In Dreams Read Online Free

. It’s not a typical name. In fact, I’ve never met anyone with that name ever. How? That’s all I keep thinking. How did the vine marks get on my leg? How did the military-type men from my dream end up on a street corner in my hometown? How did my mother call out the name of the man of my dreams when I didn’t even know his name until that afternoon when I was hypnotized?
    I want to pretend none of this ever happened. I leave her room and go to the kitchen to make myself something to eat. I hear Grandpa’s car in the driveway—he drives a cute BMW convertible, and when I graduate from high school, he has promised it to me as my graduation present.
    He comes through the front door and makes his way to the kitchen, where I’m trying to choose between four different boxes of cereal, trying to pretend today was like any other day.
    “Gourmet dining, I see,” he says. “Shall I light candles and break out the good china?”
    I worry my voice will sound shaky. But I try to joke with him like I always do. “Dinner of champions. Frosted Flakes? Corn Pops? Lucky Charms? Or Raisin Bran? Or we could get really adventurous and go for Pop-Tarts.”
    “How about takeout?”
    “Okay,” I say, and open our take-out drawer. My grandmother died of cancer when I was six months old. Apparently, she was a great Italian cook—Sicilian, actually, but then she learned to make the Greek food my grandfather loves. That cooking gene skipped my mom—badly. And it most definitely skipped me. Grandpa can make three things: mac and cheese from the blue box, grilled souvlaki on the barbecue, and tuna-fish sandwiches with minced pickles in them—sounds gross, but they’re delicious. Anything beyond that repertoire means takeout—and we have menus for every pizza parlor, sub shop, Chinese place, and sushi restaurant within a ten-mile radius of our house.
    I pick up about a dozen menus, spread them out, and jokingly fan my face, grateful that he’s here and that he looks and is acting completely and totally like my grandfather. “What are you in the mood for, Grandpa?”
    “Ah, take-out roulette. Well, being as I just got home, how about the Chinese place that delivers? That way I don’t have to go out again. Order me the Szechuan pork—extra hot. Two egg rolls. And shrimp wontons.”
    I take my phone from my back pocket and find therestaurant in my contacts—we order so often, every place is in there, and they all know my voice. I order his food and then mine—shrimp with snow peas. Then we go into the living room and wait. I try to act as if everything is okay. But I picture my mom’s mouth forming the word Sebastian . I didn’t imagine it. I shut my eyes tight and open them again. This is my living room. Everything is how it always is, right down to the thick, glossy art books stacked just so on the coffee table. I try to forget today. Maybe I really am just overtired. Delusional. Except I know I’m not.
    “How have you been sleeping?” he asks.
    I shrug. “Okay. I mean . . . you know, not sleeping. So nothing’s changed.”
    “And to think we spent two thousand dollars on that fancy mattress.”
    “I know.”
    “And how was the hypnotherapist?”
    “Actually, he says he can help me. I made another appointment.”
    “Good. That’s very good, Lambie.”
    Yeah. His nickname for me. His little lamb. Annie abuses it and calls me Mutton.
    He picks up the New York Times we get deliveredevery day. I pick up my book. We don’t have a television in our living room. Or in the den. In fact, I have one in my bedroom only because I begged for it so I wouldn’t be the only freak at school without. My mother, before she got sick, and my grandfather are really into reading, learning, visiting museums. Even with my mom sick, Grandpa and I usually have a standing date twice a month to visit an art museum, or attend a lecture, or see a Broadway play, or something. Annie usually comes. Her parents love that she’s getting all