“Good morning, Iris! Braydon!” It was our nice neighbor, Mr. Park, who lived across from us in 4D while we lived in 4C. “Are your brother and sister...?” 

He pointedly looked at the closed door of 4C and the vibrations that indicated the tornado inside. Yes, the twins are fighting for another idiotic reason, and they’re bringing the entire apartment complex down with them. A crash from inside the door emphasized my internal point. I winced and wondered what would be broken when we got home from school. 

“Yeah, it seems so. Well, we better be off, Mr. Park. Have a nice day!” I told him as Braydon and I turned to leave. 

“Have a nice day, Mr. Park!” Braydon called over his shoulder as he waved at our kind neighbor. 

I rather felt bad for the entire floor. Every tenant here knew of our dilemma and heard the loud arguments in the mornings and at night. They were all very gracious about it and came over to babysit or help out all the time. Mr. Park especially. Even though he was probably over sixty, Mr. Park was in surprisingly good shape, so he often helped with the pipes or furniture, or any other breaks that occurred in our shabby apartment. Earlier in the year, when times were unexpectedly tough, he brought over some meals to keep us going when our mother couldn’t. 

I sighed as my brother and I started down the four flights of stairs and walked out of the building. The sky reflected the mood of the fourth floor; gloomy, stormy, but also still somehow patient and bright. Very much September weather; a storm surrounded by understanding sunlight. 

We started down the street, carefully watching out for passing cars. One upside to walking to school everyday was that we stayed healthy and fit. 

Luckily, the school wasn’t far; just about two miles, so roughly a thirty to forty five minute walk. We were lucky to be so close to this particular school, as it educated students from fifth grade all the way to twelfth grade. This way, we didn’t have to worry much about eleven year old Braydon being separated from the rest of us. It was also relaxing to be able to have a conversation with him on the way to school. 

Braydon is what some people might call an extrovert. Others say he falls in the introvert category. I don’t believe either are right. I put Braydon in a separate category from introverts like me and extroverts like the twins. Braydon can carry a conversation or let others carry it. He doesn’t mind silence, and never finds it awkward, and he always knows just what to say. 

As we walked to school, Braydon, as usual, carried the conversation. He talked about school or his friends, or how he had some form of test coming up and wanted some help to study. 

Today, he managed to lift the memory of this morning slightly off my mind, almost as if he was preparing me for school. But that couldn’t be. He’s the youngest, he shouldn’t be caring for us. We should be caring for him. We could, if I hadn’t caused a riff between the twins and caused all their constant bickering. 

When we arrived at school, we still had ten minutes before the first bell would ring. I waved to Braydon and we separated. I went to building C and Braydon went to A. I always felt that the school system was strange, with fifth and sixth graders in A, seventh and eighth graders in B, ninth and tenth graders in C, and eleventh and twelfth graders in D. As a freshman myself, I was stuck with most classes in the back of the campus in building C. But at least I wasn’t stuck behind the cafeteria like juniors and seniors yet. 

I walked to room 303 for math and saw Dahlia already waiting for me. Dahlia Brookes was my best friend, and we shared a few classes together. As an aspiring poet and literature fanatic, she was always reciting riddles and reading novels. She currently had her ginger hair in a messy ponytail to match my own, wearing her reading glasses, and was nose deep in a new book. 

“Hey, Brookworm,” I called out. 

She looked up with an are-you-serious look on her face. “Ha ha,” she deadpanned. “That joke really doesn’t ever seem to get old.” 

“Aw, thanks!” I replied back. I always greeted her like this in the morning, and she always playfully replied back. 

  We walked into the math classroom together and took our seats next to each other.  We still had seven minutes before class would start, so we spent the morning catching up on what we did over the weekend. I knew I could always trust Dahlia; we had been friends since the third grade and confided all our secrets to each other.

I told her about the crazy dream I had. 

“It was strange,” I said in a low voice once I got to the rather terrifying part of the dream. “My entire family, including me, was happy and lively. But…” I trailed off, not sure how to continue. 

“But what?” Dahlia urged, her wide eyes even wider behind the lenses of her glasses. 

“It... changed... I’m not really sure how to describe it, but it started with the flower. And what was once happy turned... I don’t know, disturbing? Or maybe confusing is the right word.” 

I looked away from my best friend’s intense stare and unpacked my bag onto my desk. A few minutes had passed, and my train of thought had wound its way around a new corner when Dahlia interrupted. 

“I don’t think so.” 

Shocked, and a little skeptical, I turned to stare at Dahlia, but she was thoughtfully gnawing on the end of her wooden pencil and staring into space. For starters, Dahlia was the only person I knew who still used wooden pencils; everyone uses mechanical now. Secondly, Dahlia never contradicted me without clarification on what it was. So it was peculiar when she just said ‘I don’t think so’ without any context or warning. 

When she finally turned to look at me, her eyes were kind of mystical, almost pitying. She met my stare and finally clarified what it was she was talking about. 

“I don’t think you find your dream confusing. Disturbing, yes, but not confusing.” 

“What does that mean?” 

“I think you know exactly what your subconscious was trying to tell you. You understand it all perfectly, but you are trying to ignore it so you feign ignorance.” She paused, lost in a moment of thought. “Actually,” she added, “you probably don’t even know that you’re ignoring it because even though your subconscious knows, your conscious mind is purposely avoiding it.”

I was about to respond to ask what on earth she was talking about, but our teacher walked in and began attendance. I could only stare dumbfoundedly at her until my own name was called and I was forced to look up to the front where our teacher stood. I couldn’t stare at Dahlia anymore because the lecture started and I had to pay attention. 

But, as soon as the lesson was over and independent or partner study started, I was free to push my desk all the way up to Dahlia’s desk. I propped my chin in my hands and looked at her expectantly. 

“So?” I asked. 

“So you want to know what I meant by conscious avoidance?” she replied. 

“Yes. Yes I do want to know,” I answered. 

“I’m pretty sure that you know what I mean already,” she evasively told me. 

“Dahlia, can you cut the riddle talk and just get to the point?” I exasperatedly asked her.