Sleep No More
Page 29
Only to brush something wet and sticky.
A ragged breath that sounds like a sob wrenches out of my throat and I jerk my hands away and look at the stripe of blood across my fingertips. I force my eyes closed. Surely I’ve seen what I need to see. Now I want out. Out! “Please let me out!” I scream.
Two seconds later, my room hazes into view. I’m soaked with perspiration, though a glance at my clock tells me it didn’t even last a full minute. I hear noises outside my door. Happy noises. For a moment, I can’t figure out how in the world anyone could be cheerful in a world where someone committed the violence I just saw.
Then I remember.
“This hasn’t happened yet,” I whisper. “Smith.” I almost fall off my bed reaching for my cell phone and start to scroll through my contacts.
Wait. I can’t call. Someone—let’s be honest, Sierra—might hear me. I jab at the screen and type a quick text message.
Again. It’s worse. I need your help.
I pause, then add:
Text, don’t call.
I peel my damp T-shirt over my head and pull another one on so I can get out of my room and pretend to be excited about Christmas morning with my family. The sooner it’s over with, the sooner I can connect with Smith and stop this terrible vision from coming true.
During the next hour, I decide I’ve missed my calling as an actress. Neither my mom nor Sierra seems to suspect anything. Even when I pull out my phone to find the simple message:
Where? When? Tell me—I’ll be there.
I just smile and say it’s a friend from choir wishing me a merry Christmas. As quickly as I can, I send back some cross streets and a time I dearly hope I can actually get away with.
As soon as the last present is open—and I’m pretty sure I’ve delivered enough gushing to avoid suspicion—my phone buzzes again, and I look down, expecting another text from Smith.
Did you have fun last night?
I’m totally confused until I realize it’s from Linden. Despite everything, a little bubble of happiness grows in my chest.
I text back:
A blast.
Me too. Any chance your mom will let you come back later today?
Breathing is out the window. I’m glad he texted instead of calling. I would be sounding like a moron right now.
“You okay?” Mom asks, and I nod so hard I probably look like a total spaz.
But I don’t care.
“It’s Linden,” I say. “He wants to know if I can come over later.”
Mom lifts one side of her mouth in an I-told-you-so smile. “He must have enjoyed your company last night.”
“I guess,” I murmur, a little apprehensive now. “Is that okay?”
She glances over at Sierra for advice.
Sierra turns to me and I try to look as innocent as possible. Unfortunately it just occurred to me that if they say yes, I could use this as an opportunity to meet Smith. I force my face to stay neutral as Sierra continues to study me.
“Linden’s parents seem very big on safety, judging by their party last night,” Sierra says, the words sounding like someone’s dragging them out of her. But I could kiss her anyway.
“I’d want you back by dark, for sure,” Mom says, and my heart leaps as I realize she just said yes.
“Of course,” I say calmly, my thumbs itching to text Linden back.
And then to text Smith.
Linden and I have a brief text-versation and agree on noon. But I tell my mom we said eleven. An hour should be long enough for Smith. I think. I’m hardly an expert here.
“Mom, are there any extra cinnamon rolls?” I ask.
“Do we ever not have scads of leftovers?” she replies. “Why?”
I shrug and smile. “I thought maybe I’d bring some to Linden.”
“Oh,” Mom says. “That would be very . . . thoughtful.” She pulls herself up from the floor and gets into her wheelchair to go into the kitchen and prepare a dozen of them herself. “Do you think he’ll want a container of extra frosting?” my mom yells from the kitchen.
“He’s a guy, isn’t he?”
I take a long shower and stare at my closet for a good five minutes, trying to decide what to wear. Nice? Super casual? What does this invitation mean, really?
I have no idea.
After sifting through my entire wardrobe—twice—I settle on my favorite jeans and a pretty shirt I haven’t worn to school in a while. When I check the mirror, I decide I look nice, but the truth is I’m having trouble mustering up enthusiasm.
I’ll feel better after Smith and I have changed things. I’ll get excited again.
In an odd parallel to last night, both my mom and aunt send me off, admonishing me very strictly to go only to Linden’s house, and to drive right up to the door, and for goodness’ sake look around the car before I get out, and lock the doors, and about a million other precautions I’ve been following since I was, like, four.
I get a little exasperated as I keep chanting, “I know, I know, I know,” but I catch a glimpse of the worry Mom’s been trying to hide, and I sober when I realize that some of this morning’s gaiety was false for her too.
Once I’m in the car, I have to head south, even though the spot I asked Smith to meet me is north, because I know both my mom and Sierra will stay on the porch watching me until the car is out of sight.
Three blocks later, I make two quick right turns and head toward the corner where I’m supposed to pick up Smith. It’s funny how he looks exactly the same as the last two times. Same dark jeans, same coat, although he’s wearing a black ski hat today. I feel a little pang of guilt as I pull over and unlock the door for him. It’s clear and crisp today—which is a nice way of saying it’s freezing.
