10. “I Can Dream About You”
Chapter 10
“I Can Dream About You”
Sascha - Age 14, 1984
T he end of eighth grade is fast approaching, and I’m filled with anticipation for what lies ahead in high school. Like at the end of elementary school, I’m ready to move on to the next chapter.
So much of this past year has been spent trying to unravel the mystery that is Michael Tazman. I want so badly to understand him and the changes that have shaped his life over the years. I haven’t bothered to attempt to approach him again. Instead, I watch him from afar like some crazy stalker. I haven’t learned much. Beyond his unwavering love for hockey, his tendency to act as the class clown, and his witty remarks that often mirror my own, I have yet to get to know him. The pieces of his puzzle are scattered before me, waiting to be pieced together, and it drives me crazy.
I despise the fact that I have transformed into this girl. You know the one—she puts on a mask of indifference, even annoyance, when in the presence of someone who makes her heart flutter like a hummingbird’s wings. That’s me when I’m around Michael. It’s infuriating and, at times, downright mortifying. My pale complexion does nothing to hide the tell-tale flush of my cheeks whenever he’s near or when those piercing aqua eyes lock onto mine.
It’s not as if he acknowledges me in any significant way, a casual smile here and there, accompanied by a brief glance. Once, he waved at me, and I was ecstatic, only to be crushed seconds later when I realized he was waving at a girl behind me. The humiliation was devastating, making me want to curl up and disappear forever.
It’s as if all those moments we shared together never happened. I still find it strange that my mind holds such vivid and distinct memories of him. They’re like fleeting dreams accompanied by strong emotions. Like how he used to playfully tease me about how I ate Oreos, our laughter echoing across the playground. But these memories also bring a bittersweet sadness, knowing that the boy I shared them with now stands only feet away from me yet is unreachable.
Did he have a friend like Lydia, who influenced his values and beliefs? Has he experienced first love, felt the rush of a first kiss? And what about his broken family? Have they found peace? These thoughts swirl in my mind, and I long for answers to fill in the gaps of this stranger before me.
My initial curiosity has grown into a consuming obsession. Sarah, who is somewhat related to Corey, knows only a fraction of my thoughts and feelings, and I keep the rest locked away.
Darius understands me better. He’s facing his own struggles this year. He’s always been open about who he is, and as we’ve gotten older, people have started to notice how he stands out from the crowd. Not only does he have to navigate being a mixed-race person but also being gay in a society that’s not often accepting of such things. Kids can be cruel, and Darius has learned to surround himself with a small group of accepting friends this year.
He and I share another secret since he also harbors an unrequited love for someone. While I long for a connection with my former best friend, Darius has developed feelings for a boy named Owen. Owen is quite the enigma—a loner who prefers the company of his sketchbook or a good book over socializing. Despite his quiet nature, I can see why Darius is drawn to him. With his tousled dark hair, deep brown eyes, and full pouty lips, Owen resembles some sort of mysterious artist or poet. He’s undeniably attractive.
Owen hasn’t shown interest in either girls or boys. So, for now, Darius watches him from afar. It’s comforting to have another stalker friend.
I stare at my brown sack lunch, the bland sandwich and bruised fruit doing nothing to spur my appetite. Suddenly, a loud thud interrupts my thoughts and my friend Emily plops down beside me. Despite her small size, her arrival resembles that of a herd of Clydesdales.
“Kevin asked for my phone number!” she practically screeches, her excitement causing her voice to reach deafening levels. She grabs a Pringle from her lunch and shoves it into her mouth before continuing, “Can you believe it?”
I sigh, feeling slightly irritated by Emily’s loud energy. “But I thought you liked Scott?” I question, trying not to sound too bitter.
“I mean, I did like him. Not like-like him, though. Not like I like Kevin.” Her hands flit around in animated gestures as she speaks, her face lighting up with each word. She is boy-crazy, always caught up in the latest crush or infatuation. Ever since we reached middle school, it’s like a switch has been flipped, and she’s gone bonkers for boys. The phrase “crazy as a soup sandwich” comes to mind as I try to keep up with her rapid train of thought.
All week long, I’ve heard nothing but how Scott is “the cutest boy in eighth grade.” But now that Kevin has asked for her number, Scott is old news.
