“White, chocolate, or Nightmare?”
“Excuse me?” In all of Miranda’s years
of school, she never received a list of milk
options like she did the first day of her
freshman year of college. “Nightmare? What
exactly is that?”
The pimply-faced redhead carrying the
crate of choices grinned at her. “Wanna try
it?”
Miranda peered at the mystery item. Its
size and carton were the same as the others,
the only difference being the yellow letters
spelling Nightmare underlined by a
lightening bolt on the black label. “Is it
like a mix of the two? Maybe thicker, like
a shake or something?”
The young man leaned toward her and
whispered. “I can tell you that only a
handful get the option. Beyond that, you’ll
have to try it to find out.”
“What the hell. I’ll try anything
once.” Seventy-five cents later, Miranda
tasted her first sip of Nightmare and found
it remarkably similar to chocolate. Yet
another way to worm an extra quarter from
unsuspecting freshmen.
Two tables behind her, she heard a male
voice loudly demand, “Nightmare!” Miranda
turned to see the boy so adamant about the
strange drink. His dishwater blonde hair
was neatly trimmed and his blue eyes
radiated an impish quality filled with
amusement and not a care in the world, in
spite of the fact that he sat in a
wheelchair.
The same pimple-faced kid shook his head,
indicating it was apparently not an option
for him.
“Aw, let him have it, Opie!” The demand
came from another guy at their table. He
was older, his head a shock of white wild
hair that rivaled Albert Einstein’s.
“Whatever you say, Nightmare,” said the
blushing redhead passing out the choices.
The left-over high school testosterone
around the table erupted into whoops and
hollers until he received the carton. Then,
the boy sharing his nickname with the
mysterious milk concoction led the others in
a spirited chant of “Chug! Chug! Chug!” and
the boy in the wheelchair obliged, crumpling
the empty carton with a satisfied, “Ahhh,”
when he finished. They cheered, the drinker
humbly bowed his thanks, and they went back
to talking about whatever boys talk about.
Miranda couldn’t help but laugh to
herself. They acted like they were at a
kegger and just strapped a beer helmet to
the guy’s head. The scene reminded her of
her own wilder high school days when she
went to such parties, and it pleased her
that for some reason, even as a stranger at
State U, she apparently wrangled herself a
spot with an elite crowd again, since she
was offered Nightmare.
Things settled down and she returned to
her quiet contemplation of the reading list
for Literature. A half an hour later, she
packed up her things to fight her way to her
next class.
As she wove through the throng of
students, something strange began to
happen. Amongst the others, she
occasionally spotted those that appeared to
have limbs not of flesh and bone, but of the
whipped squash that her mother prepared
every Thanksgiving. Soon extensions of the
same material protruded from portions of the
walls and Miranda’s steps slowed. She felt
as though she were trudging through tar, and
the walls around her evaporated.
This must be what it’s like to have a mental
breakdown.
And then, she saw them. She wasn’t sure
what, or who, they were. There were five
females, and they knelt in a small circle
around a campfire in a hidden room beyond
the melting wall. They all wore jade cloaks
with hoods that covered their faces, yet
Miranda sensed their friendliness. As she
stared and wondered about them, an odd smile
smeared on her face, the one facing her
looked up in her direction. Miranda still
couldn’t see a face, such was the hood, but
a hand rose from the folds of material and
slowly beckoned her forward.
Miranda couldn’t resist. It would be
rude to refuse the unspoken invitation. She
approached, and after moving half the
distance, she realized she wasn’t walking,
but rather, floating. She looked down to
her feet and looked back up again, only to
find the five cloaked people gone, replaced
by people in short lines of three. Her body
stopped behind the closest pair of people
waiting for a third, and she briefly made
eye contact with the prettiest girl she’d
ever seen, standing in front of her. In
that moment, a wealth of information was
conveyed, almost as if they suddenly had the
gift of reading one another’s thoughts.
This Mulatto girl, too, had chosen
Nightmare.
First in the next line over, Miranda saw
the boy in the wheelchair and suddenly knew
his name was Brian. He glanced over his
shoulder at her and she smiled coyly. He
returned it, so perfect, right down to the
tiny smile lines around the outer corner of
his eyes. She mouthed her name to him, and
he mouthed back, ‘I know.’ They held each
other’s eyes, each conveying a world of
feeling and emotion with the other for the
next several seconds, until the scene around
her faded again, this time into blackness
because someone shut down the lights.
“Welcome to your Nightmare!” boomed a
deep mechanical voice from no where and
everywhere at the same time. Miranda looked
in every direction, trying to seek out the
source. “The others around you are your
enemies! You must do anything that you can
to conquer them and seize what’s rightfully
yours!”
