disease.”
“I used to have sleepovers. Eight, nine of us running around my house.” Poole grins. “We’re probably pushin’ the sleepover age limit, but hey, we’re making up for lost time. Hand that art over here again.”
I hand over a few sheets, stretch out on the floor, and stare at the look on the White Knight’s face. He kind of looks like me. “So what now?”
“Typical sleepover? Food. Stupid conversations. Too-loud music. Maybe a movie that scares the wits out of you.”
“I haven’t done real well here. No cake. Can’t play music. No horror flicks.” I close my eyes. “Sorry, Poole.”
“No friend, you did great. Tackle-the-Lani was fun to watch, and I’m guessing’ that there must be something in your fridge.” He bounces on the mattress. “And this bed is worth the price of admission.”
I sit up. “It’s yours for the night. I’ll, uh, take the floor.”
The germ-infested floor.
We lie in silence for a minute.
“Say, Marty. We’re friends, right?”
“Yeah, absolutely.”
“Might be a strange time to mention this, but Julia, she’s —”
“Nobody you need to be thinking about.” I stand and snatch back her pictures from his hands.
“I’m not. But if … And don’t get this wrong, friend. We’ll beat this curse thing.” He turns. “But if we don’t and you aren’t around … you know what? Forget it.”
“No.” I say quietly. “You and Julia have that wild side in common. Sounds cool to me. But nothing until I’m —”
“'Course not. Wouldn’t think of it.”
More silence.
I exhale. “I’ll, uh, check the kitchen.”
I sneak down the steps and open the fridge. “No lasagna. There. Meatloaf is close.”
A quick preheat later, I re-enter my room. “Here, I brought you some …”
Snore.
“Meatloaf.”
Poole sleeps with a smile on his face. No way I’ll take that away from him. Probably his first nice bed in years.
I enjoy the late-night snack, shut down the computer, and stretch out on the floor.
Why’d it take a death sentence to get me a sleepover? Why is the only person at my only sleepover a vagrant? Why did said vagrant ask me for his blessing to steal my princess? Nothing in my life makes sense. Not my newfound sister. Not the words I said at the family meeting. Not Poole’s disgusting microbials dancing on my sanitized bedsheets.
But I feel good. Having Poole here feels good.
As long as I get him out before 5 a.m.
Sleep doesn’t come. Poole, Julia, Death, and barn owls float through my mind’s middle world — a land where I’m not quite unconscious, but definitely not awake. It’s a place where dreams run free, and at 4:45 I stagger up, exhausted from my adventures.
A shower. Something to wash off the night.
Poole’s snore rumbles from beneath the sheets.
Least somebody slept well.
“Be right back,” I whisper, and stumble out toward the bathroom.
Hot water on a cool morning. There’s nothing better, and I smile.
Bang. Bang. Distant clangs and a shout.
I shut off the water, poke my head out of the curtain, and reach for the towel.
Poole throws open the door to the hallway, leaps in, and slams it shut behind him.
“We have other bathrooms,” I say.
Bang. Bang! The sound nears, and Poole stares at me with wild eyes.
“Barn Owl!” He opens the linen closet, frowns, and throws open the window. “Marty, my friend. Thanks for the sleepover.”
“What is going —”
Poole eases himself out, drops silently onto porch shingles. He turns, salutes, and jumps out of sight.
“Can’t be good on the ankles,” I whisper, and shut the window and wrap with a towel. I open the hallway door.
Smack!
A saucepan smashes my nose, and I crumple to the ground. Mom shrieks. I groan. Lani dashes toward us.
“Oh, Lani. Get me a towel. I mashed Martin!”
A pool of nasal blood forms around my head. I wriggle my nose.
“I’m okay, Mom.” I sit and pinch my nostrils together. “If you would’ve used the Crock-Pot,
“I used to have sleepovers. Eight, nine of us running around my house.” Poole grins. “We’re probably pushin’ the sleepover age limit, but hey, we’re making up for lost time. Hand that art over here again.”
I hand over a few sheets, stretch out on the floor, and stare at the look on the White Knight’s face. He kind of looks like me. “So what now?”
“Typical sleepover? Food. Stupid conversations. Too-loud music. Maybe a movie that scares the wits out of you.”
“I haven’t done real well here. No cake. Can’t play music. No horror flicks.” I close my eyes. “Sorry, Poole.”
“No friend, you did great. Tackle-the-Lani was fun to watch, and I’m guessing’ that there must be something in your fridge.” He bounces on the mattress. “And this bed is worth the price of admission.”
I sit up. “It’s yours for the night. I’ll, uh, take the floor.”
The germ-infested floor.
We lie in silence for a minute.
“Say, Marty. We’re friends, right?”
“Yeah, absolutely.”
“Might be a strange time to mention this, but Julia, she’s —”
“Nobody you need to be thinking about.” I stand and snatch back her pictures from his hands.
“I’m not. But if … And don’t get this wrong, friend. We’ll beat this curse thing.” He turns. “But if we don’t and you aren’t around … you know what? Forget it.”
“No.” I say quietly. “You and Julia have that wild side in common. Sounds cool to me. But nothing until I’m —”
“'Course not. Wouldn’t think of it.”
More silence.
I exhale. “I’ll, uh, check the kitchen.”
I sneak down the steps and open the fridge. “No lasagna. There. Meatloaf is close.”
A quick preheat later, I re-enter my room. “Here, I brought you some …”
Snore.
“Meatloaf.”
Poole sleeps with a smile on his face. No way I’ll take that away from him. Probably his first nice bed in years.
I enjoy the late-night snack, shut down the computer, and stretch out on the floor.
Why’d it take a death sentence to get me a sleepover? Why is the only person at my only sleepover a vagrant? Why did said vagrant ask me for his blessing to steal my princess? Nothing in my life makes sense. Not my newfound sister. Not the words I said at the family meeting. Not Poole’s disgusting microbials dancing on my sanitized bedsheets.
But I feel good. Having Poole here feels good.
As long as I get him out before 5 a.m.
Sleep doesn’t come. Poole, Julia, Death, and barn owls float through my mind’s middle world — a land where I’m not quite unconscious, but definitely not awake. It’s a place where dreams run free, and at 4:45 I stagger up, exhausted from my adventures.
A shower. Something to wash off the night.
Poole’s snore rumbles from beneath the sheets.
Least somebody slept well.
“Be right back,” I whisper, and stumble out toward the bathroom.
Hot water on a cool morning. There’s nothing better, and I smile.
Bang. Bang. Distant clangs and a shout.
I shut off the water, poke my head out of the curtain, and reach for the towel.
Poole throws open the door to the hallway, leaps in, and slams it shut behind him.
“We have other bathrooms,” I say.
Bang. Bang! The sound nears, and Poole stares at me with wild eyes.
“Barn Owl!” He opens the linen closet, frowns, and throws open the window. “Marty, my friend. Thanks for the sleepover.”
“What is going —”
Poole eases himself out, drops silently onto porch shingles. He turns, salutes, and jumps out of sight.
“Can’t be good on the ankles,” I whisper, and shut the window and wrap with a towel. I open the hallway door.
Smack!
A saucepan smashes my nose, and I crumple to the ground. Mom shrieks. I groan. Lani dashes toward us.
“Oh, Lani. Get me a towel. I mashed Martin!”
A pool of nasal blood forms around my head. I wriggle my nose.
“I’m okay, Mom.” I sit and pinch my nostrils together. “If you would’ve used the Crock-Pot,
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