Dreamland City

By Larina Lavergne

Two college girls, a chem lab project, murder and a ball: Just your average day at Dreamland City

Lily Anderson is a brilliant scholarship girl, jaded and wise beyond her years. Raised in a trailer park by her stepfather Beau and a motley assortment of neighbors, she gets a free ride to a dream university, where she cannot fit in. She meets, rooms and is paired with the "It" girl for a lab project; her life will never be the same again.

Twisted, born with everything, but vulnerable, Reagan Van Stieg has friends, wealth and beauty. Yet she keeps dark secrets of her past, things she doesn't talk about, things that will unleash a sequence of events that threaten to destroy everything she's worked for.

Although complete opposites, the two girls develop a strange bond, and when the unthinkable happens, their friendship is put to the test. An action-packed novel so real and gritty you taste the dirt, Dreamland City keeps the heart racing and the reader guessing until the very end.

• Language: English
• Publisher: eBookIt.com
• Release date: Apr 26, 2016
• ISBN: 9781456625597

Book preview

www.larinalavergne.com

Prologue: Water Birth

I was born in water.

I read recently in a fancy magazine I swiped from a bookstore that that’s what rich women in rich places are doing—natural water births in a special kind of tub with a birth coach and a midwife. Heck, maybe they even have a staff of nurses and doctors around to hand out cigars after it’s all done.

The water is important physically and psychologically for the newborn, because it simulates the safe environment of the mother’s womb, thereby reducing the trauma of the transition for the baby.

The woman who wrote that article has a Ph.D. According to the author’s bio, she is a professor, writer, pundit and apparently Super-Mom. Her name is Marsha Longfellow; she is pregnant again (six months) and has decided on a water birth for this lucky third baby of hers.

It’s a nice thought, a nice idea, and I’m sure some women spend many hours thinking about and planning the perfect birth.

My mother didn’t quite plan my water birth the way Professor Longfellow and her readers are planning theirs. She didn’t quite plan anything, actually.

I’m listening to the story for the hundredth time. I’d come over to Skelly’s to bum a cigarette and to look for Tommy; I should’ve known Skelly would corner me and we would have to dance this sad, broken dance, in this sad, broken room of his sad, broken trailer.

He tells me the story every time I see him, if he can get me to stay long enough. The words are the same each time; the set-up never changes. He’ll cough his way through a wheezing laugh, his lips will pull apart like the drying scab on a scar, and I will stare at his yellow, gritty incisors as he points out the window at the dirty hard plastic wading pool by his trailer. The pool is so old now, mold has blackened half of its bottom, and because Skelly never bothers to cover it, there are scummy things floating around in the rain from the night before.

We were sittin’ by the bonfire outside, though we sure as hell din’t need it cuz' it was so hot. Shuld’ve been cold that late in the year.

I can see his tongue peeking between gaps in those yellow teeth as he speaks and enunciates words differently from how they’re spelled, so different from the people I’m surrounded with now. The tongue disappears and reappears like magic, a little purplish rabbit in a moist red hat. We just got the dang pool too, got it off Mr. Simmons in that house down the street who dun’ gone decided to get a bigger one in his backyard for next summer.

I really need a cigarette now, but Skelly will not be interrupted when he’s on a roll.

Yer mama, she wuz outta her mind with those damned drugs and drunk, running around and singing all night long at the top o’ her lungs, and everyone yellin’ at her to shut her trap, but she just kept on with that danged singing.

I concentrate on the flecks of spittle on the side of his mouth against the bristles of hair on his loose, mottled skin. They remind me of this poem I read recently about drops of dew on grass in dawn. It might be the same kind of texture, and it is pure poetry that Skelly is like Robert Frost.

Skelly hitches up his pants and lets out a loud groan, rubbing his bad back. He’s distracted for a few precious seconds, and I seize the opportunity to inch away, but he anticipates me, moving with some difficulty to lean against his armchair and block my path.

I sigh.

