Just Dreaming Read online

  It was useless. Mia was enjoying her memories, and as for Henry … well, as so often, it was difficult to make out the expression on his face.

  “Yes, you did, Livvy. You had all sorts of silly pet names for him, don’t you remember? Buttercup was terribly jealous. She bit his leg when you’d been tickling his tummy.…”

  Oh, for heaven’s sake! “Can’t we please talk about something else?” I said, maybe a tad too vigorously. “Mia, don’t you want to know about Mrs. Lawrence? Henry and I saw the whole thing live.”

  This time it worked. I finally had Mia’s attention, and for now her mind wasn’t on the subject of my ex-boyfriend, a.k.a. ex-dog. Although I was afraid that Henry would go back to it at the first possible opportunity.

  Mia listened, fascinated, to the tale of Mrs. Lawrence climbing up on the table and delivering her speech. And nearly showing us the very place where Mr. Vanhagen had torn out her heart. Henry and I told the story by turns, and Mia sighed sympathetically.

  “How terrible to think that unrequited love can send you out of your mind,” she said after we’d described Mrs. Cook leading the totally shattered Mrs. Lawrence out of the cafeteria. “A nervous breakdown in front of so many people—I should think you’d never get over it.”

  “It wasn’t a nervous breakdown,” said Henry. “Unrequited love didn’t send her crazy, and she wasn’t under the influence of drugs either. She was in the same kind of state as you when you were sleepwalking and tried to jump out the window.”

  I looked at him in alarm. I hoped to goodness that he wasn’t about to reveal the truth about Arthur and the dreams. We’d been disagreeing about that for weeks. “Don’t you have to turn off here?” I asked rather brusquely.

  Henry thought that we ought to let Mia in on the secret, if only so that she could protect herself. Grayson and I were against it. She was only thirteen, and she’d stopped sleepwalking. By now Mia’s subconscious mind had taken plenty of precautions (her dream door was as safe as Fort Knox), and Arthur had new aims in view. Knowing that he had invaded her dreams and made her do things while she was sleepwalking, things that almost cost her her life, would worry and confuse Mia unnecessarily.

  “What do you mean?” Mia was staring at Henry.

  As for Henry himself, he looked at me and sighed when he registered my stony expression. “You’ll have to ask your sister. Yes, I do have to turn off here. Nice to talk to you both, though.” He dropped a kiss on my cheek. “See you tonight.”

  “Does he really think Mrs. Lawrence was walking in her sleep?” asked Mia as I watched Henry walk away. As usual, his hair was standing out in all directions. I used to think he styled it every morning in front of a mirror, using all his fingers and both thumbs, until it looked as wild and casual as that, but now I knew that he had no less than fourteen cowlicks on his head doing all the work for him. I’d found every one of them myself, and stroked them, and …

  “It’s terrible to see what love does to people,” said Mia.

  “Yes, poor Mrs. Lawrence,” I hastily agreed.

  “I’m not talking about Mrs. Lawrence.” Mia jumped up on top of a low wall and made her way along the flat top. “What’s up with you and Henry? Are you together again, or aren’t you?”

  “Kind of. One way or another,” I muttered, relieved that we had indeed changed the subject. “I mean, we haven’t explicitly discussed it. There are still a few things I have to clear up. And then I stupidly went and … er…”

  Mia sighed and jumped down on the sidewalk again. “Then you went and what?”

  “Went and invented an ex-boyfriend that I’d slept with.”

  Mia was staring at me, horrified. “Why?”

  “So that Henry won’t think he’s the first.” Put like that, it sounded even worse than I’d thought.

  “Why?” asked Mia again.

  “Because … because…” I groaned. “I don’t really know myself. It just sort of happened. As if it wasn’t me saying it, but a nasty-minded ventriloquist’s dummy yakking away. And now Henry thinks I had a boyfriend in South Africa. And had sex with him.”

  “I really don’t want to keep asking why, but I can’t help it.”

  “It … well, he always seemed so sympathetic … and then there was that … oh, you don’t understand.”

