Текст книги "Sleepless"

Автор книги: Cyn Balog

Соавторы: Cyn Balog
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Текущая страница: 9 (всего у книги 13 страниц)

CHAPTER 19

Julia

“Mom,” I say, “I would feel a little more confident about my abilities if you would remove your foot from the dashboard.”

My mother has been pressing her sandal-clad foot so hard against the glove compartment that I think she might leave an indentation. She pushes down so hard that her baby pink–polished toes turn white every time she wants me to brake. “Sorry, hon.”

She removes her foot, but slowly, and only for a second. When I stop at the next light, it pops above the seat again, toes peeking up like pretty pink soldiers readying for attack. “Mom!”

She shrugs. “You’re a lead foot. Just like your dad.”

“No, I’m not. I’m just late for work,” I explain, counting the hours until I’ll be able to drive alone, until I won’t have to con my mom into taking me for “practice” drives. Three days. Just slightly over seventy-two hours.

I drive down Main. It’s the quickest shot to the mall, though I’ve avoided it. I’m sure the tree is still there, with a massive bite in its side, just like I saw in the newspaper, but without Griffin’s mangled Mustang. I guess the wreckage is gone, but they wouldn’t uproot a tree. It wasn’t the tree’s fault, after all.

I try to keep my eyes straight ahead when we pass it, but of course we stop at a light, and there it is, staring at me. The white wound in the black bark is a hideous smile, taunting me. I imagine blood, pieces of Griffin’s bone burrowed permanently in that tree. I wonder if it was the last thing he ever saw. I take a breath. A car horn blares.

“Light’s green,” my mom reminds me gently. From her tone, I can tell she knows what I’m thinking about.

“Oh.” I press on the accelerator too quickly. The car bucks a little. Whoops. “Sorry.”

She kneads my shoulder, pats my knee. I feel goose bumps there prickling against her smooth hand.

We pull up to the mall entrance, and I throw the car into park, open the door, and start to slide out. Health week is clearly over, because my mother decides to climb over the console to the driver’s seat. If she were still in fitness mode, she would have gotten out and jogged around the car. She struggles a little, groaning and letting out a big “oof” as she plops into the driver’s seat. “Pick you up at nine. We can practice your night driving,” she says, not sounding very thrilled by the prospect. Seeing the place where Griffin met his end probably has that effect on lots of parents.

I hurry through the entrance to the food court, shuddering so much at the thought of that horrible smile in the tree that I plow right into a gigantic potted plant next to Sweetie Pi’s. I’ve gone this route across the mall a hundred times, and the plant is so big it probably can be seen from outer space, and yet I manage to jam my shin into it. When I pull my leg away and crouch over it, wishing I’d worn pants instead of shorts, I see another hideous smile there, this one red. It’s already oozing blood, and on my pale gooseflesh it looks like the mouth of a vampire. Pretty.

Before I can wonder if anyone saw my latest act of stupidity, somebody is standing over me with a messy pile of little paper napkins. I take them and press them against my shin, then look up. It’s Mr. I-Have-a-Message-for-You-That’s-Not-Really-a-Message. From the party. “Hello,” he says, handing me more napkins.

“Oh. Hi,” I say. Great, he’s stalking me. Maybe I shouldn’t have been such a moron and told him to find work at the mall. My mall.

I blot the wound a little more and stand up. He has lost the tuxedo—well, kind of. He’s still wearing the white shirt, with sleeves rolled up, and the dark pants with spats. The shirt is unbuttoned at the neck, which suits him. Oh, hell, he’d look hot in a chicken suit. But then I notice he’s wearing a white apron with blue printing on the front, just like mine. A Sweetie Pi’s apron.

I swallow, trying to remember if I ever told him where I work. No, I’m pretty sure I didn’t. There are four hundred stores in this mall, and yet he manages to get a job at my place of employment? This is all too creepy. But my heart begins to flutter. Those dark eyes. That stubble-dotted movie-star jawline. He’s so different from Griffin, who had an all-American wide-eyed baby face, and whose best attempt at a beard was a few downy platinum whiskers. This guy could be a serial killer, yet my ticker is still screaming, “Bring it on!”

