Life Is but a Dream by Brian James

begin to suck on my sleeve. It’s not that I don’t believe him—part of me has always felt the same way, but it still frightens me.
    — But isn’t medicine supposed to make you better? —
    — Medicine? Give me a break. It’s just a drug like any other — Alec says. — They always tell us how bad drugs are, but here they try to give us tons of them? And it’s not just us. Everyone I know has parents on pills. Every bathroom cabinet in America is filled with little brown bottles with long names that all mean the same thing. Soma. Mind control. I’m telling you, if we let them, they’ll change us to the point where we won’t ever be able to remember who we used to be. —
    — I don’t want that — I tell him—my voice muffled by my sleeve.
    — So you’re with me then? You’ll stop taking them? —
    I nod—slowly at first but more decisive once he squeezes my hand. — Okay — I say. — But what if they find out? —
    Alec reaches for the hand near my mouth so that both of my hands are now wrapped up in his. — Don’t worry about them — he says. — All that matters is you and me. —

 
    CHAPTER
    SEVEN
    I have to be careful not to use too much glue. The magazine paper is so thin that if I use the slightest bit more than a dab, the glue bubbles up and shows through to the picture on the other side. But even being careful, holding the picture flat on the table and measuring the drop with a squinted eye as it seeps from the orange cap, I manage to get too much on the paper. I have to smear it flat with my finger in a spiral pattern until it’s thin enough for me to press the picture on the collage paper without wrinkling.
    — This is so dumb — Alec groans beside me. He’s been complaining the entire twenty minutes we’ve been in the art room. I don’t mind though because he’s cute when he’s grumpy and I’m pretty sure he’s mostly doing it to make me laugh.
    — I don’t mind. I like it actually — I tell him for the tenth time.
    — Art collages? — he sneers. — What are we, in first grade? —
    — It’s supposed to help us express our feelings — I say, doing my best imitation of Mrs. Weaver, the therapist in charge of instructing us in this activity. She says sometimes words aren’t the best way to describe our emotions and that making collages might help us get in touch with our inner selves. Today, she wants us to make a piece about our relationship with our parents. For some reason, it bothers Alec more than the others we’ve had to do. — Try to have some fun with it — I tell him. Then I reach over and press my gluey finger on his nose. Before he can wipe at it, I stick a red piece of paper on him that I’ve cut into a circle and now he has a clown’s nose.
    He smiles for the first time since we started working on our projects. Looking at himself in the reflection of the windows behind us, he laughs. — Can this be my project? — he jokes. — This says everything about the way I feel toward my dad. —
    — I’m pretty sure Mrs. Weaver had something else in mind — I tease him, pulling the paper off his face.
    I’ve been in a good mood all day. Last night before bed, I hid the medicine under my tongue until the nurse left. As soon as the door clicked closed, I got up and spit the pills out in the toilet. This morning, I did the same thing. Nurse Abrams was more distracted than usual and I had no problem getting away with it.
    Already, I’m noticing the changes.
    I don’t feel so on edge today. It’s the same kind of feeling I get after taking a big test in school and can let go of all the memorized information stored in my brain—instantly I’m lighter once it’s been emptied. This morning has been just like that. I’ve been floating all day.
    Mrs. Weaver is strolling around the room. The tables in the art room are pushed together into a giant horseshoe. Inside the opening, she wanders from patient to patient, pausing to look at everyone’s work