Sleeper

by MacKenzie Cadenhead

  “Is this a typical reaction?” I ask.

  “You mean staying still at night? That’s what the Dexid’s for.”

  “What about the dreams?”

  Ralphie thinks about this for a moment. “Well, I’m not supposed to really talk about it, but between you and me?”

  I cross my heart and hold up two fingers in scout’s honor.

  “Remember how I told you about that patient who mentioned the dreams? You two are the only ones. That REM response is pretty atypical. Almost nobody else’s brain goes like yours. Even your frontal lobe lights up!”

  “Is that bad?” I ask, my eyes widening. “That sounds bad.”

  Ralphie laughs and shakes his head. “Not at all. Just interesting to a guy who looks at brain scans all night long. You’re a dreamer, kid. You always have been, and no drug’s going to change that. But dreaming’s all it is.”

  Ralphie gets up and begins banging around the observation room, stacking printouts and fiddling with monitors. “Seriously, Sarah, this looks great! You’ve got a couple more nights of observation to make sure the Dexid’s working right, and then, if we’re lucky, you’ll never have to see my ugly mug again.” He pulls on his cheeks, jiggling them like Jell-O.

  “I like your mug,” I say. At least it has eyes.

  Ralphie’s right though. This is good. I should be positive about my results. I guess years of disappointment makes a girl cautious. But for once, I shouldn’t look a gift horse in the mouth, and so I try not to.

  After I’ve been de-machined and have washed the gel out of my hair, I gather my things and head outside to wait for my ride. The sky is a cloudless blue, and the light breeze feels chilly against my skin. Though I generally prefer the daytime, this particular morning fills me with unease. It’s too bright, too perfect.

  Like the calm before a raging storm.

  Chapter Six

  “Now let’s not make a habit of this,” my mother says in her best serious grown-up voice. We’re sitting in her car outside school, which has already started. She winks as she hands me a folded piece of paper.

  “Mom, when have you ever had to write me a note for being late other than on clinic days? Besides, if Ralphie’s right, I could be nearing the end of my career as a sideshow attraction.”

  My mother frowns. “I’m still not sure about this, Sarah,” she says. “I realize you had a good night last night, but I’m not convinced drugs are the way to go.”

  “And chanting is?” I ask with an eye roll.

  “That’s not fair.” She pouts. “You gave up after two sessions with Dr. Ravi. I still think there are viable alternatives that could work if you’d just try them. I mean really try. Drugging yourself isn’t always the best answer.”

  I glare at my mother. Though I have my own reservations about what last night’s clinic experience entailed, hearing her articulate my unspoken anxiety infuriates me to no end.

  “You’re kidding, right?” I snap. “After six years of this nightmare, Dr. Erickson might finally have found a treatment that can give me a normal life, and you’re telling me I’m taking the easy way out?”

  My mother’s eyes widen, and her hands shoot up in surrender. “Of course that’s not what I’m saying, honey. I just remember the last drug you tried—”

  “I do too,” I interrupt, my temper escalating disproportionately with her every word. “I’m the one whose jaw locked instead of her body. And what about the time before? Remember how my hair fell out? Because I do. I’m the one it happened to. I’m the one that all this happens to. I finally made it through the night without moving a single muscle, so excuse me if I’d like to try being positive for once. I mean really try.”

  My mother recoils as I throw her words back at her, but I don’t back down.

  “This is the first hint I’ve ever had that I might be able to live my life like a normal person, that I might actually turn out to be something other than a total freak, and you’re being completely unsupportive. Is this what they’re teaching you in all your self-help workshops? If so, I’d ask for my money back.”

  My mother reaches for my arm, but I jerk it away. She places her hand in her lap and looks out the windshield at the sunny day. “You are not a freak,” she says quietly.

  Maybe not, but even I can tell I’m being a brat.

  My mom and I sit silently in the car. I know it isn’t just me who has been affected by my disorder. I doubt she’s had a good night’s sleep in years. Between doctor’s bills, unsuccessful treatments, and my dad bailing on it all when I was twelve, my mother’s suffered as much as I ever have. But she never makes me feel like I’m a burden, even though I know I am.

