Trance

by Linda Gerber

  But then, he wasn’t dressed like a jock. I’m not exactly sure what he was dressed like. From the waist up, he was all buttoned up and mall-ified in his white shirt and tie, the perfect music-store employee. But from the waist down, he was someone else altogether in worn jeans and scuffed black motorcycle boots.

  He sat at the piano, hands hovering over the keys for an instant before he began to play. The first angry chords took me by surprise but then I was caught by the energy of the piece and I couldn’t look away. It was like a dance the way his whole body moved to make each note. I didn’t even know what song it was, but I knew he commanded it, moved it, made it come alive.

  But then some gray-haired guy in a stuffy blue suit and the same tacky music-note tie steamed up to the display area, gesturing wildly with his hands. Tie Guy stopped playing and Gray Hair turned on his heel, marching to the back of the store. I could almost hear the sigh as the tie guy’s shoulders rose and then deflated. He now stared at the piano as if it were an open trap, waiting to snare him. When he started to play again—some lame tune I’d probably heard in an elevator somewhere—the life had bled from his music.

  In that instant I felt a kind of kinship with the ugly tie guy. I knew what it was like to be so close to something real and not be able to touch it. I knew what it was like to be someone you’re not.

  2

  My dad thought going back to work at “the photography studio” would be good for me, a healing step toward something I had loved. He actually told me that, as if he had any idea.

  ShutterBugz was no studio. It consisted of a backdrop wall, a sad collection of stools, tables, drapes and props, a camera mounted on a stationary tripod, and a couple of light umbrellas. Everything was automated—the lighting, the angles, the aperture, the focus. “Not art photography,” as Carole would say, “but what can you expect for nine ninety-nine?”

  What Dad didn’t get was that working at ShutterBugz was no step toward anything I loved; it was insulation against it. Even before the accident, I used my job there as a retreat. I didn’t have to think. I didn’t have to feel. Real photography is raw and honest. Kiosk pictures are plastic and fake. That was what I wanted. I didn’t do real anymore. Real hurt too much.

  That’s why when Carole asked if I could take the open spot at Westland Mall, I said yes. Westland was no place I wanted to be, but it was better than sitting alone in my empty house, remembering everything I had done wrong to get me to that place.

  Not that work was providing much of a distraction. I only had three customers the entire evening—one couple who pretty much wanted me to document their make-out session, one totally adorable baby, and possibly the brattiest three-year-old I have ever met.

  I’m serious. This kid—Evan was his name—pouted, screamed, threw the props, hit his mother and probably would have hit me too, if I’d have let him get close enough. The mom wasn’t helping, either. The more Evan pouted, the more uptight she got until you could see the veins in her neck sticking out and her face took on an unnatural shade of puce.

  “Smile for Mama,” she demanded. “Be good. Sit still for the nice lady or you will lose your TV time, Evan.”

  I finally had to make the mom wait on the other side of the partition. Parents don’t get that they really are not helping sometimes.

  I pulled out the entire arsenal to deal with this kid, from the ShutterBugz hand puppet—a psychedelic beetle in metallic purples and pinks—to the ShutterBugz antennae—a headband that I stuck on my head, featuring two purple glittered Ping-Pong balls atop bouncy springs.

  With the camera remote in one hand and the puppet in the other, I hopped up and down in front of Evan, dancing like a fool. “Hey, Evan! Look!” I fluttered the puppet bug up over my head and then zoomed it down toward him.

  He shrieked. And it wasn’t the nice little-kid-laughing kind of shriek, either. Clearly, he was not a fan of the hand puppet. I threw it aside and shook my head so that the glitter balls wobbled. “Look here, Evan,” I sang. “Right up here. Let’s get a nice smile. Come on.”

  More shrieking. I wanted to strangle the little monster. And then suddenly from behind me came a terrible noise. “Yaaaaaaah!”

