Body Jumping

by Brenda Lowder

  In the back of Evie’s closet I find an old, worn shoebox buried amongst newer ones. Bingo. I pull it out and flip the lid open. Inside is a collection of papers, envelopes, ticket stubs, a signed souvenir picture of The Killers, and Evie’s ID. I’m surprised to find it here, tucked away like this, and not in a wallet somewhere, but maybe she had a reason to hide it. Evangeline Catrone. I look at her picture for a second. Her face is a bit fuller. She looks healthy, glowing. Her smile is wide and her future bright. I think the Evie in the picture didn’t expect she’d be overdosing on her bed in this dingy apartment. What went wrong? I stuff the ID in my pocket and start to put the lid back on the box when a handwritten name on an envelope catches my eye.

  Julianne Montgomery.

  My gut drops fifty feet.

  Julianne Montgomery is me. The real me.

  What the hell is Evie doing with an envelope addressed to me?

  The sound of a horn pressed hard and long makes me jump. Barclay must be losing his patience. Or his hold on his characterization of the ultimate getaway driver. There’s no way I’m leaving the letter behind. I hurry and tuck it into my bag. I flip through the rest of the stuff in the box, paying more attention this time. Bills, receipts, a birthday card from her grandmother, but nothing addressed to me. No other sealed envelopes.

  Barclay beeps the horn again, and I scramble to stuff everything back into the box. I stash it beneath the other boxes, where I’d found it. I take a last look around the room, feeling a new Twilight-Zone-like quality in the squalid surroundings. I ache to open the letter, but Barclay is honking again. There are no answers to this mystery written on the walls or in the corners of her room, as much as I wish there were.

  I pull my bag up higher on my shoulder and jog out of the bedroom toward the front door. Before I get there the hall closet door slams open and Evie’s scary guy grabs me.

  I scream, and he laughs. He throws me up against the wall and flattens me there with his body. His breath is hot and fetid on my neck. I struggle to reach my bag but he has each of my wrists pinned in a steel grip.

  “Where’s the money, Evie?” He accompanies the question with another slam of my body against the wall. I try to keep my head from hitting, but it does, and I see stars.

  “I don’t know,” I pant. I’m ashamed to hear my voice ragged…and scared. I try to make him defensive. “Were you hiding there the whole time?”

  “I saw you pull up. I’ve been waiting for you. I knew you’d be back.”

  And Barclay probably beeped to warn me when he saw him coming up. Wish I hadn’t been too distracted to realize it.

  “I don’t have your money.”

  “I thought you said you had a way to get it. Something about stolen jewelry.”

  Evie stole some jewelry? I shake my head. “I don’t know anything about that.”

  He laughs again, a guttural, ugly sound. “You don’t, do you? That’s okay. You can say it.” His voice has turned sickly sweet. His twisted, greasy brown hair swings in my face as he presses into me. “You don’t have the money. Not a cent of my fifteen thou.”

  Wow. Fifteen thousand. How would Evie be able to pay back that kind of money?

  Remembering the contents of Evie’s dresser, I have no doubt she’s already spent the money on drugs. Was Evie blackmailing Natasha? Stealing from her? Is that what Natasha was talking about when she mentioned money? I almost understand if this scary guy was the alternative.

  Beefy lets go of one of my hands so he can run a rough finger down my neck and into my cleavage. “Now you know I have nothing against you working off some of your interest payments with me.” He squeezes my right breast painfully. I make a startled sound which seems to please him. “Then we’ll talk about what to do about the principal.”

  He takes his other hand off my wrist and yanks my skirt up. My left hand, which has managed to find the screwdriver during his disgusting grope-fest, now has a wide opening and I jab it into his side.

  He screams and falls to the carpet, but I’m already running to the door. I’m not quite quick enough. I fling the door open, but he grabs my hair and pulls me back into the room. Scrambling, my hands catch the doorframe. I hold on, despite the searing pain in my scalp.

