Brother to Dragons, Companion to Owls - Jane Lindskold [55]
I am just beginning to understand when I wake up and, of course, nothing makes sense anymore.
I try to diminish the dream, but something of its mood remains with me when Abalone again takes me to a park to practice with the owl.
During our break for a late-night snack, Abalone is troubled by how I toy with my food.
“Hey, eat up, Sarah. That’s good stuff there—full of preservatives and artificial flavors. It’s your favorite.”
I manage a weak, unconvincing grin.
“Something hurting, Sarah?” Professor Isabella asks. “Your period?”
She laughs at my confused expression.
“I forgot, that’s a thing of the past. You all get implants now. I remember that when I left the Home they decided I was too old to waste one on. So, let me change my question. Is your stomach hurting?”
I am tempted to nod, but instead I try and explain. “I dreamt that I dwelt in marble halls, with vassals and serfs at my side.”
“That sounds like a nice dream,” Professor Isabella says. “Why are you so troubled? Want to go back?”
A sudden shaking seizes me, so violent that I spill my juice on the floor. Abalone leaps up but instead of wiping up the juice, she flings her arms around me.
“It’s okay, Sarah. It was just a dream.”
I hug her back, wishing I could explain the fear I suddenly felt. Terror of returning to the Institute, where surely I had seen Dylan. Fear of learning what I may.
My smile is crooked. “To sleep: perchance to dream; ay there’s the rub; for in that sleep of death what dreams may come?”
I pause and Abalone finishes the lines.
“When we have shuffled off this mortal coil/Must give us pause; there’s the respect that makes calamity of so long life,” she recites.
“You know Hamlet very well,” Professor Isabella says conversationally, with a sidelong glance to where I am trying to gather my composure.
I feel Abalone tense, but she picks up a napkin and begins to mop the floor. Perhaps sensing that I am still shaken, she decides to answer the implied question.
“Yeah, I did it in high school. I was the youngest member of the cast. Did lots of little stand-in roles so I was onstage a lot. Heard the play over and over and knew it better than the leads, I think.”
In the pause that follows, I hold my breath, knowing with certainty what Professor Isabella will say, dreading Abalone’s response.
“That’s quite an achievement—Hamlet at fourteen. Your parents must have been very impressed.”
“Twelve,” Abalone bursts out. “I was just twelve. If they were pleased, they were sure funny how they showed it. They wanted me to get Ophelia, y’see, and never quite let me forget that a grown-up got it.”
“Grown-up?” Professor Isabella lifts an eyebrow. “This was an adult’s production? I thought it was your school’s.”
“School’s?” Abalone laughs bitterly. “I never had a school—not for long anyhow. I started doing commercials before I was out of diapers. Except for a year when I was seven, I was never in school more than a semester. The other kids hated me for getting what they figured were vacations.
“Hah! That’s how I got good with this.” She taps her computer. “I did all of my classes on it.”
“So your parents kept you educated,” Professor Isabella asks carefully, peering over her coffee cup’s rim.
Abalone stands up, ignoring that the napkin in her hand is dripping orange juice down her pant leg. For a moment, I think she is not going to answer.
“Educated?”
Again that bitter, barking laugh.
“Oh, I got educated. Mom and Dad read tapes to me when I wasn’t even born yet—‘prenatal’ tutoring, y’see. It got more intense when I was around to work with. They had me talking eight months early, walking six months early, and reading when I was three. The theater and film stuff was just a sideline to pay the rent.”
She finally notices the juice and stops to stare at her soaked pant leg.
“So?” Professor Isabella probes.
“So? I did it all. I was going to be the girl genius, darling of the media. Brilliant, talented, and lovely. Funny thing happened, though.”