  Evan stopped shrieking and blinked his big eyes in surprise. His lips curled up in what could possibly pass as a smile before he let loose again with a bloodcurdling yowl. But that was enough. I had managed to snap a shot in his moment of silence and turned to see what had caused the distraction.

  Tie Guy grinned and tipped his head to me.

  “Thank you,” I mouthed.

  He nodded and went back to work.

  Evan’s mom was happy enough with the photo that she ordered a complete package. That, or she was so mortified by her son’s behavior that she just wanted to escape from the mall. Either one was fine by me.

  I was just finishing up with the order forms when I heard Nick Cumberland’s voice. I knew it was him without looking, but I couldn’t help myself. It’s like my eyes were caught in some kind of tractor beam that forced them up, up until I had visual confirmation.

  Sure enough, Nick was strolling through the center court with a bunch of his football buddies. They were all laughing about something and punching each other and talking way too loud.

  My heart dropped as if someone had thrown it from a tall building. This was part of the reason I had hesitated about transferring to Westland Mall. People I knew hung out here. People like Nick.

  Getting mixed up with Nick Cumberland was one of the many mistakes I made before the accident. I’d been careful to stay away from him ever since—skipping out of the class we shared before the bell rang and avoiding the jock hangout in B wing even if that meant walking outside in the rain to reach my locker in C wing.

  But there was nothing I could do now, stuck behind the ShutterBugz counter. I stood there helplessly and could only watch as Nick and his friends wandered closer. He glanced up and I didn’t look away quickly enough and our eyes met—only for a moment, but long enough for an ice blue jolt to shoot straight through me. I quickly bent over the order forms and tried to pretend not to know he was there.

  “Hey! Greenfield!” he said. “Is that you?”

  By then he was standing right in front of the kiosk and it was impossible to ignore him. That didn’t mean I had to look at him, though.

  “Hey, I didn’t know you worked here,” he said.

  My face felt tight as I forced it into a smile. “I just started,” I said, concentrating on the fuzzy S of his letter jacket.

  “Nice bobbles.”

  “Excuse me?”

  He gestured to my head.

  “Oh.” I yanked off the headband. “They’re antennae.”

  “Of course they are.”

  We stood there, awkwardly fidgeting for a moment, and then he leaned toward me, resting his hands on the narrow counter between us. “How’ve you been?”

  I bunched my shoulders. “Good. You?”

  “Good.”

  “That’s . . . great. I’m, uh . . .” I gestured toward the back of the kiosk. “I’ve got to straighten up the photo area . . .”

  “Wait. Ashlyn, look at me.”

  His voice froze me where I stood. I could feel each second ticking away until finally—against my better judgment—I let my gaze go to him again and still, after all that had happened, my stomach flipped. I don’t know if it was the way his soft brown eyes held mine, or the sadness in his smile, or the way his hair curled up just a bit at the edge of his collar. He made me weak.

  “I’ve been thinking about you.” Nick reached for my hand and instinctively I jerked it away. His smile faded and he managed to look wounded. “Come on, Greenfield.” His voice was soft and pleading. “Don’t do that. I’m trying to make nice.”

  “You don’t have to—”

  “Look, I feel bad about what happened,” he said. “Really bad. I should have been there for you. I feel like the whole thing was my fault.”

  I didn’t want to hear the res
t, but I couldn’t help myself. “The whole thing?”

  He shuffled a little and looked down at his feet. “You know, you and me. That day . . .” Behind him, his friends stood watching us as if we were a play-off game in double overtime. He glanced back at them and then lowered his voice. “Look. I don’t want to do this here. What time do you get off work? Maybe we could go someplace quiet . . .”

  Not long ago I would have given anything to go off “someplace quiet” with Nick Cumberland. I’d had a thing for the guy since seventh grade. But things change. “I don’t think so.”

  “Come on, Greenfield. I’m trying.” He reached across the counter and made another grab for my hand, successfully this time, and pulled me toward him so all that stood between us was the narrow strip of counter. “I know I should have tried to talk to you before,” he said, “I just didn’t know what to say. But I’m here now. The least you could do is listen to me.”

