by Sean Platt
I grab his finger, pull it, and his hand, behind his back, then shove him forward, slamming Stan’s face into the lockers.
“Don’t you fucking touch me!” I yell.
He cries out, his face squished against the metal, “Let go!”
But I don’t want to let go. I want to break his fingers, then sit back down and finish my Coke with a smile.
Instead, I let go and back away a few steps.
He turns to me, brow furrowed, face red with embarrassment, hands straightening his clothes, though I didn’t ruffle them.
“You ever come back on this property, I will have your ass arrested. Now get out!”
I want to say something, but I’ll only make things worse.
So I leave, wondering what the hell just happened.
**
This isn’t supposed to happen. I’m not supposed to interfere in my host’s life, let alone get him fired from his job.
I’m sitting in Frank’s car, still in the parking lot, staring at the steering wheel and wondering what to do.
Should I go back and apologize, beg for Frank’s job? Or should I go home and get drunk? I know what Frank would do. But how can I help?
I’m still pissed, and don’t want to blow up on anybody, so I head for home, hoping that no one is there.
**
I’m sitting at Frank’s kitchen table, trying to think of the best way to deal with this situation. When he wakes up tomorrow, assuming I’m out of his body and not stuck for a second day of hell, he’ll probably wonder how he lost his job. From what I know, he’ll have a few memories that I’ve left behind, and his brain will fill in the gaps to make sense of what little he has. But this feels like an awful lot of white space to color.
How the hell do I keep him from losing his shit? From going to the store and causing a scene?
I start searching through the classifieds, circling jobs that look like possibilities for someone with Frank’s limited skill set, education, and people skills.
The doorbell rings.
I get up and look outside to see the mail truck sitting at the end of the driveway.
I open the door to a short, bald mailman holding a pad in both hands.
Where’s the package I’m supposed to sign for?
No sooner do I think this than he drops the pad, wielding a blade cutter in his left hand.
He lunges at me.
My instincts kick in, and I dodge to the left then grab his right arm to twist it back behind his back. But something else happens when I grab him.
Another flood of incoherent memories.
It’s the Jumper!
I let go.
Our eyes meet.
“You?” he says, stepping back, making no move to swipe again. “Why are you here, again?”
“Why are you trying to kill him?”
“You know … oh wait, you don’t … we don’t know the whys. We only know that the job must be done. He’s a bad guy, or he wouldn’t be on The List.”
“What do you mean we? Are you some kind of an assassin?”
He nods.
“Was I?”
He stares at me, not confirming or denying.
“I have a job to do. A job that you’ve now prevented twice.”
He slides the blade into his pocket, bends over to recover the pad, apparently feeling safe that I won’t attack him. Then he turns around and heads back to his truck.
“Wait,” I say, “you’re giving up?”
“I can’t kill him when one of us is in the body.”
“Wait. I need to know more. I need answers. Was I an assassin?”
The Jumper turns back to me, shaking his head. “Sorry. I can’t.”
“What do you mean you can’t?”
“Just trust me, okay. You’re better off not knowing. There’s a reason you don’t remember anything, so stop trying. And please, try not to mess with my job tomorrow.”
He turns and heads to his mail truck.
Nothing I can say will bring him back.
**
I pace the kitchen, frustrated, trying to avoid alcohol’s siren song from the fridge.
The urge to drink is like an itch that needs scratching, but I’m afraid to start in this body. It’s already full of a toxic brew of rage and chaos, I don’t want to add anything volatile. It’s not that I think I’d lose control and hit Tommy or Stacy, but I don’t want to do anything that makes controlling this body more difficult than it already is. I’m pushing one of those shopping carts with an errant wheel, and it’s a struggle just to keep it straight.
I decide to lie down in his bedroom and watch some TV. I flip around until I stop on a sitcom I’ve never seen, figuring it’ll relax me. With any luck, I’ll fall asleep and wake up tomorrow far away from Frank and the assassin.
I try to focus on the show, but my mind keeps drifting back to Frank and the Jumper trying to kill him. But not just the Jumper, but what the Jumper had said.
“We don’t know the whys. All we know is that the job needs to be done. He must be a bad guy, or he wouldn’t be on The List.”
Who is we? And what is The List?
I remember the voices I’d heard while in Renaldo’s body, leading me to the Hyundai. Voices that sounded like communications, instructions for the assassin. But it wasn’t just her instructions. Someone, another voice, was leading me to the car as well. And the assassin knows me, or at least of me, yet is warning me not to dig deeper.
What’s happening here? Was I part of some body jumping assassin’s guild or something? If so, what happened? How did I get separated from them, and why don’t I remember anything?
I can’t imagine killing anyone. Yes, I did a couple of weeks ago, but that was different. I was fighting to protect myself, and to save Allie Martin from the serial killer. But killing someone on a list? The thought makes me sick to my stomach.
Frank’s a terrible guy, but does he deserve to die? I’m not picking up on any memories, other than flashes from last night’s incident. Yes, he hit Tommy, but he feels ashamed. I can’t imagine that was routine.
How could some group determine he needs to die for his sins?
