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Picture above is of Krishna's. She's not just as glamorous as the model but you get the idea. :)
Normal people are asleep. It's two in the morning and normal people are dreaming.
I am wide awake, my comforter wrapped around me as I surf through Netflix for another movie to watch. I am not normal people.
Sometimes I wish I could be. Normal. I know the spelling: N-O-R-M-A-L. I know its meaning, but somewhere between the beginning of junior year and the night I can't remember, I lost the essence of it.
Maybe Godzilla will finally put me to sleep or maybe it will be the evil Jack trying to kill his family that does the trick. When I do fall asleep in an unlikely scenario, my dreams are always a sliver of reality and blurred images. Nothing happens except for loud noises punctuated by murky colors. Sometimes I hear a scream, but it's far away. And then the demon creeps in. It's it that I am afraid of. Sometimes it slips out of my nightmares and into my reality, lying and waiting to catch me.
A sharp knock comes echoes through the room and I jump out of my skin.
Are the demons getting braver? I ask myself as I look around for the source. Maybe I'll die as a cliché with a hand coming out of my bed and dragging me under.
Then there comes another sound, this time from the general direction of the windows. The drawn curtain keeps me from seeing who or what is outside.
Knock, knock, knock. It comes in taps of three. I can't be imagining it.
I glance at the door to see if Mom heard it, too. If she did, she will come running. But there's no sign of Mom. She hasn't been at my door for the last two weeks - not since I had that meltdown. But, in my defense, even I need a break sometime.
I mute the TV and consult my personal decision maker - the magic 8 ball that rolls around at my feet. I move it around in my hand, testing its weight, and then give a firm shake.
I have been making all my decisions by my magic 8 ball since that night. It's reliable and predictable and makes my life less confusing.
No, I plead.
Without a doubt, it answers me. I swear this 8 ball is trying to fuck me over.
I slowly drag my leg over the mattress and stand up. Right when I think whoever it is outside is gone, there's another knock.
This is the only rule that I always make good on - no matter what happens, I always listen to my magic 8 ball. Even if the results are undesirable, like braving the crowd in the cafeteria or going to the counselor's office.
I pull up the shutter and squint outside, expecting to see a face looking back. Surprisingly - and thankfully - there's no one. The street lamp casts an eerie glow across the asphalt street and there's a faint moaning from the wind brushing against the dead leaves hanging on a nearby tree.
I heave out a sigh of relief and am about to drop the shutter down when a face plasters itself across the glass. I barely contain a scream. The face is illuminated by a flashlight that makes it look grotesque and forces a scar to stand out, cutting from the brow to the cheek.
And it's familiar. Even the grinning face, which is currently beckoning me to open the window, is familiar. All the features of him slowly come into focus: his high cheekbones, his quirked brow and the easy curve of his smile are all things I have seen before.
Holy cow, it's Supernova! That, of course, is not his real name. Supernova is just a nickname given in honor of all the super and awesome things he has done in his sixteen years of life.
Novahk McAllister is a daredevil, superhero, badass - you name it.
Shit, shit, shit.
He wants me to pull open the window and my hands comply. I am only half aware that I am tugging on the latch and pulling it up, letting the cool and crisp November night air in, at two in the morning - for Novahk McAllister. I feel like I have jumped out of my bed and into another universe entirely.
One in which Novahk McAllister stands at my window and helps me open it. One where he smiles at me like it is no big deal. No big deal. NO BIG DEAL. Maybe not for Novahk McAllister; I heard the guy once paint-balled the school terrace and drove a cop's car into a ditch on the same day.
"Hey," he says casually while my eyes are practically bugging out of their sockets. I don't reply, my tongue being stuck to my mouth. "Hey," he tries again, still smiling - but it's a wrong sort of smile. It does not quite reach his eyes, making it look like there is something wrong with his mouth.
Still, I am speechless.
"I am sorry to disturb you. It's kind of urgent and I saw your lights were on-," my first thought is how the heck did he know that? "-and I thought I would ask you-..." he trails off.
I stare at him blankly.
"Kris?" he prompts and I snap out of it. I should be surprised that Novahk McAllister knows my name but, then again, maybe not. Even though we are people from two different sets, two different realities, two different worlds, I am the freak. Everybody knows the freak.
"Yeah?" I ask. A word. My social skills, which were already basically zero before, have basically dove off the deep end into the murky waters of pathetic and impaired.
"I need your phone. I have somebody to call and I can't find mine."
"You want my phone?"
"Yeah"
"Okay," I walk over to my nightstand and switch on my phone. I barely use it. I have nobody to call except my mom and dad - maybe 911, but if I die somebody else will do probably do it for me - and my grandmother who is out of the question. Still, my dad insisted on buying me an expensive one. Maybe he thinks that it'll make me sort of normal. Poor dad, he's still trying.