He’s now at the part where he saw my mother stumbling over toward them.

She wuz so danged big with you, she looked like she wuz gonna pop any second now.

Skelly coughs again and can’t seem to stop. When he finally emerges from his ecstatic fit of wheezing, he looks at me with a dreamy gaze. You know, you look juz like her when she wuz growin’ up, he muses. Hair so dark you could go blind looking, and eyes so big there warn’t hardly any room fer nuthin’ else.

I say nothing—it’s best to say nothing. Skelly blinks and goes on with his story.

I tol’ her she was gonna hurt herself with all that prancing around, but she juz laughed at me when I yelled at her to get her ass back home. Then she snatched my bottle and went and sat in the pool, and she just kept on drinking and laughing and singing in the water.

Skelly gestures at my birthplace but I don’t bother to look.

It was so dark after the fire went out, and she was still sitting there. I wuz done ready to go to bed, and I shouted at her to go back home, don’t let me catch yer tomorrow morning passed out in my pool like the last time. And as I wuz walking up the stairs, then she started screaming and cursing, and motherfucker can yer mama scream and curse.

I sweep my gaze around and finally catch sight of what I came here for on the kitchen counter. As he’s in the middle of a sentence, I sidestep him with a swift move and ignore his wounded look. I grab a cigarette from the packet of Marlboros lying on the counter and walk slowly back to him.

Skelly digs into his trouser pocket and gives me a light. Those things will kill ya, he says gruffly, before coughing again.

He continues, She didn’t stop screaming and cursing, and we wuz like, ‘What the hell?’

I take a drag of the cigarette and savor the gritty smoke at the back of my throat. It’ll be over soon, I think. He should be almost done.

And I go over, I’m sayin’ to her ‘What’s wrong, Maddie? What’s wrong?’ And she just screamed and screamed, and I’m holding her. We’re both in the tub now. And she’s saying, motherfucker fuck fuck fuck, and Michael’s just standing there, looking like the screaming wuz hurtin’ his head.

Michael was my father, I think.

And then you popped out.

There’s a strange, terrifying note of tenderness in the old man’s voice.

I goddamned birthed you in water, right here, seventeen years ago, he says. Cut the cord with my own goddamned scissors. With my own goddamned hands. He holds them up, displaying those marvelous birthing hands. I notice that the yellowed tips are the same color as his teeth, but that doesn’t bother me as much as the big pair of shears I spot hanging by the door. They’re rusty and blackened with dirt. I shudder, imagining them ripping and slicing roughly through an umbilical cord.

He follows my gaze.

No, heck, that warn’t it, he assures me. "We used them bright shiny ones, from the kitchen. He gestures grandiosely; the magician about to finish his act.

He reaches out then, and I hand him the cigarette I’m smoking. He takes a drag but doesn’t hand it back immediately. I eye it as wafts of smoke curl around the tip and rise to the ceiling.

So far, I haven’t said a word. I’m thinking about my mother now. My entire life, my mother has barely tolerated me, and she’s done her best to distance herself from me. I don’t remember my real father, and my earliest childhood memories are of Skelly and his son my best friend Tommy, and then Beau, my stepfather. I can see them so clearly—Skelly barbequing, Tommy and me playing, and Beau with his dusty cowboy hat as he two-steps with my mother. In contrast, I never simply see my mother—I’ve always absorbed her through smell, hearing and touch because seeing her…hurts. I can’t explain it, but when I think about my mother, I feel her, and it’s always a painful feeling.

You alright?

Skelly eyes me cagily, sensing that I’ve stopped listening to him. He takes another puff on my cigarette and I nod slowly as he continues his monologue.

That Michael was no damned good, he proclaims. Big baby who ran out the first sign things weren’t all peachy. A real prince. And now Beau—don’t get me started. Yer mama could do a whole lot better, let me tell you. Skelly will never change his mind, and I’m too tired to defend Beau.

