The Girl Who Could Not Dream

by Sarah Beth Durst

  “Besides, if you fail,” Mom continued, as if he hadn’t spoken, “you know we’ll skin you and use you as a new blanket.”

  “Ouch,” Monster said.

  “She’s kidding,” Sophie said quickly.

  Monster looked at Sophie with wide, serious eyes, no trace of melodrama. “No, she isn’t. Or if she is, she shouldn’t be. I will not fail you, Sophie. I will guard you with every hair of my furry body.”

  Sophie hugged him. “I know you will. But I can’t believe you didn’t tell me you’d followed me to school before.”

  “I’d do anything to keep you safe.” He wrapped his tentacles around her, and she couldn’t be mad at him. “You’re my Sophie.”

  “Before, he sneaked into the school after you arrived, but I think tomorrow he should go in your backpack,” Dad said. “Once you’re in school, he’ll hide.”

  “I’m stealthy,” Monster promised. “Like an opossum.”

  She wasn’t sure if opossums were all that stealthy. Before she could object again, Dad said, “It’s true. You won’t even know he’s there.”

  Mom nodded. “Just go about your normal day, and when you come home, we’ll have dinner together and laugh about how silly we all were to worry.”

  Sophie looked from her mother to her father and back again. She saw fear in their eyes—fear they were trying very hard to hide. “I don’t have a choice about this?”

  “You could go to Aunt Abril’s farm,” Dad suggested. “Befriend a brood of chickens.”

  She deflated into her seat. There were a million ways this could go wrong. But she knew when she’d lost. At least since Monster had apparently been at her school before, she could hope it wouldn’t be a disaster. “Fine. Monster comes to school.”

  Reaching up with one tentacle, Monster patted her on her cheek. “Don’t worry, Sophie. Everything will be fine. Just please . . . pack extra snacks.”

  MONSTER DIDN’T FIT IN HER BACKPACK. Squeezing his rump into the bottom, he tried to curl all six tentacles around him. Sophie knelt beside him in the middle of the kitchen and shoved in tentacles. Every time she pushed one in, another popped out. “Can you put them under you?”

  His fur ruffled as he shifted. He pulled in a tentacle, and another unfurled and flung her juice box against the kitchen wall. The box smacked into a cabinet and burst. “Oops.” He popped his head out of the backpack. His wide eyes looked innocent and guilty at the same time.

  Sighing, Sophie fetched a wad of paper towels and sopped up the mess. “For the record, I don’t care if you’ve done this a dozen times before; I think it’s a terrible idea.”

  He widened his lemur-like eyes even further. “Don’t you trust me?”

  “You just annihilated my apple juice.”

  “It was an accident.”

  “I don’t want any accidents at school.” Pausing, she studied him. His eyes seemed extra bright, and his back crinkled as if he were purring. “You’re excited about this, aren’t you?” she said accusingly.

  He smiled, and his many teeth gleamed. “Oh, yes. Fun, fun, fun! Sneaking in on my own is okay, but this time, we’re sharing the adventure!”

  Sophie got herself a new juice box, and then, surveying all his tentacles, decided she didn’t need it today. Or her lunch. Or her library books, music books, or history textbook. After Sophie removed those books, Monster tried again. This time, he fit all but one tentacle. She thought of how, when she was little, she had dressed Monster in doll clothes and tried to convince her parents to let them take him to the playground. “How about we put a dress on you and tell everyone you’re a very furry kindergartner and not to make fun of your appearance?” Sophie suggested.

  “Not funny.”

  “It’s the perfect plan.”

  Monster narrowed his eyes to slits and humphed. Squeezing in, he wiggled more. “Your pencils are jabbing me.” Coming out again, he waited while she combed through her backpack and extracted the rest of her textbooks, all but one pencil, and a protractor. She left them on the kitchen table while Monster curled himself fully inside the backpack, along with her homework. She zipped it shut.

  He unzipped it.

  “Someone will see you.” She zipped it shut again.

  He unzipped it an inch. “I need a view.”

  “You don’t need a view. It’s a school bus. Only thing there is to see is old gum and unidentifiable sticky stuff on the floor.” She waved her hands at the floor.

