by Sean Platt
“Do your visions always come true?”
“I don’t know, as I don’t always know the people I see. But as far as I can tell, yes, they’ve all come true.”
“Wait a second. You said your dad has visions too. Did he say that I actually save you? Or that I upload your soul to some computer?”
“He doesn’t tell me exactly what he saw. He seems to think that if he can upload my soul to a computer, he can eventually transfer it to another body. Or maybe even back into mine.”
The world just opened a big box of crazy, and none of the old rules apply. Who am I to say it can’t happen? I have gifts, some I apparently don’t even know about. And now I go to school with others who have bizarre powers right out of sci-fi comics.
Maybe I can save Willow.
We have to try at least.
An idea comes to me as I stare out her door and see a meteor streak by in the night sky.
I go to the door, open it, and step onto the balcony.
I look up and smile.
“Come here,” I say.
**
We’re lying on her roof, staring up at real stars, holding hands.
It’s cold up here, and the wind is picking up, but I don’t care because I’m with Willow.
“This is much better,” she says.
“You should have your dad put in a skylight.”
She laughs. “I should ask.”
We talk more about her childhood, about mine, talking around the thing we want to discuss most — just like the adults downstairs.
“You think your mom is looking for us yet? Dessert was like forty minutes ago.”
“I doubt it. She’s entertaining the guests.”
“How about your dad?”
“He probably has guards searching the grounds.”
“Really?” I ask, sitting up, looking around.
“No, not really,” she laughs. “Man, you are gullible.”
She leans over and kisses me again.
Unlike that first passionate kiss with the darting tongue and desperately exploring hands, this one is soft, sweet, and lingering.
As she pulls away, I find the nerve to say what I’ve been trying to find the words for.
“I think it’s stupid that you don’t want to be with me because you might die. Hell, anyone could die at any time. Nobody knows how long they have. So, what, we all stay lonely so no one gets hurt? Every relationship is an eventual heartbreak. But what’s the alternative? To inoculate yourself with loneliness? I don’t see how that’s better.”
She says nothing, but her crying eyes, trembling lips, and subtle nod tell me everything.
“I don’t want you to die. And I’m willing to do anything your dad thinks I can do to stop it from happening. But if it is going to happen no matter what, then at least we can pack as much fun into these years as possible. If you’re gonna go out, go out living life to the fullest!”
She kisses me again. And then she hugs me.
It feels good to have her arms around me and mine around her.
I don’t ever want to let go.
Suddenly, lights come on downstairs illuminating a large wooden deck and pool area with a bar, several wooden chairs, a fire pit, and a handful of tables.
Our fathers are standing near the pool, her father lighting a cigar.
We freeze, hoping they don’t look up and see us.
There’s no way to climb down the roof and stay silent enough not to draw attention. We’ll need to sit here until they go back inside.
Her father’s cigar wafts up on the breeze. It’s a pleasant scent. Probably an expensive cigar that costs more than our car.
“What the hell do you mean?” Dad says, his voice loud and angry.
Uh-oh.
“What’s happening?” Willow whispers, pulling herself closer to me.
“I dunno. Dad’s been acting weird ever since I came home.”
We continue to eavesdrop, but most of their conversation is lost beneath the howling wind.
Judging from Dad’s posture and crossed arms, he’s pissed. Meanwhile, Mr. Fairchild looks relaxed, despite my father’s angry tone.
My dad’s voice picks up, “We don’t know that!”
Fairchild’s demeanor doesn’t change. He says something I can’t hear, takes another puff of his cigar.
My father points at Mr. Fairchild, yelling something else I can’t hear. And then he follows with, “I’m not signing off on this.”
Her father’s voice finally rises. His demeanor shifts to match my father’s. “You will, or you can resign.”
My father turns and walks away.
My jaw drops.
“Did he just quit?”
Willow shakes her head, “I dunno.”
“I need to get downstairs, quick.”
But I can’t move until her father goes back inside.
He takes another puff on his cigar, then looks up at us.
I freeze.
Shit!
I can’t tell if he can see us. There’s a lot of lights shining down onto where he is, and we’re in the dark, so maybe he can’t. But it sure feels like he can.
He takes another puff, then strolls inside.
Willow and I scramble down from the roof, onto her balcony, into her bedroom, then out and down the stairs.
We pass several people congregating in the halls, many saying goodbyes.
I spot my father at the front door.
He sees me and waves a hand, mouthing, Come on.
I turn back to Willow, afraid of what’s coming next if my father did quit his job. Will I have to leave the school? Will I ever see Willow again?
I don’t want to leave, but my father is waiting.
“Bye,” Willow says, squeezing my hand.
I make my way to the door, thankful that the adults are oblivious to me.
I’m almost there when Arnold Fairchild steps into my path, eyes boring into my skull. “Leaving without saying goodbye?”
“Goodbye, Mr. Fairchild,” I say reaching out to shake his hand.
