I venture a peek over the podium, away from the weeping girls and Mrs. Colburn, and see Bret Anderson, Griffin’s best friend, rolling his eyes. He pretends to string up a rope and hang himself.

Thanks, Bret. Love you, too. Okay, so it is cliché, but would they rather a dramatic reading of “Do Not Go Gentle into That Good Night”? I speak a little bit about how he’d gotten a full-ride academic scholarship to UCLA, how he was the “always smiling, happy-go-lucky, life-of-the-party” type of guy, and how he will surely be missed for many, many years to come. It’s corny, but what else can I do? This is what I knew of Griffin. Even though we dated for almost a year, we didn’t have deep, mind-blowing conversations. When we talked, it was mostly in the form of one-liners.

That’s when the priest clears his throat. The wind whips my hair away from my face, and suddenly I feel the scars pulsating, screaming, Hey, look at me! so that it drowns out my voice. I cut the next full paragraph from my speech, quickly mumble a thank-you, and step away from the podium. After that, nobody makes eye contact with me, which, I’ve come to discover over the years, is much preferable to being stared down. I fidget about in my ruined heels, searching for a safe place to stand, but Bret, the only person I trust right now, is way over on the other side of the coffin.

The priest does the whole “ashes to ashes” thing and then people begin to walk away from the casket, milling about, looking lost. Tracy McLish walks toward me. We were best friends up until last year, when I was a freshman. She moved to town when I was eight, so she missed all my drama, and we became friends. The thing was, after the story broke, I still felt the same, but everyone else expected me to be emotionally scarred for life. She didn’t expect that, so she treated me just like anyone else and made what was left of my childhood feel normal. But that was before I met Griffin. Tracy had a hard time “getting” Bret and Griffin; a lot of people do. Thin-skinned people need not apply. And Tracy, like most girls, is too easily offended. I know; I used to be that way, too. She started hanging out with us less and less, and I finally stopped calling her. It was just a mutual drifting-apart, I guess, so that’s why I expect her to walk right past me. Instead, she stops and says, “I’m so sorry, Jules.”

Her eyes are a little teary. Leave it to Tracy to get torn up over a guy she didn’t even know that well. “Thanks,” I say.

She hugs herself. “I just … wish everything wasn’t a big joke to you. Like it was to Griffin.”

“What do you mean? I’m just …” That’s when I realize she must have read the newspaper article. But I know she means more than that. I haven’t had a good cry since … well, since I started going out with Griffin.

She shrugs. “Take care of yourself.”

I start to thank her, but by then she’s disappeared into the group. Yeah, having Griffin as a boyfriend helped me develop a thick skin. I had to, to last even a day with him. Instead of greeting me with a kiss, he’d squeeze my ass and say, “What’s up, Bubble Butt?” Told me I ran “like a Muppet” at cross-country practice. Said I should “suck it up” when my cat Banshee died. He called things the way he saw them, even if it sometimes hurt people’s feelings. But that was just his way, and the price you paid for having a guy who was an utter blast to be around. The way he told stories, the way he lit up a room … he knew how to keep things light, fun. I was the only one who learned to take it and dish it right back at him until he thought of me as his equal. He was authentic, which is more than I can say for any of these people. Crying for a guy they hardly knew?

I look at the coffin and tell myself, That’s Griffin in there. Your boyfriend. I cough and try to think of something that might make me cry, for Tracy’s benefit. Three-legged puppies. Onions. That’s all that comes to mind.

Nope, no tears.

I’m sure Griffin would be proud of me. But I can’t help wondering if it means that I no longer have a soul. That maybe I am as messed up as people think I am.

CHAPTER 4

Eron

Mama’s ancestors used to say, “A restless night is Satan on your shoulder.” They had no idea that sometimes a lack of rest has more to do with the worries of the person seducing a human to sleep than the person attempting to sleep. Tonight, after I completed the seduction of Julia, my two other charges suffered terribly. I was late getting to them, because my mind was in a muddle. Evangeline, a lady who took a new lover almost every evening, couldn’t seem to get comfortable, and Vicki, the sleepwalker, wouldn’t stay in bed no matter how many times I guided her back there. I’d like to say that it was their fault, that they were the ones with too much on their minds, but I knew better.

That’s not to say it isn’t ever the human’s fault. Sometimes I will stay at the bedside of one of my charges all night, and there will be nothing I can do. Humans worry. When I was a human, I barely ever slept after I met Gertie. Gertie could sing “Ave Maria”—or was it some other song?—like an angel. Chimere has always said that seducing me to sleep was her greatest challenge. I’d toss and turn and think of exactly what I would say when I finally did have the guts to approach Gertie. It ranged from direct (“You are so beautiful”) to subtle (“You dropped your glove”), with a thousand other iterations in between. One time, I found her alone in the coat room after church, and all I could muster was a subhuman grunt. Chimere used to tease me, saying I was the only charge she’d ever had who would get tongue-tied around women even in his dreams.

I’ve always taken great pride in my work with the seduction, because Chimere will tell you I possess a particular skill with it … however, my talents will likely get me nowhere as a human. Maybe I’m a much more adept Sandman than man. Still, I’m committed to not letting fear—or my inability to string two words together—stand in the way, not again.

Sleepbringers do not have homes, for we do not sleep, or eat, or enjoy time with our families, or do any of the other things that humans do in their houses. I spend a good portion of the daylight hours sitting in the trees outside the homes of my charges, alone, which leaves much time for thinking. That is all I can do, because straying too far from my charges is forbidden. After all, you never know when one of them might desire a catnap. Not that I mind; it is quite relaxing and I enjoy the solitude. At least alone I won’t stumble over my words like a fool. My other two charges live by themselves, within a few blocks of Julia, and they never vacation or travel, so I am never able to explore fully how the world has changed since I left it. And because the Sleepbringers charged with lulling Julia’s parents to sleep are solitary types themselves, I’m always by myself, save for a daily visit from Chimere. I know that things in the world have changed. The women I watch over wear tighter, almost obscene attire; their surroundings are far more opulent; they speak on telephones without cords and say things in odd ways…. And I thought they were a mystery before! I know that becoming part of this world will take some adjustment, but I’m hopeful that I’ve learned a thing or two from these hundred years.

Namely, not to hesitate to act.

It’s usually pleasant sitting here, listening to the birds chatter and taking in the sun. But today I have far too much on my mind. I’m thinking about Julia’s beloved, about the training.

At twilight, I’m checking my pocket watch when Chimere appears, right on schedule. She greets me with the customary “Hello, my pet.” With her is a tall, brutish young man with straggly golden red hair that nearly covers his eyes. It’s quite a mess, which makes me wonder if that is indeed the style these days. His unkempt hairstyle is in direct contradiction to his formal wear, a crisp black tuxedo. We Sleepbringers always dress in formal attire, though my top hat, overcoat, and pinstriped trousers are likely no longer in vogue. He, however, does not appear to be very comfortable in his stiff new suit; he’s pulling on the collar and grimacing. His face is red. I think he is having a difficult time breathing. I can’t help smiling; I felt the same way when they put me in my attire. It took years to grow accustomed to it. We never wore such finery at the textile mill, or anywhere else, for that matter.