by Rachel Wise
Chapter 1
SUBURBAN TEEN DIES OF SLEEP DEPRIVATION!
I rolled over and stared at the clock next to my bed. The numbers cast a bloodred glow across both the computer and the empty diet cola can on my bedside table. It was 1:05 a.m. I quickly did the math in my head for the tenth time that night: My alarm will go off at 6:15, which means if I fall asleep right this very second, I will still get only five hours and ten minutes of sleep.
Which is not enough.
I sighed heavily and flopped on my back to stare at the ceiling. I’d read an article a few months ago on Huffington Post about teenagers and how their internal clocks are out of whack with the rest of society. I guess a lot of studies have been done and teenagers’ bodies need to stay up late and sleep late. (Like I did this morning. Blissful eleven-o’clock Sunday-morning sleep-in!) It’s some kind of adaptation that has developed over thousands of years. Maybe I should pitch an article to Mr. Trigg, our school newspaper advisor, on teenage sleep patterns. That could be good. I flipped on my lamp, wincing at the brightness, and reached for my laptop to e-mail the idea to myself. (My trusty notebook was already packed in my messenger bag and I didn’t feel like getting up to get it.) After closing the computer, I switched off the lamp and settled back under the covers with a sigh, waiting for sleep to come. I sighed again loudly and fluffed my pillow. Nothing.
Suburban Teen Dies of Sleep Deprivation!
I wondered how fast it could happen.
At some point I must’ve fallen asleep, but it was well after one thirty, because that was the last time I remember doing my sleep math.
“Sammy, sweetheart, you’re going to be late if you don’t get up right now!” My mom sounded stressed.
“Yeah, sweetheart!” sang out my sister, Allie, passing by my room—while texting, I’m sure.
I groaned and thought about how I keep meaning to wear clean school clothes to bed so all I have to do is roll out and brush my teeth. Tonight. For sure.
“Just put your feet on the floor. Once you’re up and moving, it will be a whole lot better. I promise,” said my mom, watching me with folded arms from her perch in the doorway.
I did as she said and mentally reviewed my day, trying to figure out the soonest moment I could get some shut-eye, even if it was just a nap in the library. But I have a newspaper meeting, I’m helping my BFF, Hailey Jones, with her English essay after school (she’s a dyslexic math whiz, and I love to write and hate math—we are a perfect match), and I need to sneak by my mailbox in the newspaper office at some point to see if there are any letters for my column, Dear Know-It-All. I sighed heavily and stood up.
“Okay, Mom. I’m up and it’s not better!” I called, but she had already left.
Allie walked by going the other way now, fully dressed, laughing into her phone.
“What kind of people talk on the phone at this hour of the day?” I grumbled under my breath.
And Allie, who never hears me when I speak directly to her, managed to catch my snide comment and threw back, “Busy people with lots of friends, that’s who!”
I rolled my eyes and began to get dressed. “I have lots of friends!” I called back, but of course she didn’t hear me.
My mom was a little bit right, in that once my day was under way, I wasn’t as tired as I’d been all snuggled under my down comforter. Getting up in the morning is kind of like writing on deadline. You dread it, and it’s hard to get started, but once you get going, everything just flows. That’s how it is for me anyway. Maybe not for Hailey, though.
We were at lunch and Hailey was fake banging her head against the table.
“But why do we care what Mr. Rochester thinks?”
“It’s the whole point of the book, Hailey,” I replied, weary now of the argument and my day. “And I just know that’s what Mr. Taylor is looking for in your essay on Jane Eyre.”
Hailey looked forlornly into space. Then she sighed. “Okay. Okay, I’ll do it. I guess.”
I had to chuckle. “It’s not like you have a choice, Hails. It’s the assignment.”
Hailey flashed a mischievous grin at me. “I can actually get out of certain assignments. Or I can do them differently if I want. It’s part of my ISP.”
ISP means Independent Study Plan, which Hailey gets because of her dyslexia. She also gets a tutor, but she prefers working with me so she cancels the tutor a lot.
“Hmm, maybe I should get an ISP so I can write an essay for the math exam!” I giggled.
