Awakening Foster Kelly

by Cara Rosalie Olsen

  The assistant principal was called, and I was escorted to the front office, asked to sit outside until they could figure out where I belonged. Thirty minutes later the error surfaced. Someone had accidentally entered me into the system as Kelly instead of Foster. I did in fact belong in Room 7, the Butterfly Room; however, when the assistant principal led me back to class and to my desk—Kelly’s desk—class had already begun. Mrs. Pickleberry—holding a piece of green chalk in her hand, neatly writing out the letters A, E, I, O, U on the blackboard—was busy. The opportunity for welcomes had ended.

  The nametag was changed that day; the student formerly known as Kelly was replaced by Foster, written on a yellow Post-it and half-taped to the desk. I tried to pay attention.

  Mrs. Pickleberry wrote out the words “apple” and “ape,” verbally demonstrating the letter’s versatility.

  It shouldn’t have of upset me. It was only a silly mistake—one that had been corrected. But . . . as I sat in Kelly’s desk, feeling as though I was wearing someone else’s underwear, something happened: I realized the truth. And by the time I had finished wiping the tears from my eyes, I had accepted it; the first snowflake that would grow into a snowball.

  When I was eight years old, the parents of Jenny Hollingsworth invited me, along with every second-grade girl in the class, to a birthday party. It was to be the first—and the last—time I ever attended a slumber party. The theme of the event was entitled: An Enchanted Evening.

  Jenny’s parents spared no expense on the grandiose affair, including everything from a princess jump house, to an ice cream bar, to rides on white ponies. The horses were a bit resentful, perhaps offended by the golden horn strapped around their heads; they retaliated by leaving large reminders of their presence all throughout Bill and Cindy Hollingsworth’s backyard.

  The invitation instructed each girl to arrive in pajamas, but also to bring everything necessary to transform into our most beloved princess; for there was to be a parade at dusk, with an actual float that would transport the miniature princesses around the cul-de-sac. Dusk arrived, and doting parents were asked to convene in the foyer. Their bejeweled children were introduced by a trumpet-blowing, curly-wig-wearing, tights-donning court jester. Jasmine, Belle, Ariel, and a handful of Cinderellas were presented, escorted down the spiraling staircase. Smiling faces, teary eyes, and the rise and fall of oohs and aahs resounded about the room.

  I was the last in line. Voices muted once more, waiting for the next ceremonious announcement. Behind the wall I heard the click-click-click of cameras. I imagined my mother and father, huddled off to the side, waiting for their daughter to be heralded.

  Little did they know, there was a problem.

  Parties in general tended to make me nervous; but at receiving Jenny’s birthday invitation, I thought it a fortuitous occurrence. Because, coincidentally, just that week I had given an oral history presentation on a princess I admired. I had everything I needed—a complete costume and a working knowledge of her heritage. When the time came for the girls to change clothes, I soon noticed I was the only one not wearing pastel tulle, sparkly plastic shoes, and carrying a beaded purse. There was a spasm of anxiety, but by then it was already too late.

  The teenager recruited to play the role of the jester continued to struggle with the name on the note card. In trying to pronounce Sacajawea—an actual Shoshone Native American princess who led Lewis and Clark on their expedition—he began to panic and blurted “Suk-uh-jaw-wee!” Someone—my mother—recognized the error and shouted the proper pronunciation, to which I then appeared to a room of hysterical laughter. Not at me, of course, but being eight years old, I couldn’t tell the difference.

  Afterward, I asked my parents if it would be all right if we went home. I thanked Jenny and Mr. and Mrs. Hollingsworth for having me over, and then fell asleep in my own bed, reading Swiss Family Robinson—my favorite book at the time. I should have known better, but I wasn’t listening to what the world was telling me. Awkward and angular, I was trying to squeeze into a neat, round circle that continued to spit me back out.

  From there I began frequenting open spaces.

  ~

  Sitting alone under the Jacaranda I could almost pretend I was someplace else. The giant, susurrant tree hovered over me, releasing tiny, purple blooms in a shedding frenzy. I would greatly regret this later, I understood, when I went to repair the havoc wreaked on my eternally tangled curls. It was a small price to pay, I decided, for solace and the delusion of privacy.

