Hello friends and welcome to Sleep Tight Stories.
Scooter is a busy boy who goes and goes until he crashes.
Scooter has tried reading books to go to sleep at night when he can't settle.
His reading is just okay, so he makes up the words he doesn't know.
One day his friend comes in and he tells him a story to see if that will help him sleep.
Scooter and Chipper Scooter, which wasn't his real name, just the name he preferred because it sounded kind of fast without being a name for a race car, had nothing against bedtime.
Sometimes he would keep going and going until he just stopped, like a wind-up toy that finally wound down.
Sometimes that would be at the kitchen table at dinner time.
After taking one bite of spaghetti, he would yawn and rest his head right on the table and just fall asleep, his hair nearly touching the red sauce.
Other times he would go and go and go, and not even his mother reading bedtime stories in her most exaggerated relaxing voice would help his mind settle down and get quiet.
Those were the nights he read books.
He could read a little.
He wasn't the best reader in his class.
That was probably Victoria or maybe Marcus.
But he could read adventure books because, you see, he had the greatest imagination in the whole house.
Maybe the city.
Maybe the world.
He didn't know for sure.
What he did know was that when he was reading a difficult book on those nights he couldn't settle down.
He could fill in the parts he didn't understand with things that made perfect sense to him.
Like, maybe the story would be about a horse galloping across a plain.
That's a place that's flat, by the way.
He knew that from geography.
And he would come across a part that had some big words in it that he didn't know yet.
Then he would just fill it in with what he thought might happen.
Like maybe the horse jumped up so high it went into outer space and would gallop amongst the stars and then land on the moon where it would eat cheese.
Cheese wasn't Scooter's favorite food.
He liked it okay, but he figured the moon could be full of cheese, especially the stinky kind that some old people liked.
The kind his grandpa ate that smelled like old socks.
Scooter did like cheese, as long as it came with pizza.
Cheese with pickles was okay, too.
He often asked his best friend Victoria, if she liked cheese and pickles and she just looked at him like he was weird, which was fine, because Victoria looked at lots of things like they were weird.
It was on these nights where he just couldn't settle, even with Mother's voice.
Father's voice at night seemed spooky, so he always told stories at Halloween that he met his other friend Chipper.
But no one would believe that he had this friend, Chipper, Because Chipper was a squirrel.
And squirrels and people don't often become friends.
Especially when they visit bedrooms at night and the windows are shut tight because it's winter.
And opening the window would make his room too cold.
And also his mother said, absolutely not, you'll freeze.
But Chipper was a good friend.
Scooter was sure of it.
Chipper had been visiting whenever Scooter had trouble settling his mind and he would start reading hard books.
Chipper would scramble across his room the way squirrels do, all bouncy and quick.
Then eventually sneakily, Chipper would pat across his bedsheets so quietly you couldn't hear it, but you could feel it, because even little squirrels have some weight.
And Chipper would sit there beside him, sometimes with his tail curled up, sometimes with his tail all puffed out, while Scooter looked at Hugo's big adventure or the secret of Rabbit Hill and filled in the blanks under the soft, warm light in his bedroom.
Last night Chipper suggested that maybe the moon cheese horse should fly to Mars next time, because cheese can get old after a while.
Chipper visited me again last night.
Scooter said at breakfast, stuffing OTOs into his mouth, and listened while I told him the story about the horse that flies through the stars and lands on the moon to eat cheese.
He said maybe Mars would be more interesting.
He heard his father ask mother, Who's Chipper again?
Doesn't he know I have excellent hearing and can hear everything?
Scooter thought.
Are you sure there's a squirrel in your room?
His mother asked gently.
I looked many times.
I thought maybe one got in during the summer and was living in your closet.
I think you both have wonderful imaginations, his father said, grabbing his coffee mug.
Today was his day to play hockey.
He always came home sore and complaining about old age.
You do have a wonderful imagination, Scooter, his mother agreed.
Well, Chipper is real, Mom, and last night he said cheese can get boring.
It certainly can, his mother said.
That night, Scooter really, really, really wanted to sleep.
Victoria had invited him to her birthday party tomorrow at the trampoline place, which was absolutely the best place for a birthday party in the whole world.
Better than the pizza place, better than the arcade.
Maybe even better than that place with all the animals you could pet.
But you had to not be tired to jump on trampolines, or else you might fall and hurt yourself.
And if you hurt yourself, they'd make you sit out.
And sitting out at a trampoline birthday party was basically the worst thing that could happen.
So he needed to sleep.
His mother read him three stories in her calmest voice.
The one that sounded like honey felt slow and thick and sweet.
