Gabi, an aspiring fashion designer, sees her world in colors. Scarlet, turquoise, and mauve coat a new world of controlled visions when, in an attempt to connect with her absent oneirologist father, she reads a book about lucid dreaming. But she i...
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My world folds out in front of me like a puddle of ink spreading across the steaming asphalt on Westchester Avenue. It's unfamiliar, a place entirely my imagination, from the fuchsia bows on the chairs to the catwalk slicing the room in half.
Then there's me. I appear in a floor-length gown I designed, the one I'd see pencilled out in my sketchbook if I woke up and reached over to my nightstand. It's black and flowing, one of the only things that remains dark after the ink fades away and I'm left in this vivid dream.
It usually takes a few seconds for reality to wear off; for me to shake the place my sleeping body is and become immersed in this otherworldly experience. Today's quicker than usual—I'm getting better. It'd be impossible not to improve after reading How to Control Your Dreams and doing this every night for over a year.
I catch a glimpse of myself in the gilded mirror to my left, next to a dressing table. A picture of sophistication, a perfectly coordinated outfit, except for the watch on my wrist that glows azure.
I've never been to a fashion show, but I fill in gaps from TV I've watched with my mom, late at night on cable. A crowd of socialites fills the audience, long legs encased in champagne-colored stilettos crossed at the ankles, diamonds glinting in the light from the crystal chandeliers. I stand backstage, watching the runway as models strut from one end to the other, twisting their hips and tossing their hair as they show off my designs.
In the front row, sandwiched between two Upper East Side princesses, is Asher. Asher my best friend, Asher who is grinning and clapping, who's proud of me. Years of sketching and sewing and pinning paid off. He's glad he doesn't have to cut inspiration photos out of magazines for me anymore.
The audience is on its feet clapping for the models—for me. I've made it; I'm New York's most coveted designer; joy and pride bubble up inside me, emotions that feel as real as my imaginary breaths on this imaginary stage in this imaginary world.
And then it fades away, and I reach out because I didn't choose to leave my dream—something's yanking me out of it—and I'm cold because I can feel my gown being stripped away...
Then I'm out on the autumn-chilled streets of New York City.
I don't know how I got here, and that scares me. One minute there was applause, and now instead of expensive perfumes I smell exhaust and the trash someone's left out for too long. When I take a step forward, the blue on my watch flickers.
I reach to my arms to warm myself. A thick coat appears on my shoulders, shielding me from the unusually chilly weather. I don't remember asking for the extra layer of clothing. Reaching underneath the sleeves, I realize a wooly sweater has replaced my dress. I don't remember asking for that switch, either. Normally I'm in complete, unquestioned control of my dreams. Tonight, someone is making the choices for me.