I listen a few more minutes to him as he bitches about my mother and the mess she’s made of her life, and the blasted men who can’t keep their hands off her. And then I can’t stand it any longer. Mid-sentence, I push past him and I’m at the door, my hand on the knob. He looks stricken, and he sounds suddenly fearful.

You leavin’ so soon?

Skelly’s lonely, but we’re all lonely.

I don’t answer and turn away, walking out the door and racing down the steps and across the grassy patch in front of his trailer. I circle around the pool of my birth in all its scummy glory, trying not to think about how lucky I am not to be retarded, brain-dead, or just plain dead. Instead, I think about Professor Marsha Longfellow.

Simulates the natural environment of the baby.

Reduces the trauma of the transition for the baby.

I don’t know why I look back, but I do, and I see Skelly outlined in the doorway. He’s a black figure against the blinding light of the setting Southern sun and I realize suddenly, with a conviction that saddens me, that he’s going to die one day. That we’re all going to die.

As I’m watching, Skelly lifts his hand. I think he’s waving goodbye at first, but instead, his fingers go to his lips and he takes a drag from the cigarette.

I forgot to take the cigarette back from him.

1

Lily

It’s been a few weeks since I started school. I forgot to bring my keys today, but that really doesn’t matter since we never really lock the door. It’s not as if there’s anything of real value to steal in our trailer, and if someone needs something and no one’s around, they’ll need a way to get in, don’t they?

Folks here share everything; we come and go as we please. It was a huge shock after I got that scholarship ride into Duke and realized that people labeled food, locked room doors and had so much…stuff. The doorknob twists open and I walk in slowly. Here, the only time the door might be locked is when my mother’s busy, but she’s never really cared if anyone walked into the bedroom while she’s buck-naked doing the nasty with someone. There’s no shame in Dreamland City, and certainly none as far as Maddie Ruth Anderson is concerned.

I haven’t seen my mother in so long, I wonder if she’s still even living here. But when I sniff the air, I can smell the traces of her scent—a dizzying mix of shampoo, perfume, sweat and anger. The last I heard, she was following Joe Sommers to Asheville for one of his gigs. I don’t know if Beau knows, and I don’t know when my mother will be back.

It’s a great homecoming; my first weekend back from my fancy private college. Outside, I hear the sound of a passing truck, and then nothing. The silence is comforting at first, but then it becomes overwhelming. I’m hungry, and I open my backpack, taking out a jar of Nutella. I ran into David Morgan at the supermarket when I got that jar. That was three days ago, and already, it’s half gone.

David’s the pride of Duke. From one of the richest families of Old Boston, he’s a junior and destined for either the NFL or the White House, depending on whom you talk to. To me, though, he just seems like a good guy—six feet four and all muscle and smiles and crinkly blue eyes. We talked for the first time a few weeks ago when he found me curled up in a corner of the Gothic Reading Room in Perkins Library with a stack of books around me. He looked like he was having a bad day, and had probably come into the library to escape his usual clamoring posse of jocks and sorority girls. He asked me what I was reading, and when I showed him the collection of poems by T.S. Eliot, his eyes lit up. He sat down next to me and then he took out his own collection of T.S. Eliot poems. We skipped all our classes that day and talked about how much I liked chocolate, how much he liked poetry, how much we both liked math and applied physics and other stuff. I don’t think he got a lot of what I was telling him about the String Theory class I’m taking, but he asked questions and seemed interested, and I liked him all the more for it.

Doesn’t matter though, what I think.

Last week, it was Greek Recruitment Drive, where the strongest scent is that of privilege. I was standing by the main quad, trying to avoid going past the long lines of frat and sorority booths, when there was a tap on my shoulder and I saw David.

Hey, Lily, what’s up? You interested in rushing this fall?

When I just stared at him in bewilderment, he cleared his throat and tried again, So, we talked so much about chocolate last time: There’s some kind of European chocolate fair that’s going on in Raleigh all weekend. Do you think you might want to go?

