by Nic Tatano
"Yeah, but we're eighteen and a forty year old has been around the block already. It's the experience factor, and, as you know, we don't have any." I reach across the table and pat her hand. "Look, you've got nothing to worry about. Besides, if by some strange turn of events things didn't work out with you and Jake there'd be a line of hot guys waiting for a shot at a six foot babe with legs up to her neck. It's not a bad lookin' crop on that campus."
"I suppose. Still, I've got it bad for the little guy and it kinda hurt me a little, ya know?"
"Aren't you the one who always said men take longer to grow up?"
"Stop hitting me with my own logic, short stuff."
"Maybe you need a little of your own logic. Remember when you first started dating him you went out with someone else to keep him in line?"
"I'm not playing those games anymore."
"I'm not saying you should actually do it. But just talk about a male teacher and give him a taste of his own medicine."
"The only male teacher we've got is that eighty year old English professor who died and didn't get the memo."
"Okay, not my best idea. Tell you what, I'll send my alter ego into that classroom and see what the hell is going on with that teacher."
After four years of challenging my stomach to a daily culinary smackdown in a high school cafeteria that served dishes which looked suspiciously like lab experiments, there was no way I was gonna eat college food. Roxanne and I had already done reconnaissance during our spring campus visit and were treated to a mystery meat dish she referred to as "cold shoulder" since a: it was cold, and b: she found a bone in it that looked like a shoulder blade she'd seen in her cousin's butcher shop. Besides, with the campus in Manhattan I could throw a stone and hit any number of terrific and reasonably priced places to eat. However, the school does have a subsidized coffee bar, which offers terrific flavored joes at a dollar a cup, so I'm enjoying a mug of almond amaretto while I attempt to navigate through the 1800s literary version of the health care law, Moby Dick. Get this: the book is required reading for my Modern Literature course. Which begs the question, would you have to be living during the Abe Lincoln administration to consider this book modern? Anyway, after thirty pages on the care and feeding of whales I'm ready to impale myself on a harpoon and making a point to hit the college bookstore on the way home to pick up the Cliff Notes. Hey, I can spend fifty hours reading this dated monstrosity or getting the thirty minute recap and spending my time doing noble deeds. Seems like a no-brainer to me. I could even do a testimonial for the Cliff Notes people that they could put on the back cover:
"The condensed version of Moby Dick gave me the time I needed to save the planet."
-Jillian Spectre, superheroine
Anyway, the java bar is packed and I'm sitting alone at a corner table for two when a tight pair of jeans moves into my field of vision. I look up and see a Greek god standing before me with a cup of coffee.
"Mind if I join you? All the other seats are taken."
A quick glance around the room tells me this is true. Not that I care with a guy like this, since one does not often encounter mythological figures who look like fashion models, so I gesture toward the chair opposite me. "Sure."
"Thanks." He places his books and coffee on the table as he sits down and slides his chair closer to the table, then extends his hand. "Trip Logan."
My hand looks tiny and disappears into his as we shake. "Jillian Spectre."
His handshake is gentle despite his size. He cocks his head toward my novel. "You're not actually reading that mind-numbing thing, are you?"
I close the book and slide it off to the side. "I made a valiant attempt, but I started to lose interest at Call me Ishmael."
"Ah, yes, I remember this school's concept of Modern Literature. When I took it we were reading the Rosetta Stone."
I laugh and take in this vision as he sips his coffee. The guy's built like a linebacker: incredibly broad shoulders, huge ripped biceps straining to escape from his short sleeved shirt, forearms with bulging veins that belong on a blacksmith. One of those men whose chest looks twice as wide as his waist. He obviously lives in the gym. At least six-foot-four, maybe taller. He looks like he could bench press a Toyota but has a silky smooth voice. Throw in the angles-and-planes face, thick black hair, dark brown eyes and dimples, and my heart is beginning to flutter. I think back to Ryan's favorite phrase when he sees a beautiful woman. "I'm your boyfriend, but I'm not dead."
