Sleepless (22 page)

“What are you doing here?” I ask him.

“I came for you.”

“That’s sweet. But in case you didn’t notice, I’m kind of busy. I’m …” I pause, look around. Everything but Griffin’s body is enveloped in white smoke. The same smoke must be clouding my brain, because I can’t recall what I was doing before I noticed him. “I can’t remember what I’m doing, but it’s important.”

He’s wearing the tuxedo he wore for prom. The one he’s been wearing in every dream I’ve had of him lately. It still looks uncomfortable and stiff on him, even when he leans back and crosses his arms behind his head. “Talk to me, okay?”

I sigh. “All right.” I step
next to him. He clears a space in the smoke and I sit beside him. “About what?”

“Things.” He scratches his chin, thinking hard, which reminds me: we never talked before. Not really. We just traded jabs, like in a never-ending boxing match. That’s probably why he pulls out the most generic, impersonal question you can ask someone: “How have you been?”

“I’m fine,” I answer, wondering why Griffin is so not Griffin. And why does it feel like I haven’t spoken to him in weeks? Suddenly, I remember. “Are you still dead?”

“Sort of. I’m a Sandman,” he tells me. “I put people to sleep. It’s cool.”

“Oh?” I seem to remember hearing someone tell me about Sandmen before. I can’t remember who it was. Someone else …

“Yeah. I sort of … miss you, Jules. I want you to be with me.”

He’s raising his eyebrows, pleading, sincere. This is all too
Twilight Zone
for me. Since when has Griffin Colburn been sincere? When has he ever pleaded with me for anything? Stooped to say he missed me? All I can manage is “Oh.”

“Don’t you miss me? Don’t you love me?”

Okay, where is the
real
Griffin Colburn? He’s never asked me a question like that; he never needed to. “Sure … yeah.”

“Then come with me.” He wraps his hand around mine. It’s cool, smoother than I remember, as if all the imperfections have been washed away. Or maybe I don’t remember his hand very well, because we rarely held hands, rarely touched in any intimate way, unless he was trying to round the bases.

He looks me in the eye, really looks at me. And it’s listening to him say such sweet things, feeling his soft touch, that
makes me yearn for more. This is everything we were missing. This is what I always wanted. This will make things perfect. I mouth,
Yes
.

“Julia, don’t!”

I turn my head to the voice. It’s familiar, but far away. In the distance, I see him.

Eron.

Suddenly, I remember. Something pounds at my temples. Fear. I was afraid of Griffin. I turn to him. His face is more desperate, and his hands feel colder and damp in mine. He is trying to keep his eyes focused on mine, but something new is appearing there. Rage.

I stand, back away, despite his trying to lace his fingers with mine. I snatch them away. “What are you doing?”

“Wake up, Julia!”

Griffin stands and takes a step toward me. “Don’t listen—”

“Wake up!”

I pull myself into consciousness, shuddering as I pry open my eyes and see my hands wrapped around a steering wheel. Steering wheel? A heavy body pushes me against the door; it’s the instructor, sleeping, his cheek pressed against my shoulder. We were both sleeping … and driving? Beyond the steering wheel are the blacktop, sparkling and blurred in the sunlight, and a line of trees, which we’re quickly rushing up to meet. And before that … a figure of a man. He’s too blurry to recognize, but he’s all in black, melting into the pavement. His hands are outstretched, mouth curved in an O.

And I’m heading right for him. I stomp on the brake, too late. I hit with a dull thud. Bits of glass, like snowflakes, scatter over
me, piercing my skin. I taste blood. The car begins to fishtail. Everything goes white, then black.

Someone is screaming. Another familiar voice. Mine.

The car shrieks to a halt. My fingers are doughy and numb as I reach for the door handle, but I pull it open and scramble to stand. In the distance, people are yelling, emerging from the DMV building as if it were on fire. The path where the car was is clear except for two tire marks burned on the ground. Speckles of glass are everywhere, crunching underfoot. Maybe I imagined it. Maybe it was all some horrible dream.

Then I see the body, motionless, on the other side of the car. His head is tilted to the sky, almost as if he’s sunbathing, but his body is twisted to the side unnaturally.

I rush to him. The first things I see are blood and a huge gash in his forehead. “Eron?” I ask softly, placing a hand gently on his shoulder. Even the slant of his shoulder seems unnatural, as if all the parts of his body are broken. He doesn’t move, doesn’t answer.

