by Cyn Balog
That’s not to say it isn’t ever the human’s fault. Sometimes I will stay at the bedside of one of my charges all night, and there will be nothing I can do. Humans worry. When I was a human, I barely ever slept after I met Gertie. Gertie could sing “Ave Maria”—or was it some other song?—like an angel. Chimere has always said that seducing me to sleep was her greatest challenge. I’d toss and turn and think of exactly what I would say when I finally did have the guts to approach Gertie. It ranged from direct (“You are so beautiful”) to subtle (“You dropped your glove”), with a thousand other iterations in between. One time, I found her alone in the coat room after church, and all I could muster was a subhuman grunt. Chimere used to tease me, saying I was the only charge she’d ever had who would get tongue-tied around women even in his dreams.
I’ve always taken great pride in my work with the seduction, because Chimere will tell you I possess a particular skill with it … however, my talents will likely get me nowhere as a human. Maybe I’m a much more adept Sandman than man. Still, I’m committed to not letting fear—or my inability to string two words together—stand in the way, not again.
Sleepbringers do not have homes, for we do not sleep, or eat, or enjoy time with our families, or do any of the other things that humans do in their houses. I spend a good portion of the daylight hours sitting in the trees outside the homes of my charges, alone, which leaves much time for thinking. That is all I can do, because straying too far from my charges is forbidden. After all, you never know when one of them might desire a catnap. Not that I mind; it is quite relaxing and I enjoy the solitude. At least alone I won’t stumble over my words like a fool. My other two charges live by themselves, within a few blocks of Julia, and they never vacation or travel, so I am never able to explore fully how the world has changed since I left it. And because the Sleepbringers charged with lulling Julia’s parents to sleep are solitary types themselves, I’m always by myself, save for a daily visit from Chimere. I know that things in the world have changed. The women I watch over wear tighter, almost obscene attire; their surroundings are far more opulent; they speak on telephones without cords and say things in odd ways…. And I thought they were a mystery before! I know that becoming part of this world will take some adjustment, but I’m hopeful that I’ve learned a thing or two from these hundred years.
Namely, not to hesitate to act.
It’s usually pleasant sitting here, listening to the birds chatter and taking in the sun. But today I have far too much on my mind. I’m thinking about Julia’s beloved, about the training.
At twilight, I’m checking my pocket watch when Chimere appears, right on schedule. She greets me with the customary “Hello, my pet.” With her is a tall, brutish young man with straggly golden red hair that nearly covers his eyes. It’s quite a mess, which makes me wonder if that is indeed the style these days. His unkempt hairstyle is in direct contradiction to his formal wear, a crisp black tuxedo. We Sleepbringers always dress in formal attire, though my top hat, overcoat, and pinstriped trousers are likely no longer in vogue. He, however, does not appear to be very comfortable in his stiff new suit; he’s pulling on the collar and grimacing. His face is red. I think he is having a difficult time breathing. I can’t help smiling; I felt the same way when they put me in my attire. It took years to grow accustomed to it. We never wore such finery at the textile mill, or anywhere else, for that matter.
Chimere smiles and instructs him to sit on a branch opposite me. When he does, the branch bows under his weight. We’re probably the same height but he likely has fifty pounds on me. “This is Griffin Colburn, your replacement,” she says to me. “Griffin, please meet Eron, who will be your instructor.”
“How do you do?” I say, extending my hand. He grabs hold of it, crushing it between both of his, and gives it a shake that very nearly makes the whole tree vibrate.
“What’s up?” he says, his tone brusque.
Chimere giggles. “I’m sure you two will get along splendidly. This is Eron’s first time as a teacher but he is excellent at what he does.”
I smile at her, basking in the compliment, only to notice that my replacement doesn’t seem to be listening; he’s focusing on his wrist, fiddling with his cuff link. He appears confused by it.
I try to envision this fellow holding Julia’s hand, or simply standing beside her, but after a moment, I realize it’s not possible. A few additional moments of silence pass, wherein Chimere and I study our newest recruit and then exchange a raised eyebrow or two. Finally, he gives up on his sleeve and nods, looking bored. “Cool.”
Chimere clasps her hands together. “Well, then. I’ll leave you to it.” She gives Mr. Colburn a motherly pat on the arm. “Good luck. Please let me know if you need anything.”
Approximately thirty seconds after Chimere disappears into the dusk, the uncomfortable silence ensues.
Luckily, he breaks it, by saying something to which I don’t know how to respond. “Wow,” he breathes. “Chimere is hot. Are all the girls here like that?”
He mispronounces her name, calls her something closer to “Chimney.” I spend a few moments thinking about how to phrase my response. “She is not a girl.”
“Well, I know. Whatever she is, she’s smokin’. Are they all like that?”
Cool? Hot? Smoking? What are all these references to temperature? Baffled, I venture that he is stunned by Chimere’s beauty, like I was when I first met her. “I don’t know; I’ve never considered any others of our kind. This work is quite solitary.”
