I used to have a recurring dream...

A dream where I was on a boat out on the sea, off the coast of Africa. I didn’t know anyone else on the ship, except for one person, and she was a reason I was on that vessel to begin with. The details have become sketchy over the years…like a collage of events taken out of time and context slowly disintegrating into dust. Did I see her smile at me or was that the camera in my mind? Did we swim in a pool with blue and green rocks on the bottom or was I remembering an aquarium I used to own? Was I holding her hand, telling her much I loved her, or only imaging doing so?

I still have dreams are still about her and they still take place on a small island, but the water lies still and murky and a boat lies capsized next to a rocky atoll which I always find myself standing on, looking out at the decrepit scene before me. It’s so deadly silent; I can hear my heart breaking as I step down from the rocks and into the shallow water and walk to beach.
The drab beach, like the rest of the island appeared dead in my mind, as everything looked grey and heavy. Each time I recall this dream I found myself looking back to the ocean, not one wave splashed on the sand. There was not a bird in the grey sky, only silence. I would then look back to the island and that was when everything became hazy and I would wake up.

There was one time, the dream continued, and as I turned my head back to the island, a figure stood on a mountain in the distance, waving to me. I couldn’t make out who it was at first, but the silhouette kept waving to me, waving as in a “come here” motion, not one of goodbye. With a desire to figure out the mystery, I’d take a step away from the beach and with that one step, everything changed:
The small boat, once sunken into the water was once again riding the waves. The water turned a translucent blue, and I could see fish darting through the current of the noisy tide. I could hear the sounds: Birds in the sky, the wind blowing through my hair and the roar of the surf crashing onto the sand. Colors and feelings flooded in to create a water-colored reality.

I stepped back further away from the shore and closer to the person calling out to me. I could see it was girl, and I could hear her voice, but I couldn’t recognize it.

“Jason,” she said, her voice as calm as a whisper but louder than Coach Register’s booming voice through a bullhorn during PE.

There was a crashing noise on the beach below and I saw it: the human-sized tornado with piecing red eyes. It looked up and our eyes locked. It was then I realized who was upon the hill, so I high-tailed it to the summit.
The wind rushed harder, causing me to turn around to and see the tornado was hundreds of feet tall, it’s eyes still marked on me. I climbed up as my life depended on it! I reached the top I could see her red hair, blue eyes, and a smile that could have caused the launch of millions of ships.
I had only a second to yell out her name as the tornado slammed into me with a deafening “Beep! Beep! Beep!”

“Tiffany!”

Awakened by the annoying buzzer of my alarm was both a relief and a tragedy, a relief that I was not torn to pieces by the dark forces of nature; and tragic because I was finally able to spend some time with her and couldn’t remember everything that happened.
That morning was once again a school day, a Tuesday, I believe. Mom had decided if I didn’t wake up to my alarm then I would miss the bus and then have to walk two-point-one miles to Prattville Junior High. Being late would mean missing Band.

Twenty-five minutes later, I stood on the side of the road, a few houses up the street from my own, next to Keith Grayson: my only friend at the tim. He was thirteen as well, but he had that “over the summer” growth spurt and he towered over me, and he also had a bit of a mustache.

“Did you try to call her?”

“Wasn’t the right time,” I replied.

“And how many times have I heard that?”

“Twenty-one, at last count.”

Keith, being my friend, lived by the the unwritten code of brotherhood to call me out when I was being an idiot—which had become a daily occurrence. There were multiple times that I talked over my “problem” with Keith, and he always gave the same answer: “Just go and talk to her.”
“I need to find the right time,” would be my constant reply, and that morning was no different.

“The right time for you will be two years from now. You’ll call directory assistance, even though she lives in, I don’t know, Missouri, and you’re living somewhere in Washington state. Let’s see…that’s about sixteen hundred and thirty miles away.”

I looked to him and nodded, which when translated to teenager meant, ‘I do not want to admit you’re right but, you’re right.’

“When she answers, she’ll make the comment that she suspected you had a crush her.”

I looked down the street and envisioned her running my way, with that friendly smile and what looked like the wings of an angel, glimmering in the early morning light, which was one of the many ways she appeared to me, but it was only the flashing strobe light of the bus.

