Free Learning Not to Drown by Anna Shinoda Page B

stomach, then my side, then on my back. Stare forward. Keep eyes open, because when they close, I can see him, his disturbing eyes traveling over my body. I can see him with Luke. Stop. Don’t think about the possibilities of what Luke could have done hanging out with a guy like that. My heart palpitates, my breathing thin at the top of my chest. I try to take some deeper breaths, push the air all the way down into my lungs. Keep my eyes open until they shut on their own.
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    Icy blue air. Grass soft between my toes. Moist. Our yard, usually dull and boring, with only dirt and a few tall trees, transformed with foxglove, hollyhock, lavender, roses. All open to the moon. I turn back toward the house. Warm glow in each window. Home. Outside, the flowers are too bright, the grass too soft, the greens too green. “Walk confidently,” I whisper, but my legs and feet run, arms pump. In the door. Lock it.
    The house feels wrong. Food on plates. No one to eat it. No one in the family room, the television blaring a bright cartoon, blankets crinkled on the couch, pillows haphazard. Washer swooshing. Dryer droning.Bathtubs filled, steaming hot and ready. And my room. Everything in place.
    I will be safe in my bed.
    Jump in with both feet. No mattress, no pillows, no blankets.
    Decaying bodies, dead but alive. Clammy hands seize my ankles.
    Scream.
    Leap out of the bed with strong legs that catapult me across the room. My body hits the floor. Hard.
    My small blue night-light beacons to me, and I quickly crawl along. Using the doorframe as a guide, I feel the wall until I find the light switch. Illumination.
    No decaying bodies. No corpse hands. No icy blue air. Nothing but my room. Stagnant and dark as ever.
    Just a nightmare, a nightmare. Not real, not real. I clench my hand to my chest, wishing in some way that I could smash my fingers through the skin and manually help my heart slow.
    I need to be distracted. Stop, mind. Forget the nightmare. Stop and think of anything else. Anything. Like . . . the color of my walls.
    Eggplant. I don’t like the vegetable. I don’t like the color. I prefer something lighter—something that wouldn’t steal the sunshine even on the brightest days. Like sky blue or maybe buttery yellow or apple green. It would be nice to wake in the middle of a nightmare to a room painted in bright colors. The room was this color when it belonged to Luke, the same color as it had been when my parents had bought this house morethan twenty years ago. It’ll probably be the same when they die. I wish Mom would let me paint it, but she’s got something against paint. Or maybe she has something against change in general.
    The only thing that’s not stagnant in the whole entire house is my fish tank. I flip on the light.
    My one sucker fish is currently feasting on the NO FISHING sign. The angels are suspended, almost as if the light has frozen them in a moment of surprise.
    After my goldfish died, I bought bala sharks. Which did great for a long time. Then, one by one, my bala sharks committed suicide by jumping out of the tank, drowning on the carpet.
    I chose angelfish next, a school of four to prevent aggressive behavior, as advised by Luke, who, for a few months, was the fish expert at Tank Goodness. He loved that job. I wonder if they would even consider hiring him again.
    As the angels adjust to the light, they begin to slowly move. I take my finger and put it up to the glass. Sushi instantly finds it, follows my finger as I move it up and down and across the front of the tank. The nightmare is feeling far enough away that I can start to think about reality.
    Check through the sheets and blanket, look under the bed. It’s safe. I sit down, pushing my legs under the covers, grabbing my knitting. The clink, clink of the needles and concentrating on counting stitches keeps out the nightmare that wants to replay in my mind. Drea’s