  He pulls harder and I let go, toppling us both. I land on top of him, but jump right back up. I’ve surprised him enough that he lets go of my hair. He uses his hands to leverage himself off the floor and lunges toward me.

  I fly down the stairs and open the car door as he makes it to the landing. I jump in and ignore Barclay’s barely concealed glee. He revs the engine before putting the car into gear as Beefy yells, “Watch out, Evie! I’m coming for you!”

  I slam the door and Barclay peels out of the parking lot, laying curved rubber streaks on the pavement.

  Chapter Eleven

  It’s still light when Barclay and I get home from Evie’s apartment. Barclay is energized by our close call—my close call—and is dancing around the living room telling the air to make his day and asking the mirror, “Who do you think you’re looking at, punk?”

  With my feet up on the couch and my head resting on a cushion, I’m calmer. I haven’t told Barclay about the letter, and I don’t know why. Maybe because it feels so personal, this letter with my name on it, discovered among Evie’s prized possessions. Maybe it isn’t even to me. Julianne Montgomery isn’t such a weird name. Perhaps there’s another one of me out there, Evie’s friend with my name. Someone who has nothing to do with me body jumping into Evie’s life.

  But then again.

  I rip into the envelope. There’s a single, folded sheet of lined paper inside, handwritten in a side-leaning, feminine scrawl, and a diamond engagement ring. The diamond is large and clear and set in white gold. The date at the top of the letter reads almost exactly two months ago.

  Dear Julianne,

  You don’t know me yet, but I guess you will by the time you read this letter, or at least you’ll know some things about me. And you’ll be closer to me than anyone else in my life has ever been. Because you’ll be me. Right?

  I’m not making sense am I?

  I just wanted to tell you to be careful. Really careful. There’s a lot of danger in this world in general and my life specifically.

  Take care of yourself. And the people you love. And the people I love, too, if you can.

  Keep us safe.

  Evie

  P.S. Hold on to the ring for me. You’ll figure out what to do with it.

  My hands shaking, I fold the letter and put it back in its envelope along with the ring before returning it to my bag. Moisture drips onto my purse strap, and I put a hand to my cheek, surprised to find I’m crying.

  What the hell? How could Evie have known I’d take over her body, her life? I didn’t know I was going to do that, and I’m the one doing it. How did she know so specifically that she even knew my name to write on the envelope? Was she some sort of psychic? Clairvoyant? Did she do this herself? Or did she have help? Do other people know?

  I gasp and sit up straight with my next thought.

  Had she body jumped into my body at some point, and I hadn’t even known? There’s a tightness in my throat, and I swallow. Did I think it was me and my own actions the whole time just like Greg and Natasha had when I was in their bodies?

  Mind blown.

  Is the whole world shifting souls all the time like some latent invasion of the body snatchers and those of us being possessed just never know? How in charge of our own lives are we, anyway? Is free will just an illusion?

  The hairs on my arms are standing up, and I can’t shake the feeling that the earth is shifting under my feet. Chunks of it are falling away behind me with every step I take forward. I don’t even know this world I’m in anymore.

  It’s too much for my little brain to take.

  I want to go to sleep and wake up tomorrow back in my own body and out of this crazy world. I get up to go to my room, but Barclay pushes pause on the stereo and gives me t
he side-eye. “Where’d you think you’re going? The music’s just getting good! Come on up here and dance with me.”

  “No, thanks, Barclay. I think I’ll just go to bed.”

  “At eight-thirty? Unh-unh. I don’t think so.” He puts his arm around my shoulders, and I try not to cringe. I don’t want anyone touching me. Had I touched Barclay yet? Skin to skin? I think back to when he ousted me from my bed. I can’t be sure we touched, but I don’t want to see if I’ll cross over into his body. I’m tired of being other people.

  “Tell me what’s wrong.” I don’t know if we’ve just grown closer since I’ve been Evie or if Barclay is trying to weasel information out of me, but he looks concerned. I’m too confused to tell him about the letter. And I want to keep it to myself for a while. At least until I figure out what it means. And how Evie could possibly know about me.

