Текст книги "Sleepless"

Автор книги: Cyn Balog

Соавторы: Cyn Balog
сообщить о нарушении

Текущая страница: 3 (всего у книги 13 страниц)

CHAPTER 5

Julia

I pop the tab on a can of Red Bull and take a long swig. Coming to track practice today was obviously a mistake. Everyone must expect me to be in mourning, because I am having major flashbacks to when I was seven. My teammates keep acting like I’m the one who died and I just happened to rise from my grave. Dr. Phil says that everyone expresses grief in their own way, I want to tell them. I am perfectly normal!

The way I express my grief, apparently, is by running a personal record in the mile. Instead of cheering for me, though, my teammates just gaped like I’d run on air. They seem to think that even if I’m not a blubbery mess, I should at least play the part.

“You kicked ass out there, Ippie,” a voice drawls, and I know it’s Bret before I turn around. He’s on the track team, too, and the only one who calls me Ippie, which was once I.P., or Ice Princess. It’s a nickname I’m proud of, earned because he and Griffin knew I was the only one who could beat them in an insult-throwing match. I turn to see him lounging on the grass, iPod buds in his ears, his trusty unsolved Rubik’s Cube in his hands. Nearly three months ago he had this grand idea that he was so brilliant he could be like the guy in The Pursuit of Happyness and conquer the puzzle in two minutes flat. We’re still waiting for him to discover the secret. I can’t help thinking of the day Griffin stole it from him and solved it for him. Maybe not in two minutes, but he solved it. Griffin might have been a jokester, but he was also a genius, which was why teachers loved him, as exasperating as he was. “Was that a personal record?”

I collapse next to him. “Yeah. I feel really good today. It’s weird. My lungs usually start to burn during that last lap, but I felt fine.”

He sits up, throws the cube on the ground, and pops the buds out of his ears. “Interesting how your boyfriend’s death seems to agree with you.”

“It does not,” I insist, though I was thinking the same thing. A familiar feeling rushes over me: the desire to punch him. If there’s anyone I fought with more than Griffin, it’s his best friend. Bret has always had it in for me. Together, the two of them were like machine guns, constantly firing at me. “When have you ever known me to get all teary-eyed?”

“True,” he says. He doesn’t realize that before I met him and Griffin, teary-eyed was my way of life. I was a wuss. But most other people could cry and it wouldn’t mean anything; when I cried, it turned heads. “Though you did seem a little rattled yesterday. Or do you normally suck that bad at giving eulogies?”

Before I started dating Griffin, I’d have been insulted. But with Bret and Griffin, you learned to ignore the digs. They’d made me strong. They’d made the rest of the school see me as normal. Sure, Griffin had his sweet moments, but they were few and far between and always buried under sarcasm and practical jokes. I liked that. Maybe normal friends would sit around crying and trading Griffin Colburn stories until the end of the world, but not Bret and me. We’re light; we float; we don’t dwell on the depressing stuff. Not when there’s so much room for humor in the world. “If you were up there, all you would have done was tell fart jokes.”

He nods. “Well, yeah. Did you see the place? It was like a funeral.”

“But what about you?” I ask him. “Why aren’t you at home right now, crying into your pillow?”

I know the answer already. It’s almost as if the smirk is glued to Bret’s face, because it never goes away, not ever. He’s like the Joker. Griffin and Bret never once talked about what happened to me when I was a kid, even though I know that they, like the whole town, were aware of it. They just accepted it, moved on. Similarly, if Griffin’s death had any impact on Bret, you’d never know it by looking at him. Considering they’d been best friends since forever, most people would think that’s kind of demented. And Griffin was more than Bret’s best friend; he was his master. Bret was Griffin’s little protégé; Griffin was the person he aspired to be. As I’m wondering how he can function without his fearless leader, his grin broadens. “I’m saving my tears for the candlelight vigil.”

“Okay, well … just remember: I get to lead the group in ‘Kumbaya’ this time. You did it during the Heath Ledger memorial.”

He leans back and yawns. I get the feeling he’s trying to suppress a snicker. “All right.” There’s an unspoken rule to our sparring matches that if the other person laughs, he loses. Secondly, if you take too long to respond, you’re toast. I start counting the seconds, one … two … But he finally says, “You always did have a way with ‘Kumbaya.’ The smooth vocal stylings of Ippie Devine. Maybe you can delight us with ‘Thriller’ as an encore?”

I turn to him, speechless, and then say, “Well, maybe you can sing … uh …” But I can’t think of a comeback. Three: if your comeback is pathetic, game over. Though I’m able to win sometimes, he’s usually the victor. Griffin was the undisputed champ, but Bret’s more of a natural at this than I am.

