There are always the stories of lonely teenage girls who dream fancifully of having someone in their life that mean something to them, that complete them. Some turn out to be stories of delightful romance, of the breathtaking love that develops. Some, however, are of horror, tales of relationships that end abruptly or don’t happen at all. Either way, they usually end up with the attention-hungry girl flinging herself without a single consideration into the guy’s path, determined to catch his eye. All of the stories reveal something about the girl in the end, whether or not she is meant for someone, or if she is meant to be alone in this lifetime.
My story is drastically different, though not totally unfamiliar.
I was nearing the end of my sophomore year, where it was a race to cram for finals, schedule dates to take the ACT and SAT, and make plans for summer vacation. My life was bustling with activity, yet was pretty slow-paced when compared with some of my classmates. I didn’t have too many friends. There was my lifelong friend, Chandler Gates, with whom I shared my feelings and frustrations, and Gallagher Harmon, the guy who was able to get my mind off of anything. Together, they kept my life from whirling out of control. I actually felt pretty guilty sometimes that I didn’t tell them everything about me, the things about myself that I felt only I would understand. But then, we all have our own secrets, don’t we?
“Aria!”
I glanced up long enough from my cell phone to see Chandler hurtling her way through the flow of students pushing and shoving through the locker-lined hallway and out the door. Everyone was brutal and showed no mercy on the second to last day of school. The angst of the crowd seemed to overflow in an explosion of noise that was ten times louder than usual. I shook my head and closed the Easy Schedule app on my phone. I smiled at the disapproval scrawled all over Chandler’s face when one of the guys let out a wild yell as he barreled his way past her. I couldn’t say that I leaned to one side or the other; I wasn’t loudly declaring my independence or glaring at those who were, I was just kind of there. Just neutral.
Chandler latched onto my arm and pulled us out of the flow. “Aria Ryman, what’s up with you? You’ve been in another world like the whole day today. I mean, you’ve been like this before, but you’ve never done it for this long.” She narrowed her blue eyes and snapped her fingers in front of my nose. “Wake up!”
I blinked slowly, suddenly recognizing the fog I seemed to be in. I shook my head. “Chan, there’s nothing wrong with me, I’m just a little tired, I guess.”
“A little tired? High on something is more like it. You look like you’re stoned.”
I rolled my eyes. “Chan, that is so not it. Stop letting your vivid imagination run laps around the truth.” I bit my tongue as soon as that statement left my mouth. I wasn’t exactly the right person to accuse someone of an overactive imagination when I had such a vast one myself, one that just might be the source of my problems.
Chandler pressed her lips together. “Okay, fine. I’ll let it slide and give you the benefit of the doubt. But I want you to know that I really hate seeing you like this. Your eyes are unfocused as if you’re dreaming while you’re awake. It scares me a little, okay?”
I sighed and squeezed the bridge of my nose. So it was showing more than I’d thought it would. Chandler was catching on fast, and soon I’d probably be forced to tell her. “I’m sorry, Chan. I’m just feeling a little strange today. More tired than usual, I guess you could say.” I shrugged and looked her straight in the eye, hoping she’d drop the subject.
She looked at me and sighed. “Okay, whatever. I still think something’s up, but I’ll stop bugging you about it. For now.” She turned around and disappeared into the river of teens flooding out of the building. I stared at the spot where she’d blended into the crowd for a few more moments, then turned back to my locker and gently leaned my forehead against it. My nightmare had begun.
I tossed my bag behind the chair in the entryway when I walked through my front door, where I ritually chucked it after school every day. My hand rose instantly to my forehead, massaging it unconsciously, a habit of mine that showed up whenever I was stressed. And to say that I was stressed at that moment, was to epitomize the understatement of the millennium.
I trudged up the stairs towards my room, replaying the images over and over in my mind. The colors, scents, textures. Everything was as vivid as if I’d lived it before. I’d felt pain, and weariness. I glanced at a sketch carelessly tossed on my desk that I’d made that morning after I woke up, attempting to capture a fleeting memory before it left. It was of a man, about 20 years old, staring back at me with vibrant green eyes. His gaze, even on paper and drawn in colored pencils, calmed me. The corner of my mouth lifted slightly.
