Текст книги "Sleepless"

Автор книги: Cyn Balog

Соавторы: Cyn Balog
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CHAPTER 3

Julia

My dad throws the car into park but keeps it running. “I don’t think I can get any closer.”

The street is filled with the cars of mourners, all here to say a final farewell to my boyfriend, so yes, I guess this is it. The end of the line. Time for me to face the music. For some reason, my mind is allowing me to think only in clichés. My eyes trail down to where I’m digging my fingernails into the vinyl armrest. I quickly remove my hand, but by then there are three little slits there, as well as the sweaty imprint of my palm. “Uh, I know. I’m going.”

But my body refuses to move. I’m frozen.

My dad reaches over and pushes a lock of hair behind my ear, but I shake it loose so it falls back against my cheek. “Take your time,” he says.

That’s something my parents are always telling me. They never push me. I could be spending this morning in bed, and they wouldn’t mind. In fact, they would be perfectly happy if I stayed with them until I was sixty. As I’m starting to wonder why I’m putting this pressure on myself, why I don’t just have my dad turn the car around and take me home, I remember.

It’s Griffin. My boyfriend.

I can’t let him down by not showing up, especially after making such a mockery of his death on the front page of the newspaper. That was just brilliance, Julia. Pure brilliance, I think.

I give my dad a peck on the cheek and push open the car door. The smell of grass greets me, and the heat burns my face. I totter among the headstones, heels digging into the mud as I make my way to the crowd of people gathered around Griffin’s coffin. I can already hear the sobs of my female classmates as they huddle together, clutching tissues and talking about the “senseless tragedy.” I can’t help wondering, Do tragedies ever make sense?

One of the girls looks up and studies me with her red-rimmed eyes, then taps her friend on the shoulder and whispers. They turn to watch me, and it’s almost as if big question marks are hanging over their heads in cartoon bubbles.

I know that the chasm separating Julia Devine from her classmates is as wide as it will ever be, thanks to that latest newspaper story. When my classmates get into the newspaper, it’s usually in the Community News section. They get positive little puff pieces about awards won or scholarships received. Both times I’ve been in the newspaper, the first when I was seven, it was front-page news. The kind of news people whisper about, and not in a good way, so that all you want to do is close your curtains and hide under your bed. The kind of news you wish you could run away from.

Before, they eyed Front-Page Julia with pity laced with fascination. Now there’s a little shock woven in there as well, as if I’ve finally proven them right and lost my marbles. If I could, I’d tell them, I thought it was a joke! You would have thought so, too, if your boyfriend was as sick in the head as Griffin Colburn.

The “dearly departed” was always prank-calling me, pretending to be the committee choosing runners for next year’s Olympics, or the selections board at Rutgers, offering me a full scholarship if I’d participate in their clam-baking team, or the Italian American Society, insisting I had won a Lamborghini. I only did what any of them would have done.

The reporter from the Courier Times had the sense not to print the stuff about Griffin’s fungus and his smell. Thank goodness for small miracles. But he did insinuate that I thought Griffin Colburn was a loose cannon. What the article said was “The victim’s girlfriend, Julia Devine, believes that the victim’s reckless nature may have contributed to the accident. ‘He was always taking chances,’ she said. ‘Clearly he is responsible.’”

The weird thing is that his mom still asked me to give his eulogy. She probably did it before she saw the story alerting the world to her son’s rep as an eff-up. At the time, she hugged me so tightly my gallbladder nearly caught in my throat, and moaned something about how she’d never be able to make it through the ceremony. Now I’m afraid that when she sees me, she’ll want to squeeze the rest of my organs out of my body, on purpose this time. I’m behind a bunch of freakishly tall men in suits (did Griffin know a lot of NBA players?), but between them I steal a glimpse of her—skin white, body crumpled, looking like she’s ready to jump on the coffin and join her son in the afterlife.

I can’t really blame her; Griffin was her only son. Though she, of all people, should realize that wherever Griffin is, he’s probably looking for the nacho dip and calling every last one of these mourners a pathetic sap. I can just hear his voice now: Go home, Griffin Groupies. Take your Prozac.

