It's A Marshmallow World: A Rock and Roll Fantasy (The Rock And Roll Fantasy Collection)

by Diane Rinella

  The waitress walks by on her way to take an order at another table. Chris flags her down with a single finger. It is pretty impressive that she noticed the stealth gesture. Then again, he is hard not to notice. “Hey, didn’t we order drinks?”

  “I’m sorry,” she replies. “There was a mistake. The bartender is finishing them now.”

  She is hardly out of earshot when he says, “Looks like her daddy was the one who made a mistake.”

  My hand smacks onto the table. “What!” No! No possible way! That comment brought me back to reality with lightning speed. “What did you just say?” He’s got two seconds to tell me I have wax in my ears and heard him wrong. Nerves or not, there is never an excuse to look down on someone like that.

  Suddenly, he chuckles. While it may sound nervous, a layer of smug coats him as if someone smacked his face with a brush. I’d kind of like to do that myself.

  I’m pretty sure it is my obvious lack of amusement that gets him to stop laughing and change his tone. “I’m sorry. I’m not very good at this dating thing. With the way she was flirting with me earlier, I just wanted to make sure you knew there was nothing to be jealous over.”

  Um … Wow.

  “Anyway … ” He taps on the table and eyes the room. He is probably trying to figure out how to pull himself out of his hole. “So, that cute, little friend you work with, I bet she’d drool over what I have in the garage.”

  This guy makes zero sense. “So, you don’t want me to be jealous over the waitress smiling at you, yet you are talking about making my best friend drool?”

  His chin raises, and I swear he is puffing out his chest. “All right. Tell me what you drool over.”

  Okay, where is the hidden camera? I’m alternating between being pissed off and feeling like he is trying to make me jealous of pretty much every woman in existence. But what really gets me is my own behavior. Normally I don’t just let others ask the questions; I interact. I don’t sit with my hands in my lap; I gesture. I toss them in the air. I use them like a natural part of my vocabulary. I’ve always been that way. I don’t like me like this, and no guy is worth me not liking myself.

  The waitress returns with my Old Fashion. What I ordered must not have registered with her before, because she looks confused by the old man drink. I smile and thank her. She then places Chris’s drink in front of him, and he fails to bat an eye. As she heads off, I thank her on his behalf. My confusion over his difference in behavior must show. “Something wrong?” he asks.

  “Nope. Everything is hunky dory.” Great, now I am telling lies. I never lie unless it is absolutely necessary. Can this man make me any more uncomfortable with myself?

  Now I get a charming smile. “Excellent.” He clanks his glass to mine even though I’ve yet to touch it. His eyes hone in on me. “Drink up,” he says, firmly.

  God, those eyes. They have the power to suck me in like a fool. However, my sense of self-worth doesn’t give a crap about my hormones. That voice was commanding. Come to think of it, most of our conversation has consisted of him giving passive orders. Something is not quite right here. I have to admit that I am morbidly curious as to what the hell is going on.

  His phone rings. He doesn’t even look at it before saying, “Excuse me,” and heading off.

  Maybe it is egotistical, but I have to question what could be so important that he would leave a first date for a phone call. Isn’t this when we are supposed to put our best foot forward?

  Yes, it is, which makes that supposedly well-intended joke about the waitress all the more crass.

  Chris makes his way back to the table while still on the phone. “Sure, meet me there at six tomorrow. It’s a date.”

  A date at six tomorrow? Am I over reacting by thinking that sounds familiar? Then again, with the way he seems to be trying to make me jealous, him making a date in front of me is fitting.

  “So,” he states while slipping his phone into his back pocket, “I know this was a short notice thing, but you’re free after this, right? Finish up.” He knocks back his whisky with one swallow. His glass hits the table, and I get dead on eye contact. “Let’s get out of here.” He then nudges toward my glass to drive home his point that it is time to go.

  Seriously, what the hell? That’s it. I’m done.

