Wake

Luckily, Cabel notices.

He picks her up, sets her back on the chair.

Rubs her fingers a bit until they move.

Pulls a king-size Snickers bar from his backpack and sets it next to her hand before he leaves for government class.

Distracts the teacher when she slips in late.

Doesn’t look at her.

Janie swallows her pride along with the candy bar. Writes something in her spiral notebook in a shaky hand. Rips the paper off the spiral.

Crumbles it into a ball.

Hits him in the back of the head with it.

He picks it up and opens it. Reads it.

Smiles, and puts it in his backpack.

On Ethel’s windshield after school is a section of newspaper—the classifieds. Janie looks around suspiciously, wondering if it’s some sort of joke. Seeing no one, she pulls it out from under the wiper and gets in the car. She gives it a cursory glance, first one side, and then the other. And then she finds it. Highlighted in yellow.

Having trouble sleeping? Nightmares? Sleep disorders?

Questions answered. Problems solved.

It’s a volunteer sleep study. Sponsored by the University of Michigan. For scientific research. And it’s free.

When she gets home, she calls immediately and signs up for Thanksgiving weekend, at the North Fieldridge Sleep Clinic location near school.

November 25, 2005

It’s the day after Thanksgiving. Janie worked Thanksgiving Day and today, for double pay. She has tomorrow off, anticipating trouble at the sleep study tonight. Wondering if this is going to be a repeat of the bus ride to Stratford. Wondering if this is going to turn into another big mess. 10:59 p.m.

She grabs an overnight bag from the backseat of her car and walks into the sleep clinic. She removes her coat and registers under a fake name at the desk. Through the tinted glass window, she can see a row of beds with machines all around. There are people already in some of the beds. This is a very, very bad idea, she thinks.

The door to the sleep room opens, and a woman in a white lab coat stands there, looking at a chart. Janie stumbles. Puts her hands to her face. Grimaces. She reaches blindly for a chair before her body goes numb.

11:01 p.m.

She is on a street in a busy city. It’s raining. She stands under an awning, not sure who she’s looking for. Not yet. She doesn’t feel compelled to follow anyone passing by. Eventually, her stomach lurches. She sighs and rolls her eyes, and looks up.

Here he comes, she thinks.

Through the awning.

It’s Mr. Abernethy, the principal of her high school.

11:02 p.m.

Her vision defrosts. The lab-coated woman has moved into the room and is staring at her. Janie stares back, just to freak her out. She looks around the room at the others who sit there, waiting for their names to be called. They all look at the floor as her gaze passes from one to the next. She knows what they’re thinking. There’s no way they want to be in that room with me, the freak. Janie sets her jaw.

She’s tired of crying.

Refuses to make any further scenes.

When the feeling returns to her fingers and feet, she stands up, grabs her coat and overnight bag, and stumbles to the door.

Her voice is hoarse when she turns to speak to the receptionist. “Sorry. I’m not doing this.” She goes outside into the parking lot. The air is crisp, and she sucks it into her lungs. The woman in the lab coat chases out the door after her. “Miss?”

Janie keeps walking. Tosses her bag back into the car.

Over her shoulder, she yells, “I said, I’m not doing this.”

She climbs behind the wheel. Leaves the lab-coated woman standing there as she drives away. “There has to be another way, Ethel,” she says. “You understand me, don’t you sweetheart.”

Ethel purrs mournfully.

11:23 p.m.

Janie pulls into her driveway after the incident in the sleep study waiting room. Wonders if she should have given it a try. But there is no way on earth she wants to know what her principal, Mr. Abernethy, dreams about.

Ew.

Ew, ew, ew.

This is not the right way to fix it, she decides. But what is the right way? Because it’s time. Time to stop crying, time to get her act together and do something. Time to move beyond the pity party. Before she loses her mind.

Because there’s no way on earth she’s going to make it through college unless she grows some serious ovaries and turns this train wreck around.

She goes into the house and digs through her papers on her bedside table. She finds it—Miss Stubin’s note. Reads it again.

Dear Janie,

Thank you for my dreams.

From one catcher to another,

Martha Stubin

P.S. You have more power than you think.

11:36 p.m.

What does it mean?

11:39 p.m.

She still doesn’t know.

11:58 p.m.

Nope.

November 26, 2005, 9:59 a.m.

Janie waits at the door of the public library. When it opens for business, she meanders through the nonfiction section. Self-help. Dreams.

She pulls all six books from the shelf, finds a back corner table, and reads. When a group of sleepy-looking students comes in and sets up at a nearby table, she moves to a different section of the library.

And she waits patiently for the computer in the corner to open up. Spends an hour there. She can’t believe what she finds with Google’s help.

Of course, there’s no information on people like her. But it’s a start. 5:01 p.m.

With four of the six books in tow, Janie drives home. She is fascinated. She makes dinner with a book in her hand. She reads until midnight. And then she takes a deep breath and talks to herself as she gets ready for bed.