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Sebastien has set up what he considers to be a simple test. He first wants to study my afterlife experience, and hopes to recreate it.
I’m thinking, okay, how are you going to set up a reading with someone which will result in my seeing the great beyond? I’m also wondering what happens if I do get another glimpse and it happens to be the person on the elevator going down. (Then again, Hell might look like Newark, New Jersey and I wouldn’t know the difference.) I’m going on the assumption that what I saw the first time was indeed Heaven.
Anyway, here’s the deal. Sebastien will have me do a reading with a man who is terminally ill. He’s been dating a woman and wants to know if she will remain with him after he tells her he’s headed for a dirt nap. According to doctors, he cannot possibly live more than two years. So Sebastien’s test should, in theory, give me a look at whatever awaits this guy on the other side. If I see nothing, that might confirm our suspicion that my emotion is a necessary ingredient.
He assures me there will not be a murder involved as he leads me into a small room set up much like the one we have at home. Except the curtains are all black, which makes a sharp contrast to my burgundy cape. But the man is not what I expect. He’s maybe forty, and when you think of someone about to die you’re thinking about someone ancient. The man honestly doesn’t look that bad. He’s short, maybe my height, and thin. Bald, from chemotherapy. Face is a little drawn and a bit pale, but that’s about the only indicator that might tell you he’s sick. His light brown eyes are filled with sadness as he extends his hand and offers a slight smile. “Hi, Frank Donovan.”
“Jillian Spectre.”
“I wasn’t expecting someone so young.”
Neither was I, though I don’t say it.
“She’s a prodigy,” says Sebastien. “I’ll leave you two to the reading.” He turns and leaves, closing the door behind him. I gesture toward one of the chairs, we both sit.
“So, I understand you have a question about the woman you’re dating.”
His eyes grow misty. “I, uh—”
“Sebastien’s already filled me in on your…situation.”
He nods.
I reach across the table. “I want you to take my hands for a moment, look directly at me and tell me the question you have. It must be about romance, and you must think of nothing else.”
He takes my hands, holding them softly, and his sad eyes lock onto mine. “I want to know if Patrice will leave me when I tell her…I’m…terminal.”
“You brought a photo?”
“Yes.” He reaches in his pocket and pulls out a wallet-sized shot showing the two of them on the beach. She’s a cute, petite brunette with long tangled hair and big eyes. It’s clear they are in love from the way they’re looking at each other.
I take his hands again and try my best to comfort him with my gaze. “Now I’m going to let go. I want you to close your eyes for about a minute and focus on your question. Remember, focus only on your question.”
I let go of his hands and hold the crystal ball. He nods, closes his eyes and I do the same. I focus on his face, the photo. Is there emotion? Sort of. I mean, I feel bad that this poor guy’s going to die, he seems like a decent person. But I don’t really know him. I’m hoping what I see tells me his girlfriend is going to stick around. It’s as happy an ending as he can hope for.
A minute later I open my eyes.
The ball is already fogged up. Has to be the touch.
“Okay, open your eyes.”
He does so and looks at me, then the ball. “How long will it take—”
“Shhhhh.” The image clears. I see the two of them at dinner, him taking her hands. She begins to cry. But doesn’t leave. Now they’re in a jewelry store shopping for an engagement ring. The images are still at normal speed. I look up at him. “She’s definitely staying.”
His exhale is audible as he smiles and his eyes brighten.
I see her walking down the aisle, him waiting at the altar. “You’ll be getting married before…” I catch my words by the tail.
His smile gets bigger.
The image of their honeymoon on a cruise ship fills the ball. Then she’s pregnant. Then he’s holding a baby in a hospital.
Then it goes to black. Till death do us part, indeed.
“Well?”
“You’re going to have a daughter.”
He begins to cry, tears of joy. “Did you see…. you know….”
“No, Mr Donovan. I can only read matters of the heart.” I look at the ball, waiting, hoping for the afterlife movie to start playing.
But nothing happens.
Until he reaches across the table and takes my hands again.