As I hide in the crowd, grimacing at the mud caked on my one good pair of heels and cursing the god who made it improper to wear flip-flops to these things, I hear a few voices mutter “eulogy.” People in the crowd start to look at one another, confused. Because of the wall of guys in front of me, I’m not sure what’s going on until I hear a full sentence: “Who is giving the eulogy? Please step forward.” It appears that Mrs. Colburn has gone mute, or else has forgotten that she asked me, or else is picturing how she might slay me, because she’s staring at the coffin as if attempting to levitate it.

“Here I am!” I say, squeezing past the Michael Jordan wannabes, waving a crinkled sheet of paper in my hand. My voice comes out wrong, too cheery for a funeral. Everything about me is wrong lately. I really should have listened to that little voice inside telling me to stay in bed. I turn the volume knob down and mumble, more weakly, “Um, here.”

I wobble through the crowd, all eyes on me. My heels kick up the mud, and I feel it splattering on my bare ankles and the hem of the only black skirt I had in my closet. When I get to the podium, I attempt to look up, but all I see is Mrs. Colburn squinting at me like How can you betray my son’s memory? and a bunch of girls hunched over, whispering and crying, crying and whispering. Crying for Griffin. Whispering about me.

I reach up and pat my cheeks; they’re hot but completely dry. In a way, it’s my fault that Griffin is dead; he died on the way home from my house at two in the morning. I should have seen how exhausted he was, made him stay, pumped coffee through his veins. But I didn’t. Plus we were always together; he was my Pug (because like the dog, he made ugliness cute), number one on my speed dial. You’d think these things would bring about some emotion in me. Sophomores and juniors who Griffin barely spoke to in the hallway are wailing in grief right now, but me? I’ve got nothing.

I clear my throat. “Griffin Colburn was a good person,” I say, pulling a lock of my hair forward to cover my right cheek, to hide the scars there, since I’m sure that’s what everyone is seeing.

Shock, Julia, you’re in shock, that’s all, I tell myself. I mean, I’m not made of steel. If anything could make me cry, I’d think Griffin’s death would be it. But that’s not the type of relationship Griffin and I had. Where Griffin is concerned, tears are not an option. “He was a good friend to many.”

I venture a peek over the podium, away from the weeping girls and Mrs. Colburn, and see Bret Anderson, Griffin’s best friend, rolling his eyes. He pretends to string up a rope and hang himself.

Thanks, Bret. Love you, too. Okay, so it is cliché, but would they rather a dramatic reading of “Do Not Go Gentle into That Good Night”? I speak a little bit about how he’d gotten a full-ride academic scholarship to UCLA, how he was the “always smiling, happy-go-lucky, life-of-the-party” type of guy, and how he will surely be missed for many, many years to come. It’s corny, but what else can I do? This is what I knew of Griffin. Even though we dated for almost a year, we didn’t have deep, mind-blowing conversations. When we talked, it was mostly in the form of one-liners.

That’s when the priest clears his throat. The wind whips my hair away from my face, and suddenly I feel the scars pulsating, screaming, Hey, look at me! so that it drowns out my voice. I cut the next full paragraph from my speech, quickly mumble a thank-you, and step away from the podium. After that, nobody makes eye contact with me, which, I’ve come to discover over the years, is much preferable to being stared down. I fidget about in my ruined heels, searching for a safe place to stand, but Bret, the only person I trust right now, is way over on the other side of the coffin.

The priest does the whole “ashes to ashes” thing and then people begin to walk away from the casket, milling about, looking lost. Tracy McLish walks toward me. We were best friends up until last year, when I was a freshman. She moved to town when I was eight, so she missed all my drama, and we became friends. The thing was, after the story broke, I still felt the same, but everyone else expected me to be emotionally scarred for life. She didn’t expect that, so she treated me just like anyone else and made what was left of my childhood feel normal. But that was before I met Griffin. Tracy had a hard time “getting” Bret and Griffin; a lot of people do. Thin-skinned people need not apply. And Tracy, like most girls, is too easily offended. I know; I used to be that way, too. She started hanging out with us less and less, and I finally stopped calling her. It was just a mutual drifting-apart, I guess, so that’s why I expect her to walk right past me. Instead, she stops and says, “I’m so sorry, Jules.”

