Ripped Away: Chapters 1–4

See the guy walking out the school door? The one you could pick out from a lineup of Most Likely to Spend Saturday Night at Home? The one who keeps his head down, hands in his pockets, not exactly frowning but not looking delirious with life either?

Follow me as I mumble hello to the maintenance guy, then head up the foot path, nodding as I pass Mitzy Singer, who’s sitting on the memorial bench.

Look at Mitzy Singer. The spiky blue hair, the wrist bangles, the cavalcade of ear studs,
the black jeans.

Nothing happens, that’s what. Not even a snub. Not a single sign that she knows I’m alive.

We had to come up with a name for the state, its crops and industries, a flag, and a bunch of other stuff—including a state bird.

The girls were more into plumage, so they wanted a peacock, a cardinal, maybe a toucan.

How could you not love a girl who could philosophize about taxonomy and muzzle a room full of kids, all in the space of eight words?

How could you not love a girl who could philosophize about taxonomy and muzzle a room full of kids, all in the space of eight words?

How I’d slow down and say, “Hey, Mitzy,” my tone cool, my hair perfect.
How she’d flush, a spray of pink freckles spreading across her cheeks.

I make up people, give them problems, and let them play things out. Walking the track as the sun comes up, tuning my brainwaves to my stride, to my breath, maybe to the universe, that’s when inspiration sometimes strikes.

If today were any other day, I’d walk straight under the "Fort Pippin Welcomes You” banner, pass the stretch of shops and tea spots, turn right at the indie bookstore, walk another quarter mile, and let the little saltbox of monotony at 25 Prospect welcome me home.

First, to the ground-floor awning of Blue Marble Novelties, then to the Loose Goose Café on the second floor, and on to the darkened window on the top floor, which is where I see something I’ve never noticed before.

Besides, I don’t believe in psychics or clairvoyants or any of that stuff.

The only thing on the desk is a bell, the kind you have to pick up by the handle to ring, so I do, just to hear how it sounds. Funny, it barely whispers, as if it resents being disturbed.

“Mmm,” she murmurs, which is pretty vague if you ask me. “Everything is...very interesting. You are an interesting fellow, Abe.”

I pull myself up on the narrow bench, my heart careening in my chest.

This must be what they call a lucid dream, where you know you’re dreaming even while it’s happening.

He makes a hoarse sound, like a muffled cry, and then he drops the match and runs into the clubhouse, the heavy door slamming shut behind him.

Halfway across the street I collide with someone running in the opposite direction. Someone wearing a coarse, oversized coat and smelling like a pub.

Home turns out to be a three-story tenement that looks like the set for a horror flick.

It’s dark, sunken, decrepit.

Once inside, I feel my way up the rickety stairs, listening to the pitter-patter of rodent feet along the steps, silently cursing Zinnia and her sleep-inducing spices.

I go to the low, flimsy bed in the corner and flop onto my back.

No wonder everything feels so authentic here. No wonder I can’t will myself to fly or breathe under water or any of those fantastic things they say you can script out in a lucid dream. This is all for real.

I want to see what kind of sweatshop she toils in, and how far she has to trudge to get there.

“Did you say there’s some supper left?”
“Herring, on the shelf.”

Overhead, bickering voices spill out of an open window.

Her harsh existence has dug lines around her mouth and drawn circles under her eyes, but she’s still pretty, with hazel eyes, tawny skin, and a way of talking that shows off her teeth.

Foot traffic picks up as men plod to work, probably to the river docks.

So Asher wants to be a vet. Yeah, that seems right. He wants to do dissections and study anatomy and stuff.

It’s a mammoth building with women and girls pouring in and out, the sharp tang of phosphorus piercing the air.

I pick up my pace now, passing a corner bookshop, a church, and a place called a “haberdasher”—men’s clothes by the looks of it.

Maybe I’m on the wrong street. Maybe I’m just tired. Or maybe Zinnia sent me to a place that isn’t even internally consistent.

The flat smells a little like my school locker, stuffy and stale, so I open the small window over my bed and lie down, thinking I might actually fall back to sleep—anything to avoid thinking about what’s happening to me.

The window above me lets in the din of the street—peddlers shouting out their wares, cart wheels creaking against cobblestone, kids laughing, mothers scolding.

“Mitzy, is that you?” Please, please let me not be hallucinating.

“It’s me,” I practically shout.

Climbing the dingy stairs to the top floor, my mind strays back to last school year, around Halloween time.

But it’s not Mitzy. It’s a man. Short, stocky, dark eyes, balding.

Mr. Kraskov groans at this, but he steps aside to let me into his hovel.