Sleepless by Cyn Balog Page A

compared to when Griffin was around and we’d spend hours at his house, goofing off. But Griffin is gone. And I can’t say I’ve been piningfor time with Bret the past few days. If I hung out that much with him, it would be like we were together . I’m about to make a remark like that when I see the way he’s looking at me. It’s not a normal Bret look. It takes me back to the track, when he pulled me so close I could feel his breath on my cheek and smell his cinnamon Mentos. It’s a look that kind of makes me think “together” is exactly what he has in mind.
    I put the egg cream down and grab the edge of the counter. Suddenly, I can’t breathe. This creepy-crawly sensation finds its way to the back of my neck.
    “We could, you know …,” he is saying. “Hang out together … later.”
    My mind screams, No! And suddenly I’m feeling hot. I’m not sure why. After Griffin, Bret is a natural choice to fill the void. He’s cute. And we had Griffin in common. Who knows, two shadows together might even make one real person. He’s the only person left in the world who treats me like Julia, not Front-Page Julia. But … “It’s just too soon,” I whisper, and it’s the truth, even though it sounds so pathetically cliché. I know that my face is flushed, so I turn around and chant You don’t care to myself until I feel it return to normal.
    He backs away. “I didn’t mean that kind of hanging out,” he says, clearly confused by my reaction. After all, he’s never seen the old, weepy Julia. “I meant, I dunno. Get together. Play some tzatziki . And not strip tzatziki , either. Purely grandmotherly tzatziki .”
    “Oh,” I mumble, embarrassed. Luckily, a woman with two children steps up to the counter. I muster a smile. “I’ll catch you later.”
    His voice turns playful again, and he’s back to the regularBret. “Catch you later,” he says, and turns toward Gyro Hut, lapping away at his rocky road.
    I turn back to the whitewashed cabinets and the harsh fluorescent lighting, then take a long sip of my egg cream, even though the seltzer stings my tongue. Things might have been normal with Griffin, and they could be the same with Bret, but maybe there’s more than one definition of “normal.” Maybe that kind of normal is not the one I’m looking for anymore.

CHAPTER 8
Eron
    T he rain filters through the trees, weighing down the leaves, making my branch wet, but I cannot feel the dampness on my skin. Sandmen are not affected by the weather, or so Chimere tells me. Yet just as I did as a human, I find rainy days to be gloomy. So many years have passed since I would arrive at the mill looking like a drowned rat after trekking the four miles through the city of Newark, and no longer do I have to endure the water seeping through the soles of my well-worn shoes … yet there is still something utterly melancholy about gray skies and softly falling raindrops.
    Or perhaps it is just that with the passing days, the weight on my mind grows heavier. Before, it was only the apprehension of once again being human. Of finding my unfinished business. Now I have even more worries to contend with.
    “Oh, my pet,” Chimere says softly. “You are a sight.”
    I don’t realize until she appears that I’ve been chewing my bottom lip raw. “I have much to think about.”
    She nods. “The training has been difficult,” she says. “But of anyone, I knew you would be the most patient.”
    Chimere always uses flattery to motivate us. “I seem to be losing my patience with him.”
    “Yes. He is the challenge, isn’t he?” she says with a giddy, schoolgirl laugh. As if I should be roused by this. I know how she, above all, loves challenges, but I do not. “I must admit, he does fascinate me,” she says. “You are still making progress, in spite of it all.”
    I give her a doubtful look. “It took me nearly all night to convince him to try the seduction on a cat. I’m not sure he will ever learn to put his