He grabs my hand with his oaken handshake. But this time, it’s joined by something else. He’s saying something, but his lips aren’t moving.
“I’ll see you soon, Ben.”
I nod, not sure what to make of this, and quickly find my father outside.
I follow him to the car, wanting to ask what’s wrong, what his fight with Mr. Fairchild was about. But how do I do it without revealing that Willow and I were spying?
He gets in the car.
I climb into the passenger’s side.
He keys the ignition and peels out.
I look at him.
His eyes are staring at the road, burning with an internal fire.
“What’s wrong, Dad?”
“Not now, son.”
And we drive in silence.
* * * *
CHAPTER 7
Ben Shepherd Age 17
Two weeks later
Willow and I are laying in my dorm room bed waiting for Dad to pick me up for the weekend.
“I wish you didn’t have to go,” she says, “I’m going to be so lonely here without you.”
“I’d stay if I could. But I think something’s wrong with Dad.”
We’ve talked about our fathers’ Thanksgiving argument a few times in the weeks since it happened. But neither man has told us what the argument was about. Willow even went so far to ask her father outright, saying she’d overheard “something” downstairs. He said it was work business, not her business.
I haven’t had the courage to ask my dad.
But I have asked what was wrong a number of times. He said it was “work stuff” and “nothing for you to worry about.”
Then he tried to pretend that he wasn’t bothered, but I could see through it and knew better than to argue.
Whatever it was, I’m guessing it wasn’t going to mean an end to his job. Willow told me that she wouldn’t let her father fire mine if it came to t
hat. I thanked her but wasn’t sure she could save my father from himself if he wanted to leave. He’s stubborn as hell.
If Dad wanted me to come home this weekend, I figured it was best that I did — at the very least, I could get an idea of what was happening. Not that the knowledge would do me any good if he did decide to quit. What was I going to do? Talk him out of it?
Maybe not, but I wasn’t going to allow him to take me away from Willow. Especially not since we’ve finally started dating.
In the two weeks since Thanksgiving, we’ve grown closer than ever. Despite the intensity of Thanksgiving night on her bed, we haven’t done anything beyond kissing and some light touching above the clothes. I’m following her lead. I’d love to go all the way, but am content to take things slowly, enjoying the moments we have, while we have them.
I try not to think about her premonition that she’ll die at twenty-five. We haven’t discussed it again. Nor have I seen her father. I’m not sure if I could bring it up with him. Again, I’ll follow her lead. I think a part of me is afraid to talk about it, as if that will make it more real, and ignoring it will somehow alter fate’s plans.
She runs a finger over my cheek, staring at me. “I guess I’ll just have to hang out with Nils.”
I narrow my eyes, pretending to be angry. “You wouldn’t.”
Nils is a classmate who has had a crush on her for more than a year. He’s captain of the debate team and an insufferable douchebag who happens to have superhuman strength. He could kick my ass if he wanted to — I’ve seen him do some impressive stuff in our field training exercises — but thankfully he’s not like the jock assholes I once went to school with. He seems to have enough confidence not to pick fights with the guy Willow chose to date instead of him. For now, anyway.
She kisses me.
“Please stay,” she whispers, her fingers tracing the hairs on the back of my neck. I feel a chill as she wraps one leg over me, smiling devilishly as if she’s about to climb on top of me.
I want to stay here forever.
Suddenly, a knock.
The knob starts to turn, but the door is locked.
“Ben?” My father’s voice.
“Hold on a sec,” I say, hopping out of bed and pulling my tucked-in shirt out of my pants to hide my erection.
Willow starts to unbutton her shirt, exposing her cleavage.
“Stop,” I whisper.
She smiles that same evil grin, pops another button.
I can practically feel my father breathing down my neck just outside the door. He’ll think Willow and I were doing something. And the last thing I want to hear from my dad on the way home is “the sex talk.”
“Come on,” I say, motioning for Willow to close her shirt — maybe the only time I will ever ask a girl to cover her breasts.
She buttons up, moves off the bed, and takes a seat at the desk.
I give myself a once-over in the mirror just to make sure there’s no tell-tale sign of Willow and me making out. At least I no longer have to worry about my shirt hiding my arousal. A father’s knock will kill it.
I open the door and meet his eyes. He’ll suspect us if I don’t.
But as I see him standing there with red eyes and pale skin, his hair a mess, shirt and pants both crumpled, I’m no longer worried that he’ll pick up on something with me.
He looks like he’s seen a graveyard breathing.
“Come on, son. We’ve got to go.” Then he turns and leaves without even saying hi to Willow.
We exchange worried glances. Her eyebrows arch.
“Call me when you get home.”
I nod, unable to say a word.
I kiss her, grab my backpack, and follow my father.
I have a horrible feeling about this weekend.
**
I follow Dad to the parking lot.
We get into his car.
The sky is gray overhead, threatening rain.
He looks nervously around as he pulls out of the driveway, then keeps checking the rearview as he navigates away from the school.
