It’s a guitar string! I pull it with all my strength, digging my feet into the ground. The string tenses in my grip as the truck stalls in the distance, honking furiously, its taillights flashing violently. This isn’t superhuman strength. It’s the strength born out of fear and desperation.
When I feel the ground softening beneath me, I glance down and see water rising up to my knees. But I keep on pulling with everything I have until water reaches my waist, and my feet feel like they’re about to slip. The truck keeps honking, and I keep pulling and pulling the guitar string—until finally it breaks, and I go crashing back into my bed.
* * *
I wake up crying in the middle of the night. Since I can’t go back to sleep, I call Sam, hoping he picks up. As soon as he does, I ask if that was him trying to reach me in my dream. If it was him trying to send me a message.
“I’m sorry, Jules … but that wasn’t me. It was only a dream.”
“Are you sure?” I say hopefully. “Maybe my dreams are another place we can find each other.”
“I wish that could be true. But I think we’re connected only through our phones.”
Only through our phones.
My lip trembles. “It felt so real, though, Sam. It felt like … I had another chance, you know?”
“Another chance at what?”
I don’t answer this. I’m afraid to know what he’ll think. I’m afraid he’ll tell me what I don’t want to hear. Not right now.
Sam exhales. “It’s just a dream, Jules. You should try to get some rest, okay? We’ll talk tomorrow. I have another surprise for you.”
“Okay. I’ll try.”
Whenever I call Sam out of the blue, our conversation doesn’t last long. It always takes him a while to pick up, and when he does, his voice sometimes fades in and out, like he’s moving around, searching for a signal. I’m not sure why this is. If we want to keep a strong connection, I’ve learned we have to plan out our calls and make them at the right time and place. Even though I’m allowed to call whenever I need him, Sam says I have to be cautious about how often I make the calls. I think about this. Is there a limited number of calls we have left? Are we running out? I wish I knew how this all worked.
* * *
It’s hard to pay attention in school. In class, I keep taking my phone out to make sure it’s there. It brings me some comfort when everyone is ignoring me. I can’t stop thinking about how Sam and I are connected again. About how we got this second chance. I’ve started keeping a log of all our phone calls in my notebook. The time of day, where it took place, how long the call lasted. I also write down the things we talk about, along with questions I still have that need answering. Questions like … Why were we given this second chance? And How much longer do we have this for? Sam told me doesn’t have the answers to these things. I wonder if I should bring them up again.
Mika shows up to class today. She comes in a little late, and takes a seat on the other side of the room, several rows away from me. Her clothes are wrinkled, her hair is unbrushed, and she brought no books with her. She hasn’t responded to any of my texts since we spoke on my porch yesterday morning. I want to talk to her after class, but as soon as the bell rings, she grabs her bag and rushes out the door before I get my chance. I wish she would speak to me, give me a chance to explain why I’ve been ignoring her. I think about writing a note and sticking it in her locker. But what would it even say?
Dear Mika,
I’m sorry for missing the vigil the other night. I’ve been talking to Sam these past few days. I think it’s interfering with incoming calls and texts, and causing things to slip my mind. Yes, our Sam. He’s still dead, but he can pick up the phone when I call him. It’s hard to explain because he hasn’t given me any answers on how any of this is happening. Anyway, I hope this helps you understand things now, and we can be friends again.
Julie
She’d probably turn it in to the counseling office to get me checked, and understandably so. I decide to hold off on the letter and wait for another chance to see her. It will give me time to figure out what to say.
Lunch is the only part of the school day I look forward to. Jay, Rachel, and Yuki always manage to brighten my mood. It’s Pizza Friday—Jay’s favorite day of the week.
“It’s America’s favorite pie,” he says, enjoying a second slice of pepperoni.
“Isn’t that apple pie?” Rachel asks.