Текст книги "Sleepless"

Автор книги: Cyn Balog

Соавторы: Cyn Balog
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CHAPTER 11

Julia

At the end of last period, I throw my books into my locker and linger there, hoping Ebony will come by and we can resume the conversation about the party without the presence of my hip tumor. I spend enough time there to begin growing roots, which is moronic, considering school is out and most students wouldn’t spend another second here than is absolutely necessary. And I have the late-afternoon shift at Sweetie Pi’s. Which means …

Ugh. Seeing the hip tumor.

I slowly turn and trudge to the doors, thinking, So what if I don’t go with Ebony? I could go with him. He’s one of my best friends. In fact, he is my best friend now. That wouldn’t be so bad.

I cringe, remembering how things were when Griffin was alive. People knew me, yes. He might have made me appear normal, but Griffin and Bret were also like insulation. They made me feel safe, like part of the crowd. I didn’t mind it much then. At least if I was with them, I wouldn’t have to worry about being seen as the victim. I was just Julia. But now … now I can’t stop thinking that as long as I’m with Bret, people will tie me to Griffin. I’ll forever be the dead guy’s girlfriend.

At the food court, I look toward Gyro Hut and see Bret’s reddish hair peeking out from behind the pita-warmer. Quickly, I rush behind the counter, throw my stuff into my locker, and put on my apron. I’m not in the mood for dishing out soft serve today, especially since I know that Mondays are our slowest days and Bret will be over here just the second he sees my—

“Hey, Tzatziki!”

Kill me now.

I can’t pretend I don’t hear him. The mall today is quieter than a library, and he’s shouting at earsplitting volume across the court. I turn, smile, and wave, then pretend to stack plastic cups into a model of the Empire State Building, working with great care and precision, as if this is something my manager asked me to do. As if the future of Sweetie Pi’s depends on this statue. If I look like I am busy, he will leave me alone, right? No luck. He immediately jogs over to me.

“Not funny, not funny at all, Ipster,” he says, wagging a finger at me like I’m a bad toddler.

This raises the question “What are you talking about?” but asking would require me to speak to him more, something I don’t feel like doing. But he’s not the type to go away if I play mute, either. “What are you talking about?” I finally say.

He reaches into his apron and pulls out his Rubik’s Cube. Well, it looks like his, but I can’t be sure, because there’s something very different about it.

It’s completely solved.

“You did it,” I say. “Congrats.”

He gives me a tsk, tsk, tsk noise, still acting as if he’s talking to a two-year-old. “You know I didn’t.”

I shrug. “You didn’t?”

“Don’t play dumb.”

I glare at him. “I seem to think you were the one who told me that when it comes to dumb, I don’t have to play.”

“Touché,” he says with a grin, pocketing the cube again. “But the fact still remains that you and Griffin were the only ones who had the combination to my locker. I left it in my locker over third period and when I got back, voilà.”

“So wait … you think I broke into your locker?” As if I’ve wanted anything to do with him these past few days. And please, I wasn’t the type to play practical jokes. That wasn’t my thing.

But it was Griffin’s.

“Don’t give me that ‘who, me?’ look. It was you, wasn’t it?”

The blood begins to drain from my face, but then I remember: this is Bret I’m dealing with. “Nice try. If you want to freak me out, you’re going to have to do better than that.”

He gives me the evil eye. I return it.

“Did you really expect to show me that and make me believe Griffin is back from the dead? You are lameness times a thousand. Go back to your tzatziki.”

Bret doesn’t move.

“Go away. You are annoying me,” I finally say, turning back to my cups.

Bret’s still standing there, frozen. The smile is still on his face, but it’s a cautious one, as if he’s wary about becoming the butt of someone’s stupid gag and can’t quite figure out how to respond. I know him well enough to know what that look means.

He’s not joking. And if he’s not joking …

And I’m not joking …

The only person left in this equation is …

Dead.

Which is impossible. So … right. It’s got to be Bret. Bret playing a joke on me. That’s the only logical answer.

“Go away,” I say again, this time more forcefully. “Or I’ll sic Griffin on you, since he’s obviously back from the dead.”

He laughs. “Fine. Gang up on me.”

“I have work to do.”

“Stacking cups?”

I sigh. “That’s the thing with you and Griffin. You never knew when to quit. It’s not funny anymore.”

“Oh. But you’re hilarious,” he says playfully.

I slam a stack of cups down. “Stop it, okay?” I don’t think I’ve ever raised my voice around him.

He takes a step back. The smile is still there, but only a hint of it. “You didn’t go into my locker?”