He cocks his head. “For real?”
I nod and motion toward the window. It’s dark. Julia has not yet returned home. “Chimere”—I pronounce her name carefully, Chi-meer, so that he’ll get it right—“told me that you are Julia’s beloved, yes?”
His eyes widen and then he dissolves into laughter.
Ah, perhaps it was all a misunderstanding. It didn’t seem possible. I relax. “You are not?”
He runs his beefy hands through his hair and shakes his head. “You people are, like, totally unreal. The way you talk. It’s just … priceless.”
There’s heat under my collar; this conversation is already proving tiresome. “How do you mean?”
“You sound like one of those old movies. Or my great-grandfather.” He stops laughing when he sees the confusion on my face. “Sorry. It’s been a really crazy few days.”
I nod. I vaguely remember my first days as a Sandman, when everything was new. Things were odd, I suppose. Truthfully, though, I fit into this world rather easily—almost too easily. Chimere said I was a natural. Perhaps it was because I didn’t fit so perfectly into the human world. I’ve always spoken and acted differently than humans, even when I was one.
“So yes,” he finally answers, a hint of sarcasm in his voice. “I am Julia’s ‘beloved.’”
“Oh,” I say, perhaps a bit more dejectedly than I’d planned. I motion to Julia’s home. “So this must be familiar to you.”
He shrugs. “The house, not the room. I’ve been to the house a couple of times.” He moves closer to the window and strains to peer inside. “Julia wasn’t the most … physical of girls, if you know what I mean.”
I nod knowingly. Julia always seemed like a girl of great virtue.
He squints. “What year did you go toes up, again?”
“Nineteen ten,” I answer.
“Holy mother, are you old. Back then girls got it on a lot earlier, didn’t they? Wasn’t the average life expectancy, like, thirty?”
I shake my head. He’s making fun of me. I decide to change the subject. “Perhaps we should begin the training now. I have a lot to teach you.”
“Okay, yeah. When do I get to do Julia?”
The words stick on my tongue like glue. “Do Julia?”
He leans forward, excited. “Yeah. Like, whatever. Seduce her.” He makes an odd gesture with both hands, as if he’s squeezing produce.
“Not tonight. I think it’s best I teach you some fundame
ntal rules before we get into that. You’ll need practice before you actually carry out the seduction.”
He blows a tuft of hair out of his eyes. “I know the rules. Chimere told me the basics. I want to get on with the show.”
I draw in a breath and let it out slowly, then calmly say, “Mr. Colburn, I am sure that Chimere told you that if you’re not fully capable of assuming my position, I will not be able to leave mine once my hundred years have expired. That means you have to be fully versed in everything we do, even if it requires hearing the same thing more than once. The curriculum has been established over the course of thousands of years and it’s not my place to change it. I am sure you understand.”
His mouth becomes a straight line and he crosses his arms in front of his chest. He doesn’t understand, but at least he doesn’t object.
“All right,” I begin, “the most important rules to know are these. One: You are only in the humans’ world to soothe them to sleep. You can offer certain protections, which I will explain in time, but they are limited. You must never put your own needs or desires ahead of those of your charges. Once they are resting comfortably, you must exit their locale. Is that clear?”
It appears his eyes have glazed over, but before I can wave a hand in front of his face, he nods. “Chimere told me this already,” he mutters. “But fine, I get it. Just following the curriculum. It’s your breath, not mine.”
“It bears repeating,” I return.
He nods. “Get them to sleep, and get out. Got it. Next?”
The days of training this boy seem to stretch out before me like a long, winding path. Perhaps this is the type of young man whom a young woman of today would be eager to call her beloved, but I can’t imagine that dear, sweet Julia would lose her heart to him. If so, I am lost.
“Did Chimere teach you how to enter their bedrooms?” I ask.
He shakes his head. “No. How?”
I’m relieved when he leans forward, finally appearing interested in what I have to say. “You are completely invisible to humans. You are also able to pass quietly into their rooms without having to open windows, move furniture … All you must do is simply think you want to go through something, and you will.”
“So we’re like … ghosts?” he asks, turning toward Julia’s window. The moonlight faithfully reflects our images. I look insignificant and mouselike next to his broad frame. “Phantasmic.”
“Not at all. We don’t haunt people. We help them,” I say. I wonder if I will need to repeat everything more than twice. “And then we take our leave.”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah. I told you, I get it, I get it. But you never just … I dunno. Peek in their underwear drawers?”
I give him a severe glance. “Surely not. You’re not to disrupt their habitat in the least.”
He laughs. “Okay, okay. I was kidding. What else?”
I take a breath. The next rule, I know, is going to be the hardest one for someone like this boy to comprehend. I can already tell that he is the type who isn’t used to walking into a room unnoticed. This is a dangerous quality for a Sandman to possess, and though they all eventually learn their purpose, it’s never without its struggles.
“The next rule is: You are not alive anymore. You are not one of them. The sooner you realize that, the easier this is going to be.”
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, ma
ybe 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.”
