Just Dreaming Page 8

  Emily stamped her foot. “I’ve done the sum ten times, and I’m right.” She furiously rattled the door handle. “I haven’t spent five nights making sure I knew that silly question and answer by heart, just to have you turn me away again. Seventy-one thousand three hundred and eighty-three! What else can the other way around mean? Minus thirty-eight thousand three hundred and seventeen?”

  “Oh, that’s enough.” Grayson straightened up and came out of cover. Emily didn’t see him until he was almost beside her, because she was still busy shouting at poor Freddy. Unfortunately I couldn’t see Grayson’s expression, but Emily’s couldn’t have been more horrified. Her eyes were wide open, and her jaw had dropped. And as she slowly closed her mouth, her face flushed dark red. It was worth Grayson giving himself away just to see that highly unusual sight.

  “Hi, Emily,” he said casually. “Arithmetic problems? What a good girl you are, with nothing but school on your mind even at night!”

  Emily laughed nervously. “I’m just dreaming all this.”

  “Hmm,” said Grayson, agreeing. “In principle, yes.”

  “You’re not really here,” said Emily. Her voice was higher than usual, almost a bit hysterical. “I’m just dreaming that you’re talking to me.”

  “Exactly right. You’d look pretty silly if I’d caught you intruding on my privacy in real life.” Grayson leaned back against the wall beside his door and dug his hands into the pockets of his jeans. “My God, Emily, I could hit you, I really could.”

  Emily stared at him. “The real Grayson would never do that,” she said. Her face was gradually returning to its normal color.

  “And you’re so sure of it because you’ve been analyzing my dreams?” inquired Grayson scornfully.

  “As if anyone wouldn’t have done the same in my place,” said Emily. “I mean … I sensed that you were moving further and further away from me, and then those strange dreams began … and when you simply called it all off, I … oh, what am I talking about? None of this is real. Anyway, you’re not making me feel guilty, Grayson.”

  “Obviously not.” Grayson looked at her, shaking his head.

  “All’s fair in love and war.” Emily came closer to him. Then, to his (and my) great surprise, she closed her eyes and raised her chin. “Kiss me!”

  For a split second, I was afraid that Grayson would go along with her, but instead he said quietly, “It’s not that kind of dream, Emily. And you don’t know anything at all about love.”

  Emily wasn’t giving up so easily. She opened her eyes again and wound her arms around Grayson’s neck. “This is my dream. And I want you to kiss me. Now.”

  “And I want you to go away,” said Grayson, pushing her back. “Now.” Emily slid several feet back, as if the floor had suddenly turned into a smooth, icy surface.

  She stared at him in horror. “What are you doing?”

  “I told you it wasn’t that kind of dream.” Grayson had raised his hand. Emily went on sliding down the corridor as if invisible threads were pulling her. “Your door is somewhere back there, right? The one with a horseshoe and an ugly knocker like a horse’s head on it?”

  Emily didn’t reply; she had enough to do keeping her balance as she slid on, going faster all the time. She slid away past me, beginning to whimper in fright. When Grayson finally lowered his hand, she sobbed, cast him one last, bewildered glance, and turned on her heel. She ran around the next corner as if the Furies were after her, and then I heard a door latch and something made of metal—a horseshoe?—fall to the floor with a clink.

  “Sweet dreams,” said Grayson.

  I could have hugged him as I came out of cover from behind Mrs. Cook’s box tree. I wasn’t even sure if I ought to let him see how proud of him I felt. So all I said was, “Not bad.”

  “Not bad? Not bad?” Grayson held his hands in front of my nose. “Listen, it was sensational! I pushed her halfway down the corridor by pure energy. Crazy! I think I get the principle now.” He grinned at me. “Unfortunately it doesn’t work for me unless I’m really, really furious.”

  “You were great!” I glanced over at Henry’s door. A pity he hadn’t seen it. “There are only two things I’m sorry about: first, that I didn’t have anything with me to film Emily’s stupid face. And second, that she thinks she was only dreaming it all.”

  “Or she could have been just pretending to be stupid,” said Grayson.