  “You bet I don’t. Please, dear God, don’t let me ever fall in love and do silly things without knowing why I do them myself.” Mia linked arms with me. “Oh well, at least it’s not boring being around you and Henry. I can’t wait to see how you’re going to get out of that fix.”

  Me neither. “One more thing. If Henry asks about Rasmus again, don’t say he kept panting in a funny way, or…”

  Mia stopped and began grinning all over her face. “Oh, I get it now. That’s why Henry took such a burning interest in the Wakefields’ pudgy dog.” She was giggling unstoppably. “You said your ex-boyfriend was called Rasmus.”

  “It was the first name I thought of.” I was beginning to see the funny side of it myself.

  “Oh God, Livvy, only you could do a thing like that!” gasped Mia. “Rasmus Wakefield. Good thing I didn’t say he stopped to lift a leg at every streetlamp.”

  “Or stank in rainy weather.”

  “Or howled when you played the guitar.”

  “Or once got stuck in the cat flap.”

  When our front gate came in sight, we were still falling over laughing, and we almost collided with an unshaven young guy who was carrying two moving boxes, a floor lamp, and a saxophone along the sidewalk.

  “Are you moving in here?” asked Mia, pointing to the house next door.

  The guy nodded, which wasn’t so easy, because two books were jammed between the top box and his chin, and they now started sliding out of place. “Oh, good.” Mia smiled at him, pleased. “The people who’ve been living there are dead boring. The woman’s been sweeping the front path every day and swearing at the blackbirds.”

  “My mother has a blackbird phobia.” The guy sighed, and the books slipped out from under his chin.

  “Oops,” said Mia.

  I caught the books before they could hit the ground. One was a heavy tome entitled Criminal Law, the other was a much-worn paperback copy of John Irving’s The Hotel New Hampshire. Obviously a law student with good taste in literature.

  “Hello, the return of the prodigal son.” Florence got off her bike beside us. As usual, she looked simply stunning, not in the least worse for wear after a long day at school. Her brown ringlets were tied back in a ponytail, with one gleaming strand of hair loose and falling decoratively over her face. If you considered her enchanting smile, bright eyes, and cute little dimples, you’d never have believed she would ever do or say anything unkind. But impressions were misleading. Florence had been in a particularly bad mood recently. “I heard about your girlfriend throwing you out of her apartment,” she told the unshaven guy. “Your mum thinks she’s the most horrible person that ever lived. You too?”

  “The second-most horrible, right after Poison Ivy.” The guy smiled too, showing nice teeth. He didn’t even notice me holding his books out to him. “Hi, Flo. You’ve grown.”

  Florence put the loose ringlet back behind her ear. “Time doesn’t stand still, Matt. I’ll be starting at university this fall. You’d better watch out that I don’t finish studying law ahead of you. I heard you failed a couple of exams. Your mum thinks it was unrequited love of the girlfriend.”

  “Ex-girlfriend.” Anyone else would probably have been writhing with embarrassment, but Matt didn’t seem to feel the least bit awkward. He looked like someone who was at ease with himself even with a floor lamp under his arm, and even though he was moving back in with his mother.

  “You’re better off without her, Matt.” Florence patted his arm, overdoing the sympathy a bit and making the standard lamp wobble. “She’s telling terrible lies about you. Saying you split up because you had something going with her best friend. And her best friend’s sister. And that you�
�d rather hang out in clubs than study for your degree. And didn’t pay your share of the rent for four months because of what you owed on some ridiculously expensive vintage car with a hood about four times as long as its trunk, something like—no, exactly like that one.” She pointed to the red car parked beside the sidewalk. It really did have rather a long hood. “What a shocking liar she is.”

  “It’s not a vintage car; it’s a Morgan Plus 8, made in 2012,” Matt explained with satisfaction. “The father of a friend of mine was selling it at such a ridiculously low price that only an idiot wouldn’t have wanted to buy. The downside is that I’ll have to live with my parents for a few months and cook my own food every day. But I’ll survive. With such nice neighbors.” He winked at Florence. “I bet Mum has kept the love letters you wrote me. Maybe we should reread them together.”

  Now Florence was having trouble keeping the pitying smile on her face. “I was twelve at the time,” she said, pushing her bike on. Her ponytail was bobbing up and down angrily.