“Sixteen. Hundred. When you could have said something to her when you both went to the same school. Allow that to sink in.”
We stepped onto the sort of overcrowded, kind-of-smelly school bus and sat down. The bus at once lurched forward onward to the school, as we were the last stop.

I opened my backpack, took out a binder, and handed it to Keith. We made a deal to compare notes, and by compare, I mean I worked the problems, and Keith copied the answers.

“I’m looking for ‘that’ moment,” I replied as I looked out the window. “It’s got to happen a certain way, and just rushing into it won’t work.”

“I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again: Why don’t you just ask her?”

“I’m looking for a sign.”

“You want a sign?” Keith opened the binder and scribbled out a note:

“Look…at…me. I’m…stupid. Thanks. That really helps.”

“Anytime, Jase.”

“You can give me back my history homework now.”

After the agonizing ride to school, with my body feeling every bump and pothole, we arrived at Prattville Junior High School, a school so old that Methuselah attended it when he was in seventh grade. The school was made up of two buildings that created a square-like shape, or circle; let’s just say you could walk from the front and make a complete ring without doubling back—unless you had to go to the gym, which was a place I never really liked to go to.

I spent most of my school day in the new building (which had central air-conditioning, the rest did not); it included my first class, band.

The band room was cavernous, from the fact that it was two stories in height. You couldn’t yell at someone from one side of the room to the other due to the acoustic material on the wall. The seventh-grade band, made up of four classes, would combine to form one large wannabe concert band. There were fifty or so students in each class; but in my class, there was only one person who mattered.
I caught a glimpse of her as I walked through the room and to a file cabinet that held my music folder, and that was usually all it took for me to have a good day. I won’t compare her to a café mocha, but one shot…umm, look, and I knew the day would be okay. She was like armor against the slings and arrows of junior high life.

I played the oboe in the band, a difficult instrument to play, let alone master. No one ever told me that it was more of a concert band instrument and that junior high schools did not have the sheet music for it. More often than not, our band director, Mr. Drose, would have to create handwritten versions of the sheet music due to my instrument’s timbre. I was the only one who played it too, so if I made an error, it was easy to hear it above all the other instruments. If played wrong, the oboe sounds like a duck dying in extreme agony. There were days that I played so badly I feared a swarm of hunters in camouflage and waders would storm the band room.

I would do what I could to prepare for the start of class and be at the ready. I talked to a few people while passing by with my stand or chair. Then
I would grab my music folder (which was quite large) and hope that the stand I had would hold it without tipping over.

It was important to have everything ready before the second bell rang, as I didn’t want to look like a fool in front of her so after placing my music stand and folder in front of my chair, which was dead center of the flute section, I ran to the storage room to grab my instrument case. The goal was to grab the case, turn about face, and then run to the water fountain in order to soak the double reed the oboe used.

There were days where I felt jealous of the clarinet players with their simple reeds that didn’t require a ten-minute soak in water and didn’t cost twenty dollars a piece. I almost thought of taking up the flute, but the last thing I wanted to do was slam the face of the person to the left me as I would most likely turn my head to said direction if someone called out my name.

My instrument was gone. I stood and wondered if it had been stolen or misplaced by someone. I knew for the fact I did not bring it home to practice…although I should have. I walked back into the main room, sat in my chair, and pondered where my oboe had gone to.

“Jason Dennereck?”

“Yes, Mr. Drose?”

“Where is your instrument?”

I could see the vein in Mr. Drose’s forehead start its ascension. It had sensed a student who did not have his instrument out and ready.

“Mr. Dennereck?” Mr. Drose’s words were always proper, even when delivered in pure sarcasm.

“Yes, sir?”

“You do realize we only have an hour?”

“Yes, sir,”

“So why do you feel like wasting the class?”

I never figured out until a year later that he was always speaking rhetorically when he asked that, so I replied with “I can’t find my instrument, sir.”

He would then order the offender—me, in this case—to go out into the hall for the rest of the hour. At the end of class, everyone dissembled and placed their instruments in the storage room, moved their chairs to the back of the room and the stands to the far side of the room. They then would walk out the double doors and see me, with the proverbial dunce cap on my head, the scarlet I around my neck, and the sign above my head that read, “Girls, don’t date this guy. He forgot to bring his instrument to class today. Imagine what he’ll forget to do in high school. Or later?
He will always forget your anniversary!”