  “Maybe I’m looking at this all wrong,” she suddenly declares with fresh resolve. “Maybe there’s a silver lining to this whole fiasco with Gigi and her parents. Maybe it is the Dexid.” I turn to her, and she pulls off a smile. “I just get scared, honey. I’m sorry.”

  I drop my shoulders and say, “Me too.” I lean across the driver’s seat and give her a hug. “Sorry and scared,” I whisper in her ear.

  “I know you are,” she says, her voice catching in her throat. “I wish this was happening to me and not you.”

  Despite my mother’s annoying ability to turn an argument into a very special moment, my emotions get the better of me. Tears sting my eyes, and I laugh away a cry. “No, no!” I say, shaking my head. “I put mascara on this morning! We cannot sit here and weep.”

  My mother sniffles. “Well, we can’t have you looking anything less than your best.” She produces a tissue from her purse and hands it to me. “Don’t worry. You look great, runny mascara or not.”

  “A natural beauty,” I scoff.

  “It’s in the genes,” she says as she flutters her lashes and fluffs her hair. “Unlike poor Gigi,” she adds, her coquettishness turning lethal. “I’d forgotten how much work her mother’s had done. In less than a decade, Gigi will be on Botox and her third nose.”

  “Mom!” I gasp. “What would your meditation circle say?”

  “Oh, please,” she says, shooing away my faux concern. “The second the MacDonalds threatened my baby, my circle became a ring of fire.”

  I give her a kiss on the cheek. “I’ve got to go,” I say as I unlatch my seat belt. “Dr. Gordon hates it when I’m not there to stop Tessa from blowing up the chem lab. Thanks for the note, Mom. You’re the best.” I jump out of the car and wave as she drives off.

  I face my school. The memory of yesterday’s encounter with Gigi throbs beneath the phantom handprint on my left cheek. I think of the deformed monsters from last night’s nightmare and wonder if they’re more or less terrifying than whatever fresh hell Gigi has in store for me today. As I try to shake off the memory of the faceless beasts, I know my answer.

  “Huh,” I say aloud to no one but myself. “Something does scare me more than Gigi.”

  I laugh at the absurdity of my current existence and head for class. I decide to bypass the main entrance in favor of the lesser used West Gate, which is closer to the science labs. Though the security guards are supposed to lock all doors but the front after first period, they rarely do. But when I arrive, the door doesn’t budge.

  “Come on.” I grunt as I rattle the knob. Still nothing. Feeling totally over the universe’s insistence to screw me over in all ways big and small, I kick the door and call it a name that’s far from ladylike.

  “Easy there,” says a voice behind me. “It’s not the door’s fault you’re late.”

  I spin around, and my bag slips from my shoulder. I let it fall to the ground. Leaning against an empty bike rack, his long legs stretched in front of him, is Wes Nolan. His lips turn up in a half smile that forms a perfect triangle with his deep-set, shining green eyes. His sunny brown hair clumps in a chic bedhead shag, and aside from his perfectly imperfect, crooked nose, the only other technic
al blemish on his face is a tiny scar above his right eyebrow. But it can be forgiven, because it draws more attention to his eyes. And once you look into those, you’re done for. If Wes wasn’t so anti-high-school-hierarchy, he could totally run the place.

  “Oh, hey,” I say, steadying myself. “You startled me.”

  “Clearly,” he says as his eyes bore into me. While Wes is an obvious descendant of the Emerald Isle, I’m one hundred percent U.S. melting pot—a hint of Latin America, a dash of Dutch colonialist, plus a generous helping of Southeast Asia. And while I definitely know how to put myself together, his stare makes me hyperaware of every little awkwardness. The subtle overbite that I sometimes pout to hide, the extra width to my nose that keeps it from being that perfect button plastic surgeons aim for. My face—and everything below it—heats up.

  “What are you doing here?” I manage to croak out.

