor, I plunge right in. “Why don’t you change your mind about helping us out? Seriously, we need you. Tomorrow, in fact.”
    “Are you guys that desperate?”
    That’s when Mr. Lipford catches on that I’m at the wrong table: “Well, Corinne. I take it you’re ready to add your final coat of paint?”
    “Uh, yeah.” I hop up and whisper, “Eat with us!” to Cecilia, and scurry back to my