  I shook my head. “She wasn’t pretending; she really doesn’t have any idea. Arthur may have shown her the way to this corridor, but he didn’t give her any user instructions. He probably didn’t even turn up himself but just let her loose here for fun. Released into the wild, if you see what I mean.”

  “Well, all that about kissing wasn’t really in character,” Grayson conceded. “She’s usually rather … unforthcoming that way.”

  I could well believe it. “We get to know someone’s real personality in dreams. Now the only question is, do we confront Emily with the truth, or do we simply ignore her when she crosses our path here and let her think she’s only dreaming it all?”

  “Oh heavens.” Grayson suddenly looked very tired. “Could we discuss that tomorrow? I feel I’ve done more than enough for one night.”

  “Yes, we really ought to get some sleep.” I took one last glance at the black door with its three keyholes. “It doesn’t look as if Henry is coming back. See you tomorrow morning when we’re racing each other to the coffee machine.”

  Grayson bent down to whisper his password in Freddy’s ear and opened his door. “Good night,” he said. Then he turned back and smiled at me. “Oh—and, Liv, whatever you may think, I’m just about sure you could fly a Boeing 747. Even without flying lessons. All you need is a little more self-confidence.”

  * * *

  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.

  7 March

  Oh wow! I decide to sleep late, just this once, and something like THIS goes and happens. It’s not fair. You know how I wear myself out, bringing you all the latest scandals and stories hot off the press. I go to every darn party, even if I wasn’t invited. I hang around half the night on Instagram and other social media so as not to miss a thing. At two in the morning, I’m still reading your e-mails and comments hoping to find something interesting. (Yes, your comments too, Hazel. Here’s a little tip. If you want to stay anonymous, you have to log out of Facebook first.…) So at least in the near future, please be kind enough to wait until after ten in the morning, on the weekend anyway, before you do anything crazy.

  And don’t be like Theo Ellis, who broke into a jeweler’s shop on West End Lane at seven this morning and was arrested while he was emptying the display cases.

  Yes, you read that correctly: Theo Ellis, that model of admirable behavior, good-looking, ambitious, hard-working, talented, fair, friendly, broke the security glass of the shop with a sledgehammer at dawn. I still can’t believe it, but you can even find it in the police reports in the press—“the eighteen-year-old, who has no previous police record, was tested for drugs and alcohol with negative results.” That’s Theo Ellis. “Those responsible for security will explain why the fireproof metal grille had not, as usual, been lowered after the shop closed yesterday.” And I must say, that’s not all that needs explaining.

  Why did Theo do it, for instance? And why didn’t he stop when the alarm went off after the first noisy hammer blows rang out, and local residents not only told the police but even came out of their houses to watch Theo at work? Someone even filmed it on a cell phone (look for “Crazed Boy with Sledgehammer” on YouTube). And all the witnesses confirm that Theo didn’t let anything disturb him. It took him quite a long time to break the security glass, and when he was finally able to climb into the shop, the sirens of the polic
e cars were already close. But instead of running for it, Theo began carefully clearing out the glass cases and putting the jewelry in his jacket pockets. When the police arrested him, he did not resist; on the contrary, apparently he smiled at the officers and asked whether they were interested in wedding rings, platinum or white gold, and diamonds, because he could offer them some particularly fine specimens.

  Do you think that sounds like someone who tested negative for drugs and alcohol? I guess they ought to run the tests again. I just can’t imagine Theo waking up this morning stone-cold sober and thinking, “Hey, why don’t I pick up a sledgehammer and ransack a jeweler’s shop?” Let’s hope he’s allowed to do his A levels from prison.

  See you soon (but not until after ten tomorrow morning, please)!

  Love from your still stunned Secrecy

  PS—I’ve just heard that the first T-shirts printed with Theo Ellis, I’d like you to give me a ring! are being made already. Tasteless, you guys, tasteless! (But I’m ordering one all the same, size S.)

  Tittletattleblog.com

  * * *

  7

  TOO LATE.