  “I was waiting for you,” he says, his voice sweet and low. He leans forward and narrows his eyes, his stare so penetrating, it feels indecent.

  My lips part, and I take an audible breath. Electrical charges pulse throughout my midsection, and every little hair on my arms stands at attention. I try to swallow, but my mouth seems to have stopped producing saliva. I press my back against the door and feel the happy pain of a doorknob dig into my hip. Maybe it’ll keep me from swooning like a nineteenth-century nitwit. Of course, if I did faint, would it be so terrible to have Wes break my fall?

  “You were waiting for me?” I ask breathily.

  “I wish,” he says with a sneer, breaking the spell. “Alas, no. I didn’t have a clue you’d be here.”

  I flush. “Of course,” I say and look down at my feet in a vain attempt to cover my blushing face.

  “But since you are, can I ask you a question?” He pops up onto his feet and is next to me in a stride and a half. He towers over me, and once again, I marvel at his physique.

  “Sure,” I answer, my voice mannishly deep, an overcompensation for the high-pitched squeal I fear will come out instead.

  “I heard you tried to kill that cheerleader from the hallway yesterday. What’d she do? Steal your boyfriend or something?”

  All the warm sensations cool.

  “I’m sorry?” I ask, stunned.

  “No need to apologize to me.” He shrugs. “I’m not the one you tried to off.”

  “No,” I say, flustered. “I wasn’t apologizing to… I didn’t try to…” I feel wet at the edges of my eyes. I scoop up my bag and turn to leave the West Gate. “I have to get to class,” I manage to say somewhat audibly, but before I can put two steps between us, Wes slides up behind me. He puts his hand on my wrist, and I still.

  “Wait,” he says, his warm breath like kindling on my neck. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you. Sometimes, I speak before I think. Come here.” He guides me back to the problematic door and places my right hand on the knob. Still behind me, he slides his other arm past my waist, wrapping himself around my body. He takes my free hand in his so that he completely envelops me. I keep my back ramrod straight, resisting the urge to cave into the shape of him.

  “If you twist the knob with one hand while jiggling the exterior of the latch with the other, you can loosen the joint just enough”—the door clicks, and the knob releases into a full turn—“to open it.”

  Though the door moves, neither Wes nor I do. What am I doing, standing here wrapped in the embrace of this sort-of stranger? Just because I’ve invented a heroic dream version of him doesn’t mean I know anything about him in waking life. And yet, all I want is to relax my body into his and see what might happen if I turn my face upward just the tiniest bit.

  The bell rings, snapping me out of my reverie before I can find out. The hallway on the other side of the door will be flooded with students moving between classes in a moment. I should be one of them. So I extricate myself from Wes’s embrace, nudge the door open with my hip, and take a step inside the building. But I don’t go far.

  “Thanks for the assist,” I say, the squeaky girl voice clawing its way out.

  “Not a problem,” he replies, half smiling and not moving from the spot where I’ve just been standing against him. “I’m always happy to help a friend in need.”

  “Is that what we are?” I flirt, feeling a little more confident now that there’s a bit of distance between us.

  Wes considers this. “For now,” he says, and his mouth grows into the wide smile I recognize from my dream.

  I feel a bit woozy, and my senses momentarily falter. It’s like that moment of total displacement when you’re processing déjà vu and the whole world tilts a little before righting itself again.

  “Perhaps we can get together, like friends do, and talk sometime.”

  “What would we talk about?” I ask.

  “Sports. The weather. Your homicidal sleep tendencies.” His voice is loud enough for the kids in the hall to hear.

  I shoot back into the yard, letting the door close partway behind me.

  “What the—shut up!” I hiss.

  “Sorry. Kidding. I thought we were at the joking phase about that. But wait, is it supposed to be a secret? Because it was practically the focus of my peer orientation.”

  “Well, no,” I stammer. “I just—”

  “Not that I’m judging,” he continues. “Based solely on my brief encounter with the vic yesterday, I’d say you were justified. But if you wanted to keep your RBD a secret, you probably shouldn’t have tried to Elm Street your friend.”

