The Black Book Dreams

In the dimly lit classroom, Professor Buck paces past his projection of a brain and text. He has an aura of a lost artist meets brilliant mind in his precisely chosen, yet disheveled suit.

“Dr. Barrett’s dream research has concluded that the majority of people cannot read in dreams. As we sleep, the language portion of the left hemisphere, in particular, becomes more dormant,” he pauses to ensure copious notes are being taken, “which is likely linked to the inability to read in dreams.”

The tolling bell signals a cacophony of students to pack up their things. “Read Chapters 4 & 5 by Monday!” Professor Buck yells over the clamor.

Chlo turns to me, slinging her red tote bag over her shoulder. “I can never remember any of my dreams… let alone whether or not I can read in them.” She laughs playfully.

“My dreams are always crazy vivid...sometimes I feel like I’m visiting a multiverse." I smile and her ringing laughter catches the attention of everyone within a 15 ft radius. Chlo is bold, colorful, and most noticeably--loud. I love that about her, ever since we were little she has always confidently embraced who she is. I, on the other hand, quietly analyze everyone and everything around me.

In contrast to Chlo’s dark blue eyes, Brazilian tan, and athletic abilities, I am small, with disproportionately orb-like brown, almost black eyes, and a researcher. Sports were not my thing, but psychology most certainly was.

“Do you think it’s genetic?”

“Huh?” I reply, pulled from my daze by Chlo.

“Dreams? My brother says he can never remember anything either. Do you think it’s genetic?”

“Hmm…” I think for a moment. “Maybe? I mean, my Grandma used to tell me about her crazy dreams as a kid. It became our bedtime ritual.” I smile fondly. “But my Dad has never mentioned any before, maybe it’s just the luck of the draw?”

“Where can I get dealt a new hand? I wouldn’t mind having some vivid dreams of Michael B. Jordan.” She says with a wink.

We walk into our dorm room. Chlo flings her tote onto her bed, already piled high with a colorful assortment of clothing. Above her bed is a collage of brightly colored pictures, posters, photographs, and magazine cutouts. She says it gives her electric energy! It’s chaotic, but an intriguing insight into Chlo’s mind.

Meanwhile, my bunk is dreamy and organized. I have a sheer curtain around my bed, twinkle lights, and a calming diffuser. It’s my dream space.

“I’m going to clean up for the LA party, you coming?” Chlo asks as she digs through her discarded clothes. She pulls a shimmering purple crop top from the pile triumphantly.

“I’m going to lay low tonight and start on Bucks reading,” I say with a yawn.

“Homework? Already? Girl, you need a social life.” I give her a knowing look. “Alright, I’m just saying--you’re always complaining about needing a paid internship. Maybe you could network and party!”

“As tempting as beer pong and resume handoffs sound, I think I’ll pass.”

Two hours later Chlo is decked out, making sure everyone will envy her stunning Victoria Secret-like looks. She stands in the doorway, her brilliant brown locks pulled into panda buns, wearing her shimmering purple crop top under a sheer, oversized, black yoga jacket and vivid red-violet booty shorts.

“You are going all out tonight!” I say impressed.

“You never know who you might run into at these things. I want to be ready for my big debut!” She says dramatically before opening the door to leave.

“I’ll see you on tomorrow's news then.” Her tinkling laughter fills the room. “Be safe!” I call after her as the door slams.

“Always!” I hear her yell from down the hall.

I change into my coziest pajamas, grab my Psych book, and climb into the comforting confines of my bunk. It is my personal oasis up here.

I turn to Chapter 4 and begin reading about Freudian theories. It’s not long before I feel my eyelids become heavy with sleep. As I begin to drift off, I try to recall the last line of my text. It’s something about dreams being a conduit for our subconscious desires... and then nothing.

Nothing that is, until I am walking into a heavily wooded study with books tucked into every crevice. All of the books have elegantly bound spines with ornate lettering. All except for the unassuming notebook propped beneath the mahogany table leg. I crouch down curiously, lift the illogically light table and prize the book from its prison. It is a simple, little black book with minimal detailing-- just the table leg indent and a Moleskine label pressed into its cover.

“Hello, little notebook,” I say aloud to the empty study. I open it and see scrawling handwriting on the first page.

When you wake and lift your head, within your pillow, no longer will there lie, feathers but fickle funds.

“How odd.” I muse, entertained by the author's queer entry. No sooner do I close the book, than I find my eyes staring at the white, textured ceiling above my bunk.

I shift my head and notice my fluffy pillow is suddenly cumbersome. It couldn’t be! Nonetheless, I reach my hand into my pillowcase, withdraw it, and grasped between my delicate bronzed fingers is a stack of $20 bills.

How did this get here? With eager panic, I peer over my bed. There is no sign of Chlo below.

“I could read. I could read in my sleep!” I say with sudden realization, reflecting on Professor Buck’s lecture. Emblazoned with electric-like energy, I sit up in bed and shake out the contents of my pillow. Four additional stacks tumble out of my pillowcase. It defies logic, but the author has gifted me $10,000!