“I can’t believe you don’t like anyone,” she exclaims before popping another chip into her mouth.
I scan the crowded cafeteria, my eyes finally landing on the group of hockey players. They always catch my attention, even though I try not to look. I can sense Landry’s eyes on me, but I refuse to make eye contact. He’s given up trying to get me to hang out with them after that awkward encounter in PE class. I’m sure he’s curious about our history, but he hasn’t pushed or prodded like most people would.
Emily excitedly pipes up again, breaking through my thoughts. “We should totally go to Dee Dee’s birthday party this weekend!” she exclaims, her eyes shining with excitement.
The thought of attending a party with the popular kids makes me cringe. It’s as appealing as sticking shards of glass under my fingernails. But I know Emily means well and wants us to have a good time.
“Come on, Sascha,” she urges, her eyes sparkling with mischief. “We should do something wild and spontaneous before the year ends.”
I pause, setting my apple down and raising an eyebrow at her. “I have plenty of fun in my life,” I reply. “I read, play my flute, listen to new albums, watch movies…”
She rolls her eyes dramatically. “Yeah, because hanging out with your parents is soooooo thrilling,” she mockingly mimics.
I shrug nonchalantly, peeling off the top of the yogurt I have no intention of eating. “I’ve never been one to chase after being ‘cool,’” I say honestly, waving my plastic spoon in her direction for emphasis.
“But I can’t go alone!”
“We weren’t even invited.”
Her pout deepens as she argues, “Dee Dee said it’s open to everyone who wants to come.”
Just as I’m about to decline the open invitation, Darius joins us at the lunch table with his school lunch. My nose crinkles at the sight of the unidentifiable spaghetti surprise on his tray.
“What’s up, ladies,” he asks, sliding into his seat.
“We’re discussing Sascha’s refusal to attend Dee Dee’s party. She’s being a real buzzkill,” Emily announces.
I shrug my shoulders in response.
Darius’s eyes light up as he declares, “Ohhh, we should go.”
I raise an eyebrow in surprise. “Since when do you want to attend a party with the popular crowd?”
He bites his lip and gazes longingly across the cafeteria at Owen, who’s engrossed in conversation with someone. I nod, understanding his sudden interest. He must have found out Owen will be there. My mind wanders momentarily to Michael—will he be there too? As part of the in-crowd, it’s highly likely.
I let out a resigned sigh before conceding, “Okay, fine, we can go.”
Darius grins triumphantly while I add quickly, “But don’t blame me if we end up getting covered in pigs’ blood like in the movie Carrie .”
Their hands come together in a flurry of excitement, their claps echoing through the room like thunder. They’re entranced by their own joy, oblivious to my words of caution. The scary thing is, I’m not joking.
The clock reads 3 o’clock on Saturday afternoon as I take a quick glance at my reflection in the full-length mirror. I’m dressed in black from head to toe, my favorite pair of ripped jeans hugging my legs and combat boots laced up tight. My t-shirt proudly displays the iconic band Journey, their logo emblazoned in bold white letters across the front. My hair falls freely down my back, strands tucked behind both ears, and I’ve opted for a bare face with a touch of clear lip gloss enhancing my naturally pink lips.
My parents have agreed to drop us off and pick us up from the party. They are overly excited about me stepping outside of my comfort zone. They act like I’m some sort of shut-in. But that’s not true—this scene no longer appeals to me. However, I’ll go for the sake of my friends. It's the least I can do after all they've done for me. Especially Darius.
He recently dropped a bomb on Sarah and me. He’s moving this summer. Apparently, his dad got a promotion at work, and it will take them to Los Angeles. He’s sad to leave us but excited about the new adventure. I’m a bit bummed for myself, but at the same time happy for him as a bigger city meant more opportunities and acceptance. Despite my mixed feelings, I agreed to attend this party because it was what he wanted, and I wanted to do something that made him genuinely happy.
We load into our trusty Subaru and make the quick drive to Dee Dee’s house. As we approach, I see she's invited half of our eighth-grade class. A line of kids snaked through the front door while cars did u-turns in the cul-de-sac, trying to escape the chaos.
“I’ll pick you up in three hours,” my mom says with a smile as we pull up to the curb.
“Sounds good,” I reply with a slight nod before sliding out of the passenger seat and approaching the commotion inside.
