Beautiful Dreamer

Chapter 2

Chapter Two

Callery, Pennsylvania is asleep by nine P.M. It's a small town, with a whopping population of 398 at the 2011 census, meaning that there aren't nearly enough people to have an active nighttime scene. I hear that in other places, Friday nights are a big deal, with people dressing up and going out on the town for a night of drinking and dancing and who knows what kinds of ungodly things. In Callery, unless you're planning to throw a party at the general supply store, stuff like that just doesn't happen. Apart from the rare occasion when there's a festival or other event in town, the neighborhood streets have been cleared out by nine.

Kids who can be bothered might drive out to Cameo, a club in the heart of the county that doesn't card, or sneak some beer out of their parents' stash and hang out on the bleachers at the high school. But then there's kids like me, who, with strict parents and no car, are forced to spend their Friday nights trapped in the house, lamenting over the fact that they're unable to wander the empty and badly lit streets.

Friday nights, for me, were routine. Juliette Westbury, my neighbor and close friend, would show up at my door at seven in the evening, right after dinner, laden down with a pillow, sleeping bag, and a gargantuan makeup box that was bigger than she was. It was our ritual to paint our faces, style our hair, and dress up like we were going out, only to crash in my room and watch chick flicks and vulgar comedy films until two A.M. She'd sleep over until the next day, but leave before breakfast because my mother's cooking can break down even the kindest spirits.

That night was just like any other before it: Juliette and I were in my bathroom, elbowing each other for space as we applied eyeshadow up to our eyebrows. Juliette's long, copper blonde hair was spun into a braided side ponytail atop her head, pulled back completely so that it exposed her round face and baby blue eyes.

“Parker Sage, will you please pass me the blush?” Juliette asked, holding out a hand without looking at me. I clapped it into her hand, trying to hold back a laugh at the sound of her voice. But Juliette, being the uncannily perspicacious person that she is, noticed my amusement without even looking at me. She lowered the brush from her face and glanced over at me, giving me the same dry stare that I had received so many times before.

“I have known you for six years, sweetheart,” she drawled. “It's about time that you get a hold of yourself and stop laughing at my accent every time I speak.”

I bit down on my tongue to quell the giggles bubbling up in my throat. “Don't be so touchy about it,” I said, rolling my eyes. “I ridicule your voice out of love.”

“Oh, I'm really feeling the love,” she muttered.

If there's one thing I love about Juliette, it's her accent. She and her family moved in from Louisiana when we were ten, and six years in Pennsylvania hasn't been able to shave off the Southern twang in her voice.

The first thing I ever said to her, when we first met, was, “Your voice is really weird sounding.” She took one look at me and the smile fell off her face and she replied, “Your face is really weird lookin'.”

I decided I liked her after that.

Juliette was pretty and dainty and careful, and my mother liked her because she said “please” and “thank you” and always called me Parker Sage. But I learned not to be fooled by her faux manners and Southern hospitality; that girl can dole out insults like nobody's business.

“Parker Sage,” Juliette said offhandedly, “I do hope you realize that it looks like someone slammed a door on your right eye.”

I rest my case.