I don’t say a word until I see that he’s not getting on the highway like usual. He’s driving along the main street, passing shops and gas stations, his eyes constantly on the rearview.
Rain begins to fall, hard.
“Where are we going?”
“Change of plans, son. We’re going on a trip.”
He pulls into a gas station, parks in the rear, and shuts off the windshield wipers while leaving his lights on.
“What’s going on? Are you okay?”
He looks at me, his brow knitted in. He says nothing, like he’s trying to find words.
A white van pulls up beside us, its windows tinted darkly enough that I can’t see inside.
I lean forward in the passenger seat, my heart already out of control.
That bad feeling is getting worse. It’s not psychic bad, nor am I getting a horrible migraine, but the fear is equally raw.
The van door opens.
A skinny black man in jeans and a black sweater gets out. A knitted hat covers most of his face, except for his eyes.
“Who is that?”
“A friend. Get out.” Then Dad opens his door and climbs out of the car.
I follow, grabbing my backpack from the floor.
Dad says something to the man, hands him an envelope.
The guy looks at me, nods, then climbs into Dad’s car and drives away.
What the hell is happening?
Dad goes toward the van’s open driver’s side, then looks back at me. “Get in.”
I run around to the passenger side, open the door, and look inside.
I see several duffels and suitcases inside the van.
“What’s going on, Dad?”
“We’re leaving.”
“Leaving where?”
“The country. Now get in.”
I climb in, my heart racing, mind swirling in a chaotic vortex as I try to grasp onto any sense of what might be happening, desperate for something, anything, to make sense.
Dad starts driving, toward the highway, pulling onto the southbound on-ramp instead of heading northbound.
I wait for him to say something, to offer any explanation. But he just keeps driving, checking the side mirrors.
Finally, as we merge onto the highway, I have to ask, “What do you mean we’re leaving the country?”
“We’re going to Mexico.”
“What? Mexico? We don’t even know anyone in Mexico! Why are we going to Mexico?”
“Because they’ll kill us if we don’t.”
I think he’s joking at first. This must be some sort of prank. Dad’s not exactly a pranking type, but it’s the only thing that makes any sense — even if it’s out of character.
But then he looks at me, his eyes wide and crazed, and I can tell that he isn’t joking. Something is happening — or he thinks something is. He’s in full panic mode. I’ve never seen him like this, not even close, and it’s scaring the hell out of me.
“What are you talking about, Dad? Who’s going to kill us?”
“The less you know, the better. Just in case.”
“In case of what?”
He looks at me like he’s about to say something.
But then there’s a flash in front of us.
Dad swerves, barely missing a truck merging into our lane.
Copper floods my mouth.
I grab the handle to my right and cling for dear life.
I’m certain that the van will hydroplane into the center median, but somehow dad manages to regain control, swerving into the left lane and righting the van.
I swallow.
Dad stares out the windshield, his eyes bulging. “I need to focus on the road. I’ll tell you more later.”
I lean back in the seat, catching my breath, waiting for my heartbeat to slow. But I can’t let go of the handle.
**
I wake up to the unfamiliar darkness of our motel room.
The AC is cranked to full blast, so the sound drowns the highway. It worked well enough that we were able to fall asleep, but it’s like a freezer in here now.
The clock on the nightstand next to my table reads 1:10 AM. We didn’t get to bed until nearly midnight. I’m not even sure what state we’re in.
We drove for what felt like forever, my father barely saying a word. Even when we stopped for fuel, to use restrooms, or grab a bite — all paid for with cash — he barely spoke.
He’s seemed distracted all day, and afraid.
I thought about calling Willow from a pay phone, but I don’t have change, and can’t make a call without being seen. He’s already said that we can’t trust anyone.
This must have something to do with his job. Maybe whatever started boiling over on Thanksgiving has finally exploded.
What did my father do?
What could possibly require us to run?
Did he break the law?
Are we on the run from AD or the law?
I know that his job involves working with law enforcement in some way, which only confuses me further.
I look over in the darkness to the bed next to mine, but it’s empty.
A light beneath the bathroom door tells me where he is.
I pull the covers tighter over my body, but the blanket is thin.
I get up, walk to the mirrored closet, and pull it open to see if there are any extra blankets inside. I see another two pillows, an iron and an ironing board, but no blankets.
I slide the closet door shut just as the bathroom door opens.
I squint into the light.
Dad steps out of the bathroom, dressed in his pants, shirt, and jacket. He barely looks at me as he walks over to his bed and sits.
He picks up the phone.
“Hey, if you’re calling the front office, could you get another blanket or two?”
He says nothing, waiting for someone to answer.
I go into the bathroom, close the door, and sit on the toilet to pee. I’m too tired to stand and aim well.
Dad finally gets a hold of whoever he’s calling. The walls are so thin I can hear him fairly well.
“Hello. My name is John Shepherd, and I’d like to turn myself into the sheriff’s office for murder.”