Or maybe this is a gift of bribery to help me into forget the sounds of him and mom doing the deed through the paper thin walls. Well, either way.
"Here," I hand it over to Novahk, who dials a number and holds it to his ear. He looks at me, probably asking for privacy or whatever. I just move away to the other side of my bed. I don't ask him to come inside even though it must be freezing out there. The temperature is barely above the forties.
Mom and I didn't really talk about boys being in my room, so I don't know what the norm is exactly around here. I wonder how Mom would feel if she saw Novahk in my bedroom - or at the window ledge, since technically he's not even inside. She would either have a heart attack or swoon with relief that I am finally doing something I was supposed to do. Teenager-y stuff. Normal stuff. Not waking up at night screaming like a Banshee.
But Mom won't be the person I would tell about this little encounter - or whatever you'd call it. No, the first person would be Emily. Rather, would have been.
Novahk moves away from the window, talking in a muted voice, and I take in a moment to study him. Tall, dark haired, and almost unreal; this boy who everybody at school looks up to in awe. He's larger than life, unbelievable, and here at my window in the dead of night.
He lives right next door with our windows face to face. Rock metal music sometimes blasts out of his room so I know he is a Nirvana and the Stones fan. And when that rare time my Mom leaves the window open to let the sun in, I'd catch sight of him pacing in his room or talking to someone on the phone. And I'd look away, feeling as if I was invading on the private moments of his life. Normal life. And that fact greatly disturbs me.
The situation is ironic. Me of all people, living next door to Novahk McAllister.
Not that we had been neighbors for long. My mom and I moved from our old house only two months ago. She reasoned with me, said I had to get away.
By now Novahk has finished his call and hands the phone to me while I am spaced out like an idiot. "Here you go," he says, arm outstretched, "Thank you."
I take the phone and move it around my hand, waiting for him to make his next move, and avoiding all eye contact. He just stands there, though, staring at a point behind me. Why is he just standing there? I also wonder how he is still alive and not freezing to death. He has a black winchester on, like he's dressed to go out and he hums a tune under his breath. It's a song I don't recognize, and he sways slightly to the sound.
The ledge under my window is really narrow. Doesn't it bother him? Probably not. It's Novahk McAllister.
And there's also the question as to how he got there. There is at least a six foot drop between our houses, so the probability that when you jump you will end at the narrow ledge is very slim. It's only about ten inches wide, and it's not like the trees are any help.
"How did you get on the ledge? Did you climb through the pipe or something?" I ask, curiosity getting better of me. He smiles his lopsided smile, the one that says he's about to tell a big joke or something. He leans in on my windowsill and I think he is trying to enter my room - but he doesn't and I let out a small sigh of relief.
"It's a secret. But I'll tell you if you tell me something in return."
Here we go again, I mentally cringe. I know what he's going to ask. He is curious, just like all others.
There's always questions, and lots of them; at school, at the counselor's office, at the church where my mom takes me sometimes. It's a small town and rumors spread. Curiosities pique.
Most of them have left me alone, though, and the questions have decreased in number over several months. Now, they all have come to the same conclusion: leave the freak alone. Instead, they opt to stare at her, whisper behind her back and let her catch snippets of untrue gossip about her life when she passes in the hallways.
When I don't answer, he points at my TV which is muted but facing him, and says "Do you always watch horror movies at two in the morning?"
That is the last question I am expecting and I let out an embarrassing noise, right from my throat. He smiles again and I feel a blush creeping up my neck. "Not always. I just can't sleep," I say. God, did I just admit that aloud? To a stranger, no less. Okay, maybe he's not a stranger; I have known him since middle school, after all.
But I could just as well slap myself in the face. I am an insomniac, judge me. I am basically screaming it out. But, then again, he's the one sneaking out of his house - or that's what I suspect. He's no one to judge.
"And The Shining helps you sleep?" He's trying not to laugh.
"It's a very good movie," I say, defensively, and he would have said something in return if not for the distance sound of a motorcycle revving.
"That's my ride," He says simply, as if taking rides during the dead of the night is no big thing for him. Maybe it's not. He's probably heading off to one of Brad Hamptons' famous parties - the one with Jacuzzis and hot college girls. Maybe they finally decided two was the new cool, to have a party and whatever batshit brainstorming the cool crowd at school are coming up with now.
I don't say anything. Instead, I watch him as he climbs down my window and makes his way to the backyard. He disappears for a minute, but then I catch sight of him walking down the opposite street, his head down as he disappears around the corner.
He looks like an awesome teenage version of Men in Black and I pretend that he's just an alien spy I have met and try to fall asleep.