  Behind me, the schoolyard was mostly empty. Way across the flood of green grass separating them from me, backpack-toting students were just beginning to trickle onto campus, pulled like magnets into their groups.

  In front of me, endless blue sky curtsied; and far below, the main show roiled and frothed, thrashing itself upon the school’s namesake.

  I should have been paying more attention to the stunning display of sun, sky, and waves, but continuous exposure makes a person unappreciative, and absorbed in my book, I was a prisoner of its devices.

  I was just coming to an important twist when, unaware my mouth was hanging open, a straying tendril slipped between my lips. I wrapped it around my finger, where it glowed auburn in the spliced sunlight. I squinted at the morning sun streaming through thick branches, knowing that despite the canopy of shade, my skin would undoubtedly burn, its naturally lusterless white altered to an unflattering splotchy pink.

  Slipping out of my yellow cardigan, I draped it below my skirt, covering most of my legs. But my shins peeked out like albino celery stalks. I ignored them.

  A sudden gust of wind disrupted more of the tree’s blooms and also the pages of the book I held, plattered in my hands, thumbs pressed into the bottom right corners. Pages 392 and 393 of Pride and Prejudice flapped defiantly. Beside me on the wooden bench, was a first edition copy of F. Scott Fitzgerald’s The Great Gatsby. Over the weekend I had finished it for the seventh time—well, nearly finished; half of a chapter I had read this morning. And however maudlin it was, I could not escape finisher’s remorse when the time came to say goodbye to my friends: Nick, Jay, Daisy, Myrtle, Jordan, and Tom. With fewer and fewer pages to go, I had slowed to a sloth’s reading pace, not ready to embrace “The End” quite yet.

  A mysterious object, a good book. It did that to you; made it almost painful turning the last page. Then it clung in your mind, like static, refusing to let go until another good book came along and gently weaved its undoing spell.

  It didn’t matter how many times I read The Great Gatsby cover to cover; every single time the story spoke differently to me. When I was eight, it was in Nick whom I found myself drawn to: slightly naïve, but ultimately prepared to think the best of people. The third time it was the tragedy and depravity of the whole thing—adultery, murder, deceit, and the aftermath of a thousand wrong choices. And most recently, it was not a theme or character, but a subtlety that left its mark on me.

  At the age of seventeen, Gatsby—born James Gatz—seeks to recreate himself; to form an entirely different identity, in the hopes of forgetting his humble beginnings and less than noteworthy past. He does this simply, but profoundly, by changing his name. He is no longer James Gatz, but the romantic and aristocratically polished Jay Gatsby.

  My curiosity was piqued. Could it really be as simple as that? Could a slight variation in name intercept the course of one’s destiny? Without pausing I then considered how my name was responsible for nothing but trouble, starting from the time a computer error renamed me Kelly.

  But maybe it had less to do with the name itself, and more to do with the individual owning it; in which case, there was very little hope for me. And I suppose, really, this detail could be chalked up to Fitzgerald’s dedication to authenticity. It provided the necessary character development, while giving us a closer look at the elusive man shrouded in darkness, staring out across the Sound.

  So perhaps the name change wasn’t pertinent to the story. Interesting, yes, but ultim
ately inconsequential.

  Then again . . . when was any detail inconsequential to the story?

  The sound of excited giggles broke through my concentration. I turned my head and, peeking over the top of my book, watched two girls, arms linked, sauntering directly toward me. Sunlight illuminated their golden heads swiveling back and forth animatedly. Their faces were open and carrying that look of youthful immunity, like nothing could touch them. In my own collection of expressions, I didn’t think I owned that one.

  The majority of female students took advantage of Shorecliffs’ liberal dress-code, at times testing its rubbery limits. The blonder, slimmer, shorter of the two girls wore jeans that appeared as though they had gruesomely lost a battle with a pair of scissors; she also had on a loose opaque tank, a hot pink band of fabric beneath it. A small, neat braid ran horizontally across her hairline, then it disappeared around her head, where the rest of her hair had been scooped into a messy bun at the nape of her neck. She wore sunglasses—neon yellow, the frames molded into hearts.

