Goldfish Dreams

Goldfish Dreams by Jim Hines

Copyright © 2003-2004, Jim Hines Cover Art: "Andromeda," by Anthony Frudakis

The characters, incidents, and dialogue herein are fictional, and any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. First printing Released in May, 2003 Regal Crest Enterprises ISBN: 1-932300-03-1 http://www.sff.net/people/jchines/ This e-book is distributed free of charge. The author asks that donations and contributions be sent to RAINN, the Rape, Abuse, Incest National Network. RAINN provides a national, toll- free rape hotline at 1-800-656-HOPE. More information is available at their website: http://www.rainn.org/

Copyright Statement: I finished writing Goldfish Dreams in 1999. I had several goals for this book: I wanted to share the things I had learned as a sexual assault counselor; I wanted to explore the dynamics of sexual assault in ways that hadn't been done before; I wanted to look at the different ways friends and family reacted to survivors of sexual assault; I wanted to let survivors know that they were not alone. In the year and a half since Goldfish Dreams was published, I've received a number of letters from rape survivors, talking about how they identified with Eileen's character, and how reading the book was helpful for them. Yet I've found myself having the same reaction I often get when doing outreach and education work: it's not enough. I don't expect this book to change the world or put an end to rape. I don't even expect that everyone is going to like it. But if it can help one more person come to terms with their experiences ... if it gives one more survivor a tool to pass along to their friends or family to say, "This is what happened" ... if it helps one more bystander start to understand the realities of sexual violence ... if this book can do any of these things, then I want to do everything in my power to make it available. This e-book is the result. I hereby grant full permission to redistribute as many copies of this PDF file to as many people as might be willing to read it. The only stipulations are that the content can not be altered, and it must be passed along for free. For those of you who prefer traditional books, the original trade paperback version is still available as well. This book is a work of fiction. It is also true. Jim Hines August, 2004

Goldfish Dreams

Chapter 1 Fall Semester The drive took a little more than an hour. My father spent the whole trip humming. He had his window down, and the air blew his fringe of hair into a gray half- halo. I sat with my feet on the dashboard and stared out the window. Convinced that the highways would be murder with everyone moving in to college, Dad had decided to take the back roads. Rows of trees reached over our heads from both sides of the road, creating a tunnel of branches. The woven ceiling blocked most of the sunlight, except where the trees had been pruned to make way for the power lines. I saw one maple that had been trimmed in the middle, so the leaves thrust up on either side of the wire. The shape reminded me of a phoenix, with wings raised skyward. I felt like a child hunting shapes in the clouds. That childlike excitement lasted throughout the drive. As we pulled into the Sparrow Hall parking lot, I had to fight the impulse to bounce in my seat. I forced myself to remain calm, knowing Dad might take my enthusiasm personally. I couldn't explain that it wasn't him I was getting away from. During the past week, I had crammed my entire life into a stack of cardboard boxes that looked like something a child might build out of blocks. Clothes, toiletries, and of course, my books. Asimov, Card, LeGuin, Heinlein, and the rest would all be joining me at Southern Michigan University. I wasn't about to get trapped in a strange environment with nothing to read. The campus was pretty quiet, this being the first day of Welcome Week. Sparrow Hall was one of the older dorms, built back when SMU was just a liberal arts college. I was lucky. The engineers and the other hard science types would have to walk nearly a mile across campus to get to class, but the social sciences all huddled together in the southwest corner, right next to my dorm. The building itself was mostly brick and ivy: beautiful on the outside, but as we stepped through the door and into the heavy heat, I wondered if I was as

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Jim Hines fortunate as I had thought. The newer buildings might be uglier, but at least they probably had air conditioning. We were both sweating as we dragged the first load of boxes across the lobby toward the front desk. An older woman at the desk window was bent double, stuffing flyers into rows of brass-plated mailboxes. She didn't look up until we dropped our boxes in front of the desk. "Moving in early?" She had the weary courtesy of one who had spent too many hours over too many years dealing with the clueless masses. I nodded. "Eileen Greenwood. I'm supposed to be in room 312." I glanced around the lounge as she searched through various binders. The orange, brown, and gold color scheme of the walls and carpeting screamed seventies, but at least the furniture looked comfortable. They had several couches, a few armchairs, and a television mounted in one corner next to the front window. "Don't you have air conditioning in here?" Dad asked, echoing my earlier thought. The woman pointed at an oscillating fan behind her. "No AC without medical justification. The building's not wired for it. I suggest you buy yourself a good fan and get used to the heat." She bent down and vanished momentarily. When she popped up again, she held a key in one hand and paperwork in the other. "Sign here and here." I skimmed through all six pages while she waited impatiently. Apparent ly most people didn't read the room contracts. I was only trying to protect myself. For all I know, they could have a clause that makes me pay all charges if my roommate burns down the dorm. Everything looked okay, at least to my inexperienced eye, and I finally scrawled my name across the bottom line. We grabbed my bags and headed for the stairs. It took a while to find my room, tucked into the far end of the C-shaped building. Every door had the names of the future occupants taped up in bubbly construc tion paper letters. "Someone had too much time on their hands," Dad commented as I unlocked the door. My first view of my home for the next nine months was a disappointment. The barren cube resembled a large storage area, with a bunkbed crammed into one wall and two desks in the opposite corners. A dresser sat against the wall in front of the doorway, and we could barely fit the boxes through. I set my things down and took a longer look around. Brown tiles, flecked with white, covered the floor. The window over the radiator had the blinds down. The walls were a dingy yellow, like used cigarette filters. A long, narrow pipe ran along one corner of the ceiling.

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Goldfish Dreams The pile of bags scattered in the center of the room meant my roommate had arrived, but she was nowhere to be seen. A yellow post- it on the mirror above the dresser read: Hi Eileen! Dumped my stuff, but I'm not going to be moving in until Tuesday. I grabbed the top bunk--hope that's okay. See you soon. -Alisa "Let's get this over with." My father was already heading back to the van, so I shut the door and hurried after him. It had taken us six trips to get my things from the house to the van, but it took eight to get it up the stairs and into my room. After dropping the last box on the floor, Dad gave me a quick hug, a peck on the cheek, told me to call soon, and left. I was alone. I locked the door, marveling at the fact that, for the first time in my life, I had a door I could lock. I unlocked it and locked it again, liking the way the deadbolt felt as it punched into the doorframe. I sat down on the bed and promptly smacked my head on the upper bunk. The beds had been designed for someone about half a foot shorter than me. Alisa had her blankets laid out on the top bunk, so it looked like I'd be developing a permanent scar on the top of my head. Looking at the room, I could already see differences between us. Where my boxes were stacked in neat, square piles, hers were scattered over half the floor. In fact, with the way things were, there were only a few thin pathways one could take without stepping on our things. I unpacked for the next hour. I started by filling the warped hutch on one desk with books. The two shelves filled up quickly, and I still had another box and a half left. But unless I wanted to start filling up the dresser with books, there was no place to put them. I would have to buy another set of shelves. Figuring out where to put them would be a problem, but I could deal with that later. I stuffed my clothes into the closet as well as I could, trying to leave room for Alisa. It wasn't hard. My fencing equipment didn't fit, since the mask was too big for the tiny shelf. I shoved it under the bed instead. The rest of my clothes used up only a third of the tiny closet and two drawers in the dresser. What my sister called my "fashion-apathy" should prevent any conflicts over closet space, at least. I had heard too many horror stories about bad roommates, and the more problems I could ant icipate and solve in advance, the better. Once I was relatively unpacked and the boxes had been flattened and dragged to the recycling bins outside, I grabbed the damage sheet and started to inspect my new home.

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Jim Hines I think I was afraid to stop, afraid that if I sat down, everything would disappear. For years I had dreamed of a place that would be safe, a place that would be mine. Even though it was old and cramped so hot that sweat dripped down my nose, this was what I had been waiting for. I started at the top of the list, making detailed notes as I checked off one item after another. Nail holes in all four walls. Cracked back on one hutch. The beds seemed okay aside from a few cigarette burns on my mattress. The closet door had some gay-bashing graffiti on the inside, where maintenance probably missed it during the summer inspection. All the lights worked. When I got to the line that said "Window," I mentally kicked myself. Here I was, dripping and sticking to my shirt, and I hadn't bothered to open the window. I raised the blinds, then realized I couldn't open it anyway. The glass was divided into four panes, and the lower right pane was shattered. It had happened recently from the looks of it. The blinds had kept the shards on the sill. Ragged triangles around the frame waited to take a nasty slice out of my hand. Window broken, I wrote on the cramped form. I dragged the trash can over and started picking up the pieces. I cut myself several times despite my care. The glass was sharp enough I didn't even notice until the blood dripped down my fingers. A half- hour and four Band Aids later, the larger pieces of glass were all in the trash. I used one of my books as a whisk broom to sweep up the smaller fragments. The glass in the frame could wait for someone who owned a pair of work gloves. I wondered how long it would take maintenance to fix it. I still wasn't ready to stop. I thought about calling my boyfriend Jack, but decided against it. I was too wound up. Talking on the phone would mean sitting still, and the manic energy pulsing behind my ribs wasn't ready for that. I grabbed the long canvas bag from beneath my bed and pulled out my saber and mask. I had been disappointed to learn that the fencing team practiced on Wedne sday nights, when I had my biology lab. I wouldn't be able to join the team until next semester, but that didn't mean I couldn't keep in practice. I hung my mask on the corner post of the bunkbed and began to practice my lunges. My parries were good, but my attacks were sloppy at best, and often failed to materialize at all, as my coach was always quick to point out. I was too tentative, too slow to go on the offensive. It was good exercise, and I quickly fell into a rhythm. Advance, attack, attack again, and step back. The clack of the blade hitting the mask was soothing, and as the sweat began to bead up on my forehead, I found myself relaxing, letting my mind drift from the thousand anxieties of moving into the dorm. A shriek from the hall interrupted my thoughts. My attack ricocheted to one side, nearly twisting the saber from my hand. I had expected the dorm to be

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Goldfish Dreams relatively empty, but the heavy footsteps pounding past my door suggested otherwise. A few seconds later the footsteps returned, slower this time, followed by a knock at my door. There was no peephole. I set the saber on the bed and cracked open the door, revealing a squat, half- naked man wielding a squirt gun across his chest. He was barefoot, clad only in what seemed to be a dark green, ankle- length skirt, splattered with deep red paisleys. Unruly red-blond bangs flopped into his eyes, and his chest and stomach were covered in wet mats of red hair. Seeing me, he narrowed his eyes. "You're not Alisa," he said accusingly. He pointed the squirt gun and said in a deep voice, "Speak and be recognized." "Eileen," I said, opening the door a bit wider to point at the names. "Eileen Greenwood. I just moved in." He looked momentarily embarrassed. "Oh, right. Sorry. Have you seen a woman with long curly hair and a water balloon?" I shook my head. "She must have doubled back through the other stairwell, which means she's upstairs. Probably getting more ammo." He grinned, and for a moment he reminded me of a poster of Jack Nicholson from The Shining that my brother used to have in his room. It wasn't a comforting image. "Okay, it's ambush time," he muttered to himself, raising the squirt gun again. "By the way, my name's Sean." He lifted the gun and sent a stream of water into my stomach. Before I could react, he raced back down the hallway, pony-tail bouncing between his shoulder blades. With an annoyed sigh, I turned to shut the door. Before it closed, I heard his voice call, "Welcome to Sparrow Hall!"

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Jim Hines

Chapter 2 Alisa didn't actually show up for two days. I was a light sleeper, and the metallic rattling of the doorknob at eight in the morning brought me instantly alert, but not completely awake. My breathing came in tight, silent gasps as I tried to clear the fog from my mind. It was my second morning in Sparrow Hall, but for an instant I was home again. I rolled toward the wall, eyes closed. My muscles were tight as steel as I waited. Alisa stepped inside and slammed the door. I gasped. "Oh, sorry." My roommate for the next eight months bit her lip in remorse. "I didn't realize you were here." The smell of coffee drifted through the room from a cup in her hand. I used the corner of the dorm- issued sheet to blot sweat from my forehead. "It's okay. You just startled me." She set a roll of contact paper and a stack of construction paper on her desk, somehow managing to avoid spilling the coffee. "Anyway, I'm Alisa. I'm a sophomore in veterinary science, which means I'm supposed to be living across the river, but there are only a few honors floors at Southern Michigan, and I was in Sparrow last year, so I decided to stay here." Alisa had enough energy and exciteme nt for an entire cheerleading squad. It made me want to crawl back under the covers and hide until noon. Instead, I mumbled something that was supposed to be polite, grabbed my bathrobe, and headed toward the showers. I was in better shape when I returned. Alisa was decorating our door with magazine headlines and collages of shapes she had apparently cut out in advance. "I'll leave half the door empty so you can do whatever you want with it." I squelched an attack of jealousy as I watched her. Not only did she have enough energy for two people, she was beautiful as well. She was small, with a tiny nose and a Meg Ryan smile. Her hair was loose and slightly disheveled. It would have looked stupid on me, but on her, guys would have described it as "sexy" or "sultry" or something like that. Her eyes were a deep blue. Too deep,

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Goldfish Dreams really. I wondered if she wore tinted contacts. But artificial or not, the result was a woman who made me feel like a gawky thirteen-year-old. Feeling more self-conscious every minute, I ducked into our room and shut the door. Then I chastised myself for being stupid. I spent my life deliberately avoiding fancy hair, carefully matched clothes, make-up, and the rest of that nonsense. My sister, Krista, said I was a precocious fe minist. Brad said I just wanted to be different. Personally, I thought I was being practical and saving time that could be better spent doing anything other than worrying about how I looked. Now here I was, jealous of my roommate because she was more attractive. By the time Alisa came in, I had successfully buried my jealousy. "Did you want to grab breakfast?" she asked. "Then I was thinking we could swing by the bookstore and grab stuff for class. I'll show you which bookstores to go to, because they all want to stiff you, but Daryl's is cheapest. They just don't have everything in stock, which sucks. Oh, and we should talk to someone about getting that window fixed." "I mentioned it when I turned in the damage report yesterday." She laughed. "The only way to get maintenance off its ass is to harass everyone from the resident assistant up to the complex supervisor. We can start with the Resident Assistant. They can't usually do anything on their own, but they know who to talk to." As I listened to her, a suspicion began to form. "You said this was your second year?" She was already searching through the pile on her desk, but she nodded. "Are you supposed to be my mentor or something?" "Aha!" She held her keys up victoriously, then turned to me and shrugged. "Guilty. They try to put sophomores with incoming freshmen so you newbies don't get overwhelmed by it all. Doesn't always work out, but they try. Now come on, I can tell you which foods are edible, and which are the university's way of disposing of hazardous waste." Despite the horror stories I had heard about dorm food, breakfast wasn't too bad. The pancakes were a bit dry, and the drinking glasses were so small I needed four of them, but it certainly wasn't the worst meal of my life. After depositing our trays on the conveyor belt to be swallowed into the dishwashing area, we headed upstairs to find the RA for our floor. Alisa continued to make conversation, apparently unable to bear more than a few seconds of silence. "So what classes are you stuck with?" "Mostly intro stuff. Biology, computers, English, and psych." "I don't know why they bother assigning advisors for freshmen. Everyone gets the same schedule. Which one are you taking for honors credit?"

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Jim Hines It was a requirement that honors college students take at least one honors class per semester. "Psych," I said. She winced. "Your choice?" "It's my major." "Ah." The look on her face said, in essence, I think you're nuts, but if that's what you want, I'm not going to try to change your mind. This wasn't the first time my major had earned that reaction. Even my sister disapproved, saying I should study something more practical, which meant any major that would get me a fifty-thousand-a-year job after graduation. The RA lived at the center of the floor, where the boys' and girls' wings met. If there had ever been a name on the door, it was gone now. Instead, a black starfield covered the entire door. A few black and white magazine ads featuring various models, male and female, broke up the constellations. Alisa looked skeptical, but knocked anyway. "They've definitely changed RAs on us. Simone was much more tasteful about her decorating." The door cracked open, and I was surprised to realize that I actually recognized the face peeking out at us. "They made you the RA?" Alisa asked. Her tone was a mixture of disbelief and disappointment. Sean grinned. "After six years at this school, I think I'm qualified, don't you?" He grinned at me. "Sorry about the squirt gun the other day. I was caught up in the thrill of battle. So Alisa, how was your summer?" "We have a broken window in our room. Do you know when maintenance will be able to get to it?" I thought she was being cold. Then again, I was a bit skeptical myself. Who had decided to take a man who ran around half- naked, firing a water gun at random targets, and put him in charge of an entire floor of students? Maybe he was the only one willing to take the job, I thought. "Let me check," Sean said, and shut the door in our faces. "He's been here forever," Alisa said, keeping her voice low. "Most people head off-campus by their junior year, but he likes the dorms. He hangs out with freaks and breaks rules left and right. But someone in his family is supposed to be loaded, so the administration lets him get away with anything." She stopped abruptly as the door opened again. Sean handed us a piece of paper with a phone number scrawled on it. "This is the number for maintenance. I have no idea how busy they are, but if you call, they'll put you on their schedule." There was a noise from inside his room. I tried to look past him to see what it was. He grinned and pushed the door tighter to the frame, blocking my view. "I'm very self-conscious when I'm decorating. I can't let anyone see a work

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Goldfish Dreams in progress." With an apologetic shrug, he closed the door again, and I heard the click of the lock. "What a jerk," Alisa said, crumpling up the number. "This is on the flyer they gave us when we moved in. He'd better be more helpful than that, or he's not going to last long as the RA." I wasn't too impressed with Sean either, but Alisa seemed to have a personal grudge against him. "Do you two have a history?" She looked away. "There are things about the way he lives I don't agree with." She didn't offer to explain, and I was reluctant to push. Aside from Sean, who didn't really count, Alisa was the only person I knew at SMU. I didn't want to mess that up before classes even started. "So, shall we hit the bookstores?" Alisa asked, resuming her normal, energetic demeanor. The change was so sudden, it was like another woman had taken her place. I nodded, and we were off again. I spent almost three hundred dollars on books. We then had to make a second trip because I had forgotten to pick up a backpack. Fortunately, like most businesses, the bookstores were on Martin Street, only a few minutes from the dorm. Alisa treated me to pizza that night. She said that protecting me from Wisconsin Cheesy Chicken, tonight's cafeteria special, was her way of welcoming me to the university. We cut up the cardboard lid of the pizza box and taped it over the broken window. When classes started the next week, maintenance still hadn't shown up to fix it. Classes were a waste of time, for the most part. Alisa had warned me that things don't really get started until the second week, but I was still surprised. Psychology was the only class where the professor did more than introduce himself, hand out the syllabus, and send the students on their way. "Welcome to Introductory Psychology. Since this is an honors class, I'm going to expect more from you." Professor Ralston was a thin, balding man with a precise voice. He wore a simple blazer, a dark shirt, and black jeans. He had a tendency to wave his hand in tight circles as he talked. His teaching assistant, a grad student named Patrick, sat beside him in silence. "Reading the textbook will give you some background on historical development and the various schools of psychological theory. I also want you to start to learn to do your own research. Over the next week, when you're in public, look around. Pay attention to behavior that interests you. Anything could provide the basis of your research project. We'll talk more about the details later." The rest of the time was spent discussing what psychology was and wasn't. "If nothing else," he said, "you will learn that psychology is as valid a science as chemistry or physics. You will learn that schizophrenia and multiple personality

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Jim Hines disorder are not the same thing." His lips quirked, the first time he had smiled since the beginning of class. "And the freshmen among us will learn that the papers we expect you to write in college are very different from those you wrote in high school." He paused to let that sink in, then began walking around the class. "Freud is dead. Freudianism is dead. Don't expect to spend this semester learning about couches and hypnosis. Psychoanalysis today has evolved as far past Freud as we are from the chimps." He smiled a little when he said that. "Admittedly, you'll find that many of your classmates behave like apes. Likewise, there are those in the field who worship Freud like the second incarnation of Christ." I liked him. He was straightforward, to the point, and blunt er than any teacher I had known in high school. By the time I left, I was starting to feel like a college student. When I reached my room, the door was open, and Alisa was sitting on the floor talking to Jack. I nearly tripped when I saw him there. He stood up from the bed and came over to kiss me. "You didn't tell me you had a boyfriend," Alisa said with mock hurt in her voice. In all honesty, I hadn't really thought about Jack for the past few days. Not knowing what else to say, I shrugged weakly. "It's been so hectic." I was explaining more to Jack than Alisa, but he didn't seem upset. He simply gave me another kiss and pulled me to the bed, where we sat down together. He was thin to the point of boniness, but I had never been attracted to muscular men. His hair was pulled into a tight curl of a ponytail. Despite having been with him for over a year, I was still struck by the way his glasses lenses seemed to shrink his eyes and face, making it look like someone had taken a horizontal slice out of his head and inserted an ill- fitting replacement. But he had a delightful smile, which seemed permanent as he sat there beside me. "I've missed you," he said, planting another kiss on my cheek. "Me too." Alisa made a show of standing up and stretching. "It was nice talking with you, Jack, but my work here is done. I'll leave the two of you alone." Jack watched her depart with a degree of attention that left me vaguely annoyed, then looked at me. "Alisa says you've been doing all right?" "She's been helping me find my way around." "She seems nice." I searched for hidden meaning in his words, but couldn't find any. Then I silently snapped at myself, annoyed at my insecurities. He was a guy. Of course he was going to look at other girls. I was overreacting. Oblivious to my confusion, he said, "So what's it like to have a place all to yourself? A lock on the door, no parents, total freedom." He glanced out the window, and his voice took on a sarcastic twist. "A wonderful view of the

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Goldfish Dreams dumpsters in the parking lot." Then he leaned back and slipped an arm around my waist. With a playful leer, he said, "And your very own bed." I frowned, and he rolled his eyes. "I know...you don't like to do it unless it's dark." I sat there as he closed the blinds, but narrow lines of sun still squeezed through the cracks. It was light enough to see his hopeful expression shift to one of frustration when I shook my head. "This isn't normal. You're the psychology major; you should know that." He searched the room for a way to block the sun. "I know," I said. It was an old discussion, and I still felt guilty for being difficult, but there wasn't anything else I could do. The first few times we had sex, he kept trying to get me comfortable in the light, but I always froze. The light made me feel ashamed, like a slut. Something about seeing everything he did made me physically ill. After a while, he just accepted it. "So what's the matter with you? Why can't you get over it?" Perhaps he hadn't accepted it as well as I believed. "I've tried, remember?" My arms shook slightly, and I clamped my hands together to hide it. We ended up taking one of the sheets, folding it double, and using thumbtacks to secure it over the blinds. A rolled towel blocked the light from the hallway, and at last we were in darkness. He banged his knee on my chair on the way to the bed, and I winced in sympathy. I could still faintly make out his shape moving toward me, so I reached out and took his arm, pulling him down. Once he was beside me on the bed, I leaned back and let him take control. He stayed for a few more hours. We went to the Union for dinner. High school didn't start for another few weeks, so he could have stayed later. But I had reading to do for class, and I didn't want him to be too tired on the long drive home. He left me one of his senior pictures. He had gotten them done over the summer so they would be ready when school started. I studied it for a while after he left. He wore his artificial smile, the one he called his "photo- grin." The background was rather plain: dark purple centered around his head, fading to black at the edges. On the back, he had written: So you don't forget me when you're surrounded by college men. Love, Jack I sat at my desk and opened my psychology book to the first chapter. I wasn't the fastest reader in the world, but I was focused and had very good retention. Before long, the rest of the world faded into the background as I highlighted my way through the history of psychology. I was familiar with a lot of it, so I wound up skipping ahead, ignoring my other textbooks for the moment.

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Jim Hines Through my own absent- mindedness, I immediately misplaced Jack's picture. It wasn't until a week later that I found it serving time as a bookmark in my psychology textbook.

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Goldfish Dreams

Chapter 3 Pack Behavior in the Cafeteria, a Research Proposal. I re-read the title, making sure Patrick hadn't given me the wrong student's paper by mistake. I flipped back to the last page, where a large green "C - " stared up at me. I flung the paper onto the floor and went back to organizing my desk. All of the books already stood neatly in place. My pens and pencils were shoved into the back corner, and most of my papers waited in perfectly square stacks. I spilled the pens across the desk so I would have something else to pick up. I could still see Patrick's face as he passed our papers back that afternoon. He had set mine on my desk, face down, and there was a slight, sympathetic smile as he made eye contact. I hadn't understood at first; I thought he was just being friendly. Then I skimmed past Ralston's comments: "Too broad," "Unclear," and "Expand this point," to the grade at the end and the scrawled finale, "Talk to my teaching assistant if you feel you need help understanding the assignment." I was arranging my jade wolves, a gift from my mother, when Alisa got back from her shower. She took a long look around the room and whistled. "You're really looking to impress Jack when he visits tomorrow. The place looks like a museum." She grinned and kicked her books to one side. "Your half, at least." She grabbed a sweatsuit from the closet, shoving the rest of her dirty clothes into her laundry basket. "He'd better be good to deserve this much effort. Be careful--these bunkbeds don't always hold up to abuse." My face burned. "It's not that." "Ah. Don't worry. Men can be taught. You just can't be shy about telling them what to do." She began braiding her hair with swift efficiency. "But if it's not for your man, then what's up? Parents coming for a visit?" I shook my head. I hadn't even talked with my father since he left two weeks ago. Alisa bent down and grabbed my paper from the floor. I tried rearranging the wolves in a circle as she skimmed through it, muttering to herself.

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Jim Hines "First C minus?" I nodded. "Welcome to college. I don't know anyone who didn't bomb their first paper. Usually bombed their first semester with it. College is a completely different breed of monster." "This is supposed to be my major." I was whining, and I hated it. "If I was going to mess up, why couldn't I do it in English or biology?" She sat down on my desk and smiled down at me. "Look at it this way. You want to learn to be a good psychologist, right?" "Psychiatrist, but yes." "Whatever." She waved a hand, brushing my remark aside. "Your professor could have gone easy on you. He could have given you an A for having good high school skills, and let you breeze through the class. Instead he's going to push you. Nobody expects you to be publishing your own journal articles yet, but he's going to try and drag you up to that level." It was all perfectly reasonable, but it didn't matter. All I understood was that I had failed. For whatever reason, I wasn't good enough to write more than a C paper, and that was unacceptable. She walked over to the dresser and grabbed a small bottle of perfume. "Didn't you say this guy had a teaching assistant?" "Patrick." "So talk to him." The idea brought some comfort. At least it gave me something I could do. But I still couldn't shake the feeling that I had failed. I know my father would have been disappointed. After breezing through high school composition, I had never expected to have trouble with my writing. I felt lost, like a little kid alone in a foreign country. Alisa's actions suddenly sank in. "You're wearing perfume to judo?" She had been taking judo one night a week to fulfill the physical education requirement. So I understood the sweatsuit, even though she must be roasting in the heat. But perfume? She would sweat the stuff right off in the first ten minutes. She grinned again. "His name's Ryan. He was my partner for stretches last week. Tall, strong, and single, everything a girl could want." Her eyes danced mischievously. "Bet you a pizza I've got him by the end of the week. Especially if I get another chance to show him how flexible I am." I shook my head, amused despite my mood. She was like a hunter on safari, stalking her prey and waiting for the right moment to pounce. "Unlike you, I haven't had the chance to drag a guy into bed for nearly a month." She stretched out, bending her body backward like a cat. "I knew I was in trouble when I realized I was checking Jack out last week."

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Goldfish Dreams The paranoia came rushing back, but she raised her hands before I could say anything. "Relax. I do have some scruples. I wouldn't steal from a friend." There was a bounc e in her steps as she left. I propped the door open so the air could circulate through the room. It helped with the heat, but the slight bite of her perfume remained in the air for the rest of the night. That was the night the dreams started in earnest. My mother's perfume smelled like lilacs. Even in my dream, the scent was overpowering, stifling me as I hid under the tent formed by my covers. She had been dead for months, but Dad still kept her things on the dresser in their bedroom. I hadn't meant to spill it. I only wanted to smell her again, to touch the things she used to wear: the tiny cross earrings, the pearl necklace, her watch.... Dad was away at a meeting with the gymnastics school, Krista was out on a date with Steve Ranway, and Brad was watching TV downstairs. He hadn't heard when I knocked the bottle over. I had cleaned it up as well as I could, but the smell still covered my hands and arms. I hoped it would go away by morning. The last thing I wanted to do was make Brad clean up after me. I was ten years old. The fact that Dad thought I still needed a babysitter was humiliating, especially when he made Brad do it. He was barely thirteen, and his way of keeping things under control was to beat me up. He was good at it, too. He was on the wrestling team. I always thought the reason he was such a good wrestler was that he got to practice all his moves on me. Eventually, it got too hard to breathe under the covers, so I cautiously stuck my head out. It was like opening the refrigerator, and I took deep breaths of the cool air. A moment later, I saw Brad leaning against the doorjamb, watching me. I had changed into my nightshirt and stuffed my perfume-soaked clothes into the bottom of the hamper, but I knew he could still smell it. "It was an accident," I said, bracing myself. Instead of yelling or pounding me, he just laughed. "Grab a shower. I'll finish cleaning up in Dad's room." I was suspicious of this sudden kindness, but I wasn't going to question my luck. He gave me a light spank as I slipped past him, but it was a joke, not intended as punishment. By the time I finished my shower, the lilac smell had faded from upstairs. He had the windows open and the fans going. I got goosebumps on my arms as I hurried into my bedroom. But in one of those dream-tricks that the dreamer never questions, when I opened my bedroom door, I found myself at the head of the stairs, looking down. I turned around, confused. I tried another door with the same result. No matter where I went, I wound up at the head of the stairs. I found myself terrified to pass through that door. But I had no choice. Finally, with my hair dripping cold spots

15

Jim Hines onto the front of my nightshirt, I tiptoed down into the living room. Brad had the lights out and the TV on. He had made root beer floats, and was watching a muppet movie. "Feel better?" he asked, patting the couch next to him. My fears vanished in the face of ice cream and television, and I hopped onto the couch. As we settled back, he leaned close and whispered, "I won't tell Dad what happened. I wouldn't want you to get in trouble." It was like an entirely different Brad. For a moment, I wondered if someone had replaced my brother with some kind of duplicate, a Nice Brad to take the place of Mean Brad. The only light came from the television, creating a feeling of adventure. It was like the summer before when we had gone camping, with only our flashlights to fight the darkness. I had seen the movie four times, but I still enjoyed it. Even Brad laughed from time to time. It was wonderful. The floats were gone before the movie was halfway over, and I was starting to drift to sleep, though I never would have admitted how tired I was. Scenes began to jump by without my noticing, and I found myself leaning against Brad's side. Then he reached down and put a hand on my leg, underneath my nightshirt. "What are you doing?" I asked sleepily. "Just watch the movie." On the screen, the muppets were all singing but I couldn't follow the words. They all watched me with those huge, round eyes, and I cringed. They wouldn't stop staring. Brad's hand began to move up over my chest. He was squirming a bit, pushing himself against me. I was fully awake now, but I was confused. My body reacted oddly to his hand. It almost tickled, but I had no desire to laugh. It was a different kind of touch, and it felt wrong. I began to feel embarrassed, so I shoved his hand away. He got mad. His other hand reached over and pulled me onto his lap. His fingers dug into my arm as he held me in place. I twisted, trying to duck out of his grasp and escape. His other arm, still beneath my nightshirt, grabbed me by the waist. He was stronger than me, and he knew what he was doing from all that wrestling practice. I was trapped. "Stop it," he snapped. His voice was hoarse, and he was sweating. "Do you want to get in trouble? Do you know what Dad will do if he finds out what you did?" I wasn't sure what he was talking about. He could have meant my spilling the perfume, or maybe he was talking about what we were doing right now. Either way, I didn't want Dad to find out. I shook my head.

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Goldfish Dreams "Then watch the movie and don't talk." He slowly relaxed his grip. I thought about trying again to get away, but I was too scared. My hands were shaking. I clenched my fists as tight as I could so he wouldn't notice. He saw anyway, but he didn't seem to care. I tried to keep perfectly still, like it was a game of statues. My body was a statue, and nothing anyone did could make me move. I was usually good at this game. No matter what the other kids at recess said to make me laugh, I could hold still longer than anyone. But this was harder, and every time his hand moved across my body, my teeth clamped a little deeper into my bottom lip. I somehow knew that if I could last until the movie ended, I'd be able to get away. So I focused on the TV, watching every scene crawl by as I tried to pretend my skin was unfeeling stone. Brad started to pull my nightshirt up over my head. I struggled again, and the shirt tangled around my neck. Suddenly I couldn't see, and he was pulling and I was fighting and I couldn't move. The air was hot. My left arm hurt from being tugged the wrong way. I gasped for air. The collar was being pulled tight, and I jerked my head down, trying to breathe, but it wasn't helping. I couldn't breathe and I was suffocating and my heart was in my head trying to pound its way out. When my eyes snapped open, I felt like I was falling. There was blood in my mouth. I had bitten my lip. The only light came from the crack at the bottom of the doorway and the red numbers of the alarm clock. 3:37 a.m. Still early. Alisa's quiet snores reminded me where I was. My breathing was still quick and tight, but the sense of panic began to fade. My hands were sweaty fists at my side, and my toes curled against the balls of my feet. My heart was going so fast I thought I was having a heart attack. That was ridiculous. People didn't have heart attacks when they were eighteen, did they? One at a time, I forced my toes and fingers to relax. I tried not to think about the dream. Just worry about breathing, the voice in my head commanded. Breathe in, breathe out. Picture the air traveling into your mouth and filling your lungs like twin balloons. Try to let it stay there for a few seconds, then slowly let it out again. I focused on that image, left over from our breathing exercises at gymnastics. Even though I knew it to be inaccurate, I still imagined two separate tubes leading from my mouth to each lung, just like when I was a kid. My muscles began to loosen. When I looked at the clock again, it was 3:54. I used the pillow to wipe the sweat from my face, then flipped it over so the sweaty side was down. The sheet was also damp, so I kicked it to the bottom of the bed. I needed sleep, but every time I remembered the feeling of suffocation, the

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Jim Hines panic threatened to strike again, wiping away any trace of weariness. I hate this. The thought threatened to pull the tears past my self-control. It made no sense. There had been nightmares before, but Brad hadn't touched me since I was sixteen. If I was going to have nightmares, why would they start again now? My stomach tightened at the thought that I might spend every night this way, sleeping for only a few hours a night before being jarred awake by the same stabbing terror as tonight. This was stupid. Brad was gone, living in his apartment in Ann Arbor. I lived more than a hundred miles away, with a locked door and a roommate I trusted. Why would I have nightmares when I was safer than I had ever been? I don't know when I finally drifted back to sleep. I remembered glancing at the clock a little past five a.m. The next thing I knew, Alisa's alarm was buzzing and she was rousing me for breakfast, chattering merrily as she yanked clean clothes from the closet. We both had class at 10:20 on Tuesdays. Somehow, after only a week at college, getting up at nine in the morning had come to be a chore, especially after only a few hours of restless sleep and nightmares. Alisa was energetic and bubbly as always. As she finished getting ready, I sat cross- legged on the floor and rubbed my eyes, which felt like they had been smoked over a bonfire. "If you want, you can bring Jack along and we can double date tonight. Ryan and I are going to The Steakhouse for dinner. We're going to practice our moves after that." She winked. "His judo is good, but I've got moves that will have him on the floor in no time flat." "No thanks," I mumbled. She appeared to notice me for the first time, and stopped crimping her lashes to study my face. "Are you okay?" "I'm fine." It was embarrassing that my fatigue showed so clearly. "Trouble sleeping, that's all." "Me too. It's ridiculous that they still haven't fixed the window. I'm going to go have it out with the dorm supervisor this afternoon. It's stifling in here. We should at least be able to open a damn window." As she started again to talk about Ryan, I was struck by the temptation to tell her the truth. Maybe it would help to talk about it. She didn't know my family, so there was no danger of this getting back to anyone. But I kept silent. I didn't know what she would think of me if she knew the truth. I limited myself to a few glasses of juice at breakfast, which elicited another concerned look from Alisa. "I know the food tastes like recycled roadkill, but you've got to eat." She grabbed a banana from her tray and dropped it in front of me. "I know." I stripped the peel away and stared at the banana. My stomach

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Goldfish Dreams protested at the thought of food, but I managed one small bite before shoving it away from me. "It was just a really bad nightmare." "Mm- hm," she said, grabbing a french toast stick. "I used to have them when I was living at home, but never this bad." "Probably homesick or something. It takes time to get used to college." "I don't think homesickness is the problem." Something in my expression or my tone must have made her uncomfortable, because she looked away and waved to a girl on the other side of the cafeteria. As her friend headed toward us, she said, "That's Robin. She was my roommate last year, and she's the one who helped me get through the first few weeks." She obviously didn't want to hear about anything more serious than homesickness or boy trouble. I nodded and forced a smile. I could deal with this by myself. I always had. Robin sat next to Alisa. She was a small woman, with brown hair and strikingly dark eyebrows, one of which was pierced by a silver ring. Alisa introduced us. "Has she dragged you to Campus Crusade for Christ yet?" Robin asked me. I shook my head, and Alisa looked annoyed. "I got a little carried away last year," she explained. "I was hanging out with a very conversion-oriented crowd." She shot a glare at Robin. "It only lasted a few weeks, but there are a few people who won't let it drop." Robin laughed. "Everyone has their freshman obsessions. Alisa's really a good roommate. You're lucky. I ended up with a psychopath my first year. She got kicked out for dealing cocaine out of the library." I was still trying to reconcile the idea of Alisa, the woman who only last night had been pondering the most effective way to get Ryan into bed, with a group like Campus Crusade for Christ. Apparently misunderstanding my silence, Alisa leaned forward to explain. "I'm not going to force my beliefs on you, so you can relax. If you want to talk about Jesus, let me know. Otherwise, I won't bring it up." I wasn't feeling very social, so I stood up to leave. "I'll get your tray," Robin offered, transferring my glasses to her tray and stacking it on my empty one. I nodded my thanks and left for class. Computer science was taught over the university television station. The pre-recorded lecture gave me a chance to turn off my brain for a while. We all sat there in the classroom like well-trained sheep, staring at the ceiling- mounted television sets for an hour and a half while the teaching assistant read a mystery book at the front of the room. "Our tuition dollars at work," one guy commented as he worked on a crossword.

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Jim Hines Psychology was a different story. With only twenty people, a large part of the class was devoted to group discussion. I didn't say a word. Patrick looked at me curiously, as I was normally one of the more vocal students, but he didn't say anything. Ralston seemed oblivious to my frustration, lost in the joys of research methodology. I couldn't help but feel bitter as I watched him. Rationally, I knew the C minus was my own fault, but that didn't matter. I got more and more angry until I was fantasizing about seeing him run down in the street, or better yet, of me attacking him until he admitted I knew what I was doing. By the time I got home, the effort of holding everything inside had left me drained. My stomach rumbled angrily, but I still had no desire to eat. I had forced a sandwich at lunch, but that had been a few hours ago. I wondered if I was getting physically ill on top of everything else. It might be a good idea to talk to a nurse at the medical center, but right now, all I wanted to do was sit down and be alone for a few minutes. The window still wasn't fixed, so I settled for turning Alisa's fan on high and collapsing onto the bed. I must have dozed off, because the next thing I knew, Jack was kissing my lips. I jumped, accidentally hitting him in the stomach with my knee. "So much for romance," he said through gritted teeth. "Your door was unlocked. I thought you were expecting me." I tried to apologize. My words ran together with my efforts to explain. "I was. I'm sorry. It was just a long day and I was tired when I got back. Actually, it's been a rough week. I didn't mean to hit you like that. I just forgot that you were coming. Are you okay?" "You forgot?" I immediately felt even worse. "I didn't mean- " "I guess you don't miss me as much as I thought." "Jack...." He raised a hand, waving my guilt aside. He had always been so quick to forgive my neuroses. "I'm fine," he said. "You didn't hit me that hard." He sat down behind me and started rubbing my shoulders. Jack had strong hands, and he knew how to give an excellent massage. I grunted as he started to work the knots out of my muscles. "So what's been going on that's kept you too busy to think about your boyfriend?" I tried to ignore the new surge of guilt his question provoked. "I got my first paper back." I was reluctant to talk about my nightmare, even with Jack. Sometimes he could be a good listener, but usually he was more focused on other things. I thought it would be better to see where he was at before I started dumping anything serious on him.

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Goldfish Dreams "How was it?" "C minus." His hands paused briefly. "A C minus isn't that bad. Not great, but not bad." "I know, but it was in my psych class, and it's not how I wanted to start my college career. This is important, and I'm already getting off on the wrong foot." I was on the verge of tears. Between the physical exhaustion and the emotional tension from my dreams, the grade that had been an irritation a day before had been blown completely out of proportion. I blinked rapidly as he answered, "You'll do better." He squeezed hard. "And you're so tense. We really need to do something to get your mind off this." A moment later, I felt Jack's lips on my neck. I leaned back and let his arms encircle me as he continued to kiss me. His hands worked their way down, slipping beneath my T-shirt. I raised my arms to let him remove it. I still didn't know what Ralston wanted. I had re-read the assignment twice, and I thought it fulfilled all of the things he asked for. And his comments-how could he contradict himself like that, telling me it was simultaneously too broad and that I should expand it? Maybe Alisa was right. Maybe I should talk to Patrick. But I wasn't comfortable talking to him in front of Professor Ralston. I could talk to him at recitation, when he would be alone with the class, reviewing the week's lessons. Jack had been playing with my breasts, but now he stopped. "Is something wrong?" "I'm sorry." I flushed. Jack had come all this way to see me, and here I was thinking about my psychology class. I took a deep breath and tried to relax. "I'm just not in the best of moods." He shoved gently against my back, turning me around until we faced one another. He gave me his best smile. "I know it's rough. How do you think it's been for me, having to spend the past two weeks without you? That's why we need to take advantage of the time we have." With that, he leaned forward and began kissing me again, using one hand to pop the hooks on my bra. For reasons I could only attribute to testosterone, he took great pride in his ability to undo my bra one-handed. A few seconds later, it joined my shirt on the floor. He stopped long enough to dash across the room to close the blinds and turn off the light. I allowed him to lower me back onto the mattress. He obviously wasn't in the mood to talk, so I gave up trying. I wasn't in the mood for sex, but it was easier to go along with him than to start a fight about it. I guess it was another guy thing--sex was so much more important for him than for me. As soon as that thought passed through my mind, I had a vision of Alisa, primping and humming to herself for the sole purpose of getting laid. I had

21

Jim Hines always thought my lack of enthusiasm about sex was gender-related. After all, men spent the majority of their time either talking about sex or trying to figure out who they could score with, like it was all a big competition. None of the women I knew, until Alisa, were as obsessive about it. We talked about sex, of course. Back in high school, we would go out to McDonald's and laugh at the things boys wanted from us. In reality, we probably talked about sex at least as much as the boys did, and there was always an unspoken fascination behind the laughter. But there wasn't the same drive, the view of sex as the ultimate accomplishment and goal. As I thought about this, my body continued to react, actively mirroring Jack's actions. If he kissed my ear, I responded with an appropriate sigh of pleasure, then kissed his neck. When his hands moved lower, I ran my nails up his back, eliciting a tight gasp. It took me a few seconds to realize he had stopped. When I looked up at him, his mouth was pursed in annoyance. "What's wrong with you today?" "What do you mean?" "I don't know where your brain is, or who you're thinking about, but it sure isn't me." What was wrong with me? He couldn't see my face in the dark, but he could obviously tell I was distracted. I forced my clenched muscles to relax and said, "I told you, it's been a rough week. It's not you." He shook his head and leaned back. I followed and immediately caught my hair in the bedsprings of the upper bunk. Whatever else I would have said got lost as I tried to free myself without causing further pain. "It's like you don't even care that I'm here." "That's not true," I said. My hair was tangled in the springs, and I had to push the mattress up to try and free it. "Then why don't you show it?" He crossed his arms and stared at the wall. "Sheila told me college would change you. I didn't realize how much." A few hairs ripped free as I pulled my head away. "Jack, you're overreacting." I tried to change the subject. I knew I had hurt him, but he had a tendency to dwell on that sort of thing, and I didn't know if I could deal with two hours of Jack with a bruised ego. I flipped on the small lamp at the head of the bed and asked, "When did you and Sheila start talking again?" He hadn't talked to his ex-girlfriend for over a year, ever since she broke up with him to start seeing that guy from Eastbrook. "About a week ago." He refused to meet my eyes, and I felt another stabbing pain in my stomach as I recognized the guilt on his face. "You've been doing more than talking, haven't you?" Suddenly he was another person, angry and attacking. "Did you really expect this to work?" he snapped. "You're here, nearly a hundred miles away.

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Goldfish Dreams Even after I graduate, I'll probably end up somewhere else. It was stupid for us to try and make this last." I could feel myself going numb, detaching the emotional content of the conversation from the words themselves. This was simply another conversation, a theoretical discussion, nothing more. It wasn't about me. I waved at my clothes, scattered across the floor. "You came out here today to break up with me?" He still didn't answer, but he looked down at his lap and shook his head. His hands went up to redo his pony tail, and his eyes darted toward the door. I found myself relieved that I hadn't tried to tell him about my nightmare, and that struck me as odd. What kind of girl feels relieved when they get dumped? But I wasn't angry, either. At most, I was disappointed that he hadn't had the courage to tell me, that I had to be the one to say the words. "I don't want to be rude, but would you please leave?" I wanted to give him a way to escape, and he took it. There was a mumbled apology, and then he was out the door so fast I expected to feel a breeze from his departure. I could smell faint traces of his deodorant lingering in the air, and the sheets were damp with sweat. I calmly pulled them off the mattress and dropped them in my laundry basket. Then my stomach clenched again. I stumbled out the door with the vague idea of going downstairs and getting some soup. But the thought of food sickened me. I could feel sweat popping out on my forehead as I walked. When I realized what was happening, I turned around and ran back up the stairs toward the bathrooms. I made it to the juncture of the men's and women's wings before my stomach spasmed again. I doubled over, fell to my knees, and vomited in the middle of the hall.

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Jim Hines

Chapter 4 "Looks like chicken." I hadn't heard a door open. When I looked up, Sean stood over me, rubbing his chin with one hand. Right then, I wanted nothing more than to vanish into the walls. He squinted at the puddle of vomit and added, "If you had gotten carried away with the wonderful world of alcohol, it would be less chunky. So are you sick?" He frowned at his own words, bringing his eyebrows together in a single reddish clump. "Aside from the obvious, that is." "I'm fine," I said, surreptitiously trying to wipe my mouth on my shirt. It was bad enough I had to throw up like some little kid, but to have a witness was mortifying. He grinned. "Never lie to the RA. It's a floor rule." He took a step back and opened his door, gesturing with more flair than Errol Flynn playing Robin Hood. "Why don't you sit down and give yourself a few minutes to recover?" I was still in a daze, so I just stared at him. Closing the door again, he knelt on the floor beside me. "You look like shit. I've got an air conditioner hooked up in my room, and it would be good to get you out of the heat. But you need to say yes or no, because if I leave the door open, I'll have Goldfish running loose in the halls, and that's trouble I don't need." "Goldfish don't run," I protested. He opened the door again, and a puff of wonderfully cool air drifted into the hall. I walked inside and shut the door behind me. It was like stepping out of a Louisiana swamp into the snow-covered peaks of the Rockies, and for a moment I just stood there in the dimly lit room, goosebumps popping up along my arms as the sweat evaporated. Sean had already sat down at his desk, and was dialing a football-shaped telephone. "Sit," he said to me, gesturing at a yellow beanbag chair with a battered smiley face in the center. I sat down gingerly, still feeling a bit queasy. I was still too embarrassed

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Goldfish Dreams to mind his commanding tone. "There's some bottled water in the refrigerator. Help yourself. Your mouth probably tastes like something out of the biology lab." The refrigerator was a small dorm model, only two feet high. The water was cold and wonderful. I rinsed my mouth, but there was nowhere to spit, so I forced myself to swallow the bile and the tiny lumps of food which had gotten wedged between my teeth. It was revolting, but afterward I could at least drink without feeling like my mouth was coated in slime. I looked around, seeing Sean's room for the first time. I set the bottle on the floor as I tried to take it all in. How much time had it taken him to turn a drab dorm room into this? Alisa and I had spent hours decorating our room, and it still felt like a dorm room. Sean's room was a cross between a crypt and a museum. The only light came from a small black lamp attached to the lower bunk. A set of silver satin sheets covered the ceiling, drooping and rippling as the air moved across their surface. The walls were covered in whorls and vaguely childlike drawings that glowed faintly, as though a child had tried to copy Native American designs by fingerpainting in luminescent colors. In some places, framed movie posters, mostly black and white films I didn't recognize, covered the patterns. The closet had been repainted in metallic gold. Sketches in a variety of styles covered the closet doors. I saw chalk landscapes, pencil drawings of animals, and what looked like a watercolor of a monarch butterfly with a hole burned through one wing. I studied that one closer. Behind the butterfly, a cigarette butt smoked, and what I had originally taken to be rocks were actually large shoes walking away. A rainbow arched through the background, cracks running up its base. A musty animal smell permeated the room. It smelled like cat litter. I started to ask where it was coming from, when something large launched itself from the top bunk and pounced onto my foot. I shrieked, kicking the water bottle as I tried to get away. Sean lunged to grab the bottle before it emptied itself completely onto the carpet. "Sorry. I should have warned you." He wasn't talking to me, but to the cat, if something that huge could still be considered a cat. "Goldfish, this is Eileen. Don't eat her." With that, he went back to talking on the phone, leaving me to contemplate the animal who now glared warily at me with wide, pale blue eyes. His fur was short and gray, with broken black stripes. Wisps of black fur stuck up from the tips of his ears, and gray tufts drooped down from either side of his jaw, giving him a vaguely comical look. After a while, he apparently decided to forgive me for trespassing on his beanbag. He stood and stretched, displaying a small poof of a tail, and climbed onto my lap. There, he let out a quiet, bird- like noise and curled into a ball with his head resting on my thigh.