I’m not sure how long I stare at him, openmouthed, but the next thing I know, he reaches down and begins to pat my shin with a napkin. I have no idea how I miss the ceiling, because I jump like I’m on a trampoline. I look over the tie of my apron; the blood is trickling down to my pink Crocs. I snatch the napkin from him and back away.

“I’m sorry,” he says. “You should get that looked at.”

I ignore him; it’s nothing a good Band-Aid won’t fix. “How did you know I worked here?”

He shrugs. “Oh. I didn’t. The owner told me that one of his employees would be spending the summer away, so he needed the help. Is that you?”

“Um …” I am about to say yes, but I’m afraid if I do, this guy will show up in New York, too. “Maybe?”

He nods, as if I make any sense, and puts his hand under my elbow. “You should sit.” At first I want to say, Get away, but then I feel the blood seeping under my heel. With his help, I limp to a bench and collapse onto it. He inspects the gash. “You might need medical attention.”

“I’m fine.” I crane my neck toward Gyro Hut. I haven’t spoken to Bret since last night, and I don’t want to. Ever.

“He’s not there,” the guy says gently, still dabbing at my wound. With every dab, a new goose pimple appears. I realize that they’re multiplying like rabbits. And that my leg has all these blue veins in it. Great, a hot guy is playing nurse to me, even if he is a stalker, and I have skin better suited to poultry.

“Who?”

“Bret. Your friend.”

Okay. Back up now. “Wait. How did you know that he …”

He pauses for a moment, looking flustered. “I’m sorry. I’m frightening you. That’s not my intention. Bret … overslept, so he will not be in today.”

I squint at him. “And you know that because …”

“He, uh, nine-one-oned the shop a moment ago.”

Is he speaking English? Or is that new Canadian slang? “Huh?”

The guy’s hands twitch and his olive cheeks take on a rosy sheen. It has the effect that puppies in a pet store window have on me; I fight the urge to scoop him up and say, “Aw!” Finally, he stutters, “Um, t-telephoned? The shop. He asked me to l-let you know, in case you were looking for him.”

“Oh,” I say, relaxing. Like I would be looking for him now. And why did he bother calling the ice cream shop when he could have just called my cell? I reach into my pocket and pull out my cell phone, but there are no messages, no missed calls. Something sounds fishy, but I can’t bother thinking about it, because a couple of preteen girls wearing way too much makeup are in the Sweetie Pi’s queue. “Customers.”

I struggle to my feet but he holds out his finger, then hurries behind the counter, saying, “How may I help you?” to the giggling schoolgirls like he’s done this all his life. My bleeding has slowed, so I stand up and make my way toward the storefront. I hear the soft-serve machine purring; then the cash register dings, and the girls stroll away, licking their cones. When I arrive behind the counter, he’s fishing an errant Swedish Fish out of the rainbow-sprinkle tray with a plastic spoon. “So … been an ice cream scooper before, have you?”

He shakes his head. “I have visited a soda fountain, though, many a time. I’m quite fond of sweet treats.”

Soda fountain? Maybe that’s what they still call these places where he’s from. Someplace in … Canada, or so he said. Is it possible for there to be a place up north where they’re that closed off from the world? Maybe they’re like the Amish. I wonder if they still ride in horse-drawn carriages and use outhouses. “Listen,” I say. “I do want to thank you for your help last night. But you may have gotten the wrong idea. Bret wouldn’t have hurt me. He’s been a—”

“Friend for a long time,” he finishes, nodding. “I understand that’s how you feel. But people you know, even very well, can surprise you.”

“Maybe. How did you know where to find me, anyway?”

He shrugs, then reaches over and grabs a cup. “Do you think the management would object much if I …”

“Knock yourself out.”

“Would you like anything?”

An hour ago, my mom made me her famous graduation pancakes, complete with a whipped cream smiley face and strawberry sauce, which she does the morning after every school year ends. My stomach is already pressing against the waistband of my shorts. “No thanks.”

He gets to work, busily compiling ingredients, and I can’t help wondering how he can be so proficient at this on his very first day. Finally, he pours chocolate syrup over a frothy mixture in the Styrofoam cup, then slides a straw into it and takes a sip. “Ah. Haven’t had one of these in ages.”