A ragged breath that sounds like a sob wrenches out of my throat and I jerk my hands away and look at the stripe of blood across my fingertips. I force my eyes closed. Surely I’ve seen what I need to see. Now I want out. Out! “Please let me out!” I scream.
Two seconds later, my room hazes into view. I’m soaked with perspiration, though a glance at my clock tells me it didn’t even last a full minute. I hear noises outside my door. Happy noises. For a moment, I can’t figure out how in the world anyone could be cheerful in a world where someone committed the violence I just saw.
Then I remember.
“This hasn’t happened yet,” I whisper. “Smith.” I almost fall off my bed reaching for my cell phone and start to scroll through my contacts.
Wait. I can’t call. Someone—let’s be honest, Sierra—might hear me. I jab at the screen and type a quick text message.
Again. It’s worse. I need your help.
I pause, then add:
Text, don’t call.
I peel my damp T-shirt over my head and pull another one on so I can get out of my room and pretend to be excited about Christmas morning with my family. The sooner it’s over with, the sooner I can connect with Smith and stop this terrible vision from coming true.
During the next hour, I decide I’ve missed my calling as an actress. Neither my mom nor Sierra seems to suspect anything. Even when I pull out my phone to find the simple message:
Where? When? Tell me—I’ll be there.
I just smile and say it’s a friend from choir wishing me a merry Christmas. As quickly as I can, I send back some cross streets and a time I dearly hope I can actually get away with.
As soon as the last present is open—and I’m pretty sure I’ve delivered enough gushing to avoid suspicion—my phone buzzes again, and I look down, expecting another text from Smith.
Did you have fun last night?
I’m totally confused until I realize it’s from Linden. Despite everything, a little bubble of happiness grows in my chest.
I text back:
A blast.
Me too. Any chance your mom will let you come back later today?
Breathing is out the window. I’m glad he texted instead of calling. I would be sounding like a moron right now.
“You okay?” Mom asks, and I nod so hard I probably look like a total spaz.
But I don’t care.
“It’s Linden,” I say. “He wants to know if I can come over later.”
Mom lifts one side of her mouth in an I-told-you-so smile. “He must have enjoyed your company last night.”
“I guess,” I murmur, a little apprehensive now. “Is that okay?”
She glances over at Sierra for advice.
Sierra turns to me and I try to look as innocent as possible. Unfortunately it just occurred to me that if they say yes, I could use this as an opportunity to meet Smith. I force my face to stay neutral as Sierra continues to study me.
“Linden’s parents seem very big on safety, judging by their party last night,” Sierra says, the words sounding like someone’s dragging them out of her. But I could kiss her anyway.
“I’d want you back by dark, for sure,” Mom says, and my heart leaps as I realize she just said yes.
“Of course,” I say calmly, my thumbs itching to text Linden back.
And then to text Smith.
Linden and I have a brief text-versation and agree on noon. But I tell my mom we said eleven. An hour should be long enough for Smith. I think. I’m hardly an expert here.
“Mom, are there any extra cinnamon rolls?” I ask.
“Do we ever not have scads of leftovers?” she replies. “Why?”
I shrug and smile. “I thought maybe I’d bring some to Linden.”
“Oh,” Mom says. “That would be very . . . thoughtful.” She pulls herself up from the floor and gets into her wheelchair to go into the kitchen and prepare a dozen of them herself. “Do you think he’ll want a container of extra frosting?” my mom yells from the kitchen.
“He’s a guy, isn’t he?”
I take a long shower and stare at my closet for a good five minutes, trying to decide what to wear. Nice? Super casual? What does this invitation mean, really?
I have no idea.
After sifting through my entire wardrobe—twice—I settle on my favorite jeans and a pretty shirt I haven’t worn to school in a while. When I check the mirror, I decide I look nice, but the truth is I’m having trouble mustering up enthusiasm.
I’ll feel better after Smith and I have changed things. I’ll get excited again.
In an odd parallel to last night, both my mom and aunt send me off, admonishing me very strictly to go only to Linden’s house, and to drive right up to the door, and for goodness’ sake look around the car before I get out, and lock the doors, and about a million other precautions I’ve been following since I was, like, four.
I get a little exasperated as I keep chanting, “I know, I know, I know,” but I catch a glimpse of the worry Mom’s been trying to hide, and I sober when I realize that some of this morning’s gaiety was false for her too.
Once I’m in the car, I have to head south, even though the spot I asked Smith to meet me is north, because I know both my mom and Sierra will stay on the porch watching me until the car is out of sight.
Three blocks later, I make two quick right turns and head toward the corner where I’m supposed to pick up Smith. It’s funny how he looks exactly the same as the last two times. Same dark jeans, same coat, although he’s wearing a black ski hat today. I feel a little pang of guilt as I pull over and unlock the door for him. It’s clear and crisp today—which is a nice way of saying it’s freezing.