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Jim Hines "He chirps," I said, startled. Sean hung up the phone and nodded. "He's a Pixie-Bob: half housecat, half bobcat, and half twerp. My mother breeds them back home in Washington." He paused, reconsidering his words. "She doesn't actually breed them. Just encourages them to breed with one another." He plopped down in front of me, crossing his legs so his feet rested on his thighs, yoga-style. I was surprised. Having seen him shirtless, I hadn't expected him to be in very good shape, but he looked perfectly comfortable. He studied my face for a few seconds, twirling a pen in one hand, then surprised me further by saying, "I'm going to guess it's boyfriend trouble." I blinked, and he grinned. "RAs can read minds. Remember that if you ever consider lying to one of us." "Is it written on my face?" His grin widened. "Well, it helps that I ran into your friend Jack as he was departing our fine facility a half hour ago. I saw the two of you together the last time he was out, so I asked why he looked like he had just run over his own mother with a bulldozer. He muttered something about the two of you breaking up, then slipped past me and escaped. So I assume your crisis is one of a romantic nature?" "Partly...not that it's any of your business," I said, sounding colder than I had intended. Why was I mad at Sean? It was Jack who felt it necessary to share my personal life with anyone he bumped into. I suddenly remembered the biological puddle I had left in the hallway. "I've got to clean that up." I started to rise, evicting the cat from my lap. When I stood, the blood drained from my head. The world faded for a moment, and I placed a hand against the wall to keep from falling. "That doesn't look like such a good idea," Sean said, grabbing my free arm to steady me. He held on until I sat back down. I closed my eyes and waited for my head to stop throbbing. "I just got off the phone with maintenance. They're sending someone by to get it." He grinned. "Full bio-contamination gear. Administration passed new rules over the summer. They look like something out of Star Wars." The thought of someone else cleaning up my vomit only added to the humiliation of it all. I continued to pet Goldfish, since that seemed like the easiest way to avoid thinking about it. His skin was loose, as though it were one size too large for his body, and it encouraged more vigorous petting. He responded by flipping over onto his back so I could scratch his belly. "So what else is going on?" Sean asked. "What do you mean?" "When I asked if it was about the break-up, you said 'partly,' which implies more." He leaned back, resting against the foot of his bed.

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Goldfish Dreams Terrific. I've got Sherlo ck Holmes for an RA. I tried to sound annoyed. "I'm just tired, and I messed up my first paper. I'll be fine." "You know they've got a language requirement at this school. I've studied a number of foreign tongues. What about you? Did you take the language placement exam, or are you going to have to take a language class while you're here?" The jump in topics threw me, but I answered anyway. "I placed into third year French." "You're lucky." He shook his head. "Languages give me a headache." I knew he was baiting me. I could tell by the twitch at the corner of his mouth. But I didn't know where he was going. "Why is that?" "I have a hard enough time translating English. But I've finally started to figure it out. For instance, I can translate what you said, which is 'I'll be fine', into what you really mean, which is 'Shut up Sean, I don't want to talk about it'." He winked. "Personally, I think that should qualify as understanding another language." He held up a hand before I could protest. "Don't worry about it," he said. With that, he stood up and returned to his desk. "If you want to talk, be my guest. I've got nothing to do tonight, and I'm not going anywhere. When you decide to leave, do so. If you just want to sit there and pet the cat, that's okay too." He grabbed a thick pencil from a ceramic mug and began to draw, effectively shutting me out of his world. I had no intention of talking. If neither my roommate nor my supposed boyfriend were interested in hearing my problems, why wo uld I try talking to an RA who acted more like an eccentric child than anything else. But I also wanted to give myself time to recover before trying to stand up again. My body felt as weak as if I had been through one of my father's advanced gymnastics classes. The only sounds were the rough purring of the cat, the scratching of Sean's pencil, the occasional voices passing outside the door, and the low grumble of the air conditioner. "How did you get air conditioning in here?" I asked, remembering what the receptionist had told me when I first moved in. "I thought you couldn't do that without a medical excuse." He answered without looking up. "Simone, the woman who lived here last year, had some health problems. She wound up in the ER twice with heatstroke before they gave in and had the AC installed. They're lucky she didn't sue their asses. They took it out at the end of the year, but the wiring was still in place, so I went out and bought one." "Must be nice," I muttered. The cat was warm in my lap, and oddly comforting. My mind began to wander. I thought about the psych paper. Maybe I would try and catch Patrick in his office hours. The few times he had talked to

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Jim Hines us, he had come across as genuinely warm and concerned about his students. In my mind, Patrick slowly shifted into Jack, sitting on the edge of my bed and refusing to meet my eyes. I felt pangs of regret about his leaving, but nothing stronger. There was an emptiness now, one that he used to fill. It left a sense of instability, but no anger. The air conditioner began to sound like the waves of the ocean before a storm. I never noticed when my eyes slipped shut. When I woke up, it was still dark. I started to sit up, and pain shot from the base of my skull down through the muscles of my right shoulder. Served me right for drifting off on a beanbag. I bent my neck, trying to stretch out the cramp. Sean was still awake, sprawled out in bed reading a copy of The Tempest. He heard me moving and glanced over. "Good morning." I nodded dumbly and mumbled a reply. When my mouth moved, I felt a streak of dried, flaky drool on my cheek. I wiped it with one hand, not really caring if Sean noticed or not. I knew I was a mess. "What are you doing still awake?" I asked when my brain was more alert. "I'm a night owl. Totally nocturnal. My parents used to say I was part raccoon. I haven't made it to breakfast more than three times in the past year." He closed his book. I took a deep breath and stood up. Both my stomach and my head felt more settled. I felt weird about spending the night in Sean's room. It carried a sense of intimacy that felt inappropriate and uncomfortable. Still, he had given me the chance to recover. "Thanks for letting me crash," I said. "Anytime." He grabbed his book again, but before opening it, he added, "Just make sure you don't start getting a crush on me." "What?" I stopped with my hand extended toward the doorknob. Was he so arrogant that he interpreted my spending the night as a sign of interest? "You're still adjusting to college, and you've just broken up with your boyfriend. Enter the handsome RA, a figure of authority and comfort. I want to make sure you don't rebound onto me." Even in the relative darkness, he must have seen something on my face, because he quickly added, "Not that you would, of course. Still, I am an awfully attractive guy." I knelt down to scratch Goldfish's head on my way out. "I thought cats were supposed to be the arrogant ones." I hadn't meant for Sean to hear, but his amused laughter followed me into the hall. I tried to be quiet, but when I unlocked the door and crept into my room, Alisa stirred in her bunk. A moment later, I realized why. It must be hard to sleep soundly with two people crammed onto a university- issue bed. Keeping the sheet pulled over her chest, Alisa rolled over and looked at me.

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Goldfish Dreams "What happened with you and Jack?" she asked. It was too dark to make out her expression, but I could hear the smirk in her voice. She probably thought we had been out for a late- night fling by the river or something. I kicked off my shoes and gave her a brief summary. "I wondered who that was," she said when I got to the part about throwing up in the hallway. When I finished, her bemusement was gone. "You spent the night in Sean's room? You don't even know him." I was struck by the disapproval in her voice, especially considering the snoring boy lying next to her, but I decided not to say anything about that. "Nothing happened. Are you scared I'm going to get attacked by the RA?" "Of course not. Not him, at any rate." She bit off whatever she was going to say next, but I was curious. There was something about her inflection. "What do you mean?" I could hear her struggling with her words. "Just because someone's an RA doesn't mean they're safe. If Sean were normal, you could have been assaulted or attacked." True, I conceded, although I wouldn't have gone into his room had I felt at all threatened. But Sean, despite being both annoying and arrogant, didn't strike me as the predatorial type. Though would I recognize a predator if I saw one? After all, everyone at school used to think my brother was a wonderful guy. But my gut told me Sean was harmless. He had been more interested in his books than in me. After I made it clear I didn't want to talk, he had ignored me. Alisa was waiting for some sort of answer, so I said, "What do you mean by 'normal' ?" Sean was definitely an odd one, but I sensed that she meant something more. She gave me a strange look. "You hadn't noticed? Sean's a total fairy. That's why I was so surprised when they let him be an RA." Sean was gay? That might explain why he had ignored me. I had never known anyone who was gay. Not that I knew of, at least. We used to think Ms. Larch was a lesbian, but then again, every teenager probably thought their gym teacher was gay. Finally I shook my head. Gay or straight, it didn't matter. Sean was still annoying. I sat down and shoved the covers to the bottom of the bed. After sleeping in Sean's room, the heat here was almost unbearable. "You should have waited for me." Alisa leaned over the edge of the bed, revealing more of her than I had any interest in seeing. "I'm a good person to talk to, especially about break-ups. Ending high school relationships is a pain, but I'll help you get through it. It happens to everyone their freshman year. At least you've already gotten it out of the way. I'll even help you find someone new, when you're ready."

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Jim Hines I grunted something that vaguely resembled "Thanks," and proceeded to fall asleep. Alisa had warned me that TAs didn't always keep their office hours, but when I finally found room 042B in the basement of the Psych Research building, Patrick was there. The door was open, and he sat with his chair tilted back on two legs as he highlighted various passages in a thick, hardback book. The office was rather stark. Bare yellow walls and black metal shelves made it feel more like a storage room than an office. Photocopied articles covered the desk, the one corner of the room with any personality at all. A poster of a kitten hanging from a tree was taped above the desk, and feminist bumper stickers surrounded the poster at different angles. I listened as he muttered to himself about overgeneralized results and politically biased interpretations. He sounded angry. But when he looked up and saw me standing there, he smiled. "Eileen, right? Welcome to my little dungeon." He gestured, offering me a seat in the cramped office. According to the names written on the door, he shared this space with three other teaching assistants. Fortunately, none of them were here; I couldn't imagine fitting more than two people in the room at once. "Is this about that paper?" I nodded, impressed that he remembered, and grabbed the paper out of my bag. He skimmed over Ralston's remarks, then laughed. "Looks like you did the same thing I did." "What do you mean?" He nodded at the articles on his desk. "When I started working on my thesis, I wanted to investigate domestic violence. I started reading everything I could get my hands on. I did that for about a month, then went to talk to Gary. Professor Ralston, I mean. "He told me I was wasting my time. I had gathered so much information I didn't know what to do with it all. I got angry and walked right out of his office. I had done all that work, more work than most of my peers, and he was telling me it was a waste of time? A few days later, I realized he was right." He rolled his chair closer to me and held my paper where we could both see it. "You started with an idea and decided to research it, just like I did. But that's backward. We've got to take the observations and ideas we have and use them to form a hypothesis. Then you start your research. If you don't have the hypothesis to narrow your focus, you'll end up rambling on forever witho ut anything to tie it together." He read a part of my paper out loud. "Women seem more likely to form same-sex clusters in the cafeteria than men." He set the paper to one side and looked me in the eyes. From behind small, silver-rimmed glasses, his blue eyes

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Goldfish Dreams focused on me as though there were nothing else in the room. "Why do you think that is? Are women more comfortable with one another? Are men more homophobic?" He waited patiently while I thought about it. Alisa was a prime example of my cafeteria observations. I never saw her alone for more than a minute, and I rarely saw her with less than three other women. Why was that? I thought about the way she had planned different group outings to try to cheer me up. If throwing me in with a bunch of fr iends was her way of helping me feel better, why wouldn't she use the same technique with herself? Groups worked as a protective mechanism. That was how Alisa dealt with stress and insecurity. There was something exciting about figuring out how Alisa's mind worked. I felt like a real psychologist. If it was true for Alisa, did it make sense that other women used the same coping mechanism? "Maybe women are more insecure than men," I said slowly. "This is how they deal with those insecurities." "Maybe," he agreed. He sat back in his chair, still watching me. "Take that a step farther. I mean, speaking as a man, we can get pretty insecure sometimes as well." I immediately saw where he was going. "You mean women just express their insecurity in a different way." He grinned, and I felt a wash of pleasure. "I couldn't say for certain," he said. "But it sounds like a good start for your hypothesis. Work with that, figure out how you might test to see if you're right. When we get to the actual research, why don't you bring your first draft in and run it by me before submitting it to Ralston's green pen of death." I laughed. Alone, Patrick was very different than in class. He seemed more relaxed. It felt like I was getting to see the real Patrick now. I had the sense that he would be the same way with any student, no matter how trivial their problem. We talked for another twenty minutes. He guessed that I was a freshman, and asked how I was adjusting to college. I admitted there had been some rough spots, but I didn't go into detail. Unlike the people I had talked to in my dorm, Patrick seemed to sense and respect my boundaries. When I left, he reached over and shook my hand. He was thin, almost anorexically so, but his handshake was strong and solid. "I'm glad you stopped by. A lot of students are afraid to talk to their TA, so they end up struggling throughout the semester. If you run into any more trouble, you'll come see me, right?" I could see from his eyes that he meant it, so I smiled and promised I would.

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Jim Hines

Alisa kept her promise to try and help me get over Jack. She made up a schedule guaranteed to keep me so busy I wouldn't have time to dwell on him. Along with a few of her friends, we were to spend Saturday in Jackson for what she called "the best ice cream in Michigan. " Sunday we would be canoeing up the Saint Joseph river, which cut through campus. I was a bit worried, since I had a biology test that Monday, but Alisa only laughed and promised to hook me up with a friend on second floor who was a biochem major. Alisa had taken me under her wing, whether I liked it or not. She began to keep tabs on all aspects of my life, turning into a combination friend and babysitter. Every freshman should have one. So when I got back from my meeting with Patrick the psychology TA, it was no surprise when she shoved her work aside to grill me, "How did it go?" "It was great," I said, and meant it. When I finished filling her in, she whistled. "Where was he when I took calculus? Our TA was this guy from India who talked with such a strong accent you could barely understand him. I would have killed for a TA like your man Patrick." I grinned. "He's the kind of person who made me want to go into psychology. He cares. You can hear it in his voice." Alisa watched me with a small smile. "Is he single?" I rolled my eyes at her single- mindedness. "He's got to be at least six years older than me." "The whole reason you went to him today is that he's more experienced, right?" She grinned wickedly. "Experience is a good thing." I was feeling good enough to fight back. "A woman can meet a nice man without having to drag him into bed, you know." She scratched her head, pretending to think about it. "I suppose," she said finally. "But what would be the point?" I threw a pillow at her. A little later, as we were cleaning up the sheets and pillows that had been scattered during our brief war, she shook her head. "Personally, I like older men. But I said I wouldn't try to set you up before you were ready, so I'll back off. Still, to waste one of the few genuine nice guys seems like such a sin." I shrugged. "So I'll do penance." With that, we dropped the subject of Patrick and headed to dinner.

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Goldfish Dreams

Chapter 5 My good mood lasted a week. By the following Monday, recurring nightmares had whittled away at my sleep until I was lucky to manage three or four hours a night before jolting awake. I would lie there reading for hours, going back and forth between the dense verbiage of Tolkien and the fast-paced action of Feist, until I could no longer keep my eyes open. Eventually, the fatigue would win, at least for a little while. Every time the nightmares threw me back into alertness, I had to get up and walk around the room to reassure myself that it was all a dream. I would stare out the window, which had finally been fixed, at the lamp- lit campus. The university never really slept, and I could always hear students yelling or talking as they wandered between the dorms. I'm sure Alisa noticed my nocturnal wanderings, at least on the nights she spent in our room. She and Ryan were rapidly moving toward coupleness. Many times I wo uldn't see her until early morning, when she raced through our room grabbing clean clothes for the day. But even when she was here, she never mentioned my nightmares. For the second time in a month, Professor Ralston turned out to be the catalyst that brought everything tumbling down. It was during our discussion of the history of psychology, when he began to talk about behaviorism. We spent the first half hour covering Pavlov's drooling dogs, operant versus classical conditioning, B. F. Skinner, and so on. Then we moved into the applications. Ralston grew more energized as we went. His voice picked up a more rapid pace, and he moved around the classroom as he talked. He told us how, psychologists had attempted to condition pigeons to guide missiles during World War II. They learned to maneuver a crosshair by moving their wings, and were rewarded for keeping a certain type of target within the crosshairs. The idea was to stuff the pigeons into the nose of the missile, where they would make the minute course changes necessary to insure an accurate strike.

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Jim Hines He laughed. It was the first time I had ever heard that sound come from our professor. "Imagine the millions of New Yorkers who would have benefited. Imagine the money that could have been saved on statue-cleaning. Unfortunately, the pigeon-project didn't fly." We groaned collectively, and even Patrick shook his head in amusement, briefly shedding his sober classroom persona. "One of the most popular non- military applications for behaviorism is the treatment of phobias. This can be broken down into gradual desensitization and flooding." I had learned about phobias when I read Brad's psychology book. Gradual desensitization was, as the name suggested, a long process. A patient afraid of snakes might first spend time looking at pictures of a snake, then watching a video, then watching a real snake in a pet store, and finally handling a live snake. It made sense, and I waited impatiently for Ralston to move on to flooding. Eventually, he did. "The second technique is more dramatic, but when it works, it speeds up the process immeasurably. Someone who is acrophobic, for instance, might be taken to a skydiving retreat. The act of jumping out of an airplane and falling thousands of feet can shock the patient out of a phobia. The same principle can be used to eliminate phobic behaviors in laboratory rats through an intense, one-time stimulus." With his explanation complete, he put a Far Side comic on the overhead projector for our amusement and opened the discussion to the class. I had never been so eager to jump in. I didn't even wait to be called on. "Couldn't flooding do more harm than good?" He nodded. "It may seem that way, but you have to remember that a good deal of psychology is counter- intuitive. If you read the literature, you'll find that flooding can be a highly effective technique." I piped up again as soon as he finished talking. "I know what the book says. But how do you know you're not just encouraging people to suppress their phobia? By putting a Band Aid over the symptom, you might just drive the underlying problem deeper." Patrick gave me a curious look. Ralston looked annoyed. "Ms. Greenwood, you're mixing psychoanalysis and behaviorism. From a purely behavioristic standpoint, if the phobic reaction is gone, then the phobia is cured. I suggest you hold on to your questions until we move into cognitive psychology, as cognitive ideas are more compatible with the behavioristic approach than the ideas of the late Mr. Freud. Then, when you have a better grasp of the concepts you're trying to talk about, you'll understand why the technique works." In other words, you're just a student, and you don't know what you're talking about. I clenched my teeth and slumped in my chair, biting back my response.

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Goldfish Dreams In some cases, I'm sure flooding was a wonderful technique. For patients with a fear of spiders, it might work to expose them to a tank full of tarantulas. Assuming they didn't drop dead of a heart attack, they could realize that spiders aren't as frightening as they thought. But what about deeper, more serious fears? I stopped dancing around the issue. To hell with acrophobia and fears of spiders, what about me? Normally, I avoided thinking about the first time Jack and I had sex. But today my anger at Professor Ralston served as a buffer, allowing me to take a closer look at that day. It was early in our relationship. We had made out a few times on his parents' couch or by his locker after school. But he wanted to go all the way. We talked about it, and I told him I wasn't interested. Brad had never had intercourse with me, so I was technically still a virgin. But the whole concept of sex left me feeling dirty, helpless, and vaguely ill. Jack and I argued back and forth for about a week. The argument ended on a Friday afternoon. After school, we went back to his house as usual, since his parents worked until five and I would take any excuse to avoid going home. His family had turned the basement into an entertainment center, and we sat on the couch listening to Fleetwood Mac. He didn't particularly like their music, but he knew I did, so he had picked up a copy of Rumors after we started seeing each another. We stayed down there for a while, making out and shoving his cat off the couch when she hopped up to investigate. Stevie Nicks was singing "Dreams" in the background when I pushed him away. "I'm sorry," I said, and I truly was. I knew sex was something he wanted, but it wasn't something I could do, and I told him as much. This time, he pressed the issue. "Tell me what you're afraid of." I shook my head. "I don't want to talk about it. Why don't we just watch a movie or something instead?" I started to rise, but he caught my hand and pulled me back. "I'm trying to understand you. Is this about religion? Can't do it until you're married, or some shit like that?" "No, nothing like that." I had been raised Episcopalian, but hadn't been to church in over a year. We had pretty much stopped going after Mom died. "Is it that you don't love me anymore?" He looked so worried that I leaned forward and kissed him. "Of course not." He crossed his arms. "You're afraid because you've never done anything like this before, aren't you?"

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Jim Hines I bit back several bitter comebacks. Thanks to Brad, I had far more experience than he realized. He mistook my silence for confirmation. "You're scared it's going to hurt?" I could feel the conversation slipping out of control. "Let's just wait, please," I pleaded. Instead of answering, he took my shoulders and gently pushed me back onto the couch. "You trust me, don't you?" I bit my tongue and nodded. "And you still love me?" I nodded again. "Then don't be afraid of me." He pulled a condom out of his pocket. I didn't think about it at the time, but I realized later that he must have planned this day for a while: the condom, the music...he had set me up. He unfastened my jeans, and I felt myself going numb. From there, he proceeded to "cure me" of my fears. I cried myself to sleep that night, the first time I had done so in years. But in a way, he was right. I stopped talking about my phobia, and we began a sexually active relationship that lasted an entire year. As Ralston had said, my "phobic behavior" was fixed. I never felt a thing when we were having sex, but at least Jack was happy. My hands were shaking. I held them in my lap until they stopped. Ralston was droning on about different schedules of reinforcers. He looked annoyed when I raised my hand, but he called on me anyway. "I know I'm jumping back a bit, but isn't flooding a violatio n of the client?" He started to answer, but I raised my voice and cut him off. "What would you do with a patient who was afraid of sex?" Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Patrick wince, but I ignored him. Ralston took a deep breath and began again. "Indeed, you are jumping backward. If you have a problem with the book or with me, I suggest you talk to me in my office hours. In the meantime, I would like to finish the discussion without wasting any more time." I felt like he had punched me in the gut. "Be my guest," I snapped. Without another word, I tucked my books into my bag, stood up, and walked out the door. Ralston watched me go, but continued his lecture. When I passed Patrick's seat, he slipped a folded piece of paper into my hand. I shoved it into my pocket and stormed out of the classroom. With typical Michigan unpredictability, it had started to rain while I was in class, so my hair and clothes were cold and clammy by the time I got back to

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Goldfish Dreams my dorm. Angry as I was, I expected to see steam rising off my clothes. I thought I understood part of what had happened. Ralston was a behaviorist; I had challenged my professor's pet theory. Ralston felt attacked, so he shot me down without bothering to listen. Patrick must have seen it coming, which was why he winced. I didn't care what Ralston's excuse was. I was still burning over the man's arrogance. Pigeons were one thing, but to apply the same theories to people without ever bothering to acknowledge the complexity of the human psyche was asinine. And if he wanted to drone on without being challenged, he should have taught one of the lecture sections rather than a twenty-five person honors class. Alisa and Robin glanced up as I flung my bag onto the bed. They exchanged a worried look, then Alisa gingerly asked, "What happened?" "My professor is an asshole," I snapped. Robin laughed. "Most of them are." I gave her a quick smile, then looked around, feeling trapped. I didn't want to stay here. I needed to move, needed to do something, it didn't matter what. Without knowing exactly where I was going, I stomped back out of the room. Neither of them tried to stop me. I passed Sean on my way out. He was putting up a new bulletin board, happily whacking away with an unhinged stapler. He started to speak, presumably to ask what was wrong, but I cut him off. "I'm fine," I snapped. Whack. In went another staple. "Sure," he said. "You know what that stands for, don't you?" I ignored him, but he didn't seem to care. He yelled after me, "Fucked up, Insecure, Neurotic, and Emotionally screwed." I flipped him off without glancing back, and he laughed. It wasn't a hard rain, more like a heavy mist. The water actually felt good against my face as I walked down the sidewalk. I followed Dutton Road up to the traffic circle, crossed the bridge to the east side of campus and kept going. My anger was starting to give way to another emotion: fear. I had never exploded like that in my life. I prided myself on self-control, and to lose my temper was unthinkable. By the time I made it to the railroad tracks at the edge of campus, I had forgotten about Ralston and was worrying about myself. My nightmares had been bad, but I had lived through nightmares in the past without losing control. Did this kind of thing happen to everyone when they started college? Nobody in my other classes had yelled at the professor and stomped out of the room. Bringing up those memories about Jack hadn't been a good idea either. Between the break-up and the freshly excavated memories from that first night on

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Jim Hines his couch, I felt like I was trying to stop a flood with my bare hands. The rain came down harder, jabbing my exposed skin hard enough to hurt. I jogged another block or so until I came to a bridge. I ducked underneath and climbed up one side, trying to maintain my footing on the smooth, slanted concrete. I sat there in the dampness, listening to the cars pass overhead and in front of me. I thought about the past few nights, how I would lay there, tense and afraid in the darkness. Stranger still was getting up in the mornings, joining the herds in the cafeteria, and realizing none of them knew what I had been through the night before. Not one of them had any hint of the images and sounds and smells that ripped through my mind at night. None of it was real, not anymore, but I couldn't escape from the memories. I was being chased by my own mental fantasies. Here in the gray daylight, it was easier to tell myself it wasn't real. The tightness in my chest had lessened a bit. I remembered the note Patrick had given me on my way out of class. I retrieved it from my pocket. In a hasty scribble, it read, Outreach, 2:30, if you need to talk. Terrific. Outreach was a crisis center over on Martin Street. I had seen their flyers posted on telephone poles around campus. Patrick must think I was nuts for flipping out like that. The thought hurt. He was someone I had come to respect, and I had gone and thrown a tantrum like a little kid. "Damn, you walk fast." The voice came from the road. I jumped and slid several feet down the concrete before I recovered my balance. My heart pounded like a bass drum. "Don't sneak up on me," I snapped as Sean stopped a few yards away, just beyond the shelter of the bridge. "What the hell are you doing here?" He looked down at himself. His old sweatshirt was dark with water; only the sides retained their original gray whe re his arms had blocked the rain. His hair dangled like orange tentacles, dripping around his face. He shrugged. "Practicing for the second great Flood?" Wiping his face, he added, "I'd like to come in, if you don't mind." I rolled my eyes, but he looked so pitiful standing there in the rain. After a moment, he climbed up next to me. "I don't want to talk about it," I said. "I understand." He grabbed some of his hair and began to squeeze out the excess water. "Actually, that works out pretty well. I don't want to listen to your problems." What a jerk! I started to snap at him, then caught myself. "Reverse psychology on a psych major? You can do better than that." He laughed. "I'm serious. If you don't want to talk, that's fine. I just want to make sure you don't do anything stupid."

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Goldfish Dreams I tried to ignore him, but I couldn't. Even though he didn't say anything more, he was still there. I could hear him breathing. I could see him out of the corner of my eye. Worst of all, he showed no sign of leaving, and the last thing I needed was someone following me around while I tried to sort things out. "What do you want, dammit?" He didn't appear fazed by my anger. "I told you, I want to be sure you don't do anything stupid." "So it's your job to follow all of your residents around whenever they wander off? That must keep you busy. I hope you're well-paid." After eighteen years with a bossy older sister, I had perfected the art of sarcasm. He nodded. "It doesn't happen very often, but yes, I consider it part of my job." I glared at him, but he made a 'T' with his hands. "Time out?" "What?" "Did Alisa ever tell you about Tom Dobson?" I hadn't heard the name. I did notice that Sean's usual carefree attitude was missing. He was taking this all very seriously, which was something I hadn't seen from him before. I nodded for him to continue. "He was a good friend of mine last year. Around the middle of the semester, things started going wrong. Classes, relationship problems, and then he lost his job, all within the span of a few weeks." He shook his head. "We tried to blow off some steam playing basketball, and he popped his knee. So much for basketball therapy. I tried to talk to him, but he always said he was fine." One eyebrow went up as he looked at me. "Sound familiar?" I rolled my eyes and waited for him to continue. "After a few weeks, he snapped out of it. Acted like everything really was fine. A few of us went out to a seafood place, and Tom spent the whole time doing Letterman impressions. Cracked up the whole group." He smiled, and his eyes were lost in the memory. "Remind me some time and I'll tell you his top ten ways to put cafeteria food to practical use." Another pause. "I found him that night, passed out in a puddle of puke. He had downed half a bottle of painkillers and most of a six-pack. I spent fifteen minutes doing mouth-to- mouth on my friend, and after every breath, as I sat there spitting beer and vomit out of my mouth, I told myself I should have seen it coming." He was quiet for a moment. "What happened to him?" "Shut up, I'm not done yet." My eyes narrowed, but I didn't say anything. It was the first time I had seen Sean angry. "He survived. I 'saved' him. Tom spent a month in a coma, and he still

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Jim Hines has residual brain damage, but he lived." He glared at me, and I pulled back. But his voice stayed calm and steady. "So I hope you understand why I feel a bit over-protective of my residents." "I'm not going to do anything like that," I said quietly. "I just needed to get away and think for a while." "Oh." Suddenly Sean was himself again, just like that. He nodded pleasantly. "Let me know if you need to borrow the cat again." I grinned despite my mood. "Can he be trained as an attack cat?" He straightened in mock affront. "Goldfish is a pacifist...except when a fly gets into the room." His hands batted wildly at the air. "Turns him into the incarnation of entropy." He gave me a sideways look. "Anyone in particular he'd be going after?" I looked him dead in the eye and said, "You're pathetic when you try to be subtle." "Subtle? Pah. I gave up on being unobtrusive and conforming years ago. Blending in got boring. You should see pictures from when I was a freshman." He leaned closer, like he was sharing international secrets. "I looked like a republican." I tried, but I couldn't imagine it. "You haven't answered the question," he added. Rolling my eyes at his stubbornness, I gave him a quick summary of Ralston's class, omitting my own sense of panic. I thought I stayed very calm while I told the story, but at the end, I had to clasp my hands together to hide the trembling. "You're the psych major," he said. "What's your analysis of the problem?" "I stepped on his pet theories." Sean shook his head. "You're missing the point." The muscles in my neck and shoulders tightened. "What do you mean?" "You interrupted his lecture more than once after he had moved on. When you refused to let it drop, you challenged his control of the classroom." I thought about that. I hadn't really considered the possibility that I could be a threat to a professor. I was only a student. "There's also the question of why he set you off so strongly to begin with," Sean said. That was another part of the story I had glossed over, but he was more attentive than I thought. He even nodded toward my hands, which were still shaking. I hated for him to see my weakness, and my answer came out rather harshly. "I thought you didn't want to listen to my problems." He laughed, continuing to react exactly opposite of the way I expected. "I don't. My job keeps me too busy to listen to everyone, especially when they're determined to keep things to themselves and not talk to anyone until they

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Goldfish Dreams explode." "So why are you prying into my problems?" "I'm not prying, I'm just pointing them out. What you decide to do is up to you. In most cases, people decide to get pissed off and tell me to go to hell." "It's tempting," I admitted. His grin returned. "I know. I'm such a pain in the ass." That didn't require an answer. I glanced at my watch. Only one o'clock. I was surprised. I felt like more time had gone by. Though I wouldn't admit it to him, Sean's clumsy prying and sledgehammer tactics had worked on some level. I had been keeping everything to myself, and this morning, I had exploded. It was time to try something different. Sean was waiting silently, watching me as I worked through all of this. "You don't need to stay, you know. I'm okay." He ducked his head, sheepishly hiding behind his hair. "Actually I do. I never come to this part of town, and you were going so fast, I think I got lost."

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Jim Hines

Chapter 6 I stopped back at Sparrow Hall to change clothes and to apologize to Alisa for being so short with her. I also asked to borrow her umbrella, as it was still raining and I didn't have one of my own, an oversight I planned to remedy as soon as I found time. Sean and I grabbed a quick lunch before the cafeteria closed, and then he returned to his bulletin boards and I headed to Outreach. I didn't know the exact address, so I wandered a bit until I found one of their flyers on a telephone pole so packed with old staples that it looked like a rusty cactus. I wrote the address and phone number on my hand and jogged up Martin Street, hoping Patrick would still be there. By now, it was nearly three in the afternoon. The crisis center was part of a larger brick complex on the far side of the street. A spiral staircase led up to the front door, squeezed between a pizza place and a credit union. Someone had painted an oak tree onto the door, and the branches framed the words Outreach Crisis Center. Walk-ins Welcome. An electronic bell went off as I walked inside. The smell of cigarette smoke hit me in the face, and I stifled a cough. I was standing in a dark entryway. To my left, brochures covered the wall, describing everything from AIDS to suicide prevention to self-defense classes for women. A large green sofa dominated the other side. The hallway ahead veered to the right. The far wall had a large, sliding window in the center. Someone pulled a curtain up from the inside and stared out at me. She had a phone clamped to one ear. She held up her hand, signaling for me to wait. Outreach wasn't what I had imagined. I had envisioned rows of cubicles, with young men and women talking on headsets to desperate, suicidal callers. Instead, it was like someone had taken a small apartment and tacked the "professional" details on at the last minute. I sat down on the sofa, earning a nasty bruise in the process. The sofa was little more than green velvet stapled onto a framework of two by fours. Any

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Goldfish Dreams cushioning had apparently leaked away over the years. This is your last chance to get away, I thought. And then Patrick poked his head around the corner and spotted me, and it was too late. I was committed. "The couch was donated," he said, misinterpreting my expression. He looked a little sheepish. "We used to have a nicer one a few years back. Some drunk kid walked in while both counselors were on the phone. He urinated all over the couch, then passed out on the floor before they could get to him." He took a deep breath, and I wondered why he was so nervous. "Why don't we come back here?" he asked. "There's a little more privacy, and the furniture is both comfortable and urine- free." He led me down a short hallway to a door marked ARC Room. "What's this?" I asked. "'Assault Recovery Counseling'. Outreach has two real services. The first is basic crisis counseling: the phones, the walk- ins, and so on. But we also offer short-term rape counseling." For a moment, I thought my problems were so apparent that Patrick could tell what had happened without my ever saying a word. He shrugged. "It was either here or the conference room, and everyone is always walking in and out of the conference room." That made sense, but I felt shaken. The aptness of the setting was disconcerting, to say the least. The furniture in the ARC room was more tasteful, and more comfortable as well. I sat down in one of the two armchairs. As Patrick shut the door, I glanced at the books that lined one wall. There were personal tales of surviving abuse and assault, as well as what looked like more research-oriented works. The rest of the walls were covered in amateur artwork, most of it done in marker. I winced to see how many had been drawn by children, with jagged lines and scribbles filling the pages. Nature scenes dominated. "Most of them were done by clients," Patrick said. "It started when we ran a support group and everyone taped up pictures of their 'safe places'. Since then, a lot of our clients have asked about them and decided to do their own." "That's nice," I said quietly, looking anywhere but at him. He sat down in front of me with his fingers woven together in his lap. He kept his voice gentle as he asked, "So what happened today?" I had decided to talk to him, but I couldn't just bring myself to blurt out everything. "Professor Ralston hit a sensitive spot." Patrick laughed warmly. "So I noticed." I blushed, but I was amused more than embarrassed. "I kind of lost it, didn't I?" He hesitated before answering. "For some people, that much intensity would have been normal. But you tend to be very careful when you speak." I sighed. "I know." With all of the students in the class, the fact that he

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Jim Hines had seen enough of me to make that sort of judgment said a lot for his powers of observation. It made me nervous. I wondered what else he might have seen. He sat back, continuing to watch and listen but giving me the space to continue at my own pace. He seemed to sense that there was something more serious than my anger at a narrow- minded professor. "What is this?" I asked finally, waving an arm to take in the building, the room, him.... "Is this a client-counselor thing, or are you just a teaching assistant with a student?" He shook his head. "For now, let's say it's two people who decided to get together after class to talk." That was probably the best answer I could have hoped for. I hated the idea of becoming a "client," but at the same time, I didn't want to be a problem student running to the TA with her complaints about the professor. Still, there was one other thing I needed to know. "Everything is still confidential though, right?" He nodded firmly, adding, "And you don't have to tell me anything you're not comfortable with." His voice became even mo re calm and gentle. "Does this have anything to do with the last question you fired at Ralston?" While my anger from the morning was still clear, my actual words were lost in a haze. I looked at him, confused. "You asked him about flooding as a technique for curing sexual fears." My embarrassment came flooding back, and I stared at the carpet. "You know, don't you?" I whispered. "Not really," he said. "Your behaviors, both the way that you talk and the way you let other people's attention kind of slide right past you, it all fits certain patterns I've seen in sexual assault survivors. But that could mean anything, and I wouldn't presume to try to guess." I closed my eyes, trying to build up the courage to talk. Even though I had decided to tell him, I had seven years of silence to overcome. I kept my eyes closed and pretended I was alone in the room. It helped, but not much. My mouth must have opened and closed a dozen times before any words came out. When I finally spoke, I'm sure he had to lean forward to hear. "About a week after I got here, I started having nightmares about the first time my brother...." I hesitated, searching for the right word. "Molested me," I said eventually. It was the best word I could come up with. I described the dream. I was surprisingly calm, once I began talking. After all these years, it felt anticlimactic. I thought I should be hysterical or screaming or something. Instead, I opened my eyes and continued to talk with so little emotion it was like I was reading from a script. When I finished, there was an awkward silence, then Patrick asked, "What you describe in your dream, that's how it really happened?"

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Goldfish Dreams "Mostly," I said. "Later that night, Brad started to get paranoid about our father coming home. He reminded me that I'd get in trouble if I told, then sent me to bed." "How long did this go on?" "About four years." He cringed when I said that. I watched his face, studying the emotions that danced openly across his features. Sadness and anger, mostly. He seemed to be holding his own feelings in check, but his eyes were too expressive for him to hide them completely. Another realization started to sink in as we watched each other. "You believe me," I said softly. "You sound surprised," he said. I was. I hadn't expected that, and it left me shaken. The fact that he believed me hit harder than actually talking about it. "You tried to tell somebody before?" he asked. I nodded slowly, remembering. "About a month after it started." Brad had been away at wrestling camp for the week, but it felt like I was the one on vacation. For those few days, I could sit in the living room and watch television while Dad and Krista were both at work and not have to worry. I must have watched four or five hours of cartoons and soap operas every day. Some things had already been too deeply ingrained to change. I still dressed in the bathroom rather than running to my room with a t owel wrapped around me like I used to. I still shut all of my stuffed animals in the closet when I went to bed. Brad had only come to my bedroom twice. The first time, I looked away, and it was like the stuffed animals were staring at me. I could just make out their round, plastic eyes from the light of my night light. I was old enough to know they were just toys, but I couldn't shake the feeling that they were watching us. I gave myself a headache that night from keeping my eyes squeezed shut so tightly, all so I wouldn't see them staring. Even with Brad away, their plastic stare still made me feel ashamed. Overall though, it was wonderful. Brad was forty miles away. For me, at that age, it was as good as having him in another country. I had a nightmare toward the end of the week. I got tangled in my sheets and couldn't move. When I woke up, it was like he was on top of me again. But this time, he wasn't there. This time there was nobody to threaten me. So instead of getting scared, I got mad. Everyone else was asleep. I climbed down out of bed and tiptoed down the hall to Brad's room. His door was covered in yellow construction tape, the kind warning people to stay away. He and his friends had swiped it a few years back when the

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Jim Hines junior high school added a new wing to the building. The door squeaked when I pushed it open. I froze, waiting to see if anyone heard. The rest of the house was silent. Feeling like a criminal, I snuck into his room and looked around. I didn't know exactly what I was doing. I just knew that it wasn't fair, and I wanted to do something to hurt him back. I turned on the lamp on his dresser. His room was smaller than mine. As I stood there, I remembered something my friend Laura had told me about her older brother. I yanked the mattress up and reached beneath it. I found a beat-up copy of Playboy. I sat on his floor, back against the wall, as I flipped through the pages, studying the women in the dim light. I didn't understand. I looked nothing like these women. My chest was as flat as any boy's, and I hadn't even started to grow hair down there. If this was the sort of thing Brad liked to look at, why would he do these things to me? Was this a phase all boys went through? Maybe this was normal, something that parents never talked about, like periods. I hadn't had mine yet, but Laura had. She was a year older than me, and she said we all got them eventually. My father had never talked to me about it. But I didn't know anyone whose brother treated them like a girlfriend. It couldn't be normal. So I sat there, staring at the naked women and wondering why I was different from other girls my age. What was it about me that made him do those things? I left the magazine on his bed, hoping Dad would find it and yell at Brad. I continued to look around the cluttered room, climbing up onto the bed so I wouldn't trip over any of his old clothes. I eventually ended up staring at his trophy shelf. It was a small, brown shelf he had put together with Dad's help. He kept the small trophies from flag football and soccer on the ends of the shelf, but it was the two big trophies he was most proud of. They were both from wrestling. I remembered how excited he was after winning the first one. He made sure everyone in the house saw it. He wouldn't even change out of his uniform until Dad got out the camera and took his picture. He had been almost as excited about the second one, a year later. The gold man on the top of the statue stood with his arms outstretched and his legs spread, like a bear getting ready to attack. I looked at it for a while, getting angrier and angrier. Brad won trophies for learning how to pin people down and hurt them. To me, the trophies stopped being about a sport. They were things he won because he was strong enough to make me do anything he wanted. The next thing I knew, I had grabbed one of the trophies and swung it against the wall like a baseball bat. The marble base gouged a chunk from the wall, but I didn't care. I kept swinging and swinging until it fell apart. The

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Goldfish Dreams marble broke away from the trophy, and the gold man came apart in my hands. His other wrestling trophy was still intact. As the lights came on and the door swung open, I grabbed the second trophy and swung it into the floor as hard as I could. I didn't care about getting in trouble. I didn't care that my father was there, staring at me from the doorway. I just wanted to destroy. I wanted to destroy Brad, to hurt him and break him and make it so he could never touch me again. The trophy broke. The gold man splintered in my hands, stabbing my palms with plastic shards. An instant later, my father's hands grabbed my arms and hauled me into the air. "Stop it, Eileen!" I didn't stop struggling until we were out of Brad's room. My sister Krista stood in her doorway, blinking the sleep out of her eyes. "What's going on?" "Go to bed," Dad ordered. He carried me downstairs and set me down on the couch. Towering over me, he asked, "What's going on?" I was already in trouble. He looked furious, and I figured nothing I said was going to make it any worse. I was wrong. "I couldn't help it," I said. As soon as I started to talk, tears began streaming down my face. But I refused to cry like a kid. I was too angry. So I talked through the tears. "I hate him, and I had to do something to get back at him." "Eileen, he's your brother." I could tell that he was trying to remain calm by the way he breathed. "I know you two don't get along, but he's not even home. There's nothing to get back at him for." The anger dragged me along. Looking him straight in the eye, I said, "What about the times when you're not home, when he makes me sit on his lap and puts his hands down my shorts? What about when he comes into my room at night and makes me kiss his penis? What about-" "Enough!" I froze. I had never seen my father this furious. The lines in his neck stood out like strings, and his face was blood-red. I could see him fighting for control, and I prayed that he won. He looked like he wanted to hit me. His hands clenched at his sides, and he turned away from me. I braced myself. When he turned around again, his eyes were calm. His voice was perfectly steady. "You're grounded." I was stunned. I couldn't speak at first; I was still struggling to understand what he had said. "I'm grounded?" "This isn't a game anymore, Eileen. It's bad enough that the two of you don't get along. But this is the worst thing any of you have ever come up with to

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Jim Hines get someone in trouble." I started to protest, but he cut me off. "Damn it, don't you dare interrupt me right now. In case you've forgotten, your brother hasn't been here for five days. I don't know what made you go berserk tonight, but it obviously wasn't anything Brad did." I crossed my arms and stared at the wall. Nothing I said was going to change his mind. So I dug my fingernails into the inside of my elbows and gritted my teeth in silence. "I raised you better than this. You can't go accusing people of that sort of thing. Do you know what this could do to his reputation?" He yelled at me for over a half-hour, but I stopped listening. I was too busy keeping myself from yelling back. Anything I said would only make it worse. After that night, he never said another word to me about it. Over the years, I tried once or twice to hint at what was going on, but he always got that furious look in his eyes. This was something I had to deal with by myself. When Brad got home, he waited until Dad and Krista were gone to beat me up for what I had done to his trophies. I got a black eye and a bloody nose, and he got grounded for a week. Still, I preferred being beat up. At least that way I could go to Dad with proof. And being beaten up didn't make me feel so ashamed. When I finally stopped talking, Patrick looked furious. I cringed. For an instant, it was like being back in front of my father, and I was terrified he would start to yell. His eyes widened when he saw my expression. "Oh God, Eileen, I'm sorry. I'm not angry at you." He sounded afraid that I wouldn't believe him, but I did. He looked so guilty that I started to feel bad for misunderstanding him. When he spoke again, he sounded more professional, more like a counselor. "Unfortunately, what you describe isn't uncommon. No parent wants to believe their child could be an abuser." Somewhere during the course of my story I had started to cry. Patrick handed me a box of tissues. "I don't understand any of it," I said. "I don't understand why Brad would do this, and I don't understand why my father wouldn't believe me." "Would it be easier if you could make some sort of sense out of it all?" I frowned, but he didn't act like it was a leading question. He sat there, leaning toward me and waiting for my answer. I couldn't keep the sarcasm from my voice. "That might help, yes." Rather than get defensive, he asked, "Who are you angry at?" "I'm not angry." Even as I spoke, I knew how ridiculous it sounded. He smiled, and his voice grew softer. "You've spent years learning how

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Goldfish Dreams not to be angry. How to bottle up the rage and toss it away. And when those bottles come washing back up again, you just throw them farther. Your father taught you what can happen if you get mad. But eventually there will be too much anger, too many bottles, and you won't be able to throw them all back." I glared at him. "Do all ARC counselors think they can read minds?" He laughed. "We can be an arroga nt bunch. But I've worked with rape survivors for two and a half years, so I like to think I've got a little insight." It was the first time either of us had used the word rape. It sounded cold and alien. The image that flashed through my mind was a stranger in the bushes jumping out of the darkness to attack a woman crossing the campus alone at night. "There's no rule saying that you have to get angry," he said. "You'll work through this in whatever way is best for you. But is it okay that I'm angry about what happened to you?" For a moment, I saw the same glint in his eyes that had scared me before. But this time, knowing he wasn't angry at me, but at what I had been through, I didn't flinch. It actually felt good, in a way. Someone believed me and cared enough to be angry for me. "Yeah," I whispered gratefully. "That's okay." I dried my face and sat back in the chair. My body tingled with dizziness when I moved. I felt physically and emotionally drained. "I don't think I can talk about this any more right now," I said apologetically. "That's fine. Nobody is going to make you do more than you're ready for." He stood up and offered me his hand to help me up. Then he grabbed a pen and paper from the bottom shelf. "If you want to talk more, this is my home phone number. Call me any time." I took the paper and tucked it in my pocket. Standing there next to him, I realized for the first time how short he was. I was used to being taller than people, but the top of his head barely cleared my chin. He placed both hands on my shoulders. "Will you be okay?" "For now, yes." Impulsively, I grabbed his hands and squeezed. "Thanks." In that moment, I felt an intimacy stronger than anything I had ever experienced with Jack. "You're welcome." I started to go, but he held on to one shoulder. "One other thing," he said. I waited, not sure what to expect. His eyes danced as he said, "Warn me next time you're planning to launch an all-out assault on my supervising professor, will you?"

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Jim Hines

Chapter 7 "So I hear you found yourself an older man." Robin said by way of greeting as I joined her and Alisa in the cafeteria. I glared at Alisa, who put on her best innocent face and said, "Well, yo u've been going out with this guy Patrick for what, three weeks now?" "Four," I answered. "But nothing's going on." Robin laughed. "So why haven't you told us about him?" "Because...." Because I was afraid you'd get the wrong idea. I still felt awkward about spending time with Patrick outside of class, even though there was nothing inappropriate about it. There was probably a rule against students and teaching assistants getting involved. At the same time, I wasn't about to tell people what was really going on, so I said nothing. I should have realized how Alisa would interpret my silence. Mostly, all that happened was that Patrick and I would meet for an hour or two and I would talk. He just listened, occasionally clarifying something or offering an interpretation I hadn't thought of. He also loaned me a few books from Outreach's library. I was halfway through the second book. The first was pure, dry research, and while it was interesting to read about statistics on family abuse, it didn't help me understand my own life. It also included several essays on activism. But I didn't want to change the world; I only wanted to go to bed without worrying about nightmares. The second was a bit better. It was the story of a woman who had endured over a decade with a sexually abusive stepfather. "Patrick's a friend," I said. "We've been talking a lot, that's all." Alisa studied my face, searching for signs of deception. "Are you sure you two aren't running off to secluded corners of campus for more carnal purposes?" I flung a french fry at her. "So how did you two meet?" Robin asked. I shrugged. "I exploded in class. Patrick is the TA, and he offered to

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Goldfish Dreams listen if I needed to blow off some steam." I pulled out my notebook and began reviewing for biology, hoping they would take the hint. I should have known better. "I still think somebody's been blowing a bit more than steam," Alisa muttered. I blushed at the innuendo, and Robin smacked her in the shoulder. It looked like a friendly punch, but Alisa winced and grabbed her arm. "If the girl says there's nothing going on, then nothing's going on." Robin looked angrier than I was, which was odd. "Besides, if we're going to talk about relationships, what about the time you and that business student got drunk and started going at it in the study room?" Alisa glared at her. "We did not start 'going at it.' We were just kissing." Robin winked at me. "Look at her, all innocent...you'd think she was kissing him on the lips!" As Alisa indignantly tried to defend herself, I noticed that Robin had effectively changed the focus from me and Patrick. I would have to remember to thank her later. Maybe Alisa's comments bothered me because the last thing I wanted to do was develop feelings for Patrick. At the same time, when I was with him, I felt safe. He listened without condemning or judging me, no matter what I told him. It would be dishonest to say I wasn't attracted to him. We had been getting together about once a week, and I found myself looking forward to those nights. It was good to be able to talk, but there was more. I looked forward to his company, to that soft, reassuring voice that could shift without warning into a gentle joke that made me laugh despite myself. And when we hugged, I was very aware of the heat of his body next to mine. Even his hugs were different, more attentive. Most men used hugs as an excuse to cop a feel, or else they treated you like fragile china, like they were afraid you'd break at the slightest pressure. Patrick was somewhere in between. He never treated me like I was delicate, but he always respected my boundaries. Once, while describing one of the more violent nights with Brad, he had squeezed my arm for support. I jerked back, not wanting to be touched by anyone. He must have apologized six times by the end of that night. I think it bothered him more than it did me. "Don't you have class today?" Robin asked Alisa. "Why, what time is it?" Alisa spun around in her chair so she could see the clock over the door. In the next few seconds, she swore loudly, gulped down an entire glassful of juice, grabbed her bag with one hand, and hopped out of the chair, nearly falling as she struggled to dodge the other students. After she had gone, Robin turned her attention to her soup. Without looking at me, she said, "You like him, don't you?" "Who?" I said automatically. She rolled her eyes at me, and I blushed. "I

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Jim Hines think so, yes." "Does he know?" she asked, going back to her soup. "He's a grad student in psychology. What do you think?" I had tried to put myself in his position. Patrick was at least twenty- four, trying to help a freshman girl from his class, and what does she do? She goes and gets a crush on him. My face burned every time I thought about it. "He's also a guy," Robin pointed out. "I don't care how bright he is, guys have the brains of a week-dead squirrel when it comes to relationships. Even if he does know, he probably wouldn't say or do anything about it unless you tell him." I kept my attention on my sloppily scrawled drawings and notes. "You think I should tell him?" "Why not?" "It's not that simple. He's my TA. He's at least six years older than me. He's- " "Is he cute?" she asked. My mouth stretched into a grin before I could stop it. "Besides," she added, "if you tell him and he says no, what have you lost? It's a no-risk proposition." Unless he stopped talking to me. I couldn't tell Robin how important that was to me. The idea of losing his support terrified me. I didn't know who else I could talk to about the nightmares, and I hated the idea of having to keep it all to myself again. Now that I had started to let it all out, to go back to the way I had been before would be like trying to rebuild a dam by hand after it was already leaking. Of course, I didn't tell Robin any of this. I didn't know her very well yet, and telling someone that you're only a few steps away from going completely nuts isn't a good way to make friends. "So what are you going to do?" she asked. At least this one could be answered honestly. "I don't have the slightest idea." I met Patrick in the botanical gardens after dinner. The gardens were his suggestion after I told him I wasn't comfortable meeting at Outreach all the time. It made me feel too much like a client, and what I really wanted was a friend. I found him waiting at one of the concrete benches on the edge of the river. We had decided to talk about something relatively mild tonight. The last few times, I had ended up in tears by the end of the evening, and I didn't have the strength to continue that pattern every week. Instead, we talked about my older sister Krista. After all, we had already talked about Brad and my father, and even once about my mother. It was probably because of my conversation with Alisa and Robin, but as I

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Goldfish Dreams talked, I found myself studying the way the wind messed his short, thinning hair, and the way his eyes crinkled at the corners when he smiled. This also meant I was quicker to notice the dark lines beneath his eyes. "What's wrong?" I asked, interrupting myself in mid-sentence. He raised an eyebrow. "Isn't that my line?" "Where do you think I learned it?" He started to say something, but I wasn't going to let him change the subject. "Isn't that what us psych majors are supposed to do? Observe signs of stress, like the way your shoulders are all hunched up and tight, then ask about it." I gave him a mock-glare. "Unless you think I'm too young to talk to." "You've had a rough semester. I don't want to add to what you're going through." "So you can help me, but I'm not allowed to return the favor." I turned away as I spoke, trying to hide the hurt. "Instead, you'll sit on things until it builds up and overwhelms you, right? Better to wait until you're burnt out and no good to anyone." He pantomimed waving a white flag. "I give up," he laughed. "I'll talk." I turned back around, straddling the bench and crossing my arms. "Well?" He stared at the fence behind us and sighed. "I live in a house with one guy and two women. One of the women, Kim, has been having trouble with her ex-boyfriend. He keeps calling her and following her to work and to classes. It's really starting to get to her. We talked about getting a restraining order, but she didn't think it would help. "This morning, when she went out to her car, there were a dozen roses on the front seat. He probably thought it would be romantic, but they scared the hell out of her. She threw the roses out and went to class. When she came out to the parking lot, he was waiting for her. They argued for a while, then he swore at her, called her a lying slut and a whore, and stormed off." I reached over and squeezed his hand. He smiled and wrapped his fingers around mine. It was supposed to be a gesture of support, but sitting here holding Patrick's hand made it hard to concentrate on what he was saying. My mind kept drifting to the feel of his fingers intertwined with mine. "By the time I got home, Kim was terrified. She was afraid he would come to the house again. We talked about it for a few hours. At first, she just needed to let it all out--the frustration, the fear, the anger.... Eventually we tried to figure out what we could do about it. She's going to start carpooling to work, and I or someone else from the house can drive her to and from class. She's still not willing to go to the police, and I'm scared for her." "It sounds like you did everything you could," I said. I hated seeing him so frustrated, but I didn't know what else to say.

