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Two. Gotcha, he said, as if monsters were a perfectly normal thing for a police sketch artist to be drawing. As an attempt to placate me, it was pretty transparent. The biggest giveaway was when he tried to give me the finished sketch. Dont you need this for your files or something I asked him. He exchanged raised eyebrows with the cop. Of course. What was I thinking It was totally insulting. Even my best and only friend Ricky didnt believe me, and hed been there. He swore up and down that he hadnt seen any creature in the woods that nighteven though Id shined my flashlight right at itwhich is just what he told the cops. Hed heard barking, though. We both had. So it wasnt a huge surprise when the police concluded that a pack of feral dogs had killed my grandfather. Apparently theyd been spotted elsewhere and had taken bites out of a woman whod been walking in Century Woods the week before. All at night, mind you. Which is exactly when the creatures are hardest to see! I said. But Ricky just shook his head and muttered something about me needing a brainshrinker. You mean headshrinker, I replied, and thanks a lot. Its great to have such supportive friends. We were sitting on my roof deck watching the sun set over the Gulf, Ricky coiled like a spring in an unreasonably expensive Adirondack chair my parents had brought back from a trip to Amish country, his legs folded beneath him and arms crossed tight, chainsmoking cigarettes with a kind of grim determination. He always seemed vaguely uncomfortable at my house, but I could tell by the way his eyes slid off me whenever he looked in my direction that now it wasnt my parents wealth that was making him uneasy, but me. Whatever, Im just being straight with you, he said. Keep talking about monsters and theyre gonna put you away. Then you really will be Special Ed. Dont call me that. He flicked away his cigarette and spat a huge glistening wad over the railing. Were you just smoking and chewing tobacco at the same time What are you, my mom Do I look like I blow truckers for food stamps Ricky was a connoisseur of yourmom jokes, but this was apparently more than he could take. He sprang out of the chair and shoved me so hard I almost fell off the roof. I yelled at him to get out, but he was already going. It was months before Id see him again. So much for having friends. Eventually, my parents did take me to a brainshrinkera quiet, oliveskinned man named Dr. Golan. I didnt put up a fight. I knew I needed help. I thought Id be a tough case, but Dr. Golan made surprisingly quick work of me. The calm, affectless way he explained things was almost hypnotizing, and within two sessions hed convinced me that the creature had been nothing more than the product of my overheated imagination; that the trauma of my grandfathers death had made me see something that wasnt really there. It was Grandpa Portmans stories that had planted the creature in my mind to begin with, Dr. Golan explained, so it only made sense that, kneeling there with his body in my arms and reeling from the worst shock of my young life, I had conjured up my grandfathers own bogeyman. There was even a name for it: acute stress reaction. I dont see anything cute about it, my mother said when she heard my shiny new diagnosis. Her joke didnt bother me, though. Almost anything sounded better than crazy. Just because I no longer believed the monsters were real didnt mean I was better, though. I still suffered from nightmares. I was twitchy and paranoid, bad enough at interacting with other people that my parents hired a tutor so that I only had to go to school on days I felt up to it. They alsofinallylet me quit Smart Aid. Feeling better became my new job. Pretty soon, I was determined to be fired from this one, too. Once the small matter of my temporary madness had been cleared up, Dr. Golans function seemed mainly to consist of writing prescriptions. Still having nightmares Ive got something for that. Panic attack on the school bus This should do the trick. Cant sleep Lets up the dosage. All those pills were making me fat and stupid, and I was still miserable, getting only three or four hours of sleep a night. Thats why I started lying to Dr. Golan. I pretended to be fine when anyone who looked at me could see the bags under my eyes and the way I jumped like a nervous cat at sudden noises. One week I faked an entire dream journal, making my dreams sound bland and simple, the way a normal persons should be. One dream was about going to the dentist. In another I was flying. Two nights in a row, I told him, Id dreamed I was naked in school. Then he stopped me. What about the creatures I shrugged. No sign of them. Guess that means Im getting better, huh Dr. Golan tapped his pen for a moment and then wrote something down. I hope youre not just telling me what you think I want to hear. Of course not, I said, my gaze skirting the framed degrees on his wall, all attesting to his expertness in various subdisciplines of psychology, including, Im sure, how to tell when an acutely stressed teenager is lying to you. Lets be real for a minute. He set down his pen. Youre telling me you didnt have the dream even one night this week Id always been a terrible liar. Rather than humiliate myself, I copped to it. Well, I muttered, maybe one. The truth was that Id had the dream every night that week. With minor variations, it always went like this: Im crouched in the corner of my grandfathers bedroom, amber dusklight retreating from the windows, pointing a pink plastic BB rifle at the door. An enormous glowing vending machine looms where the bed should be, filled not with candy but rows of razorsharp tactical knives and armorpiercing pistols. My grandfathers there in an old British army uniform, feeding the machine bills, but it takes a lot to buy a gun and were running out of time. Finally, a shiny .45 spins toward the glass, but before it falls it gets stuck. He swears in Yiddish, kicks the machine, then kneels down and reaches inside to try and grab it, but his arm gets caught. Thats when they come, their long black tongues slithering up the outside of the glass, looking for a way in. I point the BB gun at them and pull the trigger, but nothing happens. Meanwhile Grandpa Portman is shouting like a crazy personfind the bird, find the loop, Yakob vai dont you understand you goddamned stupid yutziand then the windows shatter and glass rains in and the black tongues are all over us, and thats generally when I wake up in a puddle of sweat, my heart doing hurdles and my stomach tied in knots.
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