  It’s sad that I waited this long to call it quits, but I keep hoping to see the man I saw yesterday. Whoever he was, I liked him. He warmed my spirit. He made me want to know more about him. And he didn’t make me feel like I am expected to follow his every command like a well-trained circus animal. This guy wants to suck me in by playing on my natural, female instinct to change him into what I saw he could be. He thinks it would buy him forgiveness every time that he is an ass. Little does he know I’ve never been one of those women who felt that trying to change anyone was either morally right or worth the time and dignity I would lose while failing.

  It is long past time to go. “Actually, I need to call it a night. Busy day tomorrow.” I slip on my jacket before reaching into my purse to foot my share of the bill.

  There goes that blank stare again. It caves way to wide eyes when he realizes that I am serious about leaving. He places a hand out to stop me from paying. “I’ve got this.”

  I put down my share anyway. I won’t let this guy find any reason why I could possibly owe him anything. “Thank you, but I have a personal policy about these things. Goodbye.”

  I’m nearly to the door when I hear boots running up behind me. “It’s dark out. Let me walk you to your car.”

  Normally I would see this as a nice gesture, but right now the offer comes off as yet another passive form of assertiveness. My stride does not falter. “I’m fine. Thank you.” Still, he follows along.

  “I’ll call you,” he says as I get into my car, and then he just stands there.

  It feels like he wants me to ask when or to throw open my arms and beg him to come to my place. I feel so cold for leaving like this, but I just want out of here. “Okay, good night.”

  I’ve got one foot in my car when his words race out. “I’m headed out of town on Monday for Thanksgiving. I won’t be back until Sunday. I’ll call you then, okay?”

  I stop myself just short of saying I won’t answer, because I won’t lower myself and be rude. Also, it hasn’t dawned on him that he doesn’t have my number, and there is certainly no need to go there.

  I can’t drive off fast enough. It pains me to admit that books on dating may have a purpose other than being kindling after all.

  I grumble about it for a bit on the phone with Bailey before winding up at a movie with Rox. By the time I get to my apartment I’ve pretty much forgotten about the entire incident; that is, until I step into my bedroom. The daisy hair clips that GranGran gave me for my sixteenth birthday trail across the floor, forming a path from her picture to the closet where I keep the Ouija board. She has only done this one time before—over a decade ago when she taught me how to contact her.

  March 13, 2001

  “I hate school! I absolutely can’t stand it!”

  Actually, school is not the problem; it’s my simple-minded classmates who waste all of their brain activity by trying to look like the latest pop star. Individuality is something they can’t imagine, let alone spell.

  Why do people feel the need to bully others for being different? GranGran always said that some people are afraid to be themselves, so they make fun of those who have less fear. If this is the case, my high school is brimming with scaredy cats.

  The screen door smacks behind me. It’s not loud enough for how angry I feel, so I slam the front door with all my might. I want the walls to be as rattled as I am. People are such jerks!

  My backpack gets plopped onto my desk, and I fall back onto the bed to stare at the ceiling. Nothing in this world makes sense. Like, why is it we decorate walls but not ceilings? Is it because we like the idea of open air above us? That we equate white hovering over our heads with Heaven? Isn’t Heaven supposed to be
beautiful? I’d rather see some beauty than a white wall that is so over glorified that it gets its own name.

  I roll to look at my wall that is purple—a power color. That’s what I need right now, to keep feeling strength. The pink wall on the other side of me is too soothing.

  But the colors seem faded compared to GranGran’s photo that sits on my nightstand. What I wouldn’t give for her to be here now.

  I pull the picture toward me, and something falls to the floor. Over the edge of the bed I catch sight of one of the daisy hair clips she gave me for my sixteenth birthday. What is that doing out? I haven’t worn one of those since her funeral two months ago.

  I go to swipe it up when another one, sitting a few feet away, catches my eye. Then I see another one, and then another. Those are kept tucked away in a drawer. Was someone snooping in my room?

