“Yeah, but whatever. You’re, like, her perfect little protégé. I see the way she bats her eyelashes at you. And she talks about you like you’re the man.” He laughs. “Trust me. She’s got a thing for you. And I’ll never be able to live up to your saintly image. Tell me, have you ever done anything Chimere told you not to do?”

I’m about to tell him that he’s wrong, so wrong, and what’s more, that no female has ever had a “thing” for me, but I decide this is silliness. Besides, these topics are not worth discussing with the likes of him.

“Chimere is going to freak when you’re gone, man. I’ll be surprised if she doesn’t beg you to stay.”

“Chimere is not so silly,” I say.

“People you know really well can surprise you.”

“Chimere is not a person.”

“Whatever. I mean, I was surprised by my best friend. Julia doesn’t know him as well as I do. I’ve known him since we were kids. And I know now that he’ll hurt her.”

He’ll hurt her. If any words could stop me in my tracks, they are those. I immediately think of my stepfather. Mama went to the grave two years after I did, thanks to him. If there was any day of these past hundred years when I wished to be human most, it was that day. Had I been there, perhaps I could have stopped him. I was a new Sleepbringer at the time, and when Chimere brought me the news, I cursed my helplessness. Though Sandmen are not permitted to leave their charges, Chimere allowed me to visit Mama’s grave site during the funeral. It was on that day that I promised myself I would never, ever hesitate to act if needed, if it came to the life or death of someone I cared about.

I turn to him, the lessons of the day forgotten. “What exactly do you mean?”

CHAPTER 13

Julia

Ever since I can remember, every time I’ve come home, my mom has been sitting on the steps outside our front door, waiting for me. It doesn’t matter that I’m sixteen, only days away from being old enough to drive and free to go where I want; I expect she’ll still be this protective of me when I’m fifty, and I can’t blame her. This time, she’s gnawing on a celery stick. It must be, for her and my dad, “health week;” once a month, after indulging in too many Ho Hos and Twix bars, she’ll go to Giant and pick up all the fixings for her own little farmers’ market. We’ll probably have something with tofu for dinner, but at this point, I’m glad. I ate three funnel cakes at Sweetie Pi’s while contemplating the Rubik’s Cube incident.

It’s the same greeting she’s given me every day since Griffin died: “Hon, how’re you doing?” and a little shoulder rub. She swats a fly away from her face and crinkles her brow. She’s the only one who can ask me how I’m feeling until her face falls off and it doesn’t bother me. Maybe because I trust that she really does care about me. She really does want to hear the answer, good or bad.

“Good,” I say as she reaches over and wipes a little gritty cinnamon sugar off my cheek, near the scars. She’s the only one who can touch my scars without making me cringe. I notice an envelope sitting beside her.

She holds it out to me. “Thought this might lift your spirits.”

I read the return address: New York, New York. It’s from Architectural Journal’s monthlong summer program for high school students interested in pursuing engineering and architecture degrees in college—the program I was rejected from months ago, when Griffin was alive. I’d been psyched when I’d applied, at the beginning of my sophomore year, because I’d always wanted to design buildings, even when I was a kid, building skyscrapers out of Popsicle sticks in my bedroom at night. But with Griffin’s help, after I’d gotten my rejection, I’d come to see not going as a good thing. “If you’d gone off to New York for a month, that would have blown everything,” he’d said. And he was right. He was slated to go to UCLA in early August, so that wouldn’t have given us any time together.

“What do they want?” I say, a little bitter, because, after all, they rejected me. Even if they begged me to come now, I wouldn’t dare …

She shoves it into my hands. “One way to find out.”

I shrug and rip the envelope open, then unfold the paper. I catch the phrases “there has been a cancellation” and “pleased to welcome you” and let out a little shriek. “They want me!” I cry. So what if it’s by default? They want me. To be in New York, the Big Apple, next month. My heart flutters at the thought.

My mom hugs me. “Oh, congrats, honey. I’m so proud of you. Your father will be so excited.”

“But I can’t …,” I say softly, and that’s when I realize something. The main reason I couldn’t, or wouldn’t—Griffin—no longer exists. Then I look to her, seeking her approval. I know that this will be hard on her; letting me out of her sight always has been.

“Why can’t you?” my mother says. “You talked nonstop about this for months.”

“Really? I know. I guess I can.” I suppress my smile. For some reason it seems wrong to be happy about finally getting something Griffin convinced me I didn’t want. And about something that obviously must be causing my mom a minor heart attack. I mean, going to a party or working at Sweetie Pi’s is one thing. Living in a whole different state for six weeks is another.

My mom says, “We’ll have to go shopping to get you some city duds.”

I grin. The word “shopping” has that effect on me. I picture myself on a busy city street, smiling and twirling in my new fashionable outfit, beautiful skyscrapers surrounding me. “Thanks, Mom, but are you sure?”

She nods. “You’re getting your license in a few days. You’re grown-up. You can take care of yourself.”

This is a huge step for my mom. I hug her and head into the house. I run upstairs and throw my books and my Sweetie Pi’s apron onto the bed. Then I pick up my phone and the Wilson High directory. I open it, find the number, and dial. She picks up right away, as if the phone is attached to her like her very own tumor.

“Hey, is this Ebony?” I ask.

“Yep. Who’s this?”

“Julia. Hi.”

There’s a few seconds’ pause. I know I’m probably the last person she expected to hear from. “Oh, hey, what’s up?”

“Hi,” I say, and then realize I’m a moron, because I said that already. So I quickly follow up with “Yeah, so that party Wednesday? Can I still go with you guys?”

I cringe; that’s even more moronic. Like I’m-a-total-dweeb-and-have-no-friends-so-I-have-to-glom-on-to-you moronic. If she thinks so, though, she doesn’t let on. “Sure thing, Jul,” she says. Then she laughs. “You could have told me tomorrow at school. I didn’t even know you had my number.”

“Oh. School directory,” I say lamely. She does have a point. I could have just told her in school, of course. But I was so busy riding the high of my Architectural Journal summer session acceptance that I momentarily lost my grasp on reality.

“Right,” she says. And then there’s this awkward pause. I begin to remember exactly why I had no friends before Griffin and Bret. “See you tomorrow, then,” she finally adds. I can tell her finger is hovering over the “End” button on her phone.

“Oh, sure. See you.” Click.

I shake off the feeling of embarrassment and lean back on my pillow. This is a good thing. This is what is called moving on, pushing past “Front-Page Julia,” full speed ahead. I’m sure this is what Griffin would want for me.

My phone vibrates in my hand. At first I think it must be Ebony calling back to say, “We’ve reconsidered. You are too much of a loser,” but then I check the display. It’s Bret’s number. As I’m contemplating whether to answer, the ring tone begins to play.

I stare at the cell, watching my knuckles grow white around it. Because I felt like it was Griffin’s last act, I never changed the ring tone from that cheesy “Ring My Bell.” But this is a different song, vaguely familiar. An old song. The voice is one of those icons, Frank Sinatra or Dean Martin. I’ve never been crazy about that music, but …