Sam Saves the Night

by Shari Simpson

  “And how come, even in the darkness, I can’t just be normal, like, a normal SleepWaker who can recognize her tribe?!”

  When Byron relayed this last sentence, Fletch pointed a bony finger in Sam’s general direction and cried, “Ah! That’s it! You can’t recognize your tribe because you don’t have one! Because you’re not normal!” He delivered this like it was the best news in the world, even ending with his arms thrown out in a V for victory.

  Of course, this was a terrible thing to say, but the cheerleader move was the straw that broke the Waker’s back. Sam flushed with anger.

  “Uh, Fletch? She’s looking pretty ticked.” Byron added hesitantly, “Maybe you could elaborate?”

  “Haven’t you figured it out yet, Sam?” Fletch toned down his verve and spoke softly. “You’re a Helper. The first of your SleepWaker kind. And the one who’s going to take down the MeanDreams.”

  Shocked into silence, Sam looked over at Byron for some kind of lifeline. He shrugged with a half nod. “I told you. Remember? I said you were something else.”

  “Yeah, something else, but what? What is a Helper?” She felt like she was going to cry again, and it was super annoying. Byron finally cut her a break and threw her a bone of compassion.

  “Fletch, you gotta explain it better. We’re losing her.”

  Dr. Fletcher nodded, then continued gently, “I want you to think, Sam. Think about all the things you did when you were sleepwalking. Try to remember the pattern.”

  “I’ve thought about that a million times! There was no pattern. It was just all…” Sam couldn’t even say what she was really thinking. My long list of crazy.

  Byron translated. “She says it was random.”

  “Random shmandom! Let me show you something.” Fletch leapt up and ran to his file cabinet, digging around and tossing papers with wild abandon, then ran back, brandishing a notebook and a folded newspaper. “Your mother kept a journal for a while, a record of your walks, back when one of your specialists was trying to establish some sort of pattern. When you were living in Wayne, while you were in the fourth grade, you sleep-stole a wheelchair from a Mrs. Buckley in your neighborhood, who your mother says was a rich, albeit nasty, old lady. That happened on”—he flipped the pages of the notebook—“October eighth. Now look at this!” He slammed the newspaper article down and pointed at a headline.

  “ ‘Oktoberfest kicks off in South Jersey’?” Byron read.

  “Oh, whoopsie.” Fletch peered down at the newspaper and moved his finger to a tiny article on the bottom of the page. “There!”

  “ ‘Happy Heart Nursing Home Seeks Assistance,’ ” Sam read. “Huh?”

  Byron scanned it quickly. “The article asks for supplies and donations for a rest home that was struggling financially.”

  “Specifically… wheelchairs,” said Fletcher passionately.

  “That’s pretty awesome, Sam.” Byron grinned. “You were a girl Robin Hood, stealing from the rich to give to the poor.”

  Sam shook her head, agitated. “But… I don’t remember knowing anything about this place.”

  Byron looked doubtful, too. “You really think she saw this, Fletch? I mean, who reads newspapers anymore, especially a ten-year-old?”

  “Well, I don’t know how or why she read it, I only know that it couldn’t have been a coincidence. Her mother found her on Dey Boulevard, three blocks from Happy Heart.” Fletch turned in Sam’s direction, his sclerae burning. “Think, Sam, think! Remember, and find the pattern. You just have to look through this new lens!” He flipped the pages of the notebook. “Pick any of these and push your mind back!”

  March 21. Sam baking brownies in her sleep. Burned herself badly. ER visit.

  March 22. Found Sam in recycling bin at Short Hills mall. Covered in garbage.

  March 23. Found Sam on Dodie Drive in the intersection, sleep-directing traffic in a rainstorm. Almost got hit by a car. Walks are getting more dangerous. So scared.

  Sam stared at Margie’s loopy handwriting, her heart aching for her trichotillomaniac mother. Think. Think. They’d moved out of Wayne after the wheelchair incident and were living in Parsippany in a tiny apartment. Jax had to transfer in the middle of eighth grade and was starting to hate her. Think, Sam. She liked her new fourth-grade teacher, Miss Calabria, better than mean Mrs. Burkee at her old school. Think, Sam, think! Margie had gotten a job waiting tables at a diner. Where the cook was the owner’s brother-in-law, which meant he sucked in the kitchen, which meant the diner was struggling, which meant Margie was struggling, which meant—oh my God—

  “Desserts…”

  Fletcher went pale. He gawked, his sclerae so wide and white, his pupils looked like two ravens that had crash-landed on an iceberg. “Sam… I can hear you now.…”

  Byron whirled around to face her. “Keep going! Keep talking!”

