Jonathan: Prince of Dreams Chapter One

Jonathan: Prince of Dreams
By: Alesa Corrin

Chapter One: I Almost Beat Up a Bully

At first I thought I was playing football. I was standing on a grassy field holding something football-shaped in the crook of my arm, cradled against my chest. There were people running toward me roaring aggressively—just like the offense does in the heat of a game when the goal is to “get the quarterback.”
But when I looked down, I realized that it wasn't a football I held—at least, not anymore—but rather a silver helmet reeking of metal oil. The kind of helmet that knights used to wear. And the guys sprinting at me turned into random people emerging from gray clouds of ash and smoke, their faces stretched in horror, their eyes stark in their dirty faces. They ran right past me like I didn't exist. I could have sworn that there had been a goal-post behind me, forking up into the sky, but now it was the ashy remains of a fire-blackened village. More smoke chugged from straw huts. Cattle and pigs roamed free, trotting in circles all confused while women jogged briskly around them screaming for their children.
When I looked down again, I saw that my football jersey had been replaced with a full suit of armor that glistened in the sunlight shining brown through the smoke clouds of ruin. In my other hand, I held a sword. I didn’t feel confusion at the turn my dream had taken. If anything, I felt a weird kind of anticipation.
Then I saw what had everyone behind me panicking—a gigantic dragon materialized through the smoke in front of me, its scales the color of mud, its eyes round and savage like a snake's. It saw me, the only tasty morsel standing between it and a feast of innocent people, and roared its fury down at my face. I felt heat wash through my blood and stuffed the helmet over my head, throwing open my arms and bellowing back at it, “Show me what you got! Come at me!”
And it did—but in the instant that its jaws darted down and my sword rose to meet it, everything became slow motion. I saw myself and the beast about to lock in combat as if I were watching a movie, and I started to get that weird, foggy feeling you get when you're about to wake up. Damn, I look badass, I thought vaguely as the smoke started to obscure my view of what was happening.
In the final few moments before I returned to reality, I saw a flash of white in my periphery, like a huge horse or something had jumped by to aid my dream-self in combat. I saw someone in a black cloak and hood watching from the fringes of the demolished town and heard a voice say, “He's almost ready.”
Then a glob of green paint fell into my mouth.

“Blegh!” I looked down at the newspaper on the floor, spitting, trying not to topple off the rickety ladder I perched upon. My painting may have been shaping up quite nicely, but the only problem with painting the ceiling...was gravity.
After I'd gagged out the last of the paint, I went still and listened to hear if there were any noises coming from downstairs. Nope. Nothing. I was in the clear. I set aside my paintbrush, wiping my hands on the smock I'd fashioned out of a garbage bag with holes in it, and descended to check my bedside clock. It was an hour slow because I was always too lazy to keep up with daylight savings time and all that, but the bus would be coming in about fifteen minutes. Time to get ready for school. At least it was Friday.
Friday. The best day of the week. Saturdays came second. There's something about that special joy you felt on Fridays, leaving behind another week of school to do whatever you wanted for two days. Even waking up late on a Saturday couldn’t beat that Friday euphoria.
I picked my way back down the ladder, shrugging off my “smock” and catching the rising sun from my upstairs window, then gazed moodily up at my work in progress. Splashed across my entire ceiling was the image of a football player. He was diving over the end zone with the aid of a pair of outstretched wings. It wasn't much yet, but I was proud of it. I stretched, ignoring the stench of fresh paint, and watched my flexing biceps with detached satisfaction.
Well, nothing like choking on solvent to shake my mind free from thinking about the dream I'd been having on repeat off and on the past few weeks. I'd had it again last night, and it was getting annoying. Me? A knight in shining armor? As if. I started to collect my backpack, binder, and papers and heaved a sigh. As if I'd be anything more than this… A small-town jock with a homelife that would drive even the most successful psychiatrist to hang up their rorschach blots and retire.