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Jim Hines "I know," he said. He squeezed my hand. "I still wish I could do more." That made me laugh. He looked at me curiously. "You're a grad student and a teaching assistant," I said. "You volunteer at Outreach. You meet with me every week just to give me the time to talk. Apparently, you also play the counselor in your own home. How much more can do before you end up on the shrink's couch?" He stood and shook his head, but I was pleased to see that my mini- lecture had earned a small grin. We walked for a while, finally stopping in front of the belladonna. "How do I know my limits if I don't push myself?" I gave him my best imitation of Alisa's "innocent" look. "When mere freshmen are spotting the fact that you're exhausted, perhaps you could take that as an indication of overwork?" He laughed, startling a duck who had wandered up from the river. We watched it half- walk and half- fly until it disappeared behind a row of maples. "You're going to be a great therapist someday," he said. I looked away, pretending I had heard something. "I'm sorry, that was the timer. I'm afraid our time is up for today. That will be a hundred and fifty dollars for the hour." I held my hand out expectantly. He laughed again. Grabbing my hand in his, he pulled me closer and hugged me. I stayed there for a while, feeling the warmth of his skin against my cheek and his arms circling around my body. I felt like this was a chance for me to pay him back, in some small way, for everything he had done for me over the past weeks. I was astonished at how thin he felt. I knew he was a small man, but there was little more than skin and bones beneath the nylon windbreaker. His hair tickled my cheek. After a while, he lifted his head and looked at me. He had an odd halfsmile that reminded me of a little kid with a secret. "What?" I asked. He bit his lip, as though struggling with himself. After a few seconds, he seemed to give up. "An extremely inappropriate thought just crossed my mind." I waited anxiously, trying to control my breathing even though I knew he couldn't be thinking what I thought he was thinking and I was just imagining that sexy gleam in his eyes. And then he said, "What would you do if I kissed you right now?" I tightened my arms around his shoulders, if only to keep from falling. I managed to keep my voice low and level as I answered, "That depends. Are you a good kisser?" He seemed to contemplate this for a while. "Kissing is an entirely subjective subject. I could give you an answer, but it wouldn't really mean as much as first-hand research." Then his voice turned stern. "And as your TA, I

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Goldfish Dreams feel it's my duty to help you improve your research skills." I tightened my grip on his shoulders. "If you're joking, I'll break your neck." He pulled my head down and kissed me. For the first second, I stood there, frozen. But only for the first second. I eventually pulled away. He didn't resist, but there was a questioning look in his eyes. "This is wrong. You're my TA. And we're..." I paused, not knowing what word to use for the odd, hybrid relationship between the two of us. "Friends?" he offered. I nodded slowly. After all, the reason I insisted on talking outside of Outreach was so that we could be friends, rather than a counselor with a client. But he was still my TA, and he was a Master's student while I was only a freshman. "I'm sorry if I pushed," he said. Lines of concern wrinkled his forehead. "Don't be sorry," I said too quickly. I hoped he couldn't see my blushing in the dim light. Without saying anything, he took my hand and led me to a bench next to a small, algae-covered goldfish pond. Neither of us spoke for a while as we sat there, watching the murky, orange shapes beneath the water. A nearby light, shaped like a tall blue mushroom, buzzed like a persistent insect. I finally forced myself to look at him. His glasses were in his hand as he stared at the sidewalk. "You're right. I shouldn't have done that," he said quietly. I held myself very still. "Why not?" I was the one who had pulled back, but not because I wanted to. Why did I have to think about things so much? Why couldn't I just go with what I wanted? What was wrong with me? I didn't even know why I had stopped. Maybe there was a part of my subconscious devoted to making sure I was never happy. Whatever it was, I hated it. I hated the tension I had created. I hated that now we were both hurt and confused when a moment ago everything had been wonderful. Despite my efforts to conceal it, he must have heard the pain in my voice. He lifted his head and gave me a worried look. "I don't want to hurt you." I rolled my eyes. "I've told you about Brad. I've told you about the last time I saw Jack. How were you planning to hurt me?" It was harsher than I intended, and he flinched. "That's why I shouldn't have kissed you. I don't want you to get hurt again." "Thanks a lot." I stood up to walk away. After a few steps, I felt his hand close gently on my arm. Before he could say anything with that gentle, "counseling" voice, I snapped, "Then what the hell were you doing back there? What kind of counselor plays with people's feelings like this?"

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Jim Hines "That's the problem. I'm not your counselor. And you're not the only one with feelings." He had never used such a stern tone with me before. I started to snap at him before realizing what he was saying. "What feelings?" He threw up his hands and glared at the stars. "I kissed you because I wanted to. Because there are times that I find myself very strongly attracted to you." I should have been happy, but it only frustrated me further. "So you shouldn't have kissed me because you're attracted to me? Are you sure I'm the one who needs counseling?" "Eileen, it's only been a few weeks since you broke up with Jack. I'm your teaching assistant, and even though we don't have an official counselor-client relationship, do you really think it would be a good idea to get involved right now?" I refused to answer. He stepped closer and put his hands on my shoulders. "I care about you a lot. I don't want to ruin things by going too quickly or jumping into something without thinking it through. Can you understand that?" Gritting my teeth, I nodded sharply. "You're still angry," he said. I winced. He was being so open and so honest. This was as much my fault as it was his. "I'm sorry," I said. "I- " "It's okay." He shook his head. "I messed up. I don't want my behavior to interfere with the relationship we've already established." I couldn't help it. I laughed. "You sound like the damn psych book," I said accusingly. In a passable imitation of Ralston, he said, "By introducing a negative stimulus into the environment, I have created the potential for destabilization, as well as establishing a blueprint for unhealthy future interactions." In a more serious voice, he added, "I don't want that to happen." I reached out and grabbed his hand, twining his fingers with mine. "I don't either." As we walked back to the bench, he said, "After tonight, you'll probably be afraid to talk to me outside of class." "Don't count on it," I snapped. I could barely see his answering grin in the darkness. We talked for close to an hour. Afterwards, he gave me a ride back to Sparrow. I insisted it wasn't necessary, but he said it made him feel better. "I want to make sure you get back safely," he explained. I felt a bit lightheaded as I walked down the hall toward my room. I didn't know what to think or what to feel. He had kissed me! But he had stopped. But he was trying to protect me,

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Goldfish Dreams to keep me from getting hurt. Or maybe it was just an excuse. Maybe he was only reaching out for comfort. Maybe this was his way of trying not to take advantage of a naive freshman. But I kept seeing the look in his eyes before he kissed me, and somehow I knew there was more to it than comfort. "I should kill you!" My roommate's shout from up the hall shattered my thoughts like glass. Alisa's voice got louder as I approached our room. Terrific. Here I was, needing to sit down and sort through everything that had happened, and now I couldn't even go into my own room without interrupting Alisa and her boyfriend in one of their screaming fits. I stood there and stared at the door, listening to them both. "You didn't even talk to me," she shouted. "You weren't around. Do I need your permission before I make plans with my friends?" "Don't twist my words," Alisa snapped. "We've been going out Friday nights ever since we met. If you're going to start changing plans, the least you could do is let me know. Or you could have invited me." "If you gave me a chance, I might have." I turned around and walked back down the hall. Maybe I could ask Robin if she'd let me crash with her for the night. She had a single room, so there would be space. But as I stopped in front of her room and stared at the various CD covers she had laminated to her door, it struck me that I was letting Alisa and her boyfriend kick me out of my own room. I could hear Robin singing scales behind her door. It must be nice to have your own room. But if you were going to share with another person, that meant making a few compromises. Like finding someplace else to fight with your boyfriend. I turned around and walked back to my room. I jangled my keys, making as much noise as possible, and the voices went silent. When I walked in, they were standing in front of her desk, trying to look like nothing was wrong. "Eileen, do you think we could get a little privacy? We were kind of talking." Normally, I would have turned around and left, but tonight I found her polite veneer insulting. Why couldn't she just say she wanted me to leave them both alone? I sat on my bed. "It's been a long night. I really need to lie down. Why don't you try the study room down the hall?" She looked ready to tear into me, and I braced myself. At any second, I expected the full bore of her temper to blast me in the face. But after a moment of struggle, she smiled sweetly. "Right." Then she raised an eyebrow, as if she was having another thought. "What did you and Patrick do to leave you so exhausted?"

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Jim Hines I leaned over and grabbed my fencing saber from the hook on my bedpost. "I'll tell you tomorrow." I pointed the blade at the door. "For now, out with you both." Ryan looked relieved, and ducked out of the door without a word. Alisa looked over her shoulder with a determined smile. "I'm going to hold you to that, you know. And I expect details." When the door closed, I leaned back into the pillows and closed my eyes. It was only nine-thirty, but it felt much later. It only took a moment to realize I wasn't going to be able to sleep. My heart was racing along a roller coaster and showed no sign of getting off. The strongest feeling was anticipation. I didn't know where things were going with Patrick, but tonight had at least established the chance they would go somewhere. On top of it all, I couldn't help but feel proud of myself for evicting Alisa and her boyfriend. As I lay there, I found myself fighting the urge to giggle. In order to avoid doing anything so undignified, I rolled out of bed and grabbed a LeGuin novel from my shelf. But even as I tried to lose myself in the world of Winter, I could feel a ridiculous grin fighting to get free. And though I hated to admit it, it felt good.

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Goldfish Dreams

Chapter 8 "Hi. You've reached the home of Krista, Steve, and Annie Ranway. We're not here, but if you leave a message we'll come home right away." This was the second time tonight that I had listened to my sister's answering machine, but I still grinned to hear my four-year-old niece on the machine. The first time I called, I was so nervous that I ended up stammering and tripping over my words. Krista would think I had been experimenting with drugs. I couldn't help it. Krista and I hadn't really talked in years. The last time we spent any time together was when I was thirteen. Our father had taken Brad out for his birthday, leaving the two of us alone in the house. Krista had been in a bad mood, so she started drinking beer out of the refrigerator in the basement. After a while, I went down to join her. At first, she yelled at me and told me to go away. Later on, she changed her mind. I guess she decided she wanted some company. I hated the taste of beer, but I finished a can off anyway so I could fit in with my older sister. By the time our father got back, we were both tipsy, giggling hysterically every time one of us spoke. Dad had grounded us for two weeks. Now I wanted to talk to her again. Two things had kept me awake for hours last night. One was Patrick's kiss, a thought that still made the corners of my lips twitch. The other was the idea of talking to Krista. After trying to talk to my father years ago, the thought of going to anyone else about Brad, even my own sister, never crossed my mind. At one point around three a.m., I spent a few horrified minutes wondering if Brad had had abused her as well, but that seemed unlikely. She was older, for one thing. She had also inherited our mother's physique--broad shouldered and muscular. She was the sturdy oak whereas I was a skinny willow tree. If Brad ever tried to do anything to her, she would have been strong enough to fight him off. The answering machine beeped. "It's me again," I said. "It's not that important, but give me a call when

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Jim Hines you can." I didn't want her to think it was an emergency. At the same time, I didn't want her to blow me off. I couldn't think of anything else to add, and the silence was dragging on, so I blurted, "Just call. Thanks." I hung up before I could find a way to sound any less coherent. "Not there?" Alisa asked, leaning in through the doorway. I shook my head and rejoined the cluster of students plugging up the hallway to discuss, of all things, me. It had started simply enough. Alisa and I were talking about Patrick when she stopped in mid-sentence and dragged me across the hall to talk to Janice, a psychology major she knew from last year. Janice and I had exchanged a few words from time to time, but I wasn't sure I felt comfortable bringing all of this up with someone I didn't really know. Not that Alisa gave me a choice. She was already knocking on Janice's door. Janice stood in her doorway as Alisa summarized my problems. Gradually, as was prone to happen in the dorms, more people began to join our little group like barnacles on a boat. Sean was first. He plopped down on the floor to listen. He was wearing a bathrobe, and his hair still dripped from his shower. By the time Jay showed up, the four of us were all sitting on the floor, backs to the walls. Jay was a tall, manic sophomore double- majoring in education and music. The conversation had proceeded without me, and I doubted if anyone had noticed when I left to call Krista. "They have a professional relationship," Janice said firmly as I returned. "He's a teaching assistant, and if he's been tutoring her, that only strengthens the professional dynamic. How can you have a healthy relationship when one person has power over the other?" I felt a little guilty for lying, but I wasn't about to explain why we were really meeting. So I said he was tutoring me with my psych papers. Alisa backed me up. Having seen my frustration with the first C minus, she had no reason to doubt my excuse. "Does the university have a policy against student- faculty relationships?" Jay asked. His voice showed traces of a Boston accent. Sean nodded. "They made a big deal of it a few years back after a history professor's wife found him sleeping with one of his grad students." "It's completely unethical," Janice added. "It's not possible for him to do his job as a TA if he's involved with one of the students. "Attraction is normal," she went on. "It happens all the time, especially when two people work closely together. But there are times you shouldn't act on it. Feelings are messy, and when you're in a helping relationship, the whole thing can turn into a snarled mess, even if the attraction was real to begin with." "What if she transferred to a different section of the class?" Jay asked,

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Goldfish Dreams head bobbing as he thought about it. "That would eliminate the professional side of it. Assuming the prof has a different TA for other sections." "That would be better," Janice said. "But they still shouldn't have kissed to begin with." "A little late to change that, isn't it?" Sean pointed out. There was something vaguely eerie about listening to a group of people try to solve my life. I felt invisible. This was an honors floor, and these people were some of the best in the university when it came to solving problems. Apparently, I was the latest problem to be fixed. "It's not like she's dragging him home and jumping him," Alisa argued. "As long as they hold off until the end of the semester, everything should be fine." She looked at Janice. "Besides, I thought psychologists said suppressing your feelings was unhealthy." She grinned as if she had just outbluffed her opponent at poker. I stared at the blue border on the bottom of the wallpaper, where bunches of faded green grapes trailed along a vine. Every curve on the vine repeated exactly the same, over and over. Nobody here was saying anything I hadn't already thought about a dozen times. This was a waste of time. I wanted to leave, but I couldn't. If I left, they would want to know what was wrong. Alisa would pry, and I'd either have to blow her off, which I didn't want to do, or else I'd end up telling her more than I wanted to. I continued to stare at the wallpaper, fixing my attention on the imperfect seam where a corner had torn free and curled back around itself. "What do you want to do, Eileen?" Sean said. The rest of the group became instantly silent, and he leaned against a door with his hands behind his head. "Just out of curiosity," he added. Everyone turned their attention on me, and I shrugged, trying to hide my discomfort. I had lost the trail of the conversation, so I hoped he was simply asking a general question. "Does it matter? He said we shouldn't do this. I'm not going to risk messing up our friendship by pushing." "But you do want to push him?" Alisa said. "No," I said, beginning to feel pushed myself. "Let me put it a different way. If he did want to pursue this, what would you do?" "I don't know," I said, stalling for time. They obviously weren't going to let me get away without an answer. Would I have gone along with it if, rather than pulling back, Patrick had continued the kiss? If he had wanted more? Suddenly my brain was back on an endless loop, rid ing the wave that went nowhere. Patrick was so nice. I liked being with him. He was my TA. He was too old for me. It was inappropriate. It was fun. He was an awfully good kisser.

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Jim Hines I thought about the way it had felt last night. To know I was safe, that someone had seen the worst of me and still cared about and wanted to be with me. He created such a strong sense of security, and he did it by being himself, by being attentive and warm and caring. A thought shot through my head, making me smile. "At least it would be a step up from Jack." Sean and Alisa both laughed at that. The phone rang, saving me from having to explain Jack to the others. The speed with which I jumped up gave rise to another round of good-natured joking. "Is this the mystery TA?" Janice asked. "It should be my sister," I said firmly, trying to cut things off before they went any further. "Older or younger?" I paused briefly on my way through the door and raised an eyebrow at Sean. "Older, why do you ask?" With an innocent smile, he said, "We've been trying to set Jay up with a woman since last February." As Jay started yelling at the RA, I shut the door behind me and locked it, muffling their argument. The phone rang a fourth time. I rested my hand on the receiver, gathering my nerve. I still felt energized from the conversation in the hall, but the excitement had transformed into anxiety. My arm literally trembled as I stood there. The phone rang again, tripping Alisa's answering machine. I fought with the idea of letting the machine answer. It would give me a little more time to pull myself together and figure out exactly what I wanted to say. But I couldn't do that. That would be the easy way out. That was, in fact, what I had been doing for years. I picked up the phone and pressed the "Stop" button on the machine. There was a brief beep, and then Krista's voice. "Hello?" "Hi Krista. It's me." "I thought we were going to have another round of phone tag." She sounded casual, like she found nothing strange about receiving two messages from a sister she rarely spoke to. I could still hear voices in the hall, so I walked to the far corner of the room, stretching the cord taut. "Can we talk?" I knew it sounded abrupt, but if I waited, the conversation would turn into a simple, surface-level chat. She would ask about classes, I would ask about Steve and the kids, and we'd hang up after ten minutes of empty words. "Sure, what's up?" I bit my lip. How did you start a conversation like this? How did you

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Goldfish Dreams explain to your sister that your brother molested you for years and nobody ever did a damn thing to stop it? How did you ask why she never saw it, never noticed the nights he snuck into your bedroom or the times you started shaking when he sat down beside you on the couch? What would she do when I asked? How would she react? I could hear my breathing, picked up by the receiver and amplified to a rapid, metallic rasp in my ears. Telling her would be the easy part. After that, I had no way to know if my next step would land me on solid ground or if I would plummet into something worse. She could hang up and refuse to accept it. She might try to minimize it all, pointing out that it was all in the past and Brad was in Ann Arbor so there was nothing to worry about. Or maybe she would just sit there, never saying a word. "Is something wrong?" She sounded worried now. I had been silent too long. "Sort of." I had to repeat myself before she heard. Then I waited while she switched to the cordless phone and went somewhere private. "What's going on?" she asked. She already knew something was wrong. It was too late to back out. I closed my eyes. For some reason, it made it a little easier to talk. As I opened my mouth, I heard her yell, "Steve, can you check on Annie? I can still hear her moving around up there." My jaw locked. Couldn't she pay attention for just one minute? Opening up was suddenly the last thing I wanted to do. She was blowing me off before I had even begun to talk. I felt my temper flare, the same as it had with Ralston, but this time I grabbed on and refused to let it get out of my control. If I let go of the anger, it would try to consume everything. Instead, I held it inside. The flames couldn't break free, but the embers at the center remained, growing brighter with every tight breath. Krista said, "Sorry about that," and waited for me to continue. Words echoed in my head. I'll be damned if I'm going to let you brush me off too. Bad enough that my father refused to believe me. Krista might not be a good listener, she might not want to listen to me, but she was going to. When I spoke, my voice was soft and level. "Brad spent four years raping me. I want to know why nobody did anything to stop him." Dead silence. I couldn't even hear her breathing anymore. I wondered if she had hung up, but there was no dial tone. It was unnerving. Krista was never quiet, never at a loss for words. The silence began to eat away at my anger. "Are you still there?" I asked. "What are you saying?" Confused and faint--I had to strain to hear her. "Which part didn't you understand?" "He's my brother too, you know. He wouldn't do that sort of thing."

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Jim Hines "Really?" I gripped the phone tighter until the plastic creaked. "I'm sorry. I must have made it up. I must have made up the nightmares. Yeah, that's it. I only imagined the nights he came into my room. I imagined the way he used to look at me, like I wasn't even a person. I imagined the way he used to touch me. Do you want to know what it was like? Do you want to know what his hands were like against my skin? His palms were always damp. They made me think of giant worms were crawling over my skin. He'd grab my neck with his free hand, and his fingers would press my throat just hard enough to remind me he was in control." "Stop it!" I clenched my teeth. Years of practice helped me to force back the anger and the revulsion. "You really didn't know." She laughed incredulously, and with an edge of hysteria. "Why are you telling me this?" A question, but a plea as well. Tell me this is a joke. Give me the punchline. Tell me it's an experiment for your psychology classes. Anything to deny what she was really saying. "I don't know," I said. "Do you think I want to hear this? All I wanted to do tonight was come home and put my kids to bed and go to bed with my husband." Angry, almost desperate. She sounded even more shaken than me. "Sorry if I messed up your evening." I don't think she caught the sarcasm. "Oh my God." I could hear her moving around. "Why didn't you ever tell anyone?" So I told her about the time in Brad's room, and what Dad did to me when I tried to explain why I had broken Brad's trophies. "He yelled at me. My own father punished me for trying to get help. Brad threatened me all the time. What was the point in telling someone?" "You mean that night was because he...." She couldn't say the words. "Dad said you were just having a tantrum. I believed him." "Brad never did anything to you?" I already knew the answer, but I needed to ask anyway. "I would have killed him." Then, stronger, "I'll kill him anyway. I'll drive out there and break his fucking neck. How could he do that to you? That son of a bitch, I'll kill him. I'll kill him." I could hear her crying in sharp, angry gasps. "What good would it do?" I asked, wondering how I had come to be the one consoling Krista. I was the one who lived through it. Yet I was controlled and calm, and Krista was in shock. "You can't change what happened." "I never knew. I never had any idea. Four years?" "More or less." "I should have seen it. I should have done something." During the silence that followed, I could practically see her gnawing at her knuckles like she always

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Goldfish Dreams did when she was upset. "We should call the police." I laughed harshly. "Why?" "What do you mean, 'Why?' So the police can do something. Make him see a counselor, make sure he pays for what he did." "And then Dad will kill us both. Wonderful." "Then tell him, too," Krista said. "We've got to make him believe you this time. You were a kid then, but you're eighteen now. If we both talk to him, he'll have to listen." "Shut up," I hissed. "We're not going to tell Dad, and we're not going to tell the police. None of it would do any good. It would be my word against Brad's. No evidence, no witnesses, and Dad would side with Brad. No prosecutor would waste the ink to write up the case, let alone take it to court." "But how can we just do nothing?" I couldn't stand it anymore. "I've had to do nothing for six years. Every day and every night when it was happening, I did nothing. After Brad moved away, I did nothing. I'm sorry if I disturbed your happy little world. If I could, I'd go back and tell myself not to bother, but I can't. So now we both have to live with it. Only I have to live with the fact that it happened to me. Forgive me, but I don't feel terribly sorry for you right now." "No, I'm sorry." The words came rapidly, each one pushing into the next, but the hysterical edge was gone. "I'm glad you told me." Now that she was calmer, I felt myself going a bit shaky. "You never suspected anything?" I asked again. How could both she and my father have lived in the same house with me all that time and not know? "How can you ask that?" Krista said. "Is that why you never talked to me? You thought I knew and didn't care?" I didn't think that anymore, but I didn't know how to apologize. "Like you said, he's your brother too," I said miserably. "You can't hate me for that," she said, more a plea than an argument. "I never had any idea. How can you blame me for something I didn't know about?" I had never really blamed her. I never blamed anyone. I had just isolated myself. Somewhere deep inside, maybe I had known that Krista was oblivious to what was going on. I had pulled away from her because I knew she couldn't protect me. I had no illusions that Krista or Dad would come swooping in to rescue me. I was on my own, and I had to protect my sanity in any way I could. It was a matter of survival. I couldn't be close to them and hide so much of myself at the same time. "I don't blame you," I said finally. "Nobody else knew. Nobody wanted to know. They didn't want to see it, so they didn't." She didn't push. Most likely, she was afraid to. So instead she asked, "What are you going to do at Thanksgiving? How are we going to sit at the same

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Jim Hines table with him?" I shrugged mentally. "I'll do the same thing I do every year." But this wouldn't be the same as other years. In the past, I had always been alone. Alone and trapped. I still wasn't free of Brad; the nightmares proved that. But I could feel myself starting to break away from him, starting to reach out. Patrick was first, and now Krista. "I don't know how I'll talk to him without vomiting," she said. "I feel sick just thinking about it." "How do you think I've felt all these years?" The exasperated sigh that followed sounded a little more familiar. "I know, but you've had all these years to learn to deal with it. This is hitting me out of the blue." "Let me know if there's anything I can do to make it easier for you." Once again, the sarcasm went right over her head. "Could we talk about something normal for a while? Like sisters are supposed to?" I was still a mess, but now fatigue had taken over. "Krista, do you know how long it's been since anything in my life was normal?" "I know I'm not a very good listener," Krista said. She sounded sad. "And I feel terrible thinking of what you were going through all those years, and I never even suspected. But I really am glad you told me all of this, and I don't know what else to say." Of course she didn't. I didn't know what to say either. And there was only so much I could dump on her at once. It wasn't fair of me to lash out at her. She was trying. Maybe I had expected her to react with the same sensitivity and compassion as Patrick, but Patrick had years of training and experience with this sort of thing. Krista, on the other hand, worked nights as a public librarian. If she needed to run away from everything I had dumped on her, I wasn't going to stop her. I wasn't going to let her forget, either. But for now, if she wanted a normal, sisterly conversation, that was fine. I searched for a safer topic, and a laugh from beyond the door gave me the answer. "I'm too tired to talk much more tonight," I said. "But I do have something else to tell you. Nothing bad," I added quickly. "What's that?" Despite everything, I felt my cheeks twitch as I said, "I kissed a grad student last night." It was as though the rest of the conversation had never happened. Krista's voice rose into a squeal that threatened to shatter my teeth. "How old is he? Is he hot? Where did you meet him? Are you two involved, or was this a one- night thing?"

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Goldfish Dreams "Krista," I said, trying to divert the stream of questions. "I don't have the energy for this right now." "No fair," she protested. "You can't throw something like that at me and then hang up." I glanced at the clock. We had been talking for over an hour. "I'll tell you what. Give me a call some time, and I'll tell you all about it. You've got two incomes, so you can afford the long-distance bills." "You're a tease," she complained, but she promised to call within the next week. When she hung up, I let the phone drop to my side. My body felt like an illusion, hollow and insubstantial. I sat there until the phone began to beep at me. I used the desk to pull myself upright. I thought I was going to pass out from the head rush. In the darkened room, it was like being underwater, when the water is dark and blurry and pressing against your body. Gradually, my vision cleared, and I staggered across the room to hang up the phone. Then I turned around and collapsed onto my bed. I lay there for a while, listening to the voices in the hall and the cars outside. The window was open, and the draft raised goosebumps on my skin. It was then that I realized how much I had sweated over the course of the conversation. I crawled out of bed and grabbed a towel, using it to wipe my face and arms. I had no desire to leave the room. I knew I looked terrible, and with a clump of students huddled outside my door, there was no way to get to the bathroom without someone asking what was wrong. Instead I closed my eyes and went back to bed, feeling the occasional tear streak down my cheek and onto the pillow. I only meant to rest, to relax for a while until I felt more together and the flock in the hall had dispersed. But the next thing I knew it was morning.

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Jim Hines

Chapter 9 When I woke up the next morning, I was emotionally dead. I spent the next few weeks in a trance. I told Patrick I couldn't meet with him because I was busy getting ready for midterms. At the time, I believed my own excuse. Ralston was giving us a huge multiple-choice exam, and I had a biology test a few days after that. So I spent a lot of time buried in books, learning about chromosome replication and psychological disorders. I came home after the second exam to find Alisa and Ryan sprawled on the floor, both asleep. They had pulled the mattress down from her bunk. I understood her desire to avoid the squeaky bedframe problem, but it made it harder to move about the room. I tried to be quiet, but one of my books slipped out of my hand and banged onto the desk. Alisa just rolled over, but Ryan opened his eyes. His eyes widened when he saw me. "Eileen, hi." His clothes were against the wall, and he couldn't get out of bed without leaving the protective cover of Alisa's quilt. When he realized there was no way to save his dignity, he tried to be casual about it, leaning up on one elbow and smiling sheepishly. "Alisa said you had class until six." "We had a test, so they canceled the lab today." Just as well, as I wasn't in the mood to dissect another squid. Last time I tried, I had the damn thing upside down. I hadn't figured it out until I realized the bony plate I was struggling with was supposed to be beneath the squid guts. How was anyone supposed to tell the top of a squid from the bottom, anyway? "Hey, are you going to the Halloween party?" His embarrassment had apparently passed, and he now sat upright with the blanket draped over his waist. He had a strong, well-tanned body. I vaguely remembered Alisa saying he was a swimmer. Physically, he was probably Alisa's perfect man, but I just felt uncomfortable. I avoided looking at him and hoped it wasn't too obvious. "I doubt it." I had no desire to stand around the corners of the cafeteria while people blasted music in my face. Besides, knowing Alisa, she would follow

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Goldfish Dreams through on her offer to set me up with Ryan's roommate, and that was the last thing I needed. "You should come. It'll be a chance to blow off steam from all those exams. Plus, it's free candy! " Beneath a crown of spiky, clumped hair, he looked like he genuinely wanted me to go. But I didn't care. I had no interest in the party, and told him as much. He looked a bit miffed, but only said, "Whatever," and turned away. What was his problem? Like it mattered whether or not I went to the stupid party. What was one less statue lurking in the background? I grabbed one of Piers Anthony's early novels from my shelf. After studying all week, Xanth would be a relaxing change of pace. I got to one of the small study rooms at the end of the hall and plopped down in a hideous orange recliner. By the time I finished the book, it was night. According to my watch, I had missed dinner by almost three hours, which struck me as odd. Xanth was easy reading, but I hadn't gotten so absorbed in a book for a long time. My stomach bubbled angrily as I walked back to my room. "Where were you?" Alisa asked, glancing up from the collage of notes that covered the floor. "Lost track of time." I put my book back and opened the top drawer of the dresser, pulling out a package of ramen noodles and Alisa's hot pot. "Do you mind?" I asked, holding them up. "Help yourself." Technically, the small pot was against dorm rules, but most of the students had one, if only to give them some alternative to pizza every time the cafeteria served plastic pasta or one of their other less palatable meals. I headed down to the bathroom to get water; when I returned, Alisa was sitting up, holding several of my books in front of her. I froze when I saw what they were. "Ryan's shirt wound up under the bed. I found these when we were looking for it," she explained. Under the bed. My winter clothes were there, stuffed into several flat, plastic boxes. That was also where I kept my photo albums, my fencing gear, and the books I had borrowed from Patrick...the books on rape and incest. "Pretty morbid reading," Alisa said, skimming the titles. "For class?" "For a final paper in psychology," I said. I forced myself to smile. "It can get pretty intense." She shook her head. "I don't know how you can stand to read this." Then she laughed. "Of course, I can't understand how you read all of that fantasy stuff, either." I hesitated, scanning her face for any sign that she had seen through my

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Jim Hines excuse. But there was nothing. I deliberately turned my attention to the hot pot, plugging it in to the outlet by the bed and turning the dial to maximum. "'Understanding Family Sexual Violence.' Give me biology any day." She tucked the books back underneath the bed. "They all contradict one another anyway," I said. That much was true, at least of the research-oriented work. I wanted to know what turned a man into an abuser, but nobody seemed to know for sure. Everyone had a theory, and most of them could provide numbers to show that their theories were correct. One pointed to learned behaviors, another took an individual approach, examining borderline personality disorder in abusers. The last one I read argued that victims of incest facilitated their abusers' behaviors over time, actually encouraging the abuse. I had closed that book and dreamed about tracking down the author. I didn't know what I would do when I found him, but a baseball bat played a central role in my fantasies. Then, in one of the other books, there were the stage theorists. Everyone broke abuse into various stages. Some people agreed on certain stages, others produced their own, unique descriptions, and nobody's ideas seemed to fit my own life. I gave up on that book after only a few chapters. And yet there were a few passages, often quotes from other incest victims, that stayed with me long after I finished reading. It was the details that did it. Someone would mention the nights of waiting, biting the sheets to try and keep the fear under control. I would read it and think that's me. Those were the stories that kept me reading, the ones that made me feel like, in some small way, I wasn't quite so alone. "Ryan tells me you're not planning to go to the party tomorrow." She made scolding noises with her tongue. "You don't know what you're missing. We're talking real music, edible food, and some wild costumes. Last year some guy dressed up as a toilet. He came with another guy who carried around a huge beer bottle and kept pretending to puke into his friend's bowl." "Appealing as that sounds, I'm not the party type." I scrounged around the dresser drawer for one of the spoons Alisa had lifted from the cafeteria. "How do you know?" she argued. "You've never been to a college party. It's not like you'll be alone. Robin's going, and so are the twins and their boyfriends." She waggled her eyebrows. "You could even call your TA and have him join us." I turned my back on her to stir my dinner, concentrating on breaking apart clumps of noodles. Couldn't she take a hint? "Thanks, but I'm not going." She folded her arms. "We'll see about that." I had nothing on Alisa when it came to stubbornness, at least about things she deemed important. Like parties.

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Goldfish Dreams We met in the hall the next night at about nine. I still wasn't sure how I had ended up dressed in a blue skirt and loose black top that, with a light scarf we borrowed from Janice to wrap around my hair, made me look like "a perfect gypsy." At least, that was how Alisa described me. Between the make-up and the clanging brass jewelry, I felt like a perfect idiot. But Alisa only laughed, saying, "That will teach you to wait until the last minute to get a costume." Ryan was dressed as a football player, but had added a bloody plastic butcher's knife that stuck out from his head at an angle. Alisa had a folded sheet wrapped around her body, leaving her shoulders bare. She had pinned socks and underwear and handkerchiefs randomly about the sheet. "What are you supposed to be?" Robin asked as she walked toward us. At least, I assumed from the voice that it was Robin. It was hard to tell beneath the white mask and the large cloak. Alisa grinned. "I'm static cling." She raised her arms and twirled around. "Wait until you see Sean," Robin said. "When he heard I was dressing up as the Phantom of the Opera, he insisted on going as Christine." She jogged down the hall and pounded on his door. Sean yelled something unintelligible, and she came back. "He's having problems getting his breasts to stay in place," Robin explained, straight- faced. "Don't you hate it when that happens," Jay quipped. He was dressed as Zorro, all the way to the plastic rapier he was using to poke at the fake spider webs dangling from the ceiling. The sword reminded me that I could have simply worn my fencing garb and avoided all this gypsy nonsense, but it was too late for that now. I pulled my shawl tighter around my body. The blouse was too low-cut for my taste, and I hated it. I felt exposed, especially when Jay whistled his appreciation. I'm sure he meant it as a compliment, but when he gave my costume a once-over, his gaze felt like a thousand spiders crawling over my skin. Alisa wasn't helping, either. She kept encouraging me to be "more wanton and gypsy- like." Alisa leaned her head toward me. "Does he have to flaunt it like that?" At first, I thought she was talking about Jay, who was trying unsuccessfully to balance the sword on his finger. But she cocked her head toward Sean's room. Robin rolled her eyes at her. "It'll be fun. We'll make the best pair at the party. Besides, he's got the perfect hair to play Christine." As it turned out, Robin was right. Sean had gotten his hands on a curling iron, and had used it to commit multiple crimes against hairstylists everywhere. His hair sprang away from his head like a collection of rusty, finger-sized springs. He was clean-shaven, with too much rouge and bright red lipstick that clashed

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Jim Hines horribly with the dark green dress. I had no idea how he had done his chest, but it bulged like a pair of sandbags. He dipped down in a smooth curtsey, then laughed maniacally. "Where is my phantom of music?" he sang, horribly off-key. "Come to me, Christine," Robin sang, holding out her arm. "Come to your angel of music." It was the first time I had ever heard Robin sing, and I was impressed. Her alto voice was as smooth as a choir singer's. We picked up a few more people before heading downstairs en masse. The fast, pounding beat of the music hit us as soon as we opened the door to the stairs. I had been down for dinner only a few hours before, and I was amazed at the changes. All of the tables and chairs were pushed to the edge of the cafeteria. A large sound system stood at the far side of the room, blasting something by the Red Hot Chili Peppers. Blacklights lit glowing skeletons and floating sheets I assumed were supposed to be ghosts. The overhead lighting was off, and the only other illumination came from orange, plastic lamps and two strobe lights in the far corner. The air was warm and smelled of caramel. I had already begun to sweat. "Candy!" Sean yelled, and began to push his way past the crowd toward the tables. He returned shortly, hands overflowing with candy corns and miniature chocolate bars. "Eat, drink, and be merry," he said, dumping his find into our hands. Alisa and Ryan had already pushed their way into the pulsing group of dancing students. Sean began wandering, staring unabashedly at people's costumes. "Not going to dance?" Robin asked, standing on tip toes to shout into my ear. I shook my head. I wasn't in the mood. The cafeteria was too crowded, and I was feeling edgy. I knew it was all in my mind, but I couldn't shake the claustrophobia. "Come on, then," she said. "It's gotta be ninety degrees in here, and I want a drink." We made our way to the refreshments, where we each grabbed a cup of blood-colored punch. She started to say something, but stopped when a toilet-papered mummy came running over and threw her arms around Robin. I waited silently until the mummy left. "You need to relax," Robin said. "Have some fun!" She plucked a candy corn out of the bowl and threw it across the room, missing Sean by about a foot. He stuck out his tongue. Someone bumped into me from behind, and I fought to keep from spilling my drink. "Not in the Halloween spirit, I guess." She studied me for a while, like she was trying to see into my brain. "You

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Goldfish Dreams and Alisa make the oddest roommates. She lives completely in the moment, and she'll probably make it to at least three more parties before tonight is over. You look like you'd rather go back up to the study room and hide." I reached up to retie the scarf, pulling my hair up and fanning my neck. "I'm just not feeling very social tonight." She crossed her arms. "But you let Alisa talk you into coming." "I'm not sure how." "I'll tell you how," Robin said, rolling her eyes. "She nagged and pushed until you gave up and said you'd go, just to shut her up. And because you're so nice, you never told her to go to hell." I laughed. "I'll remember that for next time." Even though I doubted it would help. Robin and Alisa were far better at that kind of banter. "At least stay for the costume judging," Robin said. "They should get to it in an hour or so, and it's great fun." She spun around once, adding, "Besides, I think Sean and I have a chance this year." I said I would try, and we talked a while longer. Eventually she spotted someone she needed to say hello to, and made her way around the edge of the room. I watched her go, crunching an ice cube and wincing as it stung my teeth. Maybe it would be less stifling by a window. I fought my way to an empty spot between two tables where I could feel a slight breeze from outside. Even though it was late, the lights outside made the cafeteria seem darker. Someone put a red lens over the strobe lights. It softened the effect, and the bloody flashes seemed more appropriate for Halloween. I stood at the edge of the large, close-packed circle of people, feeling uncomfortable. I knew I should be moving around, mingling and having fun like everyone else, but I had no desire to do so. My feet began to feel like they were merging with the floor, joining years of dirt and food that had bonded to the carpet over time. I felt hollow, disconnected from myself. What was wrong with me? A year ago, I would have been a part of that circle. Even a few weeks ago, I had felt perfectly comfortable with these people. Why was I so apathetic now? It bothered me, but I couldn't force myself to join move, either. I was rooted to the ground like a tree. The DJ switched styles, playing Help, by the Beatles. He pushed the bass to maximum to maintain the heavy pounding. A loud crack tore through the air, making me jump. I looked around. Jay, aka Zorro, had produced a whip from beneath his cape. He jerked his arm and the lash bit the air again. Even knowing the noise was harmless, I still jumped. A handful of people applauded, and I gritted my teeth. This was ridiculous. There was no reason to stand here, crushed into my

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Jim Hines corner, trying to endure what was supposed to be a fun event. I began pushing my way across the room toward Robin. I had told her I'd stay; I should probably let her know I had changed my mind. As I started through the crowd, the vague sense of panic began to grow. I flinched every time an elbow or shoulder brushed against me. I couldn't stand the warm, humid air. It felt like everyone was breathing directly into my face, sucking up the oxygen until I had to gasp for air. I needed space. I needed to get away. I stood as tall as I could. I felt like I was like walking through a deep swamp, trying to keep the muck from creeping over my face. The scarf slipped from my head, and I had to crouch down to retrieve it. A knee narrowly missed my face, and somebody danced merrily across the fingers of my left hand. I clenched my arms around my body and continued toward the door, gripping the scarf in my uninjured hand. I tried to stay at the edge of the room, which helped a bit. Robin saw me coming and waved. Then somebody bumped me hard, from behind. I stumbled forward. His hand grabbed my arm above the elbow and closed firmly around my biceps. I'm sure he meant to help, but it didn't matter. Without thinking, without even realizing what I was doing, I spun, wrenched my arm away, and punched him in the face. He fell backward, clutching his nose and knocking several more people off-balance. Blood dripped through his fingers. The noise began to die as people craned to see what had happened. A spattering of blood dotted the skin above my wrist. My knuckles throbbed. I saw Sean and Robin making their way toward me. The student I had punched was being helped to his feet. He wasn't looking at me, but everyone else was. Like a frightened rabbit, I bolted from the room. Patrick had explained to me that all Outreach volunteers went through a screening process at orientation. From there, trainees went through intense, weeklong program of lectures, exercises, and role plays, all designed to create sensitive, skilled listeners. Anyone who didn't meet the criteria at the end of the week was told, politely but firmly, that they could go through the training again next time if they still wanted to volunteer. ARC counselors were required to go through another weekend of training in order to work with rape survivors. On average, about a third of the people who went through ARC training were turned away. Patrick had worked at Outreach for several years. He helped train new volunteers, he did community education, and he was an experienced ARC

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Goldfish Dreams counselor. And despite everything, he still couldn't keep a straight face when I told him what had happened. "It's not funny," I snapped. "I could have broken his nose." "I know," he said, staring at the floor until the smirk vanished. I sipped my Coke and glared at him, waiting. I had spent ten minutes in the bathroom scrubbing the blood from my arm. When I got back to my room, I called Patrick, who had met me at the McDonald's in the union. "Was he mad?" Patrick asked. I shook my head. "More embarrassed than anything else, I think." "Good. So you probably won't get into any trouble." That possibility hadn't occurred to me, but he was right. I had assaulted someone just for jostling me in the cafeteria. "It was an accident. I wasn't thinking. I just reacted." "I know," he said calmly. More than his words, his tone reassured me that it was all right. His brow wrinkled. "You've told me what happened, but you haven' t explained what was going on inside of you." "I was feeling suffocated," I said. "I had to get out." I trailed off, remembering the sense of panic, the way my hands had started to tremble. To my annoyance, the memory triggered the reaction all over aga in, and I clamped my hands onto the edge of the table to make the shaking stop. Patrick placed his left hand over my right. I set my other hand on his and squeezed. The lines on either side of his mouth creased in a smile. His eyes had the same warmth as the night that we kissed, and I found myself leaning forward. My skin was warm, and the Halloween party no longer seemed quite as important. He opened his mouth to speak. "This could be a significant step in the recovery process." I blinked twice. "Damn it, can't you turn off the counselor for a few minutes and just be my friend?" It was like I had hit him, too. He let go of my hands and drew his back. His voice remained steady, but I could tell I had hit a sensitive spot. "I assure you, I don't have multiple personalities. There isn't a separate 'Counselor Patrick' or 'Friend Patrick.' There's just me. There are skills I use more with clients, but I use them with friends when it's appropriate. Or does the fact that we're friends mean I should stop trying to help? I thought you didn't want to force our relationship into a rigidly defined category." I wanted to crawl under the table. Instead, I hid behind sarcasm. "Isn't that what you already did?" The silence that followed lasted long enough for me to curse myself at least a dozen times. Patrick's calm never cracked. He even smiled a little. I wondered what it would take to get him mad at me.

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Jim Hines He reached over and took my hand again. "You know I care a great deal about you. I assume, since you didn't deck me for kissing you, that you feel the same way about me." I glared at him, but didn't argue. "I don't know about you, but for me, those feelings aren't going to go away. Can we wait to sort those out until after the end of the semester, when I don't have to go home and grade your quizzes at the end of the night?" It wasn't exactly what I had hoped for. Still, at least he was admitting he had feelings for me. He must have read my eyes, because he grinned and tightened his grip on my hand. "If that's settled, then let me try to explain what I meant earlier. Have you ever done anything violent before?" "I used to get into fights with Brad when we were very young, before he started to...you know. But that's all." "And you know Thanksgiving break is coming up in a few weeks." It was one of the stranger non sequiturs I had heard lately, and my brows tightened in confusion. "Where did that come from?" "You're going home, I assume?" I hadn't really thought about it. There were students who stayed on campus over break, but the cafeterias would be closed and most of the campus would be barren. Besides, my father would kill me if I didn't come home for family time. He had a strong value for family closeness, especially since Mom died. "Yes," I answered. He nodded slowly and steepled his hands in what I had learned to recognize as his lecture pose. "So for four days, you're going to have to live with Brad and your father again." And Krista, I added silently. She and I had talked a few more times, and I was actually looking forward to spending some time with my sister. I already knew that her presence would keep me from feeling as isolated. "You spent four years in that house being helpless, learning not to react when people hurt you. Otherwise you got hurt even worse. All of your reflexes were geared to accepting whatever happened without flinching. You learned to take it, and to never fight back. You didn't do anything wrong," he added quickly. "Fighting back would only have made things worse. "But look at what happened tonight. You said you acted without thinking, but you acted. You tried to defend yourself from what you perceived as a threat." His voice grew more animated. "Maybe you overreacted, and you did knock an innocent student upside the head, but the bottom line is that, whether you realize it or not, you fought back. Whether it was a conscious choice or not, you decided not to sit back and take it anymore. And that means when you go home for vacation, things will be

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Goldfish Dreams different, because you're different. "It's like the way you told off Professor Ralston in class. You've spent two months at college learning how to stand up for yourself." He looked so happy that I hated to argue. At the same time, there was a condescending overtone to his words. He reminded me of a proud parent. What the hell gave him the right to pass judgment, good or bad? "I made it this far. I think I know how to take care of myself." "I know you do." Dammit, I needed a friend, not a big brother. Especially not a big brother. "Let me say it a different way," he said. "I like a woman who can throw a good punch." The tension popped. I rolled my eyes and laughed despite myself. As we walked over to refill our drinks, he got serious again. "Promise me something, okay? When you're at home, pay attention to yourself. Watch to see what old behaviors you slip back into and which ones you don't. Sometimes people say that going off to college is like becoming another person. Be careful, and take care of yourself." "Yes, father," I said. "I'll try not to stay up past my bedtime, either." He just smiled and sipped his Coke. When I got back that night, Alisa jumped up and gave me a hug. Apparently, the man I decked had spent most of the evening getting drunk, hitting on everyone, and making a pest of himself. Alisa couldn't know what had prompted my actions, but she loved me for it. She wanted me to go with her to every party from now on, and I had to refuse several times before she grudgingly accepted it. Alisa wasn't the only one. Over the next few weeks, I found myself answering to "Slugger" and "Rocky". Sean was especially fond of the latter. I always blushed, and I kept telling people it had all been an accident. But I couldn't deny that a part of me enjoyed the nicknames. I still vowed to skip the Christmas party.