What have I done?

CHAPTER 32
Eron

I
t’s as if the car passes right through me. There is no pain.

Colburn has broken the rules, and I’m a Sandman again. Colburn is laughing in the distance. I rush up to him and grab him by the shoulders so that he collapses, and for a moment, I hold him by his tuxedo jacket, pinning him to the ground. I am no match for his brawn, but I manage to grind him hard into the pavement. He moans in pain. He quickly rolls me over, and he brings a heavy fallen branch to my neck. He pushes against my throat, hard.

“Mr. Colburn!” a voice calls. Chimere’s. “I’ve had enough of this.”

She rushes to us, and the next thing I know, he is straightening, stumbling toward her. He falls into her arms. Beyond them, I see Julia scrambling over to my body. My human body.

Am I …?

“She belongs with me, she belongs with me,” Colburn is muttering.

“Let her go,” Chimere whispers to him. I am entranced by the girl bending over my body. Julia leans in, very gently
touching me. I haven’t been injured so badly since that day in the textile mill when I lost my arm and my life. Julia wipes the blood from my eye with her long, delicate fingers. She’s rocking back and forth slightly. And doing something I haven’t seen her do in many years.

Crying.

I walk toward her, stand over her small crumpled body. I want badly to touch her and tell her it’s all right, I’m fine. But am I?

I turn to Chimere. “What am I doing there?” I ask, confused. My human body is there, yet I’m still a Sandman. How can I be in two places at once?

She sniffs. “You were human again, my pet. Completely. For the briefest time.”

“And now?”

She turns to Griffin. “Now it is up to Mr. Colburn to assume your place. If he cannot …”

“Let me go to her,” I say to Griffin, my voice insistent.

“I … can’t,” Colburn says burying his head in his arms.

“We can.” Chimere leans into him, and I can just make out her words. “I will let Eron go, if you let go of Julia.”

He raises his chin and studies her. Finally, he nods almost imperceptibly.

“Promise?” Chimere grins at him and wraps her arm tightly around him.

“Yeah. I promise,” he says.

She wraps her other arm around him and pulls his head to her heart. Holding him, she smiles at me, not unkindly, and motions me toward Julia. Then she leans into his ear and says, “Don’t be troubled, my pet.”

CHAPTER 33
Julia

I
lug the last of my suitcases out to the trunk of the RAV4 and nearly collapse in exhaustion on the back bumper.

“I do wish you’d let me help you.”

I laugh. “Sure. Whatever.”

Eron is leaning against the garage door, arms crossed, glaring down at his crutches, which he’s thrown aside for the hundredth time today. “Those dreaded things. I am not an invalid.”

“Right,” I say.

He pulls himself up from leaning and attempts to walk toward me but ends up hopping. The cast on his lower leg is big. I pick up the crutches and hand them to him. Finally, he relents and puts one under each arm. “Dreaded things,” he mutters.

I suppose we’re both limited in our modes of travel. Eron can barely walk, and I failed my driver’s test. Obviously. Though my
mother wasn’t happy with my performance that day, she is glad I won’t be driving around the streets of New York City. And she thinks there are worse boyfriends to have than a guy who’s so polite he makes Miss Manners weep with joy. And even though he has a penchant for showing up in my bedroom late at night, he likes her gazpacho, so in her eyes, it balances out.

“I’ll see you in a week,” I tell him, smiling under the weight of his gaze. I can’t not smile when looking at him, can’t not feel warm and shivery at the same time.

He nods.

“And I’ll call you when I get settled in.”

“All right.”

“And before I go to bed, okay?”

“Yes.”

“And in the morning.”

He laughs at me. “That would be lovely.”

I bite my lip. “I hope the bed isn’t lumpy. You know how I like my sleep.”

“I do, all too well,” he says. He reaches over, cups my face in his hands, and kisses me long and slow on the lips. My toes curl. “I wish you sweet dreams.”

I smile.
That’s what you are. My sweetest dream, come true
.

CYN BALOG
had a massive case of insomnia while writing
Sleepless
. She lives in Pennsylvania with her husband and daughters. Visit her online at
www.cynbalog.com
.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Copyright © 2010 by Cyn Balog

All rights reserved. Published in the United States by Delacorte Press, an imprint of Random House Children’s Books, a division of Random House, Inc., New York.

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eISBN: 978-0-375-89493-0

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