Free The Girl Who Could Not Dream by Sarah Beth Durst

didn’t fit.” Sophie pointed at him.
    Monster waved a tentacle from the backpack and then pulled it in.
    Kneeling, Mom did a more thorough job of mopping up the spilled juice. It had dripped down the face of the cabinets. She tossed the paper towels away and, hands on her hips, examined the books and pencils that Sophie had discarded. She didn’t criticize, though. “Did you pack extra snacks?”
    Muffled, Monster demanded, “Extra snacks!”
    Unzipping the backpack, Mom dropped in a cupcake from the stash of day-olds on top of the refrigerator. It landed directly in Monster’s mouth, and he inhaled it. “That was for later,” Mom said.
    â€œThis
is
later. Breakfast was an hour ago.” Crumbs sprayed out of the backpack as he spoke. It looked as if the backpack itself were eating the cupcake. “Mmm, bacon.”
    â€œHe’s getting crumbs in my backpack,” Sophie complained.
    â€œHe’ll keep you safe,” Mom said. “He’s more responsible than he seems. He truly does have your best interests at heart.”
    â€œI know that, but he’s still a monster.” To Monster, she said, “No offense meant.”
    â€œNone taken,” he said, spitting more crumbs.
    Mom zipped the backpack and patted it. “Just let him out in the bathroom when no one’s around and try not to think about him during the day.”
    â€œRight,” Sophie said. “Pass my math test. Ignore the six-tentacled monster. Got it.”
    Mom kissed her forehead. “Now hurry, or you’ll miss your bus.”
    Scooping up the backpack with Monster in it, Sophie sprinted down the stairs. Dad was at the cash register. She waved to him.
    â€œLove you, Pumpkin!” he called.
    â€œLove you, Zucchini!” she called back.
    Coming down the stairs, Mom waved. “Love you, Squash!”
    From the backpack, Monster added, “Love you, Tomato! Love you, Carrot!” She thumped the backpack, and he quieted. The bells tinkled as she opened the front door and headed out. Monster bounced on her back. As she reached the end of the walkway, she glanced over her shoulder and saw her parents together, framed by the door of the bookshop. Side by side, arms around each other’s waist, they looked like a photograph.
    Sophie had the sudden, terrible, and irrational thought that she wasn’t going to see them again. She wanted to run back inside and never leave. But the yellow bus was already rounding the corner onto their street, and all the other kids were at the bus stop. She jogged toward the corner of the street.
    On the sidewalk, two girls were playing cat’s cradle with a loop of string, and three boys were pretending to push one another off the curb. Flailing their arms, they fake-screamed as if they were plummeting from a cliff. One of their overprotective mothers hovered near them. She had a tight grip on the toddler brother of one of the three boys—Sophie had never bothered to figure out which one. The toddler had a stream of snot plastered to his cheek. He wiped it away with his sleeve, leaving a streak of slime, as if a slug had crawled up his arm. Sophie was glad to be the last one to the bus stop.
    The mother beamed at Sophie. “Good morning, Sophie! Looks like a great day today!” She always tried to involve Sophie in conversation, as if talking about the weather with a parent would magically ease Sophie into playing with the other kids.
    Other kids always seemed to play with one another so easily. See a kid; play. But not Sophie. Walking up to another kid felt like walking up to a stray dog. She worried they’d slobber on her. Or bite her. Or discover her secrets, tell the world, and draw the attention of the Night Watchmen . . .
    The toddler clung to his mother’s hand. “Mom, Mom, Mom,
Mom,
can we go to Chuck E. Cheese’s? Please, pretty please, with sugar on top! Can we? I promise I’ll be