Donning my backpack and buckling the torso straps, I studied my reflection in the cracked mirror on my wall. None of the paint had gotten into my hair (green paint and blond hair just didn’t go well together), and even though there were faint shadows under them from staying up late painting and waking up early because of the weird dreams, my turquoise-blue eyes were clear and bright. Perfectly ready for an early day in autumn. I scruffed the waves in my hair up a bit and opened the door to the narrow upstairs hall.
Everything here looked dusty and old. Dirt had blended into the once red carpet, turning it a worn mahogany brown. It was so ratty I could count the floorboards showing from beneath it. Besides a closet, my dad's room, and a small bathroom, my bedroom was the only other room upstairs.
I headed to the right, picking my way quietly toward the staircase. The once polished steps were now creaky and old. Luckily, I knew exactly where all of the loud banshee-wail spots were. Dad had given me a bruise for every time I'd forgotten or made an accidental misstep.
Please don’t wake up, please don’t wake up… I chanted in my mind, my ears pricked for any sound of movement fro Dad’s room.
When I reached the first floor, I snuck into the kitchen, grabbed a banana, and peeled it slowly, taking a bite. I entered the living room and saw that the television set was on some cheesy talk show. Pop was slumped in his favorite armchair with a beer can clenched in his fist as if it contained the water of life and he were a dying man. How original, I thought. I shook my head disgustedly, a sneer curling my lip as I took in his filthy shirt, scraggly stubble, and softening neck muscles where they bulged, his head flopped to one side. Just looking at him brought me an ugly kind of rage—a lot like the rage I had felt in my dream when I'd been about to slay that dragon.
I slipped quietly out the front door, turning the knob before I shut it so that the bolt wouldn't click too loudly against the frame. I didn't want to rouse my sorry, drunken excuse for a parent.
I made it to the end of the driveway with seconds to spare before ol' Simon showed up. His yellow school bus had to be an inheritance from his prehistoric forefathers. I heard it gasping for air even as it stopped and the doors wheezed open. And there was Simon: the overweight and balding bus driver, staring down at me as if I had done him some personal wrong.
Bounding up the steps, I picked up Simon's limp hand and shook it. “Hey, buddy, happy Friday!” I said cheerily. “Got plans?” It was fun to be a bit obnoxious with Simon.
“I'm gutting deer with my grandson,” Simon replied gruffly, tugging his hand from mine.
See? Fun.
“Alrighty then,” I said.
After tossing my banana peel out onto the grass where the bugs could eat it, I headed down the aisle, exchanging smiles with everyone as I ambled toward the back of the bus where the other seniors, and my friends, sat. My best friend Tyson made faces at me, Ben adjusted his fire-cadets jacket before turning the page in his first-aid manual. Nikki, the greatest girl in the world, sat alone toward the very back, running a brush through her long, chocolate colored hair. When I started walking toward her she looked up and smiled warmly, her hazel eyes twinkling.
Simon is notorious for icky surprises. Once, instead of giving a kid a bus ticket for talking too loud, he had him clean the whole bus. And another time, he had us all stay in our seats because he couldn't find his lunch and was convinced that one of us had taken it. Turns out it was beneath his seat. As fate would have it, to pay me back for my friendliness, Simon gunned the gas.
The bus lurched when I was halfway down the aisle, and I lost my footing, grabbing on to the backs of the seats on either side of me.
“Whoa!” I yelped. My heart jumped into my throat. My best friend, Tyson, snickered, crumpling against his window, his brown hair leaving stripes in the condensation on the glass. Now I didn't care who I sat with so long as I didn't become kid splatter against the back of the bus.
I shuffled bracingly forward, but as soon as I moved my center of balance, Simon jumped a speed bump and I felt myself leave the floor. I landed hard on my knees. Simon would pay for this. If I broke my neck, an event that seemed inevitable, I would crawl to the front of the bus and, I don't know, hide his lunch or something. Maybe I would be able to cram some of his sandwich into my mouth before I died; that way, he'd know we were even.
But as embarrassing as this was, it was nothing compared to the death sentence I wrote myself next. As I struggled to my feet, we swerved around a turn. I bounced off another seat, tripped over a backpack, reached out for and missed Tyson's helpfully outstretched hand, and flopped sideways into the opposite row. The laughter turned into gasps. I was perched awkwardly on someone's lap—Garrett's lap.