“Have fun!” she shouts as the door shuts. I wave at her as she drives away, take a deep breath, and face the house. Here we go, I think to myself. This could be a fun night or a complete disaster.
The party is in Dee Dee’s basement. Her parents shuffle us past the living area to the back of the house, where the door to the basement is open.
We descend the stairs, the music getting louder and louder with every step. Once we reach the bottom, the Thompson Twins yell “Hold Me Now” from the stereo system and large speakers against the wall.
Dee Dee’s parents have a nice setup down here. It doubles as another living space, and right now, that space is being used perfectly to celebrate her fourteenth birthday with balloons, snacks, music, and the ever-present awkwardness between boys and girls in our age group.
I hear a familiar laugh, and my eyes land on a boy wearing faded 501s and a Beastie Boys graphic t-shirt; my heart flutters, reminding me of the crush I can’t shake, no matter how many times I chastise myself for my stupidity. He’s a crush I desperately want to stop crushing on, but my stupid heart has a stupid mind of its own.
The truth is that I miss the boy I grew up with. I miss playing tetherball, sharing lunches, and silly jokes. I miss my friend. And now that Daruis is moving, those feelings are returning front and center. I want to keep in touch, but letter writing can be tedious, and the prices for long-distance phone calls are astronomical. We’ll be lucky to chat for ten minutes on friends and family night when they lower the prices for a few hours per week.
Michael is laughing and flirting with some girl when I steal another glance. I should give up on him, but something keeps me tethered to him. Seeing his smile, even from afar, makes my heart full and light. I’m retrieved from my walk down memory lane as Dee Dee announces it’s time to play “Spin the Bottle.”
For the love of Tears for Fears, do we really have to do this? I turn to get as far away from this ridiculousness as possible, but a hand grips my elbow. “Oh no, you don’t, Bell. You’re doing this.” Darius commands. We usually commiserate over our unrequited love, but he’s worse off than me. As far as we know, Darius is the furthest thing from Owen’s radar. I guess if he wants to sit around an old Coca-Cola bottle and torture himself, I’ll join him in solidarity.
About twenty of us are sitting in a circle around said bottle as Dee Dee exclaims she’s going to start. Michael and his friends sit across from us, teasing and laughing over inside jokes.
The bottle stops on Owen, and Dee Dee leans into the middle of the space to meet Owen for a short, soft kiss. I glance at Darius, who watches with wistful eyes.
The bottle makes its way around the group, a talisman of first kisses and future couples, before being placed in front of Michael. My heart races as he smirks, grabbing the bottle with his large hand which is painted with cuts and bruises across the knuckles.
Don’t land on me. Wait. Do land on me. No. Don’t land on me. This is horrible.
The bottle spins in concentric circles rapidly until the shag carpet slows its movement. Time stops as the mouth of the bottle comes to a full stop directly in front of me. Everyone is hooting and hollering, and my first instinct is to run hella fast in the opposite direction. Darius gently places his hand on my back, urging me forward with a mischievous glint in his eye.
Fine. I’ll do it. I’ll kiss Michael Tazman in front of people I wouldn’t even share a package of Doritos with.
Michael smiles as his friends push him forward as well, and soon, we are nearly nose to nose. My stomach erupts in butterflies, and I fear people will see through my normally unaffected demeanor.
We slowly inch closer until we’re nose to nose, and I can smell the mint and soda on his warm breath. Michael stops, and I inch forward just a millimeter more and close my eyes when the softest pressure of his lips graze mine. Then they stop, and my eyes fly open as those lips fall into the wide smile of laughter, and Michael’s Jolt cola breath sprays on my face.
“I can’t do it, man,” he laughs, looking back at his friends. “I tried. But I can’t.”
They are all howling with laughter now. Laughter about kissing me. It’s almost like I was a dare he couldn’t complete. It’s mortifying.
Hot tears sting the back of my eyes. My throat feels tight since my heart is currently caught in it. Everyone is either laughing at me or looking at me with pity. I’m not going to cry in front of these douchebags. I close down the emotion whirling through my body like a Kansas tornado and carefully stand, pivot, and walk away.
I’m Sascha fucking Bell. I will not show these losers how I’m affected. But one thing is for sure.
Michael Tazman is dead to me.