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Chapter 10 I had a new nightmare the night before Thanksgiving break. It began in my bedroom back home. The blinds were gone, replaced by curtains the color of communion wine. They were long and restless in the wind, and as they reached toward my bed, I saw a starless sky where there should have been a large maple tree. The house was silent. The curtains moved without sound. I felt like I had been plunged into a soundproof bubble. I forced my body limp, becoming still as a statue so I would hear the slightest noise from the hallway. I heard nothing. A shadow opened the door and slipped inside, ghostlike. He was tall and muscular, and his form blended into the darkness. I had to strain my eyes to see him at all. But as he moved in front of the window, his silhouette was highlighted against the waving curtains. The figure extended an épée and lunged, burying the point in the mattress between my legs. I couldn't move, and my only thought was one of surreal confusion: I fence saber, not épée. The sword caught the hem of my nightshirt. With inhuman precision, the figure flicked the blade and my shirt vanished, torn to scraps that floated away in the wind. In the dream, I was only eleven, but the tip of the blade came to rest between fully formed breasts. There was no pain as the figure sliced downward as carefully as a surgeon. I bled in a thin line leading from between my breasts to a point just above my pubic hair. Two violent slashes made an inverted Y, with lines down each of my thighs. The shadow raised the sword in a salute as he departed. As soon as he left, I grabbed the sheets and began cleaning up the blood. I wiped gently at first, dabbing at the skin. Then, when it became apparent that the blood had already dried and didn't want to come out, I rubbed harder. I was like a carpenter

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Goldfish Dreams sanding a block of wood. Finally, though my body was scraped raw, I managed to clean off most of the blood. It left scars, bumpy and ugly, that marred my skin. I scraped harder, trying to erase the evidence of his attack. I could hear voices in the hall, asking if I was all right. I told them to leave me alone. I didn't want them to see me until I was clean. When I woke up that morning, I gripped the sheets in sweaty, cramped hands. It was a hell of a way to spend the last night before break. The next day gave me new respect for the Buddhists who can let their minds go empty, their thoughts receding like the tide. My own thoughts repeated endlessly, like ocean waves before a storm, as I tried to imagine what it would be like to go home again. Sometimes I believed I would be completely in control. Brad's presence wouldn't faze me in the slightest. Even though he hadn't touched me in years, when I thought about sleeping in that bed again, the dread returned like it was yesterday, and then I would have given anything to stay at SMU and avoid my family. At those times, I had to force myself to think about something else, anything else. Lab was canceled, so I got back to Sparrow Hall at about two in the afternoon. Alisa was still in class. I locked the door and looked around, comparing the room to the sparse cubicle I had moved into back in August. Alisa's mess had decayed over the weeks, and her side of the room looked like someone had planted a grenade in her laundry basket. My side was neat enough to be a hotel room. Alisa said it was sterile and cold, but I liked things organized. I walked over and ran my fingers over the window, especially the pane that had been broken when we moved in. In August, the Michigan heat had been unbearable. Now, cold air leeched heat from my fingers. My bags sat in the center of my bed: one small suitcase of clothes, and my backpack with my books, so I could study for my next psych quiz, even though Patrick assured me I should have no problem. It still amazed me how much I had opened up with him. I had never lied or held anything back, never tried to soften what had happened. There was something about him, a softness to his face as he listened, that demanded honesty. He never judged or criticized me for my weakness. And after three months, he said I was ready to go back home. He said I had changed since the beginning of the year. He described a stronger woman, one who was strong enough to take care of herself. I couldn't see the woman he described, but I wanted to believe him. I wanted to believe that when Brad arrived at the house tomorrow, I wouldn't feel the numbness in my chest and the tightening of my shoulders. I hoped that when he looked at me, I wouldn't have to fight the urge to cover myself.

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Jim Hines I was grateful when Alisa finally returned, since her energetic conversation helped to distract me. If she picked up on my mood, she didn't say anything about it. I wanted it that way. I was tired of talking, tired of ripping my insides out, tired of the helplessness and despair that seemed to return every time I thought I was getting somewhere. The cafeteria had closed after lunch, so we ordered pizza and talked about nothing until my father knocked on the door that evening. We had left the door open a crack, so he poked his head in said, "Eileen?" "Hi Dad." He looked around, studying the empty pizza box on the floor, the posters, the candles decorating Alisa's desk, my saber hanging from the corner of the bed, evaluating everything in one glance. When he finally settled upon something to criticize, he said, "Your room smells like spoiled food. You should do something about that." He grabbed my bags, and I waved a quick goodbye to Alisa. "Have a good break," she called after us. As we pulled out of the parking lot and through the traffic circle, trying to get through the maze of roads, he glanced over and asked, "How have you been doing at college?" I lied without even thinking about it. "It's been fine. Psych was a little rough, but I'm catching on." We talked about classes, his gymnastics students, and the friends I had made at the dorm. It was so damn innocent that I wasn't at all surprised when he started to talk about the weather. This was the first of three reunions, and while it wasn't the happiest, it was the easiest. All surface, no substance. I could stay safe in my shell while I talked to him. The second reunion came that night after everyone else had gone to bed. Krista and her family had been at the house all day, but nighttime was the first chance we had to talk openly. Her husband and their daughter were both asleep. We went down to the basement and sat on the old mattresses stacked next to the far wall, the ones my father had never bothered to haul to the dump. They didn't use the basement for much more than storage, so it was rarely cleaned. We sat as far from the wall as possible to avoid the cobwebs and their inhabitants. A few naked bulbs lit the unfinished ceiling, where nails from the floorboards above stuck out like tiny knives waiting to fall. The air was cold and slightly wet. Unpleasant, yes, but there was privacy, and we would hear anyone coming by the squeak of the stairs. At first, we just stared at each other. Krista hadn't changed much. Her hair was still carefully done, falling like spun cotton down to the middle of her back. Her face showed slight traces of makeup, far less than she used to wear.

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Goldfish Dreams She was still trying to cover the scar on her eyebrow from when I pushed her into a coffee table, back when we were both kids. There were thin lines branching from the far corners of her eyes that I didn't remember. I could tell from the way she fidgeted that she was fighting the urge to follow my father's pattern, to ask about classes and boys and other safe topics. "Brad called earlier," she said at last. "He and his girlfriend will get here tomorrow around noon." With those words, a countdown began in the back of my head, and I knew nothing had changed. Patrick was wrong. I wasn't strong enough, and I never would be. I was still afraid, still powerless, and I had less than twelve hours to brace myself. "What are you going to do?" she asked. Ever since I told her about Brad, she had been determined to do something. Talk to the police, talk to Dad, anything, as long as Brad suffered for what he had done. I gave her the same answer as before. "There isn't anything I can do. Nobody would believe me. Brad got away with it. If it makes you feel better, believe that he'll answer to God someday." "How can you be so calm?" I wasn't, but it was reassuring to know I was still a good actress. "How can I not be?" "I want to kill him." Krista struck the mattress with her fist, then yelped. She sucked air through pursed lips and studied the small gash on her knuckle from one of the springs. I laughed. "If you had killed him about seven years ago, it might have made a difference. But now, kill him or don't, it won't change anything." She punched the mattress again, checking this time to make sure it was safe. "It might make me feel better." Later that night, I lay awake for a long time, unable to find sleep. My old room felt hollow; so much of me was missing, an hour away in my room at Sparrow Hall. Even with the hall light out and the curtains drawn, the moonlight still crept through the cracks to highlight the empty shelves and the bare walls. What would make me feel better, I wondered, thinking about Krista. Nothing I did could remove the years that I had spent lying here, paralyzed, waiting for the slight click of the doorknob and the light rustle of bare feet against my carpet. I still slept in the same position: face up, hands clasped over my stomach, with the smaller of the two pillows clenched inside my left elbow. Like a corpse. What would Patrick suggest? I smiled. He wouldn't suggest anything. He almost never gave me actual advice. He'd just tell me he was behind me regardless of what I decided. I tried to focus on Patrick, tried to remember the feeling of safety I got

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Jim Hines from his presence. He said I was strong enough to handle this. If I was so strong, why did he keep trying to protect me? I had finally drifted toward sleep when a scream shocked me awake. I sat up with a gasp that threatened to burst my lungs. It only took a few seconds to remember where I was, but in those seconds I knew panic like a deer hearing the crack of a rifle. Someone ran up the hall and turned on the bathroom light. The crying quieted soon after that. I closed my eyes and tried to stop shaking. Krista told me the next day that Annie had gotten up in the night to use the bathroom. But Annie wasn't used to the house. She hadn't grown up learning to avoid the slight lip where the tiles rose up higher than the wooden floor of the hallway. When she fell, she did what any four- year-old would do--she started to wail. No matter how tightly I dug my fingers into the muscles of my arm, it didn't help. It was like trying to hold back a river: the more I pushed, the more it pushed back, and nothing I could do made any difference anyway. That panicked me even more. I had always been able to force things back under control. To be unable to do so, to be helpless to do anything but close my eyes and bite my lip as the tears fell, was terrifying. I don't know when it started to recede. When it did, I realized what hate was. I didn't hate Brad. I hated myself. I hated what I had become. He had turned me into a sobbing mess who bolted awake at the slightest unfamiliar sound. He had made me a child again. The past months at school, the years I spent learning to be strong enough to survive, none of it made any difference. That's what I hated, the fact that there was nothing I could do. It meant I was still carrying him with me, like a parasite that had wormed into my brain and could leave me paralyzed and helpless without warning. I felt like Grandpa Jeff, back when he was fighting diabetic reactions that would strike at random, sending him into convulsions at two in the morning. I needed to sleep, but my nerves were on edge. My body seemed charged with electricity, and I didn't know how to discharge the shock. I wished there were a way to send it all back to Brad, where it belonged. I don't know when I finally fell into a restless sleep, but eventually morning arrived. Sunlight slipped around the edges of the curtains. Voices came through the crack beneath the door to draw me from slumber. I rubbed my eyes and threw on a robe so I could trudge to the bathroom and wash my face. "Aunt Eileen!" Bursting with barely contained energy, Annie grabbed my hand and dragged me downstairs. I was the last one up, and my brother- in- law gave me a hard time about it. Between his good-natured needling about "lazy college students" and Annie's raving about pre-school, I couldn't have talk ed if I wanted to. I settled for

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Goldfish Dreams spooning cornflakes into my mouth, trying to find the energy to wake up. The moment my empty bowl hit the sink, Annie dragged me into the living room and dumped the box of blocks on the floor. "Did you ask if Aunt Eileen wanted to play?" Krista said, glancing up from the paper. The comics, of course. I waved her off. "I don't mind." She gave me a look that asked, Are you sure? I forced a smile. At least Annie would keep me busy until lunchtime. We spent the next few ho urs building roads, towers, fortresses, and structures that defied categorization. The blocks were old; Grandpa Jeff had made them for my father almost fifty years ago. But they were sturdy, a good thing, since Annie's favorite game involved tearing down anything I tried to build. She would watch, fascinated, as I built a pyramidal tower. Biting her tongue in concentration, she would carefully knock out the supports, one at a time, until the whole thing tumbled down, causing her to giggle in delight. I found myself searching for ways to make towers that would last longer. I built supports toward the center, adding additional blocks around the edges that didn't actually do anything, just to watch her frustrated scowl when she knocked them away and nothing happened. I got so absorbed in the game that I was surprised to hear a car door slam in the driveway. It couldn't be noon yet, but a glance at the clock on the wall confirmed it. Any desire to continue playing games drained away in an instant. "I've got one you can't break," I said, watching the front door from the corner of my eye. "Oh yeah?" Annie studied the half- finished building between us. I nodded. Reaching past the decoy blocks, I pulled out the ones in the center, bringing the whole thing down in a pile. "Now what are you going to do?" She stuck her lip out and crossed her arms. "Not fair!" But then the door opened and she was off again, raising her arms for a hug from Uncle Brad. I looked away, fighting a wave of nausea at their embrace. I wanted to pull Annie away, but I couldn't do that, not without people wanting to know why. Besides, he wouldn't hurt Annie. She was sleeping in the same room as her parents, so she would be safe. I still couldn't force myself to watch. I put the blocks away as everyone else went through the greeting ritual. When I finished, I ducked through the kitchen and circled up the stairs, heading for the bathroom and a long shower. Nobody cared that I stayed in my room and studied until dinner. I was the family bookworm, after all. Too soon, the smell of burnt turkey filled the house and told me it was time. Even before my father yelled that it was time to eat, I was setting my book aside and walking toward the stairs.

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Jim Hines I stopped at the bottom of the stairs and took several deep breaths, forcing myself through the relaxation exercises I used to calm myself at the beginning of a fencing match. They didn't help much. I could barely control my hands as I walked into the dining room. The seating arrangements had been the same for years. Dad took the head of the table. Krista sat next to him, and Steve and Annie squeezed in beside her. Brad's new girlfriend, a thin, almost anorexic Korean girl named Crystal, sat down between Dad and Brad, leaving the empty chair on Brad's left for me. I clenched my teeth as I started to sit down. Even though Brad was always careful not to touch me in public, I could feel the warmth of his body next to me, a heavy, oily aura pushing against my skin. I hadn't seen Brad in months. He looked about the same. He had grown a beard and his hair was a little longer, with small curls flicking out at the back of his neck. He wore a black, long-sleeved shirt, but his hands showed the muscular puffiness that came from his hours at the gym. His shoulders still seemed too wide for his head. Normally I avoided looking at him as much as possible, but today I studied him. I watched as he sliced the turkey, working the knife back and forth with strong, easy motions. When he finished serving himself, he cut another slice for Crystal. I had a momentary desire to rip the knife from his hands, to thrust it into his chest as hard as I could. I fought a shudder. When he spoke, politely asking Dad to pass the gravy, he still had the faint traces of a lisp that years of speech therapy had been unable to remove. He caught me staring, caught a hint of the anger behind my bland expression, and his brown eyes flicked down to his plate. Then he looked up again and forced a smile. "How's college going, sis?" In all the reading I had done over the months, one fact burned more than anything else. So many perpetrators of sexual crimes suffered little or no remorse. In many cases, they didn't even realize what they had done. Through rationalization, rape myths, and a complete refusal to deal with reality, they lived their lives completely free of guilt over what they've done. Even many of those who were caught and punished never understood that they had done anything wrong. I didn't know if the same held true here. The book had focused on rape in general, not incest, but the conclusion seemed appropriate. Here was Brad, calmly chatting and acting almost as if those four years had never happened. Almost. But I had seen the flicker in his eyes when he caught me staring. I had seen enough. Guilt might not cost him any sleep at night, but he was aware enough for my unblinking attention to make him uncomfortable.

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Goldfish Dreams "It's been fine," I said cheerfully. I tried a small jab. "I've been researching sexual assault for my final paper in psych." He looked away and didn't answer. I turned my attention to Crystal and asked, "How did the two of you meet, anyway?" She glanced at Brad. I got the feeling she was used to him doing most of the talking. When he stayed silent, she said, "He's been working with some of the kids at my school. One of my students wrote about a wrestler who had been volunteering his time to help the coach. When I bumped into Brad a few weeks later, I realized he was the man my student had been talking about. We went out a few times, discovered how well we got along, and that was that." "It was about a month ago," Brad said, rejoining the conversation. "It's been wonderful," Crystal said, smiling. "Once, he sent me flowers in the middle of class. Now I can't get through a day without the kids asking about my boyfriend." I nodded. "I'm sure it doesn't hurt that he's such an enthusiastic kisser." I put just enough bitterness into the words to catch Brad's attention. In some ways, the times when he forced me to kiss him were worse than anything else I had endured. Annie giggled innocently. I stabbed my fork into a bit of meat, waiting long enough to see the look of shock on Brad's face before adding, "At least, that's what his ex-girlfriend told me." Crystal actually blushed, ducking her head so her hair hid her face. "No, the kissing doesn't hurt at all." Shaking his head, my father raised his voice and said, "Let's not embarrass our guest." He was grinning when he said it. The only two people who didn't seem amused were Brad, who sat stone- faced as he concentrated on his food, and Krista, who nudged me under the table. She raised an eyebrow at me, and I just looked at her. Her lips moved silently as she mouthed the words, "What are you doing?" I didn't want to lose my nerve, so I ignored her and focused on my next attack. "You teach wrestling to the kids?" I asked, leaning forward so I would appear interested. He hesitated before answering. "I've been doing it since the school year started. One of these days, I want to coach for real. For now, Coach Poste does most of the work. I just help the kids perfect their techniques, and we roughhouse sometimes. It keeps the m excited about the sport." I shook my head as I finished chewing. "In other words, you spend your free time pinning children half your size?" He swallowed hard, then started coughing. Crystal quickly put his drink into his hand, and he nodded thankfully. When he recovered, he glared hatefully

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Jim Hines at me. But the expression vanished before anyone else could see it. He picked up his knife and played with it, as if he were testing the blade. The message was obvious. Back off. I ate for a while without talking. Even now, it was hard to overcome my fear. He was bigger, stronger, and he had never worried about hurting me. But logically, what could he do? The whole family was here. He wouldn't do anything in front of them. For once, my family would keep me safe. I waited a while longer. After all, I was the quiet one. It wouldn't seem right for me to dominate the conversation. Instead, my eyes remained on Brad. He never looked up from his food. Crystal apparently noticed that something was wrong, because she leaned over and whispered to him from time to time. Each time, he shook his head and muttered something, and eventually she gave up. I had never felt so split. I was terrified on one level, confused on another, and there was a part of me that flushed with satisfaction every time Brad looked uncomfortable. Maybe I was having some sort of psychotic break. Yet, as strange as it felt, I didn't want to stop. Later on, as we passed the cranberry sauce around the table, Annie studied the purple, gelatinous mass and made a face. "Mommy, that's gross." Krista rolled her eyes. "Nobody's making you eat it." "Oh," Annie said. "Okay." Then she proceeded to cram a spoonful of sauce into her mouth. "Children are so cute." Dad waited a beat before adding, "Especially when they're not mine." Everyone laughed except Annie, who looked suspicious. She didn't get the joke, but she seemed to sense that she was the focus of everyone's amusement. Crystal said, "I feel the same way about my students. They're nice, as long as I can get away at the end of the day." I set my knife on the edge of my plate and asked, "Does that mean you don't want to have kids of your own?" Crystal frowned. "I don't know. I wouldn't want children right now. I'm going to wait a few years and see how I feel." "I understand," I said. Brad must have heard something in my voice, because he raised his head, as though bracing himself. I watched him out of the corner of my eyes. "I've never met anyone who loves children as much as Brad does. He's so...affectionate." Brad nearly tipped the chair over backward as he excused himself. "Are you okay?" Crystal asked. He didn't answer. I waved for her to sit down. "I'll go check on him." He watched me, not saying a word as I walked up to him with my arms

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Goldfish Dreams crossed. I had spent six years of my life learning how to live with what he had done to me. Watching his face go through one emotion after another, I realized he had never learned to live with it. He might not understand how much he had hurt me, but buried deep down inside, he knew what he had done was wrong. He had chosen not to think about it, and now that I had thrown it all back in his face, he didn't know what to do. My silence had protected him for all these years. Not only from the authorities, but from himself. "Can I offer a suggestion?" I asked. I was amazed at how steady my voice sounded. I knew that eventually this adrenaline rush would wear off, leaving me trembling and overwhelmed. But right at this moment, for the first time in years, I was in control. He glared at me. His hands clenched and unclenched. I wasn't afraid. Something had broken when he fled into the kitchen. The power he had over me was slipping away. I felt lightheaded and free. Keeping my voice quiet, I said, "The longer you stay in here, the more curious people will get, and the more questions you'll have to answer. Neither one of us wants that, do we?" I turned my back on him. I had to do it, even though it meant I wouldn't be able to stop him if he lost his temper. I had to show him--I had to show myself--that he didn't matter to me anymore. Even though it was a lie, I had to do it. When I entered the dining room, Crystal looked worried. I said nothing. "Is Brad okay?" she asked. I looked her dead in the eye and told her the same lie I knew Brad would eventually give, the lie I had been using for too many years. "He's fine."

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Chapter 11 Patrick threw me a smile. "The paper looks great. I wrote a few comments, but they were mostly on minor things. APA format, sentence order, and so on." "Terrific," I said. One more night fighting with Alisa's word processor, and I would be done. I had typed for almost six hours the night before, and between the strain on my eyes and the cramps in my back from hunching over the keyboard, I never wanted to write another paper in my life. He frowned as I took my paper back. By now, I could read that look as well as if he had asked the question out loud. What's wrong, Eileen? "I feel like I've written ten pages of nonsense." "Recovering from Sexual Assault," he said, leaning forward to read the title. "How is that nonsense?" I scanned through the pages, looking for a particular paragraph. "And what about this? 'Therapists must beware of trying to force their clients through a pre-determined process of recovery.' So now they're saying the stages are useless? What's the point?" "I told you this would be a rough topic," he reminded me. I rolled my eyes. "They talk about the stages of recovery, then they turn around and say that not everyone goes through those stages. Their case studies contradict one another." I flipped to another page. "One woman said that being raped was no worse than some dates she had been on. And her psychologist bought it!" Patrick clasped his hands together. "Bought it?" "Don't play the therapist with me right now." I didn't have to read the relevant part of the paper to reme mber the details. "He broke in to her house, threatened her with a gun, tied her up, and raped her twice. All while her daughter slept in the next room! "He blindfolded her before he left, so she had to wait there, not knowing if he was still there. Not knowing if he would come back, or if, God forbid, he had

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Goldfish Dreams gone to molest her daughter. And then she says it was no worse than a bad date?" Patrick crossed his arms. "So you think she should have to go through years of fear, anger, and nightmares before she can come to terms with it?" I knew he was baiting me, and I wasn't amused. "I don't think there's a recipe for recovery, but I doubt that suppressing it is the best way of coping." He leaned forward and looked at me over the rims of his glasses. "Are you sure she's suppressing? Why does she have to react as strongly as you did?" "Don't tell me you believe her." He shrugged. "I've never met her. I haven't had a chance to watch her reactions, so I'm not qualified to make that judgment. I suspect you're right, and that there are some buried feelings about what happened." He cut me off before I could say anything triumphant. "But if I try to dictate what she should or shouldn't feel, how would that be any different from telling you you're overreacting to what Brad did? Where do I get the right to tell someone else how they should feel?" I felt like he had punched me in the stomach. "Do you think I'm overreacting?" "Of course I don't. That's the whole point." He knelt beside me and grabbed my hand. "I've told you how proud I am of the way you're dealing with everything. You should be proud too. You spent years doing what you needed to do in order to survive. And you made it." His hand was warm, and his skin was soft and smooth. "So why can't I let go of it?" Why couldn't I write the experience off like the woman in that book? He squeezed my hand tightly while he spoke. "Long-term abuse has more of an impact than one-time assault. Also, it's more traumatic when it comes from someone you trust, like a family member." He shook his head. "But those are the clinical answers. The real answer is that it doesn't matter what other people think or what other survivors go through. You can't let go because you're not ready yet." I blinked a few times, then stifled a giggle. I took my hand back and raised my arms to the sky, as if I were praising the heavens. "I can't let go because I'm not ready to let go," I repeated. "Of course! How blind I was not to see it all along. What would I do without my wise friend to show me the answers?" Patrick stuck his tongue out at me, and I laughed. "Thanks," I said quietly. His answering smile was so loving that I had to turn away before I did something inappropriate. I unzipped my backpack and shoved my paper inside, not caring that it got crushed in the process. I still had to revise it anyway. "So after I hand in this paper next week, the class is officially over, right?" He nodded. "Which means you're no longer my TA."

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Jim Hines He stood up and took my hand again. Our fingers curled together like a yin- yang. "That's right," he said. "I have to help grade your final exams, but after that, I'm just another student." He raised an eyebrow. "Unless you're planning to take another class from Ralston, that is." "I can find better ways to torture myself, thanks." I tugged his arm, pulling him up from his chair for a hug. We stood like that for a few more seconds, our faces close enough for me to feel his body heat against my cheek. I almost turned my head. It would have been so easy to turn and kiss him. He pulled away, but the slight quiver at the corner of his lips told me he was having the same trouble as me. I was blushing as I ducked away to grab my coat and backpack. "I'll see you in class," I called back as I left. Walking through the parking lot toward Sparrow, I had to fight the urge to bounce with each step. How long had it been since I was in such a good mood? Partly it was because I was finally getting enough sleep. I still had nightmares, but they were less frequent than they were at the start of the semester, which meant I was actually sleeping six or seven hours without interruptions. In addition, Krista had called to tell me that Brad wouldn't be coming home for Christmas break. I felt weak admitting it, even to myself, but I was relieved that I wouldn't have to face him again so soon. I didn't know if I could maintain the calm façade from Thanksgiving for more than a few hours at a time. As empowering as that brief confrontation had been, I had spent the evening in my room, sobbing in silence as all of the day's emotion come flooding out. But as Patrick had pointed out, the important thing was that I stood up and faced my brother. The holiday decorations on the dorms were beginning to light up in the twilight. Several huge, non-denominational snowflakes topped Sparrow's main entryway. Across from our dorm, DeGeorge Hall sported a decorative snowman, his body outlined in white lights. Despite it being the middle of December, we had yet to get anything beyond a few flakes of snow that vanished immediately upon hitting the ground. I heard Alisa the instant I opened the stairwell door to the third floor. The dorms were never quiet. Earlier that day, it had been the pounding of hammers as maintenance repaired a leak in the ceiling. The door to the attic was still open, but the noise had stopped. Now the sound of my roommate's screams dominated the hall. "How dare you try to control my life," she snapped. I knocked on Janice's door. It opened an instant later, blasting me with country music at full volume. "How long have they been going at it?" I shouted. Janice shook her head. "I got back from dinner fifteen minutes ago, and

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Goldfish Dreams they were already clawing at one another." She gazed across the hall at our door as Alisa cursed loudly. "That girl needs to learn to keep a hold of her temper before she kills someone. Or someone kills her," she added with a glare. "Maybe someone who still has finals to study for." "They usually quiet down after about twenty minutes or so," I said. Janice just shook her head. "You're welcome to hide out here. It might be safest to wait until the storm passes." It was tempting. I had finals coming up as well, and even if I marched in and managed to break up the fight, I'd still have to spend the next hour listening to Alisa complain about Ryan's insensitivity or his overprotectiveness or whatever. "No thanks," I said. "Like you said, I should probably go over there before anyone gets killed." I stood outside my room for a few minutes, listening. It struck me that Ryan was being awfully quiet tonight. Apparently, Alisa was winning this round. I hit the door a few times before unlocking it. With the volume in there, I didn't trust them to hear my key in the lock, and I wanted to give them a few seconds to compose themselves, more for my comfort than theirs. The voices went silent by the time I opened the door and walked in. I started to speak, then stopped, my mouth slightly open as I stared at the two people in the room. "Shut the door, will you?" Alisa asked. "That's okay," Sean said. "I was leaving anyway." He rose from his perch on the edge of my desk and nodded a greeting. He even managed to grin at me on his way out, but I could see the tension around the corners of his blue eyes. "If there's anything else you need to talk about, I'll be in my room," he said to Alisa as he left. As the door closed, Alisa let out an exasperated breath and plopped down on the bed. "I thought you were with Ryan," I said, feeling awkward. Awkward or not, it gave Alisa the opening she needed to start her rampage. "Tomorrow mo rning, I'm going down to the main office to file a complaint. How dare he come in here and tell me how to live my life. Shouldn't RAs have better things to do than harass other students?" That seemed to require an answer, so I shrugged. As she continued, I quietly slipped out of my backpack and jacket and sat down on the desk chair across the room. The air was so tense I found myself hunching my shoulders. "Do you want to know what that pervert had the gall to complain about?" She didn't wait for an answer, which was good, as I was scared of saying the wrong thing. "He came in here saying there were complaints about Ryan and me making too much noise the other day." "Were you arguing?" I asked. I wondered if Janice had complained, but

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Jim Hines Janice didn't seem the type to ask anyone else to do her confronting for her. Alisa gave me an exasperated look, and I blushed as I realized what kind of noise she meant. "Oh." "I know we get a bit loud, but it was four in the afternoon on a weekend! You were at the library, the floor was dead, and it was the first time all week that we had been able to be alone." Now that Sean was gone, she was close to tears. "All I want is to enjoy myself from time to time. Can't I have a single hour to relax?" She stood up and walked to the small refrigerator in the corner. "Do you want a beer?" she asked. I shook my head, and she returned to her spot on the bed, bottle in hand. "I know I lost it for a while, but you have to understand that I was an only child. I had my own room, and my parents taught me to respect people's privacy above everything else. To have someone nosing into my personal life like that just isn't right. Especially someone like him." "Why don't you get your own place?" Not terribly tactful, but I didn't know what to say. "Not that I want you to move out." "Couldn't afford it," she said ruefully. "I don't have a car, so it would be tough to move off campus. And I worked at the grocery store all summer, which barely covered my expenses now. There's no way I could handle the extra five hundred per semester for a single room." I nodded, silently thanking Grandpa Jeff and the small inheritance that enabled me to avoid the world of minimum wage, at least for this first year. "I'm sorry, I don't mean to be going on about this." She paused to take a swallow of beer, then asked, "How did your meeting with Patrick go?" "He said my paper looked good." She grinned wickedly. "Who cares about the paper? It's the end of the semester. As of Friday, he's a free man. What are you going to do about it?" Even after four months, I was still amazed at Alisa's ability to switch moods the way other people change clothes. If I hadn't been here to see it, I never would have guessed she had been screaming at the top of her lungs only ten minutes earlier. "He's not free until the tests are graded and the semester officially ends. Which means nothing's going on until at least next month." "And what happens next month?" I turned away, but she still spotted the smile that slipped onto my face. "I see," she said. "You know, you cost me twenty bucks. I had bet Ryan you wouldn't make it to the end of the semester without caving." "Patrick was right when he said we should wait." "Maybe," she said. "Or maybe he was using that as an excuse." "What do you mean?"

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Goldfish Dreams "Men like it when women are attracted to them, but they don't always want to get involved. This way he gets all of the strokes to his ego and none of the complications." I shook my head in disbelief. "Not everyone works that way." "The two of you have been hanging out every week for months. You obviously like him, but nothing's happening. How else should I interpret that?" Her eyes narrowed. "Patrick's not like him, is he?" she asked, jerking a thumb at the door where Sean had so recently departed. "I honestly don't care how you interpret it." I stood up and walked to the door. She seemed unfazed. "Hey, a bunch of us are going out to The Hobbit this Friday to celebrate the end of the semester. You coming?" "Sure," I said, and closed the door behind me. I walked down the hall and knocked on Sean's door. I didn't really think of Sean as a friend. We didn't do things together, and we didn't talk much. On the other hand, he had been there for me that night in September when Jack dumped me, and he had followed me across town to make sure I was all right after the blow-up with Ralston. "It's open." He was sitting at his desk, sketching on black construction paper with sticks of colored chalk. Several stacks of books covered the floor where he had obviously been studying earlier in the day. He watched me without saying a word as I shut the door and plopped down on his beanbag. The silence stretched on. Maybe this had been a mistake. "I wanted to see if you were okay," I said. "Thanks," he said. "I'm fine." Suddenly I grinned. "You know what that stands for, don't you?" He stared at me for a second, then laughed loudly. "You remembered?" "Fucked up, insecure, neurotic, and emotionally screwed." He glanced at the pale blue chalk in his hand, then tossed it over his shoulder with a shrug. It broke into three pieces when it hit the floor, but he didn't seem to care. "Alisa always had a temper. But knowing the cat has claws doesn't make it any easier when she slashes your face off." At the mention of cats, I looked around for Goldfish. I spotting him asleep on the pillow of the bed. He was lying on his back, feet up, looking so relaxed I half-expected him to flow off the bed like water. His rear feet twitched every few seconds. He must have been running in his dreams. I wondered if he was the hunter or the prey. Did cats have nightmares? I wasn't sure. Turning my attention back to Sean, I said, "You're exaggerating. She didn't take your whole face off. Just the one side."

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Jim Hines "We lived on the same floor last year, so she learned which buttons to push." He knelt down on the floor, putting us at about eye level. "She's not trying to hurt people, but when she gets carried away, it's messy." "What's her problem with you, anyway?" "You haven't guessed?" He pointed to a small rainbow sticker on the side of his desk. I hadn't noticed it before. With Sean's rather cluttered decor, the sticker didn't stand out. "After the gay pride march last year, I put a rainbow up on my door. Alisa and I had gotten along pretty well before that. About a week later, she showed up with a few of her friends and started talking to me about Jesus. "I listened for about two minutes, right up to the point that they told me I could be 'cured' if I prayed hard enough." He shook his head and ran a hand through the ruffled mess that was his hair. "I probably could have been a bit more polite, looking back." "What did you say?" I winced in anticipation. Subtlety was not Sean's strongest trait. "I started by giving her the uncut lecture on how sexual identity didn't really exist before the early eighteenth century. Back when Jesus was alive, there was such a thing as homosexual behavior, but the whole idea of basing your identity on sexuality was no nsense. It just didn't happen. So if Jesus didn't know what a homosexual was, how could he condemn them?" He laughed. "Then I got nasty. Before she could argue the point, I asked her why Jesus never got married." He shrugged. "Things went downhill from there." I didn't know what to say. I wasn't actively Christian, but I had gone to church often enough to feel slightly offended. If the idea of a gay Jesus was enough to make me uncomfortable, I could imagine Alisa's reaction. Sean grinned again. "Oh, and if you're talking with her and the topic comes up, you might pass along that I prefer 'queer' to 'faggot', and I'm not homosexual, I'm bi." I rolled my eyes. "You goaded her, didn't you?" He raised his index finger, and was momentarily serious. "I went down there because it's my job to pass along any complaints." Then he was himself again. "There was no goading until after she started yelling." I stood up and opened the door to leave. "I just wanted to make sure you were okay." He took a deep breath and closed his eyes, like he was running some sort of internal check. After a moment, his eyes opened again and he said, "I'm all right. A bit pissed, but all right. Thank you." "You're welcome." I studied him before leaving, wanting to make sure he

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Goldfish Dreams was being honest with me this time. "As my first boyfriend used to say, 'In or out.'" I could feel my good mood returning, so I deliberately disobeyed, standing in the open doorway. "You spend too much time in here. People are going to start thinking you're a vampire." At that moment, a door slammed somewhere in the girls' wing. Sean swore. On the bed, Goldfish jolted awake, spotted the open door, and launched himself from the pillow. He scrambled over the books on the floor. For a second, he looked like he was running on ice. His paws raked the pages, flipping the open book shut and dumping another upside down on the carpet, pages spread. And then he was gone, shooting past my legs before I could move. "If you leave the door open," Sean explained patiently, "the cat escapes." He opened the bottom drawer of his desk and grabbed a can of cat treats, which he stuffed into a shirt pocket. "I'm sorry," I called as we shut the door and raced down the hall after the cat. "I didn't realize." "You did say I spent too much time in my room," Sean answered. "This is as good an excuse to get out as any." We followed Goldfish toward the girls' wing, but when we turned the corner, he had vanished. The door at the end of the hall was closed, so he couldn't have gotten into the stairwell. "Check the bathrooms," Sean said. "If someone opened the door, he could have snuck in." He started down the hall, peeking into the few rooms that had open doors. I pushed the bathroom door open and knelt to check beneath the stall doors. Thankfully, there was nobody else around to question my strange behavior. I didn't see Goldfish, but I opened the stall doors one at a time to be sure. Then I checked the showers. The floor was wet, and I doubted a cat would come here willingly, but I refused to leave any potential hiding spot unexamined. I already felt bad for letting him escape. There was no sign of the cat. Sean met me when I came out. He was chewing his lip and looked lost in thought. "There are only so many places he could have gone," I said. We walked through the boys' wing, just to be sure. I had seen Goldfish go the other way, but Sean wanted to be thorough. Again, we found nothing. I had an idea. "If someone came in through the stairs, he might have snuck out that way." My mind flashed with the image of Goldfish racing out of the dorm, directly into traffic. I prayed he hadn't gotten out of the building. "Let me try something first," he said, grabbing the can of cat treats. "If this doesn't work, we'll check the stairwells and on the other floors."

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Jim Hines We went back to Sean's room. From there, we walked slowly down the girl's wing with Sean shaking the cat treats like a rattle. "He knows what this sound means," he said. I hoped it would work. I had come down to make sure Sean was okay, not to give him one more problem to deal with. We were nearly at the stairwell when I heard a muffled chirp. "Over here," I said, pointing to my side of the hall. The noise came from behind the door the maintenance people had been using to get to the attic earlier in the day. "It was open when I came in a half- hour ago," I said. Sean shook his head. "The twerp must have knocked the doorstop out of the way and locked himself in." He tucked the cat treats back into his pocket. "He's always liked to play with scraps of wood. He likes the texture." I started to leave. "I'll get someone at the desk to come up with the keys." "Don't," Sean said. I gave him a puzzled look. "Cats aren't allowed in dorm rooms. If they find out, I'm in serious trouble." "You can't just leave him in there." "I would never treat my cat like that." He reached into the pocket of his jeans and pulled out a fat swiss army knife. "Certain residents maybe, but not Goldfish." "What are you going to do?" I asked as he flipped it open. "What does it look like?" It looked like he was going to try to cut through a wooden door with a pocket knife, but I held my tongue. Sean glanced up the hall to make sure nobody was watching, then worked the blade into the crack between the door and its frame. He wiggled the blade back and forth a few times, holding the knob in his other hand, and then, click. The door swung open. I was ready. As Sean stepped back, still holding the open knife, I snatched Goldfish, scooping him up and pinning him to my chest. Sean let the door swing closed again as we hurried back to his room. "I'm really sorry," I said as he fed a few treats to the cat. "I didn't mean for that to happen." I sat down and settled into the beanbag. He just laughed. "Believe it or not, I'm in a better mood now. Nothing like chasing a cat through the dorm and breaking into locked rooms to cheer someone up." After finishing the last treat, Goldfish walked over to me and rubbed my knee with his face. I scratched his head, and he flopped onto the ground, purring. "Where did you learn that thing with the knife?" "Remember the ex-boyfriend I mentioned?" he asked. "He spent a few years in a school for juvenile delinquents when he was growing up. We used to sneak into the attic together when we needed to get away. We smuggled up a

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Goldfish Dreams blanket, a few flashlights, even a bottle of wine from time to time." He stared at the wall, remembering. "He taught me how to pick the locks of the dorm rooms, too." "That makes me feel a lot safer," I snapped. He only laughed. I don't know how long we sat on his floor. With only the small lamps turned on, his room had a soft, relaxing feel to it. Eventually, the heater kicked on, and the noise roused me from my trance. "I should be studying," I said. "I've got finals." "That's right, you should be," he said in a mock-scolding voice. "And so should I. So go on, stop distracting me." I gave him a half- hearted salute and, for the second time in less than an hour, stood to leave. "One other thing," he said. I made sure the door was closed before turning around to hear what he had to say. "Congratulations on surviving your first semester." I smiled. "If I don't talk to you beforehand, have a good vacation." "You too." I nodded once, then left, being careful to shut the door before Goldfish could escape again. I felt good. I was ready for my final exams. Brad wasn't coming home. And when I came back to school in January, Patrick would be waiting.

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Jim Hines

Bridge Michigan usually averages at least one ice storm each winter. The temperature needs to be right at the border between snow and rain, and if the ground is cold enough, the falling water forms tiny flecks of ice. Over time, the flecks build up, encasing everything in a second skin of ice. Grass crunches beneath the feet; branches grow heavy and snap away from the trees; telephone wires tear away from the poles. The ice usually vanishes quickly, often on the same day it falls. It melts and drips away, leaving fragile shells that exude the same perfect, empty fragility as the discarded skin of a cicada. Bridges are often slow to lose the ice. The cold air beneath, shaded from the sun, helps the frozen surface of the bridge retain its integrity, stubbornly clinging to every crack and bump in the surface of the pavement. If the salt trucks haven't made their runs, then the bridges might still be slick with ice even after the rest of the roads have dried. The same holds true, though to a lesser extent, for the spiral ramps connecting to the highways. Brad's 1973 TR-6 was a light car. He bought the old convertible from a neighbor for five hundred dollars. He spent a year restoring the engine, replacing the steel fenders and the hood with fiberglass, and finally painting the entire thing a deep, glossy black. He never did get the heater working right, but it looked good, from the red walled tires to the gleaming chrome trim. During the winter, he emptied the old maps and tapes out of the glove box and replaced them with a heavy set of work gloves. It was the only way to keep his hands warm enough to work the gearshift. Most of Brad's inheritance from Grandpa Jeff went into that car, but when it was done, he swore it would have been worth twice the money. He spent two days carefully waxing the new paint until the sun's reflection blinded anyone who looked at it. He paid a professional to apply twin red pinstripes that ran the length of the car. While the other high school students were driving their parents'

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Goldfish Dreams discarded station wagons or hundred-dollar rust-buckets bought with six months' wages from the local Burger King, Brad showed up in the fall of his senior year of high school driving a spotless, smooth-running convertible. Despite the problems with the heater, despite the fact that, at sixty-five MPH, the car began to rattle dangerously, he never gave up that car. He took it to college the next year and spent another eight-hundred dollars repairing the plastic rear window and the ignition after someone broke in and tried to hotwire it. Nothing was too good for his car. It was early in the morning. Brad was driving to work. He would have known that the weather had been bad, but nothing in the parking lot of his apartment or on the roads of Ann Arbor would have given any indication of trouble. Never having been a morning person, he probably drove in a trance, registering only enough of the world to keep the car going in a straight line. According to the police report, the TR-6 first skidded out of control about two-thirds of the way along the on-ramp of Interstate 96. The shock of the tires bouncing off the curb would have sent a surge of adrenaline through Brad's system. Even if he remembered to turn into the direction that the car was fishtailing, it would have accomplished nothing. The ice was too slick to control the skid, and there was nothing he could do except brace himself for the second ricochet, the one that launched the little convertible into the highway like a pinball. The car spun halfway around, so that Brad could see the on-ramp out the front windshield. The driver of the pick-up truck, on his way to the mall where he worked as a security guard, said he tried to swerve out of the way. Like the smaller convertible, the truck lost traction and began to slide. Death was probably instantaneous. It's impossible to say whether or not Brad saw the truck coming. If not, then his last thoughts were probably something simple : cursing Michigan weather or grumbling about how much it would cost to repair the banged- up tires. But what if he saw it coming? What if he saw the truck, anticipated the impact that would ram the driver's seat through the car until it rested against the passenger's door, leaving the car curled like an animal with a broken spine? What would his final thought have been? Perhaps his girlfriend. By then, they had been together for five months, long enough for it to become, in her words, very serious. Maybe there was time enough for a desperate prayer. Not long enough for any bargains to be made, but a few seconds to utter an incoherent, primal shout, demanding that fate find a loophole through which he could escape. What could probably be assumed is that, in those last moments, when the neurons of Brad's brain fired with uncontrollable panic, not a single thought went

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Jim Hines to his younger sister or what he had done to her, years before. If he screamed at God, it was a scream of desperation, not a plea for forgiveness. In the midst of it all, his body's inner workings wo uld have surged out of control, an evolutionary remnant of the flight or fight reaction that causes bladder and bowels to release, heart to pound, and breathing to become sharp and quick. And then the impact. Loud noise, the violent crack of steel crunching into fiberglass at seventy miles per hour. His body was crushed by the driver's door even as the entire door was shoved inward. The driver of the truck stepped out, clutching his left shoulder. The seat belt had pinched and bruised the flesh during the impact. But there was nothing he could do as the twisted convertible continued to slide slowly across the highway, finally bumping to a halt against the guardrail. By the time he limped to the crumpled car, it was over.

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Chapter 12 Spring Semester Buying books put me in a lousy mood. Over a hundred dollars for Lit. 101 alone. With eight novels and an anthology of poetry to read for this class alone, I bid a sad farewell to my shelf of science fiction, at least until the end of the semester. When I got to my room, the blinking light on the answering machine automatically cheered me up. Patrick and I hadn't figured out when we were going to get together for something resembling a first date, so I assumed the message was from him. I hit the button and started to unpack my new books. I didn't recognize my father's voice at first. It was a long message, full of pauses and repetition as he stumbled over his words. I didn't hear most of them. Just random bits of sound; Brad...accident...ice...funeral this Saturday. Only after sitting there in silence for an indeterminate time did I think to get up and replay the message. Dad had said something about picking me up for the funeral, but I hadn't heard when. My thoughts were running at a basic, practical level. I need to know when to expect him. I should write it down so I don't forget. I opened my brand- new notebook and replayed the message, jotting down, Dad here Friday, 5:30. Viewing Saturday, 9:30-12:30. Funeral 1:00. After a while, I went back to unpacking my books, stacking them on the back corner of my desk. I'm not sure what I was expecting. Some sort of reaction to Brad's death. Grief, anger, confusion...even relief. There was nothing. I felt hollow, like a tree that appears normal from the outside, even though the bugs have eaten away the core, leaving nothing but ragged walls and dust. I tried to imagine the accident, but all I could visualize was two vehicles bouncing off one another like bumper cars, the drivers laughing merrily behind the windshields, as though they shared a secret joke and I was the only one who

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Jim Hines hadn't been let in on it. It wasn't real. It couldn't be real. I knew my father would never lie about this, but I couldn't accept that it was real. Brad couldn't be gone. It wasn't possible. My brain struggled to reconcile these two beliefs. Brad was dead, but Brad couldn't be dead. How did you resolve an impossible paradox? This statement is a lie. Brad died in a car accident, but Brad couldn't be dead. At some level, I knew my denial was normal, but that didn't help my confusion. I finally went to the far corner of the room where Alisa kept her minifridge. Cold, dry air blew against my face when I opened the door. I ignored the cans of Cherry Pepsi on the door. The rest of the two-foot high compartment was filled with a bottle of Hot Damn and a case of Genesee Cream Ale that her parents had brought her from out east. I pulled out the bottle and one of the cans, holding one in each hand. For a while, I studied my reflection in the metallic green can, absorbed by the way it elongated my face. My eyes were dark green shadows, featureless holes to either side of the long lines of my nose. I could see the light from the entryway silhouetted behind my right ear, a whitish- green streak that ran the length of the can. I settled on the Hot Damn. The sharp cinnamon nicely masked the taste of alcohol. My goal wasn't to get drunk. I only wanted to shut off my brain, to break it out of the endless cycle of belief and disbelief. I knew it wouldn't stop by itself. Like a woman in the grip of obsessive-compulsive disorder, I would continue to replay the message in my head, over and over again until it drove me mad. I grabbed one of Alisa's shot glasses. It was one of those tacky western designs with the coyote sitting in the midst of the cacti, endlessly howling at the moon. A slosh of Hot Damn turned the sky a bloody red. I sat there for a while, staring at the tiny glass in my hand as I searched for the right words. My brain was still running wild, and an overtired sense of giddiness began to take over. I raised the glass to the light of the window and said, "To my brother, who couldn't let me go back to school without finding a way to fuck it up." I knew it was a mean thing to say. My father would have killed me if he had heard. But at that moment, as I downed the drink, all I could think about was me. Just when I had started to get my life under control, Brad had screwed me up again. I almost believed he had done it out of spite. An aborted laugh left stabbing pains at the base of my throat. It took two more drinks to smooth out the pain. I don't remember much that happened once Alisa got back to the room. I know I played the message for her, and that I felt incredibly guilty about finishing

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Goldfish Dreams off so much of her booze supply. But Alisa loved being the caretaker, and a drunk roommate was something she knew how to take care of. She grabbed a box of Saltines out of her desk and fed them to me, one at a time. She also tried to get me to drink some water, saying it would keep my hydrated and ease the hangover. I already felt sick and bloated, and the last thing I wanted was to squeeze anything else into my tortured stomach. By the time we were done, I was covered in spilled water and cracker crumbs. I remember her saying how sorry she was about Brad, because I remember giggling a bit and saying, "Fuck him." I know she helped me make my way to the bathroom, where the contents of my stomach came rushing back in painful spasms, looking like lumpy tomato soup. I was a little better after that, and I wanted to go outside. "That's not a good idea," Alisa said. "Yo u're drunk and it's cold out there. You should rest. Let me get you some more water." "No, no, no," I said. I clumsily pushed my way past her and began donning my jacket and gloves. "I want to see the snow and the ice. It came from the same storm that killed him, and I want to see it." I snorted. "I want to say thank you." "The ice will still be there in the morning," she said, gently trying to push me back toward the bed. "It won't be the same." By tomorrow, the ice would have thinned away to fragile shells, if it hadn't melted completely. "I want to see it," I insisted. Alisa had no choice but to follow. For once, I was bullying her into something she didn't want to do. "Hurry up," I added, giggling at my newfound power. I nearly slipped on the bottom step, and I pulled a muscle in my shoulder when I grabbed the railing to catch myself. "Come on, Eileen. Let's go back before you hurt yourself." I yanked away from her, nearly falling again. We walked to one of the pine trees behind the parking lot. Most of the ice was already dripping. A few small clumps still hugged the branches where the dorm's shadow protected the trees from the sun. I knew I was still drunk, because I had another dizzy spell as I stood there. I thought the trees were dancing around me, waving their branches and dusting me with powdered ice. I wanted to close my eyes and join them, but when I did, the ground began to shift. Alisa caught me before I fell. "We should go back inside," she said. I laughed, and with a logic usually reserved for small children, said, "It's my brother that died, so I get to decide what we do."

