Текст книги "Sleepless"

Автор книги: Cyn Balog

Соавторы: Cyn Balog
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CHAPTER 7

Julia

Griffin was the only customer I ever had who ordered item number 1.26 on Sweetie Pi’s menu. Number 1.26 is an egg cream, a drink made with chocolate syrup, milk, and seltzer. It is gross. I’m just thinking about how my egg cream—making skills will seriously suffer without him when a gaggle of senior girls line up outside the stand, studying the menu. They’re all holding shopping bags from Forever 21 and Hollister and smacking their lips. Since I’ve worked at this stand in the food court since freshman year, pre-Griffin, I have a knack for predicting what certain customers will order. Judging by their waistlines, I can tell that these girls are fat-free vanilla yogurt in a kiddie-size cake cone all the way.

Well, actually, I can’t claim psychic powers; I’ve waited on these girls a zillion times. One, Kiki Nickelson, has been coming here just as long as, if not longer than, I’ve been working here. Considering how often I see her at the mall, her dad must be harboring some serious guilt issues over giving his daughter such a goofy name. He seems to have surrendered to her full control of the credit cards as a peace offering. She looks at me and says, “Oh, hey, Julia. What’s up?”

The good thing about being Front-Page Julia is that people who would otherwise call me “hey, you” do know my name. The bad thing is that that’s about all they care to know.

“Not much,” I say, still sporting my “can I help you?” smile.

Kiki’s face falls, and I can tell right away that she has made the connection between Griffin and me. Tears flood her eyes—real, honest-to-goodness tears. “Ohmigosh, I am so so so so so sorry about Griffin,” she says, smacking her heart with her manicured hand.

“Thanks,” I say. She and Griffin dated, many moons ago, until, as he put it, “I got so sick of her I had to Kiki her ass out the door.” He said she was about as high maintenance as the space shuttle.

The other girls offer their condolences and put in their orders. I was wrong; they all order fat-free vanilla in kiddie cups instead of cones. When I hand over the goods, Kiki is still giving me the sad puppy eyes. “You look like you’re holding up pretty well.”

I nod. The biggest problem with tragedies is that afterward, the world expects those affected by them to cease all functioning. I think everyone was expecting me to be lying here, a mangled heap of body parts, like a Picasso painting.

“If you need anything, just let us know, okay, Jules?” another girl says, dropping a five-dollar bill into the little tips canister at checkout, then patting the top of it as if she’s donating to the Dead Boyfriend Support League.

I smile, knowing that if I ever attempted to take them up on that offer, they’d run like hell in the other direction. My experience with tragedy is that people will offer condolences and support but never be around when you want to collect. That was the way it was when I was seven; I was utterly alone. Yeah, things were better when I started dating Griffin; it felt like I was making my way back to Normalsville after an extended absence. Being Griffin’s girlfriend showed everyone I wasn’t contagious, or a ticking time bomb ready to explode. That gave me confidence. I cringe, remembering how I’d get whenever someone ignored me, or gave me that mock-sympathetic look, or whispered behind my back, There’s that girl! You know, the one who … I’d cry and get all flustered, which just kept the rumor mill churning out news of how Julia Devine would never, ever be normal again. She’s obviously still scarred, they’d say. Mentally unstable.

Griffin’s reputation also preceded him. I knew he’d had a long line of girlfriends, and every week, someone different was gossiping in the girls’ locker room about how difficult he was. Most of the time, they would whine about how he never took anything in life seriously, which sounded just wonderful to me. Because if there was one thing I was sick of, it was people taking me so seriously. And then Kiki would say, “He called me higher maintenance than the space shuttle!” and Bad Breath Britney would say, “He told me that whenever I opened my mouth, it smelled like a raw-sewage plant.” They were all so insulted, but the more I heard about him, the more I liked him. He was right, after all. He just called things as he saw them. They, maybe, were too sensitive to put up with it, but I knew that if I ever had the chance, I would handle it. I would force myself to.

And then, miracle of miracles, the chance came.

It was a Saturday, right after Thanksgiving, so the mall was packed solid. I was already a little frazzled, because one of the girls who usually worked with me had just quit, and I was stuck with a bunch of newbies who kept asking stupid questions like “What is the difference between sprinkles and jimmies?” The line for ice cream wrapped past the Sunglass Hut stand, it was the end of the day, and my feet were killing me. And then there he was, standing in front of me.

At first I didn’t think I could speak, but I channeled my inner Avon lady, put on my plastic smile, and said, “How may I help you?”

