Ride and Die (Ridgemore #1)

7 What Dreams Are Made Of

7

What Dreams Are Made Of

W hat little bit of summer vacation was left dragged by in a battle with our parents. Whether we were all together or separate, each in our own homes, it didn’t matter. Whenever there was an adult around—and there nearly always was now that they’d all decided to work from home—they were trying to convince us to homeschool instead of finishing out our senior year at the school we’d attended since first grade.

Some, like my dad and Brady and Layla’s mom, Celia, went for the bold, bulldozer approach of persuasion: Do as I say or else . Others, like Hunt’s mom, Alexis, and Griffin’s dad, Orson, tried the buddy-buddy approach, even going so far as to hang out with us for hours at a time, pounding back the brewskis, before dropping the no school for any of you hammer—as if we had no idea what they were up to…

They didn’t relent, and neither did we. Ever since that drone had shown up at my house, they’d been doing their best to envelop us in bubble wrap—and these were the same parents who allowed Layla to ink us with her tattoo gun. We were the envy of our other friends because our parents used to treat us like young adults . So long as we were responsible with the privileges they extended us, we could do just about whatever we wanted.

Not anymore.

“That stupid fucking drone,” Griffin muttered under his breath, clearly on the same wavelength as I was as he pulled into Ridgemore High’s parking lot and eased Clyde into the space next to Bonnie. Brady’s parents still wouldn’t allow him to drive, so Layla was in the driver’s seat while I rode shotgun with Griffin, Hunt in the back.

Griffin pocketed the keys and looked out the windshield for a beat, studying the school we’d fought so hard to attend.

Hunt slid forward across the back bench seat, leaning his arms on either headrest. “It really can’t get much more absurd. Us, fighting to be in a school we outgrew ages ago.”

I grunted. “I swear, if Mrs. Moody tries to teach us about the Civil War one more time…”

Griffin groaned and propped open his door but didn’t get out yet. “Kill me now and spare me from listening to her drone on and on. I didn’t fight my parents this fucking hard for her .”

“No shit,” Hunt said. “I’d have given my mom her class, no problem.”

I shook my head, repeating, “That fucking drone, man.”

We assumed we had Kitty Blanche to thank for the total invasion of our privacy. Our parents just about blew a communal gasket when they found out about it, forcing us to keep the shades down day and night, making us swear a legit oath not to discuss anything related to Brady’s accident or recovery whenever we were outdoors, a privilege they might not have allowed at all if we weren’t so clearly going stir crazy, and if Bobo, my two-year-old pit bull terrier, didn’t need the exercise as much as we did.

Brady hopped out of Bonnie’s passenger side with enough pep in his step to tell me there was no way he was going to gimp out like Celia had flat-out begged him to do. Layla waited for us between both cars, studying her brother, who was rocking the scowl that had taken up permanent residence on his face as if Layla had tattooed it there.

I rolled up my window before pitching my voice low to Griffin and Hunt. “Has he told you guys? His nightmares have been getting worse. I think they’re really starting to mess with him.”

Hunt dipped his head lower to better examine our friend through the front window. “Yeah, I don’t think they only happen when he’s sleeping anymore. He’s got a constant haunted look about him.” He shook his head. “It’s not good.”

“He’ll be fine,” Griffin said. “He always is. He went through shit, that’s all. He’ll go back to being the usual Brady in no time.” He offered us a confident smile, but I wasn’t buying it. For as much as he pretended he didn’t, Griffin worried about Brady. We all did.

We grabbed our books and joined the others to walk the same path we did last year, since we were first allowed to park in the junior-senior lot. Around us, kids were squealing and greeting each other loudly after a summer of not seeing one another—rushing to find their classes and claim their seats before the first bell rang. But even in their haste, I felt their eyes on us, and it wasn’t just because the Miracle Kid walked among us. Our tight crew had always garnered attention. Even when we were still losing our baby teeth, others were drawn to our closeness.

We made a pit stop at the lockers before heading to our first class, AP Biology. I leaned into Hunt as we approached the classroom. “Did you already read the textbook?”

He shrugged off my question, which for him was as good as saying, Hell yeah, I did. Gobbled that shit up in a couple of days.

I chuckled despite his silence. The guy could devour books like no one else I’d ever met. He didn’t have a photographic memory, but he did have an uncanny ability to absorb information. Whatever book he got his hands on allowed him to quickly learn the material. And languages? If not for the need to hear them spoken to grasp intonation and accents, he would probably already speak a dozen of them fluently. Dude had a brain the size of a damn beach ball.

Griffin’s hand landed on the small of my back, allowing me into the classroom ahead of him. I tried and failed to temper the small smile this gesture brought to my lips. Lately, Griffin’s thoughtful touch had become more frequent, more noticeable. My heart sped up, but I told it to take a chill pill. None of us could ever be together like that. The five of us would always remain friends. Our bond was too important and too vital to risk messing up.