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Jim Hines But when I turned my attention back to the ice, whatever I had been looking for was gone. I made a fist around one of the lower branches and slid it to the end, breaking the ice free in small chunks as I went. Some of the needles broke off as well and stuck to the cuff of my jacket. I looked at Alisa. She wore one of those headbands that protected her forehead and ears against the cold, along with a brown leather jacket and turquoise gloves. There was a slight tinge of red to her face. Beneath the headband, her eyebrows were scrunched together in worry. Why was she worried? There was nothing wrong with her life. She was pretty, she was in her second year of college, and she had everything going for her. In one of those moments of drunken clarity, I realized that I was cold, I was beginning to feel a headache coming on, and I wanted nothing more than to go back inside, turn up the heat, and collapse on my bed. Alisa was more than willing to help me back inside. I fell asleep quickly. Alisa woke me up to feed me a bagel and some oyster crackers she had smuggled out of the cafeteria. Not much of a dinner, but I didn't have much of an appetite. We talked for a little while, and then I dozed off again. Alisa's hangover prevention didn't work too well. When I woke up the next morning, my brain felt like it had come loose from my skull. It slid and banged every time I moved. Alisa treated me like some sort of fragile glass figurine, but I assumed it was a holdover from her mothering the night before. There was something in the way she looked at me, like I was a stranger. It must have been a bit of a shock, to see her over-controlled roommate get wasted like that. "I'm okay," I told her as I pulled on my bathrobe. "I'm sorry about yesterday. I didn't mean to worry you." "Don't worry about it." She sounded so serious. Then again, why wouldn't she, considering that my brother had died little more than twenty- four hours ago? It was almost funny--Alisa acted more upset than I was. That was when it hit me that I wasn't upset. I thought about it on the way to the shower. Not only wasn't I upset, I wasn't feeling much of anything. I had freaked out last night, but apparently that had been enough of a catharsis, and everything had settled back into place while I slept. Over the course of the last semester, I had written my brother out of my life. He was already dead to me. Why should the accident make any difference? Once I had the water going, I said to myself, "Brad's dead," testing the words aloud. It sounded strange. I was listening to someone else talk about a different Brad, someone who happened to share the same name as my brother. When I got back, Janice and Alisa were sitting on the floor, which seemed

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Goldfish Dreams odd, since Alisa and Janice didn't hang out very often. They looked up at me as I walked in, and I wondered if I was interrupting. "How are you doing?" Janice asked. Sometime over break, she had gotten her hair braided into dozens of thin, beaded strands that clacked together as she glanced at Alisa, then back at me. Alisa must have told her what happened. I didn't know whether to feel annoyed at her gossiping or relieved that I wouldn't have to explain it to everyone. "Better than I was last night," I said, smiling a little. I settled for relief and gave Alisa a look meant to reassure her that I wasn't angry. But she ducked away, refusing to meet my eyes. I got even more confused when, a moment later, Janice said something about wanting to get a head start on her reading and slipped out of the room. What was wrong with everyone? I finished dressing, and when I turned around, Alisa was still sitting in the middle of the floor, staring at me. This was getting on my nerves. Why didn't anyone ever believe me when I said I was okay? I crossed my arms and said, "I'm fine. Really." She hadn't put on any makeup this morning, and it gave her a feeling of genuineness that I hadn't seen before. She ducked her head down, which swung her hair over her eyes like curtains. "Did everything you talked about last night really happen?" It was nice to know it felt unreal to someone else too. "The message is still on the machine. I've still got notes jotted down about the funeral this weekend. So yeah, I assume he's really dead." She was shaking her head, so I stopped talking. "I meant the other things." "What other things?" My heart began to pound. What had I said last night? I couldn't remember, but suddenly I wanted to flee. Her eyes looked at me through her hair. "Do you want me to repeat it?" I nodded, growing more nervous every second. I didn't remember saying anything bad last night, but I didn't remember how I got from the parking lot to my bed, either. She started twirling a lock of hair tightly around her finger. "You said, 'He spent four years fucking me. Why should I care that he's dead?'" Oh my God. The floor began to spin, and I had to grab the top of the bunk to keep my balance. I felt like I was drunk again. "He never made me have intercourse," I whispered. My voice sounded so tiny, I was surprised that she heard. She didn't say anything, and a moment later, something else clicked. "That's what you were talking to Janice about, isn't it?" How could I have been so stupid? I knew better than to let myself lose control. And to let things slip to Alisa, of all people. I knew damn well she

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Jim Hines couldn't keep a secret. For all those years, I had kept everything hidden. Patrick was the only one who even came close to guessing. Now, with one simple, stupid mistake, it had already started to spread across the dorm. "Who else knows?" She wouldn't look at me. "Robin." My grip on the mattress tightened. "I talked to her last night at dinner," she said, beginning to sound defensive. "I didn't know what else to do. Robin was the one who said I should talk to Janice, with her being a psych major and all. And you never said to keep it a secret." The one part of my life I kept locked up for seven years now, and she had told the world. Couldn't she understand that I didn't want people to find out about this? She was an honors student! Didn't she have the brains to see that some things were better left unsaid? I had expected news of Brad's death to travel quickly. When Kevin had his nervous breakdown last semester, the entire floor knew about it within the day. That was how the dorms worked. But now, thanks to my roommate, Brad's death would be nothing more than a starting point, the springboard for whispered conversations spreading through the dorm like a virus. I could imagine the whispers. "What's up with Eileen?" "You haven't heard? Her brother got killed in a car crash." "Oh, man. That's tough." "Yeah, but get this--it turns out that he was screwing her for years when they were growing up." And on and on, until everyone in Sparrow Hall knew some distorted version of the truth. When I spoke, I kept my voice steady and normal. "Do you mind giving me some time alone?" Her gaze flipped back and forth between me and the door. "Are you sure I should? I mean, are you going to be okay?" I smiled at her and wondered how much longer I could keep from breaking her neck. "I'm fine." To prove it, I opened the winter coursebook and began copying down my schedule as though nothing unusual had occurred. She stood and walked toward the door. "I'll be down in the cafeteria grabbing breakfast. I'll swing by again when I'm done to see how you're doing." The door closed, and I fought the urge to scream. So this was how it would be. From now on, Alisa was no longer my roommate. She was my caretaker. Exactly what I didn't need. Where did she get the idea that the best way to help someone recover from a childhood trauma was to treat them like a child all over again? I grabbed my saber and tapped the blade against the floor as I sat there. I

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Goldfish Dreams fought the urge to slash through one of her posters. The one with the oiled, mostly- naked cowboy made a particularly enticing target. Instead, I stood up and spent a few minutes practicing vertical lunges against the mattress of the bed, trying to calm myself. Normally, the repetitive thwump of steel slamming against the blankets would have worked as a distraction, something to focus on while the rest of my mind tucked things back into place. Not this time. Each strike was harder than the last, and soon I had to stop for fear that I would damage the bed. I needed to get out of here. I needed to be someplace safe, somewhere I wouldn't have to worry about who knew and who didn't and what they were going to say when they saw me. I toyed with the idea of finding Sean and getting him to show me that trick with the door. The attic would make a nice hideaway right about now. But Sean would want to know why, if Robin or Janice hadn't already told him. That left only one other choice. I reached for the phone. I tapped the tip of the saber against my sneaker as I waited for an answer. A quick conversation later, I was out the door. The botanical gardens looked barren in winter. Most of the plants had either died or gone dormant. Rows of brown stalks poked up from the thin layer of last night's snow. Even the pond was frozen with a thin icy glaze. I wondered what happened to the goldfish in the winter. Did they die off when the cold weather came so suddenly? The fish could easily have frozen to death before someone remembered to move them inside. I wouldn't have been surprised, given how long it had taken anyone to come repair our window. Speed was not SMU's strong point. The cold air smelled vaguely like campfire smoke as I walked to the bench by the river. I was early. For me, it was only a short walk from the dorm, but Patrick had to drive through the twisting roads and traffic circles of campus, and then he would have to find a parking spot. So I sat there and studied the trees on the other side of the river. With the leaves gone, the thin, fractal- like branches looked fragile and brittle. Every year, they waited out the winter in this naked state of near-death. The wind occasionally brushed the tips of the branches against one another, but any noise they made was buried in the sounds of the river. I heard the metallic rattling of Patrick's old Chevy as he pulled into the parking lot, but I continued to sit there, waiting, as he made his way around the fence that separates the gardens from the road. Until that moment, calling Patrick had seemed the natural thing to do. He was the one who already knew about my past. He was the one I could talk to without feeling judged or babied. He made me feel safe, and right now, I needed

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Jim Hines to be safe. He was also the man who had kissed me just a few months ago on that bench a few yards away. And it was a new semester, and he wasn't my TA anymore, and oh God, what was he going to think? I was five years younger than him. I was still an ex-student. I wasn't particularly attractive, either--too thin, too plain, nothing that would make me anything but average. Now here I was, coming to him with more of my problems before classes had even started. Four weeks had passed since we saw one another, four weeks for him to look back and realize it was all just a mistake. By the time he came into sight and waved a gloved hand in the air, I was bracing myself for whatever let-her-downgently speech he had come up with. I didn't stand up. If I stood, then I'd want to hug him, and even if he was somehow comfortable with that, I knew I wouldn't want to let go and I'd end up embarrassing us both. So he sat down beside me and kind of glanced across the river like he was trying to figure out what I was looking at. "You sounded upset on the phone," he said eventually. "I was." I forced myself to look at him, to meet the gaze of those bluegreen eyes that looked so worried. "But I don't want to talk about that." He frowned, confused. He couldn't have been more confused than I was. I didn't want to talk about it? Then what was I doing here? Apparently, I was more worried about whether or not he had feelings for me than I was about Brad's accident and the fact that, by the time I got back to Sparrow, everyone would know what he had done to me. I folded my hands in my lap, chastising myself for not having the common sense to bring a pair of gloves with me. "Do you remember the last time we were here?" I asked, trying to keep my voice light. He smiled, and I wished he hadn't. How could he know what that smile did to me? But that was part of what made it so powerful. He wasn't trying to come across as a warm, caring person. That was just who he was. "Of course." I looked away again. "Do you still feel that way?" I actually held my breath. It was like messing up a fleche attack in fencing and waiting for your opponent's sword to slap against your back. His fingers reached out and took my chin, gently pulling me back until I was facing him again. And then he leaned forward and kissed me. For the first few seconds, I remained frozen, convinced it was some sort of trick. I kept waiting for him to pull away, and he kept kissing me, and then a voice in my head said, This is real, and I allowed myself to kiss back and just kind of melted into it. He still tasted faintly of mint. This time there was less tension. The last time, we had both known it was wrong. Now there were no rules, and we both just sat there, exploring the sensations and letting our lips communicate in silence.

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Goldfish Dreams When we finally broke away, he kept his face close to mine so I could feel his breath against my face as he said, "Does that answer your question?" It was an impertinent thing to say, so I kissed him again. He didn't seem to mind. But even sitting there, our arms around one another and the warmth of our lips a sharp counterpoint to the cold air biting our skin, he was still too much of a counselor to forget the original reason I had called him. After a while, he kissed me gently on the forehead and sat back, straddling the bench so he could face me directly. "You never explained why you were so upset on the phone," he said softly. I felt relaxed. I felt safe. There was a laugh trapped in my chest, fighting to get out. I forced it down, afraid of looking childish if I allowed myself to giggle. But I wanted to. After months of keeping things on a "professional" level, fighting the urge to hold his hand or kiss him goodbye when we were done talking, there were no more barriers. Relief pumped through my veins like a drug, making me giddy. Best of all, he seemed as happy as I was. And that's how I ended up sitting in the middle of the botanical gardens, grinning happily with my hands sandwiched firmly between Patrick's and fighting an attack of the giggles as I said, "Brad died in a car crash yesterday morning."

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Jim Hines

Chapter 13 The next few days were hell. I felt like a museum exhibit. Janice was a perfect example. When she looked at me, she no longer saw Eileen. She saw Incest Victim. I was a case study, or at best a client. She was very considerate and polite of course, but I could see the change in her eyes. Jay was the only one who acted like nothing had happened. Of course, Jay was usually the last to hear anything, so for all I knew, nobody had told him yet. By the time the weekly floor meeting rolled around, I wanted nothing to do with anyone. The meetings were mandatory, which meant almost half of the residents usually showed up. I had no intention of going. But Alisa, still in full mothering mode, decided that I needed to get out and interact with people. Once again, the clash of personalities was a short- lived battle, and I found myself sitting in the lounge, watching the others to see who avoided my gaze. Sean reviewed the floor rules for the few people who had transferred in over break, and reminded everyone to behave themselves with the snow. "The police will come down hard if we have another campus-wide snowball fight this winter. I'm also supposed to inform whoever built the four-foot snow penis in the courtyard last year that if we catch you doing it again, you'll be in 'serious trouble.'" "Don't they realize they're just encouraging people?" Alisa whispered. "I don't know, but Sean does," I said. "Look at the way he's grinning." Robin leaned in and added, "I'm betting the penis will rise again." We tried to keep our laughter quiet, but people still glanced at us. I could see surprise on some of their faces when they saw me laughing. Was I supposed to be miserable all of the time? Or maybe they thought I was hysterical. I wanted to yell at them. That's right, Eileen is laughing. Quick, someone call a psychologist. By the time Sean tossed his notes over his shoulder and said, "That's all folks," I was more than ready to get out of there. I stood to go, and then Sean's

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Goldfish Dreams voice cut through the other conversations. "Eileen, could I talk to you for a sec before you go?" I was tempted to keep walking, to pretend I hadn't heard, but knowing Sean, he would only follow me to my room and badger me until I acknowledged him. "Want us to wait?" Alisa asked. "I don't need a babysitter," I snapped. Small clumps of people were still scattered throughout the room, so we walked to the lounge at the other end of the hall. He shut the door behind us. He sat on one of the tables, ignoring the squeal of protest from the metal legs. "Pretty much everyone knows bits and pieces of what happened to your brother over break." His mouth pursed in annoyance. "Ain't nobody who knows how to keep a secret around here." "So I've noticed." He snorted. "I'm sorry about the accident. I heard the rest of it a few hours ago." He fiddled with the drawstrings of his sweatshirt as he said, "I assume that's true as well?" I nodded. There was no point in denying it. At least Sean had the guts to come out and ask me. He wound the string tightly around his index finger and stared at it for until the skin turned purple. When he spoke, his voice was very quiet. "Damn." I cocked my head, and he added, "I hoped it was all a bunch of bullshit gossip." I sat there until he inhaled sharply through his nose and continued. "They give all of the RAs an hour's worth of training on how to handle grief. But I'm not even close to qualified to help with this shit." From the back pocket of his jeans, he produced a slightly battered card. "That's the number to the university counseling center. Knowing this place, they probably suck, but it's better than anything I could do for you." I took the card and glanced at the small blue letters. Rogers Counseling Center, followed by a phone number. "Was that all?" I asked. The last thing I wanted was to spend any more time with Sean's attempts at professionalism. "That's all." He shrugged. "Part of my job. Nancy from the Residence Hall Association called this morning to make sure I talked to you about the accident. I don't think she knows the rest." I was actually halfway out the door when I realized he wasn't following. He was still sitting on the table, one hand jammed beneath his chin, the other a tight fist in his lap. "Are you okay?" I asked, feeling awkward at the reversal of roles. He smacked the fist into his other hand, producing a sharp clap that echoed inside the small room. "No, I'm not. This shit pisses me off. But I'll be

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Jim Hines okay." He gave me a rueful grin, obviously forced. "I hope you won't hold it against me, but I can't find it in myself to be too upset about your brother's passing." I shook my head. "I've been pretty numb myself. I don't know what's going to happen when I get to the funeral, though." He stood up and made a futile attempt to straighten his sweatshirt. "Let me know if you need anything. I'm not much of a listener, but Goldfish does a pretty good job as long as you keep petting him. And if there is anything I can do, tell me." I gave him a genuine smile. "Thanks." The rest of the night was spent packing and making small talk with Alisa and Robin. Alisa must have told her how angry I was, because we spent the next few hours in careful conversation that sounded almost scripted. Robin got flustered when she mentioned that her brother was thinking about applying to SMU in the fall. I didn't know which was worse, the prying curiosity I had felt at the meeting, or this insane attempt to avoid anything related to brothers, sex, or death. I finally suggested we go down to Robin's room to watch a movie. At least that way we wouldn't have to talk. Robin popped a pirated copy of Into the Woods into the VCR. As soon as the music started, I could feel the others relax. The only bad spot came when the wolf seduced Red Riding Hood. Two sets of eyes surreptitiously glanced in my direction, trying to gauge my reaction. In the darkened room, it was easier for me to ignore them. I spent the next day camped out in my room, waiting for my father to pick me up. I was tempted to call Patrick, but he had a shift at Outreach that afternoon. He had traded shifts with someone so he could go to the funeral with me tomorrow. With everything he had already done, I didn't want to burden him further. Alisa kept trying to start a conversation, and I kept ignoring her. She finally gave up, and was cleaning her desk for the first time since August when my father arrived. He didn't look good. There was a heavy overtone to his voice, like he was simply reciting words whose meaning he had forgotten long ago. "Your sister is driving in tomorrow morning. Are you ready to go?" I swore. I had spent the entire day worrying, and had completely forgotten to pack. I grabbed clothes, toothbrush, deodorant, and brush, and shoved them into my backpack. While I was doing that, Alisa walked over to my father. "I was very sorry to hear about your son," she said softly. "You've all been in my prayers." My father offered a mumbled thanks. I stared in shock. Where had this

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Goldfish Dreams quiet, respectful tact been for the past few days? "Ready yet?" asked my father. "Almost," I said, cramming the rest of my clothes into the backpack. They would be wrinkled when I got home, but I didn't care. Before, I had merely been annoyed at the way Alisa was reacting to things. I thought that was simply who she was: tactless, but with good intentions. But she hadn't tried to engage my father in conversation about me or my sister or what it was like to teach gymnastics. So why couldn't she give me the same peace? Maybe the difference was that he was an adult. But what did that make me? Did she think I was a child she had to take care of? I was relieved when the car pulled out of the parking lot. I needed a few days away from Sparrow. Patrick called the morning of the funeral to say he would meet me at the church. As I hung up the phone, I tried to reassure myself that I would be okay. If I could get through the viewing, I would be okay. All I had to do was survive two hours with my family, an endless trickle of Brad's friends, and Brad himself. When we arrived at the funeral home, I planted myself in the back of the viewing room, fully intending to stay in my chair until it was time to leave. The room was dimly lit, with rows of plastic chairs whose metal legs linked together at the bottom. Everyone wore suits or dresses; perfumes filled the air, their scents fighting and blending into a sharp, flowery smell. The coffin sat in the front of the room between two large arrangements of white lilies and purple delphiniums. Only the upper portion of the coffin was open, revealing a soft, peach-colored lining. The exterior was lacquered black, polished so brightly I could see the lights of the chandelier reflected on the lid of the coffin. It was like staring into outer space. The blackness gave the impression of depth. The surface of the coffin was a portal, a doorway into infinite darkness. I felt like I could touch it and my hand would pass into something cold and foreign. Krista sat down beside me. Her presence jolted my thoughts. I rubbed my dry eyes, breaking the trance. She had left Annie behind with Steve. Annie wasn't old enough to understand what had happened to Uncle Brad. I squeezed her hand, and she looked at me like she didn't know who I was. "How are you doing?" I asked. Her lower lip trembled slightly. "I don't know." I could relate. The drama at the dorm had been more than enough to keep my mind off of Brad and the funeral. In some odd way, Alisa's gossip had indeed helped, if only by distracting me.

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Jim Hines But now there were no distractions. Everything was about Brad. I had no place to go, no way to hide. What was I hiding from, anyway? Brad was dead. There was still a tight feeling in the pit of my stomach, like it was all a dream, and I'd wake up in my bed, shaking and tangled in cold, sweaty sheets. "I was so angry," Krista whispered. There weren't a lot of people yet, and we could talk without being overheard. "I talked about killing him." It took me a minute to recall our conversation in the basement over Thanksgiving. "It's not your fault. You didn't kill him." "What kind of sister jokes about her brother's death?" "You weren't joking. But you didn't want him to die, either." She didn't answer, and I could hear her mumbling that it was just a joke. Just a joke. It's all a great big joke. That's why I was avoiding the coffin, I realized. I was terrified that, the instant I looked inside, Brad's eyes would pop open and he'd start laughing and everything would turn out to be another nightmare. Even dead, Brad could still control me. I had to prove to myself that he was really gone. The chair squeaked quietly as I stood up. I pushed Krista out of my mind and walked toward the coffin. I paused next to my father, who hadn't left his seat in the front row for close to an hour. He glanced up at me. I had never seen my father look so lost. Where I was caught up in my fear that it was all a dream, his eyes darted around the room as though he were praying for someone to tell him it was. I hadn't thought about how this would affect him, or anyone else for that matter. I put a hand on his shoulder and squeezed. He grabbed my hand so tightly his wedding ring dug into my skin. It hurt, but I didn't move. "I love you." That was all he said, but I almost started to cry. He released my hand and went back to staring at the coffin. I bit my lip and took a few deep breaths, forcing the feelings back. Then I took another step, climbing the single stair onto the platform that held my brother's coffin. For a heartbeat, I thought that all of my fears were true. This was a joke. It wasn't my brother lying in the coffin. The body was too pale; Brad always had a tan, even in the middle of winter. I could smell the dry, powdery make-up they had used on his skin. His hair was too neat, lacking the wild strands that always escaped over his ears. His lips were too dry. His hands looked the most artificial. The fingers were laced together over his chest. On his right hand, he wore a gold ring with a square, black stone in the center. There was no pinkness in the nails, no trace of the veins or capillaries beneath the skin. It was like looking at a mummy in a museum and trying to

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Goldfish Dreams believe it had once been alive, that blood had pumped through those dried veins, that the gray, flaking skin had once been smooth and healthy. Brad wore a brown suit, and that was wrong, too. Brad hated suits. He would have wanted to be buried in jeans and an old T-shirt. This wasn't Brad anymore. This was just a display put out by the funeral home for the benefit of the rest of us. Brad was gone. I placed a hand on his chest. It was cold and hard, like plastic. Maybe it really was plastic. The accident had been horrible, and I couldn't bring myself to ask how much work it had taken to make Brad...presentable. When I finally began to back away, I moved my hand back and touched the wood of the coffin. It felt no different than Brad's flesh. I shook my head. Burying a lifeless shell inside a lifeless shell. It was some how appropriate and horrible at the same time. This would be the last time I saw his face. Very soon, that lid would close, and the ground would swallow Brad forever. Maybe I should have felt bad about the things I said to Brad, back at Thanksgiving dinner, but I didn't. There was no remorse, but neither was there anger anymore. Nothing but a vague feeling of sadness. Sadness because he was dead, or because that was what I was supposed to feel at a funeral, I wondered. Should I say goodbye? Counselors were always talking about closure, and this was an ideal time. Brad would never touch me or speak to me again. But it wasn't over for me. This was the closure to Brad's life, not to mine. His death wouldn't take away the memories and the scars. There was nothing to say. Nothing I could do but take one last look, fixing his stiff, bleached features in my memory before I turned away. When we pulled up in the funeral home's limousine, Patrick walked down the front steps of the church to meet me. I introduced him as "a friend from school." Only Krista knew the truth, and she gave me a weak, knowing smile. St. James Episcopal Church was a looming stone building. The air inside was frosty. The wooden beams supporting the high roof made me think of ribs, all lodged to a central spine that ran the length of the church. Once inside, we were led to our seats at the front of the church. Patrick sat next to me. He looked a bit uncomfortable, but I touched his hand and gave him a quick smile. Rich Holbrook had been the reverend at St. James for as long as I could remember. His round face and protruding belly made him look like Santa Claus without the beard, but he had a Boston accent which destroyed the illusion. He paused by our pew on the way to the altar. "I'm very sorry," he said softly. "I know how much pain you all must be going through." I doubted it. I kept the thought to myself. The ceremony was short. I sat through several readings and mouthed the

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Jim Hines words to the different hymns. Then Reverend Holbrook closed his Bible and removed his glasses, carefully placing them into a pocket of his robe. "I had the privilege of watching Brad Greenwood grow up, starting with the time he was four years old and tried to wash his hair in the holy water." I glanced at my father, not knowing that particular story. His eyes were unfocused, but the corners of his mouth relaxed and he nodded slightly, remembering. "Brad was a good boy, and a good man." I bit my lip and grabbed Patrick's hand, no longer caring whether or not anyone saw. "When he was sixteen, he and his friends started a snowball fight across the road. Brad scaled the wall of the church and somehow managed to pull himself up onto the roof so he would have an advantage over his friends. "The choir director found him there an hour later. He couldn't get back down without falling, but he was too proud to call for help. "After we got him down, I brought him into my office expecting to hear one of two things: either an excuse--and as a parent myself, I've heard some doozies--or else an apology and a promise that he would never do it again. You know the type of promise I'm talking about. They usually last exactly as long as it takes to get away from the adult. "I was wrong." Reverend Holbrook stepped around in front of the podium as he continued speaking. "Brad looked me dead in the eye and said, 'I know I shouldn't be up there, but I wanted to win.' He was always a competitive soul, but more importantly, even at fifteen, he could own up to his mistakes. He took responsibility for his actions." My hand clenched around Patrick's. I wanted to stand up and scream. I wanted to tell everyone that it was a lie. Brad was better than anyone I had ever known at fooling people. Sure, if you caught him at something, he would own up to it. He knew what adults wanted to hear. But what about those things nobody ever caught him doing? The reverend shook his head. "He asked me what he could do to earn back my respect. I wanted to tell him, 'You just did.' But that would have ruined my reputation as a taskmaster." A few people chuckled quietly at that. "So I told him his penance would be to stick around and help clean the church. He stayed for three hours that day, mopping and dusting and polishing. He didn't complain once." Patrick leaned toward me, so close I could feel his breath in my ear. "Do you need to leave?" I shook my head more sharply than I had intended. A part of me wanted to leave, wanted to run away, but I couldn't. If I ran from him now, I would never

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Goldfish Dreams be able to stop. Nor would my father ever forgive me. Fortunately, Reverend Holbrook had no more stories. The rest of the service dragged on forever, but when I looked at my watch, the entire thing had lasted only forty minutes. I endured a short, silent drive to the cemetery. We passed through the gate and drove around the twisted road to the far side, where a small pavilion had been erected over the freshly dug plot. The wind bit my face as we stepped out of the car and onto the scattered rock salt that kept the road ice- free. Up ahead, Reverend Holbrook and the driver from the funeral home climbed out of the hearse. Only the harsh call of the crows circling the trees at the edge of the cemetery cut through the silence. I was turned around, waiting for Patrick, so I didn't see what happened next. Reverend Holbrook never admitted to being at fault, but it was generally assumed that he was the one who accidentally bumped the power locks of the hearse on the way out. Nobody noticed until the driver tried to open the back door so the pallbearers could get to the coffin. He patted his pockets, and then turned to stare through the hearse's window. A moment later, we were all peering through the windows at the keys, which dangled uselessly from the ignition. The driver apologized repeatedly as we stood there. His face was red as he turned away and grabbed a cell phone from his pocket. After a few minutes of whispered conversation, he closed the phone with a look of shock. "I'm terribly sorry about all this, but..." his voice dropped. "It sounds like we're missing the spare key for this vehicle." I looked at Patrick. He was watching me, apparently waiting for my reaction before saying anything. I didn't know how to react. After everything that had happened over the past few days, this was...ridiculous. It was absurd. I fought to suppress the inappropriate laugh building in my chest. The driver called a locksmith, but it sounded like he was having problems. Patrick shook his head and smiled. "Do you think you'll get a refund from the funeral home?" he whispered. I nearly choked. "There should be a time limit. 'We deliver your corpse in thirty minutes or less or your money back.'" He rolled his eyes. "That poor driver. Can you imagine trying to explain this to your boss?" Krista had been drifting toward us, and she was close enough to overhear Patrick's remark. She managed a small smile. She seemed to have regained her composure. Her face was still pale, but she didn't look as lost. She leaned over and whispered to the two of us. It was too much, and my laughter escaped, instantly drawing the attention of everyone standing nearby, including my father. He walked over, his hands thrust into the pockets of his overcoat. In a

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Jim Hines voice that carried with it twenty years of teaching experience, even when he was tired and emotionally dead, he asked, "Would you care to share the joke?" We froze. Even Patrick looked uncomfortable, and Krista's face was a parody of guilt. After a long silence, I was the one to speak. "Just that it's so typical. Even today, with everyone standing around in the cold, Brad still can't manage to be on time." He stared at me for a while, his face a blank mask, and I was afraid that he would either yell or cry. I think I would have preferred the former. Krista and Patrick stood to either side of me, and together we waited in silence that nobody was willing to break. After what seemed like an eternity, he nodded. "He's as bad as your mother was." Patrick took a respectful step back as my father reached out to take Krista and me into a tight embrace. The driver eventually told us that no locksmith would be available for at least an hour. By now, there were several people shoving bent coathangers through the windows, trying without success to pop the locks from the inside. One man eventually managed to hook the lock on the back door, but nothing happened. Apparently when the factory modifies cars into hearses, they disable the rear locks. It made sense, I guess--the only people traveling in the back wouldn't mind waiting for someone to open the door from the outside. After an hour and a half passed with no sign of the locksmith, someone produced a toolbox and tried to pry the rear window off the door. The edging came off with no trouble, but the glass was still glued to the metal of the door. A young boy I didn't know tried to pry the glass away with a screwdriver, but pre-stressed glass reacts poorly to forces from strange angles. An intricate lace of cracks spread across the lower corner of the window. The driver rolled his eyes. "It don't matter anymore. Let's get it over with." He grabbed a hammer from the toolbox. "Would anyone care to do the honors?" Without knowing why, I stepped forward and grabbed the hammer from his hand. I had never been the destructive type. Any of the young boys would have had much more fun at the prospect of breaking a window. But I wanted this. Maybe Brad's ghost wanted to delay the burial, but I was going to make damn sure he went into the ground. I stared through the network of cracks at the flawless coffin. I had removed my glove to grip the wooden handle of the hammer, and my fingers tingled in the cold. Taking the advice of the driver, I shielded my face with my free hand. Then I drew back and smashed the hammer through the glass, ripping a large, gaping hole and raining tiny pebbles of glass down onto the ground, the interior of

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Goldfish Dreams the car, and the surface of the coffin. It's a tribute to God's sense of humor that, less than five minutes after we finished breaking off the crumbling glass at the edges of the window, the locksmith's truck came rumbling up the road.

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Chapter 14 "Why did you go with me?" An instant later, I thought of a dozen better, less abrasive ways of asking the question. I wanted to reach through the telephone and grab the words back, but it was too late. Maybe Sean's bluntness was infectious. I had to trust that Patrick wouldn't be offended. I hadn't objected to his company at the funeral. He was like a buffer, helping me maintain control in the midst of chaos. But after he left, I began to wonder if that wasn't exactly why he had offered to come. Was he there more as my protector than...well, than whatever else we were trying to be? Krista said I was paranoid. Before we left, she pulled me aside to say that, "Any guy who will go to a funeral on the first date is a man worth keeping." First date? True, we kissed that night before he left. True, it was that same tender, attentive kiss that left my muscles loose and my nerves charged for hours after he left. But it was a funeral. Patrick was a crisis counselor. Had he tagged along purely for the sake of his "client?" What kind of relationship was this, anyway? Were we going out? Was there any sort of commitment? If not, did he want one? Did I? Or was it all some twisted hybrid of a professional and dating relationship? That last thought scared me the most. So I had to ask. I had to know. I had to call him up and lay my fears on the table. Still, as the silence stretched on and on, I began to wish I had never opened my mouth. Finally, Patrick asked, "What do you mean?" "The funeral. Were you there as a counselor or a...a friend?" What was so hard about the word "boyfriend?" I was reluctant to say it aloud. If I had misinterpreted everything, I didn't want to embarrass him. On a deeper level, I was still trying to protect myself. If it really was a big mistake, I couldn't stand for him to laugh at me for being so young and naive as to misunderstand his actions.

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Goldfish Dreams "I'm not your counselor, Eileen." Not a completely satisfying answer, and the soft, careful tone of his voice seemed to contradict the words. That could be my fault, though. He hadn't been home when I called, so I had interrupted his shift at Outreach. It was probably hard for him to change gears from crisis callers to me. Or maybe it wasn't that much of a change. "So why did you come with me?" I asked. "I went because I care about you." Dammit, I was getting tired of these vague answers. I didn't know if he was deliberately evading or if he was genuinely blind to what I was asking. "In what way do you care about me?" Another pause. Then, "Oh." I was about to repeat my question when he said, "You're looking to put a label on this?" That sounded like I was trying to trap him into a commitment, which I wasn't. I only wanted to know what was going on so I didn't make a fool of myself. "Are you serious about this? About me?" This time, the answer came immediately. "Of course. I wouldn't play games with you." Whatever else he was going to say was lost as another phone buzzed in the background. I knew he had to answer it. Whoever was calling could be suicidal, and that took precedence over personal calls. Before he hung up, he said, "Why don't we get together tomorrow, around six, for a genuine, real- life date. I'll show you how I feel and let you judge for yourself, okay?" I agreed, and he said a hasty good-bye. A moment later, I was left with a dial tone ringing in my ear. "Thanks," I muttered, returning the phone to the carriage with more force than necessary. He could have at least sounded a little more reluctant to hang up. Still, a real date sounded promising. Was it too much to ask where you stood with someone after you had kissed three times? I couldn't keep thinking along those lines, not without putting myself right back into the same depressed funk that had motivated me to call in the first place. So I turned my attention back to the computer on my desk, trying to forget about Patrick. That computer was the only thing I had taken when we went through Brad's apartment over the weekend. Crystal had been there. Nobody else had even known that they were living together. Under other circumstances Dad would have been angry, but in this case I think it just made him sadder to know so much of his son's life had been kept from him. Neither Krista nor I had any desire to go along, but he insisted. He said it was so we could help carry things down to the van and sort through Brad's belongings. I think he also needed the company, and that was the only reason I

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Jim Hines was willing to go. Ever since the funeral, he had been a robot as he dealt with all of the things that needed to be arranged. He talked to the manager at Brad's apartment, put in a phone call to the university, talked to the insurance company, tracked down the bank Brad had been using, and started putting together thank-you cards for everyone who had brought food and flowers the day before. He had done the same thing when Mom died. He buried himself in the tasks. It worked for a few days, and afterwards he was in a little better shape to deal with it all. He did the same thing at Brad's apartment, sorting through each room at a steady, mechanical pace. A lot of Brad's belongings stayed with Crystal. She hovered protectively, as if we were scavengers come to rip the life from her home. None of us had any desire to take the trophies, the furniture, the two shelves of books, or the artwork. Crystal promised to donate his clothes to Goodwill. The only things Dad took were the family photos Brad had on the wall and his college class ring. They all thought I should get the computer, and while I found it distasteful, I couldn't argue. This would be a definite improvement over borrowing Alisa's word processor all the time. It was an Aptiva computer with a Pentium II processor. I knew nothing about computers, but this one was old. I brought it back to the dorm, tucked it beneath my desk, and tried not to think about it. Everything of Brad's would still be on the computer. All of his files, all of his work...even such basic things as the color scheme or the screen saver would be his. In a way, I was bringing a piece of him into my room. I thought about erasing the hard drive completely. I wanted nothing that reminded me of him. Of course, I didn't know how to erase a hard drive, but both Sean and Janice were good with computers. But that was irrational. I needed some of those programs, and I didn't have the money to buy new software. Nor had we been able to find most of the installation disks in Brad's apartment. The monitor and the printer took up most of my desk. A stack of displaced books and papers balanced precariously on the floor by my feet. I glanced at the clock. It was almost four. The cafeteria would open for dinner soon. If I waited, I could put this off for at least another hour or two. This was ridiculous. I was acting like a child who was afraid of ghosts. It was just a machine. The sooner I turned it on, the sooner I could figure out what to erase and what settings to change, the sooner I could transform it into my computer. I forced myself to press the power buttons on the computer and monitor. Then I sat back and waited through the beeps and clicks until, a minute later, the screen reformed into a pink and purple sunset behind black, silhouetted pine trees.

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Goldfish Dreams The photo was poorly scanned, but it was still a surprise. I wouldn't have expected Brad to appreciate sunsets. Maybe it was Crystal's influence. I hadn't noticed a second computer in their apartment, so they had probably both used this one. There was an icon to dial out to the Internet, presumably still configured to Ann Arbor phone numbers. I would definitely need to get someone to help me reprogram that. I knew SMU offered free Internet access, but I hadn't bothered to learn anything about it. Why bother, when I didn't own a computer and the computer lab in the basement was open twenty- four hours a day? At least half the icons were for games. Most of them were football simulations, but there was also a flight simulator, a fantasy-type game, and a collection of solitaire games. A click on the photo viewer revealed Brad to be a collector of swimsuit models. I deleted everything in that folder without a second thought. It was a very strange experience, like rummaging through someone's medicine cabinet, only I had the reassurance of knowing that the owner wouldn't burst in on me. I still hadn't experienced any strong feelings toward Brad's death, and I was waiting for this to trigger something, either grief or rage. So far, there was nothing. I tried out one of the solitaire games. I wasn't familiar with the rules, and I lost almost immediately. But I was amused to see the list of high scores. The top five scores belonged to Crystal Goddess, Gyrlfriend, Power of Crystal, Super-C, and Wonder Womyn. This sounded nothing like the docile, quiet girl I had met at Thanksgiving break. Brad, following the tradition he had begun at the arcades, had simply signed BDG. I skimmed through a list of recently opened documents. A lot of them were part of the swimsuit model folder I had deleted, with names like MayBlonde.jpg or BigTits.jpg. Resume_Crys.doc was, I assumed, one of Crystal's files. I frowned. What was Current_Jrnl.doc? I clicked that one. There was a brief delay as the word processor popped up. A few seconds later, the document opened and my entire body went heavy with shock. Jan. 1 Happy New Year! At least it will be when my head stops pounding. I hung out with Chad and company over at Tommy's Bar last night. Crystal had lesson plans, so she didn't go along. Kind of nice to have a little time to just get out and relax without worrying about whether or not she's having a good time. This was Brad's journal! I couldn't move. I wanted to delete the whole

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Jim Hines thing before someone caught me. No, it wasn't being caught that frightened me. Brad was gone. I knew that now. I had known it ever since I touched his body in the funeral home. I was afraid of what I might find if I kept reading. How long had Brad kept a journal? He had gotten this computer while he was in college, three or four years ago. We had owned a small computer at the house for a long time before that. Brad could have been writing for as long as ten years. A plastic rattling came from the keyboard. I didn't know what it was until I looked down and saw my right hand shaking on the keys. Another thought pried its way into my consciousness. This computer could have an entry from the first day he ever laid a hand on me. I seized the mouse tightly, like it was a snake waiting to sink its fangs into my hand. Without looking directly at the screen, I closed the word processing program. Another click of the mouse, and the sunset vanished. I turned the computer off, and only then did I start to breathe normally. I could be overreacting. I didn't even know how much was on there. For all I knew, keeping a journal might have been a New Year's resolution, and I would find nothing beyond those few pages. Whether I believed it or not, I couldn't handle anything more right now. I avoided looking at the computer as I turned off the lights and left the room. Over the past week, my world had turned upside down so many times I felt like I was clinging with all my strength just to hold on. I stopped back briefly after dinner, but only long enough to stuff my fencing equipment into its overlong canvas bag. Last semester, my biology lab had overlapped with fencing club. This time, I had been more careful with my schedule. And right now, I really needed to work off some of the energy pulsing through my body. Dorgan Fieldhouse was across the river. The ten- minute walk was enough to numb my hands and face. It was my own fault for being in too much of a hurry to grab anything but a jacket. I couldn't remember what room they used for practice. Classrooms and a large indoor track occupied most of the first floor. The second floor housed the weight room and a row of faculty offices. When I opened the stairwell door to the third floor, a metallic clacking told me I had found what I was looking for. There were only eight or nine people. A clump of three boys were talking by the far wall. Another group was doing stretches on the floor. The sound I had heard came from an older black man, the only one with a saber, practicing attacks against a thick, padded support pillar. The room itself was fairly large, with a wooden floor and a high ceiling. Rows of windows covered two of the four walls, letting in the fading light from

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Goldfish Dreams outside. The rest of the walls were blue on the bottom and white on top, presumably in a display of school spirit. Worn red and blue tape marked out several fencing strips. A set of metal boxes sat on each end of the farthest strip. A bit of wire protruded from each one like steel tongues. Those would clip to weapons and vests to enable electronic scoring. A tall, lanky man glanced up and waved for me to come in. "I'm Chris, the assistant coach for the fencing team. I haven't seen you around, but you've got the gear which means you probably know some of the basics already, and that's great because we don't get many newbies who already know what they're doing." In the middle of his rapid- fire introduction, he was shaking my hand and walking me over to the group. He ran through everyone's names, none of which stuck. "So who are you, and what's your weapon of choice?" "Eileen Greenwood. Saber." His eyes lit up. "That will give Larry someone to practice with. A few of us try to take him on, but none of us practice saber as our primary weapon, so he usually whoops our asses. Hey Larry," he yelled, his voice echoing across the room. "Eileen here fences saber. Maybe she can give you a run for your money." The older man I had seen practicing threw me a nod and raised his blade. I gave him a weak smile. I hadn't fenced in months, and they were expecting me to be keep up with someone who might have been doing this since before I was born, for all I knew. Chris glanced at the clock over the door. "Alright everyone, enough chitchat. You had time to do exercise your mouths over break, and if you're still not done socializing, then you can save it until we get to the bar." He glanced at me and added, "We usually hang out at the Chocolate Gecko after practices, and you're welcome to join us." Without waiting for an answer, he ordered everyone to sit down and start stretching. I grimaced when I realized how much flexibility I had lost. There was a time when I could wrap both hands around an extended foot with ease. Now it was all I could do to grab my toes, and even that sent knives of pain through the backs of my legs. A little later, he had us running up and down the four flights of stairs. After two trips to the basement and back, sweat dripped down my face and stung my eyes, and my gut twisted into knots. This was exactly what I needed: something to do, something that would give my mind a break from everything. I was lagging behind by the third lap, trailed only by Larry, who walked at a brisk, steady pace. I knew I wasn't in shape, but I refused to rest. I concentrated on the stairs, stepping squarely and firmly each time until I fell into a rhythm. The pain didn't go away, but it began to feel less important, like the edges had been filed away. Every ache and pain would return redoubled in the morning, but that was okay.

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Jim Hines I wasn't the only one having trouble with Chris's "warm- ups." By the time we reassembled in the room, at least half of us were out of breath and panting. Chris didn't appear to care. Why would he? He had stayed behind to sweep up the floor and lay out weapons for those who didn't have their own. He lined us up in two lines and started us practicing footwork across the length of the room. He wasn't participating in any of this himself, I noted with some irritation. He simply walked back and forth between the lines, studying us. "Your front foot is hitting ball- first, and you're off balance," he said as I passed by. His voice was casual, but I still flushed, embarrassed. I wasn't the only one he corrected, but I hated being criticized in front of people. Finally, after more than an hour, we broke into pairs and actually began to fence. Larry gestured toward the far wall. As he donned a heavy canvas jacket, he asked, "How long have you fenced saber?" "Off and on since I was nine." His entire body shook as he laughed. "You'll have to take it easy on me. This body isn't what it used to be." I wasn't reassured. It was obvious that he wasn't as energetic as the rest of us. But my first coach had been in his eighties, and none of us ever came close to winning a match against him. He rarely broke a sweat. Instead, he would stand there like a rock and wait for us to attack. Most of the time, his ripostes jabbed our bodies before we even realized our attack had been parried. Larry wasn't as good as my coach, but he was close. For the first four matches, he beat me easily. By the time we began a fifth, he was beginning to tire. His footwork was slower, his lunges shorter and less frequent. I managed to score two points to his three. For the first time all evening, I had a chance. He knew it too, and he changed tactics. He lowered his guard, trying to lure me into an attack. We stood frozen for a few heartbeats before I decided to accept his invitation, trusting my reflexes would be fast enough to evade his trap. I lunged sideways, keeping my eyes on the beat- up steel of his bell guard. The thin blades moved too fast to see, but I could see his guard twist as he beat my blade aside and lunged at my head. His swing came in too fast to parry, so I tried something unorthodox. I ducked, bowing at the waist and resting my left hand on the floor. An instant later, my blade slapped against his side. "Very good," he shouted from behind the black mesh of his mask. The next point was a mess. Larry wasn't the only one getting tired. My form was slipping, and I knew it. I lunged, trying to stab him with the tip of the blade. He parried easily, and then we fell into a rapid exchange of parries and ripostes. When it finally ended, my blade bounced off his mask at the same instant as his whipped into my arm. I winced, knowing he couldn't see it through

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Goldfish Dreams the mask. That one would leave a bruise in the mo rning. Neither of us knew who had right-of-way, so we scored it as a mutual touch. Four points each, so whoever got the next point would win the match. I set my saber down and stripped off my mask so the air could cool my face. I stretched my arms behind my back, trying to work out the tension in my shoulder. My hand was molded into a fist, and I bent the fingers backward, forcing the muscles to stretch out again. When I picked the saber up and slipped my mask back into place, I was ready to win. I wanted this point. I nodded, and he dipped his blade in acknowledgment. He leveled his blade at me, point- in- line. He was daring me again. I grinned and advanced, tapping to knock his blade aside. I had never mastered the coupé, but Larry obviously had. On my third tap, his blade lifted, avoiding mine completely before snapped back into place. I came close to impaling myself before I managed to scramble back out of the way. I tried a few more times, but he kept avoiding my blade, and I couldn't do anything unless I got past his defense. Until I parried, he had right-of-way, which meant that even if I managed another double touch, the point would go to him. And he seemed perfectly content to wait all night, blade extended, until I did something stupid. Which, eventually, I did. I had two choices: I could try to take right-ofway by knocking his blade aside, or else I could try to get past his blade without letting it touch me. If I could avoid his saber, right-of-way wouldn't matter. But to do that, I would practically have to dodge off of the strip. I had never been good at fleche attacks. The abrupt shift from a standstill to a nearly uncontrollable lunge took a great deal of effort, and was usually too slow. But if it worked, it should get me past his guard. I picked a dark stain on the left shoulder of his jacket and stared at it. That was my target. I began to take tiny steps forward, trying to see how close he would let me get before retreating. If I got too close, he might simply lunge, and it would be impossible for me to parry in mid-step. But I needed to be close. My focus narrowed. I could hit that spot. I could do this. We danced back and forth, and after a few near misses, I had a rough idea how close I could get. I stepped up to that distance and relaxed, still concentrating on my target. In my mind, a voice began to count down from three...two.... My fencing coach told us to never count all the way to one. Otherwise, you would telegraph your attack. So I lunged on two. It was basically a mind game you played with yourself, but for whatever reason, it worked. Either that, or Larry was too tired to see me coming. My feet launched me forward and to one side. He tried to move his point

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Jim Hines to intercept me, but I slipped by, whipping my blade in a circle to slap against that stain on his jacket. I tripped as I reached the end of the strip, and my saber clattered across the floor. I was drenched with sweat and my muscles felt like warm oatmeal, but I didn't care. I got him! I may have lost the first four matches, but I won the fifth. Larry was grinning as he flipped his mask back and reached out to pull me up. "That was great." I groaned in response. He didn't sound the least bit tired, but at least he was sweating. The graying curls of his hair stuck to his temples and forehead like swirls of paint. The others were still fencing. The larger number of foil and épée fencers meant they could trade off more often, giving them more time to recover between bouts. We stood to one side, watching them dart back and forth. The Velcro strip on my jacket made a tearing sound as I pulled it open, letting the front flap dangle loosely. The air sent a chill across my body. "You gonna be here next week?" he asked. I blotted my face against the sleeve of my jacket. "I think so." He considered that. "Good." With that, he began to pack up his things. "You're not waiting around?" I asked. He laughed again. "I'm too old to go bar-hopping with you kids. Besides, my wife gets annoyed when I stay out too late." I glanced at the clock and was shocked to realize that it was almost nine. I had been here for close to three hours. A glance at the windows and the blackness outside confirmed it. "Did you drive?" he asked. I shook my head. He shook his head. "I can drop you off somewhere if you want. If not, make sure one of these jokers gives you a ride. Sweaty as you are, the wind'll turn you into a popsicle." I looked at the other fencers. Everyone seemed nice enough, but I had no desire to join them at the bar. Nor did I have any idea how much longer they would go. "Are you sure it wouldn't be a problem?" He laughed. "For the woman who scored that last point? Not at all. Grab your things." Chris glanced up when we left. He was in the middle of judging a match between two foil fencers. There was a flurry of motion on the strip, and Chris halted the action. "Lunge, counterthrust, beat and lunge, displacement of target, one point to my left, will you be back next week?" After a second, I realized that his last question was aimed at me. I nodded wearily. Chris waved, then turned his attention back to the strip. "Allez!" The noise faded as we left the room. I didn't fe el much like talking, and

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Goldfish Dreams Larry seemed to respect that. Aside from asking where I lived and how to get there, the brief ride passed in silence. Larry had a nice car, and the dark velvet seats were comfortable. I let my body relax, and realized that I had spent the past few hours without thinking of Brad or the computer waiting for me back at the dorm. What was I going to do? Even as I asked, I already knew the answer. If I erased his journal, I would spend the rest of my life wondering what had been on there. I would be running away again. Even as the thoughts raced through my brain, I could feel my heart begin to pound. I had the ridiculous urge to open the door and leap out of the car. I wanted to go anywhere but the dorm. But that would be too easy. I was strong enough to face this. To face him. Hadn't I proved it back at Thanksgiving? I had driven him back, forced him to retreat from dinner, and then back to Ann Arbor. That was when it clicked. I knew why I was afraid. Whatever was on the computer, I couldn't scare it away. The computer was a machine, and it wouldn't back down. It would simply stare up at me, unflinching, and if I couldn't handle it, there would be no mercy. The car slowed to a halt, and I looked out to see the yellow lights of Sparrow Hall. "See you next Thursday," Larry said. I returned his smile as I got out of the car. "Thanks for the ride." He waited until I was through the double doors and in the lobby before pulling away. My leg had already begun to cramp, and I limped to the stairs. I was ready for this. My jaw tightened. As ready as I was likely to get, at least. I unlocked the door and stepped inside, locking it again behind me. I didn't even bother to change. I just peeled off my shirt and sat at the computer in sweatpants and my sports bra. Then I reached down and hit the power switch.