Who are these Jumpers? And are they all assassins?
A chill runs through me. Prior to now, I thought, or at least hoped, that I’d someday have a normal life. I’d return to my body — wherever it is — and resume my life.
But what if I don’t have a body, or a life of my own?
What if this is forever?
* * * *
CHAPTER 3
I wake to an alarm clock’s angry buzz.
I reach out and hit the snooze button. This body is exhausted. And young. I’ve only woken up in a child host a few times, so far as I can remember, and am always surprised by how much energy I have in their bodies. Even when the kids are tired, they’re never depleted like older bodies.
I open my eyes, see that the clock reads, 6:30 a.m. My room is dark, so I turn on the lamp next to me, illuminating blue walls covered in Seattle Seahawks posters and Mariners pennants. The floor is littered with clothes, books, and a few thousand Lego pieces.
I make my way out the door to the bathroom, waiting for my host’s brain to fill in the details: who I am, which family and friends will I be forced to navigate while trying my best to screw the kid’s day.
I step into the hallway and freeze.
Oh, my God. I’m in Tommy’s body.
I’m back in Frank’s life.
Why?
I stumble back into the bedroom, heart racing, trying to catch my breath. This is horrible. Why do I keep jumping into lives in this guy’s circle? If I’m not an assassin, then what am I doing here? And who the hell is making this happen?
Why did I let the assassin go?
I should’ve chased him, forced him to answer. Who is he to tell me not to dig into my life’s big mystery?
I remember the note the other Jumper had left with the psychic.
Stop searching.
Better to forget and let go.
Only then can you live again.
Could that have been the assassin, too? And if so, who was he (or she) targeting? Did I inadvertently get Lara Spencer killed and Allie Martin kidnapped by botching an assassination attempt on Alexander Bova?
A knock on the door shakes me from my thoughts. Tommy’s mom opens the door and eyes me. “You gonna get ready?”
“Yeah,” I say, looking up at her and seeing two things at once — how much she loves her son, and how incredibly tired she is. Though there’s a light in her eyes, there are also dark circles. I wonder how many sleepless nights Frank has cost her.
“Okay, I’m making breakfast so we can eat before Frank wakes up.”
I nod, head to the shower, wash up, and return to my bedroom.
Tommy’s closet offers little. Most of the clothes are hand-me-downs from Stacy’s friends, which means they’re either in need of repair, not quite the right size, or several years out of style. I can feel Tommy’s shame as I consider my choices. I pick jeans and a red tee with a silhouette of a skateboarder, which looks like it might be the closest thing to in style. Not that I would know what’s in style with teen boys. The few times I’ve been kids, I’ve either been younger or a girl, and typically the girls have had something stylish to wear. Poor Tommy is in need of a makeover, or maybe some money to get his own clothes.
Dressed, I head out to the kitchen where Mom has two plates with scrambled eggs and toast, along with two glasses of milk waiting. Napkins, salt, pepper, ketchup, and Tabasco fill the table’s center, along with a tiny vase with a yellow flower that looks like Tommy’s mom might have picked it from the garden.
Though they don’t have much money, I can tell that Stacy tries her best to make things pleasant for Tommy.
“Smells good,” I say, taking a seat across from her.
“Thanks.” She’s looking down at her phone, scrolling through messages or email. I’m not sure if they’re work related or she’s just catching up on personal email. Either way, I’m grateful for the silence. I don’t know what sorts of things Tommy usually talks about, or if he’s even particularly talkative. He didn’t seem so yesterday, but that was how Frank saw him. I don’t know his mother’s perception, and don’t want to screw it up by acting out of character. Defaulting to quiet is best. A bit moody seems like a safe bet for most kids his age.
I take a drink of milk and flash back to yesterday. I hope she left enough for Frank. I chew my eggs, searching Tommy’s memories to figure out what he does in the time between these early breakfasts and when he leaves to catch the school bus. Usually he goes back to his room and either reads or draws pictures in his spiral notebooks. While he doesn’t consider himself an artist yet, Tommy loves drawing his own comics — even if he’s their only reader.
Stacy quickly answers her buzzing phone.
“Hey, hold on a sec.”
She looks at me, raises a finger to indicate she’ll be back in a second, then heads out of the kitchen, through the back door, out to the porch. She walks away, putting as much distance between herself and the house as she can.
I wonder who she’s talking to that she doesn’t want me to hear. Or maybe it’s Frank’s ears she’s avoiding.
It’s still dark outside, so I can barely see her. She sees me watching, and turns away, as if I might read her lips. Now I’m more curious.
I turn back to my plate and finish the eggs. I grab a piece of buttered toast and take a bite. Unfortunately, it’s already cold. I keep eating; I’m hungry, and don’t want to insult Stacy, who goes through the effort of waking up early to have breakfast with her son. I’m not sure if Tommy appreciates the effort, or even recognizes it, but I do. I’ve been in enough homes to know the rarity of parents sharing breakfast, let alone any meal, with their child.