He rubbed his stubbly chin and studied the menu. The first thing one noticed about Griffin was his thick mop of reddish blond hair, which always fell just a tiny bit below his eyebrows. When he looked up, his gorgeous eyes were visible; he had eyes that were round and big and blue, enough to make some babies jealous. And he was tall and broad and substantial; you couldn’t help seeing him. At Sweetie Pi’s, we pride ourselves on having “3.14 hundred menu items!” which customers order by the number. Griffin smiled slyly at me—his smiles were always laced with mischief—and said, “Do you know all these menu items by heart?”

Leave it to Griffin to have no concern at all about the several dozen people waiting in line behind him. I’d been working at Sweetie Pi’s on Saturdays since the summer had ended, so although I wasn’t the master of the Sweetie Pi’s operations manual, I was pretty competent. But right then I didn’t want to play games, even with Griffin. My smile dissolved. “Yep. What do you want?”

“Um, how is your three point one three?”

I pushed away from the counter. “Is that what you want?”

“Depends,” he said. “Do you know what a three point one three is?”

“Of course,” I said. “Is that what you want?”

He leaned over the counter, reached up, and covered my eyes. “Don’t look. What is it?”

I squirmed away. “Apple pie sundae. Is that what you want?”

“Eh, on second thought, no. How about your one point one zero?”

I stared straight at him. “The chocolate brownie fudge bomb?”

He crossed his arms in front of him. “Point two nine.”

“Vanilla custard shake,” I replied, unblinking.

“Point eight six.”

“Lemon cookie bar blast.”

“One point one four.”

“Funnel cake.”

“Two point zero three.”

“Blueberry ice cream and caramel sauce on a waffle.”

He grinned. “Impressive,” he said in his Darth Vader voice.

I couldn’t help breaking into a smile, but then I caught sight of the next person in line, this old lady, looking like she was about to launch her boulder-sized purse over the counter at me. “Is that what you want?”

He shook his head. “Nah. I’ll take a one point two six.”

I swallowed. What was a 1.26, again? “Sure,” I said, then furtively looked at the menu. Egg cream. What the hell was that? Did it involve raw eggs? I’d have to take out the Sweetie Pi’s manual to figure out that one, and then my cover as Sweetie Pi’s Master would be blown. I quickly turned to the back of the kitchen, trying to look like I knew what I was doing, when I caught him smirking out of the corner of my eye. He was totally on to me. “Ah,” he said. “You are not a Jedi yet.”

The line was growing longer, and someone turned up the heat on my cheeks. But then I remembered who I was dealing with. Griffin Colburn’s whole purpose on earth was to get a rise out of people and never let them live it down. I calmly walked to the back and consulted the manual, then retrieved the ingredients. I poured a bit of milk into the bottom of a Sweetie Pi’s fountain-drink cup, then filled the cup to the top with seltzer and drizzled the chocolate syrup over the foam. When I handed it to him and he paid, I said, “Have a nice day, Darth,” and smiled as big as I could.

When I got off work, two hours later, he was sitting outside, waiting. For me? I was glad it was dark, because I was positive I had a chocolate-sauce smudge on my nose and quite possibly a raspberry one. It was cold, so I pulled my jacket tighter over my Sweetie Pi’s T-shirt and tried to walk past him. He stood up as I did and said, “Your name is Julia. You’re a freshman, right?”

I turned to him, thinking, Oh my God! My vocal cords froze up. Luckily, my facial muscles were too damn tired and cold to react in surprise, so I must have looked noncommittal and bored, like Yeah, and who the hell are you?

“Do you speak anything other than the language of ice cream?” he finally asked.

I was thinking he would go into the whole thing that some insensitive jerks would approach me with: You were that girl. The one from the papers. Right? But he didn’t, and he didn’t look like he wanted to satisfy his morbid curiosity by getting the inside scoop on it. Still, I was suspicious, so I said, “Darth Vader?”

He laughed. “So, you going to the fair tomorrow?”

My mind kicked into overdrive. Fair … fair … fair. What fair? This was cruel and unusual punishment for a girl who had just worked a mind-numbing eight-hour shift at a restaurant that combined food and geometry.

“The Brighton Christmas Tree Fair?” he finally said.

“Oh. I don’t know,” I said, still frozen, because oh my God, was he asking me out?

“Julia,” he said in his Darth Vader voice, “I am not your father. That means we can go to the Brighton fair together and nobody will look at us funny.”