I stare at him. “Did you just make an egg cream?”

He nods. “Is there a problem?”

“No, I …” Suddenly, I feel tingles everywhere, and not the good kind. “It’s just not exactly a very popular menu item.”

“Is that so?” He takes another sip and swallows, punctuating it with an exaggerated “Ah!”

“I’ve just … had an inexplicable craving for one in the last day or so. I quite enjoy them.”

After that, the conversation lags. I end up staring awkwardly at the giant rotating light-up cone in the corner while he inspects the flooring. Finally, I say, “What did you say your name was, again? Aaron?”

“Eron. Eron DeMarchelle.”

“Eron? Is that short for something?”

He nods. “Geronimo.”

“Eek. No wonder you go by Eron. Are you named after a relative?”

He shakes his head. “It’s a very popular name in Italy. I was born there.”

“Italy?”

“Yes. Mama and I moved here when I was five. I mean, to, um, Canada. And then I moved here a few weeks ago. It was quite a bit different, where I came from.”

“Oh.” No duh. Based on his weird dress and stiff way of talking, he could be from Mars. Maybe his mom is adamant that he not stray too far away from the customs of his homeland. My mom always insists on bringing out her record of goofy Polish folk songs whenever we have company. I can’t think of anything else to ask, so I say, “DeMarchelle sounds French.”

He nods. “It is. My stepfather was.”

“Was?”

“Oh, yes. He’s passed. Mama, too.”

“Oh.” I can’t say he seems very upset by it, but I add, “I’m sorry.”

“It was a long time ago.”

Time. That’s it. He’s not acting like he’s from another place; he’s acting like he’s from another time. Another century. I look down at my feet, his feet. I point at his spats. “I didn’t realize that those things were making a comeback.”

He smiles at me. “They’re quite comfortable. And, Julia, I’m sorry if I gave you reason to be suspicious of me.”

“I’m not suspicious.” Crazily uncomfortable, yes. Suspicious, no. Well, maybe a little. Okay, I’m so suspicious I’m practically itching.

“You don’t seem the type to ask just anyone his life story.”

I blush, then cross my arms. “Well, sorry. But you’ve just coincidentally shown up in my life three times in the past couple of days, first saying you have a message for me, then saying you want to protect me. You don’t even know me. And then you go and order Griffin’s favorite drink, so I’m just freaking out a little here.” I realize I’m babbling and clamp my mouth closed.

He doesn’t speak for a moment. Then he says, “I’m sorry, but I do understand. I see how it would all seem rather coincidental, but that is all it is. Even the fact that your beloved and I share an affinity for egg creams.”

I look up. “My … beloved?”

I spend the rest of my five-hour shift trying to convince myself that everything about Eron DeMarchelle is normal, that anything wrong with him is just a product of my overactive imagination, much like those feelings that Griffin is haunting me are. Though even my overactive imagination can’t seem to figure out how this guy knew that Griffin was my boyfriend. Er, beloved. Whatever.

Since the mall is like a morgue again, I can’t throw myself into my work. So I stack cups. This time, I make a sort of Eiffel Tower. Eron hums around like a busy bee, cleaning every surface with a wet rag. Then he finds a mop and bucket in the back. The floor of Sweetie Pi’s is so sticky it probably hasn’t seen that mop in a decade. Then he gets on a ladder and starts to clean a year’s worth of dust from the top of the freezer. He’s, like, Robo-Employee.

After the Eiffel Tower has collapsed, I sit down and start to yawn, just watching him. “You are making me look bad,” I mutter.

He smiles as he wrings out a rag in the sink. “It’s been quite a while since I’ve worked so hard I could feel it in my bones. I enjoy that feeling. Makes me feel … alive.”

I notice he’s blushing again. “Ooohkay,” I say, thinking that if I worked that hard, the last thing I’d be feeling is alive.

At the end of the shift, he helps me untie my apron. His fingers tickle the back of my neck. I shiver as he slides the apron from my body and folds it neatly, but I blame it on the air-conditioning and the chocolate milk shake I just slurped down. When he walks me outside to my mom’s car, we don’t speak much. I don’t have anything to say to him that isn’t a question, and I know I’ve asked more than the polite share of those.

