Unravel

Chapter Two

I didn't dream last night. Nor was I haunted by any nightmares—not that I wished I did. The last time I did, was when it was a week less before I reached the age of thirteen and I don't recall any of it, only that it felt like the longest nightmare I'd ever experienced—so vivid and so real.

Like always, I half-expected and was half-disappointed that I didn't have any dreams. And no, I didn't wish to dream of the guy I just met; the thought of him didn't even run over my mind until just now. Let's not. What I did hope to dream was the people that I've never known in waking life but grow to know them through their shape in my mind's eye.

It's not like my life in the waking life isn't good, it's great—all is well. But my dreams, they're not just any dream, far from ordinary, they're enchanting like I'm living a whole different life asleep—at least, I like to believe I am. The only problem with it is as soon I wake up, their face starts to blur, like a camera losing focus, and their facial features start to fade away from my mind. I have a hard time remembering their names and is always on the tip of my tongue. It's like my mind is blocking out the memory I'm desperate to uphold after I break free from a hazy spell from sleep. If I'm lucky enough, I get to jot it down on my journal—extensively, while the memory is still fresh.

My journal sits atop the bedside table that I always prepare before I go to sleep. It contains all the dreams I've recorded since I was thirteen, even to this day. It beckons me to write new mysterious dreams. But I have none, at least none that is compelling enough to be written. I sigh, I miss the soft touch of paper as I plant my palm on it, marking the sheet with the tip of my pen brimming with stories to tell.

It has been two weeks since the last time I dreamt of them; I also dreamt of my Father together with them, probably why I'm thirsting to dream every night. Even though I know it's made up by my mind for whatever reason, I cherish it. In my dreams, my father is still alive and had more memories together with him than in my waking life—even though I know at the bottom of my heart it's not real. Recently, my dreams have just been random or blank with no depth meaning.

I wonder if I'm the only one and my brother isn't experiencing the same thing. He didn't say anything about his dreams. Probably not. I won't just blurt out my dreams to people, even to my family or my best friend. It felt personal, like my most precious possession. Maybe it felt the same for him. Maybe.

I took a peek inside my brother's room, he's still fast asleep; his hair all rumpled up from sleep. Well, it is just six-thirty in the morning; he still has thirty minutes or more left before I wake him up to get ready for school. He can sleep longer, if need be since going to school didn't take up much time when it's just a ten-minute drive from our house, more or less.

As I went downstairs, I find mom sipping coffee by the table facing her tablet, already prepared breakfast for the family; scrambled egg, bacon, and toast. She was already dressed and ready for work, like in any other day, her coppery-brown hair with streaks of gray—is tied in a ponytail.

On rare occasions, when she takes hours to even a day without going home and books a hotel to stay in for the night, I'm the one who handles the cooking (or ordering) every morning or evening. She's currently working as a Biochem Scientist in a facility that's focused on its said name in LA which is just a forty to an hour drive from our house.

"Morning." I announced.

"Morning, I didn't notice you going down," she shifted her gaze to me and smiled. "You're up early, excited for school?"

"Not really," I say as I sat across her and helped myself with a cup of coffee and toast; I always don't have an appetite when it's still early in the morning. "It's just body clock."

Mom raised her eyebrows.

"I mean, it's just the first day of my senior year and a year before college—nothing special." I shouldn't have mentioned college. I take it back. Stupid, stupid, stupid.

"About that, have you decided on what college you're going to?" She sat her tablet on the table, propped her elbows on the table, and rested her chin on her clasped hands.

Here we go. I didn't think I'd be getting to this point in my life. We did talk about it a week ago and gave me some suggestions and advice. But the truth is, I don't know what I want yet, I'm good in school, top of the class even, I can pick whatever field I want, and glad that at least I still have half the year to decide on it before passing some college applications. Either Harvard, Oxford, or Cambridge, probably Harvard—which Mom prefers me to be close to home while also one of the top schools in medicine.

"I was thinking Harvard if I get accepted." I said what she wanted to hear. "And pass some applications on Stanford and maybe Berkeley—you know for back up, if by any chance I didn't pass Harvard." I frown. What if I don't pass it? That I'm not good enough?

