Wake
WAKE
COMING SOON FROM LISA MCMANN
Fade
Unleashed
Kristopher Reisz
I Heart You, You Haunt Me
Lisa Schroeder
Uninvited
Amanda Marrone
The Uglies Series
Scott Westerfeld
This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real locales are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
An imprint of Simon & Schuster Children’s Publishing Division 1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10020
Copyright © 2008 by Lisa McMann
All rights reserved, including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. SIMON PULSE and colophon are registered trademarks of Simon & Schuster, Inc. Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
McMann, Lisa.
Wake / Lisa McMann.—1st Simon Pulse ed.
p. cm.
Summary: Ever since she was eight years old, high school student Janie Hannagan has been uncontrollably drawn into other people’s dreams, but it is not until she befriends an elderly nursing home patient and becomes involved with an enigmatic fellow student that she discovers her true power.
ISBN-13: 978-1-4165-9515-1
ISBN-10: 1-4165-9515-5
[1. Dreams—Fiction. 2. Lucid dreams—Fiction. 3. Emotional problems—Fiction. 4. Undercover operations—Fiction. 5. Interpersonal relations—Fiction. 6. High schools—
Fiction. 7. Schools—Fiction.] I. Title.
PZ7.M2256Wak 2008
[Fic]—dc22
2007036267
Visit us on the World Wide Web:
This one is for you,
Toots
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
To my amazing in-home cheerleaders, house cleaners, and editors—Matt, Kilian, and Kennedy—you rock. There would be no Janie without your love, help, patience, and support.
Special thanks to Dr. Diane Blake Harper, my dear friend and Google-monkey; to Dr. Louis Catron for your kind, priceless critiques; to Ramon Collins for your years of support; and to Tricia, Chris, Erica, Greg, Dawn, Joe, David, Jen, Lisa, Andy, Matthew, Linda, Andie, and Ally for your generous assistance.
Finally, warmest gratitude to my fantastic agent, Michael Bourret, who believed in Janie and in me, and great praises for a most terrific team at Simon Pulse—Jennifer Klonsky, Caroline Abbey, Michael del Rosario, and all the others who help make dreams come true.
SIX MINUTES
December 9, 2005, 12:55 p.m.
Janie Hannagan’s math book slips from her fingers. She grips the edge of the table in the school library. Everything goes black and silent. She sighs and rests her head on the table. Tries to pull herself out of it, but fails miserably. She’s too tired today. Too hungry. She really doesn’t have time for this.
And then.
She’s sitting in the bleachers in the football stadium, blinking under the lights, silent among the roars of the crowd.
She glances at the people sitting in the bleachers around her—fellow classmates, parents—
trying to spot the dreamer. She can tell this dreamer is afraid, but where is he? Then she looks to the football field. Finds him. Rolls her eyes.
It’s Luke Drake. No question about it. He is, after all, the only naked player on the field for the homecoming game.
Nobody seems to notice or care. Except him. The ball is snapped and the lines collide, but Luke is covering himself with his hands, hopping from one foot to the other. She can feel his panic increasing. Janie’s fingers tingle and go numb.
Luke looks over at Janie, eyes pleading, as the football moves toward him, a bullet in slow motion. “Help,” he says.
She thinks about helping him. Wonders what it would take to change the course of Luke’s dream. She even considers that a boost of confidence to the star receiver the day before the big game could put Fieldridge High in the running for the Regional Class A Championship. But Luke’s really a jerk. He won’t appreciate it. So she resigns herself to watching the debacle. She wonders if he’ll choose pride or glory.
He’s not as big as he thinks he is.
That’s for damn sure.
The football nearly reaches Luke when the dream starts over again. Oh, get ON with it already, Janie thinks. She concentrates in her seat on the bleachers and slowly manages to stand. She tries to walk back under the bleachers for the rest of the dream so she doesn’t have to watch, and surprisingly, this time, she is able.
That’s a bonus.
1:01 p.m.
Janie’s mind catapults back inside her body, still sitting at her usual remote corner table in the library. She flexes her fingers painfully, lifts her head and, when her sight returns, she scours the library.
She spies the culprit at a table about fifteen feet away. He’s awake now. Rubbing his eyes and grinning sheepishly at the two other football players who stand around him, laughing. Shoving him. Whapping him on the head.
Janie shakes her head to clear it and she lifts up her math book, which sits open and facedown on the table where she dropped it. Under it, she finds a fun-size Snickers bar. She smiles to herself and peers to the left, between rows of bookshelves. But no one is there for her to thank.
WHERE IT BEGINS
Evening, December 23, 1996
Janie Hannagan is eight. She wears a thin, faded red-print dress with too-short sleeves, offwhite tights that sag between her thighs, gray moon boots, and a brown, nappy coat with two missing buttons. Her long, dirty-blond hair stands up with static. She rides on an Amtrak train with her mother from their home in Fieldridge, Michigan, to Chicago to visit her grandmother. Mother reads the Globe across from her. There is a picture on the cover of an enormous man wearing a powder-blue tuxedo. Janie rests her head against the window, watching her breath make a cloud on it.
The cloud blurs Janie’s vision so slowly that she doesn’t realize what is happening. She floats in the fog for a moment, and then she is in a large room, sitting at a conference table with five men and three women. At the front of the room is a tall, balding man with a briefcase. He stands in his underwear, giving a presentation, and he is flustered. He tries to speak but he can’t get his mouth around the words. The other adults are all wearing crisp suits. They laugh and point at the bald man in his underwear.
