The Awakening (2 page)

The most bizarre thing so far, besides gearing up to be a somnambulist (What? I listen to DJ Brian Transeau's music ... he rocks!), happened when I was playing solitaire on my bed last night. I'm not talking computer Klondike, but honest-to-goodness playing cards—how old-fashioned of me!—because the cable and Internet connection isn't hooked up yet in the house. How does anyone expect me to exist and contact the outside world if I don't have my Comcast?

So, while I'm playing solitaire and shuffling the deck, the queen of hearts—that tarty wench—kept flying out. No matter how I shuffled or laid out the cards, that stupid woman with the bags under her eyes and the pissed-off look on her face found her way out of the deck. It was like the card had a mind of its own, and it massively creeped me out. As soon as the computer's connected, I'm totally Googling that damn card to see what that's all about. I'd heard from my friend Marjorie, back home—yes, Chicago is still home—that some people do tarot-like readings with ordinary playing cards. Not that I'm into that stuff or anything. Maybe I'll find a book on it and get an explanation. Or maybe I'll just go insane first.

Another deep groan from me as the wind catches the ivory-colored curtain next to my bed. The sheer linen drapery does a bit of a pole dance around one of the four bedposts. It's only nine thirty, but I thought if I went to bed earlier tonight—in anticipation of my first day of school tomorrow—I might fall asleep faster. No. Such. Luck.

My bedroom door opens with a squeak.

"Kendall? Are you awake, sweetie?"

"Of course," I say bitterly and kick off the thin comforter and sheet. "Sorry," I add.

"That's okay. I understand." Mom pushes into my room and snaps on the light. She's taken to wearing her shoulder-length brown hair up in a messy bun, making her look younger than her forty-eight years. I sit up, squint, and see that she's carrying a large box. "Your dad just got back from Mega-Mart—"

I interrupt her with a harrumph. "They actually have a Mega-Mart here?" Go figure.

She scowls at me a bit. "Now, Kendall, you haven't fallen off the edge of the earth. Sure, it's not downtown Chicago, but Atlanta is only an hour away and we have all the necessities of life right here in Radisson."

I blow a strand of brown hair off my cheek and swing my feet off the bed. Why Dad couldn't have gotten a job in the ATL is beyond me. I know he's, like, the best at what he does—he's a city planner—and Radisson's doing all of these improvements and renovations to make the town more appealing to families and industry, but it would've been nice to go from one urban area to another. I mean, during the Civil War, Radisson wasn't even important enough for General Sherman to burn it on his famous March to the Sea. How is it going to be the town for me?

Mom sets the box on the edge of my bed. "As I was saying, Dad bought this thinking it might help your little ... problem."

Unless it's a cast-iron frying pan to bash me over the head with for a concussion-induced good night's sleep, I'm not interested. Ooo, maybe it's a wall-unit air conditioner, like Dad said he'll put in every room in this ultra-old house.
Scaaaaa-ore!

"Look at this!" Mom tugs out a large, white speakerlike device that's about as big as a bathroom scale. "This will help you sleep."

I lower my brows as I read the box. "LifeSounds 440?"

Mom unfurls the long cord and stretches it over to the nearest electrical outlet. The machine buzzes to life, and the soft sound of static reverbs through my room. "It's a white-noise machine. They're supposed to be very useful for sleep problems."

"Aren't those for babies?" I ask, not convinced this is actually going to work.

Waving me off with a flick of her hand, Mom says, "Babies, adults, anyone who needs help with somnipathy." There she goes, getting all medical on my ass.

"Huh?"

"Sleep disorders."

"Mom, I don't think I have—" I bite my tongue because I don't
know
what I think I have.

She places the speaker on my nightstand and then reaches for the pamphlet that came with it. "Ooo, listen to this. 'The sounds of the LifeSounds 440 white-noise machine include a womb, heartbeat, and lullaby section. These natural sounds are peaceful and comforting to infants, providing a secure and calm feeling.' And look, Kendall, it has a one-hour timer, adjustable volume, and you can take it with you when you travel."

Right, because every girl wants to take a flipping baby monitor with her to a slumber party! "I don't think womb sounds are going to help at my age."

The light in Mom's eyes dims, spelling out her disappointment. I have to realize this move has been hard for her too. She had to give up her job in the neonatal ICU at Northwestern Memorial to take a staff-nurse position with the town's one (well, okay, maybe not
one
) doctor. I need to cut her some slack.