But his brain kept going and going.
It kept thinking about trampolines.
And what if there was a trampoline on the moon and you could jump so high you'd bounce all the way back to Earth.
Or, What if squirrels had trampolines, tiny ones that they bounced on in trees?
His mother kissed his forehead.
Try to rest, sweetheart.
I'm trying, he said.
My brain won't stop.
I know, but maybe tonight it will surprise you.
She left and Scooter lay there staring at his ceiling.
At the glow-in-the-dark stars his dad had stuck up there last year.
He tried counting them.
He tried counting backward.
He tried thinking about nothing, which was impossible because nothing was still something if you were thinking about it.
He heard it then, the familiar scramble, scramble, scratch.
Chipper, Scooter whispered.
I can't visit tonight.
I have to sleep.
Real sleep.
Not the kind where I fall asleep reading and wake up with the book on my face.
Scramble, scramble, pad, pad, pad, across the sheets.
Scooter felt the slight weight settle near his feet.
He sat up and turned on his small reading light.
There was Chipper, tail curled up looking at him with those bright black squirrel eyes.
I really have to sleep, Scooter said.
Victoria's party is tomorrow and I can't be tired.
Chipper's tail flicked.
You want me to read anyway?
Chipper just sat there.
Scooter sighed and reached for his book.
Okay, but just one chapter.
And maybe you can help my brain settle down.
He opened to where he'd left off.
Something about a fox crossing a river.
There were some hard words.
Stream, current, determination.
He filled in the blanks.
The fox had to cross the river to get to the birthday party on the other side.
It was a trampoline party, the best kind.
Chipper's tail swished softly against the blanket.
Scooter kept reading, kept filling in and somewhere between the fox learning to swim and discovering a helpful turtle, his voice got slower.
The words got harder to see.
His head got heavy.
Chipper, he mumbled, I think it's working.
When he woke up, sunshine was pouring through his window.
His book was closed on his nightstand.
His reading light was off.
Someone must have come in and turned it off, which was weird, because usually when he fell asleep reading, he woke up with the light still on.
He sat up, stretched, and felt actually rested, ready for trampolines.
That's when he noticed it.
Right on his pillow, next to where his head had been, was a single acorn.
Scooter picked it up, rolled it between his fingers.
It was real.
Solid.
The cap had little ridges and when he sniffed it it smelled like outside, like trees and dirt and autumn, even though it was winter.
He ran downstairs with the acorn in his hand.
Mom, Dad, look!
His mother was making pancakes.
His father was reading the newspaper, still sore from hockey.
Chipper left this, Scooter said, holding up the acorn, right on my pillow.
His parents exchanged a look, the kind of look that usually meant they thought he was being imaginative again.
Where did you get that? his mother asked carefully.
I told you, Chipper left it after I fell asleep reading.
His father put down his paper.
That's a real acorn.
I know, Scooter said.
We don't have any acorns in the house, his mother said slowly.
I know, Scooter said again.
Chipper must have brought it.
They both looked at him, then at each other, then back at the acorn.
Well, his father said finally, that's very thoughtful of Chipper.
Very thoughtful, his mother agreed.
Scooter put the acorn in his pocket.
Tonight, he'd put it on his shelf with the other special things.
The rock shaped like a heart, the ticket stub from the circus, the lucky penny Victoria gave him.
Can I have pancakes? he asked.
I need energy for trampolines.
Of course, his mother said. still looking at him kind of funny.
That night, after the trampoline party, which was exactly as good as he'd hoped, and he hadn't fallen once Scooter got ready for bed without being told.
He was so tired, his bones felt tired.
Good tired.
Trampoline tired.
His mother came in to say goodnight.
Do you think Chipper will visit tonight? she asked.
Scooter yawned.
Probably not.
I'm too tired to read.
Maybe that's okay, she said.
Maybe Chipper only visits when you need him.
Maybe, Scooter said.
She kissed his forehead and turned off his light.
Scooter closed his eyes.
His mind was quiet for once.
Not racing, not filling in blanks, or imagining horses on the moon.
Just quiet.
And in that quiet, just before he fell into a real deep sleep, he heard it.
So soft he almost missed it.
Scramble, scramble, scratch.
Pad, pad, pad. the slight weight settling at the foot of his bed.
Scooter smiled in the dark but didn't open his eyes.
Thanks, Chipper, he whispered.
The weight stayed there, warm and small and real, until Scooter drifted off completely.
No books, no filled-in blanks, no running thoughts.
Just sleep.
Good sleep, the kind where you wake up ready for anything.
And that is the end of our story.
Good night.
Sleep tight.
