She smiled wider as I sauntered over to where she stood beside her locker, my backpack a swinging weight on my shoulder.
“Hey,” I said with my best casual smile.
“Hi, Caleb,” Sophie said then looked at Jade. “Gotta go!” She winked, and a brilliant bit of color spread over Jade's cheekbones.
Once Sophie stepped away, I said, “Thanks for your help in Rodriguez's class.”
She smiled. “It looked like you could use it.”
“Hey! I knew it was present perfect. I just didn't know the other.”
“Riiigghht...” Her eyes glittered with humor.
I huffed for show. It wasn't that hard talking to her after all.
She stared up at me with her smoky eyes rimmed with soft, Kohl-colored makeup. She was hot but not in a fake way, just looking at her made my chest tight.
I glanced away for a moment to catch my breath then looked back at her. “Here's the thing. Brett and Carson have me in their cross hairs and maybe who I hang out with.”
She gave me a steady look, a puzzled expression furrowing between her brows.
“Do we hang out?”
I shrugged. “I want to.”
I'd rather die than tell her how I feel, but I needed the guts to own it.
“Me too,” she said, peering up from under the black lace of her eyelashes.
Wow! Relief flowed through me. Even with all the scary stuff I was dealing with, Jade made me feel invincible. I could do anything.
The bell shrilled. Crap! We had like thirty seconds before class.
Laughing, we sprinted down the hall, Jade's hair streaming behind her like black water.
We slid through the door just as the final bell shrilled.
Griswold raised an eyebrow. “Glad you two could join us. Suit up. You both have extra calisthenics today.”
Carson and Brett appeared very interested in Jade and me.
Jonesy was in line, giving me a look of restrained horror. He was so easy to read. I could practically hear him saying, “You decided to make a move on Jade... now?”
I gave him my so sue me expression.
***
After PE, I told Jade I'd see her the next day. On my way to my next class, I whipped out the credit-card-sized pulse cell I'd gotten for my birthday and started a message group with John and Jonesy.
The screen came alive:
Activated and I thought, Jonesy, then belatedly, John.
Jonesy: Hey, What the
Caleb: Chillax. I finally told her I want to hang out.
John: What? You actually talked to Jade? This is the worst time in the world Caleb, and I hear she's a hater.
Me: She doesn't hate. She's just quiet.
John: Are you going to tell her? About...
Jonesy: No
Caleb: I have a feeling about her. Just trust me and stop being ass-clowns about it.
Jonesy: K, but she needs to see your skills, you feel me? Oh yeah, I almost forgot. I talked to the real ass-clowns. Wait. Do you have your thumb on the touch pad, Caleb? I'm getting feedback.
I jerked my thumb off the screen.
Jonesy: Okay, now I can see just myself. LMAO. They're idiots. I told them they're too chicken
Caleb: You gonna get the hairspray from your mom?
Jonesy: Yeah. I scoped a can in the reprocesser. I'll snag it.
Caleb: Isn't she gonna notice? If she's like my mom, she's a total freak for the reprocessing credit on the garbage bill.
Jonesy: Nah, I'll offer to take the separator out for once, and she'll be so happy I volunteered for a chore she won't care. LOL
John: I think we're going to be sorry.
Jonesy: Cork it, pal. Don't be a fun-sucker.
John:
I swept my thumb over the touch pad, setting my pulse to hibernate.
***
Band was a righteous seventh-hour class, a subject I actually liked. John's parents believed in music. They were old zealots—my grandpa's age. John could play everything, but he really rocked at the piano. He could read music and play a piece he’d listened to only a few times. I struggled with just learning the notes. But I loved it even more because I’d found out it was the only time during the school day that I could drown out the whispering.
John and I jammed together on a new piece Mr. Pierce had given us. We were working out the kinks, and the volume on the amplifier was turned to almost full volume, making my teeth rattle in my head. John flashed me a grin. He was a pretty serious dude most of the time.
I hit a flat in my chord, and John winced. My concentration was sucking big time.
We wrapped up the session then hung our guitars on the rack with about fifteen others. I made a basket with my pick in the box marked Caleb S. Hart. Swish.
I followed John out of class. Fresh, late-afternoon spring air hit my lungs, and I sucked it up. I could taste summer on my tongue, and that meant Gramp's house at Lake Tapps—no school and screw off time with the Js.
“Why start something with Jade, Caleb?” John asked.
“You don't see that she's special?” I asked with a duh in my voice.
“Well, she's good looking but complicated. And that’s something we don't need right now. And you heard about her family, right?”
I stopped walking and looked at him. “Yeah, I know her dad's a psycho. So?”
“Hey, don't get defensive on me. But you do like a project.”
I strode away with a scowl.
“Jade's not a project.”
He sighed as he caught up to me. “It's more than that. She lives with her aunt, who’s not much better than the dad.”
I stopped again on the side of the road, hands hanging loose at my sides. “So how's that her fault?” Cars drove past, breaking the sweet smell of spring with their exhaust. I felt that pressure building in my head. Getting pissed seemed to make it harder to block the voices. And the occasional road kill didn't help.