  Someone else was just taking the last pint of blueberries off the shelf. And that someone was a girl whose long golden-blond hair seemed to me decidedly familiar. I stopped so suddenly that Mia rammed the supermarket cart into my heels.

  “Hey!” she protested, and the girl with the blueberries turned around.

  Sure enough, it was Anabel. Unlike me, she didn’t seem particularly surprised to meet me here. She smiled, while I felt goose bumps coming up all over me, and my heart began racing.

  “Oh, hell,” said Mia. But she didn’t mean Anabel; she meant the fact that the last blueberries had been snapped up from under our noses.

  I was unable to say a word at first; I could only stare at Anabel. For some reason, I hadn’t expected to come across her anywhere but in a dream, where I felt comparatively strong and secure. Yet I ought to have realized I might meet her near home sometime. After all, we lived in the same part of town and knew many of the same people. If I’d anticipated this, I could be smiling as normally as Anabel instead of having to fight off the irrational, icy-cold wave of fear that was washing over me.

  Although maybe my fear wasn’t as irrational as all that. Last time I had met Anabel in real life, she had tried to hit me over the head with an iron torch holder, so that I’d needed four stitches. And that was almost the least dangerous thing to have happened that evening.

  As I was trying to get my heart rate under control, Anabel calmly put the blueberries in her cart and looked me up and down. “Very chic outfit, Liv Silver,” she said, and the little hairs all over me stood on end at the sound of her sugar-sweet voice. “The romantic country-girl look. Earth under the fingernails and all.” Her eyes moved to Mia. “And how cute, the partner look as well.”

  I was slightly sorry now that we’d been in such a hurry to get away from home. And the rubber boots were the most stylish thing about us. Anabel was right: we had dirty fingernails, and if I looked like Mia, then I had some earth in my hair and on my glasses as well. But we’d had to seize our chance to get out of the garden when it came up.

  There was a Saturday morning of disillusionment behind us, and the reason for that was montbretias. Members of the Iridaceae plant family.

  Mia and I had always wanted a garden, so when we came to live with the Spencers, we had been keen to do some gardening, not least so as to wear the pretty, flowered rubber boots that Lottie had ordered for us all on the Internet.

  Our enthusiasm for gardening had suffered a teeny little bit in January, when we had wanted to teach the Boker a lesson because she was so consistently nasty to Mom and us, and had attacked her beloved Mr. Snuggles—a box tree clipped in the shape of a peacock and apparently famous all over Britain. We’d meant to prune him to look like some other creature, but it all went terribly wrong. Maybe we ought to have realized back then that our thumbs weren’t as green as we thought. (There was now a memorial plaque on the spot where the topiary peacock used to stand.)

  But we hadn’t given up our romantic idea of gardening. You didn’t have to begin with topiary, which is dead difficult. Even Ernest said so, and he was a keen gardener himself. There was so much to be done in a garden, and never enough helping hands, he said. So this morning he had solemnly invited us into the garden and given us two brand-new spades, bought specially for us: lady’s spades with hand-forged blades and handles made of ash wood. Almost as pretty as our rubber boots. We had set to work with a will.

  Unfortunately we couldn’t have foreseen that our future stepfather—usually the most patient and tolerant person I knew—would mutate into a pedantic spoilsport in his precious garden. He must have inherited that side of his character from the Boker, although, as we had to admit, without her sheer nastiness. On the contrary, he was particularly happy when he was in the garden, but it seemed that we couldn’t do right. So our original enthusiasm drained away with every passing minute as he told us what we were doing wrong (in a friendly, polite, English sort of way). The edges of the lawn must be chopped off exactly half an inch farther forward, leaves were swept up from east to west and not all over the place, and orange montbretias must not on any account grow near pink phlox. The montbretias didn’t seem to know that; they’d seeded themselves in corners where their color would be all wrong. Ernest called them horticultural terrorists and told us to dig them up and destroy them whenever we found them. But then he realized that we couldn’t tell the wicked montbretias from the obviously desirable irises. Well, how could we, when neither was in flower, but they both had very similar leaves, which looked to us identical? By now I was hating the montbretia terrorists I’d never known about before. It wasn’t just malicious; it was downright sly the way they’d made sure we dug up the innocent iris plants instead.

