After Obsession

by Carrie Jones

  “Do you know what a vision quest is?” I ask.

  She smiles a little and admits she doesn’t, so I make myself man up and tell her about my vision quest and Onawa.

  “Oh.” Her bright green eyes are clouded now, confused. I know that look. Usually that comes right before the girl says, “I have to go home and wash the dog, Alan. See ya.” But Aimee doesn’t say anything.

  “Onawa showed me things. She showed me the spirit world. It was all dark, with ghosts moving in it. The ghosts were just kind of swirling around, like bubbles in boiling water. I don’t know. That sounds dumb, but that’s what I thought. Then she …” I pause and look away for a minute.

  “What?” Aimee asks. “You can tell me. If you want to.”

  “She told me someday I would be called Spirit Warrior. She doesn’t usually actually speak to me. She just shows me things, or, I don’t know, puts out a vibe? That sounds lame, but it’s kind of right. She gives me a feeling that sort of means something. That’s the only time she’s actually spoken. She said, ‘Someday they will call you Spirit Warrior.’ I’ve never admitted that to anyone. Why would I have a name like that?”

  The clouds are gone from Aimee’s eyes and she is looking at me, steady and clear again. “Spirit Warrior.”

  “Yeah. I—I can’t believe I just told you that … Anyway, I would have thought it was all just a dream, or just the peyote and hunger, you know. I’m not stupid. I know you can hallucinate just from being hungry enough. Add the drugs in there and, yeah, you could see anything, especially if …” I pause, but those big green eyes won’t let me stop. “You know, if it’s something you really, really want.”

  “I understand,” she says, and I think she really does.

  “Well, I would have just written the whole thing off as a weird trip and wishful thinking, but in the vision Onawa gave me a rock. A stone that looked like an egg. She said it was a symbol of me being reborn. When I woke up, I had this little white rock in my hand. It’s all smooth and white, just like a little egg.”

  Aimee nods.

  “Still, I thought it was a coincidence. You know, I was stumbling around, completely stoned, and found the rock and somehow added it to my hallucination. But then I saw the brown fur on a big rock. It was stuck there, like an animal had been scratching its back against the rock. And there in the mud beside the rock was one animal footprint. A big cat. A cougar. I knew it was a cougar.”

  “So you put the hair, rock, and mud in your bag,” Aimee says, finishing my story.

  “Yeah. That’s what I did. Most people would think that’s really weird.”

  “I don’t,” she says, and I know she’s telling me the truth.

  “I know you don’t. And that’s why you can tell me anything. Tell me about your dreams. I won’t think you’re weird.”

  “You’ll be my spirit warrior?” She smiles, but it’s a small, hesitant smile.

  I have to drop my eyes for a moment. I look back at her and try to smile but fail. “I don’t know. I’ll try.”

  “Okay. If Court or anyone hasn’t told you already … my mom died a few years ago.” She swallows. “She was sick. It was a … a mental illness. Bipolar disorder. Everyone says she killed herself.”

  I’d heard of that. “I’m sorry.”

  “Afterward, me and Court and some other friends had a séance in my house because I missed her so much, you know, and I just wanted to see if she was okay. I don’t think any of us actually expected it to work or anything, you know? My dreams, or ‘psychic visions,’ started for real after that. It got really freaky. I mean, really freaky.”

  “Your mom talked to you?”

  “No! It wasn’t her. It was … something else. Something dark. I’d seen it before, at the river. It’s shaped like a man, but looks like it’s just a shadow. You know, a shadow that’s thick, like a man, but just shadow. And everyone freaked out. I know that makes no sense.”

  I think back to what I saw in Courtney’s bedroom window last night. “He’s tall, with broad shoulders. Just kind of stands there looking at you and makes you feel cold.”

  “You’ve seen him?” Her voice is hushed.

  A cloud moves through the sky and covers us in shade for a few seconds. She jumps and clutches at my arm. I take her tiny hands in one of mine and squeeze gently.

  “I saw him last night in Courtney’s bedroom window.”

