Free One of Those Hideous Books Where the Mother Dies by Sonya Sones, Ann Sullivan

in a book.
But
I’m
real.
I’m made of flesh and blood and bone.
    Flesh and blood and bone
that’s aching
to go home.
    And the worst part of all is:
there
isn’t
any home
to go home to.

    Last Night
    I woke up in the middle of the night
and I was so jazzed
because I’d finally remembered a dream!
    It was completely surreal—
all about Ray and me and hundreds of babies
living in
Ruby’s Slipper
together.
    I whipped open my blank book
and recorded the whole thing
in minute detail.
    Then I drifted back to sleep,
deeply relieved that I’d finally
have something to show Feather.
    But this morning
when I woke up and opened the book
to read what I’d written…
    What the—?!
Every single page
was still blank!
    I felt totally ‘Iwilight Zoned.
Then I realized what had happened:
I’d only
dreamt
that I’d remembered my dream.
    So then I wrote down
that
dream.
And hoped I wasn’t
just dreaming.

    When Feather Asks Me
    If I have anything to “share with the circle,”
I open my dream journal ceremoniously,
and read the dream about the dream.
    Everyone in the room cracks up.
And I have to admit,
it is pretty funny.
    All around me,
kids give me the thumbs up.
Even Colette.
    Feather flutters over to me,
saying, “
I knew
you could do it!”
And she pulls me to my feet for a hug.
    Without thinking, I let my head fall,
resting my cheek on her shoulder.
Just the way I used to with my mom.
    Then she starts going on and on
about how my dream is such a
perfect example of what Freud meant
    when he spoke about
dreams being the fulfillment
of our wishes.
    And I just stand here,
with my head on Feather’s shoulder,
wishing it was Mom’s.

    And Speaking of Wish Fulfillment …
    Dear Ray,
    If you were here right now Ì· If you were here … Well, let’s just put it this way: if you were here right now, you’d be
real glad
that you were here right now.
    And speaking of you being here, I finally talked to Whip about Thanksgiving. The poor guy broke into a sweat and started asking me all about “the nature of our relationship.” He looked like he wanted to say no, but I knew he wouldn’t dare because I made sure to ask him right in front of Max. And Max was giving him this heavy-duty evil eye the whole time. So now it’s official!
    But Thanksgiving’s still seven weeks away How will I survive till then?
    XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo
    Dooby

    A Star Is Born?
    Feather decides we need to take a break
from our discussion of
Freudian dream interpretation techniques
versus Jungian ones,
and do some improvs.
    She says it’ll help us all
get to know each other on a deeper plane.
So that our collective unconscious
will be more collective,
or more unconscious, or something like that.
    I squeeze my eyes closed and think,
“You can’t see me. You can’t see me. You—”
But she picks me to go first anyhow,
and sticks me with Wyatt Moody,
the worst Brad Pitt wannabe of them all.
    Feather asks Wyatt to choose a prop.
So he digs around in his pocket for a minute,
snickering at some kind of private joke,
and then pulls out this floppy rubber thing
and plops it into my hand.
    I stare at it blankly for a second,
trying to figure out what it is,
until some wires finally sizzle in my brain
and I suddenly realize
that I’m holding a condom!

    A red-hot flash of lightning zaps through me,
and without even thinking
I fling it to the floor.
Which causes everyone in the room to break up.
Even Feather. That bitch.
    Then, with throbbing cheeks,
I launch into an improv.
It’s all about how angry I am with Wyatt
for always making
me
buy the condoms.
“Why the hell don’t you ever buy them?!”
    But I don’t even let him answer.
“Why am
I
always the one who has to do it?
I am so sick and tired of it.
From now on, you no buy, you no sigh.
No glove? No