Velli

My book bag, filled with forty thousand in freshly obtained cash, sits against the wall behind the couch, in the corner of the living room. Its presence presses my paranoia and booms like an invisible speaker in my head. It warns me how easily it can be snatched and implores me to spend it tonight.

It’s so much money—more than I’ve ever had in one place. My dad’s life insurance money, all he’s worth to the world.

No way you’re worth more than a buck fifty, then. No way, Fate, an actual voice in my head, says. The voice is not mine but wants me dead. You know what they say about good men and their sons, and your dead daddy was a great man. But you as a son? Well…

It hurts worse when Fate is right, and those last words make me take a deep, bleak breath. I try to ignore the rest of what Fate has to say. The bulging, tattered book bag demands my attention. It demands everyone’s attention. She has to know it’s there. She’s going to ask why I have that much money and hate me when I tell her the answer.

So, you’ll lie.

So, I’ll lie.

“Sorry, I have to go home,” I tell Dream from across the couch.

“What? It’s 2 a.m.?” The only light in her living room, the white light from the TV, splashes on her pretty face and does something magical to her brown skin.

“I’m tired.” I consider faking a yawn, but she’s too clever for that. Instead, I go for something coyer and let my eyes glaze over a bit. She buys it.

Of course she does. She trusts you because good people don’t lie to friends.

“Well, Velli, why don’t you just sleep here?” She pauses, and even my heart waits to beat. “You can have my bed. My parents are gone until the morning. I’ll sleep in their bed.”

I do my best to not let the disappointment show on my face. “Nah, I think I need to go.”

“Why? What’s wrong?” She scans the room, her poofy, curly hair bouncing as she turns. She says her eyes are poop colored. They remind me of a certain brown gemstone, diaspore, I believe.

She scans the room for a flaw, for something she did to make me want to leave. Guilt slaps me around. She set up a great movie night for us. We’re on the third movie of the evening, one of the Pre-Rain mob movies. Great living room couch—bright, happy blue, easy to sink into, and with small orange pillows scattered across it. Four slices of the pizza we devoured earlier sit longingly on the table, and my stomach begs for them. From two bowls on the table, butter and caramel popcorn engulf the room in their perfect, comfortable smell. And the girl I love is right across from me.

Dream takes a handful of popcorn from the bowl as she tries to figure out why I’m leaving her. Enthralled in her wondering, she spills popcorn on her white pajama T-shirt. She did try her best to make a great night for us. My heart tugs to stay and enjoy it. My head yanks me by my neck to leave.

The popcorn will rot your teeth, and you can’t afford a dentist. You can barely afford to keep your mom on life support. Have you done the math? You can’t afford the next payment. She’s dying in a week. Tops! Dream provided the pizza you didn’t pay for. Bum. Yes, the couch is nice. Dream is used to finer things, which is one of the many reasons your feelings for her are not mutual. She hates you. Y’know?

No, that logic doesn’t follow—

She won’t say it because you’re the last one left. Poor girl has attachment issues, but she does hate you—of course she does. Can you think of a reason why she wouldn’t? I’ll wait… As I was saying, Fate continues. She might not hate you, though… if you go to the Conference of Desires and buy it. It’s a once-a-year event, and the conference will be closing in an hour or so. Better hurry.

I think you want me to go to the conference because you think I’ll die there.

No! Fate mocks in a long, sarcastic groan. Oh, Velli, you’re so smart, you figured out my plan. What next will you use your masterful powers of deduction on? Is the sky blue? Where does the sun go at night? So many questions only you can answer.

All right, I get it.

Velli, Velli, Velli, answer this, though. Am I right? Wouldn’t she—and your mother, but that’s another subject—besides, she might be gone soon anyway—

Enough about my mom, Fate. She’ll be fine. I’m figuring that out.

Wouldn’t Dream and your mom like you better if you went and made the deal? I’m looking out for us, Velli. Us. We’re the same person.

I’m unsure if that’s true.

Rarely do I take Fate’s life advice seriously. However, I think he may be right. I have a lot riding on tonight. Dream doesn’t even notice my internal battle.

She wouldn’t notice if you died, by the way.

Fate, can you relax?

“I have to go to bed” is all I have to say, then I can leave. The words frolic on my tongue, ready to fly off and be free but… Dream.

Every face has a flaw. Stare at the face of someone beautiful long enough, anyone can find it. That is not the case with Dream. Fate rattles off a bunch of “flaws.” I can’t see them, though. I’m sure someone is prettier, closer to perfect, but no one else in this world makes me want to cancel every plan I have when they smile. No one else is Dream.

“Fine, Velli, we can put on a different movie if that’s what this is about.” Dream smiles. “Hey, what are you smiling at?” Something about her expression is soft, open to every answer I could provide.

No, you’re staring at her. She’s staring back at you because you creep her out. She doesn’t like you. Everyone that did like you is dead.