I couldn’t help it: I burst out laughing. After that, I realized that if I ever wanted to look calm, cool, and collected, all I had to do was pretend to be bored and tired and just keep my mouth shut. Easy. It didn’t matter what I was feeling on the inside; it was all about what I showed on the outside. From that day on, I was officially Griffin’s shadow. We were always together. He hated it when I rolled my eyes and looked away, but he also couldn’t get enough of it. Most girls would pout or complain … but I had found the thing that made him weakest—pretending not to care, even when I did. Griffin always spoke in slogans from television commercials, and one of his favorites was “Never let ’em see you sweat.” After a little practice, I was a pro at that.

Now I pour some milk into a cup, squirt in some seltzer, and drizzle on some chocolate syrup, then take a sip. Still gross.

“You eating into the profits, Ippie?” a voice calls over the counter. “Mr. Pi would not be pleased.”

I take another sip and roll my eyes. Bret works at Gyro Hut, across the food court, but the food there is borderline inedible. He’s constantly coming over here to eat into Mr. Pi’s profits. I scoop a cone full of rocky road, his favorite, and hand it to him. “Don’t you have a lamb to slaughter or something?”

“Oh, my little tzatziki,” he says, grinning. He usually uses the word “tzatziki” a hundred times in one conversation at the food court, because he likes it, which makes food court conversations with him especially annoying. “You know I don’t slaughter lambs after noon.”

“How can I forget?”

He stands there idly in his white paper hat and hummus-stained apron, reading the menu, I guess. It appears he has forgotten his ice cream, because chocolate trickles down his wrist, and he doesn’t seem to care. I find myself wishing I had a customer, but the mall is pretty dead today. “So … what’s up?” he finally says.

“Um … not much.” Scintillating conversation. Only then does it strike me just how weird things are with Griffin gone. Like Griffin was the central link in the chain that held us all together.

“Ippie … you’re like a ghost now.” His voice is playful.

I stare at him as he licks the ice cream. “Huh?”

“Like, I rarely see you.”

I have no idea what he’s talking about. I saw him at school two days ago, and at the track meet yesterday, and here today. Does he want to hang with me when I use the bathroom, too? Okay, so our interactions have been kind of short compared to when Griffin was around and we’d spend hours at his house, goofing off. But Griffin is gone. And I can’t say I’ve been pining for time with Bret the past few days. If I hung out that much with him, it would be like we were together. I’m about to make a remark like that when I see the way he’s looking at me. It’s not a normal Bret look. It takes me back to the track, when he pulled me so close I could feel his breath on my cheek and smell his cinnamon Mentos. It’s a look that kind of makes me think “together” is exactly what he has in mind.

I put the egg cream down and grab the edge of the counter. Suddenly, I can’t breathe. This creepy-crawly sensation finds its way to the back of my neck.

“We could, you know …,” he is saying. “Hang out together … later.”

My mind screams, No! And suddenly I’m feeling hot. I’m not sure why. After Griffin, Bret is a natural choice to fill the void. He’s cute. And we had Griffin in common. Who knows, two shadows together might even make one real person. He’s the only person left in the world who treats me like Julia, not Front-Page Julia. But … “It’s just too soon,” I whisper, and it’s the truth, even though it sounds so pathetically cliché. I know that my face is flushed, so I turn around and chant You don’t care to myself until I feel it return to normal.

He backs away. “I didn’t mean that kind of hanging out,” he says, clearly confused by my reaction. After all, he’s never seen the old, weepy Julia. “I meant, I dunno. Get together. Play some tzatziki. And not strip tzatziki, either. Purely grandmotherly tzatziki.”

“Oh,” I mumble, embarrassed. Luckily, a woman with two children steps up to the counter. I muster a smile. “I’ll catch you later.”

His voice turns playful again, and he’s back to the regular Bret. “Catch you later,” he says, and turns toward Gyro Hut, lapping away at his rocky road.

I turn back to the whitewashed cabinets and the harsh fluorescent lighting, then take a long sip of my egg cream, even though the seltzer stings my tongue. Things might have been normal with Griffin, and they could be the same with Bret, but maybe there’s more than one definition of “normal.” Maybe that kind of normal is not the one I’m looking for anymore.

CHAPTER 8

Eron

The rain filters through the trees, weighing down the leaves, making my branch wet, but I cannot feel the dampness on my skin. Sandmen are not affected by the weather, or so Chimere tells me. Yet just as I did as a human, I find rainy days to be gloomy. So many years have passed since I would arrive at the mill looking like a drowned rat after trekking the four miles through the city of Newark, and no longer do I have to endure the water seeping through the soles of my well-worn shoes … yet there is still something utterly melancholy about gray skies and softly falling raindrops.