  “What’s sticky on the floor?” Mom asked as she walked into the kitchen. She halted next to the sink. “Oh, Sophie, is that apple juice on the cabinets?”

  “He didn’t fit.” Sophie pointed at him.

  Monster waved a tentacle from the backpack and then pulled it in.

  Kneeling, Mom did a more thorough job of mopping up the spilled juice. It had dripped down the face of the cabinets. She tossed the paper towels away and, hands on her hips, examined the books and pencils that Sophie had discarded. She didn’t criticize, though. “Did you pack extra snacks?”

  Muffled, Monster demanded, “Extra snacks!”

  Unzipping the backpack, Mom dropped in a cupcake from the stash of day-olds on top of the refrigerator. It landed directly in Monster’s mouth, and he inhaled it. “That was for later,” Mom said.

  “This is later. Breakfast was an hour ago.” Crumbs sprayed out of the backpack as he spoke. It looked as if the backpack itself were eating the cupcake. “Mmm, bacon.”

  “He’s getting crumbs in my backpack,” Sophie complained.

  “He’ll keep you safe,” Mom said. “He’s more responsible than he seems. He truly does have your best interests at heart.”

  “I know that, but he’s still a monster.” To Monster, she said, “No offense meant.”

  “None taken,” he said, spitting more crumbs.

  Mom zipped the backpack and patted it. “Just let him out in the bathroom when no one’s around and try not to think about him during the day.”

  “Right,” Sophie said. “Pass my math test. Ignore the six-tentacled monster. Got it.”

  Mom kissed her forehead. “Now hurry, or you’ll miss your bus.”

  Scooping up the backpack with Monster in it, Sophie sprinted down the stairs. Dad was at the cash register. She waved to him.

  “Love you, Pumpkin!” he called.

  “Love you, Zucchini!” she called back.

  Coming down the stairs, Mom waved. “Love you, Squash!”

  From the backpack, Monster added, “Love you, Tomato! Love you, Carrot!” She thumped the backpack, and he quieted. The bells tinkled as she opened the front door and headed out. Monster bounced on her back. As she reached the end of the walkway, she glanced over her shoulder and saw her parents together, framed by the door of the bookshop. Side by side, arms around each other’s waist, they looked like a photograph.

  Sophie had the sudden, terrible, and irrational thought that she wasn’t going to see them again. She wanted to run back inside and never leave. But the yellow bus was already rounding the corner onto their street, and all the other kids were at the bus stop. She jogged toward the corner of the street.

  On the sidewalk, two girls were playing cat’s cradle with a loop of string, and three boys were pretending to push one another off the curb. Flailing their arms, they fake-screamed as if they were plummeting from a cliff. One of their overprotective mothers hovered near them. She had a tight grip on the toddler brother of one of the three boys—Sophie had never bothered to figure out which one. The toddler had a stream of snot plastered to his cheek. He wiped it away with his sleeve, leaving a streak of slime, as if a slug had crawled up his arm. Sophie was glad to be the last one to the bus stop.

  The mother beamed at Sophie. “Good morning, Sophie! Looks like a great day today!” She always tried to involve Sophie in conversation, as if talking about the weather with a parent would magically ease Sophie into playing with the other kids.

  Other kids always seemed to play with one another so easily. See a
kid; play. But not Sophie. Walking up to another kid felt like walking up to a stray dog. She worried they’d slobber on her. Or bite her. Or discover her secrets, tell the world, and draw the attention of the Night Watchmen . . .

  The toddler clung to his mother’s hand. “Mom, Mom, Mom, Mom, can we go to Chuck E. Cheese’s? Please, pretty please, with sugar on top! Can we? I promise I’ll be good.”

  The mother sighed. “Remember last time?”

  “Yeah, but I was little then.”

  “It was last week.”

  The bus turned on its blinkers as it stopped. All traffic ground to a halt behind it. The other kids jostled to line up, and the three boys continued to shove one another. One of them pushed extra hard and bumped into Sophie.

  From the backpack, Monster yelped.

  “Mom, Mom, Mom, there’s something in her backpack!” the toddler cried.

  “Of course there is,” the mother said, pulling the toddler back from the curb. “She’s going to school.”