“Bzzzz. Thank you for playing. This game called on account of lameness,” he says proudly, pushing on an imaginary game-show buzzer with the heel of his hand.

Just then a couple of senior girls, who I’d seen at some of Griffin’s parties, walk by. They raise their eyebrows at us and start to whisper. “They think we should be wearing black, I think,” I say, nudging him.

He starts to stretch his quads. “Black really doesn’t do anything for my complexion.”

I’ve known Bret for a year and not once has he ever expressed any remorse for acting the way he does. He’s Griffin’s smaller, lighter twin—and he may even be a little cuter, too, except he isn’t half as outgoing as Griffin was. He was Griffin’s comedic sidekick; it was almost like he enjoyed being in Griffin’s shadow, following in his footsteps, being the butt of his jokes. And really, as both of us could attest, being known as Griffin’s shadow was way better than being known for other reasons. I say, “And my black singlet is at the dry cleaner’s.”

Coach calls the guys to run the 400 m, which is Bret’s specialty. He gets to his feet, then throws an arm around me and pulls me close to him. I can smell the cinnamon Mentos he’s constantly popping. He lays a few good noogies on me and says, “Guess it’s just you and me against the world.”

It’s uncomfortable being so close to him. I pull away and straighten. “And Satan,” I say. “Don’t forget Satan.”

The joke doesn’t hide my discomfort. He tries to position himself closer to me again, but I take a step back. Finally, he nods, a rare thoughtful look on his face. The smile is still there, but his expression is just … changed. It’s scary, because I’m not used to it. “How can we forget Satan?”

The coach calls for the runners to line up, and he just stands there, oblivious. I point toward the track. “Go get ’em.”

His face returns to normal and he gives me a thumbs-up. “Consider ’em got,” he says, jogging away.

Off in the distance, a gaggle of girls is stretching on the green, whispering. Every so often, one turns and looks at me. It hardly seems fair. I’ve barely been able to shake the stigma from the last incident, and now here I am again, Front-Page Julia, the dead guy’s girlfriend, propped up in the spotlight for all the world to examine like some sad sideshow act.

CHAPTER 6

Eron

In all my years of the seduction, I have never felt so uneasy. Last night was a lesson in frustration. Everything I explained to the boy was greeted with “But why?” or a snide remark. If he had been one of Mama’s stepchildren, she would have already taken a belt to his rear countless times. Tonight I expect much of the same torture, but worse. Tonight the agenda calls for me to introduce him to every one of our charges.

I bring him to Evangeline’s window first. He follows me with a decidedly human masculine swagger, and I wonder if he will ever assume the graceful floating typical of our people. Evangeline is what many would call an attractive woman, though she is a bit too modern for my taste. It is obvious that Mr. Colburn finds her appealing, as he leers at her with human longing while she changes into her satin negligee.

I’m ashamed for him. “You might show some respect and avert your eyes,” I suggest.

He looks at me as though I’ve grown another head. “Why? She can’t see me.”

“Even so …,” I begin, but realize it’s pointless to argue. I try to convince myself that in another few weeks it won’t be my concern.

“Whoa. She has some rack,” he says with a grin. “So, she’s the slut?”

I bite my tongue. I never said that. I simply said that she wasn’t one to sleep in her own bed. Most nights, I’d have to track her down in one strange bedroom or another. Silliness; one would think that by now she’d realize that I do my best work in a familiar bedroom. But I suppose he’s right; many humans do not hold their slumber as sacred as we Sleepbringers do, and Evangeline is one of them. She prefers to dabble in other, less healthful pursuits. As much as I hate to agree with him, she is a woman with loose morals.

She slides into bed next to her latest conquest. A slight man with dark, wiry hair wraps his arms around her as the sheet falls over them. Then she reaches up and turns out the light on her night table. I turn to the boy and say, “This is where we come in.” I move toward the window, and he stops me.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa. How do you know they’re not going to get it on?”

“Get it …?” I begin, but then shake my head. Another vile new turn of phrase I’ll need to learn before I become human. “You will learn to know your charges intimately. She is clearly tired and ready for me.” He moves to follow me, so I quickly hold my hand out. “Stay here. Watch this one from outside.”

He narrows his eyes, but I ignore him. I suppose I could have him follow me, as it’s not as if Evangeline can see us, but I simply must have a few minutes’ peace. I pass quietly into the room and stop at her bedside. One foot, toenails painted red, is peeking from beneath the sheet. This is her usual way of sleeping. Leaning over, I whisper sweet nothings into her ear, then take the sand from my pocket and sprinkle it on her head. I begin to run my hand along her body, over the curves but never touching them. Her heavily lashed eyes flutter and then go still. In another moment, she is asleep, dreaming of the farm where she grew up. I rise and quickly pass through the window.