We settled into our desks, Griffin directly beside me. I spent most of the fifty-minute class reminding myself of the myriad reasons I couldn’t go there, not even in my mind, as Mrs. Surman went over the syllabus for the upcoming semester. It was boring and unnecessary.

A glance at Brady told me he wasn’t paying attention either. His eyes were haunted again, smudges under his eyes indicating he’d been sleeping less than he was telling us. There was no escaping his dreams when they caught up to him even in waking hours.

We bounced from bio to AP Chemistry and then to AP World History before the bell finally rang to announce lunch. We hadn’t discussed what we were doing ahead of time, but we didn’t need to; it was what we’d done every day the previous year. We piled into one car—Griffin’s—and drove to Hughie’s Hoagies, a nearby delicatessen where we knew the employees by name. While I worked my way through an eight-inch Italian sub with extra peperoncini, we waited for Brady to share. We knew he didn’t want to. But then, he never did.

He huffed, tossed his beanie on the seat next to him, and took a humongous bite of a Reuben sandwich, chewing obnoxiously while glaring at each of us in turn. When Layla snorted at the show he was putting on, he rewarded her with a double dose of Fuck you all, I don’t feel like talking .

We waited him out. Like always.

After a deeper scowl than usual, he sighed loudly. “You guys are pains in my fucking ass, you know that, don’t you?” But then he nearly smiled. “You know how I told you our parents are there too?”

Chewing, I nodded.

“Well, this last time I saw Alexis actually injecting me with stuff, then drawing blood. And then I saw her talking with Orson about the results. But mostly I see us shuffling around like we’re brain-dead, and our parents keeping track of everything we do on a clipboard, probably making a damn note every time we take a shit.”

Griffin popped a salt and vinegar chip into his mouth. “So more of the same.”

“Yes … and no.” Brady set down his sandwich and played absently with his friendship bracelet, which had held up since we were twelve.

Now he really had our attention. Brady was not one to fidget. Or to think before he spoke, for that matter.

Even so, we knew not to push him unless we had to. Hunt took a long sip of his sparkling water, belching softly afterward. Layla ate the remaining bites of her meatball sub before Brady finally continued.

“You know how I’ve been telling you they’re dreams? Nightmares, really, even though they’ve started happening in the daytime now too, which is all sorts of fucked up?”

“Yeah, man,” Griffin said. “We listen when you talk.”

That reminder of how we were hanging on to his every word led to a fresh round of fiddling with his bracelet, the threads hanging from its ends frayed and showing their age. Seeming to notice what he was doing, he frowned and picked up his sandwich, though he didn’t take a bite.

“Well, they don’t feel like dreams anymore.”

“You said that last week,” Hunt commented, a gentle smile softening his words.

“I guess I did. Anyway…” Brady paused to breathe.

All the delay tactics were putting me on edge, and I exchanged a look with Layla, then Griffin. They were both staring hard at Brady, anticipation vibrating off them.

Brady inhaled deeply again, setting his sandwich down yet again without eating. “What I’m seeing, all this stuff with us as kids in the lab or whatever the creepy place is, well, the images are starting to override my real memories of us growing up here in Ridgemore as young kids. The time in Ms. Gail’s pre-K and kindergarten? Gone. First grade with Mrs. Cowan’s all but gone now, too.”

“Wait,” I interrupted. “What do you mean, the memories are gone? If you remember our teachers’ names, then it must all still be there, right?”

He shrugged. “I don’t know. Now all that’s more like a story someone told me, not my own memories. It doesn’t feel as real, like the memories are turning into a postcard or a TV show I’m watching, like that.”

“And the time in the lab?” Layla asked delicately, as if she didn’t really want to know. “What’s that like now?”

He met his twin’s waiting gaze. “The time in the lab feels real, not Ridgemore. Even the bright lighting everywhere in that place feels familiar. Everything about it feels familiar, like I’d know it again if I saw it. And, guys, when we were there, we didn’t call our parents Mom or Dad. We didn’t even know their names. We were their patients, their experiments, nothing more. They were the white lab coats; we were just a handful of kids who all looked the same, walking around in identical clothes, same posture, same vacant look in our eyes, all that.”

“Well, that obviously can’t be right,” Hunt said. “See? That’s proof that whatever’s going on with your dreams or memories, none of it’s real.”

Brady didn’t even blink, just pushed his plate out of reach. Normally, the guy could eat his weight in Reubens. “Sure as shit feels real. Too real. I’m worried I’m losing my mind. Like, okay, I died, right?”

We nodded. None of us would ever forget.

“So maybe when I came back, some screws that got loosened when I was dead didn’t get tightened back up. I don’t feel like the same person anymore.”

I dropped my sub and didn’t even bother wiping my fingers before reaching across the table to grab Brady’s hand. I waited until he met my eyes. “Brade, you’re not crazy. You’re not losing your mind. Whatever’s going on, we’ll figure it out. Together. Okay? Just like we always do, just like we always have. You’ve never been alone, and you’re not alone now. We’ve got your back, like always.”

“That’s right,” Hunt added gruffly, and Griffin grunted his agreement, though I sensed his attention drift across our linked fingers. I didn’t dare loosen my hold on Brady though.

