by Tara Taylor
And I was deflated.
Then he pulled out the exact book he had given me when we first met: The Sleeping Prophet. I didn’t even know we owned a copy.
“That’s your book,” I said. I had never given one back to him because I didn’t want him to know that I had never read it.
With a quizzical look on his face, he opened the cover. “No, it’s not,” he said. “Mine was from a secondhand store, and someone had written in it.”
“You’re taking all of those books?” I asked, trying desperately to change the subject.
He turned and stared at me, and I saw something in his eyes that made me want to sink through the floor and into the basement to hide. I shuffled my feet, trying to uproot them, and I crossed my arms, hoping to keep all his energy away from me.
“You really know nothing about these books?” he said accusingly.
“Nothing,” I answered with conviction. Then I looked him in the eyes and said, “It’s my mom’s deal, not mine.”
“I want to meet your mom,” I said to John after dinner when we were outside and he was about to drive home.
John opened his car door and jiggled his keys. “Okay,” he finally said. “I’ll talk to her. See if a night works this week.”
I waited for him to kiss me good-bye, but he didn’t. He waved, got in his car, and drove away, leaving me standing on the curb, watching the red of his taillights. I was quite sure he didn’t look back at me either.
The next day at school, we set a date for Thursday night for me to come over to his house and meet his mother.
Thursday night arrived, and I dressed in jeans and a nice shirt. I couldn’t help but wonder what Lacey would have thought of the purple shirt I had chosen. If only she could forgive and forget. It had been well over a month now since we’d talked. She was still with Burke. I was with John.
John picked me up and we drove out of South Keys and toward the Alta Vista neighborhood, a mix of suburban homes, high-rise apartments, and town houses. As we drove, we listened to music. My stomach flip-flopped. I was so nervous.
We only drove for 15 minutes, then John parallel parked his car on the street and in front of a small but nice-looking town house that had no garage. From the outside, it looked a bit worn but cute and comfortable. Mature maples and oaks, some with a few straggling leaves, lined the street. I sucked in a deep breath and undid my seat belt.
We walked up the small walkway, but he didn’t hold my hand. He was too busy jingling his keys. Staring at him, I realized he was way more nervous than I was. He unlocked the front door, then walked inside ahead of me, almost pushing me behind him and scanning the hall as if he were casing his place to prevent me from seeing something I shouldn’t. I couldn’t help but glance around to see if anything was out of the ordinary, but there was nothing. Perhaps the cleaning standards weren’t on par with my mother’s, but then, whose were? She was obsessive. The furniture was simple, nothing elaborate, but it was livable.
“Mom,” John said. Not loudly, like I would have done if I was searching for my mother and couldn’t see her right away.
“I’m in the kitchen,” said a voice.
Right away John’s tense shoulders relaxed. He turned to me, took my hand, and smiled. “She’s in the kitchen,” he repeated. As if this was a really good thing, an unusual occurrence. My mom was always in the kitchen.
I smiled back at him and squeezed his hand. Then we walked down a small hall and into a tiny kitchen with big windows that overlooked a small backyard cluttered with stuff, including an old rusted tricycle. I was staring out the window so intently that I walked right into a counter just as I entered the kitchen. The pain shocked me, and I screeched. John’s mother turned from the stove to look at me.
“Are you okay?” she asked.
I was such a klutz! “I’m fine,” I replied. I rubbed my hip bone. What would his mother think of me now?
“Mom,” he said, “this is Indie.”
She wiped her hands on a dish towel. “It’s nice to meet you, Indie.”
I hadn’t been able to get any picture in my mind of her at all before tonight. I had tried, but nothing came—my mind stayed blank. Dressed in jeans, a pink T-shirt, and casual moccasins, she was slim and attractive, with long, thick, brown hair. From the way John spoke about her, I was sort of expecting her to be downtrodden and a bit ragged. How could I have been so wrong?
“Sorry for the entrance,” I said.
