Sam Saves the Night

by Shari Simpson

  Byron picked up a vial of algae biofuel and examined it. “You’re a sleepwalker. Why don’t you tell me what your daytime life has been like?”

  Sam stared at the cloudy liquid, trying to clear her foggy mind. “I guess… I’m exhausted all the time.…”

  “What else?”

  “… Kinda depressed…”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “And”—this was painful to say out loud—“everyone thinks I’m a freak anyway, so why bother?”

  “Bingo. You want to achieve anything, you gotta believe in yourself, obviously. But you also have to have somebody, anybody, that believes in you, too. That’s not easy to come by for some people.”

  Faces popped into her mind: Jax, always so frustrated and sarcastic; her mother, ripping the hair out of her own head in hopelessness; every exasperated teacher or doctor she’d ever had.

  Jeez, even Weezy looks at me like I’m weird, and he’s a dog with severe breathing problems and a face like a furry dinner plate.

  “I get it,” she said quietly.

  But Byron wasn’t listening now. He was staring at the Achieves, a little worry wrinkle creasing his forehead.

  “Byron?”

  “Seventeen,” he responded absently.

  “Huh?”

  “Supposed to be seventeen of ’em.” Byron shook his head. “Hang on a sec,” he said, trotting/floating over to the upside-down Waker. They spoke in whispers as Sam tried to count the Achieves. It was no easy task, as the yoga crew had moved on to some insanely knotted group pose, and there were legs and arms sprouting out like weeds, but… Sixteen. As far as she could tell, by attempting to count only heads and ignore limbs, there were sixteen Achieves in the room. And for some reason, that number seemed to be making both Byron and the algae biofuel kid agitated.

  “Is there a problem?” she questioned as Byron hovered back to her.

  “Nope!” he said, sounding far more confident than he looked. “No problem at all. It’s just that it’s gonna be dawn soon. Wherever you are when your body wakes up, the silver cord will yank your soul back in. But that takes some getting used to. If you’re far away, it feels pretty sucky. That might be too much for your first night, so let’s get a little closer to home, ’kay?”

  He delivered this rather important piece of info rapidly, then zoomed out through the brick wall. Sam followed him onto the lawn, her mind spinning like a Ferris wheel run by a caffeinated carny.

  Was someone missing? Who? Why?

  There was just too much to process. She’d only seen two of the tribes, and already there were so many souls, so many lives, so many stories. How could she grasp all of this? And where do I belong? Anywhere?

  “Aw, man.” Her brain flagellation was interrupted by Byron’s groan. “They found us.”

  This sounded rather ominous. “What? Who found us?”

  Byron looked positively glum. “Probably just my opinion, but only the most annoying tribe in the whole SleepWaker world.”

  That’s when Sam heard what sounded like about a hundred people clinking their water glasses with spoons, and a rather impressive four-part harmony.

  Oh, Waker, you are new

  So this is what we sing to you…

  She turned slowly to see a group of SleepWakers moving toward them. Wearing tap shoes.

  True! True! Oh so true!

  You’ll find yourself to be true blue!

  “Samantha, meet”—Byron sighed—“the Broadways.”

  And then they were around her, a bunch of big, burly teenaged boys and some smallish girls wearing glasses, all singing lustily, doing jazz hands, and stretching their floaty feet down to the ground for optimal tap-to-sidewalk contact.

  Welcome to the life of night

  Where what was lurking just out of sight

  Comes bursting forth into plain view

  The truth of you, oh so true blue!

  A hulking redheaded boy launched into a tap solo as Sam leaned into Byron and whispered, “Explain, please.”

  “You don’t have to whisper. They’re in their own little world,” Byron said in a normal, if somewhat agitated, voice. “From what I’ve been able to get out of them—which isn’t much, since they refuse to talk—their souls just want to burst into song. Like in Broadway musicals. I’ve tried to reason with them, told them even in musicals the characters speak in sentences sometimes and the songs are saved for, you know, moments when words aren’t enough—”

  “You sure know a lot about musicals,” Sam murmured, biting her lip so as not to laugh.