Garrett was a lost cause. Moody and antisocial except for when he was around his obedient goons, he looked down his nose at everyone else. Just like he was now. With me.
I was watching his green eyes settle icily on mine. His mouth twisted into a teeth-clenched frown. I even thought I saw the black hair under his beanie bristle. He launched me into the seat across from him with Tyson. “Get away from me!” he spat.
“Chill, Garrett, it was an accident!” Ben said, his palms up in a calming gesture.
“Just stay away from me,” Garrett snarled, his fists closed tightly. “Or I'll take you apart.” He tilted his head at me. “But maybe it'll be therapeutic for you. You'll get to spend some quality time with your drunk-ass dad.”
Nikki looked at me meaningfully, raising her eyebrows, tightening her lips, trying to tell me with her gaze not to get uptight. “Don't do it,” she mouthed. But my eyes narrowed. There had always been a sticky vendetta between Garrett and I since elementary school and it had festered early in the ninth grade. He had publicly embarrassed Nikki just to get to me, rumor had it. I would have taken him apart that day—or any day since—if Nikki hadn't begged me not to. So I usually tried to avoid Garrett. You know, when I wasn't sitting on him.
“Don’t talk about my dad, Garrett.” I said curtly, my heart beating faster.
Garrett smirked. “Does it bother you?”
I should have kept my weaknesses secret, as is man law, but instead I sat straighter and said, “Yeah, it bothers me, just shut up!”
“Make me,” challenged Garrett. He waved his hand at everyone in the seats around us, watching with round, expectant eyes. “Look at your adoring public, He’klarr. Let’s give them a show.”
My hands curled into tight fists and my pulse raced. Garrett was goading me into stepping over the line of hostile neutrality that had stretched between us for years; tempting me to make a move.
“No, Jonathan,” Nikki murmured very gently.
“Yes, Jonathan,” Garrett said in a mocking voice that mimicked Nikki’s concerned tone. “You have to be getting tired of turning the other cheek.” He watched my eyes flicker up toward Simon and back. Shaking his head, he sank back in his seat and muttered, “Won't even fight back. You are your mother's son.”
I lunged at him, fists swinging, shouting profanities. Tyson had felt me tense up, though, and grabbed the back of my shirt. My friends were all shouting, either urging me on or trying in vain to calm me down. Garrett was just laughing, like he was amused, a foot from my eager fists.
“Let me go! I’m gonna shove his ass out the window!” I screamed.
“Come on, bro, you'll get kicked off the team if you get in a fight!” Tyson said over my oaths. “He isn't worth it, man; Jonathan, calm down!” He finally succeeded in pulling me down, and I was able to hear Simon through my pounding ears. He had seen what was happening and gotten on the mic, his voice crackling through the speakers: “Alright, you hooligans, save it for off my bus!”
We all settled into a steamy silence. Those toward the front turned reluctantly around. One of my friends behind me muttered, “Psycho,” but I don't know if that's what he was calling Garrett, me, or Simon.
Nikki reached forward and ran her fingers lightly around my neck, massaging my head and cooling me down. Garrett had put in an earphone and was tapping his fingers on his thigh in time to the beat on his iPod, still watching me arrogantly.
“You're nothin'. Nothin' but trash,” I hissed, relaxing slightly to Nikki's touch. She withdrew her fingers and groaned. I almost didn’t notice. My skin felt hot enough to sizzle and all of the hatred I’d kept at bay for so long was boiling in my chest like magma.
“You think you're better than me?” I growled. “Crawlin' around in your own shit like the other blowflies? It's time I taught you some respect.”
Garrett shrugged. “Maybe. Don't get your hopes up.”
“I'm not the one who's going to get the shit beat out of him!” I shouted. Some of my buds “ooh-ed” on that one, and the encouragement was only tensing me up more. My heart raced at Garret's insults. I was flushed—feverish, almost.
The bus choked to a stop in front of the high school, and we all stood.
