Dream Boy

Chapter One

"Sarah, I love you. You know I'll be here for you. All you have to do is close your eyes." I used to replay the conversations of my dreams every morning when I woke up, sighing. The perfect boy was only two closed eyes away...but I had to start my day. Those were the good days, or more accurately, the good nights. I would close my eyes and drift off into a lovely dream world. My perfect boyfriend would be there waiting for me, his curly hair bouncing in the sun, his eyes smiling at me. I would run to him, and he would wrap his arms around me, pulling me close. But that all went away this week.

Sunday night when I closed my eyes, no one was standing before me. It was dark, and a shiver ran down my spine so violently that I woke up. Where had he gone? I closed my eyes again and was greeted by the same cold, dark emptiness. How would I sleep without his warm hugs? I know, I know. I sound pathetic. But my dreams were so real; the love that flooded them each night was too strong not to be. Now, I lay awake, night after night, drifting in and out of fits of sleep. In the mornings purple bags hang under my eyes, and I can barely pull myself out of bed. How desperately I need my warm, hug filled dreams to help me sleep.

It's been a week since the dreams stopped, and I've finally been able to coax myself into a dreamless sleeping routine. I've gone back to sleeping with my stuffed bear, even though my brother makes fun of me for it.

"Sarah Jane Lucas, you are sixteen years old. You shouldn't be sleeping with Mr. Cuddles anymore." I remind him that he is only twelve, and he shuts up until the next opportunity for nagging arises.

It's Sunday, and it's been snowing too much to drive to church (or at least that's my mom's excuse for not wanting to go) so I lay in bed long past eleven o'clock, tucking myself farther into my warm blanket. If only I had someone to hold on a cold Sunday morning. I shake my head at myself. Honey, you are sixteen. Even if you had a boyfriend, there's no way he'd be in your bed on a Sunday morning. I laugh at myself, and that wakes me up enough to trudge to the bathroom.

I stare into the mirror, not surprised by the purple rings under my eyes, the giant blob of hair, and the drool crust surrounding my lips. Fortunately, my hair is finally growing out. I had cut it super short the summer before (a pixie cut, because why not?) and loved it, but let me tell you--pony tale envy is real. It now reaches my chin, and it's in between a cute bob and a mom-do. At the moment, half of it is sticking up crazily, and the other is plastered to the part of my head I was sleeping on. Or trying to sleep on, anyway. I sigh, pull it into a little stub of a ponytail, and brush my teeth. Then I wash my face, follow my morning routine, and make the journey back to my room to change.

I throw on sweats and a t-shirt, put my hair in a teeny-tiny bun, and walk towards the stairs. Too lazy to walk down, I sit on my butt and slide down, letting gravity do the work. My dad hears the bumping and comes running from the kitchen, frying pan in hand.

"Sarah Jane, what in the heck are you doing? You haven't done that since you were five years old!" That is true; my brothers and I used to make a train and slide down the stairs together. Those were the good days man, those were the good days. Now Aaron is off at college, and Eric is stuck at home with me.

"I am a stereotypical teenage girl who sleeps late and is lazy. That's what I'm doing."
"You are a sad, strange little girl." My dad says this everyday, quoting Toy Story, replacing "man" with "girl."
"Thanks for my daily confidence booster Dad."
"No problemo kiddo." I shoot him a smile, before questioning him on breakfast. He's decided to be fancy today and is making omelettes.
"Sounds good Dad. By the way, where's Mom?" I look around the kitchen, not seeing her bright red hair anywhere.
"She ran out to the store to get more eggs. I started cooking without checking--bad, I know." I giggle, and then I flop down at the table. I pull out my phone...no messages. If you haven't already guessed, I'm not the most popular person in the world.

Scrolling through Instagram, I see all the cool ways kids from my school had spent their Saturday: parties (particularly sweet sixteens), snowball fights, dates, etc. I sat in our living room by the fireplace and read, and I am not ashamed. So what if I don't like partying? I can chill with Harry and Ron, or Anne of Green Gables, or Benjamin Franklin, or Atticus Finch--whoever I want. Who cares about parties.

Well, I mean, being invited to at least one would be nice. But it's okay, really--I like sitting by the fire, drinking hot chocolate, pretending that a beautiful boy has his arm wrapped around me, my head on his shoulder--

"Sarah? Phone away! Breakfast is served." I guess that Mom is back; she came home just in time to end my daydream.
"Sorry Mom, I was spacing out." I can tell that she has probably been trying to get my attention for a minute or so because she is staring at me strangely. "I'm just tired, geez." I try an explanation when her gaze doesn't leave my face. She finally nods, accepting my response, and places an omelette in front of me.

Sigh. This is going to be a long life.