Her eyes are a little teary. Leave it to Tracy to get torn up over a guy she didn’t even know that well. “Thanks,” I say.

She hugs herself. “I just … wish everything wasn’t a big joke to you. Like it was to Griffin.”

“What do you mean? I’m just …” That’s when I realize she must have read the newspaper article. But I know she means more than that. I haven’t had a good cry since … well, since I started going out with Griffin.

She shrugs. “Take care of yourself.”

I start to thank her, but by then she’s disappeared into the group. Yeah, having Griffin as a boyfriend helped me develop a thick skin. I had to, to last even a day with him. Instead of greeting me with a kiss, he’d squeeze my ass and say, “What’s up, Bubble Butt?” Told me I ran “like a Muppet” at cross-country practice. Said I should “suck it up” when my cat Banshee died. He called things the way he saw them, even if it sometimes hurt people’s feelings. But that was just his way, and the price you paid for having a guy who was an utter blast to be around. The way he told stories, the way he lit up a room … he knew how to keep things light, fun. I was the only one who learned to take it and dish it right back at him until he thought of me as his equal. He was authentic, which is more than I can say for any of these people. Crying for a guy they hardly knew?

I look at the coffin and tell myself, That’s Griffin in there. Your boyfriend. I cough and try to think of something that might make me cry, for Tracy’s benefit. Three-legged puppies. Onions. That’s all that comes to mind.

Nope, no tears.

I’m sure Griffin would be proud of me. But I can’t help wondering if it means that I no longer have a soul. That maybe I am as messed up as people think I am.

CHAPTER 4

Eron

Mama’s ancestors used to say, “A restless night is Satan on your shoulder.” They had no idea that sometimes a lack of rest has more to do with the worries of the person seducing a human to sleep than the person attempting to sleep. Tonight, after I completed the seduction of Julia, my two other charges suffered terribly. I was late getting to them, because my mind was in a muddle. Evangeline, a lady who took a new lover almost every evening, couldn’t seem to get comfortable, and Vicki, the sleepwalker, wouldn’t stay in bed no matter how many times I guided her back there. I’d like to say that it was their fault, that they were the ones with too much on their minds, but I knew better.

That’s not to say it isn’t ever the human’s fault. Sometimes I will stay at the bedside of one of my charges all night, and there will be nothing I can do. Humans worry. When I was a human, I barely ever slept after I met Gertie. Gertie could sing “Ave Maria”—or was it some other song?—like an angel. Chimere has always said that seducing me to sleep was her greatest challenge. I’d toss and turn and think of exactly what I would say when I finally did have the guts to approach Gertie. It ranged from direct (“You are so beautiful”) to subtle (“You dropped your glove”), with a thousand other iterations in between. One time, I found her alone in the coat room after church, and all I could muster was a subhuman grunt. Chimere used to tease me, saying I was the only charge she’d ever had who would get tongue-tied around women even in his dreams.

I’ve always taken great pride in my work with the seduction, because Chimere will tell you I possess a particular skill with it … however, my talents will likely get me nowhere as a human. Maybe I’m a much more adept Sandman than man. Still, I’m committed to not letting fear—or my inability to string two words together—stand in the way, not again.

Sleepbringers do not have homes, for we do not sleep, or eat, or enjoy time with our families, or do any of the other things that humans do in their houses. I spend a good portion of the daylight hours sitting in the trees outside the homes of my charges, alone, which leaves much time for thinking. That is all I can do, because straying too far from my charges is forbidden. After all, you never know when one of them might desire a catnap. Not that I mind; it is quite relaxing and I enjoy the solitude. At least alone I won’t stumble over my words like a fool. My other two charges live by themselves, within a few blocks of Julia, and they never vacation or travel, so I am never able to explore fully how the world has changed since I left it. And because the Sleepbringers charged with lulling Julia’s parents to sleep are solitary types themselves, I’m always by myself, save for a daily visit from Chimere. I know that things in the world have changed. The women I watch over wear tighter, almost obscene attire; their surroundings are far more opulent; they speak on telephones without cords and say things in odd ways…. And I thought they were a mystery before! I know that becoming part of this world will take some adjustment, but I’m hopeful that I’ve learned a thing or two from these hundred years.

