A dizzying array of colors swam across Bridgette’s eyes. She tumbled through the air, end over end, caught in a whirlpool. Swept away into the ether, water slapped over her face, and her lungs burned from lack of air. She slammed into the ground with a heavy thud that drove pain throughout her bottom, her shoulders, her neck. Gradually, she opened her eyes, and found herself sitting back in the office chair at home. The computer screen had the familiar farewell window: “Thank you for playing the Dream Chest! Your adventure has been saved. Please join us again soon!”
“No,” she whispered. Holding her hands in front of her, she saw with dismay that they were fat and pudgy once again. She held them together, and imagined light: the light in Alain’s eyes, and the bright, warm breeze of Shard. Forming the picture in her mind, she focused this energy down her shoulders, into her arms, out to the palms of her hands. There, she willed it to create one of the beautiful, light filled globes that she had mastered in that better place.
She spread her hands apart, and -- there was nothing. Magic doesn’t work in the real world.
“No!” She shouted, banging on the computer. “No! Alain! I’m coming back Alain!” She grabbed the computer mouse.
“Bridgette!” said a stern voice. “Why are you still up?”
Turning around, Bridgette saw her mother standing in the door frame. With crossed arms and an angry frown, Bridgette knew she was in trouble.
“Homework,” she said.
“Oh, really?” said her mother. “I got a call from Mr. Phrick that you have an overdue research assignment. It was due yesterday, and you didn’t turn it in.”
History class. She hadn’t thought about History in days. Even when she was in class, she tuned everything out.
“I was busy,” said Bridgette. “I was working on it tonight.”
“Oh, then it should be done by now,” said her mother. “I’ve never known you to stay up to 11:00 doing homework. Let me see it.”
“I can’t show you,” said Bridgette.
“Why not?” asked her mother.
Bridgette looked down at her hands. She’d never been a good liar, especially to her mother. Janice Mittison always knew when her children kept something from her. “I just can’t,” she repeated softly.
Her mother stepped up to the computer, and took the mouse.
“What are you doing?” asked Bridgette.
“I’m just going to see what you were doing with your time here.”
A window opened up on the screen, revealing the most recently used programs. Bridgette’s heart sank. “I didn’t know you could do that.”
“Doctors work with computers too, darling.” her mother said with little warmth in her voice. “You can’t lie to me on how you’ve been spending your time. Ah. You didn’t touch Word. Spent your time on the internet?”
“We write our papers on the internet,” said Bridgette.
Unfortunately, her mother could check her browser history too.
“But you didn’t,” she said. “You were playing games. Bridgette, I don’t care what your friends do, but my children do their homework on time.”
“I don’t care about homework!” Bridgette shouted. “And I don’t care about school! All they do is laugh at me! And the teachers are boring and-“
“You listen to me,” her mother said, in a voice that broke no disagreement. “You want to play games when you’re done with your work, fine. But you want to play games instead of work, then we’re going to have a big problem. And I mean a big problem. You think I will tolerate laziness? Today you neglect your school work. Five years from now, you’ll skip your job, and I will not bail you out when wreck your life with bad habits. You’re going to get this paper done.”
“Now?” asked Bridgette? “It’s 11:00!”
Her mother glanced at the clock. “Go to bed now,” she said. “You’ll be getting up at 5:30 along with me. You’ll write your paper before school.”
“Mom!” shouted Bridgette. “I can’t function that early!”
“Would you rather be grounded?” her mother said.
“No,” said Bridgette, softly with a bit of a whine in her voice.
“Then don’t argue with me. Now go to bed. You know what time you’ll be waking up.”
Sullen, Bridgette stalked into her bedroom and slammed the door behind her. She hated home. She hated school. She hated her mother. Visions of Alain and Shard swam before her eyes as she put on her pajamas. She ached to feel the warm glow between her hands as she manifested the globe of light. And here she was again, stuck in the real world, with no magic, no handsome prince, and no world-saving quest. Just a bunch of nasty students and insufferably boring classes.
Finally she lay in her bed, and pulled the blankets over her shoulders. She imagined running away from home, but exhaustion overcame her and she drifted into a deep sleep. It seemed like only minutes later when her mother shook her awake. One look at her mother’s grim face told Bridgette not to argue.
