The Girl Who Could Not Dream

by Sarah Beth Durst

  “Maybe the driver wants to eat you but is disappointed he can’t?” Monster suggested.

  “Not helping,” Sophie told him. She asked Ethan, “Why were you waiting for me?”

  “I wanted to talk to you.”

  She blinked at him. “But we talked at lunch.”

  “I wanted to talk to you more. You’re the only one who’s ever noticed . . . Only a few people have ever guessed about the nightmares, and those people are mostly relatives who have heard me wake up screaming.” He spoke so softly that she had to lean toward him to hear. “And all they did was send me to counseling. They never helped, not really. Not the way you did in less than twenty-four hours.”

  The bus squealed to a halt at her stop, saving her from having to think of a response. She jumped to her feet with the backpack in her arms. “This is us.”

  The kid who had high-fived Ethan called out, “Hey, man, where you going?”

  “Sophie’s,” Ethan answered.

  “Dude, why?” he asked, and Sophie thought, See? I’m not the only one who thinks this is weird. The school’s new basketball star did not go home after school with the resident weird girl. No one ever went home with Sophie. She’d perfected the art of being friendless.

  “I’m helping him with homework,” Sophie said at the same time as Ethan said, “Because she’s cool.”

  Feeling her face turn bright red again, Sophie yanked his sleeve toward the front of the bus. The driver glared at them as they got off, and then the doors closed and the bus pulled away. The other kids scattered toward their houses.

  “Why did you say that?” Sophie asked.

  “Why did you lie?” Ethan countered.

  “I wasn’t going to say I was taking you to my parents so we can talk about monsters,” Sophie said. “Why did you lie?”

  “I didn’t,” he said. “You are cool. You stopped the nightmares, and you saved me from the whatever-it-was. By the way, did I say thank you for that? Because, thank you. You were amazing. Weren’t you scared?”

  She wasn’t used to so many compliments. “Uh, sure. I’m not an idiot.”

  Low, so only she could hear him, he confessed, “I was terrified. Not sure I’ve ever been that scared and been awake.”

  “That just means you’re not an idiot, either.”

  He smiled sunnily. Sophie thought he was the kind of person that the phrase “his smile brightened the room” was invented for. Even though the sun was out, it felt extra sunny when he smiled. If she practiced for hours, she’d never be able to achieve that effect. “That’s the nicest thing anyone’s said to me all day,” he said. “Knew you weren’t as prickly as everyone says.”

  “Yes, I am.”

  Sophie walked quickly toward the bookshop. Wind whistled down the sidewalk, stirring bits of trash. A few people were around—a woman carrying both a baby and dry cleaning to her car, an elderly man walking a shriveled, fuzzy dog, and the kids from the bus, heading for their own houses. On this street, homes were mixed with shops. She usually liked that, because it meant there were lots of people to watch. She liked to stroll home and imagine what people’s lives were like—and their dreams. But today, she only had eyes for the bookshop.

  Ethan hurried to keep up with her. “Do you think it followed us?”

  “Hope not.”

  “That’s not exactly reassuring.”

  She didn’t have anything reassuring to say. Maybe her parents would. The sooner she could reach them, the better. They could talk to Ethan, send him home, and this would be over. She could stop feeling like her stomach was a shaken snow globe.

  He caught up with her, walking fast beside her. “Why do I get the feeling that there’s a lot you’re not telling me?”

  “Because there is.”

  Up ahead was her parents’ bookshop. The lights were on, a warm glow through the windows, and the sign said Open. Mom and Dad would know what to say and what to do. She hoped.

  SOPHIE PUSHED THROUGH THE DOOR TO THE BOOK­SHOP. Overhead, the bell rang cheerfully, as if welcoming her home. She lowered her backpack to the floor and closed the door behind Ethan. She felt as if she was shutting out the world. “We’re safe now.”

  “Are you sure?” Ethan peeked through the bookstore, checking the aisles.

  “Absolutely. Mom and Dad wouldn’t allow anything dangerous here after school. Except Monster. But he’s the friendly kind of dangerous.” Raising her voice, she called, “Mom? Dad? I’m home! I brought . . .” She hesitated over what to call Ethan. A friend? A classmate? “. . . someone,” she finished. She’d never brought anyone home from school before. She hoped they didn’t make too much of a fuss.