John shook his head. “I shouldn't rant on Jade. I just don't feel great about including her in this mess.”
“Like I pulsed ya, I trust how I feel about Jade. And besides, you guys are stressing about my AFTD but have you thought about what you'll test-out for?”
“I have thought about it,” John said.
“But there won't be anything for me. I'm already halfway through puberty and nothing. The tests will confirm that. Not everyone manifests.”
I looked up at John—way up. He was a pretty tall dude for fourteen. He'd be fifteen soon, in September. His dad was even taller, like NBA height. John’s hair stood about four inches away from his head as if he had stuck his finger in a pulse socket—a fro-and-go, Jonesy called it.
I put my thumb to my chest. “Hey, dude, you don't want this.”
John grinned. “No way. But I wouldn’t mind having something cool like psychokinesis.”
I rolled my eyes—whatever. “John, you know that's pretty rare.”
“Yeah, but look at you. AFTD is the rarest.” We both knew it wasn't the ability to have. All it got Jeffrey Parker was a one-way ticket as a government puppet.
“True.”
We started walking toward my house again. Suddenly, the sound of screeching tires pierced my ears. John lassoed my arm and hauled me off the shoulder and into the shallow drainage ditch. My butt landed in an inch of water that instantly seeped into my pants.
A car that had been behind us careened sideways in an attempt to avoid a black dog standing in the road.
A surreal moment ensued as the car rammed into the dog, sending the animal sailing at least ten feet away. It landed about two car lengths from where John and I sat in the ditch.
The driver, a
n older balding guy, got out of his car. Looking dazed, he sent a nervous glance our way.
“You kids okay?” Baldy asked. But he moved on toward the dog before we could answer.
Oh he gave a shit, right.
“Yeah,” John mumbled anyway.
I looked away, not saying anything because the dog was sending images to me. It knew it was dying and was sending out some kind of distress signal that only I heard. My body hummed in response.
I got to my feet as if under compulsion.
We walked across the pebbled pavement, oily from the previous night's rain.
As I drew closer to the dog, that unique pressure built in my head, straining for release.
He was just a mutt, and didn’t seem to be breathing.
I knelt and stretched out my hand.
Baldy said, “Don't touch it!”
Without hesitation, I gently touched its fur. I felt a small spark of life ignite. Unbidden, that part of me that heard the dead released and poured over the dog.
I grasped that spark and thought, Live! Warmth welled up beneath my hand like liquid heat, and the dog's ribs expanded with a shaky inhale. His eyes opened, and he looked up at me. In that moment, I knew he was mine.
I looked up to see John and Baldy staring down at me. He shot us a look I never wanted to see on an adult's face: revulsion mixed with fear. I realized more people in a semi-circle of wary gaping faces had gathered nearby.
John whispered, “We're screwed.”
The dog sat up, but he still looked injured. His eyes stayed pinned on me. My creepy new reality.
Wonderful.
A cop moved through the small crowd and approached us.
“You boys there, step away from the dog.” His nametag read Garcia.
I stood and backed away from the dog, with John following suit. The dog struggled to its feet and attempted to limp over to me.
With one hand outstretched, Garcia moved toward the dog. The dog growled low in the back of his throat and bared his teeth.
Keeping his eyes on the dog, Garcia brought out his pulse and used the touchpad. “I've pulsed animal control. They'll be here soon,” he announced.
My heart pounded. I didn't like the thought of the dog being taken away.
“Okay,” Garcia said, “somebody start talking.”
Baldy stepped up, wringing his plump hands. “I was driving along, doing the speed limit, when this dog just appeared out of nowhere.” He spread his arms wide. “And these two boys”—he gave us an accusing glare—“were on the other side of the road, so I had to avoid them.” He made it sound as if walking on the side of the road was a crime.
Garcia held out his hand. “Identification, please.”
Baldy handed over his driver's license. I felt the pressure building and tried to rein it in. When I was upset, it was way worse to manage.
John looked over at me. “What's the matter?”
I shook my head. “That guy's a turd. I wanna get out of here.”
“Yeah he's a dick.” John chuckled. “But we have to see this thing through and act like the dog thing wasn't talent, just coincidence. You got me?”
I nodded, I got it alright.
Garcia and Baldy had their heads together, one a cue ball, the other an eight ball.
Garcia turned to John and me. “Mr. Smith here”—he motioned with his notepad to Baldy—“said that you did something to the dog?” He raised his eyebrows.
How to answer without getting my butt in a sling?
John spoke before I had a chance, “Caleb's a major animal lover.”
I worked to keep the surprise off my face.
“That's not what Mr. Smith said. This man claims that he was sure the dog was dead. Then you”—he pointed at me—“touched it, and the dog was suddenly alive again.”
I thought fast.
“Can you explain that?” he asked.
Actually no.
“John's right. Um… I couldn't help it. That poor dog…” I looked down at my shoes, trying to think of what else to say. “Um… I don't think it was dead, though. I mean… it was just hurt.” I pointed at the dog, who was sitting a few feet away, still staring at me.
