Sandman

I always hate this part. On every first day, the teacher makes us say our names in front of the whole class. It’s an “introduction." It’s embarrassing. I’ve been going to this school since kindergarten, and I already know the names of half the people in my new classroom. I don't usually talk to most of them or play with them at recess, but I know their names. Even though they can never seem to remember mine.

Mrs. Kelley points her finger at me, an overbearing smile plastered on her face. She wants me to say my name. I shrink away from the attention as every head turns towards me. “And what’s your name?” Mrs. Kelley asks.

“Milo,” I answer.

“Tell everyone something interesting about you,” she adds.

I was wrong before. This is the worst part of the first day.

“I don’t know,” I say.

Mrs. Kelley steps closer, making me withdraw even further into my seat. “Do you like to read books?” she asks, her voice gentle and kind. “Do you like drawing or playing basketball, or running? Or do you like to collect things? Anything about yourself is interesting.”

I don’t trust her words. I know for a fact that the others only count a few things as interesting, and I doubt I’m one of them. But Mrs. Kelley is hovering over me, quietly urging me to give an answer. Everyone else has already bragged about how they’re great at a sport or have cool drawing skills. Or that one girl, Elise, who is a good singer. Now it’s my turn to disappoint.

“I like climbing trees,” I say.

“And what kind of trees do you like to climb?” my teacher asks. I find it sort of a ridiculous question. The only trees I can climb are the ones with branches I can reach, but I don’t tell her that. Mom always says that I shouldn’t talk back to a teacher, and after an incident in second grade that had me taking a bad behavior slip home, I learned my lesson.

“The ones outside of my house,” I say.

“That’s so cool. Maybe you can show the others how to climb trees,” Mrs. Kelley praises. Then she moves on to the next person, and I let the anxiety slowly ease away from my chest.

Unlike the rows of desks in my third-grade classroom, my fourth-grade teacher has placed our desks into tables of four, two of us facing the other two. My desk is in the middle of the room, the person next to me a boy I actually like, but the two girls across from us have always ignored me. The only time they’ve spoken to me was to call me an idiot for kicking the kickball over the fence.

Mrs. Kelley finishes the introductions and starts talking about herself and the rules of her classroom:

Don’t take from other people’s desks.

If we need to go to the restroom, raise our hand and use the hall pass.

When she raises both hands in the air, we stop talking.

And we don’t say mean things to other people. Respect is the number one rule.

After she shows us around the classroom, we begin our first lesson in science. The order of our days is going to start with science, then math, lunch, recess, English, history, then end with geography. On the whiteboard, she uses a red marker to draw three large circles, then uses a blue marker to draw smaller circles around the red ones. “These are atoms,” Mrs. Kelley clarifies, pointing to the red circles. She turns back to the class and asks, “Does anyone here know what an atom is?”

I’ve heard about atoms on TV, but I can’t describe them very well. I think they are little things I can’t see, like germs. A few of the kids raise their hands. Mrs. Kelley picks a girl who says exactly what I’m thinking, and then our teacher explains.

“That’s true. Atoms are very little and cannot be seen with the naked eye, but they are the matter that makes everything, including all of us. And spinning around the atom are little protons, neutrons, and electrons. In my class, we will discuss matter and electricity, and we’ll build our way to biology and living organisms.”

A boy raises his hand from the table next to mine. He asks, “How many atoms are inside us?”

“Millions and billions,” Mrs. Kelley answers, and most of us are very surprised to hear this. “There are so many atoms inside of us and around us that it is impossible to count them all. But they are everywhere, even though we can’t see them. Like Santa Claus. We don’t see him, but we believe that he’s there.”

I’ve known that Santa Claus is a lie since I was eight. I snuck into the living room late at night and saw Mom putting presents on the couch next to the Christmas tree, eating the cookies we made together for Saint Nick. I felt disappointed and sad, but I never told her that I knew. I thought that she would be sad too if I told her, so I woke up on Christmas morning for the second time and pretended that I believed. I’ve been pretending for three years now, but it’s become easier to lie. And not just about Santa. I've started lying about more things that always upset her, and it's more likely she'll believe me when she drinks her juice after coming home from work. She says work is very stressful, and a drink helps her calm down. I asked if I could have some too, but she said it didn’t taste good. She said I wouldn’t like it.

