I was standing out in one of our fields with four other people. I wouldn’t call them friends, but that didn’t seem weird at the time because nothing was normal. For one thing, our field was sort of electric green, kind of like those postcards you see of the English countryside. Usually, ours are more golden brown. Especially in September.

We weren’t really doing anything, at least, not that I can remember, when suddenly out of nowhere, this plane comes flying low across the vivid blue sky. Not only was the grass bright, but everything around me was sort of startling colorful. It wasn’t a jet plane, but not one of those tiny two-seaters either. Somewhere in the middle. Which I know is a lot of leeway, but I’m not exactly a plane expert or anything, so I’m doing the best I can.

Anyway, almost on its tail comes another plane…a bigger one. Still not a jet, but maybe like…a military plane. Only in size though. They both look like normal, everyday planes like you might see a movie star fly in. The first plane seems to panic. Well, I guess I mean, the people inside, because it starts flying all erratic. And then there’s this piercing siren sound and the plane swings around…or banks, is the word, I think, but the bigger plane is right on its tail. And this is right over us. We’re kind of freaking out on the inside, but struck dumb on the outside. No one’s moving, but our hearts are racing. At least mine is.

Then there’s a second siren, higher and more whiny than the first, so now there’re two sirens, two planes and they keep flying very low, right over the top of our field, the bigger one chasing the smaller one. When the third plane shows up, that’s when we all come to life. Only it’s not really a plane. It’s one of those giant helicopters like you see on the news. Definitely military style. This one’s painted a light color too though, like it’s civilian. Not that I even know if they have such a thing.

“Oh, my God!” one of us shouts.

“We should get down!”

“Or hide in the trees!”

Did I mention that the field meets the old apple orchard on one side? Well, it does. Anyway, I say, “I don’t think a few trees are going to keep any of those planes from crushing us if they come down! If we stay here, we can run if they start to crash.”

So for some reason, everyone listens to me and we stay put. The planes are flying around each other, the sirens still wailing, and then the helicopter thingie sort of begins to hover over us. All of a sudden a door opens on its side and from a rope, yeah, just a regular rope, they start to lower down this white car. Right on top of us!

I can’t believe it either. Instead of running, we all sort of collapse onto the ground and wait for the car to crush us. It comes lower and lower and when it’s almost to the ground, I see that it’s going to miss most of us, but Hillary’s in its way. Instead of just telling her to move, I reach out my arm, lay my palm against the swinging car and just sort of shove it to one side. Just as it lands in the field, I wake up.

That’s the dream I’ve been having for the last two weeks.

I’ve looked on the internet to see what it means, and there are all kinds of kooks out there who say they know. I’ve heard that it means I have crushing debt (not that I know of) or I’m pregnant (definitely not, unless it’s the case of the miraculous conception again) or I’ll never get into a good college with my grades (probable). What I really think it means is that my parents are going to buy me a car for sixteenth birthday next week. A girl can dream can’t she? I’m also thinking that the reason I push it away in my dream is not because I don’t want it, or because I’m worried about it crushing Hillary (I don’t really even know Hillary), but because I actually hate white cars. Not that I wouldn’t take one if it was my only choice, of course.

The air is sticky-hot around me because I forgot to open a window before going to bed last night, and I’m just coming out of the girl’s bathroom (we have two. I have brothers. Mom and I drew the line and put up a couple of those signs that you see on bathrooms in restaurants. The boys got the downstairs bathroom, and Mom and I got the upstairs one) when Jim Bob’s voice floated up the stairs to me.

“Annabelle? Are you still sleeping, darlin’?”

Jim Bob is not his real name. No one calls their kid that anymore. At least not here in Oregon. Jim Bob’s real name is James Joyce McKenzie. Naturally, he changed it, like any self-respecting, parent-hating fifteen year old would (can you blame him for hating Mr. and Mrs. McKenzie when they gave him a middle name like Joyce?).

And Annabelle is not my real name either, although I sometimes wish it was. It’s just what Jim Bob calls me because he likes the way it sounds. To everyone else, I’m just plain Anne or Annie, after my great grandmother. How the two of us got so lucky in the names department, I’ll never know. But maybe that’s what drew us together.

“I had the dream again,” I said, as JB reached the top of the stairs.

He scooped me into his arms, just like in a movie, and gave me a kiss on each cheek. He can’t decide if he wants to be an Italian who kisses everyone he meets (mostly just to throw them off, especially the guys) or a southerner who calls you darlin’ and drives a truck with a tow rope and jumper cables in case of emergency. Either way, he’s just weird, which suits me fine, as my great grandma Anne would say.

“Coffee,” he said, leading me down the stairs.

I was wearing what I’d slept in, shorts and a t-shirt but no bra, so I hoped we didn’t run into any of the lodge’s guests.

“I have bedhead.”

“You look beautiful, as always.”

Some people might think JB is a little strange, and they’d be right, but I know he just likes to entertain himself with his funny ways. It makes him feel less stuck in the middle of nowhere. It does the same for me, which is probably why we’re friends.