Hailey’s eyebrows went up at the suggestion. “Great idea! I can help you! Here’s what you need to do. . . .”
“Kidding!” I said. “What I really need is an ISP to have my day start later. I can’t get to sleep at night, and it’s driving me crazy!”
“Why?” asked Hailey, picking up a glazed doughnut from her tray and chewing thoughtfully. Hailey’s mom is a health nut so in Hailey she has created a junk-food nut.
“Well . . . it all started with midterms. I had two huge exams and an article, and—” Oops! I caught myself just as I was about to say “My column!” No one, and I mean no one (not even my best friend) knows that I am Dear Know-It-All! Just me, my mom, and the faculty advisor to the paper, Mr. Trigg. “And . . . I don’t know, something else. But I stayed up late a bunch of nights in a row, and it was like my body got adjusted to this new time clock and then I couldn’t reset it.”
“Like suddenly you were living in the wrong time zone?” asked Hailey.
“Sort of.” I shrugged. “I’m just wired at eleven o’clock at night, and I should be sacked out.”
“Huh,” said Hailey with a shrug. “I never have any sleep problems. I pass out at night and pop up at the same time every morning. I don’t know why!”
“Well, you’re lucky,” I grouched.
“Who’s lucky?” asked a husky voice over my shoulder.
My ears tingled. My heart raced. It was Michael Lawrence, the one true love of my life—peanut butter to my jelly, Mario to my Luigi, Romeo to my Juliet!
“Hey,” I said coolly, revealing nothing of the drama going on inside my heart.
“Ready to go to the meeting?” he asked.
Hailey slumped in her seat and did a fake pout. “You’re always stealing her from me!” she whined.
“Hey, I can’t help it if I’m charming!” joked Michael.
“Duty calls,” I said in a resigned voice, standing up and gathering my things.
“Duty?” said Michael, mock outraged.
Hailey and I exchanged a private smile. She knew there was nothing I’d rather do than hang out with Michael Lawrence, and she is pretty much okay with that.
A voice came from the other direction. “Hey, Hails, cute shirt! Mind if I join you?”
I looked up. It was Molly Grant, a seventh grader I know a little. I felt immediately better. As much as Hailey doesn’t mind me taking off, at least now I wouldn’t be leaving her at the table all alone.
But Hailey jumped up. “Uh, sorry . . . ,” she muttered. “We were just leaving.”
As I walked away, I glanced back at Molly’s face and saw she was hurt. I felt bad, but now I was in a bit of a rush and, anyway, it wasn’t my problem. As Hailey fell into step next to me on our way to deposit our lunch trays, I said quietly, “What was that all about? Where do you need to be?”
Hailey huffed in exasperation. “That girl drives me nuts! There is no way I’m going to sit there with her while you leave.”
“I think she seems nice,” I said, because I do.
“Well, that’s because she isn’t constantly appearing next to you, wearing exactly what you wore yesterday.”
I looked at Hailey in confusion. “What do you mean?”
“She copies me constantly! I wear red high-tops; she show
s up the next day in brand-new red high-tops. I cut the sleeves off a T-shirt and layer it, and she does the same the next week. It’s driving me insane!”
“Hmm. I don’t blame you, but I can’t really get into this now.” I glanced at Michael, who was waiting in the cafeteria doorway. He was chatting with Kate Bigley, whom I always worry he secretly likes.
“More on this later. Gotta go. Sorry,” I said.
“Okay, bye.” Hailey sighed. “Good luck.”
I smiled and raced off.
Chapter 2
DOUBLE LIFE EXHAUSTS JOURNALIST; SECRETS ARE WEARING HER DOWN
Michael and I arrived at the newspaper office with a few minutes to spare. We settled into our usual front-row spot on the low-slung love seat and waved hello to our colleagues as they arrived.
“Any ideas to pitch?” I asked Michael. I stretched and then gave a big yawn as I relaxed into the little couch.
“Nothing pressing,” he said. “You?”
“I . . . oh . . .” I covered my gaping yawn with both hands. “I was thinking of pitching an article on kids and sleep.”