But then she knows I will. She believes I will. She's my mother after all. My mother so smart and intelligent—a genius even, that she finished medicine in two years then another two for studying biochem, topped the boards then spent most of the years gaining experience, voila, a supervisor of a clinical laboratory scientist. I don't know how she did it, but she did. That's Karissa Matthiou for you. If only her daughter would be as good enough as her. All these years I've been trying to be good enough and be at the same level as she did when she was my age, that I hope she's proud of me.

"Oh, honey, I'm sure you will." Mom smiles and reaches for my arms, giving me a warm squeeze. "There's nothing impossible for you, you're my daughter after all."

I forced a smile. At least, she believes in me.

"Well, I'm always here if you need any help with it." She gives me a sympathetic smile.

I just nod.

Then she focused her gaze back on her tablet, gliding her finger on the screen. Glad that this dreading pep talk about college is over and she's not really, putting pressure on me, for now.

"How was your day with Cameron, yesterday?"

I froze, my mind wanders unto the little trouble I had yesterday—as if it was the highlight of the day. From college applications to this? Did she also happen to know about yesterday? My heart starts pounding through my chest. I'm panicking—I hope it's just the coffee that's making my hands shake. I hid it under the table before she notices it otherwise. If she did, how? Surely, Cammie didn't snitch on me—she's my best friend.

So I tried to say without a hint of a quiver in my voice, "Oh, you know, wardrobe hunting on the streets of Santa Monica Boulevard." Then I lightly roll my eyes, to make my act believable. "Cammie was bent on finding a certain dress that we spent the whole day searching for it, drenched in sweat."

It wasn't entirely a lie, I just left out the part where I almost lost my car keys and driver's license. I'm trying to prolong my lifeline here.

"That's good, you had fun." She smiles a genuine one.

She's just happy that her daughter had a fun last day of summer. That I'm just overthinking everything. Who won't? Even though my purse was returned on the same day, it shouldn't be taken lightly that I did almost lost my car keys and driver's license. Still, it's a relief that she didn't notice. My heartbeat recedes at a normal pace.

"Yeah, it was kinda fun." It was? What being drenched in sweat under the scorching sun or that strange encounter with that blue-eyed alluring stranger? Oh. My. God. I didn't just think about him. And in the middle of eating breakfast? Seriously.

Mom's chair screeching away from the table strikes me back to my senses.

"Mm, can you wake up your brother for me?" she aks, taking a last sip of her coffee while scanning her watch. "I'm pressed for time." then she stood up.

"Sure, no problem." I always do anyway.

"And don't forget to tell him to wear his contacts," She adds, shaking her head. "He always forgets to." Then she heads to the garage.

I heard the Prius' gears grinding in the driveway until it's gone, leaving me with deafening silence.

A bit later, my brother's loud yawn announces his appearance. I turn to look at him. He's leaning against the side of the archway, hair still rumpled with sleep and smelly and grumpy as always. He's never been what you can call a morning person.

"Where's Mom?" He asks with eyes still half-open and lets out another small yawn.

"You just missed her, dork."

"Aw, man." He pouts. Then in a matter of seconds, he saw the food on the table. "Ooh, bacon." Then slides onto a chair across mine and starts chomping down food in his mouth.

I watch in awe how quickly he gobbled up all the food and released a loud belch. "Whoops."

A food monster. That's what he is.

On the driveway, as I wait for Evan, I position the car outside the garage—its trunk facing the house. As I fixed my rearview mirror, I caught sight of his reflection running forth my car, his backpack clinging for its life—from the looks of it, is about to fall from his shoulder. He entered the passenger seat looking like a huffed animal with beads of sweat all over his face, ruffled hair, and sunglasses on. It's still early in the morning but he looks like he's already done for the day.

"What happened to you?" I ask incredulously. "And why are you wearing sunglasses?"

"Nothing." He exclaimed. "I just want to look cool, at least somebody has to."

I scoffed. "Since when do you care about fashion?"

"Obviously, more than you."

I narrowed my eyes on him. "Stop yammering, did you lose your contacts again?"

He always tends to lose his contacts when it's newly bought; I don't know how many times had he lost a couple of them that he's basically, making the contacts company richer. I can only imagine the look on Mom's face when she finds out. Again. Disbelief? Appalled? Disappointed? Upset? Maybe all?