  Sam spoke slowly, her voice shaky. “My mom… My mom said… maybe if the diner she worked at had good desserts, people could ignore the disgusting food. She would make better tips.”

  “So, you sleep-baked brownies…” whispered Fletch.

  She pushed her mind back, grabbing at shreds of memory. “Jax was trying to make friends at his new school. One of them, Sage… his father worked in sanitation. He would curse out people who didn’t separate trash from recycling, and when he was mad, Sage would get mad, and then he would be a jerk to Jax.”

  “Recycling bin…” murmured Byron.

  Sam was shivering now. “My teacher, I mean, my new teacher… Miss Calabria. I remember… she told us that she wouldn’t drive in Parsippany in a storm because the traffic lights would go wonky on Dodie Drive. That’s the word she used, ‘wonky.’ I thought it was funny; she was funny. I liked her, way better than my old teacher because…” It came to her in a flash and now the words flew out. “Because Mrs. Burkee was moody, and when she was grumpy, she would give us really annoying assignments.… And one of those assignments was writing about current events in the newspaper!”

  Byron laughed, clapped his soul hands. Fletcher grabbed all the papers on the desk and threw them in the air. “By St. Dymphna! I would hug you if I could see you!”

  That came pretty close to killing the thrill for Sam. “You still can’t see me?”

  Fletch was racing around the office, looking for more random celebratory papers to throw. “It’ll come!”

  “But—”

  “It will come, Sam, trust me!” He gave up finding more papers and instead threw Joanne’s stethoscope jubilantly. “It’ll come when you—!”

  “Please don’t say when I believe in the weight and possibilities of my own soul. It sounds like an Instagram meme,” Sam grumbled.

  Dr. Fletcher shrugged buoyantly and flopped into a chair. “Well, I have no idea what an instant Grammy is, but if it’s an old lady who suddenly appears to give advice, maybe you should listen.”

  Byron looked confused. Sam decided to just let that one go.

  “Okay. So, let’s say that I’m a… Helper.” The word felt strange in her mouth—too far-reaching—arrogant almost. Like calling yourself president when you were really only student-body treasurer, and that only because you got the least votes of anyone who’d been running for president. “There’s still not much I can do about the MeanDreams until I can be solid. So… maybe I can try to fix this tomorrow at school. You know, while I have working hands and, like, a visible body. I’ll just, I guess… talk to Jaida. Maybe I can warn her.”

  Byron and Fletch exchanged a look that said “that’s so not gonna work,” but what else could Sam do? The Helper definitely needed help, but like fairy godmothers, instant Grammies were hard to come by these days.

  SAM MEANDERED DOWN THE HALLWAY, gnawing on her cuticles. Which was basically all she’d had to eat the entire day, since she felt so nauseated about approaching Jaida she’d skipped both breakfast and lunch. The one saving grace had been that Madalynn was MIA; she’d never been out sick before, so Sam could only assume that she’d over
slept or that the faculty had declared a Madalynn Sucret Is Awesome holiday and sent her to a spa. Whatever the reason, Sam was relieved not to have to face Madalynn and Jaida in daylight hours.

  As she neared her locker, Sam saw exactly what she had hoped for yesterday but dreaded today: Jaida and her posse in the midst of a heavy-duty argument. She wasn’t close enough to hear what was being said, but there was much pointing, hand-wringing, and a few tears. Finally Gina and Amy stalked off in different directions and Jaida turned and slammed her books into her locker. Madalynn’s silky voice echoed in Sam’s mind: Boom! Unfriended.

  Talking to Jaida at this moment was pretty much number one on Sam’s un-bucket list, but she didn’t know if she would get another chance. Jaida whirled around at her approach and the first thing Sam noticed was the dark circles under her eyes. But of course, Jaida didn’t register Sam’s look of compassion, she only cared about Sam noticing the second thing—the infamous sparkly fanny pack, the broken zipper now held closed with a safety pin.

