The Dream Catcher's Daughter Read Free Page B

a
two-story, peach-colored building with pleasantly trimmed grass. Despite the
unbroken windows, the lack of mildew, and the absence of crushed beer cans
strewn throughout his yard, Jason stared at his house for a moment or two
before lumbering up the front walk, unlocking the door, and shoving inside.
Jason took off his shoes at the door, letting his eyes wander the hallway. He
had been back nearly a week, but still couldn’t believe how little had changed
in a year. The walls still remained half-painted, a pet project Mr. McKinney
picked up every once in a while, maybe painting bits and pieces here and there.
But he would stroke once, maybe twice, then put the brush back in the paint
bucket. He wouldn’t even look at the paint for months on end.
    Jason moved into the living room on his
left. He didn’t enter, but hung at the entrance, casting a glance at every
article of furniture—the plush, gaudy red couch against the east wall,
bookcases on the north wall, and a small television and entertainment center on
the west. A love seat occupied the south wall. Jason could still see his mother
and father sitting, cuddling, and giggling on that love seat. They had looked
happy.
    Jason caught himself massaging the back of
his head, and quickly turned away.
    He headed farther up the hall and passed a
door on his right. He stopped, then turned. This door, a thick slab of oak
bolted into the maple frame with gold-painted hinges and screws, complete with
gold-painted doorknob, had remained closed for such a long time.
    He reached for the handle, slowly. Hand
quivering. Breath. Hitch. Ing . When his fingers
brushed the doorknob, he winced. There was no enchantment on this door, but
Jason wished there was so he wouldn’t feel so stupid for flinching. He turned
the knob and pushed, but the door caught—locked. He let his hand fall and,
shaking his head, Jason turned toward the door at the end of the hall. Behind
it stood a staircase. The first steps creaked, then, as if he were walking on
the keys of a piano, the steps’ creaks rose to squeaks. The bare landing at the
top offered no sound—a broken key—and Jason continued down a short hall toward
an empty doorframe at the end. He lingered here for a long moment. He still
couldn’t believe how spotless his room was.
    “Sorry! Cleaned your room while you were
gone. Most of your clothes are still in the closet, but if you want your toys
or video games, you’ll have to dig through the shed. They’re safe, I promise.”
This had been a note left by Mr. McKinney the first day Jason returned. Jason
had yet to rummage through the shed.
    Now his room was nothing but the
barest of bare: his bed, with plain white sheets and a flower-embroidered
comforter with matching pillow set; the sand-colored floorboards that
disappeared under the wardrobe on the wall opposite of his bed; the barren desk
and nightstand beneath the window. Generic-brand Lysol and Windex permeated the
air.
    He plopped down on his bed, his schoolbag
sliding off one side and landing hunched and small on the floor. He stared at
the bag, blue with black straps and stitching. It had two pockets: one for
books, the other for pens, pencils, rulers, and calculators. He hoped it might
soon contain a Megatron figure, the one he’d deliver
to Trevor after class. First he had to find it. He looked up, and his eyes
landed on the desk. In that split flicker, another chair appeared next to
Jason’s. In it sat a girl, bent over the desk, a single leaf of notebook paper
before her.
    Once upon a time, there was a knight who
didn’t want to be a knight.
    Jason jerked back, clasping his hand to
the back of his head. The pressure had pooled there again, and he tried
twisting his head every which way, begging for something, anything, to pop, to
relieve the nagging pressure at the base of his skull. His brow cinched tight,
his breath shallow. He clutched his hands to his chest, curling his arms up, as
though he would flap them and fly