  “Oh … whoa!” Her hands in mine are suddenly rigid. “She talked about him today. She said I should be careful, so that he wouldn’t notice me again. He … I saw him before my mom died. She was at the river, and I saw him standing with her. Then at the séance …” She pauses and her eyes darken, like a cloud has crossed between them and the life-light that makes them shine. “Alan, I’m scared. I know that sounds really wussy, but I am. I’m scared.”

  “It’ll be okay.” I’m not sure what to do. I squeeze her hands and say, “You know the bell’s gonna ring in a few minutes, right?”

  “Really?” She slowly pulls her left hand away from me and looks at her watch. “We have to get back inside.”

  I get up first and then haul her up beside me. As we walk back to school, I can’t wait any longer. “Is what they’re saying true?”

  “What?” Those eyes tell me she knows exactly what I’m talking about. She tries to hide them from me. Her hair flops in front of her face.

  “They said in first hour you broke up with Blake. That he beat you up.”

  “I broke up with him,” she says. “He didn’t beat me up.”

  “Why are you limping then?”

  She swallows real hard. “He pulled me out of his car, which is not technically beating me up. Although, it’s probably assault or something and it is not cool. I was not cool with it.”

  Her hands move to her forearms unconsciously but I notice. I take her left arm and carefully push the sleeve up to her elbow. When I touch her, there are tiny sparks of something that passes between us, but no visions.

  She flinches but doesn’t pull away. The bruises are fresh and finger shaped. “That son of a bitch,” I say.

  “He’s never been like this, been so angry or possessive. I think he’d get deranged if he even knew we were talking. It’s weird. I don’t even know who he is anymore. Courtney says that it’s not just him. She thinks everyone is acting strangely, more nasty, and I kind of think she’s right. That doesn’t excuse what he did at all. It just feels like something bigger is going on.” She reaches for the door handle but it’s locked. She gives me a terrified look.

  “Crap. Does this mean we have to go in through the front door?” I ask.

  Before she can answer, the door flies open, missing us by inches. Courtney stands in the doorway, glaring at us, a smirk on her face. There’s something odd. It takes me a moment to realize she’s broken out in a pretty nasty case of oozing acne.

  “Court, what happened?” Aimee asks. “Your f—”

  “You’ve been talking about me,” Courtney accuses.

  Aimee starts to say something, but Courtney’s eyes roll up into her head and she collapses. She’s like a marionette whose strings just got cut. She sags to her knees, then flops forward, her head smacking the concrete in front of our feet.

  “Court!” Aimee screams and drops to her knees. Inside the school a bell rings and people come spilling into the hallway. I crouch beside Courtney and roll her over. There’s blood pouring from a gash in her forehead. The skin around the wound is swelling fast. I grab her up.

  “I guess I really am carrying someone to the nurse,” I say.

  Aimee jumps in front of me and tries to clear people out of the way as we hurry through the hall, around a corner, and finally to the nurse’s station. The nurse isn’t in and has to be paged. Aimee and I stay with Courtney, who’s still unconscious. I find an icepack in a little refrigerator and put it over the bump after Aimee cleans away the blood. The bleeding has almost stopped by now.

  “The halls are going to look like something out of
a horror movie,” Aimee says. “She was bleeding so bad. Oh man, poor Court.”

  “Head wounds are the worst for that,” I say. “She probably has a concussion. Where is that nurse?”

  “She’s behind you.” It isn’t Aimee. Aimee is looking at me and covering her mouth.

  “Hi, Mrs. Higgins,” she says, looking past my shoulder. I turn around to see a short lady with tidy brown hair and a serious face.

  “My cousin’s hurt. She fell and busted her head open.”

  Mrs. Higgins pushes past me, lifts the icepack, and looks at the wound.

  “She’ll need stitches,” she says. She looks to Aimee and says, “Hold this on her head while I call her mom.”

  Mrs. Higgins calls Aunt Lisa at work. The conversation is brief. Aunt Lisa tells the nurse to call the ambulance, but she’s on her way, too. Mrs. Higgins hangs up and looks at us. “You two go on to class.”

