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My mind is just churning.
During school hours today, I’d been protecting Xander at Dalton Academy, which involves me just standing around and telling Dalton cheerleaders (mainly, Delilah) to go back to class.
Not the most exhilarating part of being a bodyguard, but I like the slow days.
It means he’s safe.
“You going to this Friday’s football game?” I asked him during lunch. “It’s a home game.”
“The one tomorrow?” Xander scrunched his face as we strolled into the cafeteria. “No. Not unless Easton is going.” He confirmed in the car ride home that Easton isn’t going, like usual.
I was hoping Xander would go this time.
It meant that I’d have to work tomorrow. The same night as the triple date. And I hate that I’m not looking forward to a night out with my friends. It’s never been like that. So I stop praying Xander is shot with a dose of school spirit in the middle of the night, and I’m trying to rip away the pressure I’ve attached to something that should be casual.
“It’s not that serious, Paul,” I mutter to myself, resting my bicep over my eyes to block light that glows beneath the bedroom doors down the hall.
The fridge hums in short-lived quiet.
“Heeeek heeek!” the hamster from hell screeches with the mightiest pair of rodent lungs. It could win a Guinness World Record. “Heeek, hissss!” I press the lumpy pillow over my eyes and ears.
I imagine Luna…on a date with Korey with a K.
It’s not that serious.
“Heeeek!”
“QUINN!” Frog yells through her bedroom. Hamster is also winning a record for shortest time taken to annoy Frog.
“Sorry! I’m trying to soothe Fluffy.”
“Does it need a bottle or a muzzle?” Frog questions, the door creaking open, and I hear her enter Quinn and Gabe’s room, but I don’t pull myself up to look.
I’m just trying to fall asleep.
“Heeeek! Heeeeek! Hissssss.”
I press harder on my ears. Whispering to myself, “it’s not that serious,” over and over as fatigue finally takes me.
“Donnelly.” I hear a quiet but harsh voice. “Donnelly.” Frog is whispering. “Can you shake him, Quinn?”
“Is he alive?”
“Gabe,” Frog whisper-hisses.
“What?”
“He’s clearly breathing, and his eyes are open. Quinn—”
“I don’t think we should shake him, Frog,” Quinn replies.
“Is he in a trance?” Gabe asks. “Hello. Hello. Can you see me?”
“Gabe, bro,” Quinn retorts. “Don’t put your face in his face. No one touch him.”
“How else are we going to wake him up, Quinn?” Frog whispers with a tinge of fear. Hearing that fear is what rattles me awake.
I blink a few times. Dimmed kitchen lights shouldn’t make me squint, but I’m squinting in confusion, mostly. I’m…standing, my hand on the counter to brace myself. Something crunches beneath my foot as I shift. Sweat has beaded up on my skin, and the loose-fitted Carraways band tee I’d been wearing to bed is suctioned to my chest.
“Donnelly?” Frog waves her hand in front of my face, but I’m still dazed.
“That’s it; I’m calling my brother,” Quinn suddenly says, and I start shaking my head slowly and then faster, I reach out and stop Quinn from dialing Oscar.
“Quinnie,” I breathe out a long breath with his name. “I’m alright. I’m good.” I lift up my foot…pretzel sticks. Broken and littered across the floorboards and crunched beneath my feet—they’re spilled all over the kitchen.
When I graze the counters, I notice pretzel sticks stacked like a log cabin and the ripped open bag, more spilling out in a mess along with buttered popcorn.
“I heard something rustling in the kitchen,” Frog explains gently like I’m still in threat of returning to that trance. “I thought it was Nessa’s rodent. But I found you in here building this pretzel tower thing, and you kept muttering, she likes popcorn, pretzels, and her home.”
I scrape the crumbs off my foot against my shin, a cold chill slipping down my spine. Luna. She likes popcorn and pretzels. So do a lot of people, so maybe Frog won’t correlate either snack with her client.
I inspect my buttery, sticky fingers and slight reddened skin. Must’ve microwaved the popcorn in my sleep and opened the bag too soon, burning myself from the steam. Who’s the best popcorn sleepwalking bandit? That would be me.
All me.
I wish I could joke out loud, but I’m just slowly processing the fact that I made a pretzel home for Luna and topped it off with popcorn.
“Donnelly?” Quinn says like I’m not doing so hot. This is the first Oscar’s younger brother has seen me sleepwalk, even though we’ve lived together for a while and I’ve done it plenty here. It’s the first time any of them have seen me like this.
“Yeah, I’m alright.” I want to be. When I lift my gaze, the three youngest bodyguards on SFO are still surrounding me with a mound of unsettled worry, all three unsure of what to do. I’ve pictured myself as their cool bodyguard camp counselor. Someone they’ll rely on when they stumble home drunk after a sloppy night off.
