The Girl Who Could Not Dream Read Free Page A

the center. It then could be collected again into a bottle for reuse. The somnium was an essential tool for sorting the dreams. They wouldn’t know what kind of dream they had until they’d poured it into the somnium.
    Sophie liked to wake early and spend an hour or even two before school at the somnium, watching other people’s dreams. She never tired of it. She’d tuck herself under the stairs, out of sight, and she’d watch dream after dream. Often Monster watched with her. Sometimes he read books instead.
    She loved all sorts of dreams: scary dreams, funny dreams, bizarre dreams. She especially loved the ones that featured improbable creatures like her monster or talking clocks or rabbits in waistcoats.
    Watching them almost made up for never having any dreams of her own.

    Except for the dream she stole, Sophie had never had a dream. She’d tried everything: warm milk and cookies before bed, no food or drink before bed, a scary movie in the dark late at night, a book under the covers with a flashlight, inventing elaborate stories before she fell asleep, picturing the best images from other people’s dreams. But every night, she laid her head down on her favorite pillow, curled up under the quilt, and closed her eyes. And boom, it would be morning again.
    After twelve years of no dreams (except the stolen one), she had given up trying. Almost.
    â€œGood night, Monster,” she said on the night before her twelfth birthday.
    â€œ
Boa noite,
Sophie,” Monster said from the floor beside her bed. He slept in a dog bed fluffed with extra pillows.
    She leaned over the bed to look at him. “What?”
    â€œIt is Portuguese for ‘good night,’” Monster said. “I am learning Portuguese.”
    â€œOh.” She lay back down and pulled her blankets up to her chin. The window next to her had a draft, or more accurately, a gap around the frame. A few fallen leaves had drifted inside and littered the floor. “Um, Monster, why are you learning Portuguese? We don’t know anyone who speaks Portuguese.”
    â€œIn case I ever encounter a Portuguese man-of-war,” he said. “I would like to dissuade him from stinging me. They leave welts so painful that they last for two or three days.”
    â€œI don’t think jellyfish speak Portuguese,” Sophie said. “Or any language.”
    â€œMen-of-war are colonies of multiple organisms,” Monster said. “They have to communicate with each other.”
    â€œYou need to stay outof the biology shelves.” Sophie curled up on her side. Through the window, the street lamp lit the bare branches of a tree. A few golden leaves swayed in the wind. She listened to the wind whistle down the chimney. “It’s my birthday tomorrow.”
    â€œYou may have the extra cupcakes,” Monster said graciously.
    â€œThat means it’s a special night,” Sophie said. “A change night. I wake up someone different, a twelve-year-old.”
    She heard the rustle of blankets. Reaching up, Monster patted her cheek with a tentacle. Monster’s fur was softer than any teddy bear. “You are always special, Sophie. You do not need nighttime wonders to make you so.”
    Sophie sighed. “I know.”
    â€œFill your days with wonder instead.”
    â€œYou sound like a fortune cookie.”
    He withdrew. She heard him circle like a cat to find a comfortable position. He settled down and kneaded the pillows with his claws. “I value what you are, not what you are not.”
    â€œOne dream,” Sophie said. “I don’t think that’s a lot to ask for a birthday present.”
    â€œYou had your one dream,” Monster said. “You birthed me.”
    â€œEw, you make it sound like you’re my baby.”
    In a falsetto voice, Monster chirped, “Mama! Mama!”
    Sophie laughed.
    From the other room, Sophie’s father called, “Go to sleep,