"I don't know what you're talking about." He turned his face to the mirror on the sun visor and fixed both his hair and sunglasses.

Without second thoughts, I snatch his sunglasses from his face.

"Hey!"

There it is, his lavender eyes broadly unsheathed—and even has the gall to throw me an angry glower at me.

"God, I can't believe you lost it again!" I grumbled. I can't believe I have to deal with this early in the morning—already worked up. "You know why we both have to wear contacts when we go to school or, practically, anywhere!"

"Yeah, yeah ... it's 'So you don't attract unnecessary attention with just the color of your eyes'—blah-blah-blah." As if mimicking and mocking the way Mom used to say it to us when we were old enough to wear contacts. "Now give me back my sunglasses, witch."

"I'm so telling Mom," I throw his sunglasses back to him.

"Aw, come on, Eirene, don't tell Mom." His eyes pleading.

"Where did you last put it, you dweeb?"

"The last time I checked it was in my backpack, but then when I did check it—poof! It's gone, and even checked my entire room."

"Then, look for it again."

He then went through his backpack, rummaging through it, in search of his contacts. "See, no matter where I look, I don't know where I last put it!"

I pinched the bridge of my nose and let out a groan in utter disappointment with this unbelievable catastrophe early in the morning.

"Can I just borrow yours?" He pouted. We both have a spare pair of contacts—used and presumably, he lost it also.

"Do you want to borrow my underwear?"

"Ew. Gross."

"That's what I thought."

"How is it the same thing?"

"It just is."

"Why can't we just not wear it for once?" He shrugged, stopping for a half minute. "It's not like every person that we pass by will ask and if they do, why don't we just tell them that it's just contacts, and not the other way around, right?"

True. He's got a point. Sometimes I forget that my baby brother is old enough and capable to make his own decisions. I almost considered his suggestion; If only people don't gawk at us every time they see the true color of our eyes. I did try it once yesterday, but I'd rather not tolerate him doing the same mistake as mine. I've got to do a proper job of being the big sister and set a good example.

"I know," I say. "But know that Mom has her reasons why she's determined to have us wear it." Whatever that is... Other than not calling attention to ourselves. Sometimes Mom can be overly paranoid at things.

"Like what? Some monsters who'll gobble us up the moment they see our eyes?"

We both chuckled at his comment. Mom used to tell us scary stories about some monster who's hell-bent on searching the lands of the earth for children who has the gift of the Gods' eyes—violet eyes. As we grew up we both knew it was some bad attempt of made-up story that came from Mom's wide imagination. Still, it did keep us from disobeying her rule—more like we'd rather not test her patience.

"Finally!" He raised his contact container and opens it. "I thought I'd lose you this time my precious babies."

"Seriously, did you switch bags with Dora or something, having to search your backpack that long?"

I grabbed his hand before he motioned to pluck his contacts and plop them on his eyes. "Hello? Hygiene."

He rolled his eyes at me and shrugged off my grip. He then reached for the wet wipes in the glove compartment and sanitized his hands before he plops the contacts on his eyeballs. The contacts blended in nicely, cloaking its true shade of violet to ocean blue. Now we both looked like normal kids with normal pairs of blue eyes.

Before arriving at the school's parking lot, I stop by the school's main entrance that has a huge silver Malibu High School sign plastered on the top, and dropped Evan there since his building is closer to it rather than where I usually park my car. It was crawling with students and parents' cars dropping off their children.

"Later." says Evan, jumping out of the car. He grabs his backpack and walks towards the stairs. A few students of his age came to greet him and carried on their way.

There was light traffic of cars before I pulled up and found a space to park. I get out of the car. Overhead the sky is bright blue; the sun's not even shy to hide its rays, promising warmth with a fresh breeze blowing in. I look around the parking lot and saw some familiar faces I've grown to know since third grade, up to this day. This will all be our last year together before saying goodbye to the halls and our tiny classrooms as we go our separate ways to our destined feat. There's no need to idle by but head straight to my building.

My senior year awaits.

"Eirene!" Calls a familiar voice before I even made a step to the door. "Wait up." I turn to see Cammie coming out of her BMW.

