The Passengers (Book #2)

𝔍𝔲𝔰𝔱 𝔞 𝔅𝔞𝔡 𝔑𝔦𝔤𝔥𝔱 𝔬𝔣 𝔖𝔩𝔢𝔢𝔭

I examined the glossy black-and-white checkered floor below my feet. The fancy French-themed café is filled with white wicker furniture and women wearing delicate lace gloves. Green vines wind their way up white-latticed walls. A quartet plays classical music over the din of luncheon conversation, and the many windows stream light and fresh salty air.

Salty air. I tense. Outside the windows, the sunlight glistens off the water. What is this? Another dream? This doesn't feel like the last one. My thoughts are clearer.

I want out. I wind through the tables of finely dressed families toward a door leading to the deck. As I pass two men at a table, I accidentally brush against one's shoulder. I stop. He has a white beard and is wearing a bow tie.

"Sorry," I say, but he doesn't respond.

"I hear President Taft invited you himself, Mr. Lam-Stead," the other man says, and stirs sugar into his tea.

"Right you are," Mr. Lam-Stead says.

I walk right up to the table. "I said I was sorry." But they don't so much as glance in my direction.

I wave my hands between their faces. No reaction.

"Heeelllooo!" I don't even get to be part of my own dream?

I smack the table between their plates, but oddly, it doesn't make a noise. I try to lift a plate, but it's as though it was cemented to the table. That's it. I'm going to get their attention if it's the last thing I do.

My gaze falls on a small silver sugar spoon. I grab it with both hands and pull. Nothing. I concentrate harder, and picture lifting it with my mind. It sways slightly. "Gotcha!" I tighten my grip and focus more energy at it. It lifts six inches into the air.

The men stop talking at once.

"You see me now, don't you?" I ask, rather satisfied with myself even though I know they're looking at the spoon and not me.

They push their seats away from the table. Mr. Lam-Stead's chair collides with my side. I try to step away, but I lose my balance. And as I fall toward the checkered floor, I take the spoon with me.

"Hey!" My eyes fly open. "Watch what you're . . ." I'm in my bedroom. There's no one to yell at.

"What the hell?" In my right hand is a small silver spoon. Whatever residual sleepiness I had immediately disappears. This isn't supposed to happen. No one takes things from their dreams. There's nothing to take—dreams aren't real. I close my eyes for three seconds and open them again. The spoon is still there.

I jump out of bed. I need to tell the girls; I need to . . . My argument with Sehun this morning and my fight with Wendy come rushing back to me. And even if I wanted to talk to them, they're both at school.

I shove the spoon into my nightstand drawer and pace in my room. I need air.

I throw on some clothes and walk into the hall.

"Appa!" I yell.

"You okay?" He calls up.

"Yeah," I yell back, making my way down the stairs. "Just going on a walk."

He enters the foyer at the same time I do. "Want some lunch before you go? Or a snack? Banana?"

I pull my hair into a messy ball on top of my head and put my jacket on. "Nah. I'm not hungry. I think I spent too much time napping. I'm starting to feel antsy."

"You have a minute? I want to show you something."

I hesitate, looking at the door. "Yeah. Of course."