  “What are you looking at, Fiashco?” Jaida snarled. Um, Fashion Fiasco, I’m guessing? Jaida was staring her down so viciously, Sam had to quickly conjure up the image of the fragile girl in the cold bedroom or she never would have been able to do what she did next. Which was walk over to Jaida’s locker. Yeah, your basic death wish.

  “Jaida, I… Jaida, you… I… you…” This was a really bad start. But at least it had the advantage of being so bad, it shut Jaida up for a few seconds in eyebrow-raised awe. Which was all Sam needed to get the ball rolling.

  “Okay, this is gonna sound crazy, but you were right about me, I mean, I’m not a narcoleptic, I’m a sleepwalker, and my doctor detached my soul, which is what you can do with certain sleepwalkers, so there are all these souls wandering around in the night, they’re called SleepWakers and they form tribes, and some of the tribes are not so nice, and, and, and, aaaaaand—”

  Aaand she did sound crazy. Loony. Completely unhinged. Mondo bizarro. The ball was definitely rolling, but it sounded more like it was rolling around the empty corridors of Sam’s brain.

  So, she blurted it out: “I know what happened at your house last night!” And then she watched as the thunderclouds on Jaida’s face whipped into a hurricane of rage.

  “How do you know what happened?” Jaida demanded. “Did they tell you? Did you help them?!”

  “No! I mean, yeah, I did, sort of, but they didn’t—”

  “I’m gonna hurt you!” Now Jaida was backing her up against the lockers, so enraged Sam could literally feel heat rising off her face. “I’m gonna hurt you so bad your grandchildren are gonna end up in the ER!”

  “Wow, uh, that’s a little harsh—”

  This really is not going well.

  “I’m gonna—gonna—rip your large intestine out of your mouth and your small intestine out of your butt and I’m gonna use you as a jump rope!”

  “Okay, that one was actually pretty creative—”

  Creatively psychopathic, that is.

  “I’m gonna—! I’m gonna—!” Jaida was obviously searching for something more gruesome than disembowelment, but before she could drum it up, a melodious voice was heard.

  “Oh, my good goodness. Did you hear that, Principal Nussbaum?”

  Sam and Jaida whirled around to see an outraged school administrator accompanied by a glowing Madalynn Sucret, who had indeed taken a spa rest day, as evidenced by her luminescence and the goodie bag of moisturizer samples she was carrying.

  “Come with me, Miss Coakley.” Principal Nussbaum’s voice was icy.

  And even though Jaida shot her a look that promised future evisceration, Sam was sorry to see her go. Because that left her alone with Madalynn, who leaned her shiny visage toward Sam and whispered, “See? I got your back. And I know you’ll have mine. Or else. See you tonight, Sleep Sis.” She flounced away, her ringlets bobbing up and down like towheaded toddlers in a bounce house.

  Overwhelmed, Sam leaned back against the lockers. Compared to what lay ahead, disembowelment was looking pretty appealing.

  What the—

  For a moment, Sam wasn’t sure why everything looked so ripply and there were ducks swimming through the air. Then she groaned.

  She was staring through the shower curtain. Because her soul had woken up hiding in the bathtub. Great. Not only did she have a cowardly consciousness, but she also had a dumb one. Are you really gonna hide from Satan’s handmaiden behind a clear plastic shower curtain?

  Sam pulled her mist body into a fetal position in the bottom of the tub. She just wanted to disappear and not face anything. What good was a rested body in the other room when her soul was so torn up inside? Her mind and her essence were on call 24/7, and she just didn’t know how to turn them off. Some kind of Helper I am. I can’t even help myself.

  She heard the water before she felt it, a tremendous swoosh of sound. Sam unwound herself to see Arthur putting the stopper into the bathtub drain as the faucet gushed.

  “Turn it up higher, Prank!” Madalynn sang out as she yanked back the shower curtain. “I think Sam needs a nice wet lesson!”

  “What are you doing?!” Sam instinctively grabbed at the hot and cold knobs to turn off the water, but of course, her hands slid right through. She turned to Arthur, who couldn’t meet her eyes. “Arthur?”

