I have some pretty crazy dreams. They tend to follow plot lines like tv shows, each one a continuation (or sometimes flashback) of the last. This “season” seems to be an alternate history of my time in high school. The general gist is that my father never died, eventually married his girlfriend Wendy, and they got primary custody for whatever reason. Likely to keep me in the school district we wanted. Well, for some reason, in these dreams they are very bizarre versions of themselves. Dad is witless and scattered, more so than I remember him being, and Wendy is a coward–which is not remotely true. Also I’m failing high school this time around?
Well, with that bit of background lets get to the story.
[A slow western theme plays in the background. Heavy on the harmonica.]
We’d been sitting in the office of my homeroom teacher, Erin, for what felt like ages now. Just me, her, and her shotgun, waiting. After what felt like it had surely been an hour, she dismissed me, certain that my parents weren’t coming. Mom had RSVPd that she was unable to leave work as she was working the night shift at the Center today, but Dad and Wendy had agreed to discuss my middling grades. They knew I could do better than a low D average in my AP classes. Just last year I had been a B student, only having any real trouble with Chemistry.
I endured the dull bus ride home, which seemed to fly by and drag at the same time. Getting dropped off at the top of the street. All the children of the neighborhood were out. The sun was starting to get low in the sky. I dodged abandoned bicycles as I made my way to the house. The strange western tune was still playing, indicating that Erin was near. Weird, I thought to myself. I figured she had headed back to her own home. That’s when I saw her. She was cantering up the road on her large brown stallion. At least 17 hands high, he was beautiful. Lightly saddled, no bit. The ubiquitous shotgun that followed her everywhere was slung lightly over her denim jacket clothed shoulder, one hand resting on the butt.
That was when I noticed the green front door to my childhood home thrown open and the porch chairs askew. I called out to her, asking about my family. She sniffed in disgust.
“Those lily-livered pansies ran from my gun. They were long gone by time I got here. I didn’t hurt the cat.” She shifted the shotgun and sighed. “I better be a moseying on. See you at school, Mara.” Before I could respond the horse was trotting past me, up the street and into the sunset.
[Music fades as the sun lowers down underneath the horizon. Credits roll as our narrator swats the words from in front of her face.]