Frustrated, the driver looked over her shoulder into the car’s back seat. Her fore- head wrinkled. “Can you hear me? Miss Charissa?” Charissa Earnst, her head turned sideways, ignored the woman. “Please turn down music, Miss Charissa.”

The middle-aged woman’s voice rose to compete with the iPhone.

“What?” Fourteen-year-old Charissa snapped irritably.

“Are you listening?” her nanny said.

Charissa, already sliding toward the passenger side exit, yanked the buds out of

her ears. “Yes, I’m listening. I’ve been listening,” she complained. Unbuckling the safety belt, Charissa pulled on the door handle before the driver maneuvered the Jaguar XE into the horseshoe-shaped driveway.

“Charissa! Stay in veehucul,” the woman yelled in broken English. “It not safe.” The pleading full of exasperation. The woman’s nervousness caused her to hit the brakes harder than she intended. The car jerked as the door flew open. Charissa tossed forward.

“Jeez, Rosita, are you trying to kill me?” A terrified expression rolled across the nanny’s face. “Yes, yes, of course I heard you,” the girl said through the open door. “You’re running an errand then picking me up for my appointment,” she said in a sarcastic parroting tone.

“Please be ready, or we be late,” the woman said. “No tardio.”

“We can’t be late, now, can we?” Charissa’s terseness deepened as she kicked the door closed with her foot while slinging her backpack over her shoulder. She pushed the earbuds back in as she walked up the few steps to the three-story stone French Provincial. The house, on a three-quarter acre lot, sat in the corner of affluent Dunmore Ln. in tony Foxhall Village, Washington, D.C.

Oblivious to the manicured landscaping framing the grounds, Charissa un- zipped the side pocket of the bag holding her schoolbooks as she made her way onto the patio at the side of the house. Out of synch to the music’s beat, her head bobbed slightly as she groped for her keys. Unlocking the door, she tossed the backpack onto one of the three kitchen islands.

For a moment, Charissa seemed confused. Looking around the nook area, she hesitated. No, going upstairs to her room seemed way too far. Instead, she walked slowly through the dining area into the middle great room, lined by its built-in shelves. ‘I’m getting warm,’ she thought. “Why is my jacket still on?” Tugging at the zipper with both hands, she stumbled against an end table. “Sheez, it’s hot,” she mumbled, her tongue Novocain-like numb. Her jacket hung on her shoulders briefly before dropping away.

She no longer heard the music. Losing her balance, Charissa began weaving. Bent over, she lurched toward the settee in the middle of the room. The earplugs plopped out the moment she fell. Bouncing off the sofa, she rolled once before sliding onto the kaolin-patterned area rug covering the hickory floor. The girl came to rest on her side.

♦♦♦♦♦♦

Wow, that was weird, Charissa thought. She took in a deep breath, leaning against the portico frame in the front hallway at Willowhurst Academy. “It’s like Rosita just dropped me off at the house.” The neon image so vividly vibrant, causing her to squint. Definitely odd, but here she was at school. Right where she was supposed to be.

She looked around at her classmates bustling about, the dissonant end-of-pe- riod talking and shoe squeaking vibrating through the air, reaching Charissa as a low din. Bright sunlight flooded through the door’s frosted glass, bathing the corridor in a warm glow that overpowered the canned ceiling lights. The tur- quoise-striped walls pulsated in fast rhythm. Everything appearing incandescent.

Charissa saw several of her friends wending their way down the wide hall- way, each following the other in turn, taking model-type strides as if on a fashion runway. The soft beams from the skylight backlit the girls’ shinny hair perfectly, which seemed to gently swish in unison from a phantom wind.

‘Where’s her school frock?’ Charissa smiled, noticing Jennifer’s shimmering yellow top.

“Forget it, Charissa. I’m not texting back,” Jennifer snapped as she brushed by. “BTW, bitch, I’m lol.” She flipped her middle finger as she passed. Charissa’s smile turned, replaced by shock as she watched her friend stop against the wall.

Lindsey followed, clicking photos of classmates on her cell as they strolled the hall, striking poses. Forming an exaggerated smile, Charissa shifted her head to the side, her hands strategically poised on her hips, giddily anticipating her picture. But when Lindsey reached her, she suddenly stashed the phone behind her back. “Sweet, Charissa. How could you ever think I would put you on my Wall?” the girl said snot- tily over her shoulder.