  “—but no, they don’t care, they’re just gonna sing everything! Because, in their daytime lives, this instinct is stifled. That’s Chadney.” Byron pointed to the red-haired giant who was in the middle of a triple time step. “He’s a senior at my school and he’s, like, this football god, but of course he won’t even look in my direction in the daytime. I think all of the guy Broadways are sports stars, and the girl ones are brainiacs. Their words, not mine. Sung, of course.”

  Sam couldn’t hold it in anymore; she burst out laughing. Byron gave her a peeved look, just as Chadney finished his solo with four backward wings. Sam applauded.

  “Please don’t encourage him,” Byron said grimly.

  “Come on, you gotta admit that was pretty awesome. Especially for a guy who’s built like a flesh mountain,” Sam said, gesturing to the massively muscled redhead.

  “Well, it’s easier to do when you’re floating, don’tcha think?” He flipped his hand dismissively at Chadney, who was now starting to beatbox. Byron groaned. “Aaaaand the worst genre of all. Hip-hop musical. Thanks a lot, Hamilton.”

  It’s night and the tribes rock

  It’s night and the tribes flock

  But don’t look behind ya, there’s sumpin to mind ya,

  The tribe with the night lock

  Take stock

  Don’t shock

  The tribe with the night lock

  The midnight teems, ain’t all it seems,

  Ima be carefuling of the MeanDreams—

  The what? She heard Byron curse softly.

  “Wait, what was that? What are MeanDreams?” she asked.

  But before Byron could answer, she felt a slight tug, like someone was pulling her hair, except all over her entire body. And then with a stomach-churning, brain-rattling yank, Byron, the Broadways, and the lawn of Fairleigh Dickinson became a backward sonic-boom blur, and Soul Sam landed back in her body with the force of a space shuttle reentering the earth’s atmosphere. She groaned.

  The Roamer was right. Sucky.

  THE GOOD NEWS WAS THAT once Sam’s mega-harsh reentry into her bod was complete, a new feeling came over her: She felt light. Like someone had snuck in and cleaned out the litter box of her extremities. What is going on?

  Joanne’s words came back to her: Your body will now be getting the rest it needs while your soul accomplishes its purpose.

  She turned to Weezy, who had somehow managed to take up overnight residence in the middle of her pillow, and said, “Wanna go for a walk before I leave for school?” He opened his headlamp eyes and gave a snort of surprise. “I know, I’m shocked, too.” She snuggled him, breathing in his warm-Fritos-and-moist-feet scent and whispered, “Just between you and me, I’m hoping for a lot of surprises today.”

  And Sam wasn’t disappointed. At breakfast, Margie was outright humming as she tied her sassy head wrap, and Jax tossed off, “Two whole nights of sleep. We might not have to give you up for adoption after all.”

  At school, she not only managed to stay awake for pre-algebra (aka, second-period “nasal strip–fest”), but was still awake in social studies (fifth period, which was usually when she slid under her desk). By the time sixth-period language arts rolled around, the entire class was laying bets as to when Sam was going to drop, but instead she actually answered a question (“Dangling participle!”). It was official: Samantha Fife might just possibly be maybe kind of normal, maybe. She could see the potential of a
new assessment on her classmates’ faces, and it was utterly thrilling.

  Of course, some people preferred to stick to their old views.

  “So, Sam,” Jaida purred from her locker, which, abiding by Murphy’s Law of Middle School Bullying, was situated directly across from Sam’s locker. “Did your shrink find a new drug for your brain disease? Or did your mom buy you coffee today instead of spending her money on synthetic wigs?” Amy and Gina dissolved into rhapsodic giggles.

  Sam felt her insides begin to do their usual lava slide, all the good stuff of the day turning molten. She tried to focus on opening her locker to just get her stuff and disappear, but there was one problem.

  There were no numbers on the lock. Someone had painted over them with black paint, so there was no way to do the combination. Sam just stared, uncomprehending, as Amy and Gina doubled over laughing and Jaida turned away with a satisfied smirk, snapping her weird retro fanny pack around her waist.

  But, being a day of surprises, there was another one in store.

  Madalynn Sucret passed through the hallway just at that moment. Sam looked up from the lock of darkness, and Madalynn winked.