I wait as she jogs over to me. Just looking at her makes the day better, as if this isn't the last year of us being together in high school before we head to college; planning our vacations, our dress to prom, our small slumber parties, and even our class schedules—it'll all be different in college. This semester, we only have four classes together as we decided we should focus on the field we'll be choosing in college. Turns out her parents already decided for her; they want her to take a degree in Business Management, following in their footsteps. It's not like she's got a choice or has any degree in mind to pursue. I guess birds of the same feather flock together. What I do think I observed from her is the fact that she loves fashion and maybe she should pursue a degree in Fashion Design—if only her parents would let her choose for her own. If only our parents would let us decide on our own. But then again, what do I want? I let that sink in. Maybe it is best to have my Mother decide for me. I shake off that thought for now. Well, on the contrary, there's no stopping us from planning to go to the same college; she plans on applying for Harvard, NYU, and Berkeley. Harvard is our main goal.

"Hey." She says now, almost out of breath.

"Hey."

"Slept well?"

"Yeah, I did."

She looped her arms over mine and sauntered our way to the building. It's always funny to think that once when we were in junior year, people made a rumor about us dating just because we're both single and always together. Then it died down when they heard we were dating the football team's team captain and vice-captain. Still, another rumor did came about. Then we're single again and thought we were dating, again. I guess it can only mean that a friendship is real to the point that people make rumors about your relationship with your best friend. It's silly. But that's life. I just laugh it off.

"I can't believe this is our last year of being in high school." She says, taking in the sight of our school. She must be thinking about our memories here—because I am.

"Yeah, as silly as it may sound, I think I'll miss this place."

"I think I'll miss it too." She says. "Not the classes and teachers but the memories we've made."

"We just have to make the most out of it." I think I might tear up thinking about it, even though we still have a year before we graduate.

"That we should." She says. "But then there's college and we'll go to the same university then graduate together." Her voice, suddenly cheerful and hopeful.

"Don't forget the sorority we always talked about joining one during our sleepovers."

Maybe it's too much watching chick flicks with her that we almost nonstop talk about joining a sorority and can't wait for when we get to college. I hope it's as close as to how the movies depicted it. It looked so much fun.

"Yeah and the party that comes with it, almost every night!" She's facing me now, beaming. "And oh, don't forget the college boys. Hot—aw, I think I'm going to faint." She placed the back of her palm on her forehead and fluttered her eyes.

We both laugh at it. This is one of the many reasons why I enjoy talking with her, how we can always be ourselves and talk just about anything. She always brightens up the mood in every single way. Though she can be a pain sometimes, I don't think I will survive college without her by my side.

As we fetch our class schedule, we pass by our lockers before going to our first period together. Our first period together was AP English Literature and glad that Mr. Robertson didn't have us introduce ourselves other than pass out some class rules and briefly explained how the grading works. There were a few new faces that I didn't bother knowing their names. It was the same in my second and third period (College Prep Chemistry and AP Calculus) which in Cammie's schedule are Fine Art and Economics. It was a drag and dreadful without her, so when I see her at Fourth period—which is AP Government—I was glad.

"Come here," She grabs my arm and motions me to take a seat beside her. And I did. "I've got something to tell you."

"What?"

She closes in on me. "I've heard a potential new student is roaming around the campus, checking out the whole school."

It's still our fourth period of the day and here she goes babbling about some rumor she heard from her friends in the previous period.

"So?" I say. "It's not like our school doesn't have new students every semester or visitors that can be a potential newcomer."

"So? Do you even hear yourself?" She asks, incredulously. "They say he's hot, like billboard model type of gorgeous."

Oh, so it was a guy. I just shake my head at her news. And here I thought it was something important, not some rumor about some hot guy. I did hear about some rash whispers here and there from my previous classes also that I didn't bother prying over. I swear whenever girls hear of a new guy, they scamper around the whole campus to know if that new guy is attractive to them or not. There are some new guys in my previous classes, how is this one special? Hot. That's why. Can't say I blame them. Unfortunately, Malibu High is short of guys that are what you can deem worthy and attractive that whenever there's a new guy, girl's hormones spike up at the news—including my only best friend. But since I am a little intrigued, I decide to humor her.