“See how simple it can—” I begin, but then I hear a girlish giggle coming from the branches above. Mr. Colburn is leaning against a tree limb, facing completely away from the window. He’s smiling up at a young woman I’ve never seen before. She is wearing a long, formal dress and is enraptured by my student. She’s obviously one of our people. “Mr. Colburn, have you been watching?”

He looks at me lazily. “Sorry, I’ll catch the next one. This lovely woman—” He turns to her. “What did you say your name was, again?”

She blushes. “Genevieve.”

“Genevieve was just telling me a great story about a dude who fell asleep at dinner and ended up with a beard of spaghetti,” he says, and then a short laugh that sounds a bit like the honk of a goose erupts from his throat. “You guys know how to live it up.”

I glare at the girl. Seducing someone to sleep when they’re clearly not ready is strictly forbidden; however, sometimes it is necessary when a charge ignores the call of exhaustion for too long. Still, this unpleasant task is not something to brag of, and certainly not something to laugh about. “What are you doing here? Where are your charges?”

She points at the window. “That man—Bruno—is mine.”

I nod and say as pleasantly as I can, “Well, I have much to teach my trainee, as I’m sure you’ll understand, so …”

She nods sadly, gives the boy a doe-eyed look, and disappears.

He grins. “Thought you said this was solitary work, old man.”

“If you are doing it well, it is solitary work,” I return, business like, drawing the chain of my pocket watch from my vest. I check it; it’s after ten. “We’ll need to get to Vicki soon. She’ll be going to bed shortly. And you must be careful with her. You have to be sure she is deeply asleep. She tends to walk in her slumber.”

He follows me down the street, to the wet grass outside Vicki’s home. It’s fortunate that she lives in a one-story house, as she often trips and bruises herself during her sleepwalks. Sometimes I can guide her back to bed, but other times she will swat me away. She’s over fifty and has lived alone since she left her parents’ home as a teenager; she is used to doing things her own way.

My student peeks through her window. Vicki is sitting up in bed, bifocals on, reading a book. A cigarette is burning in the ashtray at her bedside. In the light, her hair is the unnatural color of a vibrant sunset, and the shadows and smoke bury themselves in the wrinkles of her face, making her look older. “Holy mother …,” he breathes, then turns to me. “You’re not serious.”

“About?”

He points a thumb toward the window. “That. That broad is older than you are.”

“And?” Clearly I no longer have the patience to reply in full sentences.

“And I’m not going to do a lady who’s old enough to be my grandmother,” he chokes out. “That’s repulsive.”

I sigh. “Mr. Colburn, you seem to think that you’re having a romantic relationship with your charges, and that is not the case. You are simply soothing her to sleep.” Vicki reaches over, lays her book on her bedside table, and turns off the lamp. I pass halfway through the window and realize he’s not watching, again. He’s concentrating on the busy street outside, where a trio of tan girls with white-blond hair is strolling and giggling. I snap my fingers at him. “Perhaps you’d better come with me.”

“Yeah?”

“Close your eyes, imagine yourself weightless, sliding through the window as if it is air.”

He does as he is told and follows me through, tentatively. One’s first time can be a little frightening and thrilling, as the feeling of passing through solid matter tends to send shivers up and down the length of one’s body, as if every inch of skin is alive. “Whoa,” he whispers, blinking, when we’re standing in Vicki’s bedroom. “I need to try that again.”

“Later,” I say. “And you don’t have to whisper. She cannot see or hear us unless she’s asleep. And even then she’ll think she’s dreaming.”

For the first time, he’s silent. It’s as if he enjoys doing the opposite of what I tell him. I pad on the lush shag carpeting to Vicki’s flowered comforter and pull a handful of sand from the pocket of my jacket. “Take only a handful, no more.” He watches as I sprinkle it over her and it dissipates in the moonlight, casting her skin in a powdery glow. I whisper sweet nothings again and begin to move my hand gently above her, a hair’s distance away from her skin. “You see,” I say to my student as I work, “I’m not touching her, not at all. Never touch them.”

He leans in closely and observes. “No touching? What would happen if—”

I sigh. “Just don’t.”

Vicki always takes some time, shifting from her side to her back to her stomach before she finally relaxes enough to let me do my work. Fifteen minutes pass, and just when her breathing begins to slow and I think I’ve got her, she sneezes in my face, clutches her pillow, and flops over onto her side.

I wipe my face with a handkerchief. This is one of the less glamorous parts of the job.

“Well, this sure blows. Is there an upside to this job, then?” Mr. Colburn groans, studying the pictures on the top of her bureau. “Hey! She was kind of hot, about a thousand years ago. You might have even dated her, when you were alive.”