I shake my head.

He shrugs. “I don’t believe you,” he singsongs.

I throw up my hands. For a second, I think about telling him about my dream, not about the kiss, but about seeing Griffin there. But I don’t. Dreams mean nothing. And this is Bret. If I told him that, he’d never let me live it down. My even entertaining the thought that Griffin is still here would give him enough material to make fun of me for the next hundred years.

“Fine, don’t believe me. But maybe it’s one of those little mysteries of life,” I say.

He smirks, and I sigh, feeling like I just went fifteen rounds in a heavyweight title match. But hey, at least I survived, I think. Before Griffin, the first punch would have been a total knockout.

Before Griffin, lots of things would have been a total knockout. I remember that a few months before Griffin died, I’d gotten a rejection to the summer session at the Architectural Journal, something I’d lusted after for a year. Normally, I would have cried my eyes out for a week. But when I started to have my breakdown, he pulled me into his arms and said, “So what if they don’t want you? Screw ’em. You’re better than all of them, anyway.” I tried to whimper that he was wrong and that it was the end of the world, but he gave me his stoniest look and said, “Girl, I’m going to count to ten. And by the time I do, you’d better be over it.”

That always worked with me. After all, I was the one wishing people would keep the past in the past. The best way to make sure that happened was just to throw it there, as far as you could, and never look back.

As Bret heads back to Gyro Hut, I know I’m being a jerk. But I can’t help it. I can’t help thinking that as much as I want someone to understand me, going that route with Bret is all wrong. I want someone else to talk to. Someone real. Ebony. Someone, anyone else. More than ever.

CHAPTER 12

Eron

A bit after dusk, my student launches himself through the leaves like an act in a talent show and skids onto the branch next to me. “What’s up?” he asks nonchalantly, as if everything is perfectly normal.

But everything is not. Chimere and I have spent the last three hours fretting over this.

“I believe I did tell you,” I say, trying to keep my voice even, “that we frown upon your venturing away from the homes of your charges?”

He nods and grins. “Yep. I figured you were doing a lot of frowning upon me today.”

“This is not some game. These humans rely on you.”

He laughs. “That’s just what Chimere said.”

“Mr. Colburn, your indifference is not—”

“Look, old man, give it up. There was something I needed to do. And now it’s done. And the world is not exploding. So stop giving me grief.”

I glare at him. “Something you needed to do? What could you possibly …” It dawns on me at that moment. “There is nothing you could have needed to do outside the realm of your charges. The only thing you need to do right now is take care of them. Do you understand? You are no longer human.”

“Ha! That’s what Chimere said, too. You guys must share a brain.”

I rub my face with both hands, exasperated. “Please tell me that you did not touch anything in the human world to alert a human to your existence.”

He makes a gesture with his thumb and index finger. “Just a little something.”

I throw up my hands. “You are the most incorrigible soul—”

“Look,” he says, his voice serious. It’s startling how quickly his manner changes. “Julia is in trouble. I needed to help her.”

I prick up my ears. Julia in trouble? “What kind of trouble?”

“That guy … the one she was getting with in her dream … He’s making a move on her.”

I sigh. Though the thought is quite discomforting to me, too, it isn’t anything that we, as Sleepbringers, need to concern ourselves with. “And? Life goes on without you. You must let it.”

He shakes his head. “He’s not a good guy.”

“I thought you said he was your best friend.”

“Yeah, he is. That doesn’t mean I trust him.”

I suppose it’s understandable that he would say these things; after all, he did witness a rather disturbing exchange between his beloved and his best friend, even if it was only in a dream. I recall my anguish at seeing Gertie in the arms of another man, so I can’t blame him. As a Sleepbringer, though, he’s likely to see Julia do many more things that he deems unwise, things he has no place interfering with. And yet the look on his face reflects mad, animal rage; he is clearly still thinking more like a human than a Sandman. “If your friend is ‘not a good guy,’ as you say, there is only so much you can do to protect her. I will show you how to speak to her in her dreams; you may be able to exert some influence over her that way. Touching anything in the human world is strictly forbidden. Much more of that will land you in the Last Place. And you do not want to be there.”

He grinds his teeth into his bottom lip and exhales loudly. Then he reaches over and rips a branch from the tree. I bring up my hands to shield myself from it, in case he should throw it my way, but he doesn’t; he simply tosses it onto the ground. “Can’t suck any more than this does.”

“We have to continue with your training,” I say to him, checking my pocket watch. “Chimere would be—”

“Chimere can eat me,” he snarls, then holds up his hands in surrender. “Fine. Fine. Let the learning commence.”