Or perhaps it is just that with the passing days, the weight on my mind grows heavier. Before, it was only the apprehension of once again being human. Of finding my unfinished business. Now I have even more worries to contend with.

“Oh, my pet,” Chimere says softly. “You are a sight.”

I don’t realize until she appears that I’ve been chewing my bottom lip raw. “I have much to think about.”

She nods. “The training has been difficult,” she says. “But of anyone, I knew you would be the most patient.”

Chimere always uses flattery to motivate us. “I seem to be losing my patience with him.”

“Yes. He is the challenge, isn’t he?” she says with a giddy, schoolgirl laugh. As if I should be roused by this. I know how she, above all, loves challenges, but I do not. “I must admit, he does fascinate me,” she says. “You are still making progress, in spite of it all.”

I give her a doubtful look. “It took me nearly all night to convince him to try the seduction on a cat. I’m not sure he will ever learn to put his charges, even Julia, ahead of himself. He’s quite self-absorbed.”

“Yes, I know. I’ve spoken to him about that. He should be more amenable now.”

“He’s bitter.”

She laughs. “And you were not, when I stripped you of your human life?”

She does have a point. It can be difficult to comprehend. “Did you explain to him that if it weren’t for you, he would still have died, and had no chance of resuming his life? It was his time, and nothing could change that. You selected him for a greater, more fulfilling purpose. Did you explain that you were his savior, not his murderer?”

“Of course, but in any case, all that he once knew is gone. Though he may not show it, I’m sure he is very distressed. And understandably so. You must be patient with him,” she warns, fluffing the skirts of her gown. “Give him time to get with the program.”

I squint at her. “Get with the program?”

She smiles. “That’s one of Mr. Colburn’s phrases. I quite like it.”

I shudder; no doubt I’ll need a dictionary when I rejoin the world. “When will my transition to human begin?”

“It will start when Griffin performs his first human seduction. The more comfortable he becomes in that role, the more human you will become. As I said, it will happen slowly.”

I find my hands quivering. Yes, I knew this, but the full reality of it suddenly hits me.

Tomorrow, for just a few minutes, I will be something I haven’t been in a hundred years.

Human.

It’s after twilight. A branch bows and my student appears among the leaves, clearing his throat. The arrogance is gone from his face, and even if that is only a facade for Chimere’s benefit, at least he is punctual. Chimere is right. I should be more understanding. “Are you ready, my friend?” I say to him as cordially as I can.

“Yeah, bring it,” he answers, eyeing me suspiciously.

Chimere giggles; no doubt she will be telling all the Sandmen she commands to “bring it” for the foreseeable future. She smiles approval at me, then turns to the boy. “I will catch you later,” she says to him, rather stiffly. Another Griffin Colburn term, I am sure. Then she fades.

“You two look like you’re up to something, old man,” he says when she is gone.

I shrug. “I realized I haven’t been very civil to you. This must be difficult to adjust to.”

He hitches a shoulder. “I’m rolling with it. But it is kind of like ordering the prime rib and getting a cheeseburger. I mean, I can’t touch her. I can’t talk to her. So what’s the point?”

“If you truly care for Julia, you will learn to put her needs above your own. Being a Sleepbringer is truly a most selfless profession. Something you should be proud of.”

He rolls his eyes; he doesn’t share my sense of pride.

“And after a hundred years you may go back to your life and complete your unfini—”

“Unfinished business, got it. Whatever that means. By the time I get back there, everyone I know will be dead.” He shakes his head. “What is your unfinished business?”

“I’m not sure,” I say. “I’d had plans to go to college for architecture. My father died coming over to America, but he’d wanted me to have these opportunities he never had in Italy. And then I went and got myself killed. You asked me how before, and I didn’t answer. It was an accident at the mill.”

“For real? Bummer. Was it gruesome? Blood and body parts scattered everywhere?”

I shrug. I can’t remember much from that day so long ago, besides the shock.

“Mine was. Like Night of the Living Dead.” He beams, as if he’s proud of this fact. “But I didn’t have any plans for the future. The only thing I was into was … I dunno, enjoying life. I cruised. Had fun.”

“But you did enjoy your life. And when you died, you had two choices—either leave it forever, or become a Sandman and return to it after a hundred years. You made the right decision, did you not?”

“Oh, hell yeah. Definitely. But … a hundred freaking years. Holy hell.” He rakes his hands through his hair and sighs.

I motion to Julia’s window. She’s going to bed early tonight. She’s wearing my favorite simple loose white gown and looks beautiful; I have to hold myself back from going in there and conducting my business. It’s no longer mine. “If you’d like, you may seduce Julia tonight,” I say, somewhat saddened by the prospect.

