Some Quiet Place

my peripheral vision, staring at
the scene with me. The air around her shimmers with power. “Understand that this is not the actual place where it happened,” she tells me. “I recreated it to test the p-power on you.” As she says this—her voice still holding that odd, tight note of discomfort—the V formation melts away and becomes nothing but erect, unfamiliar trees. I hardly notice this, though, because the stranger is doubled over. I take a step toward her, but her hand flies out to keep me away and her face is turned in the opposite direction. It’s obviously important I never see her or learn who she is.
    This is the first time one of my theories has been confirmed as fact; this was done to me. It was not something of my doing. Is this being admitting that she’s the one who placed it? And not only that, but she seems to know the story that appears in my dreams and memories. Remember for both our sakes. My awareness and instincts sharpen, but all I say is, “Why did you bring me here?”
    It’s darker now. She’s unable to reply for a moment, but then she chokes, “I told you. You need to break it, you need to face … ” It’s like there’s a lump in her throat that prevents her from saying anything more—she swallows and halts mid-sentence. But she goes against my expectations by managing to spit, “I came back because it’s not safe.”
    It’s random. There’s nothing to bring on the sudden realization. But I stare at this powerful being and wonder how I didn’t see it before. “You’re the girl, aren’t you?” I ask softly. The girl in all my dreams. Who smiles and weeps and loves.
    Yet again she doesn’t answer. Is it because she can’t … or she won’t?
    It’s so obvious. They’re the same size. The voices may be a little different, but that’s easy to alter. The question comes from all sides, a relentless drum. Where is she? Where is she? Where is she? Here, I tell the boy silently. Not dead after all. But secrecy surrounds her like a shroud, this girl who haunts me in both dreams and sleep now.
    “What are you hiding from?” I press, thinking of the shadow in the dreams. “How do I fit into all this?” She only shakes her head and backs away, head bent toward the ground.
    In the distance, I hear a stick snap. Yet another unknown presence teases my senses—are there two beings stalking me? This bizarre girl and … someone else? Something else? I whip around quickly, narrowing my eyes to better see into the brush. The girl is right about one thing; it isn’t safe out here. My instincts are singing. “We’ll continue this later,” I tell her, abandoning the clearing. My fingers brush the ribs of a tree trunk as I pass it, and I start to sprint.
    Somehow the girl gets ahead of me. “One more thing before you go,” she rasps, her baggy pants billowing in the breeze. With all her shadows and facelessness, she almost looks like a ghost.
    I dart around her. “Yes?” The wind rushes past, a roar in my ears.
    She deliberately falls behind, but I don’t stop. Her tone is a mixture of determination and worry and real warning as it floats to my ears: “Do not, under any circumstances, go to Sophia Richardson’s birthday party.”
    I don’t bother asking any questions.

FIFTEEN
    The blank page stares up at me, mocking, beckoning. I stare back down at it. Thinking. My pencil taps against the kitchen table. Tap. Tap. Tap . A poem about hiding. I’m not a writer—if it weren’t for the dreams, I wouldn’t be a painter, either. Joshua thinks I’m creative; I should’ve corrected him. Maybe then I wouldn’t be distracted by this.
    Not only do the words not come, but my mind buzzes with more theories. The woman said it’s almost time. That someone— he —has found me. And I need to remember. What does all this have to do with the car accident? How do the dreams fit in?
    “You never work in here.”
    I glance up at Mom, who’s standing by the kitchen table and staring at me with an indiscernible expression on her face. She’s tired; her shoulders sag, and there are lines under her eyes. For some reason, as I look at her, all I can think is that I should have tried harder to be the daughter she once tucked into bed every night.
    She stops waiting for me to say something. I watch her walk to the sink. It seems there are always dishes to do, no matter how often I try to do them when she’s not around. Once in a while I’ll also do a load of laundry for her,