“Kate,” Mrs. Kelley says, pointing to a girl at the front of the room. “Can you tell me about something you can’t see, but believe in?”

Kate looks worried, but her face lights up as she remembers something. “I don’t see the neighbor’s cat, but I leave out dog food in a bowl in my backyard, and in the morning all the food is gone!”

“That’s a great example. You don’t see the cat, but there is evidence that proves it comes and eats the dog food. Tom, can you give me another example?”

Mrs. Kelley goes around the room, pointing to random students and asking them the same question. They all tell little stories about receiving money from the tooth fairy, presents from Santa, little gifts and candy from the Easter Bunny. One boy talks about a ghost woman living in his house, taking their cups from the table and hiding them. I listen to all their stories, praying that the finger never points at me. Mrs. Kelley comes closer, and my heart beats louder. She passes me. I take a deep breath.

“Milo,” she says, turning and pointing her finger at me again. “Tell me about something you can’t see, but believe is real.”

My heart runs faster now. My head scatters and looks for a story I can tell. I don’t believe in Santa Claus. I don’t believe in the Easter Bunny. Or the tooth fairy. And I’ve never seen any ghosts. There is nothing that I haven’t seen - except for tiny germs and atoms - that I think is real.

Except for him.

I know he’s real.

“It can be anything. Even something little,” Mrs. Kelley says, trying to help. “Do you believe that Santa Claus leaves gifts for you, even though you never see him?”

“No,” I say, no thought needed for my answer. Some of my classmates look surprised, and a few give me dirty looks. As if not believing in Santa Claus is a horrible thing to do. Mrs. Kelley’s smile gets weaker, but she holds onto it. I’ve never spoken about him to anyone, not even Mom, who told me the stories in the first place. But I know he’s real, even if everyone else doesn’t.

“I believe in the Sandman.”

A chorus of giggles starts around the room. Mrs. Kelley doesn’t look sure about my answer, asking, “Why do you believe in the Sandman?”

“There’s no Sandman,” the girl across from me says matter-of-factly, making me hate her even more. “He’s just that stupid dog in the Micky Mouse cartoon that puts sand in Pluto’s eyes.”

More hushed laughter. My cheeks turn hot from the unwanted attention, but Mrs. Kelley raises both of her hands and slowly the class remembers that it’s the sign to be quiet. “There is no laughing at others in this class,” Mrs. Kelley scolds. Once the others have calmed down, she leans closer and asks, “Tell us why you believe in the Sandman. Is he something you've never seen?”

I nod, not wanting to say anything that will only make people laugh at me more. The stupid girl across from me - Everly - breaks the rule of silence and demands, “If you’ve never seen him, then why do you think he’s real?”

“Have we forgotten the lesson?” our teacher asks, and Everly gives me one more scowl as she pushes her lips together. “The point of this question is to prove there are things that we know are there, even though we can’t see them.”

She looks back at me with encouragement, and yet my hands are shaking. I know what I have to say next, but I can’t bring myself to it. There are too many people looking at me.

Watching me.

Watching like the crows.

“Please tell me why you believe in the Sandman,” Mrs. Kelley asks.

“I-” the sentence starts, but I have to focus on Mrs. Kelley to keep going. The rest of the class seems to fade away as I finally confess, “I hear him. At night, after Mom goes to bed. He always walks down the hall by my bedroom, but then he turns back and leaves.”

The class falls into silence. Even Mrs. Kelley, who has been asking me to speak many times, looks speechless. Then, clearing her throat, she asks, “You hear him walking? Are you sure it’s not one of your family members?”

“I don’t live with any family, except for Mom,” I tell her, the words coming more easily now. Eagerly, in fact. “And the Sandman walks funny. I can always tell it’s him because he drags one of his feet on the floor. And in the morning, I find sand on the carpet outside my room. Mom always thinks I put it there, so I vacuum the floor before she wakes up.”

“Oh,” Mrs. Kelley says, and that’s all she says about my story. But her smile quickly returns and she moves the lesson forward, from the structure of atoms to the charge of electrons.