“Looks like you could use some, Sleepy,” he teased.
I rolled my eyes. Ever since Michael caught me tasting paste in kindergarten, he has called me “Pasty” or some variation on the “-y” nickname, like “Trippy” if I trip over something or “Snacky” if I’m hungry.
“Oh, shush, Mikey!” I growled back, using his family nickname as retaliation.
He grinned, his bright blue eyes twinkling and his dimples deepening. My heart fluttered even as I wanted to slap him.
“I’d work on that with you, if you want,” he offered.
“Good,” I said. “Let’s see if Trigger likes it.”
“How do you think the paper has been looking lately?” asked Michael, just making idle chitchat.
“Pretty good! I think we’re hitting our stride for the year. The new kids are up to speed, the editor in chief seems to know what she’s doing now, and I’ve liked a lot of the articles lately. What do you think?”
“I totally agree.” Michael nodded. “It’s looking pretty tight. The only thing . . . well . . .” He paused, like he didn’t want to say something.
“What? Is it me? Am I not doing well?”
“No! Oh no. Sorry. Not you. I was just thinking of Dear Know-It-All, whoever that is.”
“Oh.” I tried to play it really cool. “Yeah. Who is that?” I looked at him with what I hoped was a suspicious expression, as if I suspected it might be him. Michael looked back at me steadily. I always think he knows it’s me, but then he’ll do something that indicates otherwise. He continued. “I just think the Dear Know-It-All answers have been a little rushed lately. Like they’ve been shorter than usual and not as much fun to read, you know? Maybe not as much effort put into them.”
I nodded, acting cool, while inside I was raging. Do you think it’s easy to come up with good questions from the piles of junk kids submit every week? Do you have any idea how hard it is to be diplomatic and not say anything the school wouldn’t like, while still providing a meaty enough answer? I’d like to see you try to find the time to write this column and do a good job each issue, Mr. Smarty-Pants! Instead, I said, “Huh. Maybe you should tell Mr. Trigg so he can pass that on to whoever writes the column.” Then I gulped. Luckily, Michael wasn’t looking at me right then.
“Yeah, I’ve been meaning to,” said Michael. “I just don’t want to get old Know-It-All in trouble.”
“Oh. Good point. Well . . . maybe put the word out to all the people you think are . . . the likely writers of it?” I said innocently.
“I am,” said Michael, looking me square in the eye. I looked away uneasily.
“Good luck with that,” I said quietly.
“Hello, my wonderful scribes!” trilled Mr. Trigg, entering the room in a rush, his briefcase on his arm and his trademark green-and-blue striped scarf floating out behind him. “I apologize for my delay! The new installment in the Churchill biography was released today, and I wanted to be the first on line at the bookstore to get it. I lined up at eight a.m. so I’d be there when they opened the doors! So exciting!” He opened his briefcase and withdrew an enormously thick book and waved it about by way of explanation. “I’ll pass it ’round so everyone can take a look. Oh, how long I’ve been waiting for this day! It’s like Christmas and my birthday all rolled into one!”
We all laughed. Mr. Trigg is obsessed with Winston Churchill and manages to work him into nearly every conversation. Lucky for us journalists, Churchill was a pretty inspiring guy.
“Mr. Trigg, how long was the line? At the bookstore?” called Jeff Perry, the newspaper’s photographer and one of Michael’s best friends.
“Er . . . The line? Well, the wait was quite tedious, I’ll say, but well worth it!” Mr. Trigg laughed.
Evading a question in front of a roomful of budding journalists is never a good idea.
“What was the exact head count on the line, Mr. Trigg?” called Michael.
“Maybe we should call the bookstore? Get them as a source?” suggested Kate Bigley from across the room.
Mr. Trigg knew when he was being teased, and he has a great sense of humor. Shaking his head from side to side, he looked up from the table and put his hands in the air. “All right, all right. I suppose my enthusiasm was greater than that of many of my fellow Cherry Valley residents. Either that or the majority of Churchill fans are late sleepers. But you can never be too safe in these crowdlike situations.”