His eyes fill with hunger. I knew he’d be eager, but I had no idea how eager. He practically pushes me aside and storms through the window, rubbing his hands together greedily. He stalks to her—he still hasn’t gotten to floating yet—and I move to the other side of the bed. He takes a handful of sand from the pocket of his jacket and begins to spread it over her.

“Not too much, only a bit,” I advise, clenching my teeth. “Or else she will sleep far too long.”

He raises his eyes to me for a moment and then continues his work. Julia is lying on her stomach, which she does often, so I cannot see her face. I cannot tell if it’s working. He puts his hand over her and begins to run it the length of her body. His fingers are like plump sausages and move awkwardly, which is probably why, after a half hour or so, she rolls onto her back and exhales, still awake. Poor Julia. His hands stop in place and begin to shake.

“Don’t touch—”

“I know!” His voice is a frustrated whisper. He starts to move his hands again. I want to tell him, Gently, gently, but I know he’d meet any of my attempts to help with the same unpleasantness, so I bite my tongue.

Another fifteen minutes pass. It’s excruciating. I am told there will come a day when, as a human, I won’t put the needs and worries of these women before mine, but right now that seems utterly impossible.

She turns onto her side and then sits straight up in bed, checking the clock. I, too, check the clock; it’s likely Vicki or Evangeline is waiting for us. When Julia looks around the room, Mr. Colburn jumps backward, then studies her. Waves a hand in front of her face. She doesn’t flinch. He waves his hand again, more fiercely this time, then screams, “Hello!” loudly enough to rattle my bones. No response. He shakes his head. “Wow. She really can’t see or hear me.”

I motion with my chin. “Keep to your work.”

He steps back, his face stone. Giving up. Clearly he isn’t used to being ignored.

I move to the bed and begin to run a hand over her, and within minutes, she is asleep. “See?” I say. “You were almost there.”

He glowers. “She really, really doesn’t know I’m here.”

“Yes, but she might dream of you,” I offer as consolation, though I know that Julia’s dreams have rarely, if ever, been of him. It’s most always those magnificent buildings, their tops hiding amongst the clouds. “Would you like to see her dreams?”

He cocks his head. “I can do that?”

“Sometimes. Just close your eyes, and think of her sleeping there.” He does as I tell him to, and I do the same. “Can you …”

He’s silent for a moment. “Oh, yeah … cool. She’s … at the food court. At Sweetie Pi’s. That’s where she works. She’s making … ha. She’s making an egg cream. This is her dream? Seriously?”

“Yes.” I watch the scene as he narrates it. So that is her place of employment. In all those times of visiting that place in her dreams, I’d never realized that. As she fills a cup with seltzer, I see someone approach. At first I think it is Mr. Colburn, which startles me; I have not yet shown him how to insert himself into her dreams. But then I realize it is another young man.

“What the—” Mr. Colburn breathes. “What the hell is he doing in Julia’s dream?”

“Who is he?” I ask.

“My best—” he begins, his words clipped, but he stops midsentence as the young man drifts across the counter so that the space between him and Julia is nonexistent. His open mouth meets hers. He kisses her so ravenously, pressing his body against her with such force, that I can barely watch. I feel my face growing hot for her and have to pull myself out of it when I feel the heat radiating off Julia’s skin.

“No, Bret!” a voice mumbles. Julia’s.

Mr. Colburn’s eyes spring open. Julia turns to the other side, clutching her pillow, still sleeping, still unaware of our presence. “Julia …,” my student says, bowing low to her ear. “Julia!”

“She cannot hear you,” I remind him. I’m glad I haven’t yet told him he can speak to her in her dreams; from the look on his face, he is far too unstable.

His hands tremble. His voice is ragged. “Why? Why was he in her dream? Why was he kissing her?”

I give him a smile to cut the tension. “When was the last time you were able to control what you dreamt of? It means nothing.”

He processes that for a moment and then rubs his eyes.

“It’s got to mean something.”

“Trust me. It doesn’t.” I say this only to calm him; any fool who has ever had a dream knows that sometimes they do have meaning. But only Julia knows what exactly it means. Thank goodness, his face softens. I check the clock at her bedside. “And we must be going on to our other charges.”

He slowly follows me out the window but then stops to watch Julia before he passes into the night. For the first time, that happy-go-lucky grin has been replaced by a troubled frown.

“What are you thinking?” I ask him.

He doesn’t answer, but I know. I know he is wondering if joining the Sandmen was the right decision after all.