By the time the voice finished speaking,
Miranda loathed those around her so
furiously, she could barely stand being near
them. The lights came on again, dim at
first and brightening into a large spotlight
that encompassed the group of twenty-one
people encircled there. She knew
instinctively when they reached their
brightest point, and as the pretty Mulatto
girl turned around, Miranda met that China
doll complexion with a right hook that let
off a resounding crack when it made contact
with her jaw.
Someone to the side of her kicked her and
Miranda went face first onto the floor.
With the stealth of a martial arts champion,
she rolled over, leapt to her feet, ducked a
punch and brought her fist back to deliver
another blow to the girl in front of her,
and she froze, her fist halfway to its
target.
This isn’t right. No one behaves this
way. Something in her mind
threatened to waive aside the cautionary
thoughts in favor of brute force fueled by
adrenaline, but she refused to allow herself
it. Fight it, Miranda. Fight it!
The room darkened again with an audible
snap of the lights, and the sudden silence
enraptured each of them. Miranda keened in
the darkness, hoping to catch a glimpse of
the elusive figure behind the mysterious
voice she heard before. She stood poised on
the brink of rationality, her forefingers
close to her ears so that if she felt a
fraction of the intense anger at the sound
of the voice, she could plug her ears and
continue her fight against it.
“Ladies and gentlemen, we have today’s
winner,” the voice stated. No overwhelming
urges accompanied the stranger’s words this
time.
In the silence following, Miranda could
hear her own breath, feel her chest heaving
with exhaustion.
“We all know the designated participants
of each trio. Have you your tasks?”
A collective affirmation swept through
the students, and each team’s selected
player stepped out of line to perform their
task. The whole scenario gave Miranda the
weirdest sensation she ever felt before,
almost like déjà vu, but it went deeper than
that. She understood that she was today’s
winner mentioned by the voice, and she
earned that position because she fought the
feelings of animosity; that her trio didn’t
have to perform their chosen task because
one of them won, but as to when they chose
that task, she didn’t have the foggiest
idea; and she knew the tasks were about to
give them one hell of a good time laughing
at each other because of simple childish fun
reminiscent of games like Truth or Dare.
Miranda felt happy, strong, athletic,
beautiful, and sexy all at the same time.
She overheard Brian saying to one of his
teammates, “I knew it was bogus the first
time I drank it because I stood up and
walked to the pole.” She caught his eye and
winked at him, a gesture he quickly returned
with a huge grin.
As if by magic, a portion of what
appeared to be a football field appeared
before them, and somehow they all had a
perfect vantage point and were able to see
as each chosen player in turn made a
complete fool of him or herself. They
watched and giggled as people were made to
tell intentionally bad jokes, sing songs,
pretend to act and see how quickly they
could say tongue-twisters. By far, the
greatest treat was when Brian whipped out a
pink tutu and handed it to their selected
player who then put it on, sprayed on a whip
cream belt and attempted to do the Limbo
under a bamboo pole that Brian and the boy
called Nightmare held. Everyone laughed
hysterically at the efforts of their
reddening third person as he tried several
times.
He finally managed it when Brian held his
end of the pole higher and Brian yelled,
“Victory!”
Miranda wished her team came up with
something as clever, but as it turned out,
it didn’t really matter. The darkness
lifted and they found themselves in a
classroom. Just before the veil of fantasy,
or whatever it was, completely lifted,
Miranda screamed, "Brian!" She wasn't ready
to let go of the feeling of control she held
in this realm.
“Miranda!” he yelled back, trying to see
her around other students. “Go out with me,
Miranda!”
In the distance she heard a bell ring.
Students began to push and shove and she
felt herself being moved back a few steps.
“Yes!” she hollered back. Never before did
she know such happiness, have such a feeling
of completion and belonging. It didn’t
matter he sat in a wheelchair. They shared
something special, knew each other’s
thoughts, felt each other’s feelings. No
one could explain it, or duplicate it. All
because of this magical place and the
mysterious concoction.
Miranda didn’t hear anything further.
Stark reality crashed in on her
frighteningly fast. She felt the chair
beneath her and raised her head, turning to
watch some of the others leave the
classroom. The thought that she fell asleep
in class on her first day and possibly had
such a bizarre dream scared her. If it were
a dream, she screamed out a boy’s name. Had
she done so in reality, too? She listened
closely to the last students as they passed
her to trickle out the door. Were those
snickers she heard? Were they laughing at
her?
Oh, God! Miranda crossed her arms on the
desk in front of her and put her forehead
down, wishing she could return and never
come back. Perhaps worse than anything
else, a dreadful emptiness loomed about her,
for it felt so real, and Brian wanted her,
and she wanted him. Her entire soul ached
for that moment of happiness she felt when
her stomach flip-flopped when he locked his
crystal blue eyes with hers and smiled.
A hand on her shoulder caused her to
jump. It couldn’t possibly get worse, she
decided and looked up.
“Was that a yes I heard?”