She smiled, and it was then I noticed her glassy blue eyes and how they appeared vacant, and dull, almost as if a layer of fog covered them. Bags hung underneath her eyes. Had she not slept in days or was she missing some sort of vitamin in her diet? She had high cheekbones, a cute nose, straight white teeth, and beautifully shaped eyes—it was the look behind them that threw me. Her raggedness was hidden inside her.
When she did smile, I noticed a little flicker in her eyes, but it faded as if the light had sputtered and died. Something wasn’t right, something I couldn’t pinpoint.
“I’m just glad you’re okay, Indie,” she said, sticking out her hand.
I shook her hand, and I could feel it trembling. Her fingers were tiny and frail, and although I wasn’t big, I felt like a giant shaking her hand. Just the feel of her clammy skin made me start to sweat. My breathing grew shallow.
I inhaled, trying to get air into my lungs.
Act normal, Indie.
My throat kept closing.
“Hi. It’s nice to meet you,” I replied, as if on automatic pilot.
Do I sound okay? Do I sound too breathy?
Bring some air into your body, Indie.
A pulsing started in my forehead, and my eyes burned as I tried to keep them open and focus on John’s mom. Oh, great, now I was having a vision. I was totally spazzing out.
Go away. Go away!
Stronger, stronger, the pulsing hammered my forehead. My vision grew narrower, and tunnel-like, the telescopic lens getting closer and closer to the fishbowl. I let my arms hang to my sides, hoping to stop what I knew was coming. This was not going to be just a snapshot—the pulsing was too intense. It was right in the middle of my forehead, in what some people called the third eye.
John went to the stove. “I’ll flip these for you, Mom,” he said.
“Can I get you something to drink, Indie?” Mrs. Smith asked.
“Water would be great,” I managed to reply.
When I looked at her face, I tried to smile to appear normal, but all I could see was a garden shovel, one of the spade ones like my father used for digging dirt. Dirt covered the spade as if it had just been used.
This was crazy. A garden shovel?
As she turned to get me water, the shovel started to dig. And dig. And dig. Faster and faster. But I couldn’t see anyone holding it. Just the shovel. Then I started to smell dirt. Dirt. Why dirt? It was as if I were on a farm somewhere. The scent wafted through my nostrils. Fresh dirt. The shovel was digging a hole and dirt flew, creating a big pile. The hole got bigger and bigger.
Why was I seeing a shovel?
Why was I smelling dirt?
Was I still smiling? Say something, Indie. Speak.
As suddenly as the shovel had appeared, it vanished, and I found myself standing in the middle of John’s kitchen, shaking, my knees almost buckling under the weight of my body. Mrs. Smith still had her back to me. The tap ran, and water trickled into a glass. Good thing I was wearing jeans, because I was sure my knees were knocking together. And it was a darn good thing I had taken a wide stance, because I was so dizzy I could have lost my balance and ended up a big heap on the floor.
Inhaling and exhaling as quietly as I could, I tried to slow my breathing down and get my heart rate back to normal before she turned and gave me the water. I had no idea if my face was white or red or yellow, but I suspected it didn’t look normal because it felt so clammy and hot. John still had his back to me and hadn’t noticed a thing.
When I thought it was safe to move, I
stuck my hands in my jeans pockets.
“Have you been gardening?” I asked.
Stupid question, Indie. Stupid. Stupid.
My throat was dry, and my tongue seemed to be stuck to the roof of my mouth.
“Gardening?” Mrs. Smith turned from the sink and, laughing, handed me a glass of water. “I’m not much of a gardener,” she said.
With a plastic cooking flipper in his hand, John also turned to look at me. “Why would you ask that?” he asked. “Sometimes you say the craziest things.”
What the heck was I supposed to say? I say crazy things because I am crazy?
“I thought … I smelled dirt.” I tried to laugh, trying to at least sound semi-normal, if that can happen after asking such a weird question. What was with the shovel? And the dirt? Now my visions were bordering on ridiculous. Were there house plants around that I smelled?