He holds the mall door open, and just as I’m thinking, Oh, how sweet, he extends the crook of his elbow to me. I stand there for a moment, wondering if he’s just trying to check the time on his wristwatch, but then I realize he isn’t wearing one. Tentatively, I put my hand on his forearm, and he clasps his hand over it, just like in those old-time movies. We’re strolling. People stare at us. My heart starts to thud madly under my camisole when he turns and smiles at me. “It has been a pleasure, Julia,” he says, taking my hand in his. I know it’s all sticky with chocolate syrup, but he doesn’t seem to mind. Those eyes never leaving mine, he bends slightly and delivers a kiss to the top of my hand.

CHAPTER 20

Eron

Mama used to have a saying: “You get what you get.” I’ll admit she wasn’t the most poetic of women, but at the time, she was raising eight children who weren’t her own while barely able to speak their language. I think that was the first full sentence she learned to say in English, because the DeMarchelle children were always asking for more. More pasta, more space on the mattress, more everything. She’d curse at them in Italian, her native language, and then at my father, for dying and leaving her alone, and then she’d just smile at me and slip me an extra slice of warm pane.

It’s been almost a hundred years and I can still taste that bread, feel it toasting up my palms. It was one of the few things that made life in the DeMarchelle household happy.

I’d come to Ellis Island with little more than my name, Geronimo Bianco, and then I lost even that, not two days after we’d set foot on American soil. Mr. DeMarchelle, my stepfather, helped Mama make the arrangements for Papa’s casket, and probably pretended to be charming and gentlemanly only because Mama was a handsome woman and he could see a great opportunity. After all, he was recently widowed and had more children than he knew what to do with. And Mama couldn’t speak a lick of English; she’d expected that Papa would handle all that. When Mr. DeMarchelle took her in front of a judge a day later, she was thinking it was just another step toward becoming an American citizen. She didn’t expect to become Maria DeMarchelle, any more than I expected to become Eron DeMarchelle.

What other choice was there? My father had been the man with the plans, the aspirations to move to America and start his own business. Mama had wanted to stay back home with her family.

“You get what you get,” I mutter under my breath, wringing out my one and only undershirt in a sink coated with dried toothpaste and pink mildew. Luckily, it is a warm night. I spread the material out, next to my undershorts and shirt, on an old towel in the window, hoping the night air will dry them by tomorrow.

Tomorrow, when I continue to make a fool of myself at the soda fountain.

I sigh, thinking of Julia. I’ve barely spent more than ten hours with her, and she’s already suspicious of me. I’d expected not to fit in right away, but I hadn’t anticipated that the truth would be exposed in mere days.

I pull the pair of shorts Harmon lent me over my hips; they’re much too big, but they’ll have to do for now. I’m thankful to have something to wear while my only outfit is laundered. At the very least, I’m grateful I can stay inside, as this attire certainly isn’t suitable for the street. I went a hundred years without laundering that suit; Sandmen don’t have to worry about such things, so I almost forgot how quickly the human world could wear on a piece of clothing. Though I’m still human only half the time, the suit is already dingy. The ice cream shop won’t pay me until Friday, and most of Harmon’s clothing is ill-fitting rags, so I have no other choice.

You get what you get.

I sink into the beaten couch, remembering my first days in the DeMarchelle home. In truth, Harmon’s home is heaven compared to where I once lived on earth. The couch is lumpy and old, yes, but it will be pleasant compared to wrestling on a stained mattress with the eight DeMarchelle demoniettos, as Mama called them. There were Alfred, the eldest, and Clementine, the youngest, who was nearly my age, and in between, a gaggle of others who hated Mama for moving in and replacing their dead mother. Since I was her only son, they hated me, and because I was younger than all of them, I was an easy target. Not a day would go by when I wasn’t nursing one bruise or another. I lean my head back on my arm, staring up at the ceiling fan. Paradise, no, but things could be worse.

I’m startled from my reverie when I hear glass crashing to the floor of the kitchen. It’s Mr. Harmon; from the little I know of him, I have been able to determine that he always leaves a trail of wreckage in his wake. He stumbles into the doorway and stands there, a disheveled heap, holding a beer bottle to his lips. “Look who it is. My guest.” The voice is dripping with sarcasm; “uninvited guest” is what he wanted to say.

