In Dreams Read Online Free Page A

kinds of culture. And it’s kind of weird, but with the exception of trig, all that reading and museums mean I don’t have to try too hard to get straight As.
    I keep glancing over at him while I pretend to read. I want to ask him questions. I really do. Like how my mom called out Sebastian, the exact name of the guy who has been part of my dreams for years. I want to tell him about the marks on my ankle. But I don’t want to worry him. He has enough to worry about with my mom. He doesn’t need to start with me, too.
    I think he feels me staring at him, but all I see is his white hair over the Times . Then he lowers the paper. I just smile at him and then look down at my book. We sit like that, me curled on the couch, and himreclining in his La-Z-Boy, until the doorbell rings.
    He stands, reaches into his back pocket, takes out his wallet, and hands me two twenties and a ten. “Not sure of the total,” he says.
    I open the door, and a man is standing there holding a brown paper bag with our Chinese food. Only it’s not Cheung, the son of the owner of Ming’s Palace. It’s a guy with dark sunglasses, a black T-shirt, jeans, and biceps the size of small tree trunks. On his forearm is a tattoo of an intricate serpent. And something about the tattoo looks familiar, as if I’ve seen it somewhere. Total déjà vu. Maybe in a dream? My throat goes dry. Something about this feels fifty shades of wrong.
    I glance back at Grandpa, fear in my eyes. Grandpa climbs out of his chair and steps closer to me.
    I turn to look at the deliveryman, and I manage to whisper, “How much?”
    With one hand still holding the bag, he uses his other hand to whip off his sunglasses. And where his eyes should be are . . . mirrors. Or glass. I can’t quite tell. I want to look away, to run away, but I can’t stop staring into them, and I see swirls of black storm clouds. And lightning. His eyes, they’re mesmerizing. He grins. More of a leer that makes my throat feel even tighter.
    Finally, I tear my gaze away, and I look behind him. Near our big oak tree—the oak tree with my old tree house still in it—is a dog. A mean, snarling, snapping dog.
    Then the dog bolts a few yards toward our door, growling so loud it’s an earth-shaking rumble, and I literally gasp. It has three heads. Cerberus . My heart pounds, and I’m frozen.
    I know I called Ming’s Palace. I can smell Chinese food. I know this is real, but I swear it is a dream.
    I slam the door shut—or try to—but the delivery guy manages to block me with one shove of his supersize arm. I look at the tattoo, and the snake is moving—actually moving on his skin, twisting and slithering, its scales shiny and black.
    “What? No tip?” His voice drips with menace.
    “Grandpa!” I shriek. I back up into our living room, but the guy is coming after me, barging inside, and behind him on the front steps the dog is growling. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Grandpa has grabbed his prized bat—his Yankees bat signed by Don Mattingly, the possession he loves most in the world—off the mantel of the fireplace.
    The man with the strange eyes keeps coming toward me. He drops our Chinese food on the floor and knocks over a lamp, which shatters into a thousandpieces. The lightbulb pops and sparks, and half the room is now dim.
    Grandpa swings the bat, hard, and connects. It splinters against the man’s arm, and still the man with the strange eyes keeps coming, kicking the ottoman aside and then knocking the coffee table over so he can get to me. I skitter over furniture and back up until I am against the wall. Grandpa searches the living room. I can see him moving toward the fireplace and the iron tongs.
    The man looms over me, blocking my view of anything but his face. “What do you want?” I ask. My throat is so paralyzed with terror, the words come out in a croak.
    “Stay away, Iris.” He emphasizes the s in my name like the hiss of a snake. The man’s voice is cold. The voice