Alyson Noël - Shimmer

And while I’m happy to report that it didn’t take all that long to find Bodhi—being able to reach him was a whole ’nother matter.

I hung back, not quite sure how to proceed. Carefully observing Bodhi, who remained completely unaware of me.

His brow creased, his hands clenched into fists he held tightly to his sides, his lips quivering, teeth gnashing together so hard it rendered his long string of words impossible to decipher.

Knowing he probably wouldn’t like it, knowing that as soon as he was released from whatever torment played out in his head, he’d find some lame excuse to rail on me about invading his privacy (or some other infraction either real or imagined), I went in anyway.

Slowly inching my way toward him until I was close enough to reach for his balled-up hand and grasp it in mine, allowing my energy to stream and merge with his, until I’d eased my way inside his head.

At first, it was impossible to make sense of much of anything. It was messy, chaotic, and extremely confusing—like a super-disorganized bedroom with big piles of papers and clothes and books and stuff littered all over the floor—and it was a while before I was able to get myself settled and get it all sorted out.

Unlike my thoughts (and my room!), which had always been more or less orderly and clear, his weren’t even close. So, I went deeper, eventually sinking so far inside, it was as though I’d become him.

I stood there, feeling tall and awkward as I tried to get used to being inside his body, watching everything play out before me as though it were actually happening to me. Though it all seemed so random and confusing all I could really make out was a school.

From the looks of the lockers and the hand-painted signs that lined up and down the hallway where I stood—all of them touting football games, bake sales, and upcoming dances—I figured it was a high school.

Then, just after I’d finally nailed that, I was on the move. Running with a pair of legs that were far more powerful than the short, skinny ones I was used to, racing to keep up with some girl whose long, dark hair lifted and waved in such a way, I’d convinced myself it was an invitation to follow.

She slipped around a corner and into a library, and I ducked in right behind her. Shielding myself behind the tall shelves of books where I watched, part of me hoping she’d notice me, part of me hoping she wouldn’t, willing to give just about anything to see what she scribbled so furiously in her notebook.

My eyes roamed her, noting the way her hair spilled over her shoulders, the way her backpack leaned against the leg of her chair, the way her boots were crusted with a thin layer of mud, the way her purple ballpoint pen continued to fly across a sheet of lined paper, as my mind swirled with words, declarations, things I longed to tell her but knew I never would.

Too scared to approach her, I chose to just watch her instead. My head spinning with a series of jumbled-up images, a long string of snapshots and phrases, trying to sort through all the random pieces of Bodhi’s memory, the haphazard scrapbook of his brain.

I knew the girl was Nicole—the same girl whose image lured him into the bubble—but what I didn’t know was what he could possibly be so angry about. I mean, in order to be trapped in Rebecca’s world, you had to get pretty riled up about something. And, up to that point anyway, I hadn’t seen a single thing worthy of that kind of rage.

I mean, was it the way she ignored him?

The way she pretended not to notice him, despite the fact that he made a point to always be where she was?

And if so, was that really worth getting all tripped up over?

While I obviously can’t speak for Bodhi, I can say that for me, it all seemed a little ridiculous. And not being the most patient person in the world (not even close), well, the truth is, I started to get more than a little frustrated with him.

So frustrated I’d just made up my mind to pop right back out of his body and try to find another way to reach him, when his whole world went so dark and dim, I had to squint my eyes and strain my ears to make any kind of sense of it.

And still, even then, there were only four things I could really make out:

1. A bell

2. A girl

3. A boy

4. A body

Those four images repeating themselves like a series of fast takes caught in a continuous loop. Though no matter how many times I watched, none of it made any more sense than it had the first time around.

A bell—a girl—a boy—a body—

A quick snippet of each flashing over and over again.

And just when I couldn’t take another second, couldn’t bear another glimpse of it, the images became clearer, more defined, until they eventually settled into some kind of order—though it’s not like it made it any easier.

I listened as the bell rang so loudly I actually winced at the sound of it.

I watched as a classroom door flew open and a girl I recognized as Nicole spilled out. Her shoulders stooped, head bent in a way that encouraged her long, dark hair to provide cover for her tear-stained cheeks—the result of the long string of insults being hurled her way.

And while I wasn’t the least bit surprised when I caught a glimpse of myself in a classroom window and realized that I—er, I mean, Bodhi—was the boy (I mean, after all, it was his memory I was experiencing), still, it was a version of Bodhi I wasn’t quite used to seeing.

Though his outside appearance remained more or less the same (maybe a little more solid, a little less filmy than how he usually looked), it was still really odd to view him as a living, breathing person who could neither fly nor glow and had no idea that he someday would.

Never mind the fact that he was so incredibly unsure and insecure and overly preoccupied with coming off as cool—it was kind of hard to watch him (and even harder to be him) without feeling more than a little embarrassed for him.

But it was only a moment before the focus returned to Nicole.

Still crying.

Still stalked.

Still harassed by a group of classmates who followed her wherever she went.

Bullying her in a way that wasn’t just a pattern of behavior—but a favorite pastime of theirs.

I stood off to the side, my voice rising above all the others as I heatedly defended her. Screaming at them to stop, to leave her alone, to find a better, more productive way to spend their free time. A better way to build themselves up.

And then the bell again …

The series of scenes continuing to repeat, and yet still not making the slightest bit of sense no matter how many times I watched them play.

Then, I remembered.

There was more.

A fourth scene I’d glimpsed only the haziest hint of …

A body.

And the next thing I knew, I was propelled from the school to a nice, modest house where a parade of cops and paramedics and crying, distraught people streamed in and out.

All of them hovering around a stretcher—like the kind you see in movies.

A stretcher holding a small, slim, sheet-covered, completely lifeless form …

And I knew without being told that the body was Nicole’s, and that Bodhi blamed himself.

I fought my way out. So uncomfortable with being inside his guilt-ridden mind and self-hating skin, I was desperate to look him in the eyes and confront him myself.

Tugging hard on his arm as I said, “But you tried. You tried to stop it. I saw you—I heard you—I was you!” Practically screaming at him, so desperate to free him so that I too could be released from all this.

But Bodhi wasn’t having it. He just shook his head, eyes blazing with anger, voice laced with bitterness, when he said, “Oh, really? And just exactly what is it you heard, Riley? What is it you actually said when you were me?”