When recess comes, I sit in the shade of the giant oak tree and read my comic book. No one talks to me. No one asks me about the Sandman. The rest of the day passes before I know it, and everyone starts running out of the classroom with their backpacks, eager to get home. I’m almost out the door when I hear Mrs. Kelley call my name.

The first day, and I’m already in trouble.

“Do you need to catch the bus?” she asks.

“No, I walk home.” I only live a block away from the school, and Mom doesn’t get home from work until five, so she won’t notice if I stay a while longer. I don’t want another bad behavior slip to take home.

“I just want to ask you more about this Sandman you talked about,” she begins politely, as if it is a sensitive subject. I guess it is considering I’m the only person who knows about him, besides Mom. “You said he walks by your room at night?”

“Yes.”

“And does this happen every night?”

“Yes.”

“How long has this been going on?”

I think back to the first time I heard him in the hall. The first night I woke to the sound of one foot pressing on the boards beneath the carpet, the other dragging behind as if it were broken. When I felt so afraid that I wanted to run to Moms room, but knew I would only run into the stranger outside. And then I remembered Moms story about the Sandman, and I realized it was him. He had come to our house, and he's returned every night since.

It started at the beginning of summer, after I finished third grade. My entire summer, I’ve heard the Sandman; I've woken up every night and listened to him do the same thing. I think he might leave soon because I’m back in school, but I won’t know until tonight.

“All summer” I answer.

Mrs. Kelley doesn’t look well as she nervously bites her lip, thinking quietly to herself. I don’t know why she’s reacting this way. Maybe she’s scared like I first was. “Does your Mom know about this?”

Mom was the one who told me about the Sandman. Most of what I know came from her. When she wasn’t always working, and when her juice didn’t make her tired. She told me stories of Grandpa’s obsession with a mysterious man who came at night, leaving trails of sand wherever he went. It started with my Grandfather, who was the first to hear him. Then it was Dad, before he died. I was only a year old, so I don’t remember him, but Mom told me the stories. Of how dad would wake up in the morning and talk about how the Sandman walked outside their room, leaving grains of sand on the floor. I wonder if he saw the crows, too. But after he died, the Sandman left. And Mom doesn’t like to talk about him.

But he’s back now. And he’s walking outside my room this time.

“Milo?” my teacher says, bringing me back from my trance. I got too distracted by the question, which happens more than I want it to. "Does your mom know about the Sandman?" Mrs. Kelley asks again.

I think about all the times I’ve tried to tell Mom about the Sandman. But she gets upset when I bring him up. Tells me that she never wants to hear about the Sandman again. Uncertain of my answer, I shake my head. “Well, maybe it would be a good idea to bring it up to her. And if you feel like talking more, the school counselor’s office is right next to the library. Maybe you’re just having some bad dreams, that’s all.”

I thank my new teacher, finally leaving the classroom. I know better than to bring it up to Mom, and I have no interest in talking to Mr. Rogers, the school counselor. The last time I spoke to him, I didn’t understand half the things he was saying. The whole half hour, I squirmed in my seat, begging time to run faster.

And Mrs. Kelley doesn't know that I’ve never had a dream before, so that has to mean the Sandman is real. Because I don’t dream.

I don’t know how.

I walk the entire block to my house, running the last stretch of sidewalk until I get to the long, red brick house that has four doors. Two for the apartments upstairs and two for the apartments below. I run up the metal stairs to the upper left door, pulling off my backpack to look for the door key. It’s cooler inside, the hot sun already making me sweat uncomfortably, and I quickly strip off my shoes and leave them by the door. With no homework, I run to the TV and turn the channel to Cartoon Network, the Three Bare Bears lighting up the screen.

I scoot around our old tan couch and enter the kitchen, opening the fridge to look for one of my apple juice bottles. I’m only supposed to use them for lunches, but I’m hot and thirsty, and water is boring to drink. The light in the fridge hisses and flickers, nearly dying out, and I quickly grab what I want and close it. With my juice, I sit on the floor in front of the screen and watch. A few times, I glance behind me to the hallway that leads to my bedroom, and Mom's. Each time, a small part of me hopes to see something.

The bigger part is afraid that I actually will.