I swallow my annoyance at the entire sitch and smile. "I'm sorry. Thanks for getting this. I'll give it a try." Why not? Can't hurt.

She leans over and tucks me into the bed like she's been doing for as long as I can remember. The woman is a pro at hospital corners and literally traps me in the straight covers. She kisses me on the head. "Try to get some sleep, sweetie. Tomorrow's a big day."

"I know, Mom."

"You'll make lots of new friends and fit in ... you'll see."

"I hope so." Although I have plenty of friends back in Chicago. "I just want to blend in, not be too different or anything." At least that's what I tell myself as I picture walking into a building full of strangers in a matter of hours.

"Deep, cleansing breaths, Kendall. Say a prayer and just relax," Mom says. "I believe your sleep issues are merely stress-related, and once you start school, everything will be back to normal." She moves toward the door.

"Thanks, Mom." Although what's normal now? No more Cubs games. Or Bears, or Blackhawks, or Bulls. (Sorry, not a White Sox fan.) No more movies at Century Landmark or hot dogs from Weiner Circle. No more St. Paddy's Day parades with the dyed-green river. No more treks to the Sears Tower to check out the views. No more ditching one day of school to go to an
Oprah
taping. No more Chicago Chop House with
the best
steaks on the planet. No more Marjorie. No more...

Mom turns back to me. "If you don't start getting regular sleep, I'm taking you to the doctor and we're putting you on some medication." She's not saying it as a threat, more as a point of information.

Bleck
...I don't want to be one of those messed-up kids on seven different medications for all sorts of afflictions. I want to be a normal teenager who goes to school, has friends, watches too much TV, talks on the cell incessantly, and plans for her future. Not too much to ask, right?

Mom nods her head at me. "Try to get some sleep, sweetie. And remember to say your prayers." She flicks off the light and closes the door behind her.

"I always do." Mom's big on religion. Not in an "in tents for Jesus" sort of way, but as an important part of the fabric of the Moorehead household. I respect—and go along with—that.

I wrestle with the locked-down covers until the sheets are free from their mattress prison, and so am I. The white-noise machine churns away with a staticky rhythm on my right. It's a lulling kind of
whoosh, whoosh, whooshhhhhh.
I'll admit it is sort of calming. Maybe this will work. I turn onto my stomach and get in my preferred falling-asleep position, one hand under the pillow and the other on top, cuddling it. Eyes closed, I take one of those deep, cleansing breaths Mom talks about.
Breathe in through the nose, out through the mouth.
That's what I learned in the class Marjorie and I took at the Nature Yoga Sanctuary in Chicago last summer.
Breathe in through the nose, out through the mouth.
Lather. Rinse. Repeat.

After a good long while of deep breathing, I feel myself teetering on the edge of consciousness. Ahh, yes..."To sleep: perchance to dream: ay, there's the rub." (I love Shakespeare, what can I say?) I'm settling into my fluffy pillows, spiraling down into the lovely world of desperately needed REM, when I swear on a stack of Bibles that I hear a whisper.

"
I'm heeeerrrrrre.
"

I peel one eye open. "Who's there?"

"
I'm heeeerrrrrrre.
"

"Kaitlin, if that's you, I'm going to beat the shit out of you," I snap, thinking my brat of a little sister is being, well, a brat. "Is that you?"

"
Nooooooo...
"

Okay, what the...? The hairs on my arms rise, as does my anxiety level. I sit up. "Who's there?" I repeat more firmly.

Nothing. Silence. Except for the white-noise machine.

After a minute, my heart rate returns to some semblance of normal. I lie back down, ridiculously annoyed. I'm sure it was Kaitlin totally screwing with me. She's such a PITA. (Do I need to explain what that stands for? Rhymes with Pain in the Glass.)

Settling into the pillow again, I restart with the
breathe in through the nose, out through the mouth
when I hear the whisper once more.

"
I'm heeeerrrrrrre.
"

Bolting up, I jerk on the lamp cord. "Look! You're pissing me off!"

I glance around the room, and there's no one there. No Kaitlin. No Mom. Just my large brown Gund teddy bear, Sonoma, sitting on the rocking chair next to my bed, looking at me like I've lost my marbles. The white-noise machine continues to
whoosh
beside me. Maybe if I turn the volume up, it'll block out whatever it is—probably the television from Mom and Dad's room—that I'm hearing.

