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I see that horse.
    The gruesome, white, wild-eyed horse.
    Flaring her nostrils.
    Rearing her head.
    Like a warning.
    I want to bolt back into consciousness.
    But right away I can tell
    it’s one of those hosed dreams
    where you can’t wake yourself up
    no matter how hard you try.
    I’m trapped.
    Immobile.
    Suffocating.
    But then I hear Rennie’s voice:
    Just one cut and you can breathe.
    When she appears,
    she’s ten feet tall.
    On freaky spider legs
    just like the ones in Dalí’s paintings.
    And I figure that right about now
    Dali would probably drop the spoon,
    wake himself up,
    and paint some freaky clocks.
    But I’m stuck watching Rennie
    as she mounts the horse
    and wraps her legs around its belly.
    When she grabs its mane, the horse bucks and flails,
    and I feel my heart thud like a nine-pound hammer.
    Thump-thump.
    Thump-thump.
    Thump-thump .
    Then the horse begins to run.
    A great Goliath gallop
    that shakes the ground
    and spits mud in every direction.
    I know what’s coming next,
    even before the white flesh
    tears across the barbs.
    I hear a voice screaming in my head:
    Wake up.
    Wake up.
    Just drop the freaking spoon already!
    Then the dream ends.
    Just like that.
    I’m sitting on the edge of my bed.
    Catching my breath.
    Feeling as psycho as Dalí.

UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE
    HarperCollins Publishers
    ..................................................................
Dreams Are Just a Body’s Way of Sorting Things Out
    That’s what Ding Dong says.
    I sit at the night-nurse station
    while she rifles through my chart
    checking to see if Mom authorized
    any medication like sleeping pills.
    Fat chance of that.
    But I let Ding Dong search anyway,
    digging through random papers,
    jabbering away.
    “Did you have one a them falling-down dreams?
    Then you’re probably just feeling helpless. That’s all.
    Or maybe you dreamed about being naked.
    Was that it? You don’t have to hide it, girl.
    That doesn’t mean nothing bad. You’re just shy.”
    She pauses and stares at me hard.
    Then shivers shimmy across her shoulders.
    “I think you had one of them ugly dreams.
    Where your teeth were falling out.”
    That one makes me smile
    and I think about telling her
    I had a whole set of snaggleteeth
    that wiggled like worms
    right out of my mouth,
    because that kind of dream
    might get her dreads in a wad,
    and then maybe she’d give me the meds
    without my mother’s precious signature.
    But I don’t say a word.
    Because I’m afraid if I open my mouth
    the white horse might gallop out instead.
    So I go back to bed pill-less and prickly,
    all twisted up by the last thing she said:
    “ Trust me, girl. Whatever it was,
    that dream is tellin’ you something.”

UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE
    HarperCollins Publishers
    ..................................................................
Thursday 7:16 a.m.
    Breakfast on the second day.
    I see a butterfly on Skylar’s arm,
    a swallowtail with swooping swirls
    and polka-dot wings.
    She drew it herself with a black Sharpie.
    “For the Butterfly Project,” she says.
    Then she tells me how it works.
    First, you feel the urge to cut,
    but instead of picking up the blade
    you pick up a pen
    and draw a butterfly
    on your arm
    or your ankle
    or anywhere you want.
    It doesn’t really matter
    as long as it’s on your body.
    Then you name it for someone special.
    That’s what brings the butterfly to life.
    So now you’ve got this living, breathing ink
    on your forearm or by your belly button
    or the dimple behind your knee,
    and the butterfly is flapping its wonderful wings
    while you take algebra tests and clean your room
    and eat cold chicken nuggets in the cafeteria.
    And because you love it so much
    you stay away from the blade
    because that’s the only way
    to save your swallowtail’s life.
    You can’t wash it off either.
    The butterfly has to fade on its own.
    Because if you wash it off in the sink
    or cut before the ink fades naturally,
    then