Nearly crying with exhaustion, Bridgette put on her bathrobe and went back to the computer. Under her mother’s watchful eye, she opened the word processing program, and sketched out a rough draft of her essay on the election of 1860 and the beginnings of the Civil War. It was disjointed and crude, but Bridgette was a good enough student that she could formulate a five paragraph essay without much trouble. She had the inclination to see if she could sneak into the Dream Chest, but her mother checked the room every five minutes to make sure she was working and not playing.
An hour later, her mother left for work, and her father woke. Bridgette printed out a copy of her essay, dressed for school, and came down to the dining room. Her father and Paul were there ahead of her.
“Pulled an all-nighter?” her father asked.
Grouchy, Bridgette didn’t respond.
“Well, I can tell we’re in a bad mood this morning,” her father said. “Want to try some coffee?”
“No,” said Bridgette.
“Good for you,” said her father, as he poured himself a cup. “Once you’re a slave to coffee, you can never escape.”
Paul ignored the whole exchange, munching quietly on his cereal.
“Want anything special for breakfast?” her father asked.
Bridgette shook her head. “I’ll have what Paul’s having.”
“All right,” her father said. He brought her a bowl and spoon, and left her to her own devices.
Bridgette dumped the cereal into the bowl and poured in the milk. It was as plain and tasteless as ever, just like her life. Paul stared at the back of the cereal box, loaded with silly pictures and games for kids. Her studious brother always had to be reading, be it a book, magazine, or the back of a cereal box. Listlessly, Bridgette ate her own breakfast, though she barely tasted the food. Before long, it was time to go to school.
Her father gave them a ride, dropping Bridgette off first. Bridgette stared out the window wistfully, dreaming about her preferred life, in a magical world far away. Paul and her father talked about something, but the words passed by her. Only one sentence registered: “We’re here honey,” said her father. “Have a nice day, okay?”
“Okay,” she murmured insincerely, as she got out.
Carrying her bookbag, she began the cheerless walk to school. Eight to three, just eight to three. Seven hours, and then I can be with Alain again. For good this time, I hope.
“Bridgette!” called a voice. A boy’s voice.
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Turning, she saw Nate, her artistically-minded classmate. Was he going to make fun of her now?
“Hi,” Bridgette said. “Do you need something?”
“Bridgette,” said Nate, catching up with her. “I- hey, I’m really sorry about what Ash and Karen are doing to you. It’s not right. I just want you to know, it’s – it’s not right. You know what I mean?”
Bridgette’s lips curled up a little bit. Nate was a good artist, but he fumbled a lot with words. “It’s been two days now,” she said. “It’ll blow over.”
“You mean, you haven’t seen?” he asked.
“Seen what?”
Nate pulled his smart phone out of his pocket, and Bridgette’s heart sank at the sight of it. “My parents don’t let us on social media,” she said quietly.
Nate hesitated. “I guess you don’t need to see-“
“No,” said Bridgette. “Let me see. Let me know what’s going on.” Maybe this was why strangers have been bothering me in the hallways. Those snarky, fake friends…”
Nate punched his thumb onto the phone’s screen, and opened up his media account. He showed her the picture, and Bridgette had to admit that by now, she wasn’t surprised. Some joker made a graphic, posting her face onto the body of a cow. Ha ha. Very clever. So that’s why I’ve been hearing “moo, moo,” everywhere. And above it was—
Bridgette snatched the phone out of Nate’s hand, scrolling up. “What the hell is this?” she cried.
Nate shook his head embarrassed. “I’m sorry Bridgette. I shouldn’t have told you. I know it’s awful, but-“
“I don’t mean the cow!” shouted Bridgette, scrolling up with her thumb. “I mean this!”
Some random ad was posted just above the mean picture. It was a missing persons ad, with a girl who’s face was the spitting image of Rosie. Above that were emblazoned the words: “Have you seen me? Please help!” Below that was the girl’s name: Rose Lawson, from Plainsview, Nebraska.
Nate turned his head. “Rose Lawson,” he said, unhelpfully. “She went to our school, didn’t she?”
“She did?” said Bridgette, astounded. “I know this girl.”
“Did you? You haven’t heard she disappeared?”
“When?”
“Months ago,” said Nate. “Do you have any idea where she went?”
“Yes,” said Bridgette. “I mean, no. I mean… maybe.”
“If you know where she is,” said Nate, “You should tell someone.”
“Maybe I should,” reflected Bridgette. She returned Nate’s phone to him. “Thank you Nate. I’ll remember this.”
