Beautiful Dreamer

Chapter 6

Chapter Six

I was right about Logan—I always was. Because sure enough, by the time I slipped into his car at the end of our three-class day, he was brimming with questions. It took my entire artillery of diversion tactics to keep him from beginning to read the papers in the middle of the highway.

“I still think the parapsychological part is ridiculous,” he informed me repeatedly, “but this could be such a cool thing to research. And I bet it would really impress my Oils professor if I told her I know about Fuseli, she loves it when students do extra research and—”

I tuned him out after about a minute of his rambling, because that boy could talk a mile a minute and never run out of air. He babbled for the entirety of our car ride home, and I just smiled and watched his expressions in the rear view mirror. I didn't say a word until we'd gotten off the freeway, when he finally paused for breath.

“You know you're dropping me off at the pool, right?” I asked him, smirking as his eyes went wide and he attempted to stammer out an answer.

“O-of course,” he managed, swerving widely around an empty curb. “Headed right over.”

I rolled my eyes at his classic dorky mannerisms as he maneuvered his way through the streets. Callery felt strangely deserted, as if everyone had forgotten to wake up that morning.

“We're here,” Logan said after a few minutes of driving, pulling his car to a slow stop in front of the indoor community pool. The concrete building hung low and silent in the gray late morning air, devoid of all the children who filled it once school was out.

Sighing, I slipped my gloves onto my hands and began to gather my things. “My stuff's in the backseat,” I told Logan as I tried to cram the file into my backpack.

“Oh, and you can't be bothered to get it yourself,” he muttered, poking me affectionately.

I swatted him away, nonchalantly replying, “I can, actually. It's just that you're a boy, and that gives you some kind of divine obligation to do things for me.”

Logan snorted, an amused light in his eyes. “Is that so?”

“It is.” I zipped my bag shut and looked at him expectantly until he gave in, shaking his head. “Oh, you love me,” I teased, as he unbuckled his seat belt to dig for my bag of swim supplies.

“You're lucky that I love you,” he grumbled.

“And you're lucky that fact doesn't make run away screaming.”

He stuck out his tongue at me, and I pulled my knees up to my chest as he began to sift through the mess in his backseat. His car was full of half-used sketchbooks, broken pencils, and dirty erasers that he'd dropped and never retrieved. But it also held a good amount of my stuff, namely my pool bag, because my mother worked on weekdays and Logan was often my only ride. Monday was a ritual, because it was the one day in the week that I specifically designated for swimming.

“What time should I pick you up?” Logan asked, once he'd retrieved my purple tote bag and tossed it into my lap.

I thought about it for a moment, looking at my things and then at the crisp air outside. I lived about two miles from the pool; a half hour walk, at my pace. It wasn't bad, and it would certainly give me an opportunity to clear my head before delving into the world of sleep paralysis.

“Don't,” I said eventually. “I'll just walk.”

Logan raised an eyebrow. “Are you sure?”

“Certain. My mom won't be home till six, so she won't even know.” I smiled, hefting a bag onto each shoulder. “I'll call you once I'm back, though—for sure this time. You can come over, and we'll look over the stuff together, all right?”