Dad drove me up to the front sidewalk of the school. There was a whole line of cars there as usual. In a school that small, I know pretty much everybody. All the familiar students walked past the truck and up to the front doors. I hardly even noticed them or recognized their faces. It felt like the blood was all draining down to my feet; my head was light. My hands even began to shake a little bit. Dad didn’t say anything, he just stared forward.

“So do we just pretend not to be afraid?” I said. He shrugged in his way.

“Just a coincidence,” he said. And the way he said it, I think he almost believed it himself.

I didn’t know what else to do and I certainly didn’t have anything to say, so I pulled myself out of the car. I shut the door behind me without saying that I loved him or anything. We usually say that to each other, but we both sort of mumble it because otherwise it would be too awkward. But he pulled away without it. I was left staring at the space where the passenger window had just been. I didn’t even watch him leave the school. Just hiked my backpack up on my shoulder and stood there. Everybody pushed around me without saying anything. I don’t know how long I was staring out into space before I woke up and walked into the school.

I’d been dating Deborah Marlowe for maybe nine months at that time. It didn’t really start out as a crush, either. That’s mainly the difference between middle school and high school. In middle school, you just get these stupid crushes on girls for no real reason other than probably hormones. But this was the first time that I felt different about the whole dating thing. We started talking in History class. She gets really good grades for the most part, but she struggles with History. Whereas I suck at most of our other classes, but I’m pretty good at memorizing dates and how things fit in a chronological order. I saw this documentary on TV recently, though, and it suggested that maybe time isn’t real at all. Like, it’s just an illusion or a dimension, in the same way that if I walk across this room right now, I could turn around and come back to this same spot. I like that idea. Who wouldn’t? You can think about all your favorite little moments and if you could just wrap your brain around the fact that it didn’t happen in the past, but that’s it’s happening right now, that it’s always happening and always will be, then you could actually be in that moment again. That idea makes me feel like there’s less weight on my shoulders.

Anyway, we were both pretty mediocre in History class. My grades were never that spectacular. They used to be. Back in middle school I was always on the top honor roll. Then I got distracted by other things in high school and everything settled down into pretty average territory. Deborah sat right in front of me in History, though, and we did this thing in that class where we would pass our worksheets up to the person in front of us for grading. Then they would write down our score and hand it back. Some of the other students complained that that was an illegal policy; it undermines your right to privacy and all that. But it never really bothered me. If you’re embarrassed about your grades, you should just work harder. Deborah took notice, though; she would grade these ten-point worksheets and she saw that I was good at putting things in sequence. The open-ended answers were another story, though. She offered to be my partner on a project we had to do, where we had to make a poster about a figure from World War II. Combine our strengths, you know? We were given Dr. Josef Mengele, which is pretty messed up, because I really didn’t want to know most of that stuff. But we got an A on it, so that brought my grade up overall and I offered to take her to Pizza Hut as thanks and then, yeah, we started dating.

She’s really pretty if you haven’t met her. She even has red hair, which most guys seem predisposed not to like; do you know that actress, Amy Adams? I always describe Deborah’s hair like that. Oh, and I never call her Debby; she doesn’t like that. Not in a stuck-up way, she just doesn’t like the way it sounds.

I went to see Deborah before first hour started. I’m not supposed to do that anymore because I used to go see her and I would always be late for my own class. But that morning I didn’t care too much, because I was so shaken up. Her first hour teacher, Mrs. Carlyle, gave me this crappy look when I went in, but she didn’t say anything. I snuck up behind Deborah and kissed her on the cheek.

“I hope that’s Sammy or somebody’s getting his butt beat,” she said without looking at me (and without saying “butt”). She’s always saying tough stuff like that, but it’s all pretend so I think it’s pretty funny. I sat on her desk to face her and she was still looking down at her magazine, which she always read before class started. I asked her why she wasn’t looking at me, and she said it was because I wasn’t supposed to be in there. If I got another tardy to my first hour class, it meant lunch detention. She reminded me of that and I told her that I had a bad night. Then she finally looked up at me, because when I say stuff like that, it worries her. Only because I don’t say it very often, though, not because I have a history of mental illness or anything like that. When I told her I had a bad dream, though, she rolled her eyes and smiled a little bit.

That made me angry, because it shouldn’t really matter why I’m upset, she should just want to make me feel better. I mean, that’s what I would do for her even if it was as stupid as a bad dream. It’s not like I got physically angry or anything, though, if that’s what you’re thinking. I wasn’t ever like that with her. In fact, I was pretty good about just keeping my mouth shut if she was trying to argue with me. I learned that from my dad, though it wasn’t really panning out for his own marriage. But her rolling her eyes was enough for me to not want to tell her anything about how my family all had the dream. Especially since I would have to leave as soon as the bell rang and that wasn’t really something you could fully discuss in three minutes. So I told her that I just wanted to see her so I could calm my nerves. She liked that and I gave her a kiss on the cheek before I left to go to class.