  Barclay grabs my hand before I can tell him not to, and I stare at the connection between us. He sees where I’m looking and shrieks. “Oh my God. Am I you now?” He pats his arms and chest and head. “I still feel like me. Am I me? Or am I you?”

  “You’re you,” I say, relieved. I wonder if it’s safe to touch Barclay now that I didn’t travel into him or if I’ll have to worry that any time we touch I chance becoming him. Is this journey incident/time related or person related?

  “Oh, thank you, Jesus!” He raises his hands and acts a little too grateful to the ceiling. “No offense,” he throws out to me.

  “Um, none taken.”

  “Well, now we really have cause to celebrate.” He twirls me around, and I delight in my lightness, my agility. As Evie, I am air, not the plodding earth of Julianne. I laugh and spin and let myself be caught up in the music and Barclay’s natural zeal.

  “What did I ever do before you, Barclay?”

  He pulls me into a tango embrace, cheek to cheek. We remain ourselves. Well, Barclay and Evie. “I’m just guessing here, but I think it involved a lot of television and sitting on your ass.”

  “Maybe.” I’m dipped and twirled. When the song is over, we collapse on the couch, giggling.

  “So now that you’ve got Evie’s ID, what are you going to do with yourself?”

  I sweep my hair out of my face and try not to think about Evie’s letter and what she may or may not have known. Know? Is she somewhere deep inside right now, knowing the answers, unable to communicate them to me? Is she desperate to get back out, get her life back, get rid of me?

  I can’t think about this, or I’ll go crazy. I have to hope that Evie is as content and clueless as Greg and Natasha were.

  “Well, I have to get a job. I can’t just pick up my life as Julianne—people would notice.”

  “Uh-huh. Duh. So, where?”

  “I don’t know. In the Cup? We know they’ll have a job opening since they lost me. And I already know what I’m doing there.”

  “An untrained cockatoo would know what they were doing there. It’s a coffee shop in a bookstore. It’s not hard.”

  “Um, yeah, I know that.”

  “You need to get out of your comfort zone in a big way! You’re wasting the chance God has given you. Here you are in a brand-new body, and you want to keep doing the same old things? That’s messed up.”

  “It’s not messed up. It’s…practical.”

  Barclay waves his hand at me. “Same-ass thing.”

  I bite my thumbnail, mulling over an idea. Am I brave enough? If not now, then when would I ever put myself on the line? Theoretically it would be easier to do something daring when not being one’s self, right? What better time than now?

  “There might be a job I could do.” A thrill in my core. Can I do it?

  Barclay’s eyes light up. “Mmhmm. And my Spidey sense is telling me it’s something Miss Boring-ass Julianne wouldn’t normally do.”

  I kick him softly. “I’m not that bad.”

  He folds his arms at me and tilts his chin. “Oh, yes you are. Or were. Whatever. Out with it.”

  “Umm…I know someone—sort of know someone—who’s opening a restaurant. Maybe I could apply to be a waitress or something.”

  “Mmhmm. And would this entrepreneurial restaurateur be a male someone?”

  “Yes.”

  “A sexy male someone?”

  I feel myself blush. “Yes.”

  “Then why are you still sittin’ here talking to me? You gotta go out there and take that job from that hunka love butter. And then you’ll be around for anything else you can get from him.” He smiles wickedly, and I try not to think about what I might want from Aiden besides a paycheck.

  “I will,” I say, heart hammering. “First thing tomorrow.”

  If I don’t solve the mysteries of the universe by then.

  Chapter Twelve

  Tomorrow turns into three weeks later when I get up the nerve to take the bus down to where Aiden told me his restaurant was going to be. I’m not prepared for the sight I absorb as I zero in on the address.

  It’s gorgeous. Even though it’s on a retail street and there are businesses flanking it on either side, Simple Sauce stands apart. Dark windows and a trendy, weathered-wood sign proclaiming the name in unadorned script face the street. It’s at once secretive and alluring. I wish I had the money to eat here. It feels like more than a restaurant—more like I’d be living a different, better, more exciting life if I were fancy enough to order dinner here.