  Once again I felt myself drawn to Nick’s velvet brown eyes. Those eyes used to have the power to make me melt like a Popsicle in July. And as close as we stood, his spicy, outdoorsy guy smell surrounded me, just the way I remembered. It made my knees tremble, which is probably the effect he was going for. I pulled away. “I’m sorry, Nick. I have to get back to work.”

  His lips tightened and whatever softness I thought I had seen before disappeared. He dropped my hand. “Yeah. You do that.”

  I sat heavily on the stool and watched him go. Relieved. Hurt. Humiliated.

  And then, without warning, it hit me. A hot buzzing filled my head and darkness immediately closed in on my vision. I could see my hand reaching for the pencil. Feel the way my face went dead. Hear the lead scritch, scritch, scritch across the paper.

  The last thing I remembered before it all went black was the time on my watch.

  8:22.

  I’m standing in the dark. Hot pink numbers form in the air above me. I reach for them but before my fingers can touch them, they dissolve, curling up and away like smoke, taking whatever meaning they held with them.

  The last of the numbers fade and another series of images and sensations moves in to take their place. Asphalt beneath my feet, black and shimmering wet. Lights in the distance. The sound of tires on the road.

  My head hums, vibrates like a tuning fork. My ears ring. At least that’s what I think at first, but then I realize the sound is coming from outside my head. From outside the trance.

  All at once I was back, jolted into the here as I remembered where I was. The phone on the counter was ringing. I tried to reach for it, but the phone, the counter, the stores, the mall, everything swirled around me, broken up as if torn apart by a cyclone. By the time it all came back together, settling into place piece by piece, the ringing had stopped.

  That’s when the pain in my hand began to register. I’d been gripping the pencil so tightly my fingers were white from the pressure. The lead dug holes into the paper. My heart sank when I saw the string of numbers written there.

  How could it be happening again?

  Finally, I was able to let the pencil go and it clattered to the ground. I checked my watch.

  8:26.

  I’d been out for four minutes. I eyed the area slowly, hoping I hadn’t been seen, but I wasn’t so lucky.

  Standing in the entrance to Kinnear Music was the tie guy.

  Staring right at me.

  3

  I over heard my mom and dad once, talking about what it was like to see Kyra or me slip into a trance. It didn’t sound all that shocking. We’d zone out, stare off into the distance. Sometimes we would tremble just a little. They might not have gotten so upset about it if it wasn’t for the writing.

  When we’re out of it, Kyra and I write numbers. Lots and lots of numbers. Frantically. Intensely. That could be a little harder to watch.

  What comes after a trance is worse. Dizziness can last a full minute or two, and it’s not easy to hide. Other people started noticing. By middle school, Kyra began explaining the episodes by telling people she and I had a rare genetic form of epilepsy. That seemed to satisfy our teachers and most of our friends.

  I realized it didn’t really matter what the explanation was, as long as there was one. People just want a way to label what they see. Then they can file it away and forget about it.

  So, I figured, as long as I acted normal, the tie guy should forget my four-minute space out. He could chalk it up to me being tired or an idiot or whatever. I forced myself not to look away from him too quickly. Even gave him a little smile. At least I think it was a smile. I couldn’t really feel my face.

  The mall continued to tilt and sway and I held on to the counter so I wouldn’t fall off the stool. That much I think I managed pretty well. Harder to mask was my own shock at what had just happened. I hadn’t had a trance since before the accident. In my own naive way, I had hoped the long absence meant the trances wouldn’t come anymore.

  Worse, even without trying to figure out the meaning of the numbers, I was afraid I knew what the vision was, and it made me shake.

  In fact, I couldn’t stop shaking. I had to get out of the mall before I lost it. There was still half an hour left in my shift before I was supposed to close the kiosk, but that was half an hour too long. I could always tell Carole I got sick. It wasn’t far from the truth.