  A rush of panic hits. No one should touch those clips but me. If I am missing a single one, I’ll be sick for the rest of my life.

  A fifth clips sticks out from under my closet door, which someone left open. This makes no sense. Bailey always asks before borrowing things, and everyone knows anything from GranGran means the world to me and thus must be treated with care.

  I get down on my hands and knees in search of the last clip. I look behind boxes, inside my shoes, and then under them. Nothing. My heart starts pounding over the thought of losing my sixth, beloved clip.

  I toss my hands up. “What the hell is going on?”

  A gleam of light, coming from above, catches my eye and makes my breath halt. I have to be dreaming. Why is a clip attached to the Ouija board GranGran gave me?

  I try to shake off the notion of something mysterious happening. Bailey must be messing with me.

  But why would she leave my clips—

  In a trail …

  I’ve been following a trail of daisies—a trail connecting the final gifts GranGran gave me.

  A new kind of excitement races through me. I know GranGran believed in this stuff, and I guess I always have too, but that doesn’t change the fact that it seems unreal. I’ve been visited!

  Or am I being visited?

  My eyes scan the room for an image, another sign, anything that would show that I am not alone, yet all is quiet.

  These clips are a signal. While the reason for giving me the Ouija board became apparent when she died, I’ve barely allowed the thought of using it to enter my mind. What if it didn’t work? It would be heartbreaking to know that GranGran had such faith we could talk again, only to have it shatter.

  Or would that really be the case? A Ouija board is just a toy, right? If I can’t reach her, it could be because she is busy doing something else.

  I start to go for the board, but fear gets the best of me. I so want all of the mystical things she believed in to be true. I want to know that there is more than the here and now. Most of all, I want to believe GranGran is still out there.

  My actions happen without another thought—the curtains are yanked closed, a candle is lit, and I sit on the floor with GranGran’s picture next to me. I’m a ball of fire, determined to make this work. Without a doubt, this is what she intended when she said to follow the daisies.

  I expect the new board to crackle when opened, but the sound that fills my ears seems to come from the wave of energy that pours out of it and washes over me. There is a reason why this was given to me without the plastic wrap still on it, and it isn’t only because GranGran stuck a second gift inside the box. She had special friends, and I am betting that one of them did something to this board. That thought deepens my faith.

  But my flame starts to quell as I pick up the other gift that sits in the box—the one that she told me to open when the time is right. Now I am certain she was referring to the time after her death. If I don’t do this right, her last wish will falter. I start to place the gift back into the box. I couldn’t bear the heartache of letting her down.

  No, self-doubt means failure. I owe her more than that.

  My fingers tear into the blue, metallic paper. I gasp at the sight of vibrant colors that quickly become obscured by tears. GranGran loved to paint. In her golden years her hand became unsteady, so picking up a brush was a rarity. I smear away the tears so that I can behold what is probably GranGran’s last piece of art. She painted petals around the window of an antique, wood planchette, turning it into the center of a flower. The pain of missing her sinks into my gut, but my love for her makes my heart bloom. “Follow the daisies,” I utter in awe.

  My sniffle is hard and deep. I always knew she loved me, but it has never hit my soul as much as it has at this moment. The day I got this, Bailey got a savings bond because at some point she will need to be saved. GranGran gave me a board and a planchette painted with a flowering daisy so I could grow. Even though she is gone, she is still helping me bloom. “Thank you, GranGran, because even if this doesn’t work, I am thrilled that you loved me enough to do this.”

  With a deep breath, I grab my focus and try to tune out the world. “Okay. Are you there?”

  I wait, but all I hear are dogs barking in the distance. I also don’t sense anything new.

  I deepen my focus and try again. Although all I continue to hear are the dogs, the energy coming off the board grows. Is it working? Please God, let it be working.