“Don’t say that about her,” I say. “She was worried about you. She spent all day looking for you.”

He clucks his tongue. “She had her head in the clouds, moping over you. That’s why I was able to get away.”

“Me?”

“She’s got a thing for you.”

I laugh. “A thing? You mean … No. That’s not possible for Originals. We are very fond of each other, but that is all. Besides, I seem to recall her warming to you quite nicely.”

“Yeah?”

“Yes. She seems to have adopted some of your colloquialisms, and I can’t say she’s ever done that before.”

“Yeah, but whatever. You’re, like, her perfect little protégé. I see the way she bats her eyelashes at you. And she talks about you like you’re the man.” He laughs. “Trust me. She’s got a thing for you. And I’ll never be able to live up to your saintly image. Tell me, have you ever done anything Chimere told you not to do?”

I’m about to tell him that he’s wrong, so wrong, and what’s more, that no female has ever had a “thing” for me, but I decide this is silliness. Besides, these topics are not worth discussing with the likes of him.

“Chimere is going to freak when you’re gone, man. I’ll be surprised if she doesn’t beg you to stay.”

“Chimere is not so silly,” I say.

“People you know really well can surprise you.”

“Chimere is not a person.”

“Whatever. I mean, I was surprised by my best friend. Julia doesn’t know him as well as I do. I’ve known him since we were kids. And I know now that he’ll hurt her.”

He’ll hurt her. If any words could stop me in my tracks, they are those. I immediately think of my stepfather. Mama went to the grave two years after I did, thanks to him. If there was any day of these past hundred years when I wished to be human most, it was that day. Had I been there, perhaps I could have stopped him. I was a new Sleepbringer at the time, and when Chimere brought me the news, I cursed my helplessness. Though Sandmen are not permitted to leave their charges, Chimere allowed me to visit Mama’s grave site during the funeral. It was on that day that I promised myself I would never, ever hesitate to act if needed, if it came to the life or death of someone I cared about.

I turn to him, the lessons of the day forgotten. “What exactly do you mean?”

CHAPTER 13

Julia

Ever since I can remember, every time I’ve come home, my mom has been sitting on the steps outside our front door, waiting for me. It doesn’t matter that I’m sixteen, only days away from being old enough to drive and free to go where I want; I expect she’ll still be this protective of me when I’m fifty, and I can’t blame her. This time, she’s gnawing on a celery stick. It must be, for her and my dad, “health week;” once a month, after indulging in too many Ho Hos and Twix bars, she’ll go to Giant and pick up all the fixings for her own little farmers’ market. We’ll probably have something with tofu for dinner, but at this point, I’m glad. I ate three funnel cakes at Sweetie Pi’s while contemplating the Rubik’s Cube incident.

It’s the same greeting she’s given me every day since Griffin died: “Hon, how’re you doing?” and a little shoulder rub. She swats a fly away from her face and crinkles her brow. She’s the only one who can ask me how I’m feeling until her face falls off and it doesn’t bother me. Maybe because I trust that she really does care about me. She really does want to hear the answer, good or bad.

“Good,” I say as she reaches over and wipes a little gritty cinnamon sugar off my cheek, near the scars. She’s the only one who can touch my scars without making me cringe. I notice an envelope sitting beside her.

She holds it out to me. “Thought this might lift your spirits.”

I read the return address: New York, New York. It’s from Architectural Journal’s monthlong summer program for high school students interested in pursuing engineering and architecture degrees in college—the program I was rejected from months ago, when Griffin was alive. I’d been psyched when I’d applied, at the beginning of my sophomore year, because I’d always wanted to design buildings, even when I was a kid, building skyscrapers out of Popsicle sticks in my bedroom at night. But with Griffin’s help, after I’d gotten my rejection, I’d come to see not going as a good thing. “If you’d gone off to New York for a month, that would have blown everything,” he’d said. And he was right. He was slated to go to UCLA in early August, so that wouldn’t have given us any time together.

“What do they want?” I say, a little bitter, because, after all, they rejected me. Even if they begged me to come now, I wouldn’t dare …

She shoves it into my hands. “One way to find out.”

I shrug and rip the envelope open, then unfold the paper. I catch the phrases “there has been a cancellation” and “pleased to welcome you” and let out a little shriek. “They want me!” I cry. So what if it’s by default? They want me. To be in New York, the Big Apple, next month. My heart flutters at the thought.

My mom hugs me. “Oh, congrats, honey. I’m so proud of you. Your father will be so excited.”