  Matt grinned at her retreating view. “Seems like only yesterday to me,” he said while Florence and her bicycle disappeared down the path to our house. Then he turned to Mia and me. “And who are you two?”

  A couple of girls who had been listening, openmouthed.

  “Florence’s future stepsisters,” said Mia helpfully. “I’m Mia, and this is Liv. She used to have braces on her teeth too.”

  “Nice to meet you, Mia and Liv. I’m Matt. The character who’ll be sweeping the path here and chasing blackbirds away for the next few months.”

  “That’s good to know.” I put Criminal Law back on the top box, and Matt wedged it down with his chin and set off up the path to the house next door.

  “Thanks. Be seeing you again soon, I’m sure,” he said over his shoulder.

  It was amazing to see how long he could juggle the boxes and the floor lamp, not to mention the saxophone, which was already at a dangerous angle.

  Something else seemed to occur to Mia. “Did your mother really keep Florence’s love letters?” she called after him. “And if so, would you sell them to me?”

  Matt laughed. “Why not? I could use every penny I can get.”

  “Don’t look so reproachful,” said Mia as we finally started up the path to the Spencers’ house. “I only want them in case of emergencies.”

  “For your career as a blackmailer?”

  “Better a blackmailer than a thief. I was watching when you stole his book. What for?”

  “Oops.” I took Matt’s paperback out of my blazer pocket, pretending that I was surprised to find it there. “Oh yes. The Hotel New Hampshire. I just wanted to read it again.” That was a lie—we had a copy of our own on the bookshelves, even signed by the author with a personal dedication to Mom. In fact, it had come to me spontaneously that it might be useful to have a personal item belonging to Matt around the place. You never knew when such things might come in handy. And what could be more personal than what was obviously a favorite book, since it had been read several times already?

  * * *

  TITTLE-TATTLE BLOG

  The Frognal Academy Tittle-Tattle Blog, with all the latest gossip, the best rumors, and the hottest scandals from our school.

  ABOUT ME:

  My name is Secrecy—I’m right here among you, and I know all your secrets.

  3 March

  J’ai tremblé

  tu as tremblé

  il/elle a tremblé

  nous avons tremblé

  vous avez tremblé

  ils/elles ont tremblé

  And didn’t we all just tremble in Mrs. Lawrence’s lessons when she had us conjugating French verbs! Woe to anyone who turned up late. In the first year, I thought her stern L’exactitude est la politesse des rois meant “Exactly like a politician,” or something like that, and I connected it with being late and wearing the school uniform. (It really means “Punctuality is the politeness of kings”; I add that just for those who opted to learn Spanish rather than French and who complain that my blog is too difficult for them.)

  Anyway, that’s all over now. Maybe no student will ever be trembling in Mrs. Lawrence’s French lessons again. The last thing she taught us was never to get involved with a married man. Very useful. Could be even more useful than conjugating irregular verbs. Although I’m sure none of us can imagine ever getting involved with someone like Mr. Vanhagen—even if he wasn’t married. Well, would we?

  One way or another, what happened in the cafeteria today is terrible, so terrible that I wouldn’t run a picture of it even if I had one. I owe Mrs. Lawrence that, although she did call me an anonymous slut. Well, the anonymous slut will tell you something now, Mrs. Lawrence: You were much too good for Mr. Vanhagen, anyway. And you’ll be okay. It’s said that psychopharmaceutical drugs work wonders these days. Who knows? One day you may be back teaching at Frognal Academy. Or you might meet the love of your life in the hospital and be happy somewhere else. I think you deserve it. Chaque chose en son temps. (Go and look that up, those of you who don’t do French. I’m not your interpreter, I’m only the anonymous school slut.)

  Speaking of school sluts: In view of today’s drama in the school cafeteria, all other news pales, of course. So here are only the main headlines: At this very moment Jasper Grant is on the ferry from Calais to Dover. He was really supposed to be staying in that French dump until the end of the school year, but his father had to go pick him up today. Because he’s been expelled from the school there for breaking the rules, and his host family wanted to be rid of him as soon as possible. For now we can only guess what he did that was so bad, but the great thing is that tomorrow we can ask him ourselves.