  “I didn’t Elm Street… Wait. How do you know about my disorder? And I mean, there was this deer, and it was hurt, and even though it was kind of violent, I was just trying to help it,” I say, my jumbled excuses tumbling out pointlessly.

  His smile disappears, and he grabs my wrist, hard. “What did you say?”

  “Hey,” I bark as I twist myself free, a clear-eyed defender replacing the bumbling girl of a moment before. “You don’t touch me without a very clear invitation.” Keeping my eyes on my potential attacker, I shove the door open with my foot and back inside the school hallway.

  Wes’s skin pales, and he stands stock-still, staring at me as though he’s been scared straight.

  Good, I think. I remind myself that he is, in fact, a complete stranger. “Whatever you think you know about me, friend, you don’t. But I think I just figured out why you’re such a loner.”

  Some of the blood returns to his cheeks. Though his body is still tense, he doesn’t try to touch me again. “Why’s that?” he asks.

  “I’m pretty sure it’s because you’re a handsy dick.” I turn away from him and head inside. “Thanks for your help,” I call over my shoulder. “Hope the rest of your day totally blows.” The door swings shut.

  Stomping down the hallway, I spot Tessa outside the chem lab, today’s notes in hand. She holds them out for me as I approach. “I can’t believe you missed today’s lab,” she says when I reach her. “It was the single most fascinating experiment we’ve ever done. I’m totally considering a career in the sciences now.”

  “That boring?” I ask, taking the papers. I determine to shake off my Wes encounter by focusing on Tessa’s hatred of science.

  “Listening to my mother talk about what’s on sale at Stop & Shop is more scintillating.”

  The door to the classroom flies open, and a girl named Jenny comes running out. Her cheeks are wet and her eyes red. She clutches her textbook to her chest and runs for the girls’ bathroom. Less than thirty seconds later, Amber emerges, smiling vapidly, without a care in the world, as Jenny’s presumably ex-boyfriend Pete puts his arm around her shoulder.

  “Oh yeah, that happened too.” Tessa groans.

  “When?” I ask.

  “Last night. Pete’s Amber’s lab partner, and they were studying at his house. Bada bing bada boom. I guess he was tired of Jenny staying put
at second base.”

  “What a creep,” I say. “Poor Jenny. I didn’t even know Amber liked Pete.”

  “Since when would that stop Amber?” Tessa asks as she claps her hands at Amber’s turned back. “Hello! You discovered Proactiv and got your braces off three years ago! Ugly duckling complexes are so passé.”

  I laugh, rolling my eyes at my former friend’s fatal flaw. We all have our thing. For me, it’s the sleep stuff. For Amber, it’s the memory of middle school. Before her acne cleared up and her head gear was removed, Amber spent every Friday, Saturday, and Sunday alone. She wasn’t invited to parties, and she never hung out at the mall. But the summer before ninth grade, that all changed. Braces gone and acne cured, she was determined to become someone else in high school. But rather than discover that person on her own, she chose to model herself after the neighbor whose perfect existence she’d coveted for so long.

  Lucky for her, Gigi MacDonald liked a project.

  Gigi gave Amber a makeover and a lacrosse stick. And Amber proved to be a devoted and capable student, turning into a magnificent swan by Labor Day. Unfortunately the price of Gigi’s tutelage has proven to be high. Terrified of ever losing her spot in the limelight, Amber doesn’t say boo without Gigi’s approval, and she goes through popular boys like a mummy queen sucking their life force to stay young and beautiful forever.

  I’ve caught glimpses of the empathetic soul inside Amber. Like when some jerks from our rival high school were messing with Gillman Gilligan at a Horsemen game. The band geek had gotten lost on his way to the practice hall before he was supposed to take the field at halftime. Amber strutted up to Gillman, planted a big wet kiss on his lips (silencing the boys), and took his hand, leading him away from his tormentors. It was awesome and awe-inspiring. But when Gillman showed up at the Stump later that night in hopes of talking to Amber, her crippling insecurity won out, and her rejection of him was swift and fierce.