I opened my mouth to ask who it was, but I could barely breathe. The person stepped forward, allowing just enough light to make out the angular features of her face and the sneer on her lips. I looked down at her hand and she was holding something long and hard. It reflected the light enough for me to know that whatever it was, it was going to hurt.

“You don’t deserve to live,” she grunted, raising her arm over her head.

“Emily?!” another voice screamed. My eyes shot open. I remained frozen, breath heaving, trying to orient myself. The door flung open and my mother rushed in in a panic, “What's wrong?!” She stood just inside the door, flipping on the light, her hand over her heart.

My shoulders relaxed and I took a deep breath to ease the racing beats in my chest. “It was just a dream,” I explained, from my startled seated position.

“Holy shit, Emily,” she declared, letting out a long breath. “You just about gave me a heart attack.”

“Sorry.” I ran my hand over my brow, erasing the lingering sweat that clung to my skin. “I’m fine.”

She hesitated before leaving, like she wanted to say something. She looked me over again and finally said, "Well... good night," then walked out, shutting off the light and closing the door behind her.

I clicked on the lamp next to my bed, to keep out the dark, and settled into my pillow with my arms wrapped tightly across my body. The dream lingered. It felt so real, I was afraid to close my eyes again.

My mother came into my room only a couple of times after that night, panicked by my screams. But then she stopped, probably realizing there wasn't anything she could do.

I felt guilty for waking her, especially when I saw her slumped over her coffee each morning. I knew I wasn't easy to live with. I’d often found Sara on the couch of her entertainment room in attempt to escape me.

My therapist had prescribed sleeping pills, but they didn't take the nightmares away. They only kept me trapped, thrashing inside of them.

"I'm sorry," I offered one morning. My mother looked up from her coffee. "About keeping you awake."

She shrugged. "You can't help it."

We didn't talk about it after that.

7. Social Life

"So, I just started dating this guy," my mother blurted one morning while I was buttering toast. I paused before turning around, not prepared for the confession―especially after all of the guys she'd hidden in the past month since my "breakfast" with Chris.

I took a breath and turned to face her. "Really?" I tried to remember the last time I'd heard a visitor and narrowed it down to about a week or week and a half ago.

"Except," she hesitated with a breath, "he's... younger. A lot younger, and I'm not sure how I feel about it." She appeared troubled, clearly looking to me for advice.

"How old is he?" I asked, attempting to fill the role.

"Twenty-eight," she grimaced, waiting for me to pass judgment. I didn't react. He was older than I'd expected, to be honest.

"How old was Chris?" I asked, without thinking.

Her face changed to a hue of red. "He was... young, but I had no interest in dating him."

"Right," I nodded, flushing uncomfortably. "So, do you like him?"

"Yes," she answered, her eyes lighting up. "He's so nice, and smart, and amazingly hot, and confident," she gushed, "but... he's so young, Emily. I have no idea what I'm doing."

"Who cares," I offered with a shrug, taking on my role with a little more gusto. "You obviously like him, and if the age difference doesn't bother him, then... date him. I mean, is it serious?"

"Not really," she admitted. "Not yet, anyway. We've only been on a couple of dates. But we have so much fun together, and he keeps asking to see me again."

"Then do it," I urged, completely freaking out on the inside that I was encouraging my mother to date a younger guy, or to date at all. She beamed at my acceptance.

"You're going to the concert with Evan tonight, right?" She took a sip of her coffee, unable to keep the smile from her face.

"Yes," I replied, eyeing her jovial expression apprehensively.

"Shit, I'm going to be late," she exclaimed suddenly, glancing at the clock on the microwave and jumping up from the chair. She looked to me and tensed excitedly, and before I knew it, she threw her arms around me and squeezed. I was too stunned to move. "Thank you," she squealed.

As I was walking into school alongside Evan and Sara, my mother texted me. Going out with him again tonight! So excited! I couldn't help but laugh.

"What's so funny?" Evan asked.

"My mother's dating," I explained with a shake of my head, "and she's more nervously excited about it than most girls at our school."

Evan raised his eyebrows. "That's got to be interesting."

"You have no idea," I responded, rolling my eyes.

"She has more of a social life than I do," Sara added, having heard my spiels about my mother's late nights and the sleepovers she'd host.

"Does she go out a lot?" Evan asked, not knowing any of it. I shot Sara a wide eyed glance.

"Sometimes," I replied casually.

When Evan was out of earshot, Sara stated, "I didn't know you didn't tell him about how much Rachel goes out."

"I was afraid of how it would sound to him," I explained.

"Who cares," Sara countered. "It's not like it's you who's bringing home strange men."

"Yeah," I explained, "but I don't want him worrying about me being in the same house as the strange men."

Sara nodded, understanding how that would rouse Evan's protective side.

"Besides," I continued, "she really seems to like this guy. So maybe the string of one-nighters is over."

