Read Online Dreamland by Sarah Dessen - Free Book Online

hallway to the kitchen. Chad was sitting on the floor, up against the refrigerator, a beer clutched in his hands. He looked like he was asleep. She knelt down beside him and made sure he was breathing, then pulled him to his feet. Kelly was what I later learned was called co-dependent.
    â€œThere’s Mike,” Rina whispered, poking me in the side. I looked over to the dining room, where Mike was sitting and watching us. He waved, smiling, in his letter jacket. Mike was a nice guy but very, very bland. Like a big saltine cracker.
    â€œCome on,” Rina said, taking my hand and pulling me behind her into the dining room, where Bill Skerrit was at the head of the table.
    â€œThere you are!” he said, and she immediately sat down in his lap and took a swig of his beer, while his hands moved easily around her waist.
    â€œGive me that quarter,” she called out, wriggling in his lap. Mike, on the end, slid it across to her.
    â€œThat’s my girl,” Bill said.
    â€œCaitlin,” Rina said in a low voice, and when I looked at her she cocked her head very obviously toward Mike. “Go on.”
    And so I did, working my way around the table, squeezing past chairs and bodies to sit in the chair next to him.
    â€œHi,” I said.
    â€œHi.” He smiled and lay his hand loosely along the back of my chair. This was all arranged. I had learned there was no room for chaos theory or chance in the carefully choreographed world of jock love.
    I sat there with Mike, but I still felt strange. Like every inch of me was alert, on guard, ready for what might happen next.
    By the time Rogerson appeared in the open doorway of the dining room it was like I’d been waiting for him, wasn’t even really surprised to see him standing there in the next room, hands in his pockets. I had this crazy thought that he’d come for me.
    â€œHey, Bill,” one of the running backs, Jeremy Light, called out. “Someone here to see you.”
    Bill Skerrit turned around, with Rina still in his lap. “Oh, hey, man. Hold on.”
    We were all looking at Rogerson. And as he scanned the room, all of Jackson High’s best and brightest, he saw me.
    â€œWho is that?” Mike Evans asked me, and without even really realizing it, I pulled out from under his arm, one quick movement, costing him all the progress he’d slowly attained in the last thirty minutes.
    â€œI don’t know,” I said. “Excuse me.” And I stood up and squeezed back around the table, then pushed my way into the kitchen. It was littered with beer cans and empty Bud twelve-packs. There was a small, scared-looking dog on a blue blanket in the corner who looked up, distressed, upon seeing me.
    I walked across the kitchen toward the bathroom, and as I passed the hallway that led to the front door I saw Bill Skerrit, quarterback, handing a few folded bills over to Rogerson, who handed him something back in return. Then they just stood there, by the door, talking, before Bill turned back to the dining room. Rogerson put the money in his pocket and turned to the door, pushing it open.
    â€œCaitlin?” I looked at the door to the dining room and saw Mike Evans standing there, beer in hand. “What’s wrong?”
    â€œNothing,” I said quickly, and as I spoke Rogerson turned back from the open door, seeing me. “I was, um, cold.”
    â€œCold?” Mike looked around the room, as if he might see something to corroborate this, like icicles or penguins.
    â€œYeah,” I said. I glanced back at Rogerson. “The door’s open.”
    â€œOh.” We faced off across the shiny tiled floor as the tiny dog made a squeaking noise and lay back down, closing its eyes. “Well,” Mike said, “you can have this.”
    And with that, he slid off his letter jacket, holding it out to me like an offering. And I stood there, frozen. From the open front door, Rogerson was watching