If that wasn’t bad enough, Mr. Drose then called me into his office and, basically, went over everything he said earlier with a more irritated tone. I nodded to everything he said, even when he said I should handcuff my instrument case to my arm in the morning so I wouldn’t forget it. I started to believe I had indeed left my oboe at home, sitting next to my hamster’s cage.

So, with a verbal lashing and a late note, I proceeded to my second period class in the old building: life science with Mrs. Smith.

Mrs. Smith, like Mr. Drose, spoke in rhetorical questions, but only when I knew the answer. Any other time, such as asking what the primary function of the Golgi Apparatus was or the chemical comprehension of cytoplasm, I was expected to know the answer. I have to be honest; I went from sixth grade science—where we made cells out of Knox Jell-O and various forms of buttons—to Anatomy 303 with a workbook possibly drawn and written by Henry Grey himself. I sat in the back of the classroom, not by choice, but I wasn’t going to complain about it, as it gave me some cover to try and complete a section of my workbook—which I had forgotten to do…can we sense a pattern here?

I had my mind on other things, things that could happen if I only had the right moment. Could I walk into one of her classes and give my heart to her? I mean, she already had it…but how could I tell her. There were days, contrary to what I have ever told Keith, that I thought I could ask her. I would go up right in front of the class and tell her what I thought about when I saw her for the first time, and then reality would literally kick in, knock me off my feet, and I’d abandon that thought for another day. I never actually got within five feet of her when I was brave enough. It was only when my stomach was full of butterflies, and my tongue was as huge as a burrito that I could get near her. At that point, she would say “hi” and I would say “hi” back…and that was about it. I guess it’s a roundabout way of saying that I was interested in life science, just not on the cellular level.
* * *
“What happened?” Keith asked as I stood next to him on a dusty and rocky track in a pair of shorts, T-shirt, and old gym shoes. It was PE, a class I hated more than math but less than a trip to the orthodontist.

Why did I hate the class? It wasn’t because I was lazy. I had a fond disliking of the class because I wasn’t really good at anything except for soccer—which we seldom, if ever, played as there were over fifty-six kids in the class. It would be more of “mob ball” than any organized sport.
We had all assembled on the track that day to “run the mile,” or as I think the coaches like to put it: “We don’t know what to do with all of you, and it’s a blazing hot day, so we want you to run until you pass out of throw up. Line up!”

“Forgot my instrument at home and got sent to the hall.”

“I don’t remember you carrying it home yesterday.”

“You too? I was sure I didn’t bring it home. But Mr. Drose made me stand in front of his office for the entire period and everyone gawked at me as they left,” I replied as the scene replayed in my head repeatedly.

“And I assume she saw it all?”

“Witnessed the whole scene along with the rest of the class, like a firing squad. I might as well give up.”

“Have you even tried to begin with?”

“I’ve been working on it.”

“Just be glad she’s not in this class with you.” Keith commented as he got down into a runner’s position,

“Oh yeah, I’d love her to see me cough and drag myself across this track. While I might get ‘bless his heart’ points, I don’t see it helping.”

“I hear you,” Keith replied as he took off in a sprint. I was right behind him, well, maybe 200 feet behind, but I tried to keep up with him. I ran like the wind, or perhaps a light breeze, or…well, like the best I could without feeling like barfing up my lungs—which usually placed me in the back of the line, continuously lapped by everyone else.

I enjoyed physical fitness, and I liked running, like, say, after a soccer ball, or to the head of the line at Pizza Hut…or if there was a new and obscure-sounding Nintendo game that was just released. Oh yeah, I would be panting like a dog out of breath, but I’d be there.

Keith had already cleared the first turn while I had just moved from a quick jog to running like a sloth. Keith’s words burned into my head of the thought of Tiffany watching me, even if at hundreds of feet, caused a shiver to run down my spine.