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Chapter 15 The file I had found contained nothing beyond that single entry for January, and I couldn't find anything else in the computer that resembled a journal. At first, I had been grateful. Perhaps this had been a New Year's resolution after all. If there was nothing more on the computer, then I had nothing to worry about. I didn't buy it. For Brad to have died only days after his first journal entry would be an awfully big coincidence. As badly as I wanted to forget the whole thing, my gut said it would be a mistake. Brad's entry had the feel of tradition. I had tried to keep a diary from time to time. In every case, the first entries were full of goals like, I'm going to try and write every day, and musings about what sort of thing I should write about. I knew it wasn't just me, either, because when we read Anne Frank's diary back in high school, she did the exact same thing in her first entry. Brad's journal had none of that. Reading the entry was like jumping into the middle of a book; I had skipped all of the introductory elements. There had to be more. Unfortunately, I had no idea how to find it. I knew there was a way to search for specific files, but for that I would need to know the name of the file I was looking for. So after spending an hour staring futilely at the screen and growing more and more irritated with Microsoft, I went to find Sean. I had to pound on his door for several minutes. I knew he was home, but I had a hard time making myself heard over the blaring Celtic song coming from behind his door. After what seemed like forever, the door opened a crack. "Didn't quiet hours start an hour ago?" I shouted. Sean glanced at his watch. "Shit!" He ducked inside, and a moment later the music cut off. When he emerged again, I told him I was having computer troubles and asked if he could help. He rolled his eyes and opened the door a little wider. He wore nothing but a maroon bathrobe, and his hair was a sweaty mess. Had he been dancing to that

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Goldfish Dreams music? I tried to visualize that, but I couldn't wrap my brain around it. "I suppose that means I'll have to get dressed." Actually, all he did was grab a ratty pair of slippers and follow me back to my room while I explained what I wanted. He played with a frayed hole in one slipper as he glared at the screen. "What was the exact name of the file you did find?" he asked. I couldn't recall, so I clicked on the list of recent documents and pointed to Current_Jrnl.doc. He stopped looking at the screen and turned his attention to me. His eyebrows bunched together as he frowned. "What exactly are you looking for?" he asked slowly. I had known he would ask that, sooner or later. "Brad had a journal." His forehead scrunched tighter. "And you want to read what he wrote." "Whatever he kept on here, I need to see it." Something flashed in his eyes, but it was gone in an instant. It looked like anger, only hotter, more intense. Whatever it was, it scared me. But when he spoke, he sounded like his casual, merry self. "Okay computer," he said in a passable imitation of Clint Eastwood, "Let's see what you got." He opened up the word processor. The next few minutes were spent going through the shortcuts in the file menu, looking for something that would lead us to a list of journal entries. Current_Jrnl.doc was in its own folder, along with several other documents Brad had apparently been working on. But they were all recent documents, mostly papers for school. None of them told us where the older journals were stored. "Are you sure he has a journal on here?" I nodded, and he seemed to accept that. He didn't ask how I knew, and I didn't tell him. He clicked a few menus, and ran a search for "*.doc". I made him stop long enough to teach me how to do that. Once I knew the right shortcuts, he clicked the "Okay" button, and file names began to fill the window like water in a pail. Sean grinned. "Help me check to see if anything here looks at all promising." We read through the file names together. There were a number of old papers with titles like 410Final.doc and 211_Int~.doc, but nothing resembling journal entries. I shook my head. Maybe I was wrong. Sean scrolled down to the next screenful of files. Again, there was nothing. After spending half the evening fighting with the computer, the idea of coming up empty-handed was like a physical blow to my stomach. I didn't want to think that such a direct window to

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Jim Hines Brad's psyche could sit there in front of me, and I couldn't find it. I felt like he was mocking me all over again. The third screenful had nothing. We had reached the end of the list. "It's not here," I said, my chest numb. "Depends. How clever was your brother?" "Not very," I said. "Why?" "Because anyone could do what I just did. What if somebody else ran a search, trying to find an old document when they couldn't remember the name. They might stumble over his journals, right?" He cracked his knuckles and glared at the computer. "From what you implied about this thing, he probably didn't want anyone to find it." He ran another search, this time entering "Jrnl" as a search string. We found nothing beyond the single file I had already seen. "Journal" worked no better. He tried "January." This produced a list of six files. "Sneaky bastard," Sean said. "He changed the file extensions and buried them in the system folder. Even if somebody spotted his entries, they wouldn't show up as actual documents." Sean grabbed a pen and jotted down a few quick words on his palm, then exited from the find screen. Again he opened up the word processor, and again he clicked on the Open File command. After a quick glance at his hand, he clicked the mouse a few times, and suddenly there they were, six years of Brad's journal: over fifty files. He did something else, poking the keyboard with two fingers, and then grunted in satisfaction. "I set up a shortcut for you. Just click on the 'Prometheus' icon and it will open up Brad's journal folder. You'll have to tell it to use the word processor to open the files." "Prometheus?" He ignored my question, fixing me with a stare so intense I actually took a half a step back. "Eileen, are you sure you know what you're doing?" I re-read the file names on the screen. Six years of journals...the abuse had started two years before the earliest entry. The realization was both a relief and a disappointment. "No, I'm not sure," I answered. "But I don't have a choice, either." He raised an eyebrow, so I tried to explain. "It's not that I have to read what's there, but I can't not read it." I rubbed my eyes, realizing how tired I must be, for that had made no sense at all. Naturally, Sean accepted it without question. He stood up to leave. "I'll be in my room all night if you need to talk." With his arms tucked into the baggy sleeves of his robe, he looked a bit like a monk, though no monk I had ever heard of would have such a tangled mane of

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Goldfish Dreams hair or walk around in slippers held together with duct tape and safety pins. Still, the genuine concern in his voice made me think the analogy wasn't entirely off base. "Thanks," I said, referring to more than just his help with the computer. To judge from the curve of his lips, he knew that. "Good luck," he said, pulling the door shut behind him. I sat back down in front of the computer and clicked on Prometheus. Now that I had actually found the files, I realized that I didn't know exactly what I was looking for. Where should I start? I didn't even know what I wanted to find. A train whistled in the distance. Closer by, Sean had turned his music back on, albeit at a more acceptable level. But that was the only noise in the dorms, and it made me feel alone, like I had the entire building to myself. The only light came from the dim lamp in the entryway and the white glow of the monitor. After staring at the screen for close to ten minutes, I decided to start at the beginning. I moved the pointer until it rested on the earliest entry. An hourglass flashed, and then text filled the screen. Sept. 13 I hate school. I hate homework. Dad says I'm not allowed to watch TV until I get this finished. What's a General Education class supposed to be, anyway? Mrs. Johnson said we were going to cover a lot of different stuff. Great. I still don't understand why we have to keep a stupid diary. She said we could write anything we wanted to, anything at all. Well I think this assignment sucks! So how about that, Mrs. Johnson? How am I supposed to fill up three pages a week? This is boring. Boring, boring, boring, boring, boring, boring, boring, boring, boring, boring, boring, boring, boring, boring, boring, boring. And not even half a page yet. At least it'll be over in 2 months. Then we all rotate to another teacher. Hopefully the next one won't make us do diaries. I shook my head, remembering Mrs. Johnson. Like Brad, I had been frustrated at this same assignment, and I had never understood what it had to do with our education. Math, reading, health, science...all of those I could understand. But keeping a journal that wouldn't even be graded on content or grammar or organizatio n was pointless. I had filled enough pages to earn an A minus simply by babbling about classes, what we had for dinner, and the boys Krista was dating. But as soon as the two months were up, I stopped writing.

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Jim Hines Mrs. Johnson said we should hold on to our journals and keep them for when we were older. My thirty pages went into the garbage can on the way out of the classroom. I hadn't hidden my actions from Mrs. Johnson, either. I wanted her to know exactly what I thought of her assignment. The whole thing had felt intrusive. She claimed she only skimmed through the journals to make sure we fulfilled the length requirement, and that she didn't actually read what we wrote. Even if that was true, I resented being forced to write about my life day after day. There was nothing in my life that I wanted to take a closer look at. In fact, it was only by trying not to think about things that I managed to function from day to day. Mrs. Johnson insisted we would feel differently when we got older. I had never regretted trashing my journal, but in Brad's case, it looked like she was correct. The assignment had obviously given him something he needed. Six years' worth of files testified to that. I guessed that his early entries would be similar to this one, full of annoyed remarks and surface- level observations. How long would it have taken him to talk about anything deeper? Eventually, I wanted to read everything from the beginning. But not today. I used the search function to hunt for "Eileen." The first thing that came up was a snide remark about girls. Brad apparently had a bit of a crush on a girl named Dawn, who was, in his words, "really hot and a lot of fun...nothing like Krista or Eileen." The next thing that popped up was a line that read, "I woke up at about two and went to Eileen's room." The muscles of my jaw and neck tightened like ropes in a tug-of-war. I scrolled up to the beginning of the entry. December 15. That would have been after the assignment ended, when he knew nobody would read what he wrote. Thinking back, I could remember how Brad used to work at the computer late at night. I usually went to bed before he started working at the computer, but there were times when I would get up to use the bathroom and find him in Mom's old office, the brass lamp lighting the room as he typed away. Whenever he noticed me, he would turn the monitor off and yell at me to go away. I had always assumed he was just being mean. Now I knew better. I crossed my legs and rested my chin on a tight fist as I began reading. Dec. 15 I think I flunked my science test. I still don't understand why we have to memorize stupid leaves. It's like he expects us to be little Boy Scouts or something. Why should I care if a tree is a maple or an oak? It doesn't help that Mr. Burman's hated me ever

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Goldfish Dreams since he caught me skipping class that one time. I set up a pull- up bar in the basement. I was getting tired of just working out with the weights. I need variety. I maxed out at 192 for bench presses this afternoon. I want to hit 200 by New Years. Pull- ups were pretty hard, though. I did ten, but I couldn't do another set, and that's bad. Might be because I was tired from the bench presses. I'll try again on Friday and see what happens. Had a hard time sleeping last night. I woke up at about two and went to Eileen's room. Dad was already in bed, and he never wakes up. When I stepped into her room, she was already asleep. Usually she wakes up. She tries to hide it, but I can hear her breathing change. Her body gets stiff, too. But this time, she didn't wake up. I stood there in her doorway, watching her sleep. She looked relaxed, for once in her life. And it was the weirdest thing, but suddenly I didn't want to bother her. I just stood there for what felt like an hour. And then I left. I was still turned on, and I ended up jerking off a while later. But after I calmed down, it really hit me. I hadn't done anything to her tonight. Usually I can't help myself, but tonight was different for some reason. I'm glad I didn't wake her up. I just wish I knew what the reason was. I hate this. I know I'm going to hell for what I do to her. Every time I go in there, I tell myself it's wrong and I should stop. But I can't, and I don't know why. I don't know what's wrong with me. It's like there's this demon that comes into my body and makes me do all those things. Reverend Holbrook says that my being good at sports is a gift from God. Does that mean that this is from God too? Why would God make me twisted like this? Why would he want to do that to me? Am I being punished for something, or what? God never answers my questions. And I hear Dad moving around in the living room, so I should finish up now. I shut down the computer. Feeling like an observer in my own body, I slipped out of the chair and sat on the floor, leaning against my bed as I stared at the angular, yellow-tinged shadows on the far wall. "Fuck you, Brad." The first time, it was a whisper. The second was a bit louder. "Fuck you." All I had wanted were answers. I wanted to know why. I didn't expect

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Jim Hines Brad to have a good reason. I didn't expect to learn something that would make everything okay, but I wanted to learn something. Anything. Instead, it turned out that Brad was as lost as I was. He didn't even understand why he was doing this to me! "Fuck you!" In that instant, I was glad he was dead. I wanted him dead. I wanted to kill him myself, to wrap my hands around his neck and squeeze until his eyeballs bulged and his tongue swelled up like a thick, black balloon. But in my mind, I was choking the pale, dry body at the funeral home. He looked like a painted skeleton. And then those dull eyes popped open and stared at me. I squeezed harder, hearing a dry crackle as the skin crumbled beneath my hands. You're being punished? What about me? Did you ever give a single thought to what this was doing to me? I was crying. My arms were crossed over my chest in an X, and my fingers dug into my shoulders like claws. "Fuck you, Brad." My voice had dropped back to a whisper. My throat felt like someone had used a cheese grater on it. The tears fell unrestrained, and there was nothing I could do to make them stop. "Fuck you for doing that to me. And fuck you for trying to care about me." That was the worst part. Because somewhere in that inarticulate, ninthgrade writing was an awareness that what he was doing was wrong, and a sense of gratitude that, for at least one night, he had managed to stop himself. In some twisted way, he hated what he did to me. Not enough to stop it. Not enough to ask for help. But enough to feel relieved when he found the willpower to leave me alone. If he was some sort of monster with no conscience who had used me for his own pleasure, then I could hate him. But that would be too simple. Maybe he only let himself feel it when he was alone with the computer, but somewhere, the bastard had a conscience. Brad was weak. He knew what he was doing was wrong, but he wasn't strong enough to stop. Had he ever tried? Maybe this was his version of confession. He told his sins to the computer, and that let him feel better about himself. The n he could shut off the computer and sleep soundly, until the next time he decided to rape me. How convenient. A key scratched in the lock. I hastily wiped my face, then glanced at the clock. It was a little past two in the morning. No wonder I was such a mess. I hadn't realized how late it was. My body must be completely exhausted, and my mind wasn't far behind. I suddenly became aware of the weariness in my muscles, especially my arms and shoulders. The door opened, and Alisa came in, walking on tip-toes until she saw me sitting there. "I tho ught you'd be asleep." I didn't bother to respond. Having determined that she didn't have to

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Goldfish Dreams worry about waking me up, she flipped on the lights and began bouncing about the room, brushing the French braid out of her hair with her fingers as she went. "Weren't you spending the night with Ryan tonight?" I asked, trying to remember what she had told me earlier that morning. "I was, but now I'm not." She acted happy, which was unusual. Generally after they fought, she got loud and angry. "It was a stupid fight," she said. "All I was doing was sitting in his room, listening to some music while he wrote a letter. I think he was writing to his parents or something. Anyway, he got all tense and snappy, and when I asked what was wrong, he said he couldn't concentrate with me in the room." She still hadn't stopped moving. Having freed her hair, she began to change into the sweatsuit she used as pajamas, talking all the while. "I offered to turn the music down," she said. "He said no, but then he started going off about wanting time alone. So I asked what was going on. I mean, you don't suddenly decide to tell your girlfriend to leave you alone unless something's wrong. Then he starts getting all angry and in my face, so I decided to come home. I had one of the guys give me a ride back." I really didn't feel like listening, but it was better than sitting by myself and obsessing about Brad. More than anything, I needed sleep. But with Alisa in such a hyper mood, that wasn't going to happen anytime soon. "It should take about a day to figure out that he screwed up. I say, let him spend the night alone. A cold bed should teach him not to take me for granted." She winked at me. "You should remember that. Make sure Patrick doesn't take you for granted, either." I barely managed to cover my laughter, turning it into a cough that immediately became real as my body's reflexes tripped over themselves. I spent the next few minutes struggling for breath. I couldn't help it. Here was Alisa, prattling on about the mind games she was playing with her boyfriend. A part of me wanted to turn the computer back on, sit her down in front of the screen, and yell, "This is what real problems look like." Of course I couldn't do that. I waited for a break in her conversation, then excused myself, saying I needed to get a shower or I would feel too gross to sleep. It was the truth. After the past few hours, I needed another shower. A film of dried sweat covered my skin, and more than anything, I wanted to stand under the steaming water and let it wash everything away. I doubted it would be that easy.

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Chapter 16 Classes started Wednesday. Like last semester, classes the first day were short and pointless. The professors stood in front of the class and read the syllabus, apparently under the impression that we couldn't read it for ourselves. Then they sent us on our way with a reading assignment for the next class. Personally, I thought they were just as reluctant to return to the classrooms after their vacation as the students were. The semester truly began on Friday. Unfortunately, I overslept that morning and missed my first real trigonometry lesson. Not that I would have been in much better shape if I had made it to class, since I had completely forgotten to do the assignment. I did make it to English, thanks to Alisa, who dragged me out of bed when she returned from her ten o'clock class. But later on, I couldn't remember anything we talked about. I glanced at my notes when I got back to my room. In several places, the words trailed off in jagged lines where I had begun to drift to sleep. I hadn't slept right for the past few nights. Some nights I hit the mattress like a stone, and when the buzzing of the alarm clock jerked me awake, my body protested that only a few minutes had passed. More often, I would lay awake for hours. Brad's journal would scroll through my head as I tried to sleep. It was never more than a few words, random phrases that snagged on my subconscious and refused to let go. The more I tried to clear my head, the more they dug into my brain. And if I ever managed to stop thinking about Brad, my mind would turn to Patrick and our upcoming date. That date was tonight. I wanted to be able to stay awake, which meant I needed a few hours to sleep before Patrick arrived to pick me up. I just hoped he didn't plan to take me to a movie. I doubted I would last five minutes in a dark theater. I pulled the blinds shut and locked the door. I also remembered to set the

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Goldfish Dreams alarm to wake me up at five so I would have time to clean up. Alisa was studying, but she could see well enough with the blinds closed. For once, mercifully, she seemed too absorbed in her reading to talk to me. I rolled over, adjusted the pillows, flicked my hair back from my face, and gradually began to wonder why I was wasting my time trying to sleep. I stared at the rows of brown bedsprings above me and the rectangular grid that held my roommate's mattress in place. All those metal wires, just waiting to catch and tear hair and skin. It reminded me of some of the old torture devices I had read about. Flip the whole thing over so the hooks were on top, and voila: instant bed of pain. Why bother? Sleep deprivation could be an even more effective method of torture. "Damn it," I muttered, adjusting my position yet again. Alisa glanced up. "Huh?" I ignored her. Maybe if I pretended to sleep, I could trick my body into accepting it. I tried for as long as I could, lying perfectly still and trying to ignore the rustling of papers from Alisa's desk and the voices from across the hall and the footsteps from the room below. I ignored the sound of my own breathing and the scratching of the old Indian blanket on my arms. Finally, I gave up. I tossed the blanket aside and stood up, ducking to make sure my hair didn't catch the bedsprings. Alisa glanced up but didn't say anything as I left the room and walked down to the bathrooms. Even my body was against me. First I couldn't stay awake, then I couldn't sleep. What was wrong with me? I felt a bit more awake after standing in the shower for twenty minutes. At the very least, I thought I could make it through the rest of the day without passing out. Next I had to figure out what I was going to wear. I had never paid much attention to fashion. In junior high, that had resulted in my being the butt of a number of jokes, but in college, I seemed to fit right in. Most everyone here looked like they dressed themselves in the dark, with a few notable exceptions--my roommate being the most obvious. But I wanted to look nice for tonight. On the other hand, I didn't know exactly what Patrick had planned, and I didn't want to overdress, either. Although overdressing probably wasn't much of a danger, I admitted as I looked through my closet. "Eileen?" I looked up from the denim skirt I had been considering. Alisa sounded hesitant. Alisa the wonder- mouth, at a loss for words? She stared at the floor. "I know I haven't been around much, with me spending so much time with Ryan and all, but you've been more tense and quiet than usual since you got back from the funeral." Another drawn out pause, and then, "Is it because of your

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Jim Hines brother?" "It's a lot of things," I hedged, turning my attention back to the skirt and hoping she would take the hint. Naturally, it went over her head. "I don't mean to push," she said. I managed not to laugh. She walked over to lean against the wall in front of me. "I was thinking about your problems last night, and I was wondering if you'd ever tried praying." "What for?" I grabbed a forest green shirt and held it up against the skirt. "Well, don't you think it would help? You can't keep it bottled up inside. It's not healthy." "I've talked to one or two people," I said. "Oh." She looked hurt. She must have assumed that since I wasn't talking to her, I wasn't talking to anyone. She was my roommate/babysitter, after all. But she shrugged it aside and continued. "Don't you think it would help to talk to God too?" I carefully set the clothes on top of the dresser and glared at to her. "I've tried it, and it didn't work. I've been told God listens to everyone's prayers. When you can tell me why he let Brad molest me night after night for four years, then I'll consider praying again. Until you can, I don't want to talk about it." I thought I had been speaking quite calmly, but Alisa straightened sharply and her eyes narrowed. For a second, I thought she was going to hit me. I didn't want to take Ryan's place as her metaphorical punching bag. Or maybe not so metaphorical, if she was angry enough. She stayed calm. Maybe she was trying to set an example by turning the other cheek. For whatever reason, she simply nodded and walked back to her desk. She didn't say another word until I grabbed my jacket to go meet Patrick in the lobby. Then she spoke so quietly I could barely hear her. "I don't know why he didn't stop it. But maybe he could help you let it go now." I pretended not to hear. Patrick didn't show up until six-thirty, by which time I was debating calling the whole thing off and going back up to my room. The exchange with Alisa had ruined my mood, and I was probably too tired to be good company anyway. The only thing that stopped me was knowing she was there. I had no desire to go back and have her throw religion at my problems. I was staring at the patterns of ice and frost on the windows when he finally arrived. He glanced around the lobby, spotted me, and smiled. "Sorry I'm late. Things took a bit longer than I expected." I stood up without answering, and he stopped to study me. "You look great." Despite my annoyance, I smiled. I had gone with the denim skirt and a

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Goldfish Dreams white cotton shirt with a bit of lacy frill at the collar. The shirt was a gift from an Aunt, and I rarely wore it, but it seemed to go better with that skirt than anything else I owned. No make-up, of course. I didn't own any, and I wasn't about to ask Alisa to borrow hers. I wore a pair of garnet stud earrings and a matching necklace, which made this the first time I had worn jewelry since the funeral. Patrick offered me an elbow. "Shall I escort you to your chariot?" He was obviously in a good mood and looking forward to this evening, so I tried to keep my own feelings hidden. I should have known better. We hadn't even pulled out of the parking lot when he glanced over and asked, "What's wrong?" "Nothing." He looked back at the street as we turned onto Albert. "I tried to get here on time. I hope you're not pissed at me." "It's not." It was only a partial lie. I was pissed at the whole damn world. "I'd rather not talk about it." "Sure." He didn't press, but I could tell he was concerned. It made me want to grab him by the shoulders and shake him. I only wanted a few hours without having to think about things. Why was that so much to ask for? Wasn't I allowed to keep things to myself on occasion? Maybe there really was something wrong with me. I couldn't even manage a simple date without ruining the night almost before it began. "Where are we going?" I asked, trying to change the subject. "Dinner. You haven't eaten, have you?" "No." He nodded, and that was the end of that conversation. Great, now we were both upset. What did this bode for the rest of the evening? A few minutes later, he grabbed my hand. "I want you to enjoy yourself tonight." I sighed and wrapped his hand in both of mine. He had to drive onehanded, but he managed. At least he didn't drive a stick shift. He didn't let go until we got to a large, blue house, at which point he squeezed once and took his hand back so he could pull into the driveway. I hadn't been paying attention during the drive, so I didn't know where we were. A green sign said we were on Rail Street, which ran north of campus, but we were in a residential part of the city that I hadn't seen before. "Where are we?" There was only one other car in the driveway, a blue Honda Accord with a dented rear fender. The house was dark. The neighboring house came right up to the edge of the drive, making it feel like more like an alley than a driveway. Patrick led me up to the front porch and unlocked the door. "We're home," he said. I raised an eyebrow as he turned on the lights. "Do you always bring

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Jim Hines women to your house on a first date?" He gave me a wicked grin. "Only when I want to impress them." We walked into the living room, and I stopped to sniff the air. I picked up a faint trace of onion, and something spicy. My mouth watered. I could also smell cigarette smoke, but it wasn't as strong. "Stay here," he said firmly. "I'll be back in a few minutes." I shrugged and sat down on the faded couch, grimacing at the menthol smell that wafted up like a dust cloud. A moment later, I was back up and looking around. I had the bad habit of snooping when I was in a new home. The furniture was eclectic. The couch was white with faded daisies. A brown, vinyl chair sat to one side of it, and a forest green recliner was on the other side. There was also one of those inflatable ottomans, tinted a hideous orange, in the center of the room. A rickety entertainment center dominated one corner, and the speakers sat on shelves mounted by the ceiling. Magazines and mail blanketed the chipped glass coffee table in front of the couch, along with a half- full ash tray. I flipped idly through the magazines. Newsweek and Time, both addressed to Kim Clarke. An old Entertainment Weekly for Dana Prout. I couldn't find anything for the third roommate, the guy Patrick had mentioned. I wondered where they had gone tonight. Patrick also had some mail: an offer from American Express, a bill from the university, and something from Outreach. I shook my head at the last two and wondered again if Patrick even had a life outside of school and the crisis center. At that point, Patrick stepped back into the room and, in a poor French accent, said, "Ze meal is prepaired, mademoiselle." I smirked and followed him into the dining room. When I passed through the open archway, I stopped to stare. The chairs around the table were as mismatched as the furniture in the living room, but the table itself was covered in a white tablecloth that added a touch of class. Two tapered red candles burned on either side of a large salad. He had set two places with gold-rimmed plates, cloth napkins, and even two different forks beside each place. Patrick was pulling out all the stops. He waited for me to sit down, then vanished back to the kitchen, returning with two plates full of rice and seasoned shrimp. I was grinning like a kid now. I couldn't help it. "I didn't know you cooked." He glanced down, blushing slightly. "Dana cooks. I follow instructions. She walked me through it." The accent returned as he said, "Curried shrimp, and vhat vould mademoiselle like to drink?" I shook my head, still not believing the effort he had put into this evening. "I'll take anything without alcohol." After the disaster last week, I wasn't about to get drunk again, not even with Patrick. He ducked out of the room and came back

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Goldfish Dreams with a bottle of sparkling grape juice. He was practically glowing as he left again to turn off the lights in the other room. The sun had set a little while back, and the candlelight created a sense of warmth and closeness. "How did you get all of this ready in one day?" "I had help." He sat down and began to dish out the salad. "My housemates are great. They helped me get everything ready, and they didn't complain once when I asked them to get lost for the evening." "You didn't have to do this," I said. I felt slightly guilty that he had gone to so much trouble for me. At the same time, it was kind of nice. Nobody had ever cooked a meal for me before. Jack took me out to eat a few times, but it wasn't the same. The shrimp was good, though a bit spicier than I had expected. There was a sprinkling of coconut. I hated coconut; both the texture and the taste made me cringe. But there wasn't much, and it was easy to ignore since overall, the meal was delicious. We ate in silence, aside from my occasional remark about how good the food was. But that didn't stop him from giving me concerned looks from time to time. Those looks were very disconcerting. Something about the candlelight and that worried expression made him incredibly attractive, even more so because he was totally unaware of it. Once we both finished, he gathered up the dishes and retreated again to the kitchen. His voice called back, "Which ice cream do you prefer, mint chocolate chip or cookie dough?" "Both of course, but make it small." By now, the candles had burned halfway down, and the wax formed teardrop pools at the base. Patrick returned bearing two small bowls of ice cream and spoons. "So tell me," he said softly, "does this seem like the kind of dinner a counselor would have with his client?" I laughed. "Only if the counselor wanted to get sued for sexual harassment." He looked startled. "That's not what you think I'm doing, is it?" "Of course not." I looked around. "Actually, this is one of the nicest dates I've ever had." "Good." He smiled again. "I can see how this would be a bit weird, with me being your TA last semester and with...everything else we've talked about." His eyes dropped, and dammit, it wasn't fair that a guy's eyes could be that sexy. "I want you to know I really care about you." It was my turn to look away. "I know." I wasn't used to feeling so shy,

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Jim Hines but there was something intimidating about it all. I had never been this nervous with Jack. I was afraid Patrick would realize that I wasn't worth all of this effort, or that I would say the wrong thing and he would decide I was too young. The night was going so well, and I felt jumpy as I waited for the other shoe to drop. "Tell me about your other girlfriends." I heard the words come out of my mouth, but I couldn't explain where they came from. Patrick was equally taken aback. He blinked several times, then asked, "Why do you want to know about that?" Until he asked, I wasn't sure myself. The answer crystallized as I started to speak. "You've spent all these months learning about me, but I never hear about you and your life. You're always listening, and you never talk about yourself." It was strange to realize how little I really knew about him. I didn't know about his family, his other friends, what he planned to do with his life...did I eve n know his last name? I frowned, trying to remember. Hart, that was it. Patrick Hart. But I only knew because it had been on his office door. Our relationship was backwards, in a way. Rather than starting on the surface and working deeper over time, we had started with the intensity. Now we had to work our way back, going through the surface- level things most couples learn in the beginning. He knew most of my secrets, and I had seen his passion. I had seen his drive to reach out and help people. He was more loving than any man I had ever met. I knew that part of him. Yet I had to struggle to remember his last name. He poked at the last of his ice cream. "My first girlfriend was Jackie. That was in tenth grade, and it lasted four whole weeks. We only kissed twice the whole time." "What about college?" I asked. "I spent a few years with a girl from Baltimore named Linda. We both got too involved, but neither one of us was mature enough to realize it at the time. She also had a mild case of clinical depression, and I kept getting sucked into that. I always thought that if I was strong enough, I could help her through it." He shook his head and took a drink. "What happened?" I asked. "She dropped out after her junior year. She finally got to the point that she couldn't take the pressure. Once she was back home, I started to realize how unhealthy the whole thing had been for both of us. We write from time to time, but I haven't seen her in almost two years." "Anyone else?" I wondered if he would decide that being with me was unhealthy as well. I didn't think I was clinically depressed, but I wasn't the most stable girl in the world, either. He laughed quietly. "I've dated a few times, but nothing serious."

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Goldfish Dreams That surprised me. Here was a man who would go to great lengths to make dinner for his date...a man who knew how to listen...and a very goodlooking man, to boot. I would have expected him to be popular with women. I thought about prying into those "few times," but decided against it. I was more interested in knowing where I stood with him. "So what about us?" I asked. "Is this something serious?" I braced myself for his response. He grabbed my hands and gave me a burning look. "Do you want it to be serious?" I swallowed, trying to force back the fear that had risen in my throat. "Aren't you worried that I'll turn out to be like Linda, and you'll get sucked into my problems?" "No, I'm not." A deep sigh escaped from his lips. "I've told you before that you're a very strong person." He shook his head. "You never believe it, of course, but I do. Otherwise, do you think I would have burdened you with my problems that night in the gardens?" "I suppose," I admitted. "You suppose," he repeated, teasing me ever so slightly. "I'm amazed that you can't see everything you've got going for you. You're intelligent, you're resilient, you can stand up to a tenured professor of psychology." His voice lowered. "You're beautiful." I couldn't help laughing. "I've looked in a mirror, pal. Nice try." He remained perfectly serious. He reached out and twisted a lock of my hair around his index finger. "It's you that's beautiful, not just the way you look. You're beautiful because it's you in there." I started to answer, but I was growing flustered. The look on his face wouldn't let me laugh it off, either. "You can't capture real beauty in a photograph. That shows the body, but it doesn't catch the person. That's why a photo can't ever really be beautiful. Your personality--your stubborn, energetic, resilient self--that's what makes you beautiful." Then he grinned. "You've also got a nice body, and that doesn't hurt either." My eyes widened. "You have some nerve, sir." I tilted my head away. We both knew I was joking, and I fe lt a flush of pleasure, even though I didn't believe him. I insisted on helping with the dishes. He wanted to wait, but I pointed out that his housemates would be coming home eventually and it wasn't fair to leave everything in the sink. That took longer than it should have, and we wound up in a water-flicking contest that lasted until I dunked one of the cups in the water and drenched his shirt. I held my breath, scared that I had crossed the line and he would be angry.

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Jim Hines But he just laughed and kissed me. I relaxed into the kiss, enjoying the feel of his tongue tickling my lips...and then he dumped a full bowl of water down my back. I didn't know if I was relieved or disappointed. I did know that water was dripping down my back and skirt, and the dishtowel he tossed me didn't help much. We spent the next ten minutes in the bathroom, laughing as we passed Dana's hair dryer back and forth. I started to yawn around nine-thirty. I tried to hide it, but the past fe w days had been too exhausting. "I don't mean to be so tired," I said. He laughed again. "Nothing to apologize for." "Thanks." We had ended up on the couch, where we had talked nonstop for nearly two hours. Maybe fatigue gave me more nerve than usual, because I heard myself saying, "I don't want to go home." He leaned over and kissed the top of my head. "Who said that you had to?" I could feel the sweat popping out on my forehead and down my sides. Was he really saying what I thought he was saying? I hadn't let myself think this far, but now I began to wonder what it would be like to sleep next to him, to lie there and feel his body curled up against mine. To feel his touch against my skin. I blushed, and I hoped that for once he wouldn't know where my discomfort was coming from. He stood and extended a hand to help me up. "Unless you'd rather not stay." I grabbed his hand and stepped into his arms. "Let's see," I said, pretending to consider. The sarcasm kept my voice from shaking. "Who would I rather spend the night with, you or Alisa?" His room was on the second floor. By now, I was tired enough to be a little off-balance, and he followed me up to make sure I didn't stumble. The bulb at the top of the stairs was dead, so I waited in darkness until he slipped past me to turn on the light in his room. It was smaller than my room in the dorm. The bed, neatly made up with a black comforter, took up half of the space. To one side, a fiberboard desk sat buried beneath photocopied articles, dog-eared library books, and open notebooks. He also had an old Macintosh crammed into one corner. A set of bookshelves filled the rest of the room, rising all the way to the ceiling. The bottom shelves were full of textbooks, while the top was more mainstream fiction. I swiped a copy of The Handmaid's Tale, which I had been meaning to read for a long time. "Take it for as long as you'd like," he said, watching me. "Any of them, for that matter. I haven't had time for pleasure-reading in years." "How sad." A low, stained stand at the far wall held a bubbling fishtank, full of darting

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Goldfish Dreams guppies and a few of those fish with the neon blue stripes. The single window opened onto bare, snow-topped branches. Patrick knelt on the bed and reached over to lower the blinds, darkening the room. He turned and held his arms out to me. I kicked off my shoes and joined him on the bed, too nervous to speak. He didn't push. He just wrapped his arms around my shoulders and held me. I leaned my head back, trying to find a comfortable angle. His shoulder was a little bony, but I didn't care. His arms rested on my stomach, just beneath my breasts. I rested my hands on his. We lay that way for a while, not talking. His breath was warm against my neck, and the slow, constant rhythm helped me to relax. Even in winter, the second floor of the house was too warm for comfort. Within a few hours, we had both stripped off most of our clothes. I ended up shirtless, and he was in his boxers. On a different night, things might have progressed from there, but not tonight. Alisa would have been shocked and disappointed. In the end, it came down to the fact that I was simply too tired. By the time I gave serious thought to getting rid of the rest of our clothes, I had moved on from exhaustion to giddiness. When he told me again that I was beautiful, I snickered. "We're in a dark room, and you don't have your glasses on," I said. "I could look like a warthog and you wouldn't know it." "I doubt it," he said, running one hand over my back. I laughed harder, even as his fingers raised goosebumps on my skin. "Now the truth comes out. You like me because I look like a warthog. You're a closet bestiophiliac." He planted a loud, smacking kiss on my forehead. "Your hair is far too long for a warthog, and you don't have the nose or the fangs for it." My silliness wasn't the only factor keeping us relatively chaste. Patrick seemed hesitant to push me too far, which annoyed me a little. I got the impression he was handling me with kid gloves. I giggled when I thought that. Actually, he wasn't handling me at all. He curled around behind me, one arm resting on my stomach. His skin was warm, almost hot, and I ended up kicking away the comforter and sleeping with only the sheet pulled over my body. The bed was too narrow, and my knees kept hitting the wall, but I was more comfortable than I could remember being in a long time. Through my ha lfconscious daze, I was dimly aware of him running a hand through my hair and planting the occasional kiss on the back of my neck. One of the last thoughts to pass through my mind was, I'm lying here topless, and he hasn't tried anything. This guy had more self-control than any man I had ever met.

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Jim Hines It was vaguely disappointing. At some point in the night, I rolled over in my sleep and banged the wall with my knee. I started to move the other way, but when my arm brushed warm skin, I froze. My eyes shot open and I looked around, but I was still exhausted and I couldn't figure out where I was. The window was in the wrong place, and everything was different. For that instant, I was living a nightmare. I was trapped in a strange bed, unwilling to move, unable to see anything, all the while feeling someone's skin pressed up against my body. My heart wedged in my throat until I thought I was going to throw up. Then I remembered. I clamped my eyes shut and forced myself to breathe, trying desperately to fight the reflexes of my body. I tried to be quiet. I didn't want to make any noise that would disturb Patrick. But either I wasn't quiet enough or I had already woken him up when I started to move around. "What is it?" He propped himself up on one elbow and reached over to touch the side of my face. I nearly started to cry. "Nothing." I wanted to crawl beneath the comforter and disappear. I couldn't believe this had happened. After all we had done to break away from the counselor-patient thing, here I was bolting awake in the middle of the night like a scared child. Why couldn't I have just one night to sleep in peace, like a normal human being? Why was that so much to ask? "Nightmare?" he asked. His voice slurred, like he wasn't fully awake yet. "I'm fine. I'm sorry I woke you up." Please go back to sleep. Another man might have rolled over and done just that. Not Patrick. He sat up, leaning against the head of the bed and rubbing his face. "Don't worry about it." He reached out and circled me with his arms, bringing me close so my head rested on his chest and I could hear his heart beat. He stroked my hair and, stifling a yawn, said, "Talk to me. What's going on?" "I bumped into the wall. It startled me, that's all." My neck was already starting to cramp from the odd angle, but I didn't want to move. Something about Patrick made me feel safe, and right now, I wanted to feel safe, even as a voice in my head screamed at me for being so weak. "That's not all," he said, gently chiding. "You've been tense ever since I picked you up tonight." I laughed quietly in disbelief. "Don't I ever get to have private thoughts around you?" His muscles moved beneath me as he shrugged. "I can't help it. You're important to me, so I pay attention." So, torn between frustration and amusement, I told him about Brad's journal and what I had found there. He stiffened several times as I talked, but he never interrupted me, and he never stopped playing with my hair. By the time I

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Goldfish Dreams finished talking, I was beginning to drift off again. "I didn't want to tell you about this," I mumbled. "I wanted us to have one night where we were together like normal people without my problems coming along and wrecking everything." "You haven't wrecked anything. It's perfectly natural to be disoriented when you wake up in a strange place, with a strange man beside you." I thumped him gently on the chest. "You're not strange." "Of course I am," he said, and I could hear the amusement in his voice. "I'm a psych major." "Oh, are you saying that all psychology students are strange?" I thumped him again. He laughed. "If I did, could you argue the point?" I stuck out my tongue, even though he wouldn't be able to see it in the dark. My nerves still felt a bit ragged, but not so much that it would keep me from sleeping. As I started to doze off, another thought passed through my head. He wasn't angry at me. I don't know what I was expecting. Annoyance maybe, that the girl he was sleeping with had turned out to be an immature child who couldn't make it through the night without problems. Or frustration that he had to deal with all the issues I couldn't seem to leave behind. One way or another, I had expected this to all come tumbling down around my head, and it hadn't. Something I wanted actually looked like it was working. With that thought burning like a tiny bonfire in my chest, I eventually drifted back to sleep. I didn't wake up until noon the next day.

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Chapter 17 Brad didn't write much about me. The entry of December 15 was the only place I was mentioned in that first year, except for a few passing references. I was incredibly frustrated. The research said perpetrators rarely thought much about their victims, but this was ridiculous. One entry for an entire year? He came into my once or twice every week, which came out to almost a hundred times every year, and all of that rated one lone entry of less than a page? Still, that file had only covered the four months from September to the end of the term. And for half of that time, he was handing copies of his journal in to his teacher. Maybe I would find more in the later files. I opened the next one, where I found more in the very first entry. Jan. 1 Dad wouldn't let me go out to the New Year's party with the guys last night. I don't know what his problem is. He treats me like I'm a girl. I'll be sixteen in a few months. I already know how to drive. Damn it, I'm not a kid. He lets Krista go out, and we all know what she's up to. So I spent last night sitting around the house. Loads of fun there. Thanks Dad. I'm finally up to three sets of pull- ups. Haven't improved much with the weights, but that's probably 'cause I'm using more energy on the pull- ups. I've been working out a lot more over break because it's so damn boring around here. Still waiting for Shannon to call. She promised she would, but she might be playing games. I thought about going ahead and calling her, but I don't want to come across like I'm chasing her or anything. Gotta play one move at a time. Damn--she was probably at the party last night, too. Okay, I guess it's time for the old New Year's resolutions.

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Goldfish Dreams Don't know why I bother. Nobody ever keeps the things. But maybe this year. If I can start getting it on with Shannon, that might help me with Eileen. I don't get it. It's not like Eileen's that good looking or anything. Just something inside me, I guess. I wonder what's going to happen when I grow up. Obviously, Eileen's go ing to go off to somewhere else, so that problem will take care of itself. But what's going to happen to me? Am I going to turn into some pervert like Einstein the secretary? I don't want to spend the rest of my life like some old fag who gets his jollies from kids in detention. I'm not a homo. Would a fag notice when Shannon showed up in those tight T-shirts? Best tits in the whole school. Man, I hope she calls. I turned away from the screen. So that problem would take care of itself? He honestly believed everything he did to me would be fixed as soon as he stopped doing it? Like before, I was angry, but it was easier to keep it in check this time. I had started to accept that Brad truly didn't comprehend what he had done, so the raw shock was gone. I frowned, trying to remember a girl named Shannon. Whoever she was, she must not have called. Or if she did, nothing ever came of it, because in all of the girls Brad dated, I couldn't recall a Shannon. Not that it would have mattered. Nothing ever changed for me when he was seeing someone. Like him, I had prayed that he would meet a girl who could hold his attention. Every time he talked about his next date, I hoped he would be satisfied with this girlfriend and leave me alone. Every time, I was disappointed. A key in the lock interrupted my thoughts, and I scrambled to shut down the word processing program. When Alisa walked into the room, she found me sitting on the bed, peering intently at my trigonometry homework. She tossed her jacket onto the back of her chair. "Did Ryan call?" Things between the two of them had remained rocky for the past week. "Nope. Sorry." The relationship between her and I hadn't been much better. She hadn't said anything more about God or my brothe r, and I was more than willing to leave it that way. But she hadn't stopped thinking about it. I could see it in the way she watched me when she thought I wouldn't notice, and in the way she hesitated before she spoke to me, like she was planning out eve rything she said. "He'll call," she said with the firm conviction of someone who doesn't believe her own words, but wants everyone else to believe them. She fixed her

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Jim Hines hair in front of the mirror, then said, "I was about to head down to lunch. You want to go?" I closed my book with a thump. We ended up eating with Jay and Robin, who were in the middle of a discussion about The Phantom of the Opera. Apparently the music department was planning to do their own version of Phantom sometime in April, and Robin had just gotten back from an audition. "I couldn't hold the high E at the end, but neither could the other girls who tried out, and I know I'm better than at least three of them. I'm not sure about one, but I think I should at least get a singing part, even if it's not the lead." She was so excited about her audition that, for the first time since returning from winter break, she treated me like a normal human being. Jay was a different story. The grapevine had obviously managed to work its way down to his end of the hall at last, because he kept glancing at me out of the corner of his eye while Robin talked. I could tell he wanted to say something, and I dreaded the words that would focus everyone's attention back onto me. So as soon as Robin paused for breath, I jumped in with, "I've never liked the way the show ends. Wasn't there a part of you that wanted Christine to go off with the Phantom?" Jay shook his head. "Even though the Phantom was a killer, and he was threatening to kill her fiancé?" That was one nice thing about Jay: he was easily distracted. "But she loved the Phantom," Alisa said. "They shared their music. Personally, I never understood what Christine saw in Raoul. He was just a prissed- up mama's boy." "At least he wasn't a psycho," Robin offered. I took a quick sip of juice and said, "So she chose safety and security over romance and adventure. How boring." That took the conversation off on another tangent about what was really important in a relationship. To nobody's surprise, Alisa championed the cause of passion and excitement. Jay preferred security, which was understandable, since as far as anyone knew, Jay had never had a serious girlfriend in his life. Robin played devil's advocate, changing sides at random. The light debate gave me a chance to think. Something was nagging at me about Brad's latest journal entry, and I didn't know what it was. It was like the afterimage of a bright light--when you try to look directly at it, it slips away to one side. But I knew there was something there, even if I couldn't see it. "Have you ever read the book?" Jay demanded. Apparently, nobody had. "Lousy book, but believe me, you wouldn't want to be running around with the real Phantom." Robin looked tho ughtful. "I don't know. A man with a voice like that...."

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Goldfish Dreams It had something to do with the secretary Brad mentioned. Einstein. It wasn't Brad's blatant homophobia, annoying though that was. All teenage boys went through that. Sometimes they even outgrew it as they got older, but judging from some of the things I had seen in college, a lot of them didn't. In eighth grade, the girls' gym teacher was Ms. Larch, and we were all convinced she was a lesbian. We used to joke about it, making up stories where she got caught making out with the principal, Mrs. Herford. It hit me. Like a truck speeding down the freeway, it hit me, and a chill ran from my face all the way down to my legs. "Oh my God." I wasn't aware of having spoken until I noticed everyone staring at me. "Are you okay?" Jay asked. "Yeah," I whispered. I grabbed my tray and stood up. "I'm just not that hungry, I guess." There was an awkward silence, and then Robin piped up, "How can you not be hungry for roadkill surprise? Made with real opossum!" I smiled weakly and excused myself. They continued to watch me as I deposited my tray in the corner and hurried out of the cafeteria. I took the stairs three at a time. By the time I got into my room, I was breathing heavily. I hadn't bothered to shut off the computer, so it only took a few seconds to get back into Brad's journal. I skimmed down a few paragraphs until I found the section I was looking for. Some old fag who gets his jollies from little kids in detention. That sounded a lot like the horrible stories we used to tell about Ms. Larch. It was probably similar to the stories told by millions of kids about grownups in positions of authority. Nothing strange there. But Brad used to end up in detention all the time. Reverend Holbrook's story of Brad's snowball fight wasn't the first time he had gotten into trouble. He would skip classes, start fights, sneak into the teachers' lounge, and once he had spent an afternoon working on his tan--sprawled out on the roof of the school. Dad would lecture, yell, threaten, ground him, take away his allowance, anything to get him to stop acting out in school. If anything, it only made Brad worse. He said it didn't matter whethe r he behaved or not, he still wound up in detention. Maybe he was just repeating the teacher-bashing stories everyone told. I could be reading too much into one sentence, drawing conclusions that had no basis in reality. But down at the center of my being, I didn't buy it. It was like a diamond-hard lump of ice at the pit of my stomach, so cold it burned. A secretary named Einstein getting his jollies from little kids in detention...the way Brad's behavior got worse every time he came back from detention....

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Jim Hines Had Brad been molested too? I stood impatiently with the phone clamped to my ear, waiting for an answer. I had spent the last hour and a half trying to figure out what to do. I reread Brad's entry at least ten times, trying to pull more answers from the words he had written five years before. It would help to go through the rest of the journals, but I didn't have the time or the patience. The journals for that year alone added up to eighty-seven single spaced pages. I couldn't remember a secretary named Einstein. The three of us had attended the same schools, so I should have recognized the name. Unless this was someone who had retired before I got there. In that case, maybe Krista would remember him. My memory of those years was rather vague. Patrick said it was a defense mechanism. Maybe so, but right now, I would have given a lot for a clearer recollection. I needed to know. I was finally stumbling across something that might finally help me understand. My free hand tapped rapidly against the dresser as I waited for Krista to pick up. "Hello?" It was a male voice. "Hi Steve, it's Eileen. Is my sister around?" "Hold on." He must have covered the mouthpiece, but I still heard a muffled shout. "She's on her way." There was a long period of silence, then Krista's voice on the other end. "Eileen?" "I need a favor." "Nice to hear from you too." I stifled a sigh of exasperation. "Enough with the nagging, okay? This is important." But Krista was obviously upset, and she meant to tell me all about it. "You still haven't called Dad, have you?" "No." I knew that big-sister tone, and I waited for the chewing-out to follow. She didn't disappoint me. "I wouldn't expect you to be too upset about Brad, and I've got Steve here, so I'm okay. But our father is all alone in that house. Don't you think it might be nice for him to get some support from the family he has left?" In all honesty, that hadn't occurred to me. I had been so caught up in everything since I got back that I hadn't had time to worry about Krista or my father. "I've been busy." It sounded like an excuse even to me, and in my mind, I could see her rolling her eyes. "We've all been busy. You've been selfish."

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Goldfish Dreams My fist slammed into the dresser hard enough to rattle Alisa's make-up and knock one bottle of perfume over on its side. I managed to grab it before too much spilled. A dark circle of perfume soaked into the sleeve of my shirt. "I'll call him as soon as I get off the phone with you. Will that make you happy?" "This isn't about making me happy." I couldn't win. "Fine. Look, I'm sorry. I can't change the past week and a half. But I will call him." That seemed to calm her down a little bit. "This has all been such a nightmare. I've been talking to him every night after dinner, and I never know what to say. How am I supposed to cheer him up when I'm still in shock? I'm having a hard enough time explaining to Annie why she can't see Uncle Brad anymore." I remained silent. She wasn't looking for answers or support. I knew my sister better than that. This was her way to impress upon me how much she had done for our father, thus emphasizing my own failings. It was the same pattern we always fell into when she thought she needed to teach me something. "Just make sure you call him," she said eventually. "Maybe that will help." Another pause, and then, "So what was this favor you needed?" I was tempted to say it was all a mistake and hang up the phone. I hadn't called her up so she could chew me out about not fulfilling my responsibilities as a daughter. Worse, I knew there was a seed of truth to what she was saying. I had been selfish, and I hadn't thought about how this must be affecting everyone else, especially my father. But hanging up would have been childish, and it would accomplish nothing except to protect my hurt feelings. "I was curious if you remembered a secretary from school named Mister Einstein." She snorted. "Einstein? As in E equals M C squared?" "That's right." "Nope. Why?" I hesitated, not trusting Krista's mental state at that moment. I didn't know how she would react to being told that not only had her brother molested her sister, but that her brother might also have been abused. It might be too much for her to handle, and I didn't have the strength to deal with another emotional outburst. "We were talking about Einstein in physics," I lied, "and it sounded familiar. I know it's not a big deal, but it's been nagging at me all day." "That's it? That's your big, important question?" "It's just been bothering me, that's all. You know how it is when you can't get something out of your head. Our professor mentioned Einstein, and I thought I remembered a secretary by that name." She snorted. "Yeah, I can just see Albert Einstein sitting in the office

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Jim Hines taking messages and making copies while a bunch of little kids wait to see the principal." "Thanks anyway." There was one other place to look. I could go home and sort through Brad's old school records, assuming they hadn't disappeared over the years. He might have taken them with him when he moved out, in which case they were probably gone forever. But Brad's apartment had been small, and he had left a lot behind. Why would he lug old, worthless papers all the way to Ann Arbor? If they were still in the house, I might be able to find something with the secretary's signature. "Sorry," said Krista. "I would have remembered a secretary named Einstein." We chatted for a few more minutes, casual things, like how Annie was doing and what my classes were like this semester. I kept trying to end the conversation, but she wouldn't stop talking. Finally, I promised to call her again in a few days, and escaped with a quick "I'll-talk-to-you- later. Gotta- go-bye!" It probably reinforced her perception of me as the rude, selfish sister, but I couldn't keep the façade up any longer. If we kept talking, I would start taking my frustrations out on her. I grabbed my saber and practiced lunges for a half- hour, whipping from a head attack to a slash at the flank, then back again. When I felt calm enough to be civil, I called my father. He wasn't home, so I left a message saying I was checking up on him, and I was going to try and get a ride home this weekend so I could visit. That should make Krista happy, and it would give me a chance to look through Brad's files. I grabbed my jacket and gloves and left, heading up Martin Street to Outreach. The sky was starting to get dark, but the streets were well lit. In fact, it almost seemed darker inside Outreach than it was outside. A hand pulled the curtains back from the window and Patrick peered out. He squinted, then grinned when he recognized me. The window slid open. "Come on back." I hadn't been in the actual phone room before, but it matched the rest of the place. The rug was covered in so many stains that it was impossible to make out the original color. A grid of cubbyhole mailboxes turned the far wall into a beehive. An old desk with a computer and a printer occupied one corner. The smell of cigarettes was stronger in here. Patrick was the only one in the room. "My shift partner couldn't make it tonight," he explained. He gestured toward the phones. One was bolted to the wall over each couch, and a third sat on the desk next to the computer. "We can talk here, but if I get a call, you'll have to wait outside." He looked slightly embarrassed. "Confidentiality and all that." He stood up and wrapped his arms around me. "So what are you doing over here, anyway?" He planted a kiss in the center of my forehead. We sat

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Goldfish Dreams down on the couch. Several blankets were packed beneath the cushions to reinforce the springs, which meant the cushions tilted a bit to one side. "You told me when you were working, so I thought I'd surprise you." His grin widened. He looked so pleased that I was tempted to leave it at that, but honesty won out. "And I had a favor to ask." He raised an eyebrow. "I need to go home this weekend, and I don't want to ask my father to pick me up. I'll pay for gas, and I'll even buy you dinner to pay you back." He laughed and shook his head. "Don't worry about it. As long as it's just for the day, I can drive you home on Saturday. But I've got to be back Sunday to help Professor Ralston score questionnaires for his research." He leaned back and studied my face. "Is something wrong?" "What do you mean?" "Why is it so important that you get home this weekend?" All these mont hs, and I still hadn't learned the futility of trying to hide things from this man. So I told him what I had found out about Brad. He waited, perfectly composed and expressionless, until I finished talking. It was almost frightening to watch the way he listened. In normal conversation, there are endless distractions, and even good listeners tend to spend half the time glancing around, twitching, playing with their fingers, or simply thinking of what to say next. With Patrick, I got the sense that one hundred percent of his concentration was focused on me, even to the exclusion of his own reactions. "What makes you so sure he was molested?" he asked when I was finished. "You said it sounded like a kid ripping on a grown-up." "Doesn't it make sense, though? Aren't most abusers people who were abused themselves?" "Sometimes," he admitted, "but not always. And even if Brad was abused, I'm not sure what you're expecting to accomplish." "I don't know," I snapped. "Maybe I just want to know. Maybe I want to talk to this guy and make him face up to the damage he did to Brad and to me." "No matter what he did to Brad, that doesn't excuse what Brad did to you. You were abused too, and it didn't turn you into a child molester." I sighed. "I know. But I want to understand what happened to my brother. And what if this guy's still doing it?" At my last question, Patrick bit his lip and looked thoughtful. Then the phone rang, and we both jumped. "Duty calls," he said, scowling. "I'll get you as soon as I'm done." I ducked out of the room. He grabbed the phone and, in a perfectly calm tone, said, "Outreach crisis line." I pushed the door closed, muffling whatever followed. I was tempted to keep walking down the hall and out the door. I wanted

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Jim Hines support, not skepticism. Why couldn't Patrick understand that this was important? I couldn't explain it, but I had to know. I waited in the ARC office, since it had the best furniture. The room looked exactly the same, which surprised me. The last time I had sat in this room was back in October. It felt like years had passed. I scanned the bookshelf. The books I had returned nearly two months ago still sat in a pile, waiting to be put back on the shelf. I grabbed a book on perpetrators of sexual violence and sat down in one of the armchairs to read. Not the best choice in subject matter right now, but I hoped it would help me get past some of my frustration. I was still reading the acknowledgments when Patrick opened the door. "Just a regular," he explained. "She thinks the DJ from 96.7 F.M. has a satellite outside her window so they can play her thoughts on the radio. Happens every time they play a song she likes." He shook his head. "The calls we get when people don't take their medication." He sat in the chair across from me and pointed to the book. "Take it if you want. Most of the time they just collect dust." He glanced down, like he was struggling for words. "I'm worried about what you're trying to do." "Why?" Even as I fought it, I could feel myself tense up, guarding myself. His eyes studied my face, gauging my reactions. "It usually takes a long time before survivors are ready to confront their abusers. You're talking about tracking down someone you don't even know, confronting him about something that you weren't a part of." "What do you mean I wasn't a part of it?" He held up his hand, and I stifled the rest of my retort. Couldn't Patrick see how this man had been indirectly responsible for everything I went through? If I was right, this secretary had helped twist years of my life into a nightmare. Patrick glanced away. "Ever since I met you, you've been searching for answers, and after the years I've spent doing this kind of work, I can tell you that there aren't any. No ma tter what you learn, nothing ever makes it right or okay. I'm worried that you've latched onto this guy as a possible answer, and I don't want you to end up hurting yourself. Also, if you start throwing around accusations, you could end up in serious legal trouble." "Maybe I'll be able to take him with me," I snapped. He glanced up. "That's what I mean," he said softly. "You're so focused on him that you'd destroy yourself to get to him. Your priorities are confused. That's normal, but it means that maybe now isn't the best time to start tracking this guy down." "But what if he's still doing it?" I countered. "He could still be at the school, scarring a new batch of kids every year." "Maybe he is." His self-control was getting on my nerves. "But if that's

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Goldfish Dreams the case, what can you do about it?" Just like that, I was back in the same position of helplessness I had been in with Brad for all those years. Patrick was right. I had no proof, aside from an ambiguous line from a dead man's journal. I didn't even have the grounds to file a complaint. What was I supposed to do, follow Einstein around twenty- four hours a day until I caught him in the act? Patrick was right, and I hated it. "I know how frustrating this is for you," he said. "No you don't." I forced my voice back to a conversational level. "You've probably talked to dozens of rape survivors, but you've never been on the inside. You've never lived through it. You've never been told to turn your back on someone who caused you six years of pure hell." "Brad caused that. No matter what happened to him, he was the one who decided to hurt you." He raised his hands in surrender. "You're right, I don't know what you're feeling. I'm only trying to help. Please trust me on this. I've seen people go through this sort of reaction, and it will only make things worse." I tried to sort through the war raging inside me. "I still have to find out. I have to put together as many of the pieces as I can. Otherwise it will eat me up inside." This time, he didn't argue. He reached out and pulled me into another embrace. I rested my head on his shoulder and stared at the drawings on the wall. As much as I wanted to lose myself in his arms, to let him make me feel safe, I couldn't do it. I didn't want to feel safe. I didn't want to hide anymore. "I have to do this," I repeated. He just hugged me tighter.