Frank was in my first class, though, and he had this really toothy grin when I stepped through the door. I made it in time for the bell, which made me happy, but his stupid face made me a little bit perturbed again. I slammed my books down on my desk harder than usual just to get the point across.

“Are we touchy today?” he asked. Frank is always asking things with that phrasing. Are we happy today? Are we amused? Are we upset about something? I gave a grunt and he put his hands up defensively.

“Don’t tell me anything,” he said, “I’m just the best friend.” He probably thought this would loosen me up, but like I said before, I don’t find Frank very funny.

He finally sighed and became the person I like best.

“Alright,” he said, “do you want to talk about it?” The thing about most friendships is that if one person is annoyed with the other, they want to drag it out a little bit just to teach a lesson. But Frank and I aren’t like that. When he asked me if I wanted to talk about it, he meant it. Before I could say anything, the bell rang and our teacher walked in. I didn’t get a chance to tell Frank about the rest of my family, which I probably should have done in retrospect.

This is probably starting to bore you a little bit, but Frank and Deborah are the kinds of people I could talk about forever. I’ll skip ahead, though, because there’s still another person you should know about before we really get into everything. Then I can tell you about the football game that night and the sunrise and how I almost forgot about the dream.

So this other person is my grandma. Her name is Maisie, which is pretty much a perfect name for a grandma, right? She’s my mom’s mom and she’s got wispy gray hair like all grandmas and she’s petite and skinny like all grandmas. She also wears glasses like all grandmas, but other than that, she isn’t very generic at all. See, Grandma Maisie is on house arrest. Which means she has to wear this thing around her ankle and if she walks past her mailbox, it starts to beep and if it beeps too long, the cops come over and arrest her. When I was little, Grandma Maisie got a DUI, which you probably know about already, actually. Then, when I was in sixth grade, she got another one and she got her license taken away for a year. Then number three happened before she even got her license back, and she lost it forever. Still, she got one more and the judge gave her the choice between house arrest or jail time. It was a pretty stressful time and it was another one of those situations where my mom started to drink more, which is pretty ironic and not at all healthy. That’s also why she drank with Barb instead of with Grandma Maisie. Grandma Maisie isn’t allowed to have too much alcohol; she has to blow into this thing every day after lunch and again at night before bed. It keeps track of her blood alcohol level and then her probation officer checks it once a week on her visits. It’s all pretty complicated and annoying if you ask me, because she’s still my grandma and I love her a lot. When it first happened kids would tease me about it; now, though, they think it’s pretty cool that I have a badass granny (their words, not mine). And she is pretty badass. She’s really straightforward and just tells you exactly what you need to hear. When I was little, I was staying at her house and I got scared because we watched some old horror movie together. It was in black and white, but still terrifying for a little kid. I asked her if I could sleep in her bed with her and she just said no, because I was too old and had to learn how to deal with my fear somehow. I ended up lying awake for a few hours in this creaky bed in the back room of her house. There are old photos of my ancestors on the walls in there, which shouldn’t have scared me, but they’re those old-timey photos so they did. They still kind of give me the creeps even now, but I’m not afraid of the dark anymore.

Since Grandma Maisie can’t go to my football games due to her ankle bracelet, we always have a light dinner at her house on game nights. Frank drove me over there after school that day and I offered to let him stay, mostly because I didn’t want to be alone with my family. But he couldn’t, because he had his own dinner plans with his mom and Uncle Ashton. Mom’s car and Dad’s truck were in the driveway when I got to Grandma Maisie’s, so I let myself in.

Tabitha was watching cartoons in the front living room, which has uncomfortable hardwood floors that make your butt go numb if you sit on them for too long. I could smell the food from there, so I didn’t say anything to her, just gave her a quick kiss on top of the head and went into the dining room. You know how grandmas have this reputation for making great homemade food? Well, you should see what a grandma on house arrest can do! I’m not kidding, either. On game nights, she has literally nothing else to do except spend hours in the kitchen. I don’t take it for granted, either; I mean, I’m always very thankful and all that.

Dad was sitting at the head of the table when I walked in. He had a beer can in his hand and was just staring at all the empty plates and glasses on the table. When he saw me, he looked up and smiled, but didn’t say anything. Mom walked in with a serving platter that had ham on it. It was already sliced and ready to eat. Even the fat and bone were gone. It smelled amazing; I forget what she uses to marinate it with, but it’s probably the most delicious ham you’ve ever had.

Grandma Maisie followed mom in with homemade scalloped potatoes and when she saw me, she got all excited; she did this old-lady shuffle across the floor so she could hurry up and set the food down. Then she ran over and gave me a brittle hug; I knew she and mom would both have whiskey on their breath by that point and I wasn’t disappointed. Still, she was probably happier to see me than anybody else ever was. She kissed me on the cheek, the harsh aroma of Jack Daniels rolling up my nostrils.