  “Are they here?” Ethan asked.

  “Of course,” Sophie said. “It’s business hours.”

  Muffled by the backpack, Monster asked, “Any customers?”

  She peered down each aisle. No customers. And no parents, either. “Nope. All clear. You can come out. But hide yourself, just in case.”

  Monster unzipped the backpack with a tentacle, wiggled out, and then scampered up one of the bookshelves to his usual perch. He blended in with the shadows at the top of the shelves. From here, if anyone bothered to look up, he looked like an ordinary housecat.

  Ethan shrugged off his backpack and left it next to hers, near the checkout desk. His backpack was covered in sports key chains. It made Sophie’s look drab in comparison. “So are you going to explain how you have a pet monster? Also, what was that thing that attacked me? Is it going to come back? What does it want? Where did it come from? Are there more like it? Why aren’t you more freaked out about all of this?”

  “My parents will explain.” She called again, “Mom? Dad? Hello?” It was strange that they weren’t here. One of them should have been in the shop in case someone came in.

  Ethan exhaled heavily, as if breathing out all his additional questions. They waited in awkward silence. She listened, expecting to hear her parents’ footsteps upstairs or the flush of the toilet or the beep of the microwave—something to explain why they weren’t in the shop. Her parents hadn’t even left any music on. Usually they piped in piano or harp music, but the only noise was the whoosh of cars passing on the street outside.

  Eventually, Ethan spoke again. Another question. “Is there bacon on that cupcake?”

  Not the question she’d expected. “It’s our neighbor’s new experiment. Don’t judge.”

  “I wasn’t judging; I was drooling.”

  “You’re really thinking about food right now?”

  He lifted the glass dome to peer at the bacon cupcakes. “You know what I do after a nightmare? Eat a sleeve of Oreos. That’s one reason my parents agreed to let me go out for sports.”

  She hadn’t thought about his parents. “Will they panic if you don’t get off your own bus? You should call them. Let them know where you are.”

  Ethan shrugged. “They’re working. They won’t notice.”

  “Really?” If Sophie failed to come straight home after school, her parents would freak . . . which was part of why it was so weird that they weren’t coming out to greet her, especially since they had to know she’d been worried about Mr. Nightmare.

  “I usually have practice or a game after school. Or I go to a friend’s house. Then I grab whatever’s in the fridge and do homework. I don’t see them much, weekdays.” He peered down the aisles, checking the place out.

  “You don’t eat dinner together?”

  “Dad labels meals in the fridge—Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, you know. Then I just heat it up in the microwave or toaster oven or whatever. Hey, it’s not a big deal. It’s not like I starve. Dad’s a good cook. You don’t have to look like I said my cat died.”

  She didn’t know what expression was on her face, but she felt herself blush. “Sorry. I didn’t mean—”

  “It’s fine.” He cut her off. “So, where are your parents?”

  Monster poked his head over the bookshelf. “Maybe upstairs?”

&nb
sp; They should have come down by now. Maybe they were having a snack, or were reading some really good books and lost track of time. It could happen. Or they could be watching TV and it drowned out the sound of the bell over the shop door, except that they never watched TV, not when there were dreams to view.

  “Come on, there are extra cupcakes in the kitchen. You can leave your backpack here.” Sophie checked the bathroom on the way to the stairs. Empty. She tried the basement door. Locked and not from the inside. She headed up the stairs.

  Bounding up the steps, Monster scooted between her feet. At the top, he halted.

  Sophie was close behind him. Bumping into him, she stopped too and gasped.

  All the books—the towers of books that had been laid out like a labyrinth, the stacks that had crowded the top of the coffee table, the books that blocked the TV and filled the dining room table—had fallen like dominoes. Books were scattered everywhere. Some were spine-down, the pages flopped to the side. Others were crushed against the walls or on the couch. If books could bleed, the room would be red.

  Seeing the mess, Sophie felt as if something were squeezing her heart. Something’s wrong, she thought. Something’s very, very wrong.