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Chapter 18 "Avez-vous un porc-épic coincé entre vos fesses?" I released the doorknob and turned around, standing in the open doorway as I took in Sean's outfit. He stood there in a tanktop, with his hands in the pockets of green corduroy cutoffs. I didn't know anyone else who would wear shorts in the middle of winter, but with Sean, I wasn't surprised. "What did you say?" "It's French." He laughed. "Two years of high school French, and the only phrase I remember comes from an exchange student in math class. It means, 'Do you have a porcupine crammed up your ass?'" I folded my arms, which turned out to be a mistake. My right shoulder still hurt from the thrashing Larry had given me earlier in the evening. I settled for resting my hands on my hips in what I hoped was an impatient stance. "What are you talking about?" "You. Ever since the funeral, you've been running around like Goldfish did after he got fixed. You're tense and snapping at everyone. Even Jay picked up on it, and Jay's as perceptive as a boiled potato." "So I'm not allowed to be a little moody after my brother dies?" "Don't be stupid. Of course you're allowed to be moody. But some of us like to consider ourselves your friends, and we don't enjoy having your moodiness taken out on us." I started to snap off a response, but he interrupted. "Especially when you haven't bothered to tell anyone what's going on." I stared at him for a heartbeat, then my jaw dropped a few millimeters. "This is your way of asking me what's wrong?" He shrugged. "I've had five different majors since I came here, but psychology wasn't one of them. So I don't know how to ask gently." "Bullshit," I shot back. "You just like being an asshole." His hands went to his chest. "Qui, moi?" Then he laughed again. "My Aunt used to tell me I should run with my gifts."

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Goldfish Dreams "Well yo u're very good at it," I said grumpily. But it was an effort to remain annoyed. There was something about his bald- faced honesty that made it impossible to stay angry. "You still haven't answered my question," he said. "What's up?" I knew I had been on edge lately, but I hadn't realized I was taking it out on the people around me. Not that I would have noticed. I hadn't talked to Robin or Jay since that day I darted out of the cafeteria, so I could see where they might have gotten the wrong impression. "It's Brad," I said. "The more I find out, the more messed up I get. I think he was abused too, and now I keep going back and forth between hating him and feeling sorry for him." I was used to talking to Patrick, so I was expecting some sort of gentle, counselor-type response. Sean merely nodded and said, "Well, shit." I blinked. "That's one way to put it." Those crooked teeth flashed again, and he said, "Just make sure you don't screw yourself up too badly with all this. Otherwise I'll sic the cat on you." I saluted, and he wandered off, whistling the theme to Friends. Only then did I realize that I had left the door open through the entire conversation. Alisa was sitting in her chair, watching me as I came in. "I didn't mean to overhear," she said, too quickly. "Of course not. That's why you couldn't get up and close the door." Her face turned bright red, either with embarrassment or with anger, I couldn't tell. "I've been worried about you," she said in clipped tones. "You never talk to me, so how else am I supposed to find out how you're doing?" "I'm doing perfectly well. Thanks for the concern." I hung my fencing jacket on the closet door so it could air out a bit. "You can't keep being angry at your brother." I whirled around. "Why the hell not? Where do you get off telling me what I should and shouldn't feel?" I could see her fighting for control. A thin vein stood out on her left temple, and her nails scratched the arm of the chair. "I'm just saying you can't go through the rest of your life holding a grudge. One way or another, you're going to have to find a way to forgive him. Otherwise this will fester inside of you until it rips you apart." "I've been done fine so far, and I think I'll manage." Our voices were getting louder with each volley, and the anger pumping through my body grew stronger with each heartbeat. "If you're doing so well, why won't you even listen to what I'm saying?" I finished putting the rest of my gear away and stood up, wincing at the ache in my back and shoulder. "I'm going to take a shower," I said, trying to end the discussion.

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Jim Hines "Oh," she said quietly. There was a whole new level of nastiness in her voice. "I see. One way or another, you're going to run away and ignore me." "Better than sitting here and listening to you tell me how God will make everything all better, when I know damn well that he doesn't do a damn thing." "I never said he would make everything all better, and how do you know when you're not even willing to try?" I leaned back against the bed, trying to hide the furious trembling in my arms. "Will God erase the four years that Brad raped me? Or the nightmares that came after he left? Will God go back and change things so that it never happened? Will God even give me a single reason why it happened at all?" "Of course not," she snapped. "That's not how things work. God can't change you any more than he could have changed Brad. But maybe he could help you learn to accept what happened. Maybe he could help you learn to live with it." "I am living with it, and if people would stop spreading my problems through the dorms, it would be a hell of a lot easier to live with it." "I made a mistake. Believe it or not, I'm sorry. I don't expect you to forgive me, but I am. I can't change what I did. But I'm trying to help you." I leaned down and lowered my voice, carefully enunciating each word. "I don't want your help." She glared back at me, and her eyes burned white- hot. "Maybe you need it anyway." I knew things were going too far, but I had no desire to bring them back under control. "Why would I want advice on forgiveness from someone who can't go a single week without getting into a screaming fight with her boyfriend, then pouting about it like a two-year-old?" She stared at me for a moment longer, then spun away, trying to hide the tears that had sprung up in her eyes. She waited just long enough for guilt to prick away at me, then whirled back around like a demon fresh from Hell. "How dare you! You don't know what you're talking about. Ryan has nothing to do with this." I wanted to argue, but it would have been like yelling into a tornado. "You think I'm just like that preacher who hangs around the statue on River Street, telling everyone they're going to Hell unless they repent. You think I'm just lecturing you because it makes me feel all superior. Did you ever think maybe I might know what I'm talking about?" She didn't give me a chance to answer, which was good, since I wasn't sure what to say. The River Street Preacher was an old man with a wild mane of fading brown hair who wore a sandwich board listing the sins of the world-everything from smoking pot to premarital sex to homosexuality to practicing Judaism. He waited there four or five days a week and yelled at everyone who

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Goldfish Dreams passed, students and faculty alike. Some people avoided that intersection, just so they wouldn't have to see the obsessive gleam in his eyes. Right now, Alisa had the same unbalanced look to her. "Sure, you have problems. But you're not the only one. Before my parents got divorced, my father was a pretty heavy drinker, and he never wanted to have kids. When my Mom wasn't around, he'd get drunk and make me go out to the garage to sit in the car. You know most cars can be locked from the outside to keep kids from getting out, right?" I nodded. I was still raging inside, but it was a cold, controlled rage. I no longer had the urge to interrupt her, which was good. Alisa was like a runaway truck, and the last thing I wanted to do was get in her way. So I bottled up my own feelings and waited as her voice dropped, becoming harder. "He would get into the front seat and start the car. Then he'd sit there and tell me about carbon monoxide poisoning. He'd say I wouldn't feel a thing, that I'd drift off to sleep and never wake up. He said it was the easiest way, for both of us. "Most of the time it didn't last too long. He'd start to laugh like it was a big joke. Then he'd hit the garage door opener and we'd go for a ride to the Seven-Eleven to get Slurpees. "Other times he just sat there. He liked to turn on the radio and sing along with the oldies station. Sometimes I could feel myself getting dizzy from the gas, but no matter how much I cried or begged, nothing would make him open the door until he was good and ready. "I never knew which it would be. I never knew if we would end up going out or if we'd wait in the garage for a while. And every time, I thought maybe this time he won't open the garage door in time. "I lost track of the number of times I sat in that car, not knowing if I would ever see my Mom again. She worked midnights at the hospital, so even when she came home, she was tired and I couldn't talk to her about it. "He used to have this little Yoda doll hanging on the rear view mirror. I sat in the back seat and watched that stupid thing like it was a crucifix." She grabbed one of her incense burners in one hand, and for a moment, I thought she was going to throw it. But she just stared into the clay dragon's head as she talked. "After they got divorced, I had two choices. I could hate him for what he had done to me, or I could love him because he was still my Dad. I tried hating him. I was so angry and so scared. I think I was more afraid after he left, like the terror hadn't really hit me until after it was over. But I couldn't let anyone see that I was afraid, so I twisted it into anger. I pushed all of my friends away, and I lashed out at everyone. Sound familiar?" I glared.

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Jim Hines "Eventually, someone invited me to a church group meeting after school. I could have cared less about their group." She blushed, "But the guy who invited me had a great butt." She leaned closer, and I saw whitish streaks marked her cheeks where her tears had dried. "They helped me get past the anger. I still loved my Dad. I had never stopped. Until then, it had been buried beneath a little girl's fear. Until I forgave him, I couldn't truly be happy." Her voice trailed off and she gave me a pleading look, like she desperately wanted me to say that I understood and she was right and thank you so much for helping me to see the light. But I was just as furious as she had been. I was simply more controlled about it. "I'm glad that worked for you," I said softly. "But did your father ever tell you that you enjoyed being threatened and manipulated? Did he ever tell yo u it was your own fault? Did you ever try to tell somebody, only to have them punish you for making up lies? Or have them ask what you were doing to make him lock you in the car?" She shook her head. "Come here." I walked to the computer and flipped it on. We waited in silence as it dragged through the process of booting up the various programs. I scrolled down to an entry I had found while trying to learn more about Einstein. "Read this," I snapped. June 14 Something weird happened earlier tonight. I was in with Eileen, and she was either asleep faking it real good. So anyway, I started doing stuff, and at first she just lay there like she was dead. No problem, that's pretty normal and all. But after a while, I noticed that her hips were moving, kind of grinding against my hand. I could tell she was awake now. I couldn't see her face, but I could hear her breathing change, like she was turned on. I finished up and got out of there. It really spooked me out. I don't know what I was so freaked about, but I was. I spent about a half- hour in my own bed, and I started wondering if she was going to come wandering into my room. Like maybe she wanted more or something. Every time I heard something, I kept thinking maybe it was her coming down the hall. It never was. She was probably just reacting out of reflex or something. But even if it was, that still means that she's getting some sort of pleasure out of this too, right? Maybe there's a part of her that wants me to come to her. That could be why she hasn't

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Goldfish Dreams told anybody. I don't know. I needed to write it down so I sort out some of the things running around in my head. Maybe I'll be able to get to sleep now. In the silence that fell over the room as Alisa read, I cursed myself for letting her see it. For three days, ever since I found that entry, I had been going in circles in my head, trying to figure out whether or not it was my fault. I didn't remember that night, but there were a lot of things I didn't remember about those years. Had I been encouraging Brad in some way? Thank God I had borrowed all of those books from Patrick. I remembered a footnote which described how the body could react reflexively, even in cases of rape. For men it was even worse. In the midst of an assault, their bodies could still react to the physical stimulus. Male survivors had to come to terms with having had an erection while being assaulted. No wonder so few men reported being raped. Hard enough to admit that you were a guy and had been raped, but to think that a part of you had responded on some biologically automatic level.... And yet, even though I knew that it was a purely mechanical reflex, it still nagged at me. I was so young back then. So was Brad. How was he supposed to know I detested what he did to me if I couldn't even send him a clear signal? If I was in some way encouraging him. Alisa had never said anything, but I knew she must have wondered. Why didn't she tell anyone? Why didn't she try harder to make him stop? Why didn't she fight when he came into her room? Now, I knew Brad's words would only add weight to her criticisms, even if she never said a word of it aloud. "This is Brad's?" she asked softly. I hadn't told her about Brad's journal before this. "Yeah." She was crying again, silent tears that broke loose and ripped down her cheeks. The redness in her face was gone. "This is really sick, Eileen." Her answer was exactly what I had expected, and I almost hit her. How long would it be before she told the whole floor about this new chapter? Did you hear that Eileen liked doing it with her brother?" My fist tightened into a ball. I turned away, heading for the door. I didn't know where I was going, and I didn't know what I was going to do. All I knew was that if I stayed here, I would really hurt her. "Eileen, wait." She hurried up beside me, trying to make eye contact, but I couldn't look at her. "I didn't mean you, I meant him. He's the one who was sick. If he thought a kid could enjoy that."

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Jim Hines I turned toward her. She was barefoot, and I felt like I was looming over her. "Do you talk to your father, since the divorce?" She nodded. "He got into an AA group, and he eventually straightened himself out. We talk on the phone every few weeks." "Have you ever talked about what he used to do to you?" Sweat dripped down my sides and onto my shirt, and it felt like cold, wet fingers touching my skin. My legs were numb and exhausted, but I didn't move. "We've talked about it. One of the steps in the program is to make amends with the people you've hurt. We went out to eat one night and he told me how sorry he was." I nodded. "Brad never apologized. In fact," I said, gesturing at the computer, "this is the closest I'll ever come to talking with him about what happened. And instead of telling me how sorry he is, he tells me I liked it. He never stopped until he moved out, and he never tried to make amends. I hope you understand why it's harder for me to forgive him." For a moment, I thought she was going to argue. I could see the anger in the way she lifted her chin and narrowed her eyes. But all she said was, "I understand." She visibly bit her lip to keep from saying anything more. She really was trying to help in the only way she knew how. We stood there like two statues, neither knowing what to say next. I don't know how long we would have waited if a knock at the door hadn't startled us. We gasped, and Alisa raised a ha nd to her heart. "Were you expecting someone?" I asked. She shook her head. I opened the door, and Sean poked his head inside. "Everyone still in one piece in here?" he asked. "Do you mind?" Alisa was back to sounding annoyed. "We were trying to have a private discussion." His lip twitched. "I hate to tell you this, but half the floor heard a significant chunk of your 'private' discussion." I could see Alisa growing more and more irritated. I grabbed Sean by one arm and pushed him into the hall, shut ting the door behind us. "This is not a good time." He nodded, and the amusement vanished from his expression. "I wanted to make sure things were under control. From what I heard, I figured you both had things you needed to get off your chests. I wanted to make sure it happened without anyone ending up dead." "And how much did you hear?" He shrugged. "I've been lurking in the hall for the past half- hour, so I heard most of it." I stared at him. "You really are an asshole, you know that?"

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Goldfish Dreams "I know. But this way I could make sure nobody else was listening outside your door. Besides, I wanted to be around in case things got too ugly in there." "Are you insane? Even if you tried to break things up, you know how Alisa feels about you. And I was angry enough- " I stopped as something clicked. "I would have helped her rip you to pieces." "Metaphorically speaking, of course," he said with a grin. I let him hold on to that belief. "Which would have effectively broken up whatever brawl we were in," I finished, shaking my head. He bowed like a maestro after a performance. "And I never even studied psychology." I was torn between conflicting urges. Eventually, I decided against punching that round, freckled face, and gave him a quick hug instead. "You're still an asshole," I said. "I know." He turned around and walked away, stopping only to say, "Don't worry. I'm leaving for real this time." Alisa was sprawled out on the floor when I went back into the room. "Did you kill him?" she asked, looking up. I collapsed next to her. "Yup. I left the body in the stairwell. They'll probably find it by morning." Then, because I didn't want to give her an opportunity to rail against Sean, I said, "I'm sorry if I didn't understand how much religion meant to you." She smiled a bit. "You were more tolerant than Robin was last year." She pointed at the tarnished brass crucifix on the top of her shelves. "She said if I didn't shut up about Jesus, she was going to ram that crucifix where it would never see the light of God again." I laughed, and she continued. "I know I get carried away, but it's because I've been worried. You've been so tense." "I know." I didn't have the energy to talk about it anymore, and neither did she. "Right now, though, I'm just hungry." She pushed herself up and her eyes danced merrily. "This is something I can help with." Without missing a beat, she rattled off the names of five pizza places, followed by the phone numbers. "Chicago Deep Dish has good pizza, but they're expensive. Angelo's is quick, cheap, and greasy. Mama Leo's is so-so, but you get free breadsticks." I cut her off before she could list every pizza place in a twenty-mile radius. "I don't care. Just as long as there are no mushrooms on it." "Angelo's it is," she said, hopping up to get the phone. "Thanks." She brushed her hair back from her face, prettifying herself out of habit. "Hey, that's what roommates are for."

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Chapter 19 Patrick and I arrived at my father's house a little before lunchtime on Saturday. It had taken another long, unpleasant phone conversation to convince him to do this for me. In the end, he only agreed when I told him I'd find another way if he didn't come. I'd even break my bank account and take a cab the whole way if I had to. Reluctantly, he agreed. I knew he wasn't happy. I tried to cheer him up, but it didn't work. After that, I just played with the radio. Most of the buttons were programmed for country music, which provided a little amusement. I hadn't imagined Patrick as the country type. But when I gently teased him about it, asking if I should get a cowboy hat, he just grunted. So I said the hell with it and turned my thoughts to my brother. Over the past few days, I had begun to question my original gut feeling about the secretary. Before we left, I brought Patrick up to read the entry, hoping his training would let him pick up on some hint or clue that I had missed. He read the whole thing two or three times, never saying a word until he was done. He couldn't tell me anything I didn't already know. Brad might have been abused, and he might not have been. I wondered if Patrick was being deliberately vague, keeping me uncertain as a way to get back at me. But he knew how important this was. He might be angry, but he wouldn't lie to me. So I was left hoping to find something at home to answer my questions, one way or the other. There was a good possibility that I wouldn't find anything. The records I wanted were more than a decade old, and my father wasn't the most organized person in the world. Neither was Brad, for that matter. My father's car was in the driveway and the front door was unlocked, so I knew he was home. He had to have heard the doors slamming in the driveway, but he wasn't there to meet us when we walked in. "Hello?" I yelled. "I'm in here." The voice came from the living room. Patrick followed a

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Goldfish Dreams few steps behind as I walked in to greet my father. I was shocked to find him on the couch, still in his bathrobe even though it was almost noon. An old John Wayne war movie blared from the television. I walked over to give him a quick kiss on his stubbled cheek. Then I studied him, trying to absorb how wrong he looked. Nobody who knew Terry Greenwood ever wondered where Brad got his competitive streak. My father had been winning gymnastics competitions throughout Wisconsin before he graduated from high school. He joined the gymnastics team at Michigan State, where he spent more time on the rings than he did with his books. At that level, both the competition and the practices were far more intense. After the first year, his grades plummeted and the university threatened to kick him out. The one thing his parents had stressed was the importance of education. So, reluctantly, he began to devote less time to gymnastics and more time to classes. There was always a note of bitterness when he talked about it. He was convinced that if he had only been a little stronger, a little more talented, he would have been able to compete at a national level. Instead, he graduated with a degree in engineering and began to coach children's gymnastics in his spare time. He discovered a few months later that working with kids was far more rewarding than designing water treatment plants. Within a year, he snagged a job as a fulltime coach and teacher. He was a strict coach, and he didn't accept excuses from anyone. If you were sick or hurt, that was fine. Otherwise he pushed you to the point of exhaustion, then pushed more. Some kids hated him, and there were some who showed up for one night and never came back. Others thrived on the pressure and the individual attention he gave to every kid. Even now, at almost fifty years old, he still prided himself on being in shape. He played racketball at the Y twice a week, and for the past few years he had been one of the top players in his league. I think he was a large part of the reason that Brad went so far in wrestling. Brad took to wrestling with the same energy and enthusiasm our father used to put into gymnastics. Dad used to needle me every day after school because I would plop down on the couch and watch television for an hour before dinner. "You should be out doing things," he said, "not sitting in here rotting your brains." In his opinion, sloth was the only truly deadly sin. Now he didn't even have the energy to get dressed in the morning. "Sorry about this," he said. "I meant to be ready when you got here. I guess I lost track of time." Patrick stepped forward and said hello, which gave me a chance to recover and study my father more closely. He seemed older. His posture was more

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Jim Hines slumped, and his features were less animated when he talked. "How have you been doing, Dad?" I asked gently. "Oh, about like you'd expect," he said, waving my question aside with a brusque gesture. "Everyone and their sister brought food over, so there's plenty to eat. Why don't you kids get yourselves some lunch while I make myself presentable?" I nodded, and we ducked out of the room. Neither of us spoke for a while. I opened the refrigerator and grabbed the first thing I could find, some sort of casserole, and popped it into the microwave. A few minutes later, I heard the hissing whine of the shower. "Krista was right," I said guiltily. "He's not doing well." Patrick came up and hugged me from behind, his hands locking together over my stomach. "How did he handle things after your mother passed away?" I hid my relief at feeling his arms around me again. At least he wasn't angry with me after that awkward ride in the car. "That was different," I said. "It was the third time her cancer had flared up. They both seemed to know it would be the last time, and they spent a lot of time making sure we were prepared. They also started going out more before she went into the hospital, trying to spend as much time together as they could with what they had left." The microwave dinged. I grabbed plates and started dishing out lunch. "She was in enough pain at the end that it was almost a relief when it ended. We all cried, of course. Even Dad. But we had seen it coming, and we had been able to brace ourselves. "With Brad, it came out of nowhere. There was no warning, and I think that's why it hit him so much harder." "It wouldn't have mattered," he said. I grabbed two Cokes and we sat down to eat. "I've talked to a few parents who outlived their kids. It takes your world and rips it apart. Whether you see it coming or not, nothing can prepare you for losing a child." I ate without tasting the food. I kept seeing my father's face at the funeral, the look of numb confusion, like it was all a nightmare and he couldn't figure out why he wasn't waking up. Patrick was a counselor. Maybe he would know what to say or do. "How do people usually react to something like this?" He snorted. "The textbooks will give you a list of stages: denial, anger, acceptance, and transcendence. But knowing the stages isn't going to help him any more than it helped you." "So what am I supposed to do?" "How should I know?" I knew I had been short-tempered lately, but knowing that didn't stop me

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Goldfish Dreams from getting annoyed. "You're the one who had all the training." He raised an eyebrow. "You're his daughter." I bit my lip to keep from shouting at him. That doesn't mean I know how to help him. He was my father! I wasn't supposed to have to take care of him. I had gotten so used to disconnecting from my family in general and from my father in particular. Having come home, I found myself in an environment that was no longer familiar, and I wasn't sure I remembered how to survive here. When my father came out, he wore an old YMCA sweatshirt and a faded pair of jeans. He stood by the counter and stuck his hands in his pockets. "So what were you two planning to do while you were home?" "I've got a few things I want to find in the basement," I answered. "Other than that, I thought we'd hang around here for a while." He pursed his lips and nodded. "The basement's a bit of a mess. Whole house needs a good cleaning, actually. Let me know if you need help." With that, he wandered back into the living room. A moment later, I heard the sounds of battle coming from the television. I looked helplessly at Patrick. He held out a hand and pulled me up from my chair. "Come on. Let's go find what you're looking for." "Yeah," I muttered softly. The basement was a mess. Several weeks' worth of laundry sat in a pile next to the washer. Further on, the black metal bookshelves had fallen down. That was where we kept most of the old photo albums, I remembered. One of the legs looked like it had twisted and collapsed. When I looked closer, I saw that several of the albums--presumably the ones with pictures of my brother--had been carefully stacked on top of a nearby box. The rest of the old books and albums sat in a heap. Two green filing cabinets, each one nearly as tall as I was, stood by the far wall. "Over here," I said. It took a few tries to find the right drawer. Mom had always insisted on saving things, especially paperwork. If it had been up to her, we would still have every drawing, every letter, every scrap of homework any of us had ever done. My father, on the other hand, would have trashed everything within a week. They had reached a kind of middle ground, though it was never safe to guess what would or wouldn't make it into the filing cabinets. A note excusing Krista from school in second grade had been preserved even after she finished high school, but all of my sixth grade report cards had gone out with the garbage. The cabinets hadn't been touched in a while. A yellow spider the width of my thumb crawled out from behind the cabinets and waved his legs to protest my intrusion. I ignored him, concentrating instead on the drawer in front of me. Krista, Brad, and I each had our own drawer. I rarely looked in mine. I

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Jim Hines had little desire to sort through the mementos of my childhood. I flipped through the tabs on top of the files until I found one marked Report Cards. I pulled it out and handed half of the contents to Patrick. "We're looking for anyone named Einstein." "I remember," he said. Of course he remembered, but I still needed to remind him. I knew it was the anticipation making me so testy, so I kept my mouth shut and began to read through the papers in front of me. The first stack turned out to be report cards from Brad's later years, which meant there were five or six teachers for each grade. On top of that, there were four report cards per year, as well as citizenship reports, handwritten summaries from parent-teacher conferences, attendance notices, and the occasional note from school. I read every name, especially the notes. With all the time Brad spent in detention, there had to be something from the principal's office, something the secretary might have typed up himself. I looked for detention reports, too, but didn't find any. I didn't read the high school report cards as closely, because if Brad had been abused, it would have been earlier in his life. Forty minutes later, my nose was itching from the dust, and we hadn't found a thing. I wasn't ready to give up yet. I traded stacks with Patrick, and we began the process all over again. It was possible one of us had missed something that the other would catch. The earlier report cards were more standardized. There were no grades, just "Satisfactory" and "Very Good" and "Needs Improvement." In the earlier years, Brad had been good at working with others. It wasn't until fifth grade that he started to get more; several teachers noted that he had was pushing the other kids around at recess. As I read their comments, I suddenly began to wonder why Brad had started to act out. One teacher, pointing to Brad's unsatisfactory progress in math, speculated that he might have a learning disorder. I vaguely remembered the day he brought that report card home. Dad had spent the following month working with Brad on math problems. The next report card listed his math skills as Excellent. Much improved. I read the rest of my stack, but when I put down the final report card, I had found nothing. The closest I came were a few notes initialed by the secretaries over the years, but none of those initials ended with 'E'. Patrick had finished before me. He saw the look on my face and gently said, "It's not here." I didn't know where else to look. I couldn't ask my father. Even in the best of times, he wouldn't understand, and with the shape he was in now.... I was on the edge of tears. Patrick reached out to touch my cheek, but I jerked away. I didn't want to be touched. I didn't want to be comforted. I wanted to know.

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Goldfish Dreams If Patrick was hurt by my rejection, it didn't show. He calmly straightened the report cards and put them back into the folders while I sat there. There were other things I could try, but none offered much hope. Maybe on Monday I would call the elementary school to see if anyone remembered a secretary named Einstein. After all these years, I doubted he would still be around, but I couldn't admit that I had failed. Patrick waited a while longer, trying to give me time to come to terms with it all, before suggesting we go back upstairs. At the bottom of the stairs he said, "I'll be up in a minute. Why don't you go check on your father?" I thought he was merely trying to give me a little time to be alone with my father. But as I joined Dad on the couch, I heard the washer start up in the basement. I smiled despite myself. A few minutes later, Patrick squeezed onto the couch next to me. My father's forehead wrinkled, and he said, "Is that the washer?" "Eileen thought it would help to get a few loads done." I grabbed Patrick's hand and mouthed, "I love you." Dad didn't notice. "I've let things get a little behind. Your sister vacuumed the last time she was here. Between the two of you, it's like having my own maid." We stayed through the afternoon. I hadn't planned to stay that long, but I couldn't bring myself to leave. Patrick, bless him, seemed to understand. We spent most of the day watching old movies. I made spaghetti for dinner, since it was one of the few meals I knew how to cook. Kris ta was the real chef in the family. Brad never wanted to learn, and I couldn't even make a microwave cake without burning it to the consistency of cowhide. But tonight, nobody complained, even though the noodles were a bit underdone. By the time the meal was over, I needed to leave. It was too hard to see my father this way. Something inside of him had died with Brad, and I didn't know if he would ever be the same. I hoped he would go back to work and to fall into his old patterns, the way he had done after Mom's death. For now, he was torn. A part of him still clung to my brother. The part of him that couldn't let go was following Brad into the grave. I thought the bonds connecting him to the rest of us, to life, were stronger. I hoped so. There was no way to be sure, and I didn't know how to help him. "It was nice of you to visit your old man," he said as we grabbed our jackets. "I'll try and come back in the next week or two," I promised. What else could I do? I hoped it would help. We slipped away while I was still able to hold myself together. Once we

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Jim Hines were in the car, I started to swear under my breath, and I didn't stop until we were almost back to the university. I spent the night with Patrick again. It was the weekend, which meant that we could stay up without having to worry about morning classes. So we talked for a while. When we were finished, I gave him a thorough and proper thank you for the kindness he had shown my father, and neither of us were in any position to talk after that. When we finished, I curled up and pulled his arms around me. I didn't get back to the dorm until noon the next day, so it wasn't until after lunch that I found out my sister had called. "She said something about a secretary," Alisa said. I leapt up so quickly that I ripped half the cover off the math book I had been reading. After four rings that lasted an eternity each, I heard Krista's voice at the other end. "You remembered something?" I asked, not bothering with a hello. "I was wondering when you were going to call. Where have you been?" "I went home, and then I spent the night with Patrick. What did you learn?" "You spent the night with him?" I ground my teeth in frustration. She knew something, and she was obviously enjoying my frustration. She was going to turn this into a game, and I didn't know how much I could take without having a heart attack. "Krista, this is important. I really need to know about this guy." "Why is it so important?" "I can't tell yo u that." Especially since I didn't know if there was anything here beyond my own overactive imagination. "Please trust me." There was a pause, and I could see her in my mind, playing with her hair as she decided whether my pleas were worth sacrificing he r entertainment. But she went ahead and told me. Maybe she heard the desperation in my voice. "All right. It came to me when I was falling asleep last night. There was a guy we had back in fifth grade named Brent Steiner. He was a new secretary, and he only lasted a year or two. He always came in with his hair poofed out around his head, like he hadn't heard of combs. A few of the kids said he looked like Albert Einstein." I searched frantically for something to write with. I knew there was a pen here somewhere. What kind of lowlife stole phone pens? Alisa walked over and pressed her pencil into my hand. "Thanks," I whispered. As I jotted down the name, I asked Krista, "What happened to him?" "That's the fun part. I hadn't thought about any of this in years. When I was in seventh grade, there was a big scandal. Steiner was having an affair with Ms. Lister, one of the gym teachers. I guess his wife left him when it came out.

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Goldfish Dreams They refused to stop seeing each other, so they both got fired. I heard a rumor that he ended up at one of the private schools." "Thank you." I ripped off the post- it and held it like a missing page of the bible. "I'll talk to you soon." "Wait," Krista protested. "I want to hear more about you and Patrick." "Later. I have other things I need to do." When I hung up the phone, Alisa glanced over and asked, "So what was so important? Who were you talking about?" I ignored her and picked the phone back up. I could explain later. Alisa was into forgiveness, so she wouldn't hold my rudeness against me. And I couldn't talk now. I was too close. It took a few tries before I was transferred to the right operator. By then, I had shut out everything but the telephone and the tin voice at the other end of the connection. The plastic was slick with sweat in my hand. Then the operator's voice said, "I'm sorry, there's no listing for a Brent Steiner. There's a Brian Steinwood, but that's it." "Give me that one," I said, and scrawled down the number. Krista could have misremembered his name. Fifth grade was years ago. The names were close. I dialed the number. I pounded my hand against the wall as I waited for someone to pick up. I prayed someone was home. I didn't know how much more waiting I could take. "Hello?" a woman's voice said. "Mrs. Steinwood?" I asked. "Yes." I stopped. I hadn't thought of what to say next. I couldn't tell her the truth. At least not all of it. "I'm... I used to go to Parkwood Elementary, and I was wondering if your husband ever worked there." I hit my forehead with my other hand. Very smooth, Eileen. "My husband is a journalist. Who is this?" "I'm sorry to bother you." I hung up quickly and hoped she didn't have caller I.D. I leaned against the corner formed by the dresser and the wall and stared at the floor. Despite my clumsiness, I had found out all that I needed. The man I wanted to talk to wasn't listed. Which left me...what? My vision narrowed, focusing somewhere beneath the tiles. I felt that if I could only look hard enough, I would see another way to find the man I wanted. There had to be another way. I just needed to find it. I couldn't accept anything else. I was too close. Alisa's voice tried to scratch its way into my concentration, and I wanted to scream at her. I needed to focus. Her nails tapped my shoulder, snapping me out of it. I could see the

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Jim Hines answer slipping away from me, and no matter how hard I reached, it was like trying to grab and hold a river. "I don't mean to interrupt," she said hesitantly. "But Ryan and I are going out tonight, and I need to call him. Are you done with the phone?" She was waiting for a response, so I grabbed on to the words she had said and forced myself to pay attention. "You're going out?" She smiled. "I told you he'd come around. He just took longer than I expected." I nodded slowly. I had never liked the whole on-again, off-again relationship thing, but it worked for Alisa. She seemed to enjoy the emotional roller coaster that came with it. "Do you still need the phone?" she asked again. "Yeah...yeah, I do." I could feel it coming back into focus, more sharply than before. Another tidbit from Ralston's class last semester. He called it the Romeo and Juliet syndrome. As a group, we had dissected an old article showing that kids were more likely to end up in a relationship if outside forces tried to keep them apart. The kids reacted to pressure by rebelling and fighting even harder to keep their forbidden love. And really, how much difference was there between kids and adults when it came to relationships? The more pressure everyone put on Steiner and the gym teacher, the harder they might fight to stay together. The forbidden aspect might even have made it more exciting and appealing. Appealing enough to last? I tried not to think about everything that could go wrong. What if she had changed her name after the divorce? What if they had left the state altogether? What if the y had split up and she couldn't tell me where he was? There were five Listers on record. The operator could only give out three numbers in a single call, which struck me as an annoying policy. But since I didn't want to waste time arguing, I called back to get the last two numbers. Three of the five were obviously male, so I called the others first. When I called A. J. Lister, I had an excuse ready. I told the man who answered that I was doing research for the psychology department at Southern Michigan University, and his name had come up on our random sampling of the phone book. "Not interested," he said immediately. "Very well, I'll remove you from our list. Can I verify that this is A. J. Lister that I'm talking to?" "It is." "Thank you." Alisa watched impatiently as I called the next name, H. Lister. After three rings, an answering machine picked up.

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Goldfish Dreams "Hello, you've reached the home of Heather Lister and Brent Steiner. We aren't home right now...." I actually giggled as I hung up before the message could finish. "It's all yours," I said to Alisa. After an initial rush that made me think I was going to burst, everything crystallized. I had found him. One way or another, I would know the truth.

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Chapter 20 I tried not to cry. "You're telling me you won't help." Patrick exhaled sharply and stared at the floor. "I want to help," he said carefully. "However, I don't think it's a good idea for you to confront this man right now." "It's not just to confront Steiner. I also want to visit my father again to see how he's holding up." I took a deep breath to regain control of my voice. Patrick's shift partner, an older man with a huge red beard, had been more than willing to cover the phones while we talked, but the thin walls of the crisis center meant he would hear us if we got too loud. The look Patrick gave me was total skepticism. "I know you're worried about your father, but I also know that if I drive you home, you'll take off to find this guy, and I can't help you with that." He reached out to touch my face, a gesture that usually warmed my heart, but today only made me angrier. "I can't be a part of you getting hurt. This is happening too quickly. Please trust me on this." I pulled away. "Why can't you trust me instead? Don't you think I can decide for myself whether or not I'm strong enough for this?" "I know you're strong enough," he said, which surprised me. "I also know that if you wait a while, give your life a chance to settle down, it will be a lot less painful." "No it won't, because not knowing will drive me insane." "Eileen, look at yourself. You're already starting to obsess. It's taking over your life, and it's coming between us, too." The tears slipped free. A part of me wanted to forget about it. It would be so easy to nod and agree and let him embrace me like everything was safe and okay. But everything wasn't okay, and I couldn't pretend. Not even for him. "So you won't help?" All I wanted was a yes or a no. I couldn't waste any more time here, not if I wanted to keep my resolve. He shook his head.

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Goldfish Dreams I stood up to leave. "I hope the rest of your shift goes smoothly," I said, and turned my back on him. "Eileen." I stopped. "I love you." A part of me softened. I knew he was only trying to do what was best for me. But dammit, I had to be the one to make the final decision. "I love you too." I walked away while I still could. It was getting dark outside. The sun had set, and the sky was a dim gray. My feet grew cold as I trudged through the slush that covered the sidewalks. But I was too frustrated to pay attention to my discomfort. Patrick might be right. Even now I was off-balance, fighting with my temper and unable to get a full night of sleep. I had no idea what would happen when...if I talked to Steiner. He could say something I wasn't ready to hear. He could make things worse. All of my instincts told me I needed to see this through, and soon, but how could I trust my instincts in this? Or was I like the moth circling a candle flame. Right or wrong, Patrick couldn't be the one to make my decision. He didn't trust me, I realized. Or if he did, he still trusted his judgment of what was best for me over mine. He was trying to protect me. "I don't need to be protected," I muttered. When I was a child, I had needed someone to protect me, and nobody was there. But that part of my life was over. I could protect myself. I didn't need someone else to take care of me. What I needed was someone to help me through the aftermath of it all. But wasn't that what he was trying to do? He had been working with survivors for years. Didn't he know what was best? When I got back to Sparrow, I passed by the door and circled around back. I didn't feel like going inside yet. I wasn't ready to deal with people. The snow was fresher here. The streetlamps tinted it pale yellow in places. The spruce trees shadowed the ground, turning the night darker than it really was. The two wings of the dorm hugged a small clearing, and I saw someone in a heavy brown jacket playing in the snow. The figure glanced up. He had a wooden two-by- four in his hand, and he waved it in greeting. "Eileen, hi!" It was Sean. "I'm glad it's you," he said. I walked closer to see what he was doing. When I saw his snow sculpture, a laugh stuck in my throat and turned into a harsh, choking sound. "Are you okay?" he asked. I nodded. Sean had stacked three large snowballs atop one another, like an ordinary snowman. He was using the board to scrape the excess snow from the sides, forming a smooth cylinder that came up to the top of his head. It was unfinished, but he had done enough work for me to see that Sean was sculpting a

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Jim Hines large phallus in the snow. When I had regained my composure, I asked, "Weren't you the one telling us not to do this?" He rubbed his chin thoughtfully, though the effect was somewhat spoiled by the bulky gloves. "Now that you mention it, I do recall your RA saying something to that effect." He glanced at the sculpture. "I guess he wasn't serious." With that, he shifted his grip on the board so he could use the corner to shape the snow near the top. "So what are you doing out at this hour, associating with someone who willingly violates the rules and contributes to the delinquency of these innocent college students?" I told him I was coming back from Outreach, and he grunted. "That's where your boyfriend volunteers, right?" It was funny. In the weeks since Patrick and I had gotten involved, we had never used the words boyfr iend or girlfriend. The labels didn't feel right. I had never experienced this kind of intimacy and trust with my boyfriends. This was more intense...and yet I didn't even know what else to call it. "That's right," I said. "So you're having man problems?" "You can tell?" He jabbed the board into the snow at his feet and turned to face me. He raised one arm, letting the hand dangle limply from the wrist, and batted his eyelashes. In a perfect caricature, he lisped, "Sister, I know about man problems." Then, in a normal voice, he asked, "What's the problem?" "We've been arguing a lot lately." Only since the semester started, really. We had been fine up until then. So much had happened, and it was hard to know if our trouble was due to Brad's death or to my determination to track down this teacher. Maybe Janice had been right, last semester before the Halloween party. Maybe Patrick and I just couldn't have a normal relationship. I tried not to think about that last possibility. "Did you win the argument?" Sean asked. I made a confused face. "Why does that matter?" "I've seen two types of people: the ones who roll over like a puppy every time their significant other gets upset, and the ones who refuse to back down. You strike me more as a bobcat than a puppy." "He doesn't back down either," I said. I stared at the brick walls of the dorm, visually tracing the maze of thin brown lines where the ivy had died or gone dormant for the winter. "He doesn't even argue, really. He sits there, completely calm, listening to everything I say, and then doesn't budge an inch." "So what were you arguing about?" "Nothing." Let it go, Eileen. Then an idea germinated in the back of my

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Goldfish Dreams mind. "What are you doing this weekend?" He took a step back and studied his work, framing it with his hands. "I don't know yet, why?" "You have a car, don't you?" He eyed me warily. "Sort of." I took that as a yes. "Could you give me a ride?" He shrugged. "Only under one condition." I waited. He pointed at his snow sculpture. "You need to help me ice this sucker down so it will last." He did have a vehicle, though I hesitated to label it a car. I tried to keep my face neutral when he led me to the old blue Volvo in the commuter lot. "This is yours?" He grinned. "This is 'The Beast.'" The Beast had seen better days. There was no lock on the passenger side, only a small hole that reminded me of an empty eye socket. My first thought was that he shouldn't leave his car unlocked on campus, but this was an exception to the rule. Nobody would break in to The Beast, let alone try to steal it. "How far are we going?" he asked. "About seventy miles." He grabbed a small notebook from between the seats and jotted that down. "We'll have to stop and get gas," he concluded. "You need a notebook to tell you that?" He shrugged. "The gas gauge died three years ago. I think we have enough to make it to the Speedway station." With a maniacal laugh, he started the car and we were on our way. Despite my fears, Sean's car made the hour- long drive without trouble. We stopped at a convenience store so he could grab a burrito for breakfast and I could check the phone book for Heather Lister's address. I jotted it down and copied part of the map in the front of the book, since I was unfamiliar with this part of town. Heather Lister and Brent Steiner lived in a less developed area. The trees were plentiful enough to give the illusion of twilight, despite the fact that it wasn't yet noon. Most of the driveways were unpaved, and in many cases the houses were far enough back to be invisible from the road. We coasted along at five miles an hour, trying to read the numbers on the mailboxes, until we found the one we were looking for. Sean pulled over to the side of the road and stopped the car. "You sure you're ready?" he asked. I opened the door and stepped out. At least, I would have done so if the

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Jim Hines handle hadn't chosen that moment to come off in my hand. "I'm ready," I said, and then waited for Sean to open the door from the outside. We walked up the snow-crusted driveway past a gleaming green Corvette until we reached a white house with a screened- in porch and black shutters on all the windows. A stone path led to the porch, where I somehow managed to keep my hand steady enough to ring the bell. I had a hard time accepting that it was real. I was actually here, and in a few moments, I could be talking to the man who might have twisted my brother into a monster. I wasn't expecting him to be honest about it, of course, but I could at least confirm whether or not he had known my brother, and if Brad was ever in detention with him. Sean stood behind me as we waited. I was about to ring the bell again when the sound of footsteps reached us, followed by a harsh squeal as the door opened. "Can I help you?" It had to be him. He was a bit on the short side, with a bulge around the midsection. He wore a pair of faded jeans and an old T-shirt that revealed a muscular chest and arms. His hair was white as the snow outside, and it frizzed around the ears. I could see where the kids had come up with the name Einstein. "Brent Steiner?" I asked, somehow keeping my voice under control. "Yes?" He still hadn't opened the screen door, and his fingers drummed against the doorframe. "My brother used to go to your school, and I think he was in detention with you. He died recently, and I was hoping I could talk to you for a few minutes about him." His face softened as I spoke, and when I was done, he looked much more sympathetic. "God, I'm sorry to hear that, kid. What was your brother's name?" "Brad Greenwood." He was a good liar. He kept his hands still, and his body language didn't change. But when he spoke, his eyes darted to the side and fixed on a point on the floor. "I don't remember anyone by that name. I've worked at different schools for over twenty years, so it's possible I forgot. Either way, I couldn't tell you anything." Only then did he look at me, with his head cocked slightly to one side, as if he was trying to judge whether or not I believed him. "Maybe if I told you a little more about him," I pushed. "I know he remembered you." He shook his head. "I wish I could, but I've got a judo class I need to get to." He turned his back and started to leave. "What about your wife?" I called out. "I know she taught at the same school. Could we talk to her?"

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Goldfish Dreams "She's taking the class with me. I'm sorry, but I can't help you." No! He couldn't just leave. He couldn't turn his back and walk away. I didn't know what else to say. I was tempted to blurt out that I knew what he had done to Brad, that I had proof, but he had too much control to let me rattle him. He would only tell me to get out and threaten to call the police. "We're going to be in town for a few hours," Sean yelled. "We could wait until the two of you get back." He paused in the doorway. "Look, I want to help. I really do. But after we finish the class, we're going out to see a play, and then getting dinner. So even if I remembered her brother, which I don't, I couldn't help you." "Thank you," Sean said as the door closed. He took my arm and led me back to the road. "We can't leave," I protested. Even as I spoke, I knew I had lost. It was unfair. I had worked so hard to find him. All of my energy had built up to this moment, and now it had slipped away from me and there was nothing I could do. Patrick had been right . This was a waste of my time, and it had done nothing but sink me deeper into frustration and despair. I didn't say a word as we got into the car. Sean drove about two blocks, then turned and parked around a corner. "What are you doing?" He gave me a serious look. "How badly do you want to know about this guy?" I didn't answer. I didn't want to say anything until I knew what was going through his brain. He must have realized that, because rather than waiting for an answer, he said, "I only ask because nobody is going to be in that house for the next four or five hours." "You can't be serious." His face stretched into a grin. He didn't say another word. He didn't have to. We both knew what my answer had to be. We walked back around the corner and past the house until we reached a bus stop. Then we waited, like two kids waiting for the next bus. If Steiner did see us, he wouldn't give us a second thought. At least, that's what Sean kept assuring me. About ten minutes later, the green Corvette backed out of the driveway and sped off in the opposite direction. Waving his arm like an usher, Sean said, "Shall we?" "After you," I said nervously. This was Sean's idea, and I was following his lead. He didn't bother to stop at the front porch. Instead, we circled around to the back yard. They had a large, warped deck with a sliding glass door that led into the house. He studied the door while I fidgeted. I knew that someone could

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Jim Hines spot us at any second and call the police. Rationally, we were far enough back that nobody should notice us, even if we weren't shield ed from view by the house itself. But I was still afraid. "Not a problem," Sean muttered to himself as he slipped his gloves into his pockets. He grabbed the handle of the door in one hand and pressed his other flat against the glass. With a muffled grunt, he jerked the door upward. Nothing happened. "What are you doing?" I asked. He ignored me and lifted again. On the third try, the whole thing slid open. "You pop these babies off the track, the lock slips loose. Piece of cake." But I noticed he was breathing heavily. He took a glove out of his pocket and wiped the handprints off the door. "Keep your gloves on, just in case," he advised, and stepped inside. He looked around a bit, then glanced back at me. He acted like this was his own house, and we weren't committing a crime by breaking in. Like he wasn't committing a crime. Until I stepped through that door, I could still walk away. "Are you coming?" "Yes." Annoyed with the weakness in my voice, I said it again, louder. I had come this far, hadn't I? The door was open, and nobody would be around for hours. Like I had told Patrick, if I turned my back on this, I wouldn't be able to live with myself. Despite my resolution, despite the fact that Sean was there waiting for me, I half-expected some sort of alarm to go off when I crossed the metal track of the door and entered the house. But nothing happened as I took the step that turned me into a criminal. There were no electronic sirens, no shouts from the neighbors, nothing but a harsh metal scraping as Sean lifted the door back onto its track and slid it shut. Once I stepped inside, something crystallized. I knew I wouldn't be able to leave until I knew one way or the other. Even if it meant waiting until Steiner returned to confront him personally, I had to know. So how did I find out? I doubted Steiner would keep a list of all the kids he had molested. Abusers were sick, but they weren't stupid. Usually the opposite, at least the ones who didn't get caught. The room was dark, with brown plush carpet and wood paneling on the walls. An old civil war saber hung above the fireplace. Empty bottles of different colors, mostly green and brown, lined the mantel. Sean had already wandered into the kitchen, and held up several tin cans that had been cleaned and stomped flat. "They recycle." He spoke in a normal voice, but it sounded loud enough to make me cringe. "He's not just an asshole, he's an environmental asshole."

