mean?” Paul shakes his shadowy head. “Never mind. Don’t answer that, because I’m ready to pay you twenty bucks for your toes. I’m serious. Show ’em. Show ’em!”
“Absolutely out of your mind.” I send him a bunch of goofy, crazy smileys.
Okay, so he’s obviously trying to make me feel better, but it’s working.
“Try me.” A flash of the upside-down pyramid tattoo to the camera. “Show me your toes, then check your Portal account. Twenty bucks for toes!”
By the time I get the camera back on, I’m laughing so hard I have trouble positioning the computer. It takes some doing, but I manage to bend my ankle and get my feet up to the camera lens and wiggle all ten of my toes at him.
Paul’s right in the middle of typing something back when I hear noises out in the hall.
My heart thumps to a stop again, but this time not in a good way. I type
POS
as fast as I can, then: “Later tomorrow night because we have a game—probably 12,” hit ENTER, then slam my laptop shut.
The noises get louder. Definitely somebody walking. Definitely coming closer.
I put the laptop on the floor near my backpack, slip out of my closet, and push the door partway closed, then fast-tiptoe to my bed.
Whoever’s walking stops at my door.
I yank back my covers and throw myself into my bed.
My breath comes sharp and short, and I want to grab my stomach and chest at the same time. If it’s Mom, I’m so dead. Mom always knows when I’m faking sleep. Dad—well, fifty-fifty. At least I’ll have a shot if it’s Dad.
I pull up the covers, try to force my eyes shut, and try to make myself quit gasping.
The handle rattles, and I hear the door swing open.
My eyes are still partway open, but my vision hasn’tadjusted to the darkness. I can’t see if I’m doomed or not until I hear Lauren say, “Chan?”
All my energy flows out in one big wave. I almost laugh, then I almost cry. Lauren’s voice sounds sleepy, not completely awake. Probably had a bad dream. Lauren has lots of bad dreams, or at least she says she does, every time she wakes up and comes to my room. Usually with lots of tears and sniffling and other theatrical stuff.
I reach for the Lauren-shadow beside my bed and touch her hair. “What do you need?”
Lauren gives a huge, loud sniff and puts her hand over mine. “I dreamed about bad men,” she says with a movie-diva flair. “I thought I saw a kidnapper outside my window.”
Yeah. Through the shutters and blackout shades, never mind Mom’s prickly bushes and the house alarm. Is this kid
always
rehearsing? Or did she see this on a movie?
Not that it matters.
I learned a long time ago that it’s pointless to fight with Lauren about stuff that might be real in her head, even if it’s not real in the world as I know it. Besides, if I act like I don’t believe her, she’ll cry really loud and wake up Mom and Dad.
I scoot over in the bed and give her shoulder a tug. “Come on. I’ve got to get some sleep before morning. You need some, too, or you’ll snooze all the way through school.”
Lauren sniffs again, then a third time before she runs her hand over her forehead like some nutty chick from an afternoon melodrama.
Somehow, I manage not to groan.
Lauren finishes her dramatic rendition of
Poor Little Had-a-Nightmare Child
, climbs into bed beside me, and settles in quick, drop-kicking my leg a couple of times in the process.
In the interest of remaining Mom-and-Dad-less for the rest of the night, I ignore the pain and start telling her a story about princesses and swans and beautiful ponds and gardens, one of my favorites from when I was a little kid. A few minutes later, when she’s ripping snores in my ear and half shoving me out of my own bed, I wonder if I’m out of my mind. And I wonder about Paul, and whether or not he’s disappointed I had to go so fast.
I hope he got my last send, about parents over my shoulder.
We’ll have to make one up, Paul and me, for this
“Absolutely out of your mind.” I send him a bunch of goofy, crazy smileys.
Okay, so he’s obviously trying to make me feel better, but it’s working.
“Try me.” A flash of the upside-down pyramid tattoo to the camera. “Show me your toes, then check your Portal account. Twenty bucks for toes!”
By the time I get the camera back on, I’m laughing so hard I have trouble positioning the computer. It takes some doing, but I manage to bend my ankle and get my feet up to the camera lens and wiggle all ten of my toes at him.
Paul’s right in the middle of typing something back when I hear noises out in the hall.
My heart thumps to a stop again, but this time not in a good way. I type
POS
as fast as I can, then: “Later tomorrow night because we have a game—probably 12,” hit ENTER, then slam my laptop shut.
The noises get louder. Definitely somebody walking. Definitely coming closer.
I put the laptop on the floor near my backpack, slip out of my closet, and push the door partway closed, then fast-tiptoe to my bed.
Whoever’s walking stops at my door.
I yank back my covers and throw myself into my bed.
My breath comes sharp and short, and I want to grab my stomach and chest at the same time. If it’s Mom, I’m so dead. Mom always knows when I’m faking sleep. Dad—well, fifty-fifty. At least I’ll have a shot if it’s Dad.
I pull up the covers, try to force my eyes shut, and try to make myself quit gasping.
The handle rattles, and I hear the door swing open.
My eyes are still partway open, but my vision hasn’tadjusted to the darkness. I can’t see if I’m doomed or not until I hear Lauren say, “Chan?”
All my energy flows out in one big wave. I almost laugh, then I almost cry. Lauren’s voice sounds sleepy, not completely awake. Probably had a bad dream. Lauren has lots of bad dreams, or at least she says she does, every time she wakes up and comes to my room. Usually with lots of tears and sniffling and other theatrical stuff.
I reach for the Lauren-shadow beside my bed and touch her hair. “What do you need?”
Lauren gives a huge, loud sniff and puts her hand over mine. “I dreamed about bad men,” she says with a movie-diva flair. “I thought I saw a kidnapper outside my window.”
Yeah. Through the shutters and blackout shades, never mind Mom’s prickly bushes and the house alarm. Is this kid
always
rehearsing? Or did she see this on a movie?
Not that it matters.
I learned a long time ago that it’s pointless to fight with Lauren about stuff that might be real in her head, even if it’s not real in the world as I know it. Besides, if I act like I don’t believe her, she’ll cry really loud and wake up Mom and Dad.
I scoot over in the bed and give her shoulder a tug. “Come on. I’ve got to get some sleep before morning. You need some, too, or you’ll snooze all the way through school.”
Lauren sniffs again, then a third time before she runs her hand over her forehead like some nutty chick from an afternoon melodrama.
Somehow, I manage not to groan.
Lauren finishes her dramatic rendition of
Poor Little Had-a-Nightmare Child
, climbs into bed beside me, and settles in quick, drop-kicking my leg a couple of times in the process.
In the interest of remaining Mom-and-Dad-less for the rest of the night, I ignore the pain and start telling her a story about princesses and swans and beautiful ponds and gardens, one of my favorites from when I was a little kid. A few minutes later, when she’s ripping snores in my ear and half shoving me out of my own bed, I wonder if I’m out of my mind. And I wonder about Paul, and whether or not he’s disappointed I had to go so fast.
I hope he got my last send, about parents over my shoulder.
We’ll have to make one up, Paul and me, for this
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