  I for one am glad—I’ve really missed Jasper.

  See you soon!

  Love from Secrecy

  Tittletattleblog.com

  * * *

  3

  “JUNE? YOU DON’T mean June this year, do you?” Mrs. Spencer Senior, a.k.a. Grayson and Florence’s grandmother, a.k.a. the Beast in Ocher, a.k.a. the woman who on principle left her Bentley occupying two parking spots, a.k.a. just the Boker for short, stared at Mom, horrified. “But that simply can’t be done.”

  “Oh, there’s another three and a half months before the wedding.” Mom was sitting at the kitchen table beside a mountain of essays that she had to mark, but before the Boker arrived, she had put her feet up and was basking in the afternoon sun. She laughed happily. “We can take it easy.”

  “We?” Florence wrinkled her nose. “You can leave me out of that we.” Although she officially thought Lottie’s presence in the household unnecessary, she had taken to hanging around the kitchen every afternoon, wolfing down the cookies that Lottie baked. Today there were tiny apple and cinnamon muffins that tasted as delicious as they smelled. When Florence bit into one, an expression of bliss involuntarily came over her face for a moment. But when she noticed that Lottie and I were watching, she said quickly, and as crossly as possible, “Anyway, Grayson and I can’t help you with the planning. We have more than enough to do with our A levels. And then there’s the end-of-exams ball in June. Maybe you really should think of putting it off until the fall. Or next spring.”

  “Yes, or 2046, so that your grandmother could celebrate her eightieth birthday at the same time.” Mia picked up three muffins and looked thoughtfully at them for a moment, as if wondering whether they would all fit into her mouth at once. They did.

  “Don’t worry, there’s nothing to plan.” Mom gave us all a relaxed smile. “We’ll just spontaneously improvise. Those are always the best parties.”

  “But…” The Boker looked as if she had to gasp for air. “But this is a wedding, not a child’s birthday party. It takes more than a few balloons. The guest list alone … I mean, normal people have already made their summer plans by this time of year.”

  “Yes, let’s hope that includes Great-Aunt Gertrude,” muttered Mia.

  “Oh, that doesn’t matter. Anyone who has time to come ca
n come, and never mind the people who can’t,” said Mom. “It’s not going to be a big occasion, just a nice, uncomplicated little party.…”

  “But I hope Lottie can wear her party dirndl.” Mia grinned.

  “And I’ll bake a wedding cake, anyway.” Lottie was beaming. “A three-tier wedding cake.”

  “That would be terrific,” said Mom enthusiastically.

  The Boker groaned. “All possible venues will have been booked for June already, of course—in the end, you’ll be having the party in the garden here.” She gave a little laugh showing she meant that sarcastically, but Mom didn’t notice.

  “Yes, that’s a good idea,” she said appreciatively.

  “It would be a disaster,” said the Boker.

  “Not if we make sure that Grandma, Great-Aunt Gertrude, and Great-Aunt Virginia don’t appear as the Supremes,” I said, and the Boker went pale. It didn’t seem to have occurred to her that we had a family of our own.

  “Oh, how I look forward to meeting even more of you.” Florence rolled her eyes. She might be Grayson’s twin sister, but when it came to being good company, she took entirely after her grandmother.

  Who had a vein beginning to throb on her forehead. “A little garden party! That’s probably all very well if you’re marrying a nobody without family or obligations.” She began pacing busily up and down the kitchen. “Unlike you, however, my son can’t simply ignore the traditions and principles that he owes to his social standing. You obviously haven’t the faintest idea of all that.”

  “And there’s smoke coming out of your ears,” Mom said cheerfully.

  “Nonsense,” said the Boker, but Mom was right: little white puffs were unmistakably coming out of the Boker’s ears, accompanied by sounds like a steam locomotive. That was when I realized that I was only dreaming all this, although the actual conversation had taken place, in just the same words, in the kitchen this afternoon. Except that the Boker’s ears hadn’t been smoking, and there hadn’t been a green door in the wall beside the fridge. I noticed the door only now.