“Hello,” I say as cordially as I can. I sit up. “I’ve gotten a job. I should be able to help with your rent this month.”

He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. “Oh yeah?” He catches a glimpse of the apron I set out on the back of the sofa. “Serving ice cream?”

I nod.

He breaks into laughter.

“Is something funny?”

“You used to spend the night in the bedrooms of beautiful women. That was your job. Dishing out rocky road for snot-nosed kids is a real step up.”

“It’s a human job,” I counter.

“And what about being human is so great?” he asks, shaking his head. “Look around you. Everyone you loved, everyone who ever loved you … they’re fertilizer.”

I’m not interested in listening to this drunk fool’s rantings. It’s true that Julia regarded me with caution during most of our time together this afternoon, but eventually, she … and others … will warm to me. Eventually, I will become one of them. “Yes, but in time …”

He laughs again. “You go back upstairs and ask an Original how many of us humans actually make it once we return to earth. How many go on to be happy, have good lives.”

“Why don’t you just tell me?” I say, prompting him, since it is obvious he is itching to.

He shrugs. “Okay. Nobody. We all end up either killing ourselves or drinking ourselves to oblivion or spending the rest of our days wanting death. That’s a little secret the Originals don’t let you in on when they ask you to join them. If humans knew the odds, trust me, they’d rather die.”

“That’s ridiculous,” I say, though as I sit here, I realize I don’t have any facts to base that opinion on. “We’re all put here to complete our unfinished business.”

He howls again with laughter. “Unfinished business? Oh, right. They’re still feeding Sandmen that line of bull?”

I don’t know how to answer. I don’t know any other former Sandmen. I feel a twinge in the muscles of my back.

He takes another swig from his bottle; his dirty bathrobe falls open. “You’re fading again.”

I inspect my hands. So I am. At that moment, I remember I’m clad only in shorts. As I’m trying to slide my undershirt over my head—it’s still quite damp—it slips through my fingers and I know I am once again a Sandman. I see Harmon speaking to the air—“Have a nice trip”—but I know he can no longer see me. I pass through the door, out to the street. Red and blue lights are flashing across the street, and a crowd is gathering there, but I don’t stop. I am too busy regarding with disdain my bare chest and legs in the moonlight. I didn’t expect this. How shameful it will be to confront Chimere half naked like this. But I must. She will say that Harmon is a fool, and I will have no choice but to believe her, but I must confront her.

I’ve never climbed the tree outside Julia’s house barefoot. The branches scrape my legs as I climb to where Mr. Colburn is resting. “Where is Chimere?” I ask him.

He turns and grins at me. “Forgetting something?”

“I changed back into a Sandman while I was in the middle of dressing,” I grumble. “Where is Chimere?”

He shrugs. “She was looking for you, too.”

“She was?” Frustrated, I wave him off. No doubt she’s upset about how I interfered with Mr. Anderson. I press my bare back against the trunk of the tree and turn to the open window. It’s dark; Julia has not yet returned home.

“So you gave Bret what he had coming to him?”

I nod and whisper, “Indeed I did.”

I’m watching the darkened window, wondering what Chimere’s punishment will be for me. Wondering if what Harmon said is the truth. Wondering when the inevitable question will escape Mr. Colburn’s lips. It comes not a moment later: “So he’s dead?”

I shake my head. “He is very much alive.”

His face falls. “But you said—”

“I said I would take care of it. Bret Anderson is not the monster you make him out to be. Nothing about him even comes close to that creature that nearly murdered Julia when she was a child. Yes, his dreams may be somewhat inappropriate, but he’s just a normal, hot-blooded boy, who loves her.” I clench my fists. “It is not criminal to want her, but it is criminal for you to stand in the way by ending his life.”

I can see the heat simmering under his white collar. “You want me to tell the elders—”

“I do not, but would you really hurt Chimere that way? Your mentor? You are not so cold.”

He chews on his bottom lip. “If Bret so much as—”

“He will not. I assure you.”

He sighs, opens his mouth, but closes it a moment later. For the first time since I met him, he has been silenced.

I walk away then, without another word. Triumphant. Perhaps my student can be taught after all.