  “Do you have a tissue? I think he’s going to cry,” whispered Mia as Ernest inspected the plants we’d pulled up and talked soothingly to them. Apparently they were precious rare varieties with names like Bonnie Babe and Mallow Dramatic.

  “Is it very bad?” I asked hesitantly.

  “No, no, don’t worry,” said Ernest, obviously trying hard not to sound too upset. “These things happen. And I’m sure I can save a few rhizomes.…” He turned back to the plants and started murmuring to them again. “With luck, you’ll grow again, won’t you?”

  “Doesn’t he remind you of Great-Aunt Virginia and her room of glass animals made by craftsmen glassblowers?” whispered Mia.

  “Yes, it’s terrible.” I looked longingly at Grayson, who was freeing the paved surfaces from lichen with a pressure washer. Even if he was staring rather grimly ahead of him (he was probably thinking of Emily), his work looked like fun, and by now I’d happily have changed places with him. Sighing, I leaned on the ergonomically shaped handle of my spade and watched a brimstone butterfly fluttering past. It was probably out too early in the season for butterflies, but it seemed to be having fun too. The weather was so fine that you could even take off your jacket in the sun. Florence was sitting on the upholstered window seat of her room one floor higher up, with the window wide open, reading her chemistry book. At least, pretending to read it—from where she was, she had a perfect view into the garden next door, where Matt was just giving the lawn its first cut of the year.

  Buttercup, who was frightened of the pressure washer, had stayed in the kitchen with Lottie. Ever since Lottie had announced that she was going back to Germany in the summer, Butter wouldn’t let her out of her sight and followed her everywhere. Don’t try telling me that dogs don’t understand human language. The rest of us were acting as if we’d never heard the announcement, because we didn’t know how to talk about it without bursting into tears. It was a small consolation that Papa had just been moved from Zürich to Stuttgart, which wasn’t far from Oberstdorf, so at least we’d be able to visit Lottie on our vacation.

  Lottie had originally been going to help in the garde
n too. But today, of all days, she had started making some bread dough that took a lot of watching. I felt sure she was glad to have escaped the gardening now. Mom, marking essays at the kitchen table, had been clever enough to claim all along that she for one didn’t have a green thumb. As if she’d guessed.

  Now she opened the terrace door.

  “Is something wrong?” she shouted above the noise of the lawn mower and the pressure washer.

  “We’ve killed an iris,” Mia told her. “And Ernest is looking to see if he can bring it back to life.”

  Horrified, Mom clutched her breast. It was a little while before she realized that Iris was not the name of next door’s cat. “Oh well,” she said, looking cautiously at Ernest. “Maybe you ought to stop work for today. It’s such lovely weather, you could sit out in a deck chair with a book.…”

  “Only a non-gardener could say a thing like that.” Ernest put one arm around Mia’s shoulders and the other around mine, and smiled bravely at Mom. “The girls can’t help having grown up without a garden. With proper teaching and a little concentration, they’ll soon grasp the basics. I must just keep a closer eye on them next time.” He obviously felt full of missionary fervor to make up for our lack of gardening know-how. “We were having such fun that a deck chair is no alternative, right, girls?”

  “Yes, I last had that much fun when I was helping Great-Aunt Virginia dust her glass animals,” said Mia under her breath. “Or maybe the other day, when my hair band fell into the drain and I had to clear out all the yucky hairs and so on—wow, what fun. Not to be compared with gardening, of course.”

  Luckily Mom and Ernest didn’t hear that because they were too busy staring lovingly into each other’s eyes.

  “You’re a wonderful, wonderful man,” said Mom, dropping a kiss on his bald patch. “And so British when it comes to your garden. But I think the girls could make themselves useful somewhere else. Where they can’t do as much damage.” She winked at us. “And I need them to go shopping. Lottie wants to make a blueberry tart for our breakfast meeting when we plan the wedding tomorrow, and she’ll need blueberries for that. And mascarpone.”