The rest of the morning flashed in a blur. She could not get the missing person’s report out of her head. Was Rosie the same as Rose Lawson? She was certain she wasn’t mistaken. I guess it’s not impossible. She mused. I found the game on the internet. So could someone else. She felt sad; for some reason, Shard seemed like her own private fantasy land. The thought of someone intruding on her territory made her feel… vulnerable. What if Rose got close to Alain and turned him against her? What if she sold them out to the Scarlet Tempest? What if….
How long had she been in there? She was reported missing…
No, it couldn’t be. It was a coincidence. She didn’t get much sleep last night.
But she brooded on it during the day at school.
School life was scarcely more bearable. In spite of the crude picture some invisible enemy posted online, the fad of teasing her with “moos” was gradually losing steam as her classmates found new gossip to latch onto. But it still happened every once in a while, stabbing her in the heart with a black hatred. But she kept her head down and thought of other things. Alain, Bickle and…
Mercifully, Mrs. White gave them enough assignments in English to keep busy. Ashley and Karen still made Bridgette’s skin crawl, and she was grateful for any distraction that would keep her away from their cutting comments. Even dry and dull English grammar.
In P.E. she gave up any hope that she had picked up even a smidge of swordfighting talent from her time in the Dream Chest. Instead, she tried to focus on the techniques that Mrs. MacTurner coached them on. She still didn’t win any bouts, but at least she scored a few points, and lost one match 5-4. She found though, that her mind was on Rose more than her own issues. Even the “Moos” in the hallways meant less in that light.
At Lunch, she came to a decision. Rather than hanging out with her friends (with whom she was still angry) or hiding from the world in the Library, she went to the front office instead.
“Can I help you?” asked the lady behind the desk. She was a heavy set woman with thick, black glasses, and a nametag that read “Abigail Schweitzer.”
Bridgette fidgeted with her hands, as she tried to get the question out. “Is Rose Lawson a student in this school?”
The woman gave Bridgette a quizzical look. “I can’t look up members of our student body for you,” she said.
“But this is an emergency!” said Bridgette.
Ms. Shweitzer chuckled, clearly not believing her. “What sort of an emergency?”
“She - she might be,” and Bridgette stopped, wondering how she could mentioned the Dream Chest or the missing person report without looking like a complete idiot. “Look, I just want to know if she was a student here. You really can’t just look it up for me?”
“I have last year’s yearbook,” said Ms. Schwettzer. “Look through it if you want.”
“Thank you,” said Bridgette.
Ms. Schweitzer reached into a drawer and pulled out a hardcover copy of the yearbook. Bridgette flipped it open and leafed through the class photos, searching by L. And in a moment, there she was. A picture of Rose Lawson: the spitting image of Rosie. Brown hair tied back in a ponytail, and a set of deeply lined eyes that seemed to stare at her right through the pages. Suspicious eyes that had seen far too much to be carefree. Eyes with pain, anger, and craftiness.
And she was in Bridgette’s class.
Had Bridgette ever met her? Straining her memory, Bridgette could not recall. She thought she had a good idea of almost everyone’s name. But of Rose, there was nothing. No class, no face, no memory of passing her in the hall. Just a blank. Except for the Dream Chest, there was nothing.
“Where is she now?” asked Bridgette.
“Who?” asked Ms. Schweitzer.
Bridgette practically shoved the yearbook in Ms. Schweitzer’s face. She tapped her finger on Rose’s picture. “Her. Rose Lawson.”
Ms. Schweitzer adjusted her glasses and looked. “Oh, I see,” she said. “That’s the missing girl. Was she a friend of yours?”
“Yes,” Bridgette lied. “I haven’t seen her for a long time and I-”
“What a good friend you are,” said Abigail Schweitzer. “She’s been gone for a while, and you’re the first student to ask about her. She adjusted her chair and entered a search query into her computer’s database. Her tone grew friendlier now that Bridgette had given her the cover story.
“No one else asked about her?” said Bridgette.
“Not to me,” said Ms. Schweitzer. “You’re the first. Just you and her counselor. Ah, here she is. Yes. She’s been gone for the last three months.”
Bridgette was speechless. Time in the Dream Chest felt different than the real world. Her first time, she had walked with Bickle Wa for hours along the road to Lewes, mingled in the Windsong Tavern, and ran off with Alain before returning. It felt like a whole day, yet it had only taken a few hours of real time. And on her second adventure, she had spent the night, and travelled for the better part of two days. And that had turned out to be only a few hours as well.