I'm not dead either. Besides, with Roxanne's news that Jake has a bit of a wandering eye, I could just be on a scouting mission for her, seeking out young men built like Thor.
Yeah, let's go with that.
I look at his stack of books, a collection of history and political science. "Let me guess…pre-law?"
He nods. "You're very perceptive. I start applying in a couple of months."
"Oh, so you're a senior."
"Yep."
"What kind of law do you want to practice?"
"Criminal. I'd love to be a prosecutor, put bad guys away."
"Very noble. So, not going for the big bucks?"
"Maybe someday, but right now I just want to make the world a better place."
"Yeah, I know the feeling."
He locks his spectacular deep-set eyes with me and it's all I can do to remind myself I'm taken. "I realize that's kind of a naive rose colored glasses way to look at things, but it feels good to help people. So, what do you wanna do?"
"Same deal. Help people. You might say it's in my blood. But right now I don't have a major." I sip my coffee and then it hits me. He's taking political science. "Hey, you ever have a teacher named Ms. Cruise?"
"The Cruise Missile? Nah, I had someone else for freshman poly sci. But I know who she is. Anyway, she apparently knows her subject matter. Served a couple of terms in Congress. She was known for sleeping around there, too."
"What do you mean…too?"
"She, uh…well, she has quite the reputation around here. Let's just say it's possible for male students to get extra credit, if you get my drift."
"They call her the Cruise Missile?"
"Legend has it that she zeroes in on one student every semester like a heat seeking missile. Apparently her affairs with freshmen are legendary around here."
"So why is she still teaching here?"
"Because legend has it she also had an affair with the college president, and she's holding that little bit of information over his head. Along with some incriminating photos."
"Wow. I guess I'm not in high school anymore."
"Nope. Welcome to the real world."
Ten minutes worth of great conversation later, he looks at his watch. "Well, off to class." He stands up, slugs down the rest of his coffee and tosses the empty cup in a nearby trash can. "It was nice meeting you, Jillian."
"You too, Trip. See you around the campus."
He grabs his books. "So, uh…would it be too forward of me to ask for your phone number?"
"It wouldn't, if I didn't have a boyfriend."
He playfully puts out his lower lip in a pout. "Figures. The good ones are always taken. Well, see you later."
"Yeah," I say, as he turns and heads out of the room, leaving in his wake a sea of longing looks from every girl in the place.
Including me.
The aforementioned "hot teacher" Rebecca Cruise holds court in a classroom that looks like an amphitheater and has what is commonly known as stadium seating, with the rows sloped downward toward the teacher. I've been in the room for another class, so it's easy to focus on it as I stretch out on the couch. I'm going to materialize in the back row during Jake's class so I can make a quick, unnoticed arrival and getaway.
What I don't expect is to arrive in the dark.
The only light in the room is provided by a projector which is filling the front wall with a PowerPoint presentation while the teacher strolls by the front row.
She comes as advertised.
Ms. Cruise is a tall, stunning,
blue-eyed blonde, maybe five-nine with a short leather skirt showing off spectacular legs atop red four inch heels and a tight gathered burgundy top that leaves little to the imagination. Not exactly the costume de riguer for a college professor, as she looks more like a middle-aged party girl in search of a red plastic cup. If you looked up "cougar" in the dictionary, you'd see her photo. A quick look around the room shows the class is comprised mostly of guys, all of whom are riveted as she prances around the room. I spot Jake in the front row, the glow from the projection lighting up his face and the fact that he's practically drooling over his teacher as he leans forward on the desk.
Luckily in the last row it's pitch dark, so I'm unnoticed. Besides, no one's sitting back here anyway, as most of the class is crammed into the front half of the room.
Anyway, she's whipping through slides that are highlighting some of the more notable revolutionaries in history, many of whom are guests of the state. (Fuzzball's cute little term for "prisoners.")