“Sit down, sit down,” she demanded, “before it gets cold.” As if food right out of the oven instantaneously freezes if not eaten. I did as she asked, though. When I was around Grandma, I was a celebrity. She wanted to know everything about my day and my week and my whole life. And she wanted to tell stories about when I was a baby and then, after another glass, she wanted to talk about how much my grandpa loved me; it made me sad to think about, because I honestly don’t remember my grandpa that much. I just have a fleeting memory of looking up at his eyes through his glasses. He wore glasses, too, just like all grandpas.

The meal was delicious, but I tried not to eat too much. I didn’t want to yak on the football field. Grandma pretty much wanted to cram the rest of the food down my throat, but I kindly refrained from another plate. I did go with her into the kitchen and help with dishes, though. Frank would be picking me up soon so that we could go back to the school and get ready; I wanted to spend that time with Grandma. She deserved it, you know?

She washed and I dried and she hummed to herself, old Baptist songs that they used to sing when they dunked people in the creek. If it was late enough, those songs made her cry in the same way talking about my grandpa did. But the sun was still up and she was cheerful.

I asked her if she ever heard of more than one person having the same dream.
“No,” she said in this really matter-of-fact way, as if it wasn’t a surprising question at all. “But the Lord works in mysterious ways.”

“That’s sort of what Tabitha thought, too,” I told her. She did look at me a bit strange then.

“You and Tabitha?” she asked.

“And Dad,” I said. “And Mom.” She kind of froze then and turned her head toward me without actually looking up at me.

“It wasn’t about me dying, was it?” she asked crassly.

“No,” I laughed.

“Well, that’s good.” She went back to doing dishes, so I went back to drying them. She didn’t push the matter any further. I don’t know how she has that kind of self-control. If somebody asked me some arcane question like that, I’d keep prying until they spilled everything. Not Grandma Maisie; she’ll listen and nod and give advice, but she won’t pry.

I heard Frank pull up into the driveway, so I thanked her and gave her a kiss on the cheek and she said that she was sorry she couldn’t go to the game. I said it was okay and that the food was delicious.

The game was okay that night, points-wise. Playing made me forget about the dream for a while. Everybody cheered when we walked out on the field, which always got me really excited. Some of the other students were standing shirtless in a line with our school colors painted all over them. Girls wore sock caps and screamed. Parents sat with their gloves on and steaming cups of coffee in their hands. Mom, Dad, and Tabitha were down at the front near the stand exits.

All us players huddled together while Coach gave us this cheesy speech that was meant to be motivational. We were in the zone, or whatever you want to call it, so we didn’t make fun of him or anything. Besides, the coach of the other team was doing the same thing across the field in front of their measly visitor bleachers. I remember thinking that their ugly red and white jerseys weren’t nearly as cool as ours. Blue and black look good together.

We ran out onto the field and the crowd went crazy again. The lights were crisp white, almost heavenly. Their beams separated us from the crowd like the walls of a coliseum. There was nothing then but the beating of feet on the grass and the sound of my own breathing in my helmet. Like always, Frank and I slapped our hands together before the first play. By the time the whistle blew, there was nothing but the field.

I completed my first pass to Frank, which was great because the whole crowd knew we were best friends and it was always special whenever we had that kind of successful play. He ran for a long distance before he got tackled and we scored a touchdown not long after that. There was something hypnotic about it for me. The weather was quiet, almost like the world was waiting to see what happened next. At the end of each play, the solitude was interrupted by cheers from one side or the other. Part of me wished the spectators would remain silent and let me enjoy the night.

We were ahead at halftime, but I’m not one of those people who can tell you exactly how much we were winning by or the names of the players on the other team. For me, it’s more about being in that moment than the memories. Which sounds a little dramatic, but it’s true.

I don’t know why I did it, but as we were running back onto the field after halftime, I looked up at the sky. It’s not always easy to see the stars past the field lights, but the conditions were perfect that night and everything was laid out above me, millions of crystals floating in black tar. I flashed back to the way the stars looked in the dream. So many that they almost looked like fine powder. I was immediately dazed. All the adrenaline I needed on the field was drained. None of the people around me really mattered anymore. It was all for a brief second. Then I snapped back and found myself confused. For the first moment, I didn’t know where I was. Or why I was there. I was just standing there, some of my teammates watching me strangely. It didn’t last for very long, because it wasn’t enough for the crowd to notice. But as it all came back to me, it all seemed…I don’t know, it all seemed secondary. Less important. I went through the motions of the second half, but I was without any drive. We won, but barely.

I think.

Next Chapter: Chapter 4