  Hurrying, Sophie piled onto the bus with the others. Heading for the empty middle of the bus, she found a seat to herself and hefted the backpack with Monster onto her lap. She leaned her head against the window and hoped no one sat with her.

  Monster poked at her from within the backpack. “I want a view,” he whispered through the nylon.

  “No,” she whispered back.

  He was silent for a moment. Then: “I’ll eat your homework.”

  “No.”

  “Your book report looks tasty. Just needs ketchup.”

  “No.”

  “Munch, munch . . .”

  Sophie unzipped the backpack one inch so that Monster could press his eyeball against the window. With all the streaks of dirt on the window, she didn’t think anyone outside could see the odd eye looking out of her backpack.

  “Ah, lovely,” Monster said as they passed a post office. It had a flag by the front door and a golden eagle on its peak. “Tell me what that building is.”

  “We can’t have a conversation.”

  “I’m being quiet.”

  “Yeah, but I’m sitting alone. This looks weird.”

  “Then don’t talk. I’ll do a monologue.” He shifted within the backpack. “‘But soft, what light through yonder window breaks—’”

  “Shh.” Sophie zipped the backpack closed.

  He poked a tentacle tip through and wiggled the zipper open an inch.

  Madison leaned over the seat behind her. “Hey, talking to yourself again?” She was chewing gum, smacking her teeth together. Her nails were painted sparkly pink, and she was wearing a T-shirt with a picture of a pooping unicorn.

  “Yes. Just talking to myself.” She zipped the backpack shut, and this time Monster didn’t try to open it. He lay still inside, as inert as textbooks.

  “Okay then,” Madison said. “So long as you aren’t talking to me.”

  “You’re the one who started this conversation,” Sophie said, and then wished she hadn’t said anything. She did not want to draw attention to herself by arguing with Madison. She didn’t know why Madison didn’t just leave her alone. If she wanted to pretend that she and Sophie had no connection, simply ignoring her would work. The bus around them grew quiet.

  “I don’t talk to crazy people,” Madison announced.

  “Then you talking to me proves I’m not crazy.”

  “I’m telling you not to talk to me because you are crazy.”

  From the backpack, Monster murmured, “She’s not very bright, is she?”

  Madison’s eyes narrowed. “What was that, Crazy Sophie?”

  “What was what?” Sophie tried to mimic Monster’s innocent look. “I didn’t say anything. Are you hearing voices? Bad sign if you’re hearing voices.”

  Other kids snickered—this time at Madison, not at Sophie. Before Madison could pick a new insult, the bus wheels squealed, and they turned into the school parking lot. Sophie bolted off the bus.

  All the kids poured into the school, squeezing together in the doorway and then breaking apart on the other side. Monster chirped as kids pushed and jostled. As soon as she could, Sophie ducked into the girls’ bathroom.

  In a stall, she unzipped the backpack. Monster flopped his tentacles out and then immediately recoiled. “Ew, bathroom floor.”

  “We’ll meet here after school, okay?”

  Monster nodded. Before Sophie could warn him again to be careful, he hooked one tentacle up on top of the stall and used another to pop open one of the ceiling tiles. He climbed into the ceiling and replaced the tile.

  “Clever,” Sophie said.

  “Yes, I am.” Monster’s voice drifted down. “Have fun at school.”

  Her backpack much lighter, Sophie left the bathroom. She crashed into three people on her way to her locker because she couldn’t stop looking at the ceiling.

  Sophie stared at her locker door and imagined all the things that could be inside: another card with a picture of a cat; an actual cat; a dead cat; spiders; snakes. Her hand was shaking as she twisted the dial on her combination lock. It snapped open. She took a deep breath before she opened the door.

  Nothing jumped out.

  She peered in and didn’t see anything unusual. She exhaled, took out her notebooks, and shut it again. Maybe Mr. Nightmare was done with her. He’d gotten her parents’ attention. They would give him what he wanted, and he’d go away.

  Hurrying to class, Sophie slunk into her seat and tried not to make eye contact with anyone. Don’t look up, she told herself. Just act normal.

  As the teacher started class, Sophie listened for the sound of paws on the ceiling tile. She’d never been so distracted in her life. She was glad she hadn’t known Monster was here the other times. Every time someone’s chair squeaked, she jumped. Every time the wind blew the branches on the tree outside, she snapped her head to look. When a shadow passed overhead, she looked up—and saw the shape of Monster as he crossed above one of the fluorescent lights.