  Madalynn smiled. “Oh, Sam, don’t worry. He’ll turn it off. Right after you finish your business with Jaida.”

  Dread filled Sam’s soul. “What? The whole house will flood!”

  “Not if you hurry.” Madalynn gestured grandly with the bell sleeve of her leopard-print robe. “Come on, Sleep Sis, I’ll help you hyper-cross. We’ll be there in a jiffy, and be back before you can say, ‘Oh no, we don’t have homeowners’ insurance!’ ” She laughed, a terrifyingly tinkly sound.

  Be solid, be solid, you idiot soul hands! Sam clawed at the stopper in the drain, but the idiot soul hands just kept misting through. The tub was already halfway full. I’m not a Helper! I can’t even help my family not drown in their beds!

  “Samantha, you are wasting time.” Now Madalynn’s voice was chillier. “Prank, tell her.”

  Arthur gulped. “C’mon, Sam. Let’s get it over with.” He was so pale, the spots of pimple cream on his face resembled snowflakes on an ice rink.

  Sam leapt out of the bathtub. “Fine! Just go!”

  They slid through the wall into the living room and then out onto the lawn. Before the “blur” could start, Sam cast one agonized look back at the house and a tiny movement caught her eye. It was Byron, gesturing “I got this” from his shrub outside the bedroom window. She whipped her head back around, praying that Madalynn hadn’t seen, but Queen MeanDream just barked, “Stop stalling!” Sam nodded and took off, feeling a flood of relief in proportion to the tsunami that was about to be halted in her bathroom. Thank you, God, for By the Spy.

  Since they were only hyper-crossing to the other side of town and not across the Great Lakes, the blurred journey took mere seconds. In front of Jaida’s dark house, the even darker MeanDreams formed a clump. Bree stood guard like a malevolent signpost, but Zac was skirting the outside of the tribe, giving out violent wet willies. Madalynn paused only long enough to bark, “Zac!” and then blazed right through the wall of the house, disappearing from sight. Sam looked at Arthur, who was shaking so hard, little fireworks of dandruff were exploding off his scalp.

  “Since you can’t go solid yet, she said she’s gonna help out,” Arthur quavered.

  “Oh, I guess Madalynn’s a Helper now,” Sam mumbled acidly.

  “Huh?”

  “Nothing. Arthur, we can’t do this! How do we stop her?” Sam whispered urgently, casting a quick glance at Bree and Zac, hoping they didn’t have super-evil superhuman hearing.

  “There’s no way out, Sam. The bathtub’s on at my house, too, and I don’t have a Roamer to turn it off!” Arthur whispered back.

  He saw Byron. “Thanks for not tattling on me, Prank,” she said sof
tly.

  Arthur shrugged, a wisp of a smile showing off his rather impressive buckteeth. “Come on, let’s just get this over with. I’ve got gerbils at home who definitely can’t swim.”

  He turned and zoomed into the house. Just as Sam was about to follow, it came to her: Arthur knows how to be solid. Why didn’t he turn off the water at his house himself?

  “He’s afraid.” The voice came from within the group of MeanDreams.

  Bree whirled around, growling, “Who said that?”

  She was met with silence.

  But Sam knew, even though she had only heard the voice a few times. Kyra was somewhere in the middle of the tribe, probably wearing her bright red flannel pajamas but still invisible to the naked eye. Sam wasn’t sure what was more disquieting, the entire group just staring at Bree mutely, or that Kyra had read Sam’s mind, knew the truth, but seemingly had no way to escape this melded mass of souls.

  Sam turned slowly back toward the house, and as she glided through the wall, a new feeling came over her. A feeling of protectiveness for Kyra, for “Minnie Mouse,” for the missing Achieve, and especially for Arthur. Seriously, who was low enough to scare a sweet, goofy kid with a flaky scalp and front teeth that were practically at a right angle to his gums? Only the lowest of the low. Only a bully. And I know what a bully is. A person who hurts someone else for absolutely no reason.

  “Finally!” Madalynn rolled her eyes so strenuously, the pupils actually disappeared briefly. “And just in time…”

  Madalynn was standing next to Jaida’s bed, holding on to Arthur with one hand, and her other hand was turning, tilting a bottle of Tabasco over Jaida’s open mouth.