In this grand, euphoric moment, the persistent chimes of my cell phone finally reach me. I hasten to grab my phone from my desk below.

“Morning, Dad!” I say breathlessly.

“Morning honey, just seeing how my little girl is doing in college.” I can hear his smile through the phone.

“I’m doing Great! I had the most fantastic dream about a little black book...” I couldn’t get another word out.

“A little black book? Really?” He inquires as if I’d confessed to dating a new guy.

“Yeah, a little black book.”

“My Mom always talked about a little black book in her dreams.” His voice became suddenly more distant. “What did she used to say? Ah! Yes! She said to leave the little minx of a black book beneath the table leg and...” At that moment Chlo walked into the room.

“Uh-Dad, I gotta go. I’ll call you back a little later, okay? Love you!” I hung up. “Chlo, what happened to you?” My vibrant friend from the night before had been replaced by a dull-looking replica. Her black yoga jacket looked worn, her shimmering purple top lost all of its luster, and her previously red-violet bottoms were now a dishwater mauve. It looked like her clothes had been run through an industrial washing machine a hundred times.

“What do you mean?” She replies.

“Your clothes, Chlo. They were so brilliant last night!”

She looks her outfit up and down. “Maybe you really did need your rest last night! It looks just the same.” She plops onto her clothes-ridden bed. “I still can’t believe we are here sometimes!”

“Right?” I say distracted. Chlo and I were destined to be best friends after our moms met in college. We were even born one month apart in hopes that we would be, but these thoughts are forgotten when I notice something strange. Each item on Chlo’s bed is suddenly drab, worn, or weathered, and her collage is likewise muted.

Yet, Chlo was anything but! She rattled on about the party and how she met a famous producer. Her theatrical storytelling and loud voice caught the attention of our suitemates. I soon forgot about the mysteriously faded ensembles around her. Eventually, Chlo’s sleepless night forced her to catch up on some much-needed rest.

Meanwhile, I enjoyed the best day ever! I ran to a high-end salon, drank fancy latte’s, and went on a major shopping spree. I bought Chlo a few new things too, more colorful like before. After a long day of spending and splurging, I returned to the dorm room, shopping bags in hand.

Chlo was towel drying her hair when I walked in. “Whoa! What are those!” she exclaimed.

“I went on a shopping spree! I got a whole bunch of stuff for you too. Check it out!” I say placing two bags of clothes on her bed. She opens them quickly, but her excitement fades just as fast.

“Girl, I don’t mean to sound ungrateful but, do you not know me at all?” She says dangling a brilliant turquoise dress in hand. “This stuff is over the top. You know I don’t like to stand out.” Chlo sulked away to our suitemate's room for a reprieve.

“She doesn’t like to stand out?” I say incredulously. “Since when?” In the recess of my mind, I know something isn’t right. Instead, I push the thoughts away and pack up all of my glorious new items before rapidly changing into my pajamas. I’m eager to visit the study, again.

I climb into my cozy bunk and fall asleep breathing in the soft scent of lavender. The little black book is just where I'd left it, so I rapidly open it to page two.

Hidden within your sole, you’ll find your mind's desire. Green thumbs grow green lots. Pick it before it rots.

After reading it twice over, I slam the cover shut and wake with an eager start. Without hesitating, I leap from my bunk and open my wardrobe. Grabbing my shoes, I pull $10,000 from their soles. All in all, the author has gifted me $20,000!

Without missing a beat, I throw a jacket over my sleep shirt, thrust my legs into some sweats, and bolt out the door to deposit my money. My mind begins to race. I can pay off some debts and finally move to Santa Monica! Or I can help Dad with Kai’s college fund or a new car! As I exit the bank, I drop some money into a beggar's outstretched hands, feeling more pleased with myself than ever before.

When I arrive back in the dorm, Chlo is sitting at her desk, head in hands. Her hair looks drained and brittle. Her skin looks like it hasn’t seen the sun in months and when she lifts her head to look my way, dark bags line her yellowed eyes.

“Chlo!” I cry out. “What’s wrong?” I rush over, all thoughts of do-gooder deeds aside. “Are you sick?” I exclaim.

She swats my hand away like a tired dog in its declining years. “Don’t worry about me” she replies so quietly, it's like she is underwater.

“But Chlo, look at you!” I begin to panic.

“Ignore me, I don’t want to be a burden.” Her voice is barely audible. She tries to muster the strength to stand up, surrenders and instead pulls the blanket off her bed and cocoons herself inside.

“Oh, Chlo,” I say morosely.

My Dad’s words ring in my ears, “leave the little minx of a black book beneath the table leg.”

It was my fault! It was like the little black book knew all about Freudian theories!

I am wide awake, but I am determined. I grab the melatonin bottle from beside Chlo’s bed, and swallow two, willing myself to sleep, hell-bent on keeping that book shut and putting it back where it belongs!

But the book is already open. Unable to resist, I read the author’s writing once more.

Is it worth it to gain, when the ones you love lose?

Line your pockets, lose a friend or close me up and start again.