“You spilled popcorn in your hair.” I laugh like her having popcorn in her hair is funny for some reason.

Dream runs her fingers through and plucks at her black and auburn hair. Her eyes are alive and inviting, long, dark eyelashes framing them. Her soft cheekbones, which only grace the world with their presence when she smiles, pop up. To sell the lie and not look like I’m enamored with everything about her, I wait for her to turn her head away from me, then I take a crumb of popcorn from the bowl. I’m sure to pick up a crumb as opposed to a whole piece because otherwise she would notice.

“Are you sure?” she asks. “I don’t feel anything.”

“Yeah, I gotcha. Hold on. Who’s the main actress in this one?”

I motion to the TV, and she turns to check then says a name.

The narrative has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

I place the crumb in her hair and pluck it out in smooth unison. “Got it,” I say, claiming my prize and waving it in her face. Mission accomplished.

Yes, truly a fantastic, fulfilling, and healthy relationship you’re building toward.

I wince guiltily at his truthful allegation.

“Thanks, goat.”

I chuckle. “It’s ghost, the expression people use is ghost. It comes from the cliques. It’s used to describe someone who would get revenge or ‘haunt’ your killers if you died. But, uh, it’s not like a major commitment for people outside the cliques. It’s just like a term to call your best friends. No one talked like that in your high school?”

“Not to me.” She shrugs and turns back to the bowl of popcorn.

“Huh, well, we went to really different high schools.”

Yes, you went to poor people’s school.

Someone knocks on the door. At 2 a.m.? Everyone knows not to answer a knock in Division’s Hand at this time.

“Coming!” Dream yells to the door. She pushes the blanket off and leaps up with the cute pep of a rabbit and—

What am I doing? Her life’s on the line. I grab her wrist, stronger than intended, to stop her.

I expect anger from her. I get surprise instead. Her eyebrows lift. Her lip pokes, and her eyes prod me for an explanation.

“Your parents said they won’t get back until tomorrow morning. It’s 2 a.m.” I wait for her to connect the dots.

“Yes, well…”

“Are you expecting anyone?”

“No, but…”

We live in a zero-trust society. Shapeshifters, living shadows, and men that can blend in with air kidnap the naive or gullible. Everyone knows to be quick to use their powers, to carry something that can kill, and not to answer random knocks. Everyone knows to use a key or text first. Everyone except Dream, apparently.

“Do you always open the door when someone knocks?” I still don’t let go of her arm because she has that daring look in her eye. “Dream, I’m serious.”

Dream squints, strokes her chin like a philosopher, then wiggles nonexistent glasses on her face and gives the longest “hmm” ever uttered.

“Dream, c’mon.”

“I don’t know. No one’s ever knocked.”

“No one has ever knocked on your door?”

Of course not. They know better than to knock here because of her sister. They knock on yours because you don’t have a reputation.

I despise when Fate is right.

“Nope,” Dream says. “So this is kind of fun for me.” She giggles, an adorable harmony both infectious and disarming.

I don’t even notice I’ve let her go, and she creeps forward, smiling all the way.

“Dream!” I leap off the couch to block her.

She feigns astonishment and jumps in the air in fake surprise. I relax a little. I don’t think she really wants to open the door, so we make it a game. She shuffles to my left to try to circle around me to get to the door. I block her path. She tries the other side. I block. Always the hard worker, she tries again and again, mixing in pump fakes, trash talk, and the occasional spin move in between her laughs. I make sure not to let her by between my own laughter.

“It’s probably the pizza guy,” she says after failing a spin move.

“Why would the pizza guy be here?”

“We have his pizza.” She fakes left twice and moves right.

“No, that’s our pizza,” I correct.

“Then, why is he called the pizza guy?”

It must be because it’s so late and I’m getting delirious, but her awful joke makes me laugh. I hate giving her a good laugh at her bad jokes. She’ll repeat it later.

Perspiration forms on her brow, and she’s spending more and more time with her hands on her knees in exasperation. We’ve played enough sports and gone on enough “field trips,” as we call them, that I know when she’s getting tired. She has one more big burst left in her.

Dream leaps up, a weak attempt to go over me. I catch her, of course. My face lands on her stomach, my hands clasped on the small of her back. It’s a moment. We stay in silence, longer than we should.

Another knock pulls us to reality.

My face leaves her stomach, and our eyes greet one another while she’s still in my arms.

“Hey,” she says.

“Hey,” I say.

“Fine, then, If you’re not going to let me give the pizza guy back his pizza, fly me back to my seat.” She spreads her arms like a plane and throws her head back. I take one step closer to the couch and toss her on it. She lands with all the dramatics she can muster then, smiling, invites me to sit back with her as she pats the couch.

She’s five foot four and a hundred pounds. You’re not a caveman.

