The Dream - Whitney Dineen Page 0,1

our trailer for four months—carefully planning our eviction to coincide with payday, giving up any extras, and stealing our toilet paper from public restrooms, we’re able to stock away a tiny nest egg to start us out in our new town.

Creek Water, Missouri, here we come!

Chapter One

I can’t find my spare nursing shoes to save my life. If I hadn’t tripped and stumbled ankle-deep into a puddle after work, I wouldn’t need them. There’s no way my soaked clogs will dry overnight, and I’m not up to going to the laundromat at eight p.m. to use the clothes dryer. Either I find my old shoes or I wear tennis shoes and risk having aching feet and legs by the end of tomorrow.

Staring under my full-size bed frame, I notice the carpet needs to be cleaned. It smells like wet dog down here, which is problematic as I don’t have a dog. But I don’t want to spend any money on this place since I’m hoping to move out soon.

I decide now is as good a time as any to get rid of some of the stuff I’ve been storing under my bed. Leaving this dump behind signifies a brand-new start for a brand-new Ashley. I can’t go hauling my childhood possessions with me, especially since it isn’t a time I particularly want to be reminded of.

I run my hand over the shoebox with “Mom and Me” written on the top in loopy red marker. I’ll never get rid of this one, so there’s no point in unleashing the memories within right now. The next box I pull out once held the only brand-new boots I ever owned—prior to turning twenty-four that is. They were riding boots that laced all the way up to the top. They were one hundred percent too stylish to fit in with the rest of my wardrobe, but that didn’t matter. They were gorgeous and made me feel like a million bucks. The fact that I got them for only ten dollars at Salvation Army only added to the joy they brought me.

There are no markings on the lid so I gingerly open the top like it might be housing a nest of live snakes. My breath catches in my throat when I see what’s inside. My dried-up prom corsage sits there like a relic from another century. The once pale pink tea roses are now so brown and crisp they look like they’re in jeopardy of disintegrating if I so much as look at them too hard.

My senior yearbook is there as well, which I probably will throw away someday. I pull it out and consider opening it when I spot the book that’s lying underneath. It has a pearly pink cover with one word written across the front in gold script, “Dream.” Emotion builds in my throat so quickly it nearly chokes me. My heart hammers and perspiration beads on my upper lip. It’s my diary, Molly, named after the one and only Molly Ringwald.

My mom gave it to me the Christmas we moved to Creek Water so I could document my new life. When she handed it to me, she said, “All things are possible, Ash. You just have to be able to dream something before you can have it.”

I turn the book over and stare at the remnants of the red clearance sticker from Marshalls where she got it. There were a few dings and scratches across the front, but I was so caught up in the fantasy of a fresh start, I hadn’t been bothered by them. I remember thinking that I would fill it with all my hopes and dreams. I fancied the very act of writing them would magically make them come to fruition. How foolish is that?

I hold the diary with the binding facing the ground, remembering that my mom used to do the same thing with her books. She’d say, “Whatever page it opens to will have the answer to the problem I need fixing.” Then she’d move her hands and let fate take over.

We’d laugh hysterically at some of the scenes or dialogue she’d come up with. I told her repeatedly that she needed to use serious books to solve serious problems. But she assured me her life was more of a trashy romance novel so those were the best ones to use.

I close my eyes, and whisper, “Okay Mom, work your magic. Whatever page this opens to is going to be the one I need