  She felt Ethan stop behind her, one step down. “Um, is it supposed to look like this?”

  “What happened?” Sophie asked Monster.

  “Stay here, and be quiet,” Monster instructed. Leaping off the stairs, he hopped over the fallen books, checked each room, and then ran upstairs to the bedrooms on the third floor. Sophie’s heart thumped hard in her chest. Don’t panic, she ordered herself. Everything could still be fine. Just messy.

  “What’s going on—” Ethan began.

  “Shh.” Sophie wanted to run through the house shouting for her parents. Instead, she waited at the top of the stairs. Please be here! she thought. Please be okay! Mom said she didn’t have to worry. Mom wouldn’t lie to her.

  But her parents would never, ever leave books just strewn like this. Pages were bent. Spines were cracked. Covers torn. All her life, Sophie had been taught that books are precious. Each one holds people and worlds. Each one is a piece of someone’s heart and mind that they chose to share. They were shared dreams.

  Monster clattered down the stairs, spilling more books in his rush. He ran across the top of the books to Sophie. “No one upstairs.” His voice was hushed.

  “Downstairs?”

  “I’ll check. You try to call them.” Silently, on the pads of his feet, Monster darted down the stairs. He knew how to unlock the basement door with his tentacles. He’d claimed he learned it from a book on lock picking.

  Passing Ethan, Sophie raced back down to the bookshop and ran for the phone by the cash register. She dialed her father’s number. It rang. And rang. Soon, it switched to voicemail. “Dad, it’s Sophie. Where are you? I’m at the shop. Please come home.” Stay calm, she told herself. They could have ducked out to run an errand. Quick trip to the supermarket or post office . . . Hanging up, she tried her mother’s number.

  A phone rang at her feet.

  She looked down—her mother’s purse was tucked into a shelf. The phone was inside it. Sophie hung up and tried even harder not to panic. Mom never went anywhere without her purse.

  Monster’s voice drifted up from the basement. “Sophie! Down here!”

  Sophie hurried across the bookshop. Her stomach was flip-flopping, and her heart was pattering extra fast. “Monster? Are you okay?” She ran down the stairs, taking two at a time. “Are Mom and Dad there?”

  “No,” Monster said. “But you need to see this. Oh, this isn’t good.”

  Downstairs, the dusty yellow glow of the lights filled the room. Bottles glistened from the shelves. The somnium sat quietly under the stairs. But the distiller—all the glass tubes and levers that used to overflow a table . . . It was gone.

  Sophie gawked at the empty table. Dust outlined where the distiller used to sit. The wood was faded and stained in places that she’d never seen before. “I don’t . . . Where . . . How?” They’d never moved the distiller. There was no reason to move it.

  Monster hopped onto the distiller table and prowled over the empty surface, sniffing at the wood. Droplets of old spilled dreams shimmered in the cracks in the wood.

  First the books, now the distiller. And her parents weren’t here.

  Sophie felt sick. Her heart pounded, her ears roared, and her palms were slick with sweat. The walls seemed closer. The air felt hotter. In short, she felt, for the first time, like all those dreamers must have felt in the middle of a chased-by-something-horrible nightmare.

  Behind her, Ethan said, “Whoa, what is this place?”

  Oh no, she’d forgotten about him, and he’d followed her! “Go back up,” Sophie ordered. “Forget you saw any of this. Please!”

  “Let him stay,” Monster said. “He’s already involved, thanks to the gray giraffe. Besides, we have worse problems.” He paced back and forth on top of the distiller table. His tentacles waved at the shelves. “Look!”

  She looked at the shelves. Several were empty. There had to be two dozen, three dozen . . . maybe fifty missing bottles, all from the same set of shelves. “I don’t understand,” Sophie said. Or more accurately: she didn’t want to understand.

  Ethan raised his hand. “And I seriously don’t understand.”

  Ignoring him, Sophie touched the empty shelves. “Which dreams were these?”

  “Nightmares,” Monster said grimly. “Specifically, monster dreams.”