“Dirt?” John raised his eyebrows, obviously thinking I was nervous, which, if I hadn’t been so freaked with the vision, would have been kind of cute. But nothing about this moment was cute.
“I’m not a gardener or a cook,” said Mrs. Smith. “I’ve made sandwiches for dinner.” Then she laughed. “Grilled cheese.”
“I love grilled cheese,” I answered. And I did. It was my favorite sandwich.
I tried to scan the room for houseplants without them noticing. Perhaps there was a cactus or some creepy vine plant or even just a flowerpot.
Although my heart rate had slowed and the shovel and dirt smell had disappeared, I still felt off: dizzy, unbalanced, and nauseous. I tipped the glass of water to my mouth and managed a sip, allowing it to soothe my parched throat.
“Can I help?” I asked John.
“Indie, it’s grilled cheese. I can make these blindfolded. I eat them, like, every other day.”
“That makes me sound like a horrible mother,” said Mrs. Smith.
John didn’t reply and kept his back to his mother. An awkward silence filled the small kitchen.
Mrs. Smith wrung her hands before she turned to me. “Are sandwiches okay, Indie?” Concern laced her voice, as if she hadn’t made the right food for my visit.
By now, I was starting to feel better, so I smiled and said for the second time, “Mrs. Smith, I love grilled cheese sandwiches. They’re comfort food to me.”
John finished frying the sandwiches, slid them onto plates, and dumped the pan in the sink. We sat down at the dining-room table with our sandwiches, the ketchup bottle, a jar of pickles, and a big veggie tray. John got the two of us a beer (which was totally weird for me but kind of cool, too) and gave his mother water, even after she told him that she wanted a beer. When he gave her the water, he avoided her gaze, and she didn’t say anything to him about not getting her what she had asked for. I thought the role reversal was strange, so unlike my relationship with my parents.
Dinner went well, and we discussed trivial things, like the weather, a few television shows and movies that we had all seen, and our favorite and not-so-favorite actors. We even talked about a few of the new fashions coming out, which was kind of funny because his mom and I both agreed that we liked more of a casual style and that Winners was our favorite store. I liked his mother; she was shy, like me.
But … why the shovel? Why the dirt? I was baffled.
At the end of the meal, she said, “Indie, thank you for coming over. John doesn’t bring many friends home.”
“It was nice to finally meet you, too.” I smiled at her. Under the table, I put my foot on top of John’s. “Thank you for dinner.”
When she looked at me, her eyes were misty. “It wasn’t much. It was really more like lunch.” She glanced John’s way. “I’m very lucky to have a son like John.”
John stood and started gathering the plates. “I’ll do dishes.”
“I’ll help,” I said, trying to lighten the mood that had suddenly settled over the table.
“John said you were different than most girls.” She put her hand on my arm.
Something about her touch burned my skin, as if I had been seared by the frying pan. Although I was shocked, I didn’t pull my hand away. Instead I let the pain flow through me, because I didn’t know what else to do but let it all happen. After what was probably only seconds, but seemed like minutes, she removed her hand. Free to escape, I picked up my plate and walked into the kitchen.
John was huddled over the kitchen sink. I sidled up beside him. “Need help?”
“I’m good.”
I nodded, even though he didn’t look at me. I circled my arms around his body and hugged him, resting my cheek on the middle of his back.
He stopped rinsing the dishes and just stood at the sink with his back to me for a few seconds. Then he turned to face me, pulling me toward him to kiss the top of my head. “You made my mom happy,” he whispered.
If I made her happy, why do I feel so drained?
I looked up at him, and our eyes immediately connected. I saw his pain. Then he lowered his head, and we kissed until we heard a couple of loud coughs at the door.
I only stayed about an hour longer, because it was a school night. We both had homework to do, and John still had to drive me home.
On our way out, Mrs. Smith said, “Please, come over again, Indie. I’d like to get to know you better.” She smiled. “John tells me you’re in a band. I think that sounds fun.”
Again, my throat felt like it was a desert, and my heart started to pound. “Sure,” I replied. “Next time I’ll tell you all about the band.”