“See you later,” Garrett said with menace, like a cliché super villain minus the manic laughter, and I flicked my head in acknowledgment, then watched his retreating back.
After a bit, Tyson impatiently pushed me into the aisle, and I stepped from the bus to face the front of Firestone High. Taking slow, deep breaths, just like Nikki had taught me, I acknowledged my feelings, named them in my mind, hatred, rage, grief, disgust, shame, and one by one I buried them back in my subconscious. It was often a very difficult exercise, swallowing the savagely pleasant mental image of me throttling Garrett until his head popped off like a cork from a bottle, but seeing my school helped.
I always, no matter how much of a bad morning I had, felt pride when I saw my high school. Still do. It was the first place in my life where I had found a place to belong—a place that accepted me. A cobbled walkway lined by thick and elderly trees led to the foot of some wrap around stairs. The trees formed a canopy of fiery-colored leaves above us, fingers of sun beaming through them to cast shadowy webs on the ground. At the corners of the stairs, great columns stretched up to support an archway, forming a sheltered area below with benches on either side of the double doors.
Having obtained extra money from a bond our school passed, an architect had been hired to construct a unique sculpture for the entrance. The principal had in mind a stone griffin sitting beside the doors like a sentinel. But the architect had insisted on something more “flavorful.”
He had climbed up onto the roof over the archway and, within a few months, made an intimidating stone griffin perched twenty feet tall and glaring down at those who entered its realm with eagle eyes. Its wings, intricately detailed down to the last secondary feather, were open, and they curled down over the columns as if to say, “This is my crib. Only griffins allowed!”
I stopped to stare up at the work of art, trying to calm down by bravely meeting the mythical beast's cold stare. It was painted black with a red underside and yellow irises and wing tips. Our school colors. We're big on pride.
Taped to the brick wall to one side was a black sheet of butcher paper. Red letters said, “Football Game Against the Serenity Grove Minotaurs Fri. The 27th!” It went on to give the time and cost of entry, the angular letters surrounded by scattered yellow cutouts of a griffin's profile.
Not to brag, but my football team was one of the best in our school district, maybe even one of the best in Colorado. We had won all three of our games so far, but the upcoming match was looked forward to every year. The Minotaurs were our major rivals; even the freshmen harbored a special loathing for them. Before every game against them we had a unique assembly just to motivate everyone.
Tyson clapped a hand on my shoulder and laughed, his usual wild grin fixed on his freckled face. “At least Garrett got you pumped up enough to slay the Minotaurs, right, Jonathan?”
I turned to face him, an eyebrow raised skeptically. “The game isn't even until next Friday, champ.”
Ben, ever cocky, waved his hands dismissively. “That ain't a problem. You have a week to make a Garrett voodoo doll and stick little pins in him at random times of the day.”
“And what would that help?” Nikki asked, a smile playing around her lips.
Ben rolled his piercing greenish-gray hawk eyes. “It'll keep him mad and haughty, duh.”
“Haughty?” Tyson echoed, puzzled. He shrugged and started to lead us inside, struggling to speak around the huge grin stuck on his face. “That doesn't sound healthy. Can you imagine Jonathan in the locker rooms before the game?” He adopted a high-pitched yet strict voice, not at all like mine, and pantomimed telling the team a plan. “Okay, guys, the Minotaurs are out there waiting for us. It's time to flash them the red flag and lock horns with the enemy!”
Nikki laughed. It was just the sort of figure of speech I would use.
Tyson went on. “Hold on a minute, guys,” he said before turning slightly away, mimicking stabbing a small object in his palm with manic squeals of glee. We all laughed loudly, and I already felt a degree better. Tyson was known for being able to brighten a room.
“Seriously though, did you all notice that Garrett was unusually...loquacious today?” Ben pressed.
“‘Loquacious?’ Man, what, did you eat a dictionary for breakfast this morning?” Tyson teased.
We stopped by the crowded cafeteria decorated with crimson and ebony sashes and covered with murals, and Ben and Tyson entered to get school-breakfast, still bickering about vocabulary and chatting about me and voodoo dolls.