  We leave the nurse’s station, but don’t make it to class. A tall, sunburned man with a gray beard is waiting for us. I swear he looks like a bear. His arms are thick and I can only think he must have been a lumberjack at some point.

  “Who’s your friend, Miss Avery?” he asks. No, he demands the answer.

  “Alan,” she says. “He’s new.”

  “What’s your name, young man?” His eyes are blue and steely.

  “Alan Parson,” I say.

  “Come with me. Both of you.” He turns around and walks away. He walks in kind of a bowlegged fashion, those thick arms swinging at his sides. He takes us to a corner office and motions us into a couple of padded leather chairs while he goes around and sits behind a cluttered desk. His office walls are covered in pictures of buffalo and University of Colorado pennants. He glares at us. “Aimee, have you ever been in my office before?”

  “No,” she says. A carved nameplate tells me we’re facing John Everson, vice principal.

  “This young man comes to school and in his first week you’re both in my office for skipping class,” he says. “That doesn’t say much for him.”

  “It was my fault, Mr. Everson,” Aimee says. “I’ve been super worried about Courtney after … you know. They’re cousins. And I thought he might be able to help but I didn’t want to talk about it in front of her or in class or at lunch when everybody could hear. I’m babbling. I’m sorry. I’m babbling, aren’t I?”

  He nods for her to go on.

  “And I just thought it would be better if we snuck away for a second and the only place I could think of going was outside and Alan was so nice. He just did it because he’s kind like that. And now Court’s all hurt anyway.” Her voice breaks a little bit.

  His icy blue eyes flick to me and I nod. “Yes, sir. Courtney Tucker is my cousin. She’s with the nurse now.”

  “She wasn’t with the nurse when you snuck out of school, though,” he says.

  We’re both quiet for a moment; then Aimee says, “No, but we could tell she’s sick. Ever since her dad, you know, she’s been acting really strange.”

  “I see,” he says, then focuses more fully on me. “You’re the kid that beat Blake Stanley yesterday in cross-country.”

  “Yeah.”

  “From where? Oklahoma, isn’t it?”

  “Yeah. OKC. Does everyone know about me and Blake?”

  “This is a small school, Mr. Parson.” His beard splits in a grin for a moment, then he suppresses it. Maybe he’s not always the hard-ass he acts like. “Somebody outrunning Blake is a big deal. You’re the one who got worked up because we don’t have football.”

  “Yeah. Man, does everyone know everything around here?”

  “Get used to it,” Everson says. “I used to play football.”

  “Colorado?” I guess.

  “That’s right,” he says.

  “I planned to go to OU.”

  “Ah, the Sooners,” he says, and shakes his head. “We used to play them back when it was the Big Eight conference.”

  “I know,” I say. I consider saying something about how Oklahoma was always whipping Colorado, but the sound of sirens saves me from doing anything that stupid.

  “You two get to class,” Everson says. “I don’t want to see you back in here. Understand?”

  At lunch, I sit alone because it just seems like the right thing to do. Aimee sits with Hayley and Eric while Blake hangs out with the cross-country guys. Halfway through, someone plops a note written on a napkin in front of my face.

  “Don’t get involved with her,” it reads.

  It’s so melodramatic. I crumple it up and throw it away, then put my ear buds in and rock out, all alone in my own little world. Aimee catches my eye and waves. I can’t help it. I wave back.

  Coach Treat has heard about the friction on her team. Her hair’s pulled back in a high ponytail and she’s wearing shorts despite the cold. Her legs are pale enough to glow in the dark.

  “Same course as yesterday,” Coach calls. “Seven miles. Line up! Alan, you stay with me.”

  Coach Treat runs alongside me, taking long, easy strides. She’s good at this. Her upper body seems to glide, while I bounce up and down, my feet pounding the pavement much harder than hers.

  “You’re fast, Alan, but not steady,” she says. “Cross-country is about endurance. You’ll wear yourself out if you don’t learn to be lighter. You’re losing energy every time you stomp the ground. Take longer strides. Keep your torso straight up and down. Nobody’s going to tackle you. You don’t have to lean over a goal line.”

