Chapter 3 Seize the Daydream
Seize the Daydream
With my eyes still squeezed shut, a sudden pain pulses inside my head. My skull throbs like it’s been mashed by a hydraulic press, my limbs strangely weightless. Am I lying down?
I must’ve slipped off the stool.
I’m embarrassingly breathless from blowing out the candle. Or maybe it’s the fiery shot constricting my airways. Leave it to Penn to serve us his worst tequila.
Headache be damned, I sit up, ignoring the stars that swirl across my vision like I’m a dazed Looney Tunes character.
The ringing in my ears gets louder, as if a DJ is mixing EDM songs directly on my eardrums. Slowly, one eye opens, and the room spins, blurring the tall, purple chair in the far corner.
Wait.
I blink. Blink again.
Managing only short, shallow breaths, I glance around and try to get my bearings inside a strange, Technicolor room.
Several seconds later, no bearings have been gotten.
What the actual hell?
Unless Penn’s done some wild renovations to the staff room, or possibly moonlights as an eccentric interior designer, I’m absolutely not at Curly’s anymore.
I’m in a bed. In a bedroom I don’t recognize.
The walls—they’re turquoise. The duvet gripped between my fists is a swirl of pinks and greens and blues, like a hazy watercolor painting. Whose bedroom is this?
And the pounding isn’t just in my head. It’s a knocking at some distant door.
I put a hand to my chest, trying to stay calm.
Maybe Penn laced that Pop-Tart. Or I fell and blacked out. Maybe we got a second wind, made a new friend and stayed at their place, or spontaneously checked into a kitschy hotel.
But this isn’t like any hotel I’ve ever seen.
Floor-to-ceiling fuchsia curtains frame a pair of tall windows, through which I can see nothing but sky.
There’s a yellow dresser littered with candles and trinkets, and the hardwood floors are covered with a pink Moroccan rug.
Vibrant green houseplants hang at varying heights in the corner behind me, and—God, what are the odds?
Framed over the wooden headboard is the same painting of peonies that I had as a kid.
The faraway knocking returns, louder this time.
Who is that? Where am I? Why am I alone?
I swallow hard. There’s no Bridget, or Ryan, and as I whip the comforter off my legs, I realize I’m wearing no pants.
My hands drop to my waist, smoothing across a purple, lace-trimmed situation.
A nightie. It’s thin-strapped and silky, and it barely reaches my upper thighs.
For half a second, I think, I should really buy one of these.
I’ve never bought fancy sleepwear in my life, no matter how many times Instagram tried to convince me.
But then, at the sight of my hands, goose bumps rise up my spine. My nails aren’t painted their usual ballet-slipper pink. They’re cerulean blue.
Something is off. Like, really off.
I need my phone.
It isn’t on the nightstand, which holds only a lava lamp, a clock that reads 8:04, and a white porcelain piggy bank.
This place is weird as hell.
Panic spikes in my bloodstream, leaving me dizzy as I rifle through the sheets, looking for my cell. I launch myself out of bed, then drop to all fours on the floor, searching underneath.
No luck. No phone. No clue where I am.
I sit back on my knees, exhaling slowly. It isn’t like Bridget and Ryan to abandon me. They must be nearby. Maybe they’re the ones knocking.
I venture out into the hallway, creeping past a closed door, a shockingly vibrant pink-and-purple bathroom, and an eerily empty bedroom with nothing but a mattress in the middle of the floor.
With my heartbeat hammering between my temples, I reach the top of a grand staircase and pause, overlooking an enormous entryway with oversized artwork climbing the walls.
This isn’t a hotel. It’s a massive house. A mansion.
“Hello?” I call out, tiptoeing down the stairs.
Silence. Then more knocking.
I reach the tall front door and look through the peephole.
“No,” I mutter to myself. “What in the…”
With a huff, I swing open the door just as Penn leans in to knock again. He nearly falls into me—into my chest, which I’ve only just remembered is covered by a barely-there slip of silk. I look down at my right-in-his-face everything, then back up into his wide eyes.
Penn’s in a white T-shirt, the sleeves inched up on his shoulders, his hair curling out from beneath his backward navy baseball hat. His cheeks redden as he scratches at the nape of his neck, his gaze suddenly fixed to the tacky floral welcome mat between us.
“Hey,” he stutters. “I, uh…”
Embarrassed, I fumble toward the coatrack beside the door and grab a yellow polka-dot scarf, haphazardly wrapping it around my neck to end the peep show. My hair gets in my face, so I try to blow it back. When that doesn’t work, I move to tuck it behind my ears and shriek.
My hair is short. Hardly past my chin. “Someone cut my hair?!”
“Yeah,” Penn deadpans. “That’s usually how it works.”