“Was there anyone else on the line besides you, Mr. Trigg?” asked Michael, and everyone laughed.
Mr. Trigg sighed. “It grieves me, the state of intellectualism in this country, and I hope you will all grow up to do something about it.”
“Answer the question!” called Jim Peavy, another writer, from across the room.
“You win. Alas, it was only I.” Mr. Trigg hung his head, clasping his folded hands to his heart, and everyone burst into applause. “And in the words of my mentor, the great man himself, ‘Solitary trees, if they grow at all, grow strong.’ Now, let this meeting come to order!”
Everyone was charged up and grinning. It was a great way to start the meeting. We all felt like a team. Everyone felt smart and energized, and it really paid off. We were ready to work.
I pitched my article on sleep, and Trigger liked it. He wasn’t sure there was enough meat on it for me and Michael to share it, and for a moment I panicked that we’d be separated. But he thought for a minute and then assigned us a sidebar box on general teen health tips and said we could do the two together. Phew.
When Mr. Trigg was going down his column list asking for feedback, he passed over Dear Know-It-All, and I nudged Michael, as if to say, “Speak up.” But Michael shook his head, whispering, “I don’t want to embarrass the columnist.”
Well, that was thoughtful anyway, and at least I’d covered myself by suggesting he announce his concerns, or I think I did anyway. I can never be sure.
Double Life Exhausts Journalist; Secrets Are Wearing Her Down.
“In case it’s you,” I added under my breath, and Michael smiled and rolled his eyes.
After the meeting adjourned, Michael and I agreed to brainstorm and do a little Internet research on sleep, and then we’d get back together to work on it. I headed out the newspaper office door to earthonomics (aka science class), and when I glanced down the hall, I was lucky enough to spot Hailey up ahead in her trademark jean jacket with the red stripe down the back.
“Hails!” I called, but she didn’t turn around. “Hailey! Hailey Jones!” Nothing. I was pretty sure she could hear me. I jogged down the hall to catch up. “Hailey?” I said.
But when the girl turned, it wasn’t Hailey. It was Molly Grant, wearing an identical jacket.
“Oh! I’m so sorry! I thought you were Hailey!” I said, laughing as my face pinkened.
“You did?” gushed Molly. “Oh, what a compliment! Thank you so much!”
“You just made my day!” said Molly, and she continued happily on down the hall, leaving me standing there dumbfounded. I thought about Hailey and I cringed. She would not be happy when she heard about this.
In class, we got our tests back—the one I fell asleep studying for at midnight last week—and I got a C. It was such a bummer, I felt sick. It wasn’t like I had tried my very best, because it would stink to get a C under those circumstances, but it was just that I knew I wouldn’t have had the time to even try to do better.
Dr. Shenberg, the earthonomics teacher, said if anyone did badly on the test and wanted to improve their grade-point average, they could do a poster for the science fair and receive up to ten extra points for their grade. Obviously, I was one of the people that announcement was directed at, but when the heck was I going to find the time to do a science fair poster on top of everything else? ACK!
By the time the final bell rang that day, I was beat and stressed and I still had to pick up some DKIA letters, tutor Hailey, do my own homework, and start a little research for my article. Oh yeah, and think up a science fair poster topic.
I grabbed a soda from the vending machine and chugged it, feeling the sugar surge almost immediately and praying for the caffeine to kick in. All I really wanted to do, though, was go home and take a nap.
I popped into the empty newspaper office, locked the door, and spirited my letters out of the DKIA mailbox without getting caught. Phew. Then I went out to meet Hailey at the bike rack.
“Okay, weird story for you,” I said by way of greeting. Then I proceeded to tell Hailey about my interaction with Molly Grant in the hall.
Hailey banged her palm down on the handlebars of her bike as she walked it along. “You see? That’s what I’m talking about! That girl copies every single thing I do! My haircut, my clothing, my bike, even the way I drew my name on my binder! It’s so annoying!”
“Huh.” Quick! What would Dear Know-It-All say? I wondered. “Well . . . you know my mom always says ‘Imitation is the sincerest form of flattery.’ It’s a compliment. She looks up to you and wants to be just like you!”