"Em, you never saw the guys. Maybe it was the same guy each night."

I flipped my eyes toward her and shook my head. "Don't think so."

"Oh," Sara said with a shocked look of understanding. "Well, let's hope he's a keeper."

The sweat had barely dried from my skin, and my tank top and hair were still damp from the exertion when I ran into the house, slamming the door behind me and flying up the stairs. Of all the nights for Coach to torture us with sprints. It’s not like we lost by that much in yesterday afternoon’s game.

I glanced at the clock as I pulled jeans from the closet and a long sleeved shirt from the dresser, tossing them on the bed. I had twenty minutes to get ready. From the quiet, I could tell I was alone in the house. She was probably on her date.

I kicked off my sneakers and tore at my socks, then pulled my shirt over my head and dropped my shorts somewhere along the way to the bathroom. My urgency didn’t help cool my skin. I turned on the shower and made myself calm down long enough to wash up―and hopefully stop sweating.

Wrapped in a towel, I scampered out of the bathroom toward my room, and I heard the front door open. Shit. I wasn’t fast enough.

“I’ll be right…” I started, peering down the stairs. At the same time, the guy at the bottom hollered, “Rach…”

We both froze and stared at each other. Neither of us anticipated seeing the other―especially me in just a towel. I tightened my hold of the fabric wrapped around my body, water running over my shoulders from my dripping hair.

“Whoa,” he exclaimed in surprise. “You're not Rachel.”

“Uh, she’s not home,” I answered, but he’d probably already figured that out. I remained still. My instinct was to rush into my room and shut the door, but I couldn't move.

“I knocked,” he defended, looking up at me in apology. "Sorry. I shouldn't have just walked in like that." It didn't seem to faze him that I was dripping wet, half naked. He didn't avert his dark eyes. “I’m Jonathan.”

I widened my eyes, dumbfounded by his casualness. "Emma," I uttered.

"Well, it's nice to meet you, Emma," he responded with a smile, still looking me in the eye. "I guess I'll just call her. Have a good night." Before I could say another word, he was out the front door. Within seconds I unglued myself from the floor and was right behind him, securing the dead bolt while exhaling the breath I'd been holding at the sight of him.

It took a moment for me to remember what I was supposed to be doing, and I ran back up the stairs, nearly falling on my face as I slid across the wet boards at the top.

I heard the knock on the front door just as I was tying my shoes.

“Hi.” I smiled brightly when I opened the door, finally able to get excited about tonight. “Wasn’t sure what to wear.”

Evan closed the door behind him, examining my selection. “You look great, except you might want to wear short sleeves. It’s going to get pretty hot, especially near the stage.”

“Right,” I concurred, turning back up the stairs. Evan was about to follow me when I noticed my abandoned clothes leading to the bathroom. “I’ll be right down.” I stressed, causing him to stop on the second step. I scooped up my sweaty clothes and brought them in the room with me. I re-immerged from my room, readjusting my ponytail after sliding on a black Newbury Comics t-shirt.

“Much better,” Evan commended. “Are you ready?”

“Definitely.” I bounded down the steps to grab the jacket he held out for me.

When we arrived at the concert, there was a long line on the sidewalk. We walked to the back, awaiting entry with everyone else. Evan stood behind me, wrapping his arms around me to help keep me warm while we waited. I hadn’t noticed the cold, too distracted by the anticipation. We continued to shuffle forward until we finally reached the guys in the bright yellow jackets checking IDs. We received large black “X”s on the back of our right hands, branding us underage. After our tickets were scanned and we were frisked by blue-gloved hands, we were finally released into the rolling energy.

Evan held my hand tightly, steering us through the crowd. I let the bottled excitement seep in, accepting it with a grin on my face. Evan looked back and smiled when his eyes connected with mine. I knew he'd been concerned about how I'd react being engulfed by so many people.

This was different. These people didn’t know who I was, nor did they care. We were instantly bonded by the music blaring on the stage as the opening act continued its set. They were pretty good, although I’d never heard of them before. A group leaning against the metal barriers along the front seemed to know exactly who they were as they rocked their heads and hollered out the lyrics.

We excused our way to the front, continuing along the perimeter and stopping at the steps that dumped off into the pit. Those standing directly in front of the large stage were already sweating. Their intertwining bodies jostled for position to get closer. I was instantly captivated by the bare skin, backward baseball caps, tank tops with bra straps revealed, oversized t-shirts hanging over baggy pants―as their heads bobbed in unison.

I turned toward Evan and yelled, “This is so great.”

“It will only get better,” he bellowed in my ear.

And it did. The sea of bodies dispersed slightly in between the opener and the headliner, but as soon as they started tuning the guitars and pounding the base, the hollering began and the crowd swarmed together even tighter than before. Within a few minutes the band members started filing onto the stage, taking their positions, recognizing the crowd with a wave. The masses ignited into a trembling roar.