  That couldn’t have been for me. Not possible. A speck of dust must have had a death wish and flown into Madalynn’s transcendent eyeball. Nevertheless, Sam found herself wandering away from her attackers and following the winker down the hallway, as if the flutter of those eyelashes had cast a magic stalker spell. Madalynn disappeared into the auditorium, and Sam paused at the door, on which a sheet of paper bellowed:

  Set Crew Needed for Fall Musical!

  Okay, so maybe it was the headiness of her physical self having slept for two nights straight, or the sudden memory of her well-built half tree house, but a thought crawled into Sam’s nearly coherent brain: If my soul wanted to use power tools, maybe my body will, too. And as if that thought had given her hand permission, she was suddenly signing her name on the sheet. Sam looked around to see if anyone was going to yell at her for desecrating school property, but the hallway was empty.

  Piano music trickled out of the auditorium, and Sam couldn’t resist peeking through the door. She saw Madalynn, wearing a little nurse’s cap and singing in an angelic soprano—

  The soldiers all call me a scamp,

  but I prefer “Lady with the Lamp”!

  —while a chorus of students in casts and bandages danced around her.

  Whaaat exactly am I seeing right now? Sam gave a perplexed look back at the sign-up sheet for the actual title of the fall production:

  FLO! THE MUSICAL

  THE LIFE OF FLORENCE NIGHTINGALE

  Oookay. “The Broadways would be thrilled,” she mumbled to herself.

  That night, Sam’s soul woke up while still in Sam’s body. It was the strangest sense of “otherness” she had ever experienced; she could hear her body breathing from inside her own head, and her heartbeat felt like a Siamese twin. I’m like an alien inside a host. Somehow this thought made her grin, and then she couldn’t help herself. Rising up from the bed, literally splitting from her own self, Sam gave it her best horror film intonation, “She’s aliiivvvveee…!”

  Byron’s applause was a little unnerving, to say the least.

  “Dude! What the heck?!” Sam yelped, jumping the rest of the way out of her body.

  “Sorry! I swear I wasn’t watching you sleep or anything,” Byron laughed, putting up his hands in surrender. “I just popped in when I heard your Dr. Frankenstein voice.”

  “Uh-huh,” Sam said, with just the littlest bit of side-

  eye.

  “Scout’s honor. But I gotta say,” Byron continued, “it’s a miracle I could even hear you over the buzz saw.”

  They looked at Weezy, who had his flat, vibrating face pressed against Bed Sam’s skull.

  “I know. How can I sleep through that?” Sam shook her soul head.

  “I guess it’s a testament to Fletch’s mad skills. His patients are gonna get their rest no matter what, even if Pugsy has adenoids,” mused Byron.

  “Weezy.”

  “Huh?”

  “His name is Weezy,” Sam said.

  Byron nodded, grinning. “I get it. ‘Weezy.’ ”

  Sam rolled her eyes. “You think you get it. But that’s not why my mom named him that.”

  Byron cocked his head to one side. “What other reason could you have for naming a wheezing dog ‘Weezy’?”

  “Uh, because my mother is a big fan of sitcoms from, like, the last century and her favorite character was Louise on this show called The Jeffersons. Nickname, Weezy.”

  “Huh. Wow.” Byron was trying valiantly to grasp this. “That’s so…”

  “Random?” Sam said wryly.

  “Yep.”

  “If you knew my family, trust me, this would not be the most random thing.” Sam sighed. “It’s all downhill from there.”

  “You can tell me more while we hyper-cross.” Byron was brisk again, moving toward the window.

  Sam swallowed nervously. “You think I’m ready? I don’t even know how to be solid yet.”

  “You don’t need to be solid for this.”

  She stubbornly stood her inch-off-the-ground. “Well, it would help if you could actually grab on to me if I went spinning off into space, don’tcha think?”

  “No one is going to be spinning anywhere. Just stay close, keep moving, and ignore the blur.” He walked through the window.

  The blur?

  “No way am I going fast enough for stuff to blur, dude!” she yelled after him. This got no response from Byron, but Weezy woke up and started howling that awful pug-sees-Beelzebub howl again. Sam had no choice but to escape as quickly as possible, somehow managing to pass through not only window glass, but frilly curtains, part of the fiberglass wall, and some cheap siding in the process.