  My hands trembled as I stuffed the order forms and receipts into the lockbox under the counter and closed out the register. I didn’t know if the tie guy at Kinnear was still watching or not, but I didn’t dare look. When I stood, the vertigo hit me again and I stumbled a couple of steps, knocking the stool over. I didn’t even try to pick it back up, but grabbed my backpack and dragged the gate around the kiosk, locking it tight.

  I’d nearly made it all the way through Nordstrom before the tears began to fall. By the time I got outside, I had to hold my breath to temper the sobs that were clawing their way up my throat. I sat on the edge of one of the oversized planters, covered my face with my hands, and bawled. Not again, I thought. Not again.

  Kyra left home while I was still in the hospital. She went without saying good-bye, without saying anything. Dad said she chose to graduate early. All I knew was that she was gone. I thought maybe that was why the trances had stopped after the accident. Before, the trances had always come to the two of us together. If she wasn’t there to complete the circle, I hoped the trances would leave me alone.

  I know it’s selfish, but that’s one reason why I never tried to find out where she was. As much as I loved my sister, as much as I felt a part of me was missing when she was gone, I didn’t want the trances back.

  Now I had no sister and the trance came anyway. The wet road, the lights. Those images were all too real to me; I had seen them the night of the accident. The night my mom died. They were the images I should have seen in the vision Kyra had tried to warn me about. Regret and guilt washed over me again.

  I sat on the planter and cried until my head ached. I cried for Kyra, I cried for my mom, and I cried for myself. In a way, all three of us died that night.

  “Are you all right?”

  The deep voice startled me and I jumped, nearly falling off the planter. It was the tie guy, concern pinching his face. I tried to tell him I was fine, but all that came out of my mouth was an incoherent, “Ugn.”

  He crouched down in front of me. Up close I could see he had a thin, pale scar just above one cheekbone, and that his green eyes held flecks of gold. “You feeling okay?” he asked again.

  I wiped my tears with the back of my hand. “I’m fine,” I managed to whisper.

  He tilted his head like he thought he might be able to understand better from a different angle. “You need me to call someone for you?”

  I sat up straighter and pushed my hair from my eyes, wishing it was darker outside so he couldn’t see how swollen and red my face must be. “It’s okay,” I said. “I’m waiting for the bus.”

  Just then, Michelle’s voice rang out behind me. “There you are!
I was just going to see if you needed a r—” She stopped short and stared at the guy crouched in front of me, immediately switching into protector mode. “What’s going on?” There was an edge to her voice I recognized. It meant she was a little worried and a lot perturbed. She directed her next demand toward the guy, who was still crouched in front of me. “Who are you?”

  He stood and extended his hand, still a salesman apparently. “I’m Jake,” he said. “She your friend?”

  “Yes.” Her voice was guarded. She looked at his hand but didn’t shake it. He let it fall to his side.

  “You taking her home?” he asked.

  She folded her arms tightly. “Excuse me, Jake, but who are you?”

  “I work here. I was just heading home when I saw her sitting out here alone. She been sick?”

  Michelle still looked confused. “I don’t think—”

  “She didn’t look like she was feeling well at the kiosk.”

  She raised her brows. “You know where she works?”

  “I work just across from ShutterBugz.”

  “Oh. Where—”

  “Excuse me,” I said. “I’m right here.” The words came out thick and strangled-sounding.

  Michelle and Jake exchanged a glance, allies all of a sudden. They both ignored me.

  “Couldn’t help but notice she looked a little zoned out earlier.”

  Michelle nodded. “It’s been a tough week.”

  “I’m leaving.” I tried to stand, but black peppered my vision and I sank back down onto the planter.

  Michelle slipped an arm around my shoulders to prop me up and said in a low voice, “I told you it was too early to try and come back.” She pulled on my arm. “Come on. Let me get you home.”