"Then have you seen him?"

"No," She frowns. "But Katy that I have Economics with said she saw him on her way to her first period—said he was definitely a hottie."

"Wow." I say not even trying to hide my sarcasm. "What was he like?"

"She described him as someone who has—" but before she can even finish what she's saying, she was cut off by Mrs. Wilson's loud clearing of her throat. Twice.

Cammie mouthed, "Later."

Mrs. Wilson was the first teacher to have us introduce ourselves to the whole class even though we've known each other since forever; not only that but she had us do a stupid exercise together, a debate regarding a topic about political events in the news—which I didn't even have any knowledge of since I barely watch the news or even bother to read the newspapers.

It's a relief when class is over. My stomach's been growling halfway through Mrs. Wilson's class and partially the reason why I can't focus on the subject matter; it was practically my fault since I only had coffee and toast for breakfast. Curse my lack of appetite in the morning that's causing me to feel ravenous and giving me a slight throbbing in my head. I'll make sure to eat more the next morning.

Normally, we go off campus to eat since we both hate the cafeteria being overly crowded and basically can't stand being around the same room with some of the students there. Only this time bringing in food to my belly is of utmost importance than the latter. I was glad Cammie didn't debate over my decision to eat in the cafeteria instead. Maybe she's famished as well. When she started babbling about the guy again, I brushed her off by saying we should have our food first then we can continue conversing about the guy she's dreading to talk about.

As usual, the cafeteria was packed with students and left with only a few seats and tables to pick from. Last year, we wouldn't even be eating at a table in the corner of the cafeteria and need to share it with a bunch of students we don't know—or best known as outcasts. No, far from it. We would be eating at the table together with my former cheer squad—or what the students call the popular's table. And even though Cammie wasn't a part of the cheer squad, she was treated as part of the group. She was always really popular in school—people looked up to her and wanted to be like her, it was always easy for her to make friends as she effortlessly brightens up every room and has a unique charm that can make everyone adore her instantly.

Now, as I glance over the table where we used to sit, they're all staring daggers at us. I'm glad I don't have any classes with them. Then I see him. I grow to know him like the back of my hand; That all too familiar hazel eyes. I know the sweep of his shoulders, his short and spiky blonde hair, and his full lip, which every girl dream to kiss. The jerk who broke my heart. Nick. Together with that auburn-haired girl—Leslie Beaumont; the new head cheerleader and the one he said I shouldn't worry about. Stupid of me to trust him. I felt like an i***t. I can't believe I've ever dated such a monster. I can't believe he used to make my heart flutter and sent butterflies to my stomach. Now, he only makes me want to puke my gut out.

Cammie followed my gaze to them. "You shouldn't be giving them what they want, you know."

She's right. I shouldn't be staring anymore. I shouldn't be staring at him. But I wanted my stare to mean something—that he doesn't have that grip over me anymore, that I've moved on. I'm glad that I did because he broke the gaze between us. I win.

"I know and I don't care."

As we're closing in on the line to get our food, Cammie was acting really weird, her hands are curling into fists.

"What's wrong with you?" I whispered.

She faces me and her brows furrowed in distress with a few beads of sweat on her temples. "I may need to go to the loo."

"Now?"

"Yes." She says. "It's like something is poking needles on my insides."

"Are you sure it's not because you're hungry?"

"Yes, I'm sure."

"Do you want me to go with you?" I offered. I'm starting to get worried for her.

"No." She says. "I'll be fine. Besides, you're hungry, can't have us two, fainting because of our stomachs."

I stifle a laugh. "Call me if you need me, okay?"

"Okay. Just get something for me."

"Okay."

After I got both our food, my phone rang, and reached for it with my free hand. Cammie. As I answer her call, I was having a hard time balancing our lunch with one hand that I lost focus on where I was going. My mind is set on sitting at an unoccupied table, several steps ahead of me.

"Hello, Cammie?" I say as I'm scanning the cafeteria for any sign of her all the while taking a step towards the table. Then I blindly smack my face into a wall. Hard. Our lunch fell to my side, splatting on my white sneakers. Only there isn't any wall near the table.

I smacked into someone. Great.