Once in the car, my body relaxed. Exhausted, I leaned my head back on the headrest.
“My mom liked you,” he said.
“I liked her, too,” I replied. Cold air washed over me. My stomach churned. My head suddenly throbbed. Know me better?
Was that why I saw the shovel? Was my vision trying to tell me that she was going to dig up the dirt I had thrown over my past and who I really was? That would make sense.
Is she going to be the one to burst my bubble?
I got home, said hello to my mom, begged off answering her 101 questions about my visit, and told her I was going to my room to do my homework. Instead of opening my books, I flopped onto my bed and fell right to sleep.
When I woke up, groggy and disoriented, my room was dark, and the red lights on my alarm clock said it was 3:00 A.M. I was still in the clothes I had worn to John’s. When I stood up to change into my pajamas and wash off my makeup, my legs felt as if I were wearing ankle weights.
What is going on? The shovel!
That was it. If Mrs. Smith managed to dig up that I saw crazy visions and dead people, she would tell John, and he would drop me ASAP. The thought of not having John in my life made me nauseous.
First Lacey. Then John. What would I do if I lost him?
I had never been in love before, but I knew this was it. I spent all my waking moments thinking about John, and when I was near him, all I wanted was his touch, his hands on my body and his lips on my skin. He had this crazy power over me.
I fell back into a fitful sleep and had horrible dreams about shovels and dirt and holes in the ground and Lacey’s necklace. Everything intertwined and nothing made sense, and when I woke up for the second time, the sun was streaming through my window and my pajamas were drenched in sweat.
Chapter
Eleven
My mother was sitting at the counter with her coffee, newspaper, and one piece of toast with peanut butter when I walked into the kitchen. She immediately glanced my way, looking at me over the rim of her reading glasses. “So, how was your dinner last night? You didn’t say too much when you got home.”
“I had homework.” I poured cereal.
“Did it not go well?”
“Why do you always have to think the worst?”
She folded her newspaper and placed it on the counter. “I’m not thinking the worst. You just seemed like you didn’t want to talk about something. I worry when you bottle things inside.”
“H
is mom was nice. Everything went well.”
She paused and folded her napkin, which I knew meant she was thinking about what she wanted to say next. I hated when she did that. Finally, she said, “You haven’t told him yet, have you?”
I stood up and threw my cereal down the disposal. I had lost my appetite. Then I stared at her. “No, Mom, I haven’t. And don’t you tell him either.”
“Indie, I think he would understand you.”
“No, he wouldn’t. He would be like everyone else and think I was a freak.”
She held up her hands. “Okay. Let’s drop the subject.” She paused, but only for a second. “Oh, I forgot to tell you, I ran into Carol. She says she misses you and wonders if you and Lacey had a bit of a tiff.”
To get out of this conversation, I slung my backpack over my shoulder. “I’m not thrilled with her boyfriend.”
“Neither is Carol. She is worried about Lacey. She says Lacey doesn’t hang out with her girlfriends anymore, and this boy has alienated her from everyone. She’s even thinking of quitting the volleyball team. And she might have a scholarship. Maybe you should try to patch things up.”
“I’ll try, but I’m not promising anything. I have to get going.”
Then for some reason, I thought about Papa’s visit from a month ago. Perhaps it was the worry lines stretching across my mom’s forehead that made me remember. As I walked out the kitchen and toward the front door, I said over my shoulder, “By the way, a smile can brighten a dull day.”
My mom gasped, and I turned to look at her. By the expression on her face, I knew she had figured out that Papa had been to see me again. I laughed as I stepped outside and slammed the front door.
When I got on my bus, I was surprised to see Nathan. Of course, he had an empty seat beside him even though the bus was jammed.
I sat beside him. “I’ve never seen you on this bus,” I said as I put my backpack on my lap.
Nathan pulled his finger out of his nose. Kids teased him constantly for that habit. Although he was just one grade younger than me, he acted like an eight-year-old. “My parents divorced, so I’ve moved,” he said.