Namely, not to hesitate to act.

It’s usually pleasant sitting here, listening to the birds chatter and taking in the sun. But today I have far too much on my mind. I’m thinking about Julia’s beloved, about the training.

At twilight, I’m checking my pocket watch when Chimere appears, right on schedule. She greets me with the customary “Hello, my pet.” With her is a tall, brutish young man with straggly golden red hair that nearly covers his eyes. It’s quite a mess, which makes me wonder if that is indeed the style these days. His unkempt hairstyle is in direct contradiction to his formal wear, a crisp black tuxedo. We Sleepbringers always dress in formal attire, though my top hat, overcoat, and pinstriped trousers are likely no longer in vogue. He, however, does not appear to be very comfortable in his stiff new suit; he’s pulling on the collar and grimacing. His face is red. I think he is having a difficult time breathing. I can’t help smiling; I felt the same way when they put me in my attire. It took years to grow accustomed to it. We never wore such finery at the textile mill, or anywhere else, for that matter.

Chimere smiles and instructs him to sit on a branch opposite me. When he does, the branch bows under his weight. We’re probably the same height but he likely has fifty pounds on me. “This is Griffin Colburn, your replacement,” she says to me. “Griffin, please meet Eron, who will be your instructor.”

“How do you do?” I say, extending my hand. He grabs hold of it, crushing it between both of his, and gives it a shake that very nearly makes the whole tree vibrate.

“What’s up?” he says, his tone brusque.

Chimere giggles. “I’m sure you two will get along splendidly. This is Eron’s first time as a teacher but he is excellent at what he does.”

I smile at her, basking in the compliment, only to notice that my replacement doesn’t seem to be listening; he’s focusing on his wrist, fiddling with his cuff link. He appears confused by it.

I try to envision this fellow holding Julia’s hand, or simply standing beside her, but after a moment, I realize it’s not possible. A few additional moments of silence pass, wherein Chimere and I study our newest recruit and then exchange a raised eyebrow or two. Finally, he gives up on his sleeve and nods, looking bored. “Cool.”

Chimere clasps her hands together. “Well, then. I’ll leave you to it.” She gives Mr. Colburn a motherly pat on the arm. “Good luck. Please let me know if you need anything.”

Approximately thirty seconds after Chimere disappears into the dusk, the uncomfortable silence ensues.

Luckily, he breaks it, by saying something to which I don’t know how to respond. “Wow,” he breathes. “Chimere is hot. Are all the girls here like that?”

He mispronounces her name, calls her something closer to “Chimney.” I spend a few moments thinking about how to phrase my response. “She is not a girl.”

“Well, I know. Whatever she is, she’s smokin’. Are they all like that?”

Cool? Hot? Smoking? What are all these references to temperature? Baffled, I venture that he is stunned by Chimere’s beauty, like I was when I first met her. “I don’t know; I’ve never considered any others of our kind. This work is quite solitary.”

He cocks his head. “For real?”

I nod and motion toward the window. It’s dark. Julia has not yet returned home. “Chimere”—I pronounce her name carefully, Chi-meer, so that he’ll get it right—“told me that you are Julia’s beloved, yes?”

His eyes widen and then he dissolves into laughter.

Ah, perhaps it was all a misunderstanding. It didn’t seem possible. I relax. “You are not?”

He runs his beefy hands through his hair and shakes his head. “You people are, like, totally unreal. The way you talk. It’s just … priceless.”

There’s heat under my collar; this conversation is already proving tiresome. “How do you mean?”

“You sound like one of those old movies. Or my great-grandfather.” He stops laughing when he sees the confusion on my face. “Sorry. It’s been a really crazy few days.”