I stood at the doorway for a bit, looking up at my favorite mural. It showed a football player crouching with one hand clenched over the ball, ready to pass it back. The senior class had done an excellent job with it. Through the helmet, I could see the tense jaw muscles and determined eyes. Because of his bulky mouth guard, his lips were parted awkwardly and his padding gave him the appearance of a brightly colored bear. But just barely, like a golden-colored spirit embodying the kid's force and will, a griffin had been traced in a ghostly way into the player's contours. Its wings were spread, making it look like the human it crouched in had translucent wings of his own. Its talons were his hands. Its beak was his mouth. Its feathers were his uniform. The griffin and the boy were one and the same. The picture gave me a sense of belonging, like something grander was in me too, just waiting to show itself. Looking at it reminded me of my dream. I wished I could suit up and fight my demons like I'd been about to fight that dragon. I wished I could conceive of a different, brighter future for myself, where I could be more than just a jock with nowhere to go and a short fuse when it came to bullies.
I moved to head inside and join my friends, but a hand slipped into mine and tugged meaningfully. I looked around at Nikki, who had been standing behind me watching my face, and she pulled me away toward a private area of the building: through a pair of doors and into a beautiful open-air garden tended to maternally by Mrs. Davidson’s floral classes. Sometimes, if we wanted a break from everyday life, Nikki and I would go here and eat lunch together.
We sat in an iron and wood bench between two overgrown lilac bushes. She rested her head on my shoulder and put her hands in mine. I breathed in the scent of her vanilla-coconut shampoo and closed my eyes contentedly, laying my head gently atop hers.
Her leg kicked anxiously from where it was crossed daintily over her other knee, and I opened my eyes to watch her jiggling shoelaces. She wanted to say something. I waited. Finally, she spoke, a hint of a plea in her voice. “Jonathan, what Garrett said on the bus… He was just trying to get under your skin.”
I bristled but kept my reply semi-calm. “I really don't know why he hates me. But we've always had a tense truce with each other. He didn't have to bring up my parents like that, especially not Mom.” Nikki nodded in agreement, and I went on. “Something’s changed. This isn’t a pissing contest anymore, this isn’t him just trying to get a reaction out of me, this is...something else. It’s more.” I thought of what Garrett had said about my mother and had to force down another spurt of white-hot rage. “He wants to fight me, Nikki.” She turned to look at me timidly.
“Do you want to fight him?”
I tried to find a way out of answering that truthfully but couldn't, so I finally replied, “Yes.”
Nikki frowned, her hazel eyes gleaming like those of an angry mother wolf. “You're giving in, you know that, right?”
A little too sharply, I shot back, “Just like my mom did.” It was kind of a statement-slash-question—a challenge that I hadn't really meant to let slip out.
Instead of appearing hurt, Nikki became stern. “Your mother did things that no other person could. She helped a lot of people. If you fight, you'll be insulting her memory. You'll be acting like your d––” She halted, a concerned look flitting across her face, worried she'd struck a nerve. We both knew that she had been about to say “dad.”
That hurt, mostly because I knew she was right. But I tried not to let it show on my face.
“Do you remember what Garrett did to you? What he said?” I asked in a low voice. “Because I do, word for word.”
“It’s in the past, Jon,” Nikki said, but her voice was tired and I could see that the pain of that experience still haunted her. “Beating Garrett up isn’t going to rewrite history.” But she sighed and asked in a defeated tone, “Is there any way I can convince you not to fight?”
I hugged her with a confident smile. “Nope.” I popped the p. She smiled a little sadly. “I'm sick of taking crap from that guy,” I said, putting a hand over my heart. “I’m sick of you having to take crap from him. But I promise, no more fights after this one.”
“You sound so sure that you'll win.” Nikki grimaced, standing and stretching.
I joined her on her feet. “If I have the heart of my lady, I can win anything,” I said, giving her a smug smile.
“You have my heart. Not my favor.”
“Ouch,” I grunted, and wrapped my hands around the hilt of an invisible knife buried in my chest.
The bell to begin school rang, and Nikki took my hand with a laugh. “Let's go.”