The bald man looks at Janie.
And then he looks at the people who are laughing at him.
His face crumples in defeat.
He holds his briefcase in front of his privates, and that makes the others laugh harder. He runs to the door of the conference room, but the handle is slippery—something slimy drips from it. He can’t get it open; it squeaks and rattles loudly in his hand, and the people at the table double over. The man’s underwear is grayish-white, sagging. He turns to Janie again, with a look of panic and pleading.
Janie doesn’t know what to do.
She freezes.
The train’s brakes whine.
And the scene grows cloudy and is lost in fog.
“Janie!” Janie’s mother is leaning toward Janie. Her breath smells like gin, and her straggly hair falls over one eye. “Janie, I said, maybe Grandma will take you to that big fancy doll store. I thought you would be excited about that, but I guess not.” Janie’s mother sips from a flask in her ratty old purse.
Janie focuses on her mother and smiles. “That sounds fun,” she says, even though she doesn’t like dolls. She would rather have new tights. She wriggles on the seat, trying to adjust them. The crotch stretches tight at mid-thigh. She thinks about the bald man and scrunches her eyes. Weird.
When the train stops, they take their bags and step into the aisle. In front of Janie’s mother, a disheveled, bald businessman emerges from his compartment.
He wipes his face with a handkerchief.
Janie stares at him.
Her jaw drops. “Whoa,” she whispers.
The man gives her a bland look when he sees her staring, and turns to exit the train. September 6, 1999, 3:05 p.m.
Janie sprints to catch the bus after her first day of sixth grade. Melinda Jeffers, one of the Fieldridge North Side girls, sticks her foot out, sending Janie sprawling across the gravel. Melinda laughs all the way to her mother’s shiny red Jeep Cherokee. Janie fights back the urge to cry, and dusts herself off. She climbs on the bus, flops into the front seat, and looks at the dirt and blood on the palms of her hands, and the rip in the knee of her already wellworn pants. Sixth grade makes her throat hurt.
She leans her head against the window.
When she gets home, Janie walks past her mother, who is on the couch watching Guiding Light and drinking from a clear glass bottle. Janie washes her stinging hands carefully, dries them, and sits down next to her mother, hoping she’ll notice. Hoping she’ll say something.
But Janie’s mother is asleep now.
Her mouth is open.
She snores lightly.
The bottle tips in her hand.
Janie sighs, sets the bottle on the beat-up coffee table, and starts her homework. Halfway through her math homework, the room turns black.
Janie is rushed into a bright tunnel, like a multicolored kaleidoscope. There’s no floor, and Janie is floating while the walls spin around her. It makes her feel like throwing up. Next to Janie in the tunnel is her mother, and a man who looks like a blond Jesus Christ. The man and Janie’s mother are holding hands and flying. They look happy. Janie yells, but no sound comes out. She wants it to stop.
She feels the pencil fall from her fingers.
Feels her body slump to the arm of the couch.
Tries to sit up, but with all the whirling colors around her, she can’t tell which way is upright. She overcompensates and falls the other way, onto her mother. The colors stop, and everything goes black.
Janie hears her mother grumbling.
Feels her shove.
Slowly the room comes into focus again, and Janie’s mother slaps Janie in the face.
“Get offa me,” her mother says. “What the hell is wrong with you?”
Janie sits up and looks at her mother. Her stomach churns, and she feels dizzy from the colors. “I feel sick,” she whispers, and then she stands up and stumbles to the bathroom to vomit.
When she peers out, pale and shaky, her mother is gone from the couch, retired to her bedroom.
Thank God, Janie thinks. She splashes cold water on her face. January 1, 2001, 7:29 a.m.
A U-Haul truck pulls up next door. A man, a woman, and a girl Janie’s age climb out and sink into the snow-covered driveway. Janie watches them from her bedroom window. The girl is dark-haired and pretty.
Janie wonders if she’ll be snooty, like all the other girls who call Janie white trash at school. Maybe, since this new girl lives next to Janie on the wrong side of town, they’ll call her white trash too.
But she’s really pretty.
Pretty enough to make a difference.
Janie dresses hurriedly, puts on her boots and coat, and marches next door to have the first chance to get to the girl before the North Siders get to her. Janie’s desperate for a friend.
“You guys want some help?” Janie asks in a voice more confident than she feels. The girl stops in her tracks. A smile deepens the dimples in her cheeks, and she tilts her head to the side. “Hi,” she says. “I’m Carrie Brandt.”
Carrie’s eyes sparkle.
Janie’s heart leaps.
March 2, 2001, 7:34 p.m.
Janie is thirteen.
She doesn’t have a sleeping bag, but Carrie has an extra that Janie can use. Janie sets her plastic grocery bag on the floor by the couch in Carrie’s living room.
Inside the bag:
a hand-made birthday gift for Carrie
Janie’s pajamas
a toothbrush
She’s nervous. But Carrie is chattering enough for both of them, waiting for Carrie’s other new friend, Melinda Jeffers, to show up.
Yes, that Melinda Jeffers.
Of the Fieldridge North Side Jefferses.
Apparently, Melinda Jeffers is also the president of the “Make Janie Hannagan Miserable”