“Out of the way!” A voice yelled out as an arm pushed me aside and I tumbled to the ground. I looked up, looking for the jerk who thought it funny to knock me down, but no one was there. I shook the dust off my legs and took notice of the small patches of blood on my knees and then started jogging again as a mass of boys blew past me—I had been lapped by everyone. Keith passed by and then slowed down.

“You fall?

“No, I was pushed.”

“Good luck finding out by who,” Keith replied as he looked around. “Probably just a nobody with nothing better to do.”

“Yeah, that’s a good way to put it.”

“See you next lap, Jase!” Keith yelled as he took off once again.

“That’s funny, Keith, it really is.” I said with just a pinch of sarcasm as I started running. I had confidence I could still get around the track at least once before the end of the period.

I had gotten into a steady groove with my knees not hurting as much as I thought they would when I felt a hand push down on my shoulder, causing me to lose my balance and this time, I went down on my side, but I was able to see the person who brought me down…he was wearing the same shorts and t-shirt I had on.

“You jerk!” I yelled, and instantly regretted doing so, out of fear he would turn around and pummel me. He just kept on running.
* * *

My next class was math, a class that took me several days later to understand the concept of what we did the previous week. I won’t say I zoned out during the lectures, but I also won’t say I heard every word Mr. Jackson said.

“And if you divide that answer…”

I thought about the crazy morning I had: a missing instrument and then what happened in PE.

“And multiply it…”

My unknown assailant wore the same clothes as I did, down to the shoes.

“Then the problem’s resolution…”

Prattville Junior Hight was huge, with over two hundred students, there could have been someone who had similar clothes. That had to be it, I had to be thinking about it too much,

“If you turn to page forty-two…”

But why did he knock me down a second time? Or was there a group of them and just two were able to carry out “Operation: Humiliation.”

“Jason?”

I tensed up and looked to the front of the classroom, expecting to see Mr. Jackson’s face in its usual scowl. It was there, and he was scowling, but he wasn’t moving.

I squinted to see that he was frozen at the blackboard, chalk in hand. He wasn’t looking at the class, and he wasn’t looking at me either; like someone mashed the pause button of life.

“Jason?” a voice that didn’t sound like “old teacher, it kind of sounded like, like me,” said.

“Over here.”

I slowly turned my head to see someone who looked exactly like me standing next to my desk, with his hands in the position to flip it over. I stared at him for what seemed like an eternity.

“You can stop staring now, it’s kind of creepy.”

“Who—?”

“Who do you think I am?”

I looked around the room and saw everyone else was frozen in the moment.

“I have no idea, but you look—”

“I don’t look like you, Jason. I am you.”

He walked up to Mr. Jackson, who stood next to the blackboard, and moved him over like a chess piece.

“How?”

“Let’s stay on task.” He replied as walked back to my desk. “Come up to the front.”

I cautiously crawled out of the desk and slowly walked up to the blackboard as he grabbed a piece of chalk.

“Your fears. Let’s name them.”

“But if you’re me, don’t you already know what they are?”

“I’ve forgotten how stubborn I was back then,” my clone shook his head. “Back then? Are you, we, time travelers?”

“No, there’s no blue police box on the roof or a DeLorean parked out front.”

“Outstanding make-up job,” I replied.

He dropped the chalk into the tray, shook his head, and gave me a look that shouted, “I still can’t believe I said that.”

“I’m about to say a few other things if you don’t tell me who you are.”

“Jason Alexander Dennereck. 597 Marlyn Drive. You’re afraid people will know you still have a hamster; that you watch ‘Star Trek: The Next Generation’, and there was a time a roach crawled on your face. But that’s not your biggest fear. You’re scared of something greater.”

What could be greater than a two-inch cockroach deciding your forehead was the perfect spot to relax?

Once again, I found myself staring at him and wondered if I was dreaming.

“I don’t know how much time I have to help you.”

“With what?”

“Something that’s going to effect our lives in five years,” he replied as he sat on Mr. Jackson’s desk. “I think I’m going to have to force you to do this, Jason.”

“Do what?”

“I knew I was dense, but, really, seriously?” He yelled as he slapped his hands to his face. “We must talk, parablu, speak, with Tiffany Creighton.”

With that, he faded away, and I found myself standing at the door of the classroom with a very awake Mr. Jackson looking at me…complete with scowl.