Chapter 2: It

Tru Parker - Today

"ALONDREA!"

A ghostly plea, with the intangibility of a dream within a dream, induced a stabbing panic like I'd never felt before. It sounded far away, perhaps over that hill - the one I could barely make out through the smoky haze filtering through the thick trees. My heart pounded to one thought -

Dan-ger-Dan-ger.

"A-lon-dre-a!"

It was a woman's voice, a terrified voice, and it was fading along with the clear blue sky above. I wanted that voice, and the woman it belonged to, but my mind was like the smoke slipping between the pine needles above me, unable to grasp the moment. I began to cough.

A dog howled, a ghostly entreaty echoing through my confusion. Fright stepped back as hope pushed forward. But a child's hitched sobbing pulled me up short. Heavy paws thumped toward the small form. The dog ... no ... not a dog ... a wolf opened up its toothy mouth and reached for--

**

My scream must have woken up Dad, because as I shrunk away from the image in my dream, I heard him say, "Tru! Wake up!"

Suddenly I was back in my bed, legs twisted in the blankets, and Dad clutching me to his chest.

"Hey there, Tru Lee, I've got you."

I breathed in his familiar scent, and sighed. I thanked God that my dad smelled of chocolate instead of mothballs like Principal Millard - aka "Mothballs Millard." And even though Dad's embrace was the same as the million or so preceding hugs I'd received from him over my sixteen years, these days I treasured each one so much more than I ever did, even more than Mummy, my stuffed animal that I'd had for as long as I could remember and which I still tucked into bed with me each night.

"They're starting again, Tru Lee." His hand gently rubbed my back. "I think we could use some expert help here."

The gruffly whispered words scratched at the ball of remorse I kept locked away, just as his rough whiskers chafed my cheek, but they didn't hurt, not like his words. I knew where this conversation was going.

"No!" I denied, intending to say it softly but unable to do so. It was more of a choking bark. I pulled abruptly out of his embrace and glared at him.

"I don't want to talk to some psycho shrink! It was just a stupid nightmare! Geez."

I instantly regretted it. He was trying so hard, and here I was, becoming that girl - that spoiled, selfish girl I swore I was never going to be again. But I couldn't seem to stop hurting the people who loved me the most.

"Tru, what you're feeling is normal. You shouldn't feel bad about talking to a specialist. I really think you just need to discuss it with someone."

It. That word encompassed so much. Did we even have the same definition of It? Doubtful. I closed my eyes, searching my mind frantically for a better argument than the snarky comment about to bust out of my mouth. Look him in the eyes, I thought. He couldn't take my direct eye contact without backing down.

"I can't, Dad ..." I opened my eyes and froze, losing my train of thought. A raw, red scratch ran down the side of his weathered face.

I did that. Ah, man! I was such a loser.

I pretended that I didn't see it - normal people wouldn't see it. It was too dark. He let go of me and stood up, his gray hair sticking up all over the place. He looked old and worn out standing there in his wrinkled pajamas, and I felt a fresh wave of shame. I put those wrinkles on his face, that gray in his hair.

Taking a deep breath, I softened my voice. "I'm fine. Just a dream. No biggie. I'm going back to sleep. Big day tomorrow, you know."

He pursed his lips, staring at me. I held my ground.

With a sigh, he relented. "Okay, kiddo." He leaned in and kissed my forehead, unknowingly branding me a liar. I felt awful lying to him and I imagined a red letter "L" for liar bright and glaring on my forehead. I itched to rub it away but just mumbled good night and burrowed into my pillow. The mattress sprang back up as he stumbled toward the door, tripping over the land mines of clothes piled here and there.

I mumbled a "Sorry," to which he said for the hundredth time, "You need to clean up this place." He didn't realize I was saying sorry for something else.

The door closed a second later.

Lifting my head for a second to peer at the clock on my dresser, I saw the glowing red numbers: 3:30 a.m. Why me? I tried to untwist my legs from the sticky sheets, but they held tight. Ugh! I kicked harder, gritting my teeth, battling the clingy sheets with panic. A few more angry flicks of my legs, and I was free. I shoved the sheets to the floor, trouncing them in retaliation. Giving them one last scowl, I muttered my way over to my window and ripped back my curtains. With a quick yank at the window, cool air flowed freely into the room. Goose bumps appeared all over my feverish skin. Ahh. I backed up to the middle of my room, pressing my hands against the sides of my face, rubbing my temples.

I didn't want this to happen, not today. I needed to ... to ... what did I need? I felt disoriented, angry that I still wasn't fixed, and guilty about my inability to make things easier for Dad. I was a bit of a mess.

Oh, I remembered. I needed to not look like crap on the first day of school.

I glanced toward my mirrored closet doors. Yeah, it was bad. Puffy brown eyes, pale cheeks, and hair clinging to my sweaty face. Long blond strands hung in tangles to the middle of my back. Great, looked like I needed to wash it again, with a whole bottle of conditioner. It was a Halloween wig gone wild.

The meager glow from the moon outside my window failed to illuminate the room; however, I could see almost as well as I did during the day. Not a "knack" I was willing to announce to just anyone, but convenient nonetheless. I'd found it to be alienating, so I hid it, a survival lesson learned as a kid.

Once I caught on to the fact that my special talent made me "odd," I pretended to fumble for a light switch or walk into an occasional chair. You'd think a kid might want to play up the superpower angle, but I kept it to myself, shoved it under a mess of other secrets I was unwilling to share, sometimes even with myself.