Before the dog, I hadn’t known dying things could also call to me.
Garcia stared at me for a moment then asked, “You boys live around here?”
John answered, “Yeah, Caleb lives right there.” He pointed toward the top of the rise. “And I live about half a mile from here.”
Garcia held his pen poised over the notepad. “Names?”
“Caleb Hart.”
Garcia's head jerked up. “The scientist's kid?”
“Yeah,” I answered unenthusiastically.
“Now that's a cool relative to have,” he commented with a smile.
“I guess.” Whatever, he was just my dad to me.
“John Terran,” John said, effectively getting me off the hook of dealing with the awkward your-parent-is-kinda-famous moment.
“Okay, you kids get in the police car, and I'll give you a ride home.”
The dog looked up at me and whined softly.
“What about the dog?” I asked.
As if on cue, Animal Control arrived. A ginormous gal poured into an unflattering tan uniform barreled through the crowd accompanied by a skinny partner. The dog immediately went on alert.
I reached out to pet the dog’s head. Garcia and John both tried to pull me away, while the Animal Control lady cleared an evil-looking baton from her utility belt. The dog eluded the baton, which had an attached noose, and darted behind John and me.
Garcia pointed at me. “I don't want any trouble, and I already told you boys not to touch that dog.”
“I thought I could help,” I said. “He seems to like me.”
“Let Animal Control do their job, son,” Garcia said.
Ignoring him, I put my hand on the dog. I thought, Sleep.
“That's it!” Garcia said. He strode over and took John and me by our arms and frog-marched us to his patrol car. I glanced back and saw that the dog was knocked out cold.
Garcia unceremoniously dumped us into the back seat. “Stay put.”
We watched him walk away. He talked with Baldy, who kept vigorously nodding his head and casting dirty looks at us. Animal Control got the dog in their van, a pretty easy process since he was asleep. Skinny was the “collector,” and Humongous was “supervising” this process while standing importantly with Garcia.
The inside of the cop car was pretty gross. Remnants of goop was all over the backs of the seats and door handles. Dried patches of mystery fluids were on the floor. My lunch began to rise into my throat. John hunched over, keeping his arms tucked into his sides so that less of his body touched his surroundings.
Good luck with that one.
Garcia jogged back to the patrol car, slid into the front seat, and turned around to look at us. “I am required to take your statements with a parent or guardian present.”
My parents were gonna have a turtle when a police car pulled up in front of the house!
Thoughts swirled in my head: How did I stop that dog from dying? Why didn't I need blood to do it? Was that a coincidence at the cemetery? Or because it was a person and fully dead, had I needed something extra?
As I put my head between my knees to quell the dizziness that threatened, I decided to read some more about paranormal abilities and Jeffrey Parker. It was time to get up close and personal with AFTD. I needed to rule it, not the other way around.
CHAPTER 6
Garcia pulled the patrol car into my driveway. “That's unique.”
My house was a ranch style with cream-colored arches across the facade. The outer walls were stucco, really different for rainy Washington.
Garcia got out and opened the back door of the car. As John and I climbed out, Mom came out the front door of the house.
Garcia raised his hand out in an inoffensive way like, everything’s okay.
She walked through
the open courtyard that separated the driveway from the front door and came to stand in front of Garcia.
“The kids aren't in any trouble, Mrs. Hart.”
Mom told him, “Ali's fine.”
“Okay, Ali. I’m Sergeant Garcia. The boys witnessed a vehicular accident in which a dog was hit, and I need to take down their statements with an adult present.”
Mom's face looked relieved that some catastrophe (she was always ranting about my safety, which got to be annoying) had not befallen us.
With Mom leading the way, we plodded inside. The house smelled like cookies and bread. John gave the air an experimental sniff, too.
The Appetite Beast was alive and well.
Garcia sat down on our couch with a psychedelically colorful afghan spread over it.
“Would you care for anything to drink, Sergeant Garcia?” Mom asked.
Garcia seemed surprised. “Ah, sure, thanks.”
Mom went into the kitchen and came back with a glass of water that she handed to Garcia. Then she perched on the armrest of the couch. Mom usually made cookies once a week. Jonesy liked to show up just as they came out of the oven.
As if I had just conjured him up, he walked through the door.
“Hey, Caleb. What's with the cop car outside?” he asked loudly so there was zero chance to deflect it. His question landed like a bomb in the middle of the room.
John cringed.
Garcia turned to Jonesy. “Caleb witnessed an accident so I’m taking his and John's statements.”
“No kidding? Well, I'm going to stay for this!” Seemingly unfazed by the cop in our living room, Jonesy asked Mom what she'd made.
“Peanut butter chocolate chip cookies.”
“Yes!” Jonesy pumped his arm up and down.
Garcia smiled.
For Jonesy, Garcia just happened to be in my house where Mom made cookies and there may be a cool story as a bonus.
John glanced at me and shrugged.
Garcia took a long gulp of water, then turned to John and me.
The Death Series, Books 1-3 (Dark Dystopian Paranormal Romance): Death Whispers, Death Speaks, and Death Inception Page 4