“All right,” I say. “Back to the movie for a bit, then I’ll leave when the creep at the door leaves.”

“I suppose that’s fine.” She puts on a fake dignified air.

It reminds me of her sister, Rose, and by reflex, I fix my posture. I have no positive words for her sister—or, for that matter, the other Heirs of Division, the ruler of all five fingers—cities—of Division’s Hand. They’re just royalty, not gods and—

The knocking returns, slow beats of four. We do our best to ignore it. I snuggle into the perfect couch, and Dream fixes her hair back into a small ponytail.

“What’s this movie called again?” I ask.

“The Godfather. I’m not the biggest fan of the overall plot, but the performances are great.”

“Yeah, I guess. It’s a little slow.”

“No, it’s not that. The ending just depresses me.”

“Heh.” I let out an unpleasant chuckle.

She doesn’t speak. She gives me a quizzical look. I don’t want to start this again. It’s the one thing she can’t seem to understand.

“I mean,” I drag out. “Why don’t you like the ending?”

“He ends up leading a life of crime.” Dream waves her hand like she’s imploring me to use thoughts for the first time in my life. “And everyone’s worse off for it.”

“Projection,” I mumble.

“Excuse me?”

“Everyone’s not worse off for it. He doesn’t have options. He did the best he could.”

“Oh, so he didn’t kill anyone?”

I wave her off. I should let it go and point to the TV to signify I’m trying to watch the movie. It’s just a movie.

It’s never about the movie.

Dream doesn’t let it go. “Y’know,” she starts, “every once in a while, I wonder what’s going through your head.”

I love Dream, but I wish she would step down from her ivory tower. Some things, she will never get. I shrug and fold my arms to resist blowing up and starting an argument that could get really personal really quickly. I should have left earlier. Now, I have to wait for this psycho to leave the front door.

Of course, if I call for the Heirs cops to arrive and handle the presence, they’ll come in about three days. What Dream and so many with powers refuse to acknowledge is that the Heirs are losing power over the cities every day. Of course, the royal and Powered don’t notice they’ll be affected last. This empire is dying, and the time to gather power before that happens and things become much worse is now.

Both Dream and I pretend like the car chase on the screen engages our resentful minds.

“Dream, I need your help!” a woman screams from behind the door.

My favorite thing about Dream is that she will help anybody despite the personal cost to her. One of my least favorite things about Dream is that she will help anybody despite the personal cost to her. Her savior complex will be her downfall. Why did they have to say help? Why couldn’t they sell something or offer a gift or pretend to be someone raised from the dead? Why help?

My breathing slows. My muscles tighten, and my mouth hangs ready to say something. But I have no words.

Dream and I lock eyes. Thoughts of the previous argument are gone. We’ve done this before. Dream’s only thought is to help whoever is on the other side of the door. My only thought is to stop her. Piercing and joyless eyes drill into me. They tell me she’s going to do anything possible to open the door this time. I hope mine make it clear that I won’t be letting her kill herself.

“I know the words. The password you gave us,” the woman from behind the door says.

Each moment is slow. I notice my heart beating. It’s slow with big thumps, a sprinter lowering himself at the blocks, ready to run.

“I have need of a friend who will keep my name and ignore my shame!” the woman cries, and like magic, Dream and I are on the same side. That’s our password for someone with a Weakness and is in an emergency. Still, it could be a trap.

Our voices drop to whispers.

“You get the door,” I tell Dream. “I’ll get behind the couch and pop out with five shots from my pistol if it’s a trap. I won’t be watching, so what’s your greeting if it’s an immediate threat?”

“I’ll say hello instead of hey.”

“And if you find out it’s a threat later in the conversation?”

“I’ll say, ‘Sorry, the TV’s too loud. Let me turn it down.’ Then you fire.”

“I have need of a friend who will keep my name and ignore my shame!” the person yells again.

“Got it,” I say. “Stay parallel to her then leap left after you say the words. I’m aiming for her heart, which will be on your right if you face her straight on.”

“Why not the head?”

“Could not have a head. Everything has a heart.”

“Well, that’s sweet of you to say.”

“Not like that.” I don’t believe that for a second. Not everything has a heart in both the physical and metaphysical sense.

A smile passes over her face before the somberness of the situation picks it off like a banshee ripping a child from its crib. We nod in unison and zoom past one another. I take three silent steps to go behind the couch and draw the pistol.

“Oh no! Hold on, coming,” Dream says to the door.

I imagine she looks in the peephole first, but I can’t see from my position. I hear the twist of the doorknob. The click of the lock echoes, and the door hinges whine to reluctantly open. Rain assaults the world outside, its pitter-patter and pleasant smell pouncing inside. I didn’t even know it was raining. A single wet foot slams on Dream’s floor before she can speak.

“Anne Graves… what’s wrong?” Dream asks.