  The other girl was easily a foot taller and had beautiful olive skin. I wouldn’t have considered her overweight, though in contrast to her waiflike companion, she depicted the illusion of being large. A shimmery white bra-strap peeped from her miniature lime-green sweatshirt. The boatneck collar was slightly skewed, revealing the rounded flesh of one tanned shoulder. She was extremely pretty . . . I wondered if she thought so.

  Walking toward me, she alternated between pulling the hem of the sweatshirt over her midriff and yanking on the insides of her jean shorts. My attention—which would have naturally rested on her high cheekbones, full lips, and very wide, white smile—was led away from her face, distracted by these unconscious efforts to cover up.

  And here is where I realized I had lost my opportunity to sneak off before these girls had arrived.

  I held my breath and stared at the ground as they stopped a little over a foot to my left—noticing two sets of tan Uggs. Quickly I deduced they hadn’t the slightest awareness I was present, this evident by the ease in which they discussed a topic that set my skin to a crimson blaze. I jabbed a thumbnail between my teeth and desperately tried to block it out.

  Jane Eyre. Moby Dick. Twenty Thousand Leagues Under the Sea. Sense and Sensibility. The Nightingale. Wuthering Heights.

  Listing the books I had read over the last month in an attempt to create an invisible bulwark, felt a little like an attempt to use one of those tropical drink embellishments as an umbrella. I was getting drenched.

  The girl in the sweatshirt and shorts continued in earnest, thoroughly describing each and every colorful aspect that had taken place on the sandy shores of a beach, the name of which I didn’t get. When she then began explaining, in avid depth, the evening’s soundtrack—not so much music—I tried singing in my head.

  A war commenced. It seemed the more energy I put into rejecting what I was hearing, the more of it that managed to filter through.

  After a sequence of blushes strong enough to incite perspiration, I wondered if it might in fact be best for me to leave, now, before . . . the main event. Because which of two awfuls would be worse: getting up and bringing to attention my having heard most of the graphic details annotating a highly intimate and personal experience, or, my having heard all of them?

  Before I could decide, the decision was made for me.

  Oh, no. No, no, no. Please, no.

  I was so busy pleading with earless entities, fighting the urge to shield my ears, when something I hadn’t foreseen plunged its way into my cognition. Yes, it was going to happen—again. The only thing I could do now was wait until it happened.

  I had once read in a survival-skills manual that in the event of an undesirable outcome, it would be in the prey’s best interest to remain still as possible.

  I did this now.

  “Nooo, you didn’t, Clare!” came hushed incredulity from the smaller girl.

  A quick darting glance from my peripheral showed me a smirking Clare, edging closer and closer to the bench where I sat like a statue.

  “Oh, trust me,” Clare said portentously, “it gets way, way better. So Cody says to me, ‘Let’s go in the hot-tub,’ and I’m like, ‘O—’”

  Clare moved again. I couldn’t wait any longer.

  “No!” I cried, and thrust my arms away from my body, my palms colliding with Clare’s jeaned bottom.

  Clare emitted a blood curdling shriek. It was so loud I thought my long-term hearing would be in jeopardy.

  “Ghost!” said Clare’s friend, clasping both sides of her head.

  Clare whirled to face me, shock and terror stamped upon her face. She backed up, hands protectively grasping the area where I had touched her. Back and forth, she turned her head.

  “Jess! Was she—? Did you—?” Clare sputtered, silvery shadowed eyelids puckering, then squeezing shut. They flew open a second later, embarking on a foot-to-head inspection of me. At first I saw she was only frightened, then repulsed; now, all at once, Clare realized what and of whom I had heard her speak, and in a voice blended with disbelief, mortification, and fury, she asked, “How long have you been there?”

  The urge to lie frothed in my throat.

  And beyond the lie itself, I could think of not one redeeming reason why I should shame Clare by admitting I had been privy for all the details, big and small, of her date.

  My face, however, had plans of its own, speaking volumes my voice never could.

  “Oh, gawd.” Clare dropped her head between her knees and moaned. Then, like a catapult she flung upward, furious and lit like a stick of dynamite. “Where did you come from? You weren’t here.” She pointed to the grass. “You couldn’t have been, because I never saw you walk up.”