CHAPTER SIX (#ulink_e29c56f2-3687-5650-884e-8c21715518e2)
Most high school kids have an out-of-body experience on Monday morning. No, I’m not talking about anything paranormal. Our minds are not in our bodies when the bell rings at the ungodly hour of eight o’clock in the morning. Some are fried from a weekend of partying. Others from too much homework.
I’m tired from lack of sleep the last two nights. Trying to figure out your place in the universe after viewing the afterlife will do that to a girl.
So right now I don’t need anything to do with what lies on the other side, guys trying to murder their trampy girlfriends or partnering with cops who solve crimes by projecting their souls. Right now I want to be an average American high school girl, thinking about hot guys and college and hairstyles and gossip.
Roxanne’s plastic green tray slides onto the table and she sits down opposite me as I take a bite of what we refer to in this cafeteria as ‘Belmont steaks.’ (As in, the protein we’re eating might have come from a creature ridden by a jockey at Belmont Park that wasn’t seen in the photo finish.) “I have noooooze,” she says, eyes wide with a secret I know she cannot keep and doesn’t want to.
“Whuh?” I ask, talking through the mystery protein.
“Remember last week I told you that somebody likes you?”
I take a sip of water to wash down the salty shoe leather and swallow. “Yeah, and you wouldn’t tell me who it was. You drop a hint like that and then drive me nuts all weekend.”
“I wanted to be absolutely sure. Didn’t want to get your hopes up unless I had confirmation. Now I have confirmation. I overheard him say he’s going to ask you to the dance.”
“And how would you suggest I turn down Melvin?”
“Funny. So, you wanna be surprised or do you want something a mystic seer can never get.” One eyebrow goes up. “A look at her own future.”
Now that is one intriguing carrot she’s dangling. What the hell, I need something to lighten up. “Will I like what you’re going to tell me?”
“I think so. I would. Though I will preface what I’m about to tell you by saying the young man in question is not Ryan or Jake.”
Hmmm. I go through my mental roster of unattached guys in the school. About fifty percent would be classified as breathing and male, twenty percent as possibles, thirty percent as out of my league or attached to the equivalent of a prom queen or slutty cheerleader. Roxanne is practically jumping up and down on her seat and I know she can’t wait to tell me. “Fine. At least if I don’t like him I’ll be prepared with an excuse to turn him down.” I raise one eyebrow. “So who is it?” I’ve got a no friggin’ way ready on the edge of my tongue.
She leans forward and lowers her voice into the sultry tone. “The Pocket Chippendale.”
I’m taken aback. It’s someone I’d never even considered. But I’m intrigued. “Really. Do tell.”
“He’s in my history class. Last week I heard him say he had his eye on a certain redhead. This morning I heard him tell a friend he was going to ask said redhead to the dance. I’m assuming he’s talking about you since the only other redhead in the entire school is Carla and she’s built like a Coke machine.”
“Yeah, but recently I heard her say that she lost forty pounds.”
“Pffft. That’s like throwin’ a deck chair off the Titanic. Anyway, since you’ve got the same look in your eyes as you do for my mother’s lasagna I’m guessing that you’re probably going to say yes.”
She’s right. Given a nanosecond to think about it and the fact I’ve been a romantic camel this semester, the thought of an evening with a guy who’s beyond cute is pretty appealing.
Oh, I guess I should tell you who Roxanne is talking about and his very appropriate nickname. Will Carlisle is a smart, polite senior who is the main reason the wrestling team outdraws the football games at this school. Hell, even the cheerleaders show up. The Chippendale half of the name comes from his chiseled physique which cries out for a bow tie and cuffs, but sadly those aren’t allowed at high school athletic meets. Every time he wins a match he rips off his shirt and throws it in the air like that gal in the Olympic soccer game years ago. The running line with the girls who go to the matches is that they’d like to perform a thorough search of his body for an ounce of fat. Throw in thick dark hair, piercing hazel eyes and dimples that run the length of his cheeks when he flashes his megawatt smile, and you could easily see him showing up at bachelorette parties dressed as a UPS man with the ultimate package.
The other part of his nickname, Pocket? Will is five feet two.