"Political resistance has always been the instrument of change throughout history," she says. "It is necessary for societal growth. It's up to each of you to carry the torch and challenge authority. And you don't need a degree to do that, you can start now. Use your freedom of speech." She launches into this wild monologue which tells me she's a stereotypical radical professor whose main objective is not to teach but to influence her students with her own views.
Then, she says something that makes me sit bolt upright.
"It's a shame that the Spectre phone crashed, because it was on the way to changing society for the better."
My eyes narrow as she extols the virtues of my father, his failed invention, and how it would have allowed people to live in the present and not place any trust in blind faith. I look around the room and see heads nodding in agreement.
Including Jake's.
Which makes no sense. Jake knows how evil my father was. I mean, the guy tried to kill Roxanne, the supposed love of Jake's life. Jake hates him with a passion.
But right now he's smiling, agreeing with the lunatic stuff his teacher is spouting.
So what is this woman doing to him and every other student in this class? And how the hell is she doing it?
This is more than a guy being all gaga over a hot woman. This is something else.
Is she a minion of my father? Is it possible she's got some mind controlling powers? If she's got powers, Sebastien will know.
Finally, after this five minute manifesto about how to possibly recapture the false utopia promised by the Spectre phone, I've had enough.
"Excuse me, I'm just curious," I yell, stopping her in her tracks.
She shades her eyes with her palm as she moves away from the projector, squinting in vain to see who's interrupted her from the back of the room. I know there's no way she can see me in the dark. "Yes?"
"Well, you know, I pay forty grand in tuition in order to learn about political science, not to listen to your opinions. Would it be possible for you to stick to the curriculum and leave your personal views at home?"
A collective "whoa" floats through the room from the students. The teacher's face tightens, her eyes narrow into a glare. "Excuse me?"
"Hey, you said we should challenge authority. So I'm challenging yours by saying the Spectre phone was part of the biggest con job in the history of this country. I'm happy it crashed. It would have destroyed society."
"Who's back there? Lights!"
And just before a student in the front row reaches the light switch, I book on outta there.
Chapter 2
I guess I should catch you up on how my powers work these days, since I spent most of the summer working on my newfound projection and healing abilities.
As far as my duties as a seer go, not much has changed. I can still only see five years into the future, still only read romance, still get occasional views of the afterlife. Luckily I'm still in contact with the angel Carrielle, though he hasn't needed me for any special projects since we put my father into a deep freeze. I simply meet him when I need inspiration or advice.
But when it comes to projecting myself to a different location (Ryan refers to my alter ego as Jillian 2.0) I've made significant progress with the help of Fuzzball. My alter ego trips fall into two categories. If I simply project and don't have to heal anyone, I return to my body and wake up immediately feeling perfectly normal. If I have to heal someone during an out of body experience, I need recovery time but I don't black out unless it's a life or death situation, which I have just learned. It's taken less time as I've gotten more experienced, but the rule of thumb is this: the more drastic the healing process, the longer the recovery time. However, I had never saved anyone as close to death as the detective's partner.
Sadly, for Ryan anyway, I cannot be awake in both my real body and the projection at the same time, denying him his fantasy of being with two Jillians at the same time. What is it about men and twins?
Now that school has started, my mystic seer duties are down to two nights a week. Fortunately Fuzzball has helped me replace that lost income by helping him on a few of his moonlighting jobs that all cops seem to have. We're quite the buddy cop duo, projecting ourselves to solve mysteries, which pays pretty well. I'm working for him Friday night, on an assignment that should be a hoot. Politician's wife thinks he's cheating (yeah, there's a real stretch) and she wants to find out if the guy's hot female "consultant" is taking care of more than focus groups.
But right now I've got a new client to take care of, and hopefully I'll be done quick since the Giants are on Monday Night Football and I never miss a game. He's a young guy, probably my age, which is surprising. As you can imagine, most of our clients are older, and most are women. Most college age men aren't exactly worried about romance as they are about sex. (There should be a freshman class to teach them the difference.)