  Knees tucked under my chin, I kept my book in front of my face. “I was . . . already here,” I mumbled.

  “No,” said Clare succinctly, “you weren’t. We”—she enunciated the word, making it understood I was not included—“were standing here for like five minutes, and you definitely were not here.”

  She wasn’t correct, but I didn’t think disagreeing with Clare would help things, so I said nothing.

  At my reticence, Clare stole a furtive glance behind her. “Did you see her, Jess?”

  Presently, Jess was blowing a blue bubble the size of her face; so when she answered, “Nope,” it sounded more like “Ungk.” Then it popped. “Which means,” Jess added, peeling the splattered bubble from her chin and nose, “she must have crossed over when we weren’t looking. Abrupt manifestation is very common; it happens sometimes when vengeful spirits have unfinished business to attend to.”

  Had Jess not removed her sunglasses and put them on top of her head, I might’ve believed she was being funny. With an unhindered view of her eyes, it was all too clear she was being a hundred percent sincere. I didn’t know what to do with that, and moved the book up an inch, just below nose.

  “Jess.” Clare shook her head and sighed in a way that told me this was not unusual behavior for her friend. “Jess, she’s not a gho—”

  “Maybe we can help her cross back over to the other side,” Jess continued, galvanized; she bent down so we were eye-level and put her sunglasses back on. “These will help me see her aura.” She began undulating her fingers.

  “What are you doing?” Clare asked, reluctantly.

  “I’m stimulating the air around her. It’ll help me get an accurate read. I’ve watched lots of shows on the paranormal,” Jess said, intently focused on her work. “Most of the time the ghosts don’t even know they’ve crossed over. Or sometimes they just need to work it out, you know? Have their vengeance before leaving the land of the living, for good.”

  Mostly due to complete stupefaction, I had yet to say or do anything. I remained entranced by Jess and her industrious fingers. I thought perhaps now was a good time to clear the air—figuratively speaking.

  “I’m sorry for overhearing your conversation,” I said softly, flicking my eyes towar
d Clare, then to Jess. “But I’m not a ghost.”

  Jess smiled. “Funny,” she said, tapping me on the nose lightly. “That’s exactly what I would expect a ghost to say. You’re not a very clever ghost, are you? That could make things more complicated.”

  “But I—”

  “Hush, Ghost!” Jess exclaimed, snapping her fingers. “If I’m going to help you, I must have complete quiet!” To Clare she added, “I vanquished an evil spirit from my dad’s apartment a few weeks ago. I don’t think this one is evil,” she mused, her eyes studying mine. “Yeah. I’m certain of it, actually. I see no red in her pupils, and her aura is a strong greenish-lavender.” With a suddenness that caused me to reel, Jess grabbed both sides of the bench and began shouting in my face. “Spirit! Go back! You must go back to where you came from! You don’t belong here! Be gone!”

  I recoiled and slunk down the bench, using my book as a shield.

  “Oh-my-gawd, Jess, seriously.” Clare stepped forward, taking her friend by the wrist and yanking her backward. “She’s not a ghost.”

  “How can you know?”

  “Because she goes to our school—look.” Clare pointed down to where my backpack sat on the grass, and more importantly to where my student ID—encased in a clear pouch and attached to the zipper by way of industrial key ring—boldly declared me as Foster Kelly, Grade 12, Shorecliffs Private School.

  “O-wuh.” Jess twisted her lips to the side, speaking from the corner of her mouth. “Sorry, Ghost—I mean, Girl. I should have known better,” she said, laughing. “You don’t smell at all like fresh goat’s milk.”

  With equal bafflement, Clare and I stared at Jess, wordlessly.

  It was a moment before I found my voice and said, “I’ll go now. You can have the bench.” Hunched over, I started collecting my things, stuffing them quickly into my backpack.

  Jess’s attention was diverted when a gust of wind sent a dandelion floating overhead. “Oh, there you are,” she whispered, “I’ve been waiting all morning for you.” She reached for it, catching it gently between her palms, and closed her eyes.