  “But why . . .” She sucked in air. She felt as if her throat wanted to close. Her eyes felt hot. This was too much. First the gray giraffe, and now her parents . . . “Do you think . . . Something must have happened when they met with Mr. Nightmare.”

  Ethan held out both hands. “Wait. Slow down. Monster dreams? Mr. Nightmare? Sophie, what’s going on?”

  “You need to explain,” Monster said, “before he overreacts.”

  She looked at Ethan, whose eyes were nearly as wide as Monster’s. Trying to sound calm, she said, “You asked how dreamcatchers work. They catch the dreams in their strings.” She pointed to a pile of unfinished dreamcatchers that sat on one of the counters. All they needed were beads and feathers, and they’d be ready for display in the bookstore. “My parents distill the dreams into liquid, with a device that used to sit here.” She next pointed at the empty table. Her hand was shaking. She lowered it before he saw. “And we watch them there, so we can sort them.” She turned to point last at the somnium. “And then we label the bottles and put them on the shelves to be sold.”

  Ethan turned in a slow circle. “Dude, are you serious?”

  “Those bottles have happy dreams.” She waved at one shelf of bottles, then another. “Here, the falling dreams, and next to them, the embarrassment dreams. Over here are the food dreams. There are lots of those, split between happy food dreams and bad food dreams.”

  “Bad food dreams?” Ethan repeated, dazed.

  “You know, pizza with live fish. Peanut butter and ketchup smoothies. Spaghetti that transforms into worms—you’d be surprised how common that one is.” She was amazed at how calm and ordinary her voice sounded, when inside she was shrieking.

  “And you sell these?”

  “My parents do. Food dreams sell really well to buyers on diets—some want happy food dreams so they can eat without eating, and others want bad food dreams so they can train themselves to want less food. It helps people. All our dreams help people.” Sophie took a deep breath. She was not going to panic. Panicking wouldn’t help with anything. She was going to stay calm, think about this rationally, and find answers. “Mr. Nightmare is a buyer. He bought a dream from my parents yesterday but didn’t like their prices, I guess. He left a note in my locker. My parents planned to meet with him today to sort it all out. And now they’re missing—and so is the distiller and the bottled nightmares with monsters in them.”

  And then Sophie burst into tears.

  SOPHIE GU
LPED SOBS—BIG, UGLY GASPS LIKE A fish on shore—while tears poured out of her eyes. She wiped them furiously with the back of her hand. Leaping from the table, Monster wrapped himself around her ankles. She sucked in air, telling herself to stop, stop, stop!

  Ethan patted her back awkwardly. “It’s okay. You’re okay. Everything’s okay.”

  “It’s not okay! Don’t say that!” She got herself under control and yanked away from Ethan. Spinning to face the shelves, she clenched her fists and forced herself to take deep, hiccupping breaths until her eyes and nose quit leaking like a broken faucet.

  “We’ll find them,” Ethan said. “Your parents, I mean.”

  Sophie wiped her face with her sleeve. “How? Where?” She took another deep breath. There. She had control again. She felt as if her face was lobster-red, and wished Ethan hadn’t seen her freak out.

  “I don’t know. But don’t . . . cry, okay?”

  “Okay.”

  He was silent. Tentatively, he asked, “Are you okay?”

  “Fine . . . I just . . . I didn’t expect this.” She waved her hand at the empty distiller table, the shelves, and upstairs. She felt as if she was going to fly apart again, and she scooped up Monster and hugged him tightly. He wrapped all six tentacles around her middle.

  “Yeah, know the feeling.”

  They stood in awkward silence again. Sophie tried to think of a not-terrifying explanation for the missing distiller and dream bottles. Maybe her parents had sold them all. Maybe they were out celebrating their new wealth. Maybe they were buying her a pony.

  “So . . .” Ethan said conversationally, as if she hadn’t just lost it. His voice was falsely cheerful. “I’m supposed to believe each of these bottles is a dream?”

  “Believe whatever you want. It’s true.”

  “But why would anyone buy bad dreams?” Hands clasped behind his back, he examined the shelves with bottles. The liquid swirled inside, sparkling like glitter paint. She didn’t believe for a second that was the question he most wanted to ask. He was just trying to keep her from crying again.