Just when I lift the volume level, I hear it again.

"
Are you hearing meeeeeeee?
"

I fling off the covers and sit up stiff-straight. Chill bumps dance across my skin, making tiny mountains in my sweaty flesh. The hairs on the back of my neck are at complete military attention. I swallow hard but find a massive lump of unease in my esophagus that isn't budging.

Holy Mother of Christmas Past! The whispering voice is coming from the white-noise machine! Are you effing kidding me?

You're here? Well, I'm
out
of here!

"Y
OU DIDN'T HAVE TO DRIVE ME,
Mom," I say the next morning. I squint behind my super-trendy (at least they were in Chi-Town) black Coach sunglasses that hide my sleep-deprived eyes from the blaring Georgia sunshine.

Our Toyota Sienna is parked in front of this extremely aged, brick building with
Radisson High School
chiseled in the top cement in a very Times New Roman way. It's a three-story building that looks old as dirt. The American flag out front flaps crazily in the strong breeze. To the left is a student parking lot full of pickup trucks, SUVs, and the random Jeep. I wish I had my own car and didn't have to be carted in like ... well, Kaitlin. Sure, I expected Mom to drive her to school, but a junior like me just should
not
be seen in the family minivan. Especially when it still has Illinois plates that scream
Look at me! Look at me!

"I can walk from here," I say.

"But Kendall—"

Quickly, I unclick the seat belt and feel the kink in my back from sleeping on the sectional sofa in the living room. There was no way in blue-blazing hell that I was going to sleep in my room—even if I could have—after that raspy-whispering-from-the-noise-machine incident that nearly made me have a frickin' embolism. My pulse was in overdrive, as was my imagination, apparently set on determining exactly what it was I'd heard. Somewhere in the middle of it all, curled on the couch in a protective fetal position, I managed to get a couple of hours of shuteye.

That's when I saw ... him.

Well, not
saw
saw him. Dreamed of him. This goooooorgeous guy. Not any guy that I know—certainly no one from back home in Chicago. I swear, he had the most amazing Dasani-bottle-blue eyes I've ever seen in my life. It was like he knew me—dare I say?—soul deep.

After I woke up, I rubbed images of the gorgeous guy from my sleep-neglected eyes. I took the world's hottest shower and got dressed in the Blue Cult jeans that Marjorie gave me (don't tell me they're not stylish, because they make my hindquarters look fabulous) and a simple long-sleeved navy shirt that fits snugly over my 32As (don't poke fun!). Hmmm ... blue seems to be my color of choice today. As much as I know I
will
stand out, I don't want to wear anything socially suicidal on my first day. I mean, jeans are universal for teens everywhere. Surely I won't muck it up too badly. Unless they say the brand is last season?

Mom unlatches her seat belt as well. "I'll come in with you."

I stop her with my hand. "No. I can do this myself. How hard can it be?"

"Well, Kendall, I went in with Kaitlin and—"

"Kaitlin's thirteen. I'll be okay, Mom. I swear."

"Don't swear, dear. It's not proper."

What is proper these days? Good thing Mom can't hear the wild pounding of my heart or the ringing in my ears. And that irritating headache from last night has returned. Only this time, it's in the back of my neck.
Thump, thump, thump,
like there's a tiny elf with an even tinier hammer beating on my cerebellum. Geez, Louise! I need to pop an Excedrin—or four—fast. The throbbing's probably stress from fitful sleep, starting a new school, and my overactive imagination that conjured up Dasani-Blue-Eyed Boy.Yeah, that's it.

I stretch across the console and plant a quick kiss on Mom's cheek. "Love ya! Mean it!" Before she can say another word, I hop out into the sea—okay, more like a gentle country river—of students headed into the hallowed halls of Radisson High. There are kids swooping in on bikes and skateboards. A Ford F-150 with about six guys in the back drives by and squeals into a parking space. There's a scary-looking guy in leather on a rather impressive red and yellow crotch rocket, and even one tall girl on a Segway. Who knew you could get one of those around here?

Taking a deep breath and mentally begging the head pain to go away, I put one Reebok'd foot in front of the other and slowly walk the brick path toward the front door of RHS.