Anyway, this guy has that lost puppy dog look which tells me he's got it bad for some girl. He tells me his name is Stan as he shakes my hand, then sits down opposite me. He's very average looking, five on a scale of one to ten, maybe five-foot-six with a scruffy blonde beard and curly hair to match. He might qualify as a six if he bought a razor.
"So, you have some concerns about romance," I say.
He nods. "There's someone I'm very interested in. And to be perfectly honest, I think she's probably way out of my league."
"Why do you say that?"
"She's really pretty, and I know a lot of guys are interested in her."
"Well, that's true of most attractive women. Doesn't mean you don't have a shot. You might be her type."
"I doubt it. But I'd like to save myself the pain of getting shot down if possible."
"I hear ya. Did you bring a photo?"
"Sorry, don't have one." He describes her, and I can tell he's right about the out-of-his-league thing since she sounds like a supermodel.
"Okay, Stan, here's how this works. I want you to ask a question about romance, and only about romance. Then focus on the question and nothing else. Got it?"
"Sounds simple enough."
"So what's your question?"
"Is it possible for me to have a relationship with her?"
"Now close your eyes and focus."
I do the same and try my best to create a mental picture from the description he's given me, adding his image in the process. I open my eyes and the crystal ball is already fogged up. "Okay, Stan, you can open your eyes."
He looks at the ball and sees the fog. "Wow, that was fast. You see anything?"
"Not yet, but the picture is clearing. It won't take long." The fog dissipates and I see Stan walking along a hallway with a lot of doors. It looks like a bunch of offices. He heads for the door at the end of the hallway and is about to reach for the doorknob when he appears to hear something. He leans his head against the door and listens. The image dissolves to the inside of the office. I can see shadows on the floor, two people kissing. And then I see the two people creating the shadows.
Ms. Cruise.
And Jake.
"She could be a dream weaver."
Mom's words make me furrow my brow. "A what?"
"Dream weaver. It's legend really, as there's no evidence on record that one has ever existed. But it's an old tale about a woman who can manipulate others into thinking they're dreaming when they're actually awake." Mom puts down her coffee, gets up from the kitchen table and heads upstairs. She quickly returns with a very old leather bound book and slides it onto the table. The cover is plain, with no title visible on it or the spine.
"What's this?" I ask.
"Call it the big book of paranormal legends." She flips it open. I see her name, Zelda Spectre, written on the inside cover.
"How old is this thing?"
"I think it was put together around 1900. You're in it, by the way."
My eyes widen. "Excuse me?"
"Remember you were told there was a legend of a seer who could see beyond the physical world?" She flips through the book, stops at a page, turns it around and shoves it in my direction. "There you are."
To say my jaw dropped would be putting it mildly. There I was, a crude pencil drawing like the kind you see in dictionaries. But it was definitely me, complete with freckles. I quickly scan the description of the legendary seer, which describes me perfectly. "When were you gonna show me this?"
She shrugs. "I actually forgot it was in there."
"Your daughter is in a hundred year old book about paranormal legends and you forgot?"
"Hey, I'm middle aged. I'm getting C-R-S."
"What's C-R-S?"
"Can't remember shit." She grabs the book and turns it around, then starts flipping through the pages. "Car keys, grocery lists, where my glasses are even though they're on top of my head, lately I can't remember a damn thing. Anyway, I remember reading about the dream weaver when I was a little girl." She stops and points to the middle of a page. "Here it is."
She starts to read aloud but I grab the book.
DREAM WEAVER
A person of high intelligence who is able to manipulate the reality of those around her. Subjects will assume they are having lucid dreams when in reality they are awake. The Dream Weaver is then able to manipulate them into doing anything since the subjects believe they are dreaming and there are no consequences. There is also a mind control factor, as the dream weaver is able to implant thoughts and ideas into the subject.