To Penn, or maybe the universe, I ask, “What is going on? What happened last night?”
His lips curve. “Heard you had quite the fun birthday.”
“What does that mean?” My hands go to my face, as if they need to confirm I still have one. “And what are you doing here?”
Penn shifts and clears his throat. “I was wondering if…Can I stay with you?”
“What? Here?”
Now I know something is wrong.
Penn’s features scrunch together, like whatever he has to say physically pains him.
He talks quickly, as if that might help.
“I was hoping to stay with Ryan for a few weeks while my apartment gets some repairs, but his studio is way too small. So then I thought maybe I could stay here. With you. And in exchange, I’ll help you out at The Disco Diner. You mentioned—”
“The…Disco Diner?”
He shrugs. “Ryan told me business has been tough, and—”
“Stop.” I hold up a hand, cutting him off. “This is insane. All of it.”
“Well, damn,” he says with a clipped laugh. “Guess that’s a hard no.”
“Is this a prank?” I sputter. Then I gesture to what appears to be a wraparound porch painted rosy pink with lilac-colored trim. “What even is this place?”
Penn cocks his head. “Are you messing with me?”
“No. Are you messing with me?”
“Ruby, we’re…” He looks one way, then the other, and only when my focus shifts past him do I realize exactly where I am.
There’s a prickling across my skin, a thousand imaginary needles poking at my pores while the DJ in my brain delivers his grand, booming finale right against my optic nerve.
I bring my hands to my mouth and stare in disbelief.
Right in front of me, across the street, is my childhood home. Beside it, Penn’s.
I push past him and race down the colorful porch steps, whirling around to get a better look at the place where I just woke up. A place I could draw from memory.
It’s the old Victorian that sat framed inside my bedroom window as a kid—the view I woke up to for years. But the building is no longer painted a pale, fading yellow with white trim. It looks almost psychedelic. Like one of my old Lisa Frank notebooks in mansion form.
A low, crazed laugh rumbles out of me like I’m Cruella de Vil.
This isn’t real. It’s just a dream.
The strangest, most visceral dream I’ve ever had.
Penn definitely laced that Pop-Tart.
My fear dissolves into delighted curiosity as I rush back up the porch stairs, a pep in my step. I’ve never been so consciously aware of a dream. I should linger here for a while. Try to remember every absurd detail so I can tell Bridget all about it.
“This is incredible,” I declare to a still-perplexed Penn, hands on my hips. “And it all feels so real.” I poke at his biceps, incredulous as I meet his eyes again. “Even you.”
Often, my dreams’ costars are faceless, or else they’re vaguely accurate versions of people from real life, but Dream Penn is very much himself, with five-o’clock shadow covering his jawline and the telltale scar sliced through his left eyebrow. He even feels solid.
His gaze drops to where I’ve touched him before he looks at me. “What are you doing?” He motions to the scarf-bib I’ve got going on. “Is this your way of turning me down? Just act so weird that I give up and leave?”
I snort. “Honestly, not a bad tactic.”
“Look,” Penn says on a sigh. “I knew you wouldn’t love the idea of me staying in your Barbie Dreamhouse—”
“True.” I shrug. “Not even in my dreams do I want your company, Pennywise.”
His lips twitch at the old nickname. “Oh, c’mon. Not even in your wildest dreams?”
There’s a challenge in his gaze.
“Nope. Not even this one,” I say, reveling in his confused expression.
Mercifully, Penn’s only a sporadic guest star in my subconscious, but he does appear every so often. I try not to think about those dreams, though—especially one frighteningly vivid one that still makes me blush if I picture it for more than half a second.
“Does this mean I can’t come in?” Penn asks, exasperated.
Arms crossed, I jut out my hip, considering him. “Fine. You can come in. But only if you answer all my questions.”
He picks up his bags and scans me head to toe. “Will do. But I’m pretty sure you’re the one prompting questions here.”
Penn follows me down a long hallway lined with artwork, including the terrible watercolor unicorn I once painted for Mom. I laugh, delighted by the handiwork of my unconscious mind. But as we round a corner, I stop in my tracks.
“No. Way,” I gush, astonished by the holy grail of dream kitchens, Nancy Meyers–style. I count not one, not two, but three islands, all painted olive green. “This is, like, a kitchen archipelago.”
Penn drops his bags and side-eyes me. “A kitchen what?”
I scowl at him. “Of course you didn’t pay attention in geography.”
Ignoring Penn’s eye roll, I open the massive fridge.
“Remarkable,” I mutter. It’s stocked like one of those after photos on a home-organization show, cans of LaCroix and Capri-Sun pouches neatly arranged in rows.
Fresh produce sits tucked inside clear bins, and leftovers are piled in labeled Tupperware.
Leftovers. Huh. A nice, realistic touch.