  Outside a light rain was falling. Sam stood for a moment, trying to fathom the sensation of water passing through her essence, water that didn’t feel wet. Yeah, but what does “wet” feel like? It was as if she needed a whole new vocabulary for the Waker world. Or maybe even a new language. Byron was watching her closely, almost as if he knew what she was thinking and was waiting for some profound statement to spring forth from her lips. Instead—

  “I got nothin’,” Sam offered.

  He nodded.

  “So. I guess now we hyper-cross?” She delivered this with a wince.

  “Don’t worry, Newbie, it’s all good.”

  “Uh-huh. Sure.”

  They moved out, Sam forcing herself to look straight ahead. She imagined that the “blur” of their soul speed would be like star trails she had seen in photographs and science fiction movies, and she just wasn’t ready to visually acknowledge such a phenomenon. But even with her eyes fixed, it felt like she had just stepped onto some sort of moving walkway at an astral airport; her steps did not equal the velocity at which she was traveling. Trees started to streak past her peripheral vision in long ribbons of green, and the wind became a continual unceasing shriek. Within seconds, everything swam by in a giant swathe of color and motion. A sudden, ripply burst of light—was it another Later Zone? Or an entire city in one brilliant flash? Sam barely had time to consider all the elements of electricity and hints of humanity she had just bypassed in a breath, when she realized that they were on water.

  Literally. On water, but boatless. So, yeah, walking on water.

  This deserved a shout-out. “Byron?!”

  He winked and yelled over the din of splash and gale, “Sailor Sam!”

  Sam tried to laugh, but the strangulated bark flew back in her face.

  “Don’t freak, it’ll end soon. Lake Michigan isn’t that wide,” Byron hollered.

  Lake—?! She didn’t even finish that thunderstruck thought before they were over land again and then, “We’re here!” and it all came to a screeching soundless stop. The whole world vibrated around her for a moment, then stilled.

  Sam swallowed, gagging slightly, and waited for he
r soul stomach to catch up and redeposit itself into her being. She finally dared to turn her head. They were standing on a dark corner in front of a tiny restaurant called the Taco Stop; the entire rest of the street was taken up by a long, low building that would have looked like a warehouse if it hadn’t been for the mirrored full-length windows down the length of the structure.

  Summoning her weak knowledge of the Midwest, Sam whispered, “Wisconsin?”

  “Illinois, actually.” Byron pointed up at a sign on the building. “The Numbs love this place.”

  GALLOPING GHOST

  ARCADE

  The “Arcade” portion of the sign was jumbotron big, but just in case anyone was still confused as to the nature of the establishment, underneath it said:

  Games! Games! Games! Games!

  Sam took a deep breath, still recovering from her thirty-second stroll halfway across the country. “Okay, I’m just spitballin’ here, but the Numbs? They like to… what, numb out and play video games?”

  “Aaaand she’s back!” Byron grinned and disappeared into the building. Sam followed quickly; after what she’d just experienced, walking through a mirrored wall didn’t seem like such a big deal anymore.

  But nothing could have prepared her for the assault on the senses that was Galloping Ghost Arcade. There were literally hundreds of pinball machines and video games, and it seemed like nearly every unit had a Waker yanking levers, slamming buttons, jiggling joysticks, shooting guns, and spinning steering wheels; the flashing lights were blinding and the bings, beeps, and boooonnnngssss deafening. It was a sensory overload of the highest order.

  “Biggest arcade in the United States!” Byron shouted in her ear.

  “Well, yeah!” Sam shouted back. “But how the heck are they—? Why haven’t the police come?”

  “Oh, they have, but—” A Numb started a game of Mortal Kombat 4 right next to them, and Byron motioned Sam over to a slightly less eardrum-bursting area near a bank of Frogger machines. “But that’s where the Pranks come in. The one time the cops showed up, they didn’t get what was going on ’cause the Numbs are invisible to them, of course, so all they saw was the video games playing themselves. Freaky enough, right? But then the Pranks joined in and started knocking off their caps and grabbing their Tasers, levitating their guns, and they flipped out for real. Now the patrol in this area just steers clear, unless they have a rookie they want to haze a little. It all works out.”