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exactly,
is
he in the book? He knows the name John Harmon and the thing about river rats—what else can he recall about the story?
Jesus, why can’t I remember?
He tries to dredge up some more facts, scenes,
names
of other characters—and can’t. It is almost as if this is all the information he’s
allowed
to know.
    Oh, that is crazy
. It’s because the book is so boring he’d rather set his hair on fire, that’s all. But come on, he
must
know what he’s read so far, right? After all, he knows about John Harmon and doubles, and isn’t there a girl?
Important girl … what’s her name?
Prying the information from his brain is like worrying a piece of meat from between his teeth that’s wedged in so tight he needs a toothpick to dig it out …
    “Lizzie.”
The name comes in an explosive hiss. He should feel a blast of relief—but all he gets is a jolt in his chest. Like the name
Lizzie
is totally bad news. But that
is
the girl’s name in
Our Mutual Friend
: Lizzie, short for Elizabeth, and she … 
sheeeee
 … 
Christ
. The fine hairs spike along his neck. That’s all he knows about the chick. The name, and that’s it.
This is like my nightmare, when I couldn’t remember where I lived, when I didn’t have a face …
    “Screw it. Not important.” The words ride a dry croak. “Who the hell cares? All I have to do is look and then I’ll know what page I’m on.” But he’s afraid to check. He has the funniest feeling: flip that book over … and everything will be a blur. Or blank. That the book is just a prop, like in a movie.
    “This is nuts,” he says as, on the radio, Jackson’s wailing tosome girl that she better hope this is her imagination.
Got that right
. The song grates. He doesn’t particularly love Michael Jackson, but anything’s better than listening to his mother
kak-kak-kakking
.
    Only … 
is
she out there?
    Of course; you just heard her. Don’t be dumb
. Just that nightmare or daymare or whatever the hell he’d just had—of him as a blank-faced mannequin floating in midair—still eating at him.
    On the other hand … is there anything beyond this bathroom? Trying to place details is like trying to remember scenes from that Dickens novel. All he has to do is open the door and check; pick up the book, scan a page, and he’ll know. But that all feels too weird.
    On the radio, Jackson has decided the girl hasn’t got a snowball’s chance in hell against something with forty eyes—and man, is that close to his nightmare or what? Spooked, he switches off the radio, Michael
urping
out before he can tell him that they—the monsters, the demons, these creepy zombies—will possess him, too.
    “You have to calm down, Tony.” He’s tired; his mom’s dying; his preacher-dad’s wearing out his knees praying to thin air. If Tony’s not careful, he’ll wind up like Jack Nicholson in that movie a few years ago, which he’d never have seen if Matt hadn’t worked the theater’s ticket office. (Honestly, if he had to put up with Shelley Duvall, he’d go after her with an ax, too.) The little kid was okay. Come to think of it, wasn’t that kid’s imaginary friend named Tony? Was that in the movie or the book? Both? He can’t remember, and no, he is
not
imaginary.
    “Why are you even
thinking
about all this, you moron?” His eyes tick back to the fogged bathroom mirror where his reflectionis nothing but a shimmering blob. Because of the nightmare he knows he’s had but can’t really remember anymore?
    There is a sodden little
splot
. His gaze falls to the sink, where a light green glob of toothpaste shimmers wetly, like exotic bird shit, on porcelain.
Come on. You’ll be late for school
. Turning on the tap, he uses a forefinger to edge the slick glop from the porcelain and down the drain. He shudders at the feel. Like a squirmy slug, like snot. Cranking on the hot water full blast, he rinses his finger and lets out a little
ugh
at the sudden burn.
God, stop it