The Lights In the Sky

Chapter 13

Deborah made a weird sound when she saw me and slapped her hand over her mouth. I tried to give her a reassuring smile, but it hurt the edges of my lips. Just like Dad, she asked me what happened. Just like I did to Dad, I lied to her. I can tell you, the adults in the school kept a close eye on me that day. I even walked past the office once and saw Susan Norton sitting in there with the vice principal; I had a gut feeling she was there to watch me. More than once I turned to look out my classroom door to see her standing on the other side of the glass.

I couldn't be too bothered with Susan, though. She was the least of my worries.

See, I kept seeing shapes in everything. Not shapes, exactly, but patterns I recognized. My English teacher wrote a sentence up on the dry erase board and it had three j's in it. The dots on the j's were arranged in a familiar way in relation to one another. I could see lines being drawn between the dots and forming a shape. A constellation. Part of one, at least. A constellation that, twenty-four hours before, I knew nothing about. Still, even in that classroom, I didn't know the name of it. But I could picture it. I could see it floating out there, each speck separated by hundreds of light-years.

It happened again in gym when I looked at the lines on the basketball court. The way everything was marked and intersecting reminded me of the maps and their configurations. At lunch, the food tasted incredibly bland, but I ate most of my peas anyway; I saved a select few and rearranged them in their designated area on the tray. Again, the pattern was familiar, but I didn't know its name.

Luckily, nobody noticed what I was doing.

In science, we watched a video about the theories of quantum physicists. It wasn't too in-depth; it tried to make some of the more understandable ideas palatable to a wider audience. At least, that's what the introduction said. But, my God, it was all so wrong. I didn't know why it was wrong and I didn't know the right answer, but only their most basic concepts of our place in things, our role in existence, were close to the reality. Concepts of time and dimensionality were negated by a faraway voice in my mind. Deep down, somehow, I understood that none of it was the truth.

Which wasn't a big deal, because hardly any of the other kids in the class were paying attention. One kid with long, black hair was actually asleep on his open book. We were watching a video, I mean, our books didn't even have to be open.

And we wonder why we so often miss the point.

Practice was a nightmare. Every time I was brushed, my skin caught fire. When I was tackled, I felt like the grass against my jersey would tear the flesh from my body. Then the images started again. As I started to sweat more, as my heart started to race and my thoughts shut off, I began to see things in front of my eyes. The maps. The worlds. The room with the upright slab. I shook the images away, whipping my head from side to side as I pushed myself for one more throw, one more sit-up, one more sprint. When one image dissipated, another would take its place. It was a slideshow on speed etched into my vision.

Frank cornered me in the locker room.

"You don't look very good," he said. I said thanks. He told me that he wasn't trying to poke fun. That ever since I went after that freshman kid, I looked pale. Like maybe I was losing weight. And now the burn was back and I seemed so exhausted at practice.

"I'm not trying to be your mom," he said, "but maybe you should see a doctor."

"I'm already seeing a therapist," I laughed, "that's enough for right now."

Frank asked me if I wanted to grab a bite to eat, his treat. Since he was so concerned about me, it seemed like the least I could do was oblige him. He took me to a sub sandwich place in town. We were mostly quiet, though we did try to make some small talk. I asked him about his mom and his Uncle Ashton, though not in any context that he would find offensive. Frank told me things weren't great. That they were fighting a lot and that it probably had to do with the anniversary of his dad's death coming up that weekend. I was usually good at remembering it; it was always a hard time for Frank, though he hid it deeper and deeper as we got older.

I apologized. "I should've remembered," I said. He told me not to feel bad and I realized that it was the second time in one day that somebody I loved told me that. It made me feel even worse.

"If you're really sorry," he said with a weasel smile, "you could do something for me."

"Anything," I said.

"Tell me what's really going on with you," he said, the smile rolling away. "Without lying."

I didn't know how to answer, but I felt guilty enough about enough things that I didn't want to lie, either. It was at that time that I looked over his shoulder, through the sub shop window, and saw a building on the other side. It was a building I hadn't been to since elementary school, and that was on a class trip.

"Take me to the library," I said, "I'll talk."

He looked at me like I was crazy. As I pulled down books from the shelves, he spoke in hushed tones.

"They're just dreams," he said. "There's no way you can think it's real."

I told him he hadn't seen the things I saw. That I couldn't describe it, but I knew it was real. He might as well have rolled his eyes at that. He told me I was being cliché, that I was saying all the same things that those people on cable TV documentaries said.

We found a table. I set all the books aside and looked him right in the eyes.

"Look," I said, "when I had that dream, you were the only person I told. You know that? I didn't even tell Deborah. I trust you, man. If you think I'm only having dreams, that none of this is real, that's fine, but I promise you that something is happening with me. It's real to me. I need you to be my best friend here."

He watched me for a while. I hated the silence, but I couldn't say anything. Finally, he took in a deep breath. We've been friends forever. I knew what he was about to say.

"What can I do?" he asked. I smiled and grabbed the book that was sitting on top of the pile.

"Skim this," I pleaded. "Tell me if there's anything that sounds relevant." After a moment's hesitation, Frank opened the book. He began to read. I watched him for a second, relieved that the insane vastness of the universe didn't prevent me from having someone like him right next to me.

We sat there reading until the library closed. From time to time, Frank would read something that he thought was important. I'd write it down in a notebook that I picked up at the general store across the street with the book title and page number so that I wouldn't lose track of it all. When it was time to leave, I checked the books out, and Frank drove me home. We pulled up the driveway and he put the car in park, but didn't turn off the engine.

"Do you want me to come in?" he asked.

"I'll just be doing this all night," I confessed. "Go ahead and go home. If you're up for more tomorrow, I'm sure I could use the help."

He nodded, but didn't move. He didn't look at me, either. Just looked out at our garage through the windshield.

"You're gonna be okay, right?" he asked. To be honest, that surprised me. It wasn't the kind of thing I expected from Frank.

I told him I'd be fine. Then I tried to come up with a goofy smile.

"Love ya," I said. He did roll his eyes that time.

"Alright," he said back. I laughed and got out of the car. Without stopping to say anything to my family, I went straight to my room and got to work.