  She spent the rest of the class worrying that he was going to fall through the ceiling, and then she spent the next few classes watching the ceiling while trying to simultaneously not watch the ceiling. But he didn’t fall. And before she knew it, it was lunchtime.

  She joined the stream of students pouring into the cafeteria.

  Sophie hated the cafeteria. For one thing, it was orange—and not a nice shade of orange but the kind of orange that looked as if a pumpkin had gotten sick on all the walls. For another, it smelled like old eggs mixed with peanut butter. She did like that the cooks tried to make the food look interesting by doing things like carving chicken patties into cute shapes or spelling out words with limp carrots, but that wasn’t enough to compensate for the stench or the noise. Today, the display read Have a smiley day! in slightly slimy asparagus.

  She selected a tray and got in line. The line in front of her grew longer as everyone cut, but she didn’t care. She wasn’t trying to sit at a particular table with a particular group. In fact, she preferred to sit with no one.

  Everyone else seemed to have a group, though there wasn’t a popular kids group, or a nerd group, or jock group, like in a sitcom or cheesy teen movie. There were kids who sat together who knew each other through sports, band, ballet, or some kind of other after-school thing that Sophie didn’t do. There were other kids who were in all the same classes together—all the honors students clumped together, and so did the kids in the remedial classes—but that was because they spent all day together and could complain about the same teachers. Of course, there was tension between a few groups. Some kids were mean to other kids, but it wasn’t always easy to spot the bullies versus the bullied. Sometimes the bullies were bullied. When Sophie looked out over the cafeteria, she was sure of only one thing: she wasn’t like any of them. It was better if she sat alone.

  “Hey, can I cut?” a boy’s voice asked.

  Ethan stood beside her, holding an empty tray. She glanced behind her to see who he was talking to and then
realized he was talking to her. “Uh, sure?”

  He hopped into line.

  “Hey, no cutting!” someone called, despite the dozen people who had already cut in front of other people. Ethan waved at the complainer, and the boy said, “Oh. Ethan! Cool, man. Nice three-pointer.” He gave Ethan a thumbs-up.

  “I didn’t know basketball points came with line-cutting privileges,” Sophie said.

  He shrugged. “It’s a perk.” He said it with such casual ease that Sophie could only stare at him for several seconds. She could never talk to people like that, words just rolling out of the mouth without any effort.

  Reaching the front, Ethan took an apple from a pyramid of fruit. Sophie eyed a container of yogurt in a sea of half-melted ice. The cafeteria never had any normal flavors like strawberry or blueberry. It was always peach-pineapple or whipped lemon or rhubarb soufflé. She picked out one with mango—and saw a shadow swipe across the stack of chocolate milk by the cashier.

  As she stared at the chocolate milk, Ethan nudged her. In a soft voice, he said, “Hey, I wanted to thank you. That dream thing helped. I still had a nightmare, but it was . . . I don’t know, more distant. Can’t remember it as well. For the first time in weeks, I woke up to an alarm.”

  “Glad to hear it.” There! Another shadow. And a carton was gone.

  “So how does it work?”

  Another chocolate milk carton disappeared, and this time, Sophie saw a furry tentacle snag it. Oh no, she thought. Glancing up and down the line, she hoped no one else saw.

  Ethan was still talking, though she’d missed part of what he said. “Does it distract you, like meditation? ’Cause I tried that, and it didn’t work. But this did.”

  She scooted over to the chocolate milk. As Monster reached up again, Sophie smacked the tentacle. She heard a muffled “Ow!” from underneath the counter.

  Ethan looked at her, then the chocolate milk, then at her again. “Just out of curiosity, why are you hitting the milk?”

  “Uh, no reason.” Sophie scooted past the milk and told the cashier her lunch number. The cashier rang her up. Continuing to glance back at the chocolate milk, Sophie went to the utensils bar to get a spoon for her yogurt and a fork for . . . shepherd’s pie? She hadn’t meant to take that. She grimaced at the congealed peas that poked out of the hardened mashed potatoes, like puke-green stones floating in a frothy sea. She wished she could have brought lunch today.