The Glitch in Sleep (5 page)

“Which side is the other side?” asked a weird guy with a Sherlock Holmes hat and pipe.

“Whichever side you’re not on,” quipped Fixer Blaque.

“Oh.”

Becker leaned back in the cool grass and took in the sights. Employees on lunch break were throwing disc and a family unpacked cherries from their picnic basket. As far as Becker could tell, The Seems itself wasn’t all that different from The World— it’s just that the greens were greener and the blues were bluer, and the smell of fresh air was just a little bit fresher. His head was exploding with questions, the first of which was, “Why do they call it The Seems?”—but that’s Another Story.
⁵

“I was exactly like you once,” said the Instructor, adjusting his shades to refract the glare. “Going about my life, trying to survive in what seemed to be a crazy World, yet deep down, always yearning for something . . . more.”

The Candidates nodded in recognition. Whatever that something more was, Jelani Blaque seemed to have found it, for there was an “okayness” about him that each and every one of them yearned to have themselves.

“Then one day, in the heat of the lunch-hour sun, I wandered into the marketplace in Abuja, and tucked inside an empty stall—between the bookseller and the juju man—what did I discover?”

“A box with a sign on the front?” asked a Swedish line cook named Jonas Larsson.

“Fisí lòbèrè sàn Jùlô iÿë Kékeré Ayéaráyé,”
replied Blaque. Everybody laughed, remembering the stories of how each of them had found their own box, their own stack of applications and No. 2 pencils. “And let me tell you, friends, ‘The Best Job in The World’ does not begin to do it justice.”

Just then, a blimp passed overhead, loaded with Stars for a new constellation—which only hammered home the scope of the opportunity they were being offered.

“Now, I know this will not be an easy decision for any of you, for you no doubt have families and homes and responsibilities in The World. And there is no shame at all should you choose to decline. But should you accept,” his eyes burned with the pride and love of his profession, “I promise this will be the greatest adventure of your life.”

Blaque waited for someone to speak, for someone to make a move, but the invitees were frozen in silence. The moment of truth had arrived, and no one knew quite what to do with it . . . until a lone hand rose in the air.

“Mr. Freck?”

With his Serengetti eyewear and five o’clock shadow, the teenaged Frenchman was the epitome of Parisian cool. His weather-burned skin spoke of winters at Chamonix and summers hiking the G-5, and he’d clearly heard all he needed to today.

“Count me in, Monsieur Blaque.”

“I already did.” The Fixer smiled.

A buzz rippled through the crowd—especially when the youngest member of the group promptly followed suit.

“Count me in too.”

Thibadeau extended a fist, Becker bumped it, and the rest—as they say—is History.

4
. This was part of the process of narrowing down the field, and a hefty job for The Cleanup Crew—a division of Human Resources responsible for “humanely unre-membering people” of what they knew about The Seems and collecting all hard materials that might leave a paper trail.

5
. See Appendix B: “Another Story.”

2

When Duty Calls

Lafayette Middle School, Highland Park, New Jersey—Now

It was a pleasant day in The World, and why not? Fall had settled in and the leaves were that mix of yellow, red, and Occasional Orange they only use one week a year. Over by Lafayette Middle School, the grounds were eerily silent, for it was only 3:04 p.m. Sixteen minutes later, the bell would ring and the doors would fly open, and giant backpacks strapped to kids would streak across the lawns, heading for the yellow school buses, silver SUVs, or locked-up bicycles that would transport them into the rest of the day.

In Classroom 6G, Dr. Louis Kole continued his lecture in Honors English class. “And so, to conclude, though the use of flashback in
I Am the Cheese
risks alienating the reader, it contributes greatly to the immersive nature of the story world and is essential to the development of plot.”

I Am the Cheese
was this week’s selection in Dr. Kole’s “Best Books Ever” class, but despite the quality of the novel in question, the class had been allotted an eighth-period time slot, which doomed it to a form of mass distraction.

In the back of the classroom, Eva Katz was carving Bobby Miller’s name into her desk, while John Webster was staring at a point in the universe that only he could see. But in Aisle 4, Seat #3, another activity was underway. A twelve-year-old boy with shaggy hair and faded corduroys was incessantly checking the black device that was clipped on to his belt.

“Mr. Drane!”

Becker was caught red-handed.

“Perhaps
you
would like to enlighten us on the development of plot?”

He scanned the entire classroom, but finding no aid, was forced to hazard a guess.

“Um . . . it thickens?”

This got a laugh from the peanut gallery, but not the kind you want.

“This is unacceptable!” Dr. Kole was fuming because Becker had always been an honors student, but lately his GPA had begun to suffer. “If you want to be a space cadet, English B is down the hall.”

“Sorry, Doc.” Becker truly meant it—he knew his teacher loved literature, and he didn’t want to disappoint him. “I’ve just got a lot on my mind these days.”

“I can see that. Maybe a few sessions with Mrs. Horner will help clear that up.”

Mrs. Horner was the vice-principal in charge of discipline and no one wanted a piece of that. Thankfully, Becker was saved by the proverbial bell.

“Remember, young readers—pop quiz tomorrow!”

Amid the stampede for the door, Jeremy Mintz couldn’t resist— “Then it’s not pop!”

“NO INCOMING CALLS.”

Becker’s Blinker™ flashed the same disappointing message it had moments earlier, so he clipped it back on his belt, got on his bike, and began the short trip home.

