by Sharon Sala
The first week at school sped by without further trouble. At home, Uncle Pat got cable hooked up to the TV and internet to Tara’s laptop. She caught up on episodes of Glee and Gossip Girl. She was beginning to believe everything was smoothing out. Then week two came, reminding her she was still the new kid in school.
Tara was on her way to first period when she turned a corner in the hall and came up on the cheerleader trio who she now thought of as The Blonde Mafia. Prissy saw Tara, then pointed at her and said something that sent the other two into a fit of giggles.
“You are so lame. You’re almost as funny as your name,” Prissy said, as Tara walked past.
Tara rolled her eyes. “Is that rhyme supposed to pass for white girl rap?”
Prissy’s face flushed angrily as kids standing nearby heard it go down and started laughing, but Tara didn’t hang around for a second stanza. She didn’t have time for their petty crap. She walked about ten feet further down the hall when she heard a shriek and turned just in time to see two hanks of Prissy’s hair suddenly standing straight up on either side of her face like donkey ears.
Millicent! Tara stifled a grin. “I knew that was gonna happen,” she said, and kept on walking.
Tara’s first-period teacher was at her desk, poking frantically at the screen of her smart phone. She looked up when Tara walked in, nodded distractedly, then returned to what she’d been doing. The air was so thick with distress that Tara immediately sensed what was wrong.
Mrs. Farmer had money troubles.
That was something she understood. She and Uncle Pat rarely had an excess of the green stuff, themselves. And considering that his new job with the city of Stillwater involved reading electric meters, they weren’t going to get rich this year, either.
She slipped into her seat, then took her book out of her backpack, trying to concentrate on something besides the misery Mrs. Farmer was projecting. But for a psychic, it was like trying to ignore the water while going through a car wash. Tara was inundated with wave after wave of her teacher’s thoughts and emotions.
All of a sudden she knew Mrs. Farmer’s husband drank too much. Her mother was a nag. Her sister was married to a doctor, which made her own husband’s problems seem even worse. And suddenly Tara knew something Mrs. Farmer did not.
It wasn’t that Mrs. Farmer couldn’t manage her money. Someone was stealing it.
The room began to fill with other students, and a few minutes later the bell rang, signaling the beginning of class. Tara felt Mrs. Farmer trying to focus on her job and Tara tried to do the same. English was one of her favorite classes.
“Good morning,” Mrs. Farmer said. “Your assignment over the weekend was to read the poem, The Female of the Species, by Rudyard Kipling, then write a one-hundred word paper on it. This morning we’re going to read your papers aloud in class.”
The collective groan that followed her announcement was no surprise. Tara sensed that half the class hadn’t even read the poem and of the ones who had, less than a dozen had completed the assignment. Tara pulled out her notes but had a difficult time focusing. She kept keying in on Mrs. Farmer’s plight.
She knew what needed to be done to help her, but it meant making herself vulnerable.
The hour passed, and when the bell rang students scattered, even as Mrs. Farmer was still giving them their assignment for tomorrow. Tara had argued with herself all through class, when she really hadn’t had an option. If she’d seen someone stealing, she would have told. Knowing it was happening and who was doing it and not telling was the same thing to her. She waited until the last of the students were gone, then headed toward the front of the room, where her teacher was erasing the blackboard.
“Mrs. Farmer, may I speak with you a minute?”
Unaware anyone had lingered behind, Mrs. Farmer whirled around, startled. “Oh, my. You startled me, dear. I didn’t know anyone was still here. You’re Tara, right?”
“Yes, ma’am.” Tara sighed. There was nothing to do but jump in with both feet. “I need to ask you something, and then I need to tell you something.”
She could see the confusion on her teacher’s face, but she had to hurry or she’d be late for second period.
“Who’s Carla?” Tara asked.
“Why . . . that’s my babysitter,” Mrs. Farmer said. “She stays at my home during the day and takes care of my twin daughters. They’re only three.”
“Okay . . . I need to tell you that she’s stealing money from you. She’s taking blank checks out of the new pads of checks in the box and forging your signature. That’s why you’re account stays overdrawn.”
Tara could see all the color fade from her teacher’s face. Mrs. Farmer gasped. “How do you know this?”
Tara sighed. “I just do, okay?”
Mrs. Farmer grabbed her by the arm. “Do you know Carla Holloway? Did she tell you this?”
“No, ma’am. I asked you who Carla is, remember? