Minnesota Goodbyes

Entry #39

I'm so sick, so keyed up. My dreams have been fever-bright, and I wake up gazing into the past. And maybe I'll turn into a pillar of salt of I stare too long. If I keep looking back. But I can't remember my dreams, just that they swirl with stars and are blood hot.

I can't even write that well (my handwriting must give me away, shaky as it is. I bet you already knew I couldn't hold my pen.)

Okay.

Okay. (I stumbled to the bathroom, splashing water on my face, letting it run in a river down my neck and dotting my T-shirt.)

Okay. I'm okay.

Lacy's phone rang to wake me, and it's hard to recall a time when I've been more grateful for being hauled from the depths of my subconsciousness, for being pulled out from the tides of my sleep and my memory.

Sorry. Sorry about the handwriting.

I can't think about the dreams now. Dreams are smoke. Little wisps, burned away by sunshine. Sometimes, they linger a little longer, though, especially at night. Even if I don't remember them exactly, a shiver rolls down my spine when I think about how heavy they are. I'll forget the dreams under the city noise, under the whisper of Lacy's voice on the phone.

(But I don't. The phone and whispers just tug out a different memory, one that spreads out before me. This time, though, there will be no call to drag me from the past.)

A shimmering chime, and you glance at your phone, unsure who's calling this time. It rotates: Jay yesterday, Lacy earlier this week, Sam and Nick intermittently. The only people you consistently answer for are Clair and classmates you're doing group projects with.

The screen blazes with Lacy's name, as well as a photo of the two of you at a football game (holding a sign that reads "Who hates Iowa??" Sam hadn't been able to sneak his in because, apparently "Fuck the Badgers," was considered profane.)

You punch 'decline' and Lacy is sent to voicemail.

"Want to grab dinner?"

Clair blinks and sets aside her textbook. "What'd you have in mind?"

"Chinese?"

And that's that.

When you leave the restaurant, you (nearly literally) run into your friends. Lacy and Jay and Sam and Nick all appear flushed from the night, shoving each other the way they do. When Lacy catches your eye, she arches an eyebrow, but if she's got an acidic comment, she keeps it to herself.

"Well if I knew the party was at Village Wok, I would've gone there instead," Sam drawls.

You're annoyed that he needs to relieve the tension. You're not ignoring them or anything. It's just different when they're around. (Not bad, exactly, just not the same depth you feel when it's just you and Clair.) But that's hard to say without sounding like an asshole.

"Want to hang out?" Jay asks. "We've got some wine and Sam finally fixed his N64."

"Mario Kart, baby."

When Nick shoots Lacy a wink behind Sam's back, she grimaces. "Now, I don't want to hang out with us."

Clair doesn't look at you, and you don't look at her. "I've got a ton of homework," you hear yourself say. "This was just a break to get out of our room."

The excuse sounds weak, but Clair nods, bolstering your words. "Unless you guys want to write up my lab report for me..." Her eyes glitter star-bright and lips twitch into a smile.

"Nope," Nick says, "I'm never writing another one." He thumps Jay and Sam on the back simultaneously. "My buddies here might."

They both wince, likely thinking about the next three years, papered with lab reports.