Chapter 4 - Dreams.
“Bloody hell, that kid can talk,” I say in a hushed tone when Bertie walks away to grab our strawberry shakes and award-winning sorbet.
“You wanted it, Pearl. Maybe next time you will trust me when I cut someone off,” Colton states while playing with a tassel on the tablecloth.
“Next time?” Sadness grips my heart. I don’t think there will be a next time.
Truth is, I am a loner, always have been. I only have one friend, and can you really class your older sister as a best friend? Does it count? I have spent my entire life, every free moment, playing the piano or reading about the history of the piano. It has been my only goal in life—to play for crowds of people with the same love I have for the instrument.
I used to dream of the day someone would ask me my job and I could say, “I”m a pianist.”
That’s why I am here in New York City. Two months ago, I left my family, everything I have ever known, back in England. I have my family’s support, of course; I definitely would not be here if not for them. But I miss them, and I’ve somehow turned that homesickness into fuel to succeed because in three weeks I will be trying out for the NYC Symphony Orchestra. One of the most prestigious orchestras in the world. In three weeks, my life could change even more than it already has.
In three weeks, I could be living the life I have always dreamed of, and I don’t see room in there for any man.
“Yes, next time. Would you like that?” Colton asks.
I am relieved I don’t have to answer him straight away, as good old Bert comes over to our table with our order. “Thank you,” I mumble as I swallow a gulp of the strawberry-flavored liquid.
I suddenly remembered the book Colton left behind in the library and pull it out of my bag. “Here,” I say as I pass it across the table. “I don’t know if you left this on purpose or if you suffer from short-term memory loss.”
When he turns bright red, I know the answer.
“Thank you,” he says while looking at the book and rubbing the back of his neck. Nervous tick?
“What was your dream book about?” he asks. Changing the subject, are we?
I shuffle in my seat. Okay, here goes. This is the part where he mocks me, laughs in my face, or gets up and sprints out the door like his life depends on it.
I let out a shaky breath. “Well, I decode my dreams. I have since I was a teenager. I have trained my brain to remember every dream I have. Then when I wake, I spend about forty-five minutes analysing and decoding it to see what my subconscious is trying to tell me.” Taking a deep breath, I hesitantly look up at him to see if he’s waiting for me to continue. Wait, is he actually interested?
In a warm tone, he asks, “How did you manage to train your brain to remember every dream?”
“Uh.” I run my now sweaty palms over my denim skirt.
“Umm, when I’d wake in the night, I would have a sheet of paper and a pencil on my bedside table and write down key points of the dream, then when I woke, I could use those keywords to jog my memory about the dream.”
“Cool, that’s really cool.”
It was sometime around the age of thirteen or fourteen that I became obsessed with decoding them.
My favorite dream to date to decode was a fat ginger cat sitting on a wall in a graveyard singing “My Heart Will Go On” by Celine Dion.
According to my dream decoding book, a cat denotes bad luck, dreaming of a graveyard is unfortunate and speculates ill luck, walls dictate obstruction of progress, and singing foretells promising news from the absent unless the song has sad notes to it, and let’s face it, that song doesn’t qualify as a happy song.
When you really unpack all that, my dream possibly meant: Shit’s coming, and it might not go the way you expect it to! Right? Yeah, safe to say for the rest of the year I looked over my shoulder and double-checked under my bed every night before going to sleep.
In dreams since then I’ve been many things and done wacky things too. One dream, I woke up sweating profusely from being chased by vampires. Another, I was Batman on a soap opera, then another I was stuck in an oyster floating to the bottom of the sea. So, maybe Colton’s right, maybe I am a little crazy.
“Where did you go, there?” Colton’s voice pulls me out of my thoughts.
“Nowhere special.”