He looked nervous, which surprised me. I can’t, I told him, backing away.

Oh. He didn’t say anything else, so I backed away and left.

So maybe he was asking me out. But I don’t really know. After all, he’s already dating a girl: I saw him canoodling with a blond at a distance last week, and I overheard a couple of other kids gossiping about them. I didn’t catch her name, but the lucky girl’s a freshman that he met at pre-orientation during the summer. I couldn’t help feeling disappointed that I had to say ‘no’ to his European chocolate fair invite. And who knows? Maybe he was just trying to be my friend..

I spread some Nutella on my bread, layering it on extra thick. I would never really like someone like David who’s just way too perfect, but I can’t get over his eyes—so freaking blue—and how they sliced right into me as he talked about chocolate.

Taste floods in. It really is so fucking good. I’m wolfing it down as if it’ll disappear if I pause for too long. I layer another slice of bread, thicker than the previous one, and wolf that one down too, just as quick. And then, I get really bold, and try a combination of Nutella and the remaining glob of peanut butter in a lonely jar in the cupboard. Pure Heaven.

Finally, I feel full. I go into the bedroom and flop on the bed, looking up at the low ceiling, wondering what to do since Tommy’s not around. I could do my homework, but it’ll be too easy; homework is always easy. Or I could do nothing.

Just when I’m about to drift off to sleep, I hear a knock on the door. I go out to the living room but it swings open before I walk up to it.

Tommy.

Where the hell have you been? I ask belligerently.

If you answered your phone, you’d know, he says easily. The old man told me you stopped by. You back for break, huh?

A head pops up behind him. It’s Tommy’s older brother, Neil, who is four years older and all sorts of creepy. He’s wearing a Raleigh PD cadet sweatshirt, which is an unpleasant reminder of his decision two years ago to join the police force.

Hey Neil, I say. Every time I see Neil, he seems to have grown just that little bit thicker. Because of that, his tiny head seems now completely disproportionate to the rest of his body.

Neil snorts in response, his beady eyes running up and down my body.

Tommy takes off his light jacket and runs a grease-stained hand through his floppy dark hair. He sprawls out immediately on the couch, the material of his tight white T-shirt stretching across his body. He’s been working a construction job part time in addition to his two other jobs, and it’s showing. I find it really difficult to believe that Skelly is his father. Tommy’s half a foot taller, has a nicely shaped-nose, dreamy dark eyes and basically looks nothing like Skelly. He probably isn’t, seeing how Tommy’s mother used to turn tricks on the side.

Tommy’s yawning, and he stretches his arms over his head like a cat. Neil’s in the kitchen opening cabinets and drawers, most likely looking for liquor.

If there’s any, it’s in the cabinet under the sink, I call out to him, and he nods, finding an almost-full bottle of whisky. He brings it over, settles into an armchair before unscrewing the cap, tipping the bottle back and taking a long swig.

I go and sit by Tommy on the couch. He looks at me with his special warm look that’s only for me, and I smile back. He’s mostly like a brother to me, but we have a special relationship that involves lots of extra non-brotherly kissing and touching when we want it, and I kinda want it now after our extended separation.

So what’s it like in caawlege? He draws out the word ‘college’ almost mockingly, but I know he doesn’t mean anything by it.

It’s OK.

Tommy waits for me to say more, and when I don’t, he asks, What should we do? He accepts the bottle from his silent brother and takes a long swallow before handing it over to me. I mimic his action and repeat it again for good measure. The burn of the whisky is addictive, and I’m reaching for the bottle again.

So, what should we do? he asks again, wiping his glistening lips with the back of his hand.

I shrug. I don’t really care what we do, but I do want to get laid at some point.