  It reminds me of Aiden.

  I’m dressed in new jeans and a black, tailored top that I’d bought for Evie. Or I guess to be fair, for my life in her body. I’m ready for adventure. From their website which, like the restaurant itself, is still under construction, I saw that they’d already put out a call for staff interviews, but I hoped that by coming down to the restaurant in person I could at least drop off the resumé I’d spent the last three weeks perfecting.

  Coming up with the resumé had been a trick in itself. Whose accomplishments can I rightfully claim? Mine as Julianne would be the most truthful—those are skills I have and can demonstrate—but I couldn’t prove that me-as-Evie had those experiences. And who knows what skills Evie can claim for her resumé? I think back to her drawers full of lingerie and the webcam and lights set up in her room. I shudder. Yeah, Julianne’s skill set is the only one I know I can—or want to—claim.

  I try the door, but it’s locked. Leaning close to the front window, I block the outside light with my hands and peer through. I can make out a wall of boxes waiting to be unpacked and some open, bubble wrap and stacks of dishes on tables. I don’t see any workers, though I can hear noise coming from the back. I wonder if the builders are putting in the kitchen and if Aiden—or a manager or anyone else involved with running the restaurant itself—would be there to take my resumé. I decide to walk around back and see who I can find when a deep voice makes me pause.

  “Casing the joint?”

  I jump and step back from the window, but the smooth voice continues, warming me up like hot apple cider. “I happen to know the owner if you want to sneak in and steal some sawdust.”

  I turn and smile as I drink in Aiden with thirsty eyes. “Yes, please. A heap of sawdust is exactly what I’m looking for.”

  The corners of his eyes crinkle with his smile, and I watch him cast a quick glance down my—Evie’s—body. I know I look good. I swell with unearned pride. I’m not as polished as Natasha, but I’m beautiful. And yes, beauty is only skin-deep, but as my mother used to say, “ugly is to the bone.”

  His expression is sheepish when he realizes I’ve caught him looking. He clears his throat. “Actually, I’m the owner of this soon-to-be fine establishment. Is there something I can help you with?”

  I pull the folder with my resumé from my bag and push it at his chest. “I need a job.” I don’t mean to blurt it out like that, but the small talk is wreaking havoc on my nerves. So many feelings for Aiden are bottled up inside me, and I can’t let them out. He’d think I’m insane.

  I take a deep breath and try t
o be more suave. “Do you happen to still be hiring?”

  He inclines his head, considering. “I might be. Do you have any customer service experience?”

  “Tons!” That’s true—for both Evie and me.

  “Why don’t we go in and chat?” He unlocks the door and holds it open for me. There’s a lightness in my chest and a fluttering in my belly as I duck under his arm.

  Possibility. Proximity. And Aiden.

  Inside, the light is softer, diffused by the tinted windows into a golden glow rather than the harsh, searing Georgia sunshine outside. Wisps of air lift tiny particles of sawdust and plaster in eddying drifts. The room smells fresh and newly built, full of opportunity and hope. I picture it as it will be a few weeks from now—the well-dressed couples laughing, clinking glasses, flashing silverware, enjoying the food and the magical feelings the ambience of the room elicits.

  A surge of ambition rises up in me. I want Aiden’s restaurant to do well. I want to help him succeed. Not just for him, or for me, but for the beautiful thing it could become.

  “This is wonderful,” I say, admiring the layout of the space. I can already see where the banquettes and tables will sit, the open space in the back that will showcase the working chefs, the light fixtures that will cast the glow just right.

  He’s pleased with my reaction. His chest expands, and there’s a glint of pride in his eyes. “It will be.” And right there, with his hope and love for the restaurant shining through, I see what a success this will be.

  He leads me to his office, which is more finished than the rest of the place. His computer is already set up, and there are a few metal-armed, leather-seated chairs facing the desk. “Have a seat.” He gestures to the chairs, and I choose the one closest to the door.