  I try taking her advice, but it feels like I’m trying to gallop. For a school without football, these people seem to know a lot about it.

  “One thing at a time, Alan. Focus on keeping your torso straight,” she says.

  I try it. It messes with my stride, but I keep it up.

  “That’s it,” she says. “Head straight above your waist. Focus on keeping that posture most of the run. If it’s close at the end, then you can lean into it and smoke the competition.”

  We run. She doesn’t let me cut loose at the end, instead making me keep pace with her while the other boys race past us. “Focus on posture,” she reminds me.

  At the field house, I change and leave the building first. Second team is just coming in, Blake in the lead. I feel his eyes on me. I glare back at him as he begins slowing. Coach Treat materializes beside me like a pale ghost. Blake pounds past us, but I hear him.

  “Mine,” he says as if it’s a puff of hard breath.

  • 9 •

  AIMEE

  The whole day feels wrong, like people’s emotions are all tangled into some sort of dark wires, yanking on each other, pulling against one another. At practice Coach notices my limp right away. When I’m in my shorts there’s a pretty obvious bruise running all the way down my leg.

  “You’re not practicing, Avery,” she says. “You’re benched.”

  Even though it’s pretty cold, I sit on the grass instead of the bench. It’s that hard-core rebel in me, I guess. Hayley comes over right before drills and says, “Blake is out of control, Aim.”

  “I know.”

  “Look at your leg.”

  “Pretty, isn’t it? Sort of a Barney the purple dinosaur look?”

  “It’s not funny, Aimee.”

  “I know. I know it isn’t.”

  “Not everyone’s on his side, you know? What he did was wrong. Even if you slept with that Alan guy, it would still be wrong.”

  “We haven’t even kissed. We don’t like each other that way!” The moment I say it, I realize that’s a lie.

  “Right.” She lifts an eyebrow.

  “I mean it,” I mumble, and feel guilty for even thinking about Alan. Instead I start remembering all the sweet songs Blake made for me, all the times he’d get mad at other guys treating girls like possessions. How could he change so much? Maybe Courtney was right.

  “HAYLEY! GET YOUR TUCHUS OVER HERE!” Coach yells way more harshly than she normally would.

  Hayley rolls her eyes and runs o
ff.

  I watch. They’re doing pressure passing drills and it basically sucks to be stuck here doing nothing. My hands cover my face. My body sits on the ground. I just exist.

  Even though I try not to think about him because I’ve only just broken up with Blake … this whole thing with Alan? It’s so weird. When we talk there’s this funky connection thing going on and when he touches me, it’s like the cliché of sparks and electricity. That’s got to mean something, doesn’t it? Something good in this world of bad? I can’t believe Courtney mentioned the River Man. I’ve been trying for years not to think about him.

  When I was around seven, I dreamed of this tiny airplane all broken in the woods with fire all around it in little bursts. In my dream, everything was the opposite of supersized; things were mini-sized, like toy sets. There was a man in a blue jumpsuit standing at the edge of the road. He looked lost. He lifted his hand to me, and I tried to take it.

  That was the first dream I had that came true.

  I tried to tell my mother about it during breakfast in the kitchen. She liked to hear about my dreams. If she could have had an automatic feed into my brain so that she could know everything I was thinking, she would have done it.

  “There was a blue man,” I said.

  “Sweetie, don’t talk with your mouth full.” She smiled to make it not so much of a scold.

  I chewed my English muffin and swallowed real fast. “And there was a little plane in the woods, but it was broken in half like Benji’s toy plane that he dropped off his high chair, but it wasn’t a toy. And there were lots of fire bushes all around.” I got back to my muffin. My belly felt too liquid from so much apple juice.

  My mom nodded. “Anything else?” I shook my head. “Well, that’s an interesting dream,” she said, which is what she always said. “I wonder what that means.”

  Later, she came out of the shower wrapped up in a white bathrobe. Her hair dripped onto the floor, making little drip noises, a sort of splat as the drops hit the ground. She smelled like her lilac soap. She crouched down, adjusted her robe, and then put both her hands on my shoulders and said, “Sometimes I see a man, too.”