How did she get back? Every time she was in the Dream Chest, she never wanted to leave. Could Rosie still be there after three months? Of real time? Was it possible? Had she been married to Maxwell for years?
“Is something on your mind?” asked Abigail.
“I- I- who were her teachers?” asked Bridgette.
“I can’t give out her schedule to another student.”
“Can I have her phone number?”
“I don’t think she’s answering her cell.”
“Her parents then?” said Bridgette. “Maybe I can help find her?”
Ms. Schweitzer actually smiled. “I don’t think you’ll have more luck than the police. But I’m sure they’d appreciate your condolences.” The secretary looked over her shoulder, like a spy in a conspiracy. “Don’t tell anyone I gave you her number, okay? Anyone asks, you say you got it from Rose herself. She was your friend, wasn’t she?”
“Yes,” Bridgette said, lowering her head.
Abigail pulled out a strip of scratch paper and scribbled some information on it. She folded it in half and handed it to Bridgette. “There you go. I’m sorry about your friend.”
“She’s only missing,” said Bridgette. “She’s not dead.” She knew that much at least.
She left the office and walked through the halls of Plainsview High, deep in thought. Rose was in her class, but she didn’t remember her. She had been missing for three months, but then she shows up in Shard. Looking exactly the same as she did in the school yearbook.
He thinks you’re a pretty girl, doesn’t he? You’re covering up an awful lot.
Bridgette stopped. Those were Rosie’s words. No wonder she stood out among the people of Shard. She was the only one who acted strange. The only one who wasn’t friendly. Well, except for the guards who arrested Alain, but they behaved like bad guys in a movie. Rosie looked the same in the Dream Chest as in the Yearbook. Why hadn’t she altered her image, the way Bridgette did?
Or maybe she did? And Bridgette could see her real body? Just like….
You’re covering up an awful lot.
Could she see Bridgette’s real body too?
Throwing her head forward, Bridgette imagined she could feel the beautiful blonde tresses fall over her face. Instead, her wiry hair whipped forward, feeling coarse and brittle. Why was her hair like that? Why couldn’t it be like it was in Shard? “Maybe it’s just me,” she said aloud. “Maybe I should just try some product.”
She didn’t like to spend money on supplies like that. She always thought that the outside shouldn’t matter. It’s the inside that counts. And maybe it was true, but she felt unattractive, and it wasn’t helping her. Worse, she was playing a computer game to feel beautiful! That wasn’t the answer. And if a little more care, a little effort made her feel more attractive, made her feel happier, then why shouldn’t she? It wouldn’t be as easy, of course, as picking out an appearance on a computer, but at least it would be real.
She went to a corner by the stairs which was where she usually had lunch with Karen and Ashley. The two of them looked at her coolly when she arrived. “Hi Bridgette,” said Karen.
“Are you finally done being pissy at us?” asked Ashley.
“Not yet,” said Bridgette.
“Still sore?” said Ashley.
“Maybe you’re half-way to cooling off?”
“Half-way,” agreed Bridgette. “Did either of you know a girl named Rose Lawson?”
“No,” said Karen.
Ashley thought back. “I think so. Wasn’t she in our English class?”
“She was?” asked Bridgette. “I don’t remember her.”
“That’s ‘cause she never said anything to anyone. She was in my Math class too. She sat in the back of the room, silent as a wall.”
“How do you remember her?” asked Karen.
Ashley shrugged. “Mr. Graham corrected her on a Math problem, and she got so frustrated she almost started crying. She got all red in the cheeks and her eyes. Other than that, she might as well have been invisible.”
“Did she have any friends?” asked Bridgette.
“Not that I know of,” said Ashley. “Would you want to be friends with someone that sensitive and miserable? I mean, aside from us being friends with you.”
Bridgette decided not to get angry. Ashley really, really wasn’t worth it. “Rose Lawson has been missing for three months,” she said. “Doesn’t that bother you?”
“Missing?” said Ashley. “I thought she moved away. Were you friends with her?”
“I don’t know,” said Bridgette. “Maybe I am now.”
The bell rang, and Bridgette was only too happy to leave the two behind. She headed to class, turning over an interesting fact in her head: there was someone who went to Plainsview who was more unhappy than her. More unhappy by far.