Both of them shake their heads.
After that, we eat in silence.
Long after the dishes have been rinsed and loaded into the dishwasher, I’m sprawled on my bed. My alarm clock says it’s three minutes past ten. Earlier this afternoon I found a dusty old radio in my father’s study, and now I’m twisting the dial, looking for KRNK. All I hear is static. Spinning it the other way, I finally locate the right channel—and hear a familiar voice.
Rollins.
He’s talking about the ridiculousness of prom—how dumb it is for guys to spend weeks of paychecks to fork out sixty bucks a ticket, not to mention a hundred on a tux and another twenty on a corsage. Some idiots even rent a limo for the occasion. It’s a rant I’ve heard a million times. The corners of my mouth turn up into a smile. I close my eyes and sink into the familiarity of his voice, his words.
“My colleague Anna disagrees with me on this point,” he says.
My eyes fly open. Who is Anna?
Rollins continues. “I mean, I get where she’s coming from. There’s the whole romance aspect of it. You’re supposed to make the girl feel like a princess and sh—crap. But the thing is, if you’re really into someone, you shouldn’t have to spend a ton of money to prove it. Why not just rent a couple of scary movies and make some popcorn?”
I grin. That’s what we do every Friday night—watch horror movies and eat junk food. We call it Friday Night Fright. I can’t help but wonder if there’s some deeper meaning to his words. Is he trying to tell me something, hint that he still has feelings for me? Or is this all hypothetical? Just banter for his radio show?
I grab my pillow and hold it to my chest.
“Anyway, I’m sure you’re all tired of listening to me go on and on. Instead, I’ll play a song that, to me, screams true romance.” I hear him clacking through CD cases, looking for the right one. “Here it is. ‘Everlong’ by Foo Fighters. Okay, all you naughty kids, staying up late on a school night. This is what a rock song should sound like.”
As the opening chords rattle the old radio, I close my eyes. Is this song meant for me? This song about waiting and wishing and wanting someone for so long? Could Rollins still feel the same way about me that he did that night in October? Or has he met someone else, someone who is ready to love him back?
The music rolls over me, and a silly image pops into my head. Rollins, in a vintage tux, and me in a glittery black dress. We sway together to the music, moving too slowly for the fast song.
This dream is not like the others.
Instead of the passenger, I’m the driver. The steering wheel is hard and unwieldy beneath my grasp, and there’s the distinct scent of vanilla in the air—the smell of the air freshener my sister put in my father’s car when he started taking her for practice drives.
I’m not on the interstate like I usually am in my dreams. I’m on some strange country road I don’t recognize. The gravel crunches beneath the tires. Cornfields race by, a blur of shadows in the night. For some reason, the car is going faster and faster. It takes me a minute to realize my foot is pressing hard on the accelerator.
The moonlight shining down, the detail on the wooden fence that pops up on the left, the sweet smell in the air—everything is too real. I try an experiment and yank the wheel to the right.
The car veers, and I feel my stomach lurch as inertia claims me. The car rolls into the ditch, but it doesn’t stop there. I see a telephone pole in my peripheral vision, and when it slams into the side of the car, pain shoots through my arm and chest where the seat belt tightens. My head slams against the window, and everything goes black.
When I wake up, I search for the comfort of my room, my telescope, the old rocking chair that used to belong to my mother. Instead, all I see is the vanilla air freshener, dangling inches away from my face, spattered with blood.
I sit up, wincing at the pain that sears through my head. Shaking, I reach for the rearview mirror and adjust it so I can see myself. My face is pale in the moonlight, with rivulets of black-red blood snaking down.
It wasn’t a dream.
This is really happening.
How the hell did I end up here? The last thing I remember is falling asleep, listening to Rollins’s voice on the radio. How could I possibly have risen, unaware, snuck down the stairs and out the door, and climbed into my father’s car?
It just doesn’t make any sense.
Scrambling, I look around for my phone. If I was able to somehow get into the car and drive myself into the middle of nowhere, maybe I had the sense to grab it. But there’s nothing in the center console or on the floor. I open the glove compartment and shuffle through my father’s registration and insurance papers. Nothing.
I push open the door and stumble out into the chill that is Iowa on an April evening. The wind slices through my thin T-shirt. I duck my head into the car and grab a University of Iowa sweatshirt that my father tossed in the backseat at some point. It does little to warm me up, but it’s better than nothing.
Where am I?
The gravel road seems to stretch on forever in both directions. In the sky, Ursa Minor shines brightly. The mama bear constellation. It makes me feel a little less alone. I turn around and see the glow of the city. I start walking down the road, heading toward the light. My mind races as I try to make sense of it all.
Strange occurrences certainly aren’t new to me. I’m used to sliding into people unexpectedly and having to figure out who the hell I am and what I’m doing. But this is something else. This isn’t sliding. I’m not in someone else’s body. I’m in my own. It’s almost like . . . someone else took over my body and forced me to steal my father’s car and drive out into the country.
It’s like someone else slid into me.
Highway 6.
I seem to be a few miles south of town.
My vision goes fuzzy for a moment, and I have to hold out my hands to steady myself. Perhaps I lost too much blood in the accident. I take a few deep breaths and then, feeling better, I carry on. My bare feet, not up to the task of trudging mile after mile, have become numb. I wince, imagining what they’ll feel like tomorrow.
I keep racking my brain, trying to figure out who could have slid into me—and why. Ever since I learned to steer people’s actions during a slide, I’ve been wondering what happens to the original inhabitant of the bodies. Do they go somewhere else? Do they just kind of black out?
I remember this time I slid into my father when he was jogging. I was so surprised to find myself in his body that I lost my balance and caused him to trip and fall. He landed on the pavement hard. And then I slid back into my own body.
I ran downstairs to find my father limping in the front door, looking dazed. He pointed to his ankle and said he must have fainted during his run. One second he’d been finishing his lap around the block, and the next he collapsed on the street. Now I wonder if there was a point in between, when everything turned murky and strange. Like how I was in English today.
Is it possible that someone slid into me while I was asleep and brought me here? How could it be possible? I’ve never heard of anyone else with the ability to slide—and,