I nod. I vaguely remember my first days as a Sandman, when everything was new. Things were odd, I suppose. Truthfully, though, I fit into this world rather easily—almost too easily. Chimere said I was a natural. Perhaps it was because I didn’t fit so perfectly into the human world. I’ve always spoken and acted differently than humans, even when I was one.

“So yes,” he finally answers, a hint of sarcasm in his voice. “I am Julia’s ‘beloved.’”

“Oh,” I say, perhaps a bit more dejectedly than I’d planned. I motion to Julia’s home. “So this must be familiar to you.”

He shrugs. “The house, not the room. I’ve been to the house a couple of times.” He moves closer to the window and strains to peer inside. “Julia wasn’t the most … physical of girls, if you know what I mean.”

I nod knowingly. Julia always seemed like a girl of great virtue.

He squints. “What year did you go toes up, again?”

“Nineteen ten,” I answer.

“Holy mother, are you old. Back then girls got it on a lot earlier, didn’t they? Wasn’t the average life expectancy, like, thirty?”

I shake my head. He’s making fun of me. I decide to change the subject. “Perhaps we should begin the training now. I have a lot to teach you.”

“Okay, yeah. When do I get to do Julia?”

The words stick on my tongue like glue. “Do Julia?”

He leans forward, excited. “Yeah. Like, whatever. Seduce her.” He makes an odd gesture with both hands, as if he’s squeezing produce.

“Not tonight. I think it’s best I teach you some fundamental rules before we get into that. You’ll need practice before you actually carry out the seduction.”

He blows a tuft of hair out of his eyes. “I know the rules. Chimere told me the basics. I want to get on with the show.”

I draw in a breath and let it out slowly, then calmly say, “Mr. Colburn, I am sure that Chimere told you that if you’re not fully capable of assuming my position, I will not be able to leave mine once my hundred years have expired. That means you have to be fully versed in everything we do, even if it requires hearing the same thing more than once. The curriculum has been established over the course of thousands of years and it’s not my place to change it. I am sure you understand.”

His mouth becomes a straight line and he crosses his arms in front of his chest. He doesn’t understand, but at least he doesn’t object.

“All right,” I begin, “the most important rules to know are these. One: You are only in the humans’ world to soothe them to sleep. You can offer certain protections, which I will explain in time, but they are limited. You must never put your own needs or desires ahead of those of your charges. Once they are resting comfortably, you must exit their locale. Is that clear?”

It appears his eyes have glazed over, but before I can wave a hand in front of his face, he nods. “Chimere told me this already,” he mutters. “But fine, I get it. Just following the curriculum. It’s your breath, not mine.”

“It bears repeating,” I return.

He nods. “Get them to sleep, and get out. Got it. Next?”

The days of training this boy seem to stretch out before me like a long, winding path. Perhaps this is the type of young man whom a young woman of today would be eager to call her beloved, but I can’t imagine that dear, sweet Julia would lose her heart to him. If so, I am lost.

“Did Chimere teach you how to enter their bedrooms?” I ask.

He shakes his head. “No. How?”

I’m relieved when he leans forward, finally appearing interested in what I have to say. “You are completely invisible to humans. You are also able to pass quietly into their rooms without having to open windows, move furniture … All you must do is simply think you want to go through something, and you will.”

“So we’re like … ghosts?” he asks, turning toward Julia’s window. The moonlight faithfully reflects our images. I look insignificant and mouselike next to his broad frame. “Phantasmic.”

“Not at all. We don’t haunt people. We help them,” I say. I wonder if I will need to repeat everything more than twice. “And then we take our leave.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah. I told you, I get it, I get it. But you never just … I dunno. Peek in their underwear drawers?”

I give him a severe glance. “Surely not. You’re not to disrupt their habitat in the least.”

He laughs. “Okay, okay. I was kidding. What else?”

I take a breath. The next rule, I know, is going to be the hardest one for someone like this boy to comprehend. I can already tell that he is the type who isn’t used to walking into a room unnoticed. This is a dangerous quality for a Sandman to possess, and though they all eventually learn their purpose, it’s never without its struggles.

“The next rule is: You are not alive anymore. You are not one of them. The sooner you realize that, the easier this is going to be.”