I attempt to ignore him and continue my work.

“So, yeah, you never told me. How did you die?”

I hold up my hand to him, to say, “Stop.”

“Just making conversation,” he says from behind me. In Vicki’s vanity mirror, I can see him reaching out to touch a glass figurine near the frames.

I quickly straighten and grab his thick wrist before he can come in contact with it. “Don’t touch anything,” I demand.

“Whoa, sorry, man,” he says, putting his hands up in surrender. “I wasn’t going to move it.”

“Do you not remember the first rule I explained to you? You carry out your work, and then you leave. You do not touch anything.” I turn back to Vicki, who is now stirring again, thanks to Colburn’s disruption. “It won’t matter to Vicki if you speak, because she cannot hear you. But I can. And I do require silence for this part of the process.”

He claps his heels together quickly, like a soldier, and salutes. “Aye, aye, Captain!” he shouts firmly.

Fortunately, he watches carefully and silently as I carry out the rest of the seduction. When Vicki is snoring, I turn to him.

And cringe.

He’s holding Vicki’s smoldering cigarette in his hand.

“What did I tell you?” I hiss, snatching it from him and depositing it in the ashtray near her bed.

He holds out his hands. “It … was going to fall into her bed. She would have burned alive, man.”

I narrow my eyes. “So? Did I not just say that you do not touch anything? No exceptions.”

“But Chimere told me that we protect them—”

“We offer some protection, but within limits. You do not touch them. You do not handle human objects.” I see his puzzled expression and sigh. “For example, you may offer them advice in their dreams or comfort them while they sleep. As a human, do you not recall waking up from a good night’s sleep and having the answer to a seemingly impossible problem that had been plaguing you the day before? Or feeling energized and relaxed after a particularly stressful day? That was the work of your Sleepbringer, Chimere.

“In this situation,” I explain, “you could have warned Vicki in her dreams that danger was near, so that she would awaken and put out the cigarette herself. Do you understand?”

He doesn’t speak, just lets out a grand puff of air that blows the mop of hair out of his eyes.

“All right,” I say. “Julia’s next. But I often come back to Vicki’s home two or three times during the night, just to make sure she hasn’t walked off.”

He eyes the woman in disgust. “Wow. You should just let the old bag walk out into traffic.”

I glare at him, hoping he’s joking. He doesn’t flinch under the weight of my stare, so I say, “That is not funny. Only an Original, like Chimere, is allowed to seduce a human to her death. You are, in essence, to care for your charges as you care for yourself. Protect them. You must never even talk—”

“Jeez. I was kidding,” he groans. “You people need to lighten up.”

“If Chimere hears you talking like that, she’ll never let you assume this role.”

He snorts. “There’s a fate worse than death.”

“There’s worse. They can put you in the Last Place.”

He laughs. “Are you telling me they rank us? If I come in last place, do I still get some lovely parting gifts?”

“The Last Place,” I repeat. “It’s like purgatory for the most depraved Sleepbringers, the ones who fail miserably at their duties. A prison.”

He snorts. “I practically owned the detention room at school. I bet they already erected a memorial to me there.”

“It’s not something to laugh about. Every day there will seem like an eternity.”

He smiles slyly, as if to say, What would you know about it, old man? Hopeless. I don’t bother to continue my warning.

We step outside. “You’ll come to realize that you crave the seduction the way humans crave sleep. You won’t be able to avoid it.” In the moonlight, I study him. He does look rather haggard, his eyes sunken. “You’ll need to seduce soon.”

Somewhere in the garden, a cat meows. “I thought you said I had to wait. That I was too much of a newbie or something.”

“You are, but you’ll have no ability to concentrate on your studies unless your mind is sharp and clear. And for that, you’ll need to perform a seduction.”

His eyes brighten and he rocks back and forth on his branch. “Bam-chicka-bam-bam. Yeah, baby. Lead the way. You said Julia’s next?”

“No, I never said you’d be seducing Julia,” I say. At that moment, that cat appears, rounding the corner of Vicki’s house. It’s yellow and fat, and unlike a human, it can sense us. It purrs, warming to us immediately. Animals love us. I take it as serendipity that this feline is here at this exact time. “I said you’d have to perform a seduction, but you are too new to perform it on a human.”

He studies me, then the cat, and his jaw locks. “No friggin’ way.”

“We cannot continue if you don’t.” I stroke the cat’s soft fur. “And cats are easier. It’s a nice starting point.”

“I am not. Freaking. Getting with. A cat,” he says, curling his lips in disgust.

“As I said, you are thinking about it like a human. Remember, you are no longer human.”

He eyes the animal and frowns. I have to say, it’s quite satisfying.