“Ah, so you do like him,” she says knowingly. “Peregrine was right.”
“No.” I can feel myself turning red. “I mean, I barely know him. I just thought he was always with you guys.”
“Not always,” she says. “He goes away a lot.”
“Surfing, right?”
She looks surprised. “I see you’ve talked to him.” When I nod, she looks troubled. “Just so you know, he kind of broke Peregrine’s heart last year.”
I feel like she’s dumped a bucket of water over my head. “He and Peregrine dated?”
But then Chloe leans closer and says, “Don’t tell Peregrine I told you, but I don’t know if I’d call it dating exactly. She was in love with him forever, and they finally went out on a few dates, but nothing ever happened.”
“Do you know why?”
“I just don’t think he was that into her.”
“Come on. That’s impossible.”
“No, Caleb’s different. I think that’s what drove Peregrine nuts: the idea that he wasn’t automatically attracted to her like every other guy in the world.” The corner of Chloe’s mouth twitches, and I have the feeling that she was at least a little bit glad to see someone reject Peregrine. “Anyway, she hasn’t dated anyone since then.”
“But she’s surrounded by guys every time I see her.”
“I didn’t say she doesn’t make out or have fun with them. She just doesn’t let them in anymore.”
“So she still likes Caleb?” I wonder if being interested in him makes me a traitor to the girl who’s inexplicably trying to befriend me. Not that I owe Peregrine anything.
“They’re just good friends now. But I think she’s still pissed that she couldn’t have him. Anyway, I’d just be careful, that’s all.”
She lingers for a moment like she wants to say more, but then she drifts away. Shortly thereafter, she and the Dolls leave without saying good-bye.
It’s not until the party is winding down and the last few stragglers are finishing their champagne that I spot him. Or at least I think I do. He’s standing outside the bakery window, dressed in jeans and a tight gray T-shirt. But his face is obscured by the shadows, so I’m not one hundred percent sure.
I hurry out the front door of the bakery. “Caleb?” I call. But the street is empty, and I feel foolish. I’ve reached a real low point if I’m conjuring imaginary images of the guy I’m developing a very real crush on.
“Ready to head home?” Aunt Bea comes up behind me and puts a hand on my shoulder. “I’m beat. I can do all the cleanup tomorrow morning.”
“Sounds good,” I reply. “Mom would be really proud of you, Aunt Bea.”
She gives me a hug. “She’d be proud of you too, honey,” she says. “In so very many ways.”
I’m wound up from the party and confused about Peregrine and Caleb’s dating history and Chloe’s warning, so it takes me until almost two in the morning to drift off into an uneasy sleep.
For the first time in almost a week, the strange nightmare returns. I’m floating down the stairs again, and just like before, the hallway begins to fill with blood. But now there are voices too, coming from behind the closed doors.
For each ray of light, there’s a stroke of dark.
For each possibility, one has gone.
For each action, a reaction.
Ever in balance, the world spins on.
The voices fade away as I float into the parlor, which I now notice has walls lined with broad crystal mirrors. When I blink into the darkness, I can just barely make out the shape of the toddler version of myself standing in blood, crying.
“Eveny!” I call to her, but she can’t hear me. She falls to her knees in the darkness, still sobbing. “Eveny!” I cry out again, and this time she turns, her face and hands streaked with blood. . . .
I awaken with a start, drenched in sweat. The visions are getting more and more vivid; this one was like watching a movie on a high-def screen. I’ve never dreamed like this before. What the hell is going on here?
I try to go back to sleep, but it’s impossible. After a while, I glance at my clock and see that it’s 2:36 a.m. I flick my bedside light on and get up. Maybe I’ll feel better if I can get into the parlor and reassure myself that the dreams aren’t real.
I rifle through my bag until I find a couple of paper clips in a side pocket, then I quickly bend one so that it’s a single long piece of metal and the other so that it’s folded over once on itself: a picklock. I shove both makeshift tools into the pocket of my sweatpants, grab a flashlight, and head out my bedroom door.