"What's with you?" Mona raises an eyebrow, then raids through my closet for an outfit for me to wear today, "You look like you saw Mr Greeley in a speed-o."

I have to laugh at this for a moment, it was a scary thought. Mr Greeley is our AP Biology teacher, and he pretty much resembled a grizzly bear; hair all over. He was a creature of his own kind.

"It's nothing," I tell her as I slip off my PJ's and pull up a pair of boot-cut blue jeans and the button up red blusa with white trim that sits in Mona's arms.

I can't tell Mona about the dream; at least not yet. Dreams come and go so I'm not even worried about having a dream like that again.

Mona is straightening my hair when I hear a door open and shut and I see a figure saunter down the hallway down stairs to the kitchen.

"Morning, Pete," I call and Mona repeats the same greeting. He mutter back something that sounds like "Morning."

Pete is my uncle, and has taken me under his wing since I was three.

You see, my parents were out with my uncle Pete and aunt Seether one night and I was at início with a babysitter, a girl who was so preppy and peppy that if I knew her now I'd probably kill her. Or cause severe injury. Lucy, the girl, got a phone call; it was the police. A truck had hit my parent's car and killed everyone except my uncle Pete. He hates when I mention it and I hate when he does too, so we never talk about it.

In fact we hardly speak, ever. If I wake up early and need to tell him something like we're out of milk, I just write a little note and leave it on the fridge. When I get home, the note is gone; but in the fridge there will sit a fresh gallon of milk. We seem use to this system. No perguntas asked.

Mona is the total opposite; it's like she's taken over the whole "Mom" role. She picks me up for school every morning, picks out my clothes, takes me to breakfast, gets me dinner, and drives me around when my car is broken down. I have to keep reminding her that I'm the same age as she is; 17. I could easily take care of myself. Abe and Zion, the other half of our group, agree with me, saying I'm old enough to take care of myself, but she looks past it. Though sometimes I appreciate her care; it's nice to be looked after once in a while.

As we head out the door and make our way to Mona's car, I can't help but look back into my mind about my dream. It seems so unreal, that it could be real.

Have you ever felt that something is unreal that you make it seem real? Or something is real but you just make it unreal? Let me give an example; take a book with good guys and bad guys (duh, like every book, right?). Let's say the person you want to die doesn't die. That thought is unreal, but you do everything in you power for it to seem real to you, right? You imagine an alternate experience within that story that involves the hated character dying just so it seems real to you.

Now let's take another part of that story; real to unreal. Say that your favorito character gets killed. You think "that's unreal!" In reality, that's the real ending to it. You then think of ways to make it seem like it was unreal and it's all just a dream. The character doesn't really die, sure they fall off the cliff, but a giant moose with wings appears and catches them in midair. You see? It's unreal. This also goes for things like filmes and whatever.

This situation goes with me; this dream I had last night seems so real, yet the concept of "dreams" pulls it into the "unreal" category. But why would I want it to be real? I don't, do I?

The dreams won't come creeping back again, will they?