“But I can’t …,” I say softly, and that’s when I realize something. The main reason I couldn’t, or wouldn’t—Griffin—no longer exists. Then I look to her, seeking her approval. I know that this will be hard on her; letting me out of her sight always has been.

“Why can’t you?” my mother says. “You talked nonstop about this for months.”

“Really? I know. I guess I can.” I suppress my smile. For some reason it seems wrong to be happy about finally getting something Griffin convinced me I didn’t want. And about something that obviously must be causing my mom a minor heart attack. I mean, going to a party or working at Sweetie Pi’s is one thing. Living in a whole different state for six weeks is another.

My mom says, “We’ll have to go shopping to get you some city duds.”

I grin. The word “shopping” has that effect on me. I picture myself on a busy city street, smiling and twirling in my new fashionable outfit, beautiful skyscrapers surrounding me. “Thanks, Mom, but are you sure?”

She nods. “You’re getting your license in a few days. You’re grown-up. You can take care of yourself.”

This is a huge step for my mom. I hug her and head into the house. I run upstairs and throw my books and my Sweetie Pi’s apron onto the bed. Then I pick up my phone and the Wilson High directory. I open it, find the number, and dial. She picks up right away, as if the phone is attached to her like her very own tumor.

“Hey, is this Ebony?” I ask.

“Yep. Who’s this?”

“Julia. Hi.”

There’s a few seconds’ pause. I know I’m probably the last person she expected to hear from. “Oh, hey, what’s up?”

“Hi,” I say, and then realize I’m a moron, because I said that already. So I quickly follow up with “Yeah, so that party Wednesday? Can I still go with you guys?”

I cringe; that’s even more moronic. Like I’m-a-total-dweeb-and-have-no-friends-so-I-have-to-glom-on-to-you moronic. If she thinks so, though, she doesn’t let on. “Sure thing, Jul,” she says. Then she laughs. “You could have told me tomorrow at school. I didn’t even know you had my number.”

“Oh. School directory,” I say lamely. She does have a point. I could have just told her in school, of course. But I was so busy riding the high of my Architectural Journal summer session acceptance that I momentarily lost my grasp on reality.

“Right,” she says. And then there’s this awkward pause. I begin to remember exactly why I had no friends before Griffin and Bret. “See you tomorrow, then,” she finally adds. I can tell her finger is hovering over the “End” button on her phone.

“Oh, sure. See you.” Click.

I shake off the feeling of embarrassment and lean back on my pillow. This is a good thing. This is what is called moving on, pushing past “Front-Page Julia,” full speed ahead. I’m sure this is what Griffin would want for me.

My phone vibrates in my hand. At first I think it must be Ebony calling back to say, “We’ve reconsidered. You are too much of a loser,” but then I check the display. It’s Bret’s number. As I’m contemplating whether to answer, the ring tone begins to play.

I stare at the cell, watching my knuckles grow white around it. Because I felt like it was Griffin’s last act, I never changed the ring tone from that cheesy “Ring My Bell.” But this is a different song, vaguely familiar. An old song. The voice is one of those icons, Frank Sinatra or Dean Martin. I’ve never been crazy about that music, but …

Griffin was.

I put the phone down on my comforter, still unable to take my eyes from it. “Just remember, darling, all the while …”

Oh, no. Though I don’t know the song, I anticipate the words before they’re out.

“You belong to me.”

All I want to do is stop the music. I don’t want to speak to Bret, but I don’t want to be alone, either. I flip open the phone. “Bret,” I say, breathless.

“What were you doing, running a marathon?”

“No, I …” My mind is wandering so far from this place that I forget to speak at an audible volume.

“Listen,” he says, oblivious. “I think I know who could have broken into my locker, if it wasn’t you. Which I’m still not convinced of, by the way.”

He proceeds into a long explanation about some guy on the track team who was pissed at Bret for beating his time in the last meet and whose uncle is a janitor. But all I’m thinking about is my possessed cell phone. I got a call from Bret last night, and the “You can ring my be-e-ell” made my skin crawl. Since then, I’ve had my phone in my backpack, which hasn’t left my side, so …

“What do you think?” he asks.

“Um, I guess,” I mutter. It certainly sounds better than a dead boyfriend haunting us. Though that explanation is sounding more and more reasonable by the minute.

After all, that song. That’s the kind of music only Griffin liked. And he was the one constantly programming my phone with new ring tones. I think back to my dream, in which he was standing outside, in his tuxedo, fists balled. His lips were closed in a snarl, but the rage on his face spoke very clearly.

Don’t forget me, he seemed to say. You belong to me.