Sleepless

by Cyn Balog

  “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.

  “O
h, 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.

  CHAPTER 14

  Eron

  The next day, I spend my morning on the curb outside Julia’s house, rather than in her tree. I can’t risk turning human there and being caught “peeping” by the neighbors again; this time I am sure they would call the police, and with good reason. Out of the shade, the sun is blinding and hot. I wonder if people who don’t actually exist can get sunburned.

  Late in the morning, at about the same time I became human yesterday, a little girl races by on her scooter and waves at me. That’s it. Showtime.

  I proceed out of Julia’s neighborhood. Turning to the right, I head away from the bus stop, toward the center of town. I hope that is where I will find the school.

  Where I will find Julia.

  I wonder how much time I will have today before I start to fade. If Chimere could see, she would not be pleased, as I’m supposed to use the minimal time I have bouncing between worlds to situate myself in my new life. Not doing this. Not clinging to charges who will no longer be my concern once I make the transition. But despite my being so far from situated in this world that I might as well be residing on the moon, I can’t stop thinking about what Mr. Colburn said. He’ll hurt her.

  Today I see more of the town Julia calls home, and though the buildings are further apart, it’s just as busy as the city of Newark was when I was growing up. I come to a wide, wide street, as vast as the Hudson River I remember. Across it, I see an enormous sprawling brick building. Julia’s school, I presume, since she has dreamt of it once or twice. Though it is only across the street, it might as well be in another land. Standing here, I feel as small and defenseless as an insect. Motorcars are zooming by at breakneck speeds. I step from the curb several times but always scurry back to safety. A horn blares.

  This is madness.

  Finally, the vehicles slow to a stop. A girl in an obscene outfit that shows her middle section takes a quick look right and left and steps out into the street as if she is not taking her life in her hands. I watch to make sure she isn’t killed, then scamper at her heels, her faithful shadow. Heaving a sigh, I step onto the opposite curb. Safe.

  Mr. Colburn mentioned something about how Julia used to lunch on the green with him, outside. He said that they always sat at the last picnic table on the right with an enormous plate of french-fried potatoes and a Coca-Cola. It was “their” place. Now, he said, she would probably be eating alone, reading. I walk along the chain-link fence until I come to the edge of the building. On the other side of the fence, not ten feet from me, is the table he was referring to. But there are four girls sitting there.

  It takes me a moment to realize that one of them is Julia; her hair looks more mussed than usual, though it is down in its normal style, forward over her cheeks and forehead. Her eyes are heavier, her skin paler than I usually see in the darkness, in the confines of her bedroom.

  She seems anxious. Last night, we had quite the struggle getting her to sleep. My student trembled and cursed under his breath once or twice, but he kept at it, silently, steadily. There was something on her mind, but her sleep was dreamless, so it gave us no indication of what the trouble was. Colburn hadn’t told me exactly what in the human world he’d touched, but her anxiety made me certain that it was something of Julia’s, and that she’d noticed it. She is not a stupid girl, after all.

  I stand there, watching for a moment, as they chat and giggle. In the sunlight, Julia glows, unlike I’ve ever seen. I’m used to taking in her delicate form by moonlight, so I had no idea her skin was so luminous, so pale, so fragile. She is the most reserved of all the girls, and it pleases me somewhat to see how uncomfortable she is among the group; it’s just another thing we have in common. When she offers her plate of fries to the table, her voice is nearly drowned out in the breeze.

  She is safe. This should be enough for me. I am but a stranger to her, and I know I shouldn’t stare or else risk looking like a lunatic. But as a Sleepbringer, I had the luxury of gazing at her for as long as I wanted, and perhaps that is why I can’t seem to look away.

  One by one, the girls turn to me. The combination of amusement and shock on their faces is palpable. My first instinct is to run away, but before I can, Julia turns. Her eyes narrow and then widen as she takes me in. I’ve never before felt the weight of her eyes on mine. It’s so dizzying I have to lace my fingers through the fence to steady myself. I wonder if she always has that effect on people.

  I realize I am still wearing my hat—what a boor I am—and quickly remove it. “Good day,” I say, and my voice quavers awfully; how disgraceful. But it has been years since I’ve spoken to any human female, much less four of them. I feel a trickle of sweat slide down my temple; for the first time in a hundred years, I am perspiring.

  One of them, a girl with dark skin and even darker hair, straightens to get a better look at me. “Are you going to get naked?”

  I turn my ear toward her, certain I’m mistaken. “Beg pardon?”

  She shrugs. “Damn. I thought someone had sent us a strip-o-gram. You’re fine.”

  A strip-o-…? I hope they’re not implying what I think they are. Julia is too young and upstanding to dabble in such things; it is a disappointment to discover that she is again choosing to surround herself with individuals who are beneath her. “Yes, I am fine, thank you very much,” I answer. “How do you do?”

  A moment of silence passes before they all break into laughter. I’m doing frightfully we
ll, if my intention was to be a comic act.

  I know I should just say farewell and be on my way, but something about this moment is so thrilling I can’t resist. The opportunity to talk to the girl I’ve guided her entire life, to have her regard me as well. I remember with a stab of pain in my heart those countless decades I spent regretting never asking Gertie to the church social, the many nights I spent knowing I would do things differently, had I only the chance. I realize I’m clutching my hat to my chest so tightly I’m digging holes into the silk with my fingernails. Her name escapes my mouth naturally, since it has been on the tip of my tongue for years. “Julia.”

  They all look at her. Slowly, she rises from the seat, swinging her leg over the bench, and walks to me, timidly, as if being pulled against her will. She stops more than arm’s distance away from the fence. It strikes me at that moment that as a human, I have always made women uneasy. I seem to threaten them just as much as they threaten me.

  She’s wearing a long flowered skirt; it’s delicate and suits her. “Yeah?” she asks in a brusque voice that does not.

  “Hello. My name is Eron DeMarchelle,” I say softly, bowing my head in respect.

  Behind her, one of the girls shouts in a brash tone better suited to a bartender, “Take it all off, baby!”

  Julia turns to them for barely a second and then to me, blushing charmingly. “How do you know my name?”

  I could tell her much more about herself, probably more than even she knows, but that is not my purpose. I smile. “You do not know me, but—”

  Smack. Something, or someone, hits me on the back of the head. I recoil, wincing, and look around, rubbing the soreness on the back of my head. Nothing there. But I know better.

  I clear my throat. “What I wanted to say was—”

  I stop midsentence. I feel a twinge and look down at my hands. I can see the fence and blades of grass on the ground through them, just barely. It’s not quite noticeable yet, but I know what is coming. I must flee before I disappear in front of her.