  I feel like the board is glowing, yet there are no visual signs to confirm that. However, the greater my determination, the more the electricity vibrates. My eyes snap to GranGran’s photo as if she has called my name. My vision begins to blur as energy swirls around me. The dogs outside go so crazy that it is hard not to let them steal my focus. “Are you there, GranGran?” I whisper, fearing a normal tone will cause me to lose whatever ground I think I have gained. This has to be working. All of this must be amounting to—

  The planchette jerks, gliding its way to “Yes”. The hair on my arms raises. It’s working!

  I try to be patient and wait for more. I have so many questions about what I am going through, and so many questions about what has happened to her, yet right now I can’t think of a single one. I just want to feel her near me again.

  The intensity of the barking grows. Why won’t those dogs shut up? They keep getting louder and—

  Suddenly my hands skate across the board. “F-O-C-U-S,” I am told.

  My heart recalls everything about her—her perfume, her laugh, all the happiness she brought into the world. The planchette rattles as if it is trying to jump off of the board. A breeze brushes my hair back like I have wings, yet the flame on the candle refuses to go out. Despite the natural urge that nearly pushes me out of the house while running in fear of the unknown, I hold my ground.

  Suddenly, energy rips through the room, shaking the walls. Then the rattling halts, the breeze stops, and my hair drapes back down. All sounds fade into silence, until the voice of a young woman fills the air. “Do not take your hands off of that planchette.”

  Azure mist creeps across the board, and then whips up like a blaze. A shadowy image forms, reminding me of a genie coming out of a bottle. My heart races with glee at the woman with long auburn hair, green eyes, and a stunning figure that is shown off by a form-fitting mini-dress. In so many ways, she is a beauty to behold. If she had not warned me to keep my hands where they were, I would jump up to hug her. “GranGran!”

  “Did you miss me?”

  I laugh in relief. “You know I did!”

  “Well, now you have me back. I love what you did to your hair!”

  Santa Claus Is Back In Town

  The Present

  The annoyance of my date with Chris earlier tonight has almost been erased by concern. Why is GranGran trying to contact me? It has only been a few days since our last chat, and I am always the one to contact her. Finding those clips has me worried.

  Is there any reason to be worried for a ghost? It’s not like she can take ill, can she?

  Azure haze rises off of the planchette and spirals its way across the room. My words spri
nt out before her image fully forms. “GranGran, is everything okay?”

  She places out her hand to quell my worries. Her smile is warm, much like I would expect of someone who is empathetic. For the first time I see her for what she may really be, an angel or a messenger of God. “Give him a chance,” she says.

  My brows twist. Is she kidding? For the first time in over a decade she is the one who contacts me, and it is over that loser? “Are you serious?” My hands smack onto the floor. “You’ve been watching. Is nothing sacred?”

  “A person in my state doesn’t so much watch as she senses. It’s a loophole that keeps me from invading your privacy. Right now, I sense that this young man has you perplexed, not to mention a tad miffed.”

  How weird is it that I find talking to a spirit to be totally normal, yet I think this situation with Chris is freaky? “What is the deal with him?”

  “Not all free spirits were influenced by those as accepting as I am.”

  I put down the planchette and throw my hands back like I am not just tossing in the towel but throwing it away. I’m long past the need to hold onto anything to keep my focus. I just treat GranGran as if she were as alive as ever. Her body is dead, not the important part. “Okay, not that I am complaining about you looking out for me, but why are you always willing to see things from so many angles? I thought mature people were supposed to be old fashioned and narrow-minded?”

  GranGran balks and waves her hand at me. The gesture seems so old-lady like that it doesn’t fit her young body in the least. Finally, she catches on to what I am really saying and drops her hands onto her hips in a huff. Yep, we are two peas in the same cartoon pod. “Are you calling me old?”

  I make a show of tapping my finger to my chin. “Hmm … Remind me what year you were born.” She gives me an oh, please look, and I laugh at the woman who currently appears to be my age. “I would never dare. Dead or alive, you are still the most liberal and lively person I know. Seriously, teenagers could learn from you.”