His gaze was lighter now, hopeful, as he looked up at us from under his lashes. “Are you guys sure? Would you tell me if I’d gone bonkers?”

“Dude,” Layla said, “since when do any of us pander? You know I’d tell you if you’d gone fishing and hadn’t come back.”

He blinked at her, then barked a short laugh. “Yeah, you’re right. You def never hold back.”

“Exactly. And I’m not holding back with you now. What Joss said is right on the money. You’re not crazy, and you’re not going through this alone. We might not be able to dive into your dreams with you, but we would if we could.”

“Fuck yeah, we would,” Griffin interjected, and Hunt uh-huh ed.

“If your accident mixed some memories up, so what? You’re motherfucking alive , dude. Who cares if things got jumbled a bit? It’ll sort itself out in time.”

“Layla’s right,” I chimed in. “Give yourself time. It’s only been a month since the Fischer House party. That’s not that long, considering everything you went through. Then the hospital, and our parents. If we should discuss whether anybody’s gone nutty, we should be talking about them.”

“No shit,” Hunt said. “I actually caught my mom watching me while I slept the other night.” He shuddered, crunching into a dill pickle. “Talk about weird. She was just leaning against the door, staring. It was hella odd.”

“What’d you do?” Brady asked.

“Nothing. Pretended I was out and didn’t notice. But I started locking my door at night after that.”

“She let you?” I asked, brows high. Hunt’s dad had died in a car crash when we were little, just before our parents moved to Ridgemore and started us in pre-K here. She’d never been the helicopter parent she was now, but she was still the most worrywart of them all. Brady’s near death had been really hard on her, flushing out old traumas, evident in the frequent nibbling at her lower lip she’d been doing lately.

Hunt shrugged. “She hasn’t not let me. She hasn’t said anything about it.”

“Just wait,” Griffin predicted.

“Yeah, probably. Since the drone showing up at Joss’s, it’s like she wants to fucking hold my hand all day and night. I hope she gets over it fast. I’m trying to be supportive ’cause of Dad, but come on already.”

We all nodded our understanding, even Brady. We knew each other’s parents nearly as well as our own.

I released Brady’s hands and picked at my sub. “You still haven’t told Celia and Porter about the dreams?”

He and Layla shook their heads in unison, the fraternal twins appearing more similar than usual.

“Hell no, I haven’t,” Brady said.

“And he’s not gonna,” Layla added.

“That’s right. Mom’s already more intense than either of us can handle. She legit tried to bribe me today, telling me she’d give me a thousand bucks if I’d just limp around for at least the first month at school.”

Griffin whistled. “That’s a whole new level, bro.”

“For sure. Let’s hope we don’t see if there are more levels after this one. I won’t be able to take it.”

Layla crumpled up her wrapper and rose from the table. “Time to roll, guys. We don’t wanna be late on the first day back.”

But truly, I doubted any of us cared. School was more of a social scene to us than anything else. We could pass all our classes with our eyes closed.

A few minutes later, we were piled back into Griffin’s Mustang and nearing the school when he slowed down well ahead of the turn.

“What is it?” I asked from the back seat. When it was Griffin’s car, I usually rode shotgun, but I’d left it for Brady today.

“Fucking reporters,” Brady grumbled. “They’re almost worse than our parents. It’s like they won’t be happy till they’re all the way up my butt.”

“That visual, Brade?” Layla said from beside me. “We’re plenty good without it, mm-kay?”

Griffin glanced at us in the rearview mirror, catching my eye first. “Does anyone care if we miss French and British Lit today?”

“You already know my answer,” Layla said. “Does this mean we’re already playing hooky?” She beamed.

Brady stared stoically ahead, waiting, hoping, unwilling to ask for our support in this way.

“Fuck yeah. Let’s do it,” I said.

Griffin zoomed past the school entrance without hesitation, and Hunt whipped out his phone. “I’ll text Zoe. I’m pretty sure she’s in both those classes. She can cover for us.”

As one, we looked at Hunt.

“Zoe Wills?” Layla asked.

Hunt nodded while he messaged.

“You have her number?” I followed up.

“Uh-huh.”

“Huh,” I said.

Layla bared her teeth in a wild grin. “You like her.”

“No, I don’t.”

“Yes, you fucking do. Why else would you have her number?”

“Because it’s convenient in times like this,” Hunt dragged out.

The rest of us snorted, grunted, or laughed, or a combination of the three.

“Yeah. Right,” Brady said, sounding lighter already now that we were heading away from Kitty Blanche and her posse and toward the busybodies we called parents.

I wasn’t entirely sure it was an improvement, but whatever helped Brady, we’d do it.

“I call the punching bag first,” I singsonged, knowing we’d end up at the treehouse, all but guaranteed.

“I call the dummy,” Layla chirped, then rolled down the window, smiling as the trees whipped by us.

This was familiar territory. Our crew was what we’d always known. Together, we could bounce back from anything and everything. Together, we’d pull Brady through.