I sighed and placed my hand over the drawing’s face, forcing myself to break away. He wasn’t real. Jayeden wasn’t real.
Throughout the whole day I had caught myself thinking about the images. I had had to convince myself a week before that everything, all of the memories of the adventures that had suddenly become rooted in my mind as fact, were nothing but manifestations of my dreams. My wild, whacked-out, vivid-beyond-all-reason, dreams. They had seemed so natural, so right and real, that for a while, I was getting confused as to which realm was my physical reality. But I had convinced myself. Dreams. That’s all they were. My everyday life was my reality.
I nodded to myself, as if solidifying my newfound belief. I fingered the sketch of Jayeden for a moment, then reluctantly grasped it, crumpling the rough paper in my hands. I stared at the ball of paper nestled in my hand. A heavy weight pressed itself upon my heart. I felt like I had just slapped my best friend in the face. I shook my head again, a little harder this time. He’s not real. Something felt very wrong. My hands were quivering. I took in a shaky breath, and defiantly shoved the paper in a candle jar on my dresser. I whipped out a box of matches from the drawer, struck one, and hurriedly tossed it into the jar. Grimacing as the flames grew and licked their way through the paper, I hugged my arms to my chest and tried not to cry.
He’s just a part of your imagination. He’s not real. He’s not real. I mentally chanted to myself, hoping somehow that the words would sink in and I would be back to my normal life. I blinked back tears. But was my life ever normal? I remembered back when I had only been ten years of age, when I first met him. I had been dreaming of a log cabin, with warm and welcoming scents and the feeling of home. I had stepped through the threshold to find him sitting at a table, carving a small animal out of wood. Slightly surprised to find a twenty-ish year-old man in my dream, I had paused at the doorway and watched him curiously.
It was just a dream. He’s not real. He’s not real.
After a few moments, the man with reddish-brown hair had looked up at me, surprise also registering on his face. A smile had replaced the astonishment almost immediately. He gestured for me to sit by him, to watch him work on his wooden sculpture. I had eagerly clambered on to the bench beside him to contently peer at his beautiful carving. He offered it to me so that I might get a better look, but when I reached for it to grasp it in my palm my hand passed right through, as if I were air. His handsome face recorded shock once more, this time, however, his smile took longer to arrive.
It never happened. He’s not real. He’s not real.
He had looked me directly in my eyes. “What is your name, little one?”
“Aria.” I said slowly, unsure if I should be letting him in on such important information.
The smile had come back; this time it crept in from the side of his mouth. He cocked his head a bit. “Aria. That’s a very pretty name. My name is Jayeden.”
I returned his grin with a shy one of my own. I looked at his carving. “What’cha doin’?”
“This?” He had held up the figurine. “This is a gift that I’m making for someone very special to me. I’ve been working on it for a long time now.”
“What is it going to be?” I asked curiously.
He frowned slightly at the figurine. “I honestly don’t know myself. You see, this carving will start taking its true form when the time draws near for me to present it to that person who holds a special place in my heart.”
“That’s silly.” I declared. “How can you keep carving it if you don’t know what it’s going to be?”
Jayeden chuckled. “There is a Hand that guides mine, Aria. Even when I don’t know what this carving is going to be, He knows. He has instructed me to keep carving, even if it is seemingly in vain, for one day I will be able to see the product of my diligence and faith.”
Thoroughly perplexed, I narrowed my eyes at him. “I don’t understand.”
He had flicked his serious green eyes at me. “You will one day, Aria. Do not worry. I will help you to learn His ways.”
I stayed silent, watching him as he resumed his whittling. I had not had a clue as to what he was referring to, but I enjoyed his serene, calming presence, and that was all that mattered right then.
It was just a dream. He’s not real. He’s not real.
The paper in the jar burned.
