Allyson In Between ✔︎

Chapter One | Part 2

|photo by Shopify Partners from Burst|

The window in my room is small but the sill is deep, like a shelf. Or a desk. It would be the perfect place to write if I wasn't obsessively fixated on the parking lot. I press my palm into the center of my journal, an attempt to flatten the bowing pages. My pen has leaked a smeary bullet point underneath the line where I've written the word home.

Sometimes I wake up thinking we still live in North Carolina. But then I look around this bleak white room and everything is wrong, and I have to remind myself that it's gone: the tree fort Dad built in our backyard, Mom's organic vegetable garden. My little sister, the way she's supposed to be, eleven years old, silly and fun.

A flare of light crosses my hand—and my pulse kicks up a notch. But the car turning into the parking lot is nothing like Mom's. It's old and blue. Except for the driver's side door, which is rusty and grey. The overly loud clock hanging over my doorway says it's almost noon. Where are they?

Oh, wait. Maybe Mom sent a text message.

I grab my phone out of the bedside drawer, but my stupid brain refuses to surrender the passcode. Which is why it's written down in my—

"Knock, knock."

Mom. "Hi. You're..." I glance at the clock again. She's right on time.

"Are you all right, honey?"

"Yes, I'm fine. Just..." She deposits her purse at the end of my bed—along with an extra bag made of canvas. She opens her arms, ready for a hug and I slump against her, resting my chin on her shoulder.

The mystery bag flops onto its side and molds around something book-shaped.

"I was waiting for you," I say, giving her an extra squeeze before I pull away. "Dr. Dabney said you were bringing something special today—he called it an experiment—and the um...suspense?"

I shake my head, because the word feels wrong, but Mom gives me an understanding smile. "Then let's get right to it," she says. She lifts the red bag from the wrong end to spill its contents onto the bed: a large book with a navy cover—and a copy of, Blue Lily, Lily Blue, the novel I've been dying for.

"You're going to let me read an actual book?" I ask. "Dr. Dabney said it's okay now?"

"No. I'm sorry, honey. Our library doesn't have the audio version of this novel. But I could read it out loud for you, if you'd like."

"Oh. Sure." I smile to hide my disappointment. "So then. I guess that's not the experiment he was talking about?"

Mom's smile is genuine. She holds up the larger, flatter book and says, "This is your yearbook from eleventh grade." And I get that familiar hitch in my chest that comes with the reminder. I'm seventeen now. A rising senior if I decide I'm ready to "pick up where I left off" in school.

"Allyson?"

I focus on Mom's greenish-blue eyes and smile the answer to her unspoken question: Yes, I'm okay.

The cover of the book in her hand is embellished with a silver image of a lion. Its sheeny mane spirals and swirls around the words: Springfield High School. This is my yearbook, another artifact from the chunk of time I can't remember. Like the phone with the glittery purple cover Mom gave me so I'd have access to my text messages. Because she wanted me to see how many friends I've made since we moved to Virginia.

She opens the yearbook at a yellow sticky note, marking a double-paged spread of photographs. "Can you find the boy you told me about?" she asks.

What? "Are you talking about the boy from my dream? You think he's real—someone I met at this school?"