Shot Clock

1
Sleeping’s my superpower.
I sleep through screaming alarms, neighbors, and babies.
Thirty-four police cars can roll into Oasis Springs, sirens howling, officers barking, I’m not flinching. Last summer a whole chopper landed on our roof. It felt like an earthquake, Munka swears. Like the building was collapsing. I slept like a baby.
Except now, I forgot how to sleep.
The harder I try, the tighter I squeeze my eyes, the further away sleep gets.
I’ve tried every trick-sheep counting, window opening, milk warming. Tonight, I took a long, hot shower until Dad shouted through the door, Boy, I’m taking the water bill outta your allowance.
To which I reply, Umm, what allowance?
I mean, I say it under my breath cuz I ain’t stupid, but whatever.
I’m so desperate for sleep, I run through algebra equations in my head-and I know, you’re all: Major Nerd Alert! Yuck, Tony, who likes math?
To which I reply: Hol’ up, hol’ up, who said I LIKE math?! I’m just good at it.
The point is, nothing works. I lost my superpower, and I may never sleep good again.
But okay, you want the capital-T Truth? Probably there’s a part of me that doesn’t wanna sleep, that’s fighting sleep like it’s a supervillain. Because that same part of me knows that nowadays sleep comes packaged with every flavor of bad dreams. The kind that scare you awake, your forehead and back soaked in cold sweat, your heart high-jumping outta your chest, you’re almost choking to catch your breath.
And the other thing holding my sleep hostage?
Tomorrow.
Because tomorrow’s maybe the most important day of my life.
BOOM! BOOM! BOOM!
I pop up in bed like, Where’s the fire, evacuate the building!
It takes me a ten count to realize it’s only Munka banging down my door like a wannabe firefighter.
“Yo, chill.” I yawn, de-crust my eyes. Thing about my sister? Munka’s 100 percent chill-less. She stays at a ten-bossing me and Tasha like she’s paying us a salary (FYI: she definitely isn’t). At least three or four times a week, I gotta check her, remind her
she’s barely two years older than me. BOOM! BOOM! BOOM!
Man, she for real right now? “Quit it! What do you want?”
“Less attitude for one,” Munka snaps. “You’re late, bighead!” I’m about to fire back when my brain finally catches up with my eyes, I read the alarm clock, and-oh snap, she’s right! I explode outta bed, grab my gear, and crash into the bathroom.
“Don’t use all my hot water,” Dad yells after me, like hot
water’s his favorite bottle of cologne that he’s letting me borrow. I brush. Wash. Pick my hair. Then deodorize so I don’t gotta hear Munka’s mouth saying I stink just cuz maybe I forgot to use it once or twice; as if rolling white pasty stuff that supposedly smells like “summer breeze” all over your armpits is the key to keeping the earth spinning right.