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Goldfish Dreams "What are you doing?" I asked. "Looking for naked people." "What?" Suddenly he seemed to transform into a professor giving a lecture. "It's a well-documented statistic that pedophiles collect and save pornography, especially pornography depicting children." Then he was speaking normally again. "If we find his stash of naked kids, we can be pretty sure he's an asshole, and that implies that your brother was telling the truth." That answered my question but raised another one. "How do you know all of this?" It occurred to me that Sean was a lot more intelligent than he generally let on. "Janice showed me how to use the psych database at the library." He shrugged. "When I first heard about your brother, I wanted to know more. I ended up using it to do an argumentative paper about whether or not porn causes abuse." I didn't know what else to say, so I simply asked, "Does it?" "I don't know. Assholes usually have porn, but porn doesn't automatically make you an asshole. Though you gotta wonder why mostly guys collect porn, and mostly guys commit rape. "I got a B minus. The prof told me I needed at least another ten pages to do the topic justice." He checked the end cupboard, then closed it with a snarl. "Why don't you snoop in the garage, and I'll look around in the next room?" I unlocked the door that connected the house to the garage. I began to wonder how much Sean had planned before we even left campus. He had asked about Steiner's wife without missing a beat, effectively making sure we would be undisturbed. He had done the research to know wha t to look for when we got here. I didn't know whether I should be angry or impressed. The far wall of the garage was stacked halfway to the ceiling with firewood. I saved that side for last, since thinking about the spiders and bugs that were probably spending the winter in that woodpile made me cringe. I started with the paper bags full of newspapers and magazines in one corner, presumably waiting to be recycled. But the only magazines I found were Sports Illustrated and a large batch of old National Geographics. By now, my throat was already dry and coated with a film of dust. Two ten-speed bikes leaned against the wall, complete with helmets. A small work area filled the other corner, with saws and other tools hanging from pegs in the wall. All in all, it was a normal garage. The whole house was so damned normal. This could have easily been my father's house, or the house of the friends I used to play with as a kid. But what had I been expecting? Images flashed through my head. Basement rooms with padlocks on the door and sexual paraphernalia decorating the walls, where kids could be

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Jim Hines imprisoned and molested at leisure. It was ridiculous. If I was right, this guy had been molesting kids for years without anyone knowing. That wouldn't be possible if he advertised his perversion to every guest who came through the house. I sorted through a stack of shoeboxes, which hid nothing but dingy baby food jars full of screws and nails. I looked around, but couldn't find any other hiding spots. So, dirty and sweating, I went back into the house. "Nothing out there," I yelled. Snooping through the garage had apparently done away with my nervousness about trespassing. "Come here." I followed his voice to the bedroom. It was a large room, with two closets and a queen-sized bed pushed up against the wall. A blue and gold oriental rug covered the floor. Several montages of photographs hung to either side of the large mirror over the dresser. Along the far wall by the window, Sean sat at a small, mahogany desk, studying a computer. More precisely, he was studying the keyboard and holding his unopened Swiss Army knife in one hand. "What is it?" I asked, being careful not to step on his coat or gloves, which were heaped on the floor. He popped the flimsy tweezers from his knife and grabbed something from between the keys. There was a black desk lamp beside the computer. I turned it on and looked. Trapped in the tweezers was a short, dark, kinked hair. I felt sick when I realized what I was seeing. Sean dropped the hair on the rug, then grimaced at the tweezers. "I feel like I should boil these." With an annoyed shake of his head, he put them and the knife away. "I'm guessing that the pictures we want aren't going to be in a magazine or a nice little box." He leaned down beneath the desk and flipped on a power strip, and the computer whirred to life. "Macintosh. I hope they're as easy to use as they're supposed to be." He glanced at me. "I don't suppose you know how to use a Mac?" I shook my head, thinking Patrick has a Macintosh. But Patrick never would have agreed to any of this. Sean sighed. "I'll fight with it for a while." I studied the pictures by the mirror. One set was nothing but wedding photos. There were a few shots of Heather Lister by herself, standing in her dress beneath a weeping willow. She was a beautiful woman, with a delighted smile and small, elfin features. I wondered if she had ever suspected she wasn't her husband's first choice for his sexual urges. Another photo sho wed Steiner with an older couple that had to be his parents. He was kneeling, and they stood behind him with their hands on his

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Goldfish Dreams shoulders. Even in the photo, I got the impression of a dignified father. He stood arrow-straight, with a stern face. His mother looked like the emotional one. She had a wide, proud smile, despite the fact that it was her son's second marriage. If Brent Steiner was a pedophile, he had hidden that fact from all of these people. Even his wife, and they had lived in the same house for years. Like Brad and Crystal, they probably shared the computer as well. So if he looked at kiddie porn on the computer, he might not keep it saved on the hard drive. There would be too great a chance that his wife would stumble onto them. It was possible that, he simply kept them protected by passwords or hidden away in a subdirectory, like Brad with his journal. But if Crystal had found Brad's journal, it was unlikely that she would have found those few entries about me. Pictures of naked children, on the other hand, couldn't be overlooked or misinterpreted. It would make more sense to keep those on disks, which could be hidden. Sean kept working as I walked to the closets and began searching. For once, I was thankful for my height, since it meant I could see the shelves at the top of the closet. It was full of folded sweatshirts and towels. I felt beneath them all, but found nothing. I shoved the clothes aside to check the back of the closet, just in case, but saw nothing but bare wall. Finally, I checked the floor, poking through polished leather shoes and worn sneakers. Logically, the disks would be in the same room as the computer. That was the most convenient solution. Besides, if his wife came home, Steiner would have to be able to return the disks to their hiding spot before she came back to the bedroom. It was a lot like a teenager looking through a Playboy while his parents were in another room. That thought jogged another memory. I walked to the bed and stripped off my glove. I had to be able to feel with my hand. I shoved my arm between the mattresses. I grimaced, trying to probe around as the mattresses sandwiched my arm. My fingertips touched something hard. I forced my arm further, jamming my shoulder against the mattress. A moment later, I stood back up with four beige, three-and-a-half- inch computer disks in my hand. I set one of the disks in front of Sean. "Try this." He grinned. "We'll make a criminal out of you yet." Then his expression sobered, and he fed the disk into the computer's waiting mouth.

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Chapter 21 The icicles on the edges of the dorm roofs were larger and denser than any I had seen before. Many were thick as my forearm, and they all merged at the gutter line, the same way the teeth of a carnivore seem to come together at the gums. I watched the sunlight sparkle along their lengths as Patrick and I walked to the river. "Why did you take the disks with you?" he asked. "It was Sean's idea." When the first picture came up on the screen, I had been horrified and disgusted. It was a Japanese girl who couldn't have been more than six or seven years old, sitting on the edge of a black-sheeted bed with her legs spread. Her hairless body looked so small and helpless. The worst part was her eyes: dark and dead. Sean had checked the other three disks and found more of the same, both boys and girls. My first thought had been to go to the police with the disks. But Sean was quick to point out the flaws in that plan. "First of all, in order to tell the police, we have to admit we broke into the house. We'd end up in jail before he did." I started to protest that it would be worth it, but he cut me off. "We broke in," he said again. "How hard would it be to convince a jury that we planted the disks? All they need to do is create a reasonable doubt, and he goes free. Meanwhile, we go to jail." "So what do we do?" Mercifully, he had shut down the computer, and I could look at him without seeing those children out of the corner of my eye. "We go home." He picked up his things from the floor, and his eyes flashed with a wicked gleam. "And we take these with us," he added, tucking the disks into his coat pocket. "You just said we couldn't tell anyone." "This guy thrives on secrecy. Imagine his reaction when he finds his disks missing and realizes that somebody knows." There was some pleasure in the thought, but it was a hollow victory. I was

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Goldfish Dreams as certain now as I would ever be that Brent Steiner had molested my brother, but I had no way to confront him. I don't know why it was important to me to look him in the eye and force him to acknowledge what he had done, but it was. I wanted to make him see the consequences of his actions, both for Brad and for me. I grabbed Patrick's hand and clutched it tightly through my glove. "I think it was Sean's idea of a joke." We walked up Dutton Road to River Street, stopping by the statue in front of the library. The granite bobcat, SMU's mascot, was more than ten feet long. He stood on a raised, circular platform with his head raised attentively and one paw in the air. On impulse, I climbed up to wipe the snow from his head and face. Patrick didn't follow. "Was it Sean's idea to break into the house?" "He didn't make me do it." I stared into the statue's lifeless gray eyes and thought of the Japanese girl I had seen. The pupils were rounded caves. I scooped out the thin crusts of ice with my finger. Patrick held out his hand, and I climbed down to join him. "Eileen, you could have gone to jail." "No we couldn't," I said immediately. We continued walking toward the river. "Steiner's too smart for that. If he pressed charges, we would have brought up the reason we broke in, and he wouldn't want that to get out. He would have threatened us a bit, then let us go." Of course, I hadn't worked any of this out at the time. Only afterward, on the drive home, did I realize why Sean had been so calm about it all. There had been very little risk to either of us. "I still don't think it was a good idea," Patrick said. "I'm aware of that, but thank you so much for sharing." I winced the instant I said it, but it was too late to tone down my words. "Is there a reason you're still pissed at me?" From his tone, he could have been asking if I had read any good books lately. "Because you were right, and I hate it. This didn't change anything. I hate feeling so helpless. I hate the fact that I had the evidence right there, and there was nothing I could do. I hate knowing." He didn't say I told you so. He didn't need to. We both knew this was exactly what he had warned me would happen. He stared at the river. The water moved too quickly to freeze, except for a thin white line on the edges. "Is it really me that you're mad at?" "I'm mad at everything," I snapped, knowing how childish it sounded. "I'm mad at you, mad at Brad, mad at Steiner, and mad at myself. I'm furious with myself." "Why?" "Because there's nothing I can do!" The words wrenched themselves from

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Jim Hines my gut, and my eyes teared up. "I've spent so long being helpless, and I thought I was finally getting past it. I thought I was free. But after everything I've gone through this year, everything I've done, I'm right back where I started and nothing's changed. I can't change anything!" As soon as I started to cry, he reached out and pulled me into an embrace. "That's not true," he whispered. "You're realizing that there are some things you can't change. That's not the same as being helpless." I pulled away. "I don't see much of a difference." A sad look flashed across his face as I pulled away, but it vanished quickly. "You can't change the past. You can't control what this man does. But you can control how it affects you. You've already started to take charge of your own life. That's one of the hardest things to do." "There's more to worry about than just me," I said. "I understand. You want to do more. That's why I became an ARC counselor." "So you could clean up after guys like this, but never do a thing to stop the real problem?" I caught his shoulder as he turned away. "I didn't mean that," I said. It was probably the harshest accusation I could have made. To tell him all of his work was for nothing. To tell him that, with all of the people being raped and assaulted, he was simply standing there letting it happen. I knew better. I knew how much he did, how much of himself he poured into his efforts to help. "People are most honest when they're angry," he said. "You did mean it." "When I said it, I meant it," I admitted desperately, still trying to get him to look at me. "I wasn't thinking. I know you make a difference. Look at how much you've helped me." He smiled, and his eyes finally looked up at me. "You helped you. You're stubborn, Eileen. You were going to help yourself whether I was there or not." "I'm glad you were there." "Me too," he said. He opened his arms and I pulled him into a tight hug. Our jackets crunched against each other until I could feel the heat of his body through all the layers. "I love you," I said, burying my face in his shoulder. How close had I just come to losing him, I wondered? I shivered, and he pulled me closer. The underlying frustration and helplessness wouldn't go away. The next day, as I was studying for my exam in English, my mind wouldn't focus. How was I supposed to concentrate on To The Lighthouse when my eyes kept scanning over the words without seeing them? Finally I closed the book and flung it onto the floor with more violence

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Goldfish Dreams than was necessary. Alisa glanced up, startled. "I need a study break," I explained. "Want me to come along?" "No." Realizing how it sounded, I forced myself to smile and added, "I need some time to myself, that's all." Maybe Sean really was turning me into a criminal, I thought to myself as I reached into my rear pocket and pulled out the butter knife I had swiped from the cafeteria during breakfast. I studied the door to the attic, trying to figure out what he had done to free Goldfish. There was a thin crack between the door and the frame, and I could see the metal catch that held the door closed. He had forced the blade beneath the catch and wiggled it up toward himself, I remembered. I tugged on the butter knife, trying to duplicate his actions, and the beveled catch slid back. The door popped open. It was that easy. I turned on the light and shut the door behind me. A black, iron ladder bolted to the wall led up through a small opening in the ceiling. Carefully avoiding a coiled hose and a mop and bucket, I climbed into the attic. Southern Michigan University had approximately thirty thousand students, a population that matched a mid-sized city. During the day, it was impossible to find a public place where you could be undisturbed for more than a few minutes. And I didn't feel like I could kick Alisa out of her own room simply because I needed to think. So I had come here. I waited for my eyes to adjust. The light from below helped a bit. There was also light coming from within the attic. I hoped that didn't mean someone was already here. In the center where I had come up, the ceiling was about six or seven feet high, and it slanted down in either direction. I balanced on the rafters, keeping one hand on the wooden beams of the ceiling as I walked and trying to avoid stepping on the pink insulation that covered most of the floor. I felt like I was on the balance beam, practicing with my father. The air smelled musty, and in a few places, the boards I grabbed for balance were damp and slimy. In a few years, they would need to close the place down for repairs. For now, I made sure to test each rafter before putting my weight on it. I rounded a corner and realized that I must be getting close to my own room. The attic ended up ahead, and I could see where the light was coming from. Now that I saw it, I remembered seeing the octagonal window from outside. It was purely decorative, but it let in enough light for me to see. Sitting down was a bit of a challenge. I eventually managed it by sitting on the intersection of two boards and resting my feet on another board about a yard in front of me. It wasn't comfortable, but if I wrapped my hands around my

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Jim Hines knees, I could remain here for a while without too much pain. I hated the fact that Patrick had been right. What had I accomplished? Before, all I had were suspicions. Now I knew Steiner had molested my brother, and I still couldn't do anything. Sean had the disks, which was fine with me. I wanted nothing to do with them. We had talked for a while, trying to figure out what to do. At one point, he suggested that we could blackmail Steiner, threatening to turn the disks in to the police unless he confessed to what he had done. But Steiner was smart enough to stay cool, knowing we couldn't prove the disks were his. All those years with Brad, I had been helpless. Now Brad was gone, and I was still helpless. In some ways, this was worse. Before, I had been the only one suffering. But I had no way of knowing how long the list of victims was. For all I knew, Steiner could still be molesting children. Sure, he was married, but he had been married before, and that hadn't stopped him from abusing my brother. It even started to creep into my dreams. Last night, I had had the old nightmare about the first time Brad had molested me. But there was an added dimension. As I sat there, quietly trying to watch the muppet movie while Brad's hands crept over my skin, I saw a second figure in the background, watching us. I couldn't see his face, but I knew it was Steiner. He didn't move or speak. He just watched, like a doctor supervising an autopsy. In the dream, I had tried to close my eyes. It didn't help. When I squeezed my eyelids shut, I could hear him coming closer. I imagined him leaning toward me and extending a large, fleshy hand toward my face until his fingers almost touched my skin, and then my eyes shot open, and he was in the shadows again, the same as before. There was nothing I could do. I kept coming back to the same conclusion, and I hated it. For a moment, I understood how frustrated Patrick must feel. He worked with people who had been raped, and few of them ever wanted to press charges against the rapist. Either they were afraid, with good reason, that they wouldn't be believed, or else they didn't feel like reliving the experience in front of a prosecutor and a jury and anyone else who happened to be in the courtroom that day. But it meant Patrick had to live with the knowledge that the people who hurt his clients generally got to go free, never suffering any consequences. I didn't know how he lived with it. It was one thing to face abstract statistics. One in seven men are molested, most before their eighteenth birthday. One in three women will be raped in their lifetime. Those were just numbers. It was easier to put cold figures out of my mind. But to know there was a man out there, a man I had talked to, who could still be putting children through a twisted hell that they would never fully escape...I couldn't stand it. Then again, when I thought about Patrick, maybe I did know how he lived

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Goldfish Dreams with it. He focused on the client. He put his energy into helping the person he was with, the person he could reach, and shut the rest out of his mind. That's why he was so intent, so concentrated. When he was working with a client, nothing else existed. That was part of what made him so effective. It wouldn't work for me. The only victim I knew was Brad, and he was gone. Patrick could help his clients, which let him feel like he was doing something, but there was no parallel for me. Focusing on myself wasn't enough. I punched the rafter beneath me, coming within an inch of puncturing my fist on a protruding nail. "Let it go," they said. "Put it behind you and get on with your life." You didn't put it behind you. You put it somewhere inside. You hid it in a box and buried the box in the darkest corner of your mind. Then you worked and worked until you forgot where it was buried, and even forgot it had ever existed. But every time I tried to shove it back in the box, the vision of that Japanese girl leaked out, and I couldn't deal with it any more. I couldn't hold still for another minute. I needed to move, I needed to act. I walked out of the attic and down the hall, not really noticing where I was going until I stopped in front of Sean's room and pounded on the door. Sean cracked the door an inch and peered out. When he saw me waiting, he opened it wide and invited me in. "Sorry," he said. "Someone got wind of Goldfish, and I'm worried one of the administrative types is going to do a surprise inspection." His room made proper pacing impossible. I had to step past the beanbag and avoid the books on the floor, and when I finally found a clear path, Goldfish darted over to rub against my legs. I settled for leaning against his bunkbeds and gripping my arms. "You don't look so good," he said. "How do you deal with it? How can you go on with your life knowing he's still out there?" He dropped into his beanbag, which made a loud sighing sound. "How many little kids are molested every day in this country?" he asked. "How many women on this campus will be raped this weekend?" "It's not the same," I snapped. I knew the statistics, and they were horrifying. But they weren't real, not the way that picture was real. Not the way Brent Steiner was real. "You saw the disks. You know he's still out there." "You're right," he said. He clicked his tongue a few times, and Goldfish wandered over to be petted. "Check out the desk." Sean had been busy. Five separate drawings, four in pencil and one in charcoal, covered the desk. Each one showed a different scene from Brent Steiner's house. The drawing in the center of the desk, the one he had apparently been working on when I interrupted, showed a large, sharp-edged computer disk

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Jim Hines that dominated the page. Naked body parts protruded from the disk at various angles. The most disturbing was a curled, glistening tongue. In the background, a pair of eyes watched the disk, and beneath them, dark lips curled slightly upward. "That's what works for me," he said. "It's my own little exorcism." I shuddered and turned away from the pictures. The last thing I needed was more fuel for my nightmares. "Why don't you talk to Patrick?" he asked. "I thought he was trained in this sort of thing." "I can't." I hadn't realized it until I said it. Patrick had been wonderful in all of the support he had given me, but he didn't understand this. He didn't understand why I had to break in to Steiner's house, and he wouldn't understand how it had ignited something in me that I couldn't put out. "I have to do something." He shrugged. "So shoot him." I glared. "Steiner, not Patrick. And I'm serious," he said. "While you were searching the garage, I checked out the rest of his bedroom. He's got a revolver in his desk. We already know how to get in. If we're careful, nobody will ever know who did it." I stared at him, trying to understand the joke. I waited for his face to break into that irritating grin and to hear his unrestrained laughter. He continued to watch me, barely blinking. "It would make the world a better place," he added. I couldn't believe I was listening to this. No, that wasn't true. I couldn't believe I was considering it. How many lives would be better off with Brent Steiner gone? How many children would be saved from what Brad and I had endured? Legally, there was nothing we could do. There was nobody I could turn to with the power to stop him. "You'd really go through with this?" I asked quietly. He stared at the cat. "I've thought about it ever since I found the gun. I came home and asked myself, 'If I could travel back in time to a day before he ever touched your brother, would I do it?'" He shrugged. "What can I say? I've got a protective streak." We knew where he lived and we knew where they worked. With a little effort, we could figure out their schedules. It would be...simple. It frightened me how simple it could be. I stepped toward the door. "I have to go." "I understand. Think about it and get back to me, okay?" With that, he pushed himself up and walked to the desk, presumably to return to his drawings. There was no way I could go back to studying. I felt like I was trapped on

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Goldfish Dreams a carnival ride, with no way to make the world stop spinning. Alisa said something to me when I got back to the room, but I ignored her and crawled into bed, kicking my shoes onto the floor. I pulled the blankets tight around my body and stared at the wall for a long time. What should I do? The words bounced back and forth in my skull, gaining momentum every time. Did I have it in me to kill a man? I had fantasized about it. How many nights had I lay there, crying and wishing for the strength to fight back, to kill Brad so he could never hurt me again? Fantasy was one thing. Could I end the life of another human being? Another voice spoke, one that sounded somehow darker. Could I stand by and let Brent Steiner destroy the lives of countless children? Eventually, the thoughts blurred into dreams of shadowy forms, sharp noises, and blood.

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Chapter 22 The next few nights were the same: restless, full of dark dreams and endless questions. Near the end of the week, I gave up. Rather than toss and turn through another night of misery, I said the hell with it and refused to go to bed at all. If I was going to lose sleep, at least it would be by my choice. I spent some time trying to reprogram the color scheme on the word processor. I was stalling, really. I didn't want to start reading until after Alisa fell asleep. So while she got ready for bed, performing a "beauty ritual" which took close to an hour, I experimented with different colors. I eventually settled for white writing against a soft red background. Now it was two-thirty in the morning. I could hear Alisa snoring as I sat there in the warm, red glow. I guess I had opened Brad's journal hoping to find something that would help me make my decision. As I read a random entry, I realized this was the first time I had done so without feeling threatened or powerless. Of course, the entry I had chosen might have had something to do with that. I had decided to read the entry that followed Thanksgiving Break a few months ago, the night after I faced him at the dinner table. Nov. 29 Crystal just took off for a meeting. It's the first chance I've had to be alone since we got back from Dad's house. I don't get it. What happened to Eileen, and why the hell did she need to bring all that shit up again? It's over. I haven't touched her in years. She's got her own life, so why does she have to come back to mess up mine? When we were there in the kitchen, I came so close to hauling off and busting her right in the jaw. I wanted to break her scrawny little neck. I couldn't, not with Dad and Crystal and everyone there, but the next time she tries to mess with my head,

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Goldfish Dreams she'd better hope she's got her friends around. I don't have to put up with her shit. I wish I hadn't left. I hate that. I hate that I backed down. I was so freaked out, I didn't know what else to do. Crystal still doesn't get it, but I told her it was a personal thing and none of her business. She's ticked, but oh well. What does Eileen want from me? Am I supposed to apologize for stuff that happened years ago? It's not my fault she can't get over it. She's got to learn to be less sensitive. So if this is just her problem, then why was I the one who ran away? Why do I feel like shit about the whole thing? And why have I been thinking about it since I got back? I have better things to waste my time on. The worst part is Crystal. She's tried to get me into bed twice since we got back, but I can't do it! I mean, I want to, but every time we get going, Eileen pops into my brain! I made excuses, but she's catching on that something's wrong, and I don't know what to tell her. She'll think I'm a pervert. I can't think about this anymore. It's making me nuts. As I read, I felt more like Patrick than myself. I distanced myself from those nights in my bedroom, and I began to think like a counselor, looking beneath the words at the emotion, both explicit and hidden. From a purely objective point of view, I could have done a fascinating paper on Brad's defenses and neuroses. I had been right. Brad really didn't know how to deal with what he had done to me. I couldn't feel sorry for him. A part of me was still a child, crying and afraid, and that part firmly believed Brad deserved all the pain and frustration he got, and more. No excuses for what he did. But there was also a part of me that could see how twisted his mind must have been, trying to deal with what Brent Steiner had done to him and what he had done in turn. Had he even known it was wrong, in the beginning? No excuses. He should have known. If not in the beginning, then he should have stopped when he realized it was wrong. He had never stopped, not voluntarily. When I finally crawled into bed around three in the morning, a single thought followed me: killing Steiner might have saved Brad, too. "You broke into his house?" The incredulity in Alisa's voice reminded me of Patrick. But unlike Patrick, Alisa didn't seem to disapprove. She hit me with an appraising look, and I had the feeling I had just earned a good dose of respect

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Jim Hines from my roommate. "What happened?" "We found some disks with child porn on them." "That's sick." She stopped talking for a moment while she tugged on her skirt. We were getting ready to go see Robin in Phantom, over at Snow Theater. Half the floor was going. Patrick was supposed to meet me there, a fact that made me nervous. I hadn't talked to him for the past few nights. I didn't want to talk to him until I had made a decision. I knew what he would say about Sean's idea. I cringed at what he would think of me if he knew I was considering it. "So what did you do?" Alisa had finally managed to squeeze herself into a tight navy blue skirt. Even more impressive was the fact that she had gotten the zipper all the way up without the material exploding. "Nothing." I wasn't about to bring up Sean's suggestion. I didn't know how she would react. She might fall back on religion and bring up the commandment against murder. On the other hand, she knew what kind of person Brent Steiner was. She might encourage me to go through with it. I didn't know which would have been worse. I quickly went through the same explanation I had given Patrick, how we couldn't tell anyone without incriminating ourselves. She rolled her eyes. "I know you're right, but that bites." My roommate, Mistress of Understatement. I stopped in front of the mirror and ran a brush through my hair, trying to get it to do something dignified. But the winter air was too dry, and I only gave myself a static charge. If I tried any harder, I'd look like a dandelion. Alisa tossed me her hairspray. "Try this." It helped some, but I still felt like a slob. "I don't dress up well," I complained. Alisa laughed. "If it makes you feel better, check Sean out when we get there. The closest he comes to dressing up is a Dogbert tie and a vest." She studied me again. "How are things going with your boy-toy?" "What?" "You're so uptight. I've never seen you worry this much about your looks. You just throw on whatever's nearest and to hell with what people think." Before I could decide whether I had been complemented or insulted, she went on. "Is everything okay with you and Patrick?" I started to answer, then stopped. The truth was, I didn't know. I didn't know if he was still angry. We had ended on a good note by the river, but I knew I had hurt him. Probably as much as he had hurt me by refusing to help me find Brent Steiner. Yet he had those eyes that looked right through my skull and burrowed into my brain. I didn't know how to hide things from him. I was afraid, I

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Goldfish Dreams realized. Afraid of what he would think of me. Afraid of what he would say. Even if I decided against killing Steiner, he would be shocked when he found out. When I talked to him, he would know something was bothering me. In his caring, gentle way, he would pry it out of me. "Yup," Alisa said to herself. "That's the problem alright." I snorted and tried not to think about it anymore. "You're dolling yourself up pretty good too, you know." She grinned. "This is the first time Ryan and I have gone out in weeks. I have to make sure he knows what he's been missing." She adjusted her bra and waggled her eyebrows. I laughed despite myself. Everything else in my life might fall apart, but at least Alisa remained constant. "Come on," she said. "Let's join the mob." Nearly everyone I knew from Sparrow Hall was going, and by the time we all met outside, we looked like a small, well-dressed riot preparing to rampage across campus. I stayed toward the back, not wanting to deal with the crush of people. Alisa glanced my way a few times, but she was distracted with Ryan, who obviously appreciated the effort she had gone to with her outfit. Walter F. Snow Theater was a four-story, semi-circular building with a front wall built mostly of glass bricks. Painted metal sculptures decorated the grassy area in front of the theater. I spotted Patrick waiting by one that looked like an elongated, inverted pyramid piercing a large sphere. He looked good. He wore a purple dress shirt and a black tie that matched his neatly pressed trousers. The black overcoat made him look older than usual. He even had a blue tie tack that matched his eyes, which was completely unfair. Men weren't supposed to be able to accessorize to save their lives, let alone find a pin that accented one of their best features. He kissed me. "It's good to see you." "You too." If he was still upset about the other day, I couldn't tell. He acted genuinely relaxed. I glanced over my shoulder at the Sparrow Hall mob, who were slowly cramming their way through the doors. "Shall we?" He took my hand and we followed the others into the theater. Phantom was to be a small performance, starring mostly SMU students. Our floor made up a significant chunk of the audience. The upper tiers were closed off, but we were early enough that we could find good seats together. I wound up squeezed between Patrick and Alisa. When I thought about it later, I was sure Alisa had deliberately saved those seats for us--not that I would ever accuse my roommate of being a snoop. Patrick still had my hand in his, and it took a moment to find a comfortable position for our hands on the wooden armrest. "How have you been doing?" he whispered.

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Jim Hines "Fine." I winced slightly, remembering Sean's acronym. He was quiet, and I wondered if he already knew I was hiding something. "I've been struggling with lit. class," I said. "We're reading A Room of One's Own." Considering what Patrick did, he was naturally interested in women's issues, so Woolf's essays kept him distracted until the show started. I wondered when I had started having to deceive the man I loved. I had seen Phantom once before, in Detroit, so I knew the basic storyline. But this director had taken certain liberties with Andrew Lloyd Webber's production. The most noticeable of these liberties left everyone mute for a good thirty seconds after Robin stepped onto the stage...as the Phantom. "The bitch," Alisa whispered when she recovered from her surprise. She leaned toward me. "Did she ever tell you which part she was playing?" I shook my head. "She said she got the lead. I thought she meant Christine." On impulse, I peered further down the aisle, looking for a puff of red hair. Sean was doubled over with suppressed laughter. I waved to get his attention, but it didn't work. Fortunately, Jay noticed me, and he elbowed Sean. "Did you know about this?" The expression of innocence he gave me was downright pathetic. Robin had probably wanted this part all along, I decided. Sean must have been in on it too. It would explain their costumes at Halloween. My amusement faded as the musical continued. Robin had a powerful voice, deep and pure, like an opera singer. But what made her performance more effective was the nasty streak she put into the role. As she led Christine beneath the opera house, she turned the Phantom's musical seduction into a command. When she sang about dominating Christine's mind, I actually shivered. Her every gesture snapped with barely contained violence. They crossed the underground lake, and Robin nearly dislocated Christine's shoulder as she helped her off the boat. "She's good," Patrick commented. I squeezed his hand in agreement. The singers playing Raoul and Christine were equally talented. The musical held my attention straight through to intermission, which came far too quickly. Christine had made her choice. She had accepted Raoul's marriage proposal, and the Phantom had discovered her betrayal. Robin practically hissed her lines, filling her voice with scorn and venom. At the end of her song, she raised her head to the audience and smiled, and her smile promised blood. When the lights came on, I realized I was sweating. I stretched, and Patrick reached over to massage my neck. "You want to go for a walk?" he asked. I didn't, but I couldn't think of an excuse not to. So I stood up, ducking free from his hand, and we made our way out to the lobby.

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Goldfish Dreams "You evaded my question earlier," he said casually. "Which question was that?" He rolled his eyes. "If it's something you don't want to talk about, you can tell me." I couldn't look him in the eye. "I don't want to talk about it," I said quietly. "Oh." He hadn't expected me to say that. I could hear his confusion in that single syllable, and a bit deeper, his hurt. We walked through the lobby, studying the posters and flyers that advertised upcoming events. I tried to think of something to say, anything that would break the silence, but my mind stayed blank. Well, not exactly blank, but none of the things running through my mind were things I could talk about. "I was only trying to protect you," he said eventually. I gave him a puzzled look, and he elaborated. "When I said you shouldn't confront the secretary. I didn't want you to get hurt." He paused. "I assume that's why you're angry." Why couldn't he leave it alone? "I'm not mad." His eyes narrowed as he looked at me. "Are you sure?" I bit back my first response, the one that ripped into him for trying to understand me better than I understood myself. "No, I'm not sure. Things have been crazy over the past few months, and it's hard for me to be sure of anything." He raised his hands in surrender. "Hey, I'm not trying to push." He grabbed my shoulders and pulled me close enough to plant a kiss on my forehead. Yes, you are! I wondered what would happen if I told him everything. For an instant, I was tempted to say, in the most matter-of- fact voice I could manage, "I'm thinking about shooting Brent Steiner. Do you think I should go through with it?" Fortunately, sanity prevailed. I pulled away and said nothing. We walked around outside for a while. The sun had set, and the air was chillier than before. Neither of us spoke. I wracked my brain for something to say, some conversation we could have that would break the silence, but I couldn't think of anything. The more we walked, the heavier the silence got. Dammit, it wasn't fair. I wanted to enjoy the show. I wanted to watch my friend perform, and I wanted to let myself be swept up in the story. How could I do that if all of my energy was going into this deadlock with Patrick? From inside the building, the sharp blare of trumpets announced the end of intermission. As we returned to our seats, he looked at me and I could see in his eyes that he wanted to say some thing. I kept my hands laced together in my lap as the musical continued. So far, the costuming had been typical for a low-budget production, but someone had worked overtime on the masquerade scene. Robin stepped out wearing the traditional death skull. Everything from the neck down had been

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Jim Hines revised for a female Phantom. Her low-cut red dress clung to the curves on her body, and silk streamers trailed from her waist, forming a red cloud that wafted about her legs as she moved. Alisa may have known how to grab a man's attention, but in that dress, I imagined Robin could seduce man and woman alike. To my right, Ryan whistled softly. A moment later, I heard him grunt, as if someone had rammed an elbow into his ribs. Yes, Robin definitely had the audience's attention. As the conflict between the Phantom and Raoul built, I found myself literally sitting on the edge of my seat. Christine finally broke free of the Phantom's spell. The Phantom grew more violent. The first time she killed, rather than hanging her victim as the script called for, she pushed him from the catwalks. The body was obviously fake, but I still jumped when it slammed onto the stage. She grabbed Christine and took her away in the middle of my favorite duet, The Point of No Return. Then Raoul was off to rescue his fiancé like a knight in shining armor. But it took time to reach the Phantom, and in that time, she had Christine all to herself. Christine was helpless, and she knew it. I could hear it in her voice. She was trapped. There was nothing she could do to keep from becoming a victim to the Phantom's lust. Patrick's whispered voice jarred me out of the play. "You okay?" I frowned. "Yeah. Why?" "I thought this scene might bother you." Ah. The implied threat of rape. He was being protective again. For once, he was completely off track. Given what I had struggled with for the past few days, it was the murder scenes that disturbed me. Watching that body come crashing down, and later hearing Carlotta's scream when the Phantom's second victim was discovered...it was hard to forget the horror in her voice. I patted his hand. "Don't worry, I'm fine." He looked me dead in the eye. "You're lying to me." "You're right," I snapped. "And I'm going to keep lying to you, because I want to enjoy the rest of the show." He blinked a few times, obviously shocked. Then, very deliberately, he took his hand back and turned toward the stage. Dammit, I was trying to enjoy myself. Was that too much to ask? I had missed some of the action. The Phantom had managed to slip a noose around Raoul's neck, and Raoul was slowly strangling at the back of the stage. The Phantom stepped forward, demanding that Christine choose between the two of them. I thought back to a conversation in the cafeteria, back at the start of winter

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Goldfish Dreams semester. It seemed like years ago that we had sat around the table, discussing Christine's choice. The director had taken liberties with the ending as well, providing a third choice. Christine kissed the Phantom, a passionate kiss that elicited wolf whistles from some of the men in the audience. Including Sean, I noticed. While the Phantom recovered from the kiss, she walked over to cut Raoul free from his noose. Then, rather than leaving with Raoul, she walked out on them both. Raoul walked off in another direction, and the Phantom was left alone, her disfigured face cradled in her hands. Afterwards, we assembled in the lobby to congratulate Robin and celebrate her performance. The rest of the floor was heading to one of the bars. As they prepared to leave, Alisa hung back and waited for me. "Are you two coming?" she asked, but her eyes focused on me alone. I looked at Patrick, who shrugged. "I don't think so," I said. I thought she might try to argue. I could imagine her trying to drag us both along to the bar. But for once, she gave up the role of mother and babysitter. "I'll see you back at the dorm." With that, she jogged away to catch up with Ryan and the others. Patrick took my hand in his, and we walked up Oakwood Street. We crossed the river and ended up at the fountain behind the library. The fountain hadn't worked since the fall, and we both stood there staring at the still pool and the rusted pipe in the center. Finally, Patrick broke the silence. "You don't trust me." He wasn't trying to start an argument. He wasn't trying to make me feel guilty. He was merely stating the facts as he saw them. As much as I wanted to argue, I couldn't lie to him this time. I cared about him too much, and he would see through it anyway. "You don't trust me either," I said softly. He sat on the edge of the fountain and pulled me down next to him. "What do you mean?" he asked. I stared into the sky. The city lights blocked out the stars, so the sky was unbroken darkness. "I did what I needed to do. It was my choice, not yours." "You broke into a man's home. That's just another type of violation." I stiffened. "What are you saying?" He shook his head. "I can't condone what you did." "I'm not asking you to condone it," I snapped. "I don't need your permission, Patrick." When we were walking, I had begun to reconsider. I had almost decided to tell him everything. I wanted so much for him to listen and understand. My resolve hardened like ice. "I made the best choice for me. Aren't you the one who's always telling me to take care of myself? That's what I'm trying to

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Jim Hines do." He loosened his tie and unbuttoned the collar of his shirt. Every movement was careful and precise. He was in complete control, I realized. He wouldn't even let himself get angry at me in return. "Even now, you're trying to protect me," I said, as much to myself as to him. He wouldn't let me in. He never showed me anything but this gentle, carefully controlled facet of who he was. "I love you. I don't like to see you hurting." I closed my eyes, and the tears were cold as they slipped down my cheeks. "I love you too." Did I? He was the one who said beauty came from the core of a person, the center of their being. Yet he refused to let me see that core. I took a deep breath and continued. "But I don't want to be protected." I didn't know what else to say. I didn't know if I could say anything more. He saved me from that. He stood up, and I could see him fighting to maintain his composure. "Come on," he said. "I'll walk you back." I shook my head. "I'd rather be alone for a while." He started to argue, then bit his lip. I think he knew what I was really telling him. I had spent too many years having to hide. I needed trust. We loved each other, but I needed more. I had already made my decision. I hadn't known it at the time, but as he shoved his hands in his pockets and stepped away, there was no question, no second- guessing. This was what I needed. I wanted to cry. "I don't want to lose you," he said. That did it. Tears rolled down my cheeks as I said, "I don't want to lose you either." He managed a half-smile. "You won't. I'll be here if you need...if you ever want anything." With that, he tightened his jaw and began to walk away. "Patrick?" He stopped. "Thank you." He looked back at me and nodded. As he left, I remembered what it was like to feel his arms around me and his lips against mine. I remembered the safety in his arms. I remembered the way he had reached out to me all those months ago, helping me take those first steps. I wondered if he knew how much it had meant to me. I thought about calling him back so that I could try to tell him, but I stopped myself. This wasn't the time. Maybe someday I would be able to tell him, but not now. I wiped my face and watched the river flow by. Eventually I turned back toward Sparrow Hall.

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Chapter 23 I had expected Alisa to press me for details as soon as she got home. In fact, I deliberately avoided going to bed, because I figured she'd only wake me up. It turned out she wasn't interested in gossip when she and Ryan finally stumbled through the door at one in the morning. She wasn't interested in much besides Ryan, actually. Ah well, I thought as I slipped out of the room, heading toward one of the study lounges with one of Pratchett's Diskworld books clutched in my hand. At least some things are back to normal. Pratchett was good for stress. Pure fun and humor; no thought required. I needed a few hours to let my brain stop thinking about Patrick and Steiner and Brad and the fact that I still didn't know what I was going to tell Sean. When I closed the book again two hours later, I realized that I had been mistaken. I did know what I had to tell Sean. Ever since we had broken into Brent Steiner's house, I had felt trapped on a continuous adrenaline high. Now, I was emotionally exhausted, thoroughly overtired, and I was getting just a little giddy. But more than anything, I could feel myself beginning to relax and let go, and as soon as that happened, I knew. He answered the door almost immediately. He was wearing an old bathrobe, but the lights were on, and the soundtrack from Phantom drifted into the hallway from his stereo. I shook my head. "Don't you ever sleep?" "Only in philosophy class." He lashed out with his foot to block Goldfish's escape, then used his foot to toss the huge cat backward like a furry football. "So close, and yet so far, you little twerp." I slipped inside and shut the door behind me. He fell back into the beanbag, which left the desk chair for me. Mercifully, he had cleared his earlier artwork off the desk. "What did you think of the musical?" I asked. I didn't know how to bring up what I was really thinking. I mean, you didn't start a conversation with, "So,

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Jim Hines about that murder idea...." He laughed. "Do you want the academic answer or the honest one?" "The academic first." I had a hard time connecting Sean with the word academic. He crossed his arms. "I was a bit concerned. The Phantom is a twisted, insane person, and to make that character a lesbian means those two threads get interwoven. I worry that it could reinforce the stereotype that homosexuals are deranged or imbalanced. It also seems to encourage the fear that people can be seduced into homosexuality, as with Christine." It reminded me of his brief lecture the day we broke into Steiner's house. Once again, I was impressed. He grinned. "You don't spend this many years at college without learning to speak academese." "So what's the real answer?" The grin grew. "I loved it. Robin sings like a diva. She turned the role into a sledge hammer, then spent the whole night whacking the audience. I'm going to see her again tomorrow night." "Doesn't that contradict what you were just saying about stereotypes and encouraging homophobia?" "Yup." I gave up. Even if I managed to figure Sean out someday, I suspected he'd immediately undergo a massive personality switch, just for the sake of contrariness. He cleared his throat. "So anyway, did you want to kill Steiner?" I revised my earlier thought. Normal people didn't start talking about murder with such bluntness. I leaned back in the chair and stared at the sheets tacked to the ceiling and listened to the music. Did I want to kill him? There were so many reasons to do it. I could protect the children at his school. I could carry out jus tice where the police wouldn't. I could take at least one sick, hurtful individual out of the world. None of those were the real reason. I wanted to kill him because I wanted to stop hurting. I wanted to make it all go away: the nightmares, the fear of sex, the anger, the helplessness, all of it. I wanted it to stop. Brad's death had made things worse, not better. Killing Steiner would be no different. Once again, the nightmares would take over. This time, the nightmares wouldn't be about what people did to me, but about what I had done. What I had let them turn me into. I couldn't deal with that. Maybe it was selfish. Maybe I should kill him for the sake of all those children. But I couldn't do it. I wouldn't be able to live with the knowledge that I had killed another human being, even one as despicable as Steiner.

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Goldfish Dreams I could hear Alisa's voice, telling me that killing Steiner would make me just as bad as him. I disagreed. Steiner attacked innocent children. I would be ridding the world of a twis ted and horrible person. And yet, maybe killing him would make me just as bad as my brother. Like Brad, I would have allowed Brent Steiner to turn me into something that I despised. He had made Brad a monster. I wouldn't let him do the same to me. "I can't do it," I said. "That's good, 'cause I lied about the gun." I was tired, so that took a second to sink in. "You what?" He shrugged. "There was no gun. I made it up." I just stared at him. "Why?" "You were so frustrated that we couldn't do anything. I thought I'd set it up so that you could choose not to do anything." He laced his hands behind his head and grinned smugly as he sank further into the beanbag. "What if I had said yes?" He snorted. "Then you could have kicked my ass when I told you the truth. But I didn't think you would." "Why?" He stood up and gestured for me to do so as well. Then he led me over to the mirror on his closet door. He stood behind me and steered my head so that I was looking at my reflection. "Do you see it?" I was too tired for this kind of conversation. "It would help if I knew what I was supposed to see." His lips pursed together in a frown. "I'll explain it to you some day, I promise." He hopped back into the beanbag, causing a small explosion of air when he landed. Speaking very carefully, he said, "You don't need to kill him." That was the first thing he had said in a while that actually made sense. "You're right." He watched me for another minute or so, then said, "But you do need to get some sleep." I blinked. He was right again, dammit. "How come you're not sleepy?" I demanded. "That's not fair." He scratched his mane of red hair and looked embarrassed. "I don't drink."

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Jim Hines "Huh?" "We went out to the bar after the show, but I didn't want anything alcoholic. So I ordered a Mountain Dew." For the first time, I noticed a slight trembling in his hands--the sign of a heavy caffeine buzz. He shrugged. "They offered free refills." The next morning after breakfast, after spending an hour talking to Alisa about the break-up, I sat down at the computer and flipped the on switch. Sean was right, I didn't need to kill him. But he had been wrong when he said I didn't need to do anything. Once the computer finished booting up, I opened up the word processor and began to type. Victoria Dyson, Principal Elmwood Elementary School 856 Elmwood Dr. Hayden, MI 41118 Dear Ms. Dyson: I am writing regarding Brent Steiner, who is currently employed as a secretary in your school. As Mr. Steiner is familiar with my family, I have chosen to submit this letter anonymously. I hope that does not take away from the seriousness of what I have to say. About ten years ago, my brother came into contact with Mr. Steiner. At this time, Mr. Steiner was also responsible for overseeing children in detention. As an authority figure, he was intimidating enough to insure that the children completed whatever punishment they had been given. Mr. Steiner used those opportunities to sexually molest my brother. I don't know if Mr. Steiner is continuing this behavior at your school, but I feel that it is likely. As a student of psychology, I know that in most cases, a pedophile will not stop abusing children unless someone intervenes. Unfortunately, my brother passed away several months ago. As a result, he is unable to verify what happened. I have no proof, and I wish he were still alive to pass his story to you directly. Instead, I can only give you this secondhand account of what happened. I pray you will still take this matter seriously. I know that my letter is not sufficient evidence to remove Mr. Steiner from his position, but I hope that you will observe him closely in the future, and please take seriously any of the children's complaints that come to your attention. Sincerely,

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Goldfish Dreams A Concerned Sister After everything I had gone through to track down Brent Steiner, finding out where he worked had been child's play. I didn't know if it would make a difference. I hoped it would. I had to believe that someone would take me seriously enough to watch him, and that maybe this would keep at least one child from enduring the hell Brad and I lived through. I printed out the letter and sealed it into an envelope. On impulse, I printed a second copy as well. I had a hard time getting down the hall to the inner stairwell, since Jay was giving juggling lessons in front of his door. He and Robin were passing six beanbags back and forth. As I watched, she almost dropped one. She struggled to recover, and her next throw went wild, nearly smacking him in the nose. "You want to stand in the middle?" Jay offered. "This is much safer than when we start using torches." "No thanks," I said, laughing. I hurried past while he recovered the dropped beanbags. I dropped the school letter into the mail slot. I stared at the second one for a while before sending it to join its twin. I wondered which would arrive first, the letter to the principal, or the one addressed to Heather Lister. Back in my room, I grabbed the phone and called Krista. "It's me." A brief pause while she tried to figure out who it was. Krista had never been a morning person. Then, "Eileen, hi! What's up?" "I've got spring break in another week, and I thought maybe we could do something together." "Sure. I'm a bit surprised, though. I thought you'd be spending your free time with that man of yours." My mood slipped. "I think we broke up last night." "Oh. Sorry." I sighed. "S'okay. It was something I had to do." I had cried some before I fell asleep. I would probably cry about it again tonight. But I felt better for having done it. I felt scared and off-balance, but also stronger. And who knew what the future held? Maybe when I felt more stable, more confident in myself, I would call him up. When he said I wouldn't lose him, I knew he meant it. Maybe we could be friends, if nothing else. I don't know if she understood what I was saying, but she accepted it. "Well then how did you want to spend your spring break?" The idea had come to me last night as I was drifting off to bed. "I want to

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Jim Hines go camping. I want to spend a weekend with my sister without any sort of crisis or tragedy getting in the way. If Steve doesn't mind, that is." She laughed. "He'll be fine with it." Knowing Krista, I doubted Steve would be given any choice but to be fine with it. "I'll make some calls and find out what campsites are open," I said. We talked a bit more, and then she had to go so she could drive Annie to a friend's house. I hung up the phone and leaned against the wall. It would be nice to get away. I was already looking forward to the chance to camp out with my sister, to stay up late in the tent and tell stories and get completely overtired and goofy and just have a good time. But that wouldn't be for at least another week, and in the meantime, I had midterms to study for. And since I had promised to go out with Alisa and our friends tonight, I had to stud y now. I hadn't gotten past the second page of my psych book when a loud pounding on the door startled me. "It's open," I yelled. Sean shoved the door open. An angry mass of fur squirmed in his arms. His eyes were bloodshot from lack of sleep. "Someone ratted on me. Can you take the cat for a while? Thanks! Bye!" He tossed Goldfish into the room and vanished. I rolled my eyes and gave Goldfish a sympathetic look. "Poor thing. You have to live with that guy every day?" Goldfish chirped in agreement, stretched, and began to explore the room. "Come here, furball." I picked the cat up, grunting a bit at the weight, and carried him over to my bed. He pawed at the covers a few times before curling up into a ball. Once he was comfortable, I grabbed my book and settled down beside him. I scratched behind his ears. After a long look around to make sure everything was safe, he began to purr.

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Epilogue Sean kept the promise he made to me that night in his room. He graduated two years later, when I was a junior. It marked the end of his ninth year in college. Contrary as always, he presented me with a gift for his own graduation, but he made me promise not to open it until I got home. It was a flat rectangular package wrapped in Snoopy paper. A card was taped to the top, and I opened that first. The picture on the card was of a waterfall in winter. The edges were frozen; thousands of gallons of water captured in motion, forming white hills and waves that went all the way to the bottom of the cliff. In the center, the water flowed freely, spraying a mist that obscured some of the details. On the inside, Sean had scrawled the words, "Tell me if you don't see the difference." At first, I thought he meant the waterfall and that this was some sort of obscure joke. Then I thought to open the gift. A wooden frame held a matted drawing done in pencil. The initials in the bottom corner read STL. Sean Lapin. In the center of the picture was a girl sitting in a beanbag and stroking a large, striped Pixie-Bob in her lap. The background was sketched in with less care: billowing sheets hung from the ceiling, various papers and drawings covering the walls...it was more than enough to identify Sean's room as the setting. I remembered that first night, when I ended up sleeping in Sean's room with Goldfish. Every time I woke up, he had been working at his desk. Years later, I finally knew what he had been working on. As I studied the picture, I understood what he had wanted me to see in the mirror that night after the musical. The girl in the drawing was no longer me. She was like everyone else from that year. They still existed in my thoughts and, on occasion, my nightmares, but only as shadows...memories. We had all changed.

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Jim Hines I swore when I realized I would now have to find a better graduation present for Sean than the fuzzy dice I had picked up to give his car some class. Maybe I could find something for Goldfish. But that would have to wait. A glance at my watch told me I was late for my shift at Outreach.

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About the Author Jim Hines began his writing career with an award-winning story in Writers of the Future XV. He has since published dozens of short stories in markets such as Sword & Sorceress, Brutarian Quarterly, and Sword & Sorceress. He is also a columnist for The State News at Michigan State University, writing about various aspects of sexual violence. For five years, he volunteered as a sexual assault counselor at The Listening Ear in East Lansing, Michigan. In 2001, he helped found the MSU Men's Forum, a discussion group for exploring and challenging traditional definitions of masculinity. He currently works as the Male Outreach Coordinator for MSU Safe Place, the only Domestic Violence shelter in the United States that is located on a college campus. Jim maintains a web page at http://www.sff.net/people/jchines/. He welcomes email from readers, and can be reached at [email protected]. He lives in Michigan with his wife and daughter, as well as 2.75 slightly neurotic cats.