The door slides open behind me. I resist the urge to turn back, even though I’d love to see her reaction to Tommy’s gaze — if it’ll give away details. Was she talking with a friend to bitch about Frank? I don’t know what happened last night after I dozed off in the afternoon and left his body. Did he sleep through the night, or did he wake up? He couldn’t have been in a good mood, and was more likely confused, maybe trying to figure out why he’d been fired. As curious as I am to see what he remembers from the day a stranger claimed his body, I don’t want to be around for the fallout.
If he did wake up last night, I’m getting nothing from Tommy to tell me.
Stacy sits back down across from me, puts the phone on the table, eyes on her plate as she forks the eggs and takes a bite. They’ve gotta be cold by now, but she doesn’t flinch as she swallows.
I wait for her to look at me.
When she finally does, I expect her to say something about who she was on the phone with, even though it was obviously private.
She looks at me, head tilted. “You okay?”
“Why?”
“You’re eating eggs without ketchup!”
“Oh,” I say, feeling exposed, “wasn’t in the mood, I guess.”
She gets up, puts a hand on my head. “Well, you don’t have a fever.” She withdraws her hand, then gives me this intense look. “Who are you, and what have you done to my son?”
She stares at me.
Oh, shit, I’m busted. How? By not eating ketchup?
My heart is racing, and I’m sure my face looks terrified.
She picks up a salt shaker, aims it like a gun. “Get out of my son, alien pod person!”
She bursts out laughing, and returns the shaker to the table.
I sigh with relief.
“You’re such a dork, Mom.” Echoes of Tommy saying similar things stir in my head.
“Dorks are the new cool,” she says, tousling my hair. “And besides, I thought you were proud to be a dork.”
More flashes of memory — Stacy and Tommy sitting at this very table over the years, playing board games and cards, reading comics together. They used to have lots of fun … before Frank came into the picture last year.
“Proud to be a geek, Mom, not a dork. There is a distinction.”
“Hey, I like all the same things you like. And I liked most of them long before you were born. So if I’m a dork, then you are too.”
“Fair enough,” I say with a smile.
She brushes the hair from my face and looks into my eyes.
“Ah, there’s the smile I was looking for.”
She’s smiling, too. It feels good to see her happy. I get the feeling it’s not something Tommy sees a lot of these days.
Frank steps into the kitchen, coughing loudly, looking like he just woke up from an eighteen hour hibernation.
“Okay, who drugged me?”
I’m not sure if he’s serious. His eyes are half-closed, his hair a mess, and he’s still wearing the clothes he, or I, wore to work yesterday.
“Wow, you slept long,” Stacy says, immediately taking her plate from the table, even though she’s not finished eating.
She looks at me. Her expression tells me to stand and give the lord his space.
After putting her plate in the sink, she grabs a newspaper from the counter and hands it to him. He grabs it, shuffling past us before sitting in the chair where Stacy had been sitting just moments earlier. She goes to the oven and opens it, then pulls a plate she’d been keeping warm. She brings it over to him: eggs, toast, and bacon.
That bastard gets bacon?
I get up and bring my leftovers to the trash, scraping the remaining toast into the can. Then I bring my plate to the sink and place it, along with the fork, on top of Mom’s.
I stand at the sink, hoping to hear Frank say something that might tell me what he remembers, but after a moment, I feel super-obvious and go to my room.
Fortunately, the house is small, and only one story, so even though I’m on the other side, standing in my bedroom’s open doorway, I can hear Frank as he starts to talk.
&n
bsp; At first I don’t hear what he says, but his second sentence is crystal clear. “Seriously, did you drug me?”
“What are you talking about?”
“I dunno, I feel all fuzzy. And I’m pretty sure I was fired yesterday.”
“Fired?”
“Yeah, but I barely remember what happened.”
“No, I didn’t drug you,” Stacy says, sounding offended, but not like she hasn’t had to deal with wild accusations before. “Maybe you were … ”
She either doesn’t finish the allegation, or says it low so I can’t hear it, or to keep him from being offended.
“I wasn’t fucking drunk!”
“I wasn’t gonna say that. I was going to say maybe you’ve come down with something. Do you have a fever?”
I can’t see her, but I’m imagining Stacy putting a hand on his head as she’d done with me.
“Hmm, don’t feel warm. Maybe you should go to the clinic?”
“I’m not going to the clinic,” he says, annoyed.
“So, what do you remember?”
Silence.
Suddenly, I hear footsteps.
I scramble, closing the door, making sure not to make a sound, then hop onto my bed, grabbing a book off my nightstand — a tattered old paperback of Stephen King’s Skeleton Crew with a toy monkey on the cover.
The door opens, and I look up from the book to see Frank standing in the doorway, brows furrowed with suspicion. “Were you listenin’ to us?”
“No,” I say, making my eyes wide and hopefully innocent. “I’m reading.”
He looks me up and down, and I try not to think about how weird it is to have this person whose body I was in yesterday staring right at me. I can almost feel his direction, as if he can sense that I — not Tommy — had recently invaded him.
Frank says nothing then closes the door.
I breathe my second relieved sigh and try to read enough to move my mind from the disappointment of no longer being able to eavesdrop.