Charissa sank. A perplexed fright had replaced her confident smile. Giggling, Britney broke formation, shuffling past Charissa to the side of the two other girls. Staring at their bewildered friend, they cocked their heads while Lindsey clicked a group selfie.

“You better not show up at my party, Charissa. Don’t @ me. Do you hear me?” Britney shouted. “Hashtag#PNG,” Jennifer added. “You’re such a skank,” Lindsey hissed. “You’re not wanted.” “Don’t beg, Charissa. I know you want to beg. Don’t.” Britney’s voice, sharp and cruel, bit into Charissa like a rabid animal.

“You’re filthy. A dirty whore.” A Greek chorus shouted at Charissa from above and below. Why are they slut-shaming me, Charissa thought as the voices finally began receding into the background. Her head lowered as she cried.

♦♦♦♦♦♦

“Are you okay? Mi Dios, Miss Charissa. Este bien?” Balancing on her knees, Ros- ita panicky shook the unconscious girl. Bending over, Rosita placed her cheek next to the girl’s face. She felt a cool, moist, breath expel from Charissa’s mouth.

“Uuugh,” came the first response. Lying on her stomach, Charissa turned slowly to her right, her body half on the hardwood floor, half on the hand-woven rug. The position she landed in after striking the sofa’s arm. Drool oozed down the girl’s lower cheek. Again, she was still, her face pressed against the floor.

Rosita continued shaking. “Please, Miss Charissa, wake up. Wake up, por favor.” Her tense voice rising. The housekeeper didn’t notice the twitching muscles in the girl’s legs. She squeezed her arms tighter with each shake. An imperceptible tremor rippled from Charissa’s temple down her side.

Suddenly, Charissa’s eyes popped open. “Wow, what the fuck?” A startled gasp came with a sudden exhale. Catapulting to her feet in a single motion as if rec- ognizing a terrible mistake, her arms whipped around her head like a windmill yawing in a heavy gust.

“Este bien, you bien, Miss Charrisa?” Rosita repeated, her English becoming more erratic with the obvious concern.

“Yeah, sure, of course, Rosita. I’m okay. I must have been tired. I just fell asleep.”

“I call el medico. Llamar el medico,” Rosita said.

“I’m going to see the doctor, remember?” The incident failing to dampen the girl’s sarcasm.

“No, no, yo quiero decir regular medico. Dr. Treibor. I telephono Dr. Treibor.”

“Forget it, Rosita. I’m not going to Dr. Treibor. I’m telling you I’m fine.” Charis- sa glared at the bewildered housekeeper. She tilted, her hands brushing her hair before falling to her waist. They looked at each other for several seconds, the girl finally saying, “We better get going, Dr. Mazanec doesn’t like it when I’m late.”

Rosita stared at her charge before shaking her head.

“Look, Rosita, I’ll talk to Dr. Mazanec about it. She went to med school too, right?” Answering her own question, the girl said, “She’ll know what to do. I’ll ask her if I should go to Treibor. Okay, fine.” She tried to convincingly punctuate the decision for her keeper.

Charissa, still reading worrisome doubt on the nanny’s face said, “It’s no prob- lema, Rosita.” She added sharply, “If Dr. Mazanec thinks I need to see Treibor, I’ll go. Promise.”

Hesitating, Rosita said begrudgingly, “I bring car up the drive.”

“Fine. I’m going to wash my face,” Charissa said, heading to the bathroom in the hallway. The girl cupped her hands under the faucet, attempting to capture the escaping water. Patting her forehead, the droplets mixed with the sweat beads still dotting her face. The cold water felt good, and she splashed on more while looking into the mirror.

It wasn’t the first time she had lied to Rosita. After all, Rosita was only the housekeeper, more like a gatekeeper, the girl thought. But it hadn’t seemed as serious before. Charissa Earnst looked at her face and felt the fear. She shook from the eidetic imagery, its vividness.

“That dream, nightmare, whatever the fuck it was seemed so real,” she said, talking to her reflection. “It’s bizarre. There’s no way I’m telling Dr. Mazanec about it. I’m not telling anyone, ever.”

Charissa Earnst was waking from her first psychogenic fugue.