TV? I suggest, turning it on with the remote. Tommy flips through the channels and finds a repeat telecast of the recent football game between NC State and Clemson. Watching the padded giants running around the field reminds me of David in our faraway land of Duke University, and how for the first time, Duke looks like it has a fighting chance in the conference, albeit a small one. As I look over at Tommy, I realize that with his athletic build and brute strength, he would probably have made a good football player if he hadn’t dropped out of high school a couple of years ago. But when Skelly’s back gave out and Neil a fresh cadet in the academy, poor Tommy didn’t really have a choice but to quit school and start working. Tommy loves his family—he’s trying his best. But when I look at Neil and his dead, cold eyes, I feel bad for Tommy, who’s trying so hard, for nothing.

We sit in silence, passing the bottle around and watching the game on TV. Soon enough, I’m feeling a pleasant buzz. I snuggle up against Tommy on the ratty brown couch. He smells of pine and elbow grease.

Working on your bike again?

He looks down at me. Yep.

Skelly has an old army buddy in the nearby town of Garner who runs a junkyard, and he gave Tommy a broken Suzuki motorcycle for his eighteenth birthday late last year. Tommy’s been working on it for months between jobs, scavenging parts from other junkyards. At first, I was skeptical: it looked like a real piece of shit. But he cleaned it up pretty good, and aside from the fact that it still can’t run, it’s now as shiny and pretty as any of them in a showroom.

I can smell the grease on you. I whack him lightly on the arm. It’s not a bad smell, though; it’s a Tommy smell.

It’s almost done. I’ll take you for a ride when it’s all fixed up. He has a warm grin on his face, then he pulls me in close and nuzzles my neck.

Great, I say, though I couldn’t care less whether the bike runs or not. I shift back a little bit to give him better access to my body.

Hey, what’s this? Tommy asks suddenly, his lips leaving my body, and the air turns the moisture cold on my skin. He’s picked up some of my homework that I had thrown on the floor by the side of the couch. He’s squinting adorably at the equations on an Econ problem set I hammered out before falling asleep.

School stuff, I say. Their idea of break is to give you work.

Wow. Neat. I know he doesn’t understand any of what I’ve written, and that he’s impressed.

You’re so smart, Lily, he says seriously, reaching out again for the whisky.

I wish he would shut up and start kissing me again, but I settle for burrowing into his warmth.

You shouldn’t have wasted yer time comin’ home, he adds. There ain’t no one here you can talk with about stuff like that.

I snort. Where should I be then, Tommy? At college with the fucking dickheads who just wanna get laid? Or the sorority girls with their make-up and parties and church on Sundays where they diddle their boyfriends?

"Don’t know nuthin’ ‘bout that, but you’re sure better than any of us. Then any of this."

I look around. There’s smoke wafting up from the ashtray on the coffee table. Old coffee and whisky stains on the surface. Piles of dirty dishes with scraps of food still stuck on them in the sink. The otherworldly sound of the football game in the background.

And I smile at this beautiful boy, whom I love with all my heart.

There’s nothing better than this, Tommy.

Tommy laughs, but I’m not joking.

+++

The bottle’s empty, Neil has passed out snoring on the armchair, and Tommy is lying on top of me. My blouse is half open—we didn’t quite make it to the bedroom—and we’re trying to be quiet so Neil doesn’t wake up.

It’s hard to keep silent though, as Tommy’s magic fingers skirt lightly around my body, just enough to make me want their elusive touch even more. The sound of a car starting outside makes me flinch, and Tommy darts a quick glance at Neil to make sure he’s still asleep before he lowers himself completely on top of me and nips gently, then more insistently at my mouth.

Shhh…quiet…. he says in between bites on my neck as my breath quickens and I let out a little yelp. I nod and push his head harder against me, and he shifts and flips me a little to my side. When I twist my head and look over, I freeze because Neil is awake, staring straight at me with his dead eyes. I stare back at him without saying a word, and I can see his nostrils flaring slightly.

And then right at that moment, I hear the door of the trailer fly open. And like an avenging angel sent by God, Beau walks in.

2

Beau’s my Texan stepfather. Born and raised in El Paso before settling in North Carolina, he moved into our trailer when I was six or seven. Lord only knows why or how he and my