Highland Park was (and always had been) Becker’s hometown, and as the sign on Route 27 declared, it’s “A Nice Place to Live.” There are crookety sidewalks and tree-lined streets and a nice little main drag with shops and stores and a post office. Becker had spent the last three years bopping back and forth between HP and the IFR and just as Fixer Blaque had promised, Training had been a pretty wild ride. It not only taught him the art of Fixing but literally changed the way he looked at The World. Whereas once it was just a place to hang out and go to school, now all he could see around him were the amazing creations of the various departments. And judging by the way the sky, the clouds, the very sound of the wind through the trees were coming together to create this perfect autumn afternoon, someone was on their game today.

Anyhow, Becker dropped his bike on the front lawn of 12 Grant Avenue and bounded through the wide front door.

“Anybody home?”

“I’m in the kitchen!”

Samantha Mitchell was one of the most sought-after babysitters in town, because a) she gave the kids a pretty long leash, and b) she was one of the prettiest girls at HPHS. Currently, she was locked in a conference call regarding invites to her Sweet Sixteen.

“Where’s Benjamin?”

“Up in the playroom.”

Becker trundled up the stairs, barging in on his brother, who sat guiltily in front of the third-floor TV. Ben was six to Becker’s twelve, but that didn’t stop him from indulging in another round of
Juvenile Delinquent
.

“Dude, I just toilet-papered the Senior Center!”

In the bestselling video game, it was your mission to vandalize as much of an unsuspecting town as possible before getting busted by parents, teachers, or the local 5-0. They had gotten a bootlegged copy from Kyle Fox, the infamous black-marketeer of M-rated vids, and though it was far from appropriate for a child of Benjamin’s age, that’s what afternoons with the babysitter were all about.

“Put it on two-player!” Becker picked up a controller and quickly entered the fray. “Faster, B, he’s right on your tail.”

A heavy-set truant officer was chasing Benjamin down a back alley.

“I’m trying!”

Becker pressed the “A” button and “Quentin”—the sketchy burnout he’d created as his alter ego—suddenly popped from behind a garbage can and emptied a case of thumbtacks onto the concrete. While the hapless officer fell to the ground in agony, a message onscreen flashed “10,000 Bonus Points,” and the brothers made their hasty escape.

“Thanks, dude.” Benjamin breathed a sigh of relief.

“No sweat.”

They high-fived each other (onscreen and off-), then Quentin fired up his motorized scooter.

“Now let’s go egg City Hall!”

Wednesday nights were movie night, when Benjamin went to bed early and Becker got to log some QT with Samantha Mitchell. Though Samantha was four years Becker’s senior (and dating Tommy Vanderlin
⁶
), he was working his deep-cover strategy of convincing her that even though the age difference between them now seemed insurmountable, it wouldn’t always be that way.

“Pass me the popcorn, would you?” asked Samantha, reaching across the cushiony L-shaped couch.

Becker handed it over, then casually took another peek at the Blinker on his belt.

“STILL NO INCOMING CALLS.”

Bummer. It had been five long weeks since Becker had received his promotion to Fixer, but he still hadn’t gotten a call. A regular working Fixer gets about one Mission every two to three weeks, which is about how long it takes for the Rotation to turn over, and Fixer #36 (aka “No-Hands Phil”) had been called in to lift a Cloud of Suspicion over ten days ago. That meant Fixer #37 (aka Becker Drane) was next up on the list, and he was chomping at the bit to get his first Mission.

“This is a really good flick,” interrupted his babysitter. Becker shook off his preoccupation with The Seems and returned to his living room couch.

“Cool. I thought you might like it.”

Tonight, Becker had selected
The Real Thing
for their viewing entertainment, an obscure indie feature about a young girl who struggles to find love, until the quirky yet strangely perfect man of her dreams sweeps her off her—

“I can’t sleep!”

Benjamin appeared on the landing with his blankie in hand.

“Well, go back up and try again!” Becker was motioning to him like “get lost, you’re blowing my rap,” but Benjamin was oblivious. (Or at least pretending to be.)

“Becker, go upstairs and help your little brother.”

Becker dropped his head, defeated—then jumped off the couch and chased the little mongrel up the stairs.

“You better hope I don’t catch you!”

Though the Drane house was fairly well kempt, the two brothers had worn a path on the wool carpeting that lined the stairways and halls. One set of feet was small (but quick), while the other was big (but even quicker), which lent Becker a decided advantage in the race.

“Don’t hit me! I’m gonna tell Mom!” screeched Benjamin, as he tucked and rolled into his room.

“Not if you’re already dead!”

Even Becker had to admit his brother’s bedroom was the sweetest in the house. Benjamin had gone through about a hundred phases already in his short life and all the residual evidence from those periods was scattered about hither-nither. He had a race-car bed (from when he wanted to be a race-car driver), glow-in-the-dark planets on the ceiling (from when he wanted to be an astronaut), and a host of giant canvases (because now he was in his “artist phase”).

“Back in bed, Benja-bratt.” Ben got into the driver’s seat, while Becker took up a position on one of the Pirelli tires. “Now, what’s your problem?”

“I couldn’t sleep. I swear, it’s not my fault.”

“Then whose fault is it?”

“She’s too old for you, anyway.”

Becker lunged at his little brother, who ducked under the blankets. But when he came back up for air, he had clearly shifted gears. Gone was the abominable snowchild, and in his place was a charming little bro.

“Will you tell me another story about The Seems?”