I quickly do the math. The four inch heels I’ve been dying to wear would take me up to five-nine. I take a mental inventory of my closet, shoving the heels aside and searching the back for a pair of flats.
“So,” says Roxanne, breaking my trance as she bites a carrot stick. “You like?”
I slowly nod. “Yeah. It’s not Ryan or Jake, but I like.”
Her smile widens. “I thought you might, and I’m glad. I think you’ll be good together. Hell, if you didn’t want him I’d take him. So, waddaya gonna wear?”
I shrug. “I dunno.”
“Sure you do. You’ve got that great emerald green halter dress with the peek-a-boo slit that shows off your boobs. You look spectacular in it.”
She’s right, it’s my best color and my nicest dress. As for the quick flash it offers of my chest, it should be noted that any male taking advantage of said flash will not be disappointed. However, while I have nice boobs, Roxanne has what boys call a rack. Big difference.
Still, there’s one problem with the outfit. “I do love that dress, but the matching shoes have four inch heels.”
“So?”
“Sooooo, I’ll be a head taller than him. He’ll be looking right into my chest.”
“Hence, the peek-a-boo slit.”
I shake my head and roll my eyes.
“What’s the difference?” she says. “Guys look at your chest when they talk to you anyway, so he may as well be at eye level. Look, I’m taller than just about all my dates and I still wear heels that make me six-four. Besides, those legs of yours should never been seen in flats.”
“Nice compliment coming from a girl they call—”
“Don’t! Say it!” She puts up one finger and glares at me.
“Fine. Anyway, thanks for the heads up. Speaking of the dance, has Ryan—”
“Yeah, and I told him I already had a date.”
“Do you?”
“No, but I’ll ask someone out today.”
God, I wish I could be like her. “By the way, you said if I didn’t want the Pocket Chippendale, you’d take him. Seriously?”
“Sure. Why not?”
“You’d be more than a foot taller in your heels.”
Both eyebrows go up, her eyes fill with lust as she gets this faraway look. “Yeah, but it does present some very interesting possibilities.”
“Slut. So, who you gonna ask out?”
“Don’t know yet.” Roxanne licks her lips as the tall, hunky junior who just transferred here strolls by and smiles at her. He places his tray on the next table so that he’s facing her.
“You’ve got that look. You’re going to confession this weekend, aren’t you?”
She gets up, picks up her tray and starts to head for his table. “Bless me, Father, for I am about to sin.”
***
“Are we going to Jersey again this Saturday?” I ask, as I load the stainless steel dishwasher that matches the other appliances in the kitchen.
“Probably not,” says mom. I can see her putting on her bling in the reflection as she gets ready for her seven o’clock client. “Why?”
“I’ve, uh, got a date Friday night. Didn’t know if I could sleep late Saturday or if I needed to get home early.”
She completely misses the implications of what I asked as a big smile grows. “A date, huh? Ryan taking you out?” Her voice goes up into a happy lilt.
I finish putting the glasses on the top rack, close the dishwasher door and turn it on, then turn to face her. “Unfortunately not, mom.”
She stops adding bracelets and her eyes narrow into a glare. “It’s not that Jake character, is it?” (It should be noted that the previously happy lilt in her voice has morphed into that of Linda Blair in The Exorcist.)
“No, someone you don’t know.”
“Name, age, arrest record.”
Good God. “I’m having the CIA black ops team put together a dossier for you. They should be here any moment. His code name is Falcon.”
“I have a right to know who my daughter might be…cavorting with.”
“Well, I won’t be…cavorting…with a hooligan, if that’s what you’re worried about. In fact I doubt I’ll be doing any cavorting at all.”
She folds her arms and stands up straight. “Watch it, missy. I’m still your mother.”
I exhale and roll my eyes. “Fine. His name is Will Carlisle, he’s a senior, very smart, captain of the wrestling team. Father’s a cop, so he doesn’t get in trouble.”
“Long as he doesn’t get girls in trouble.”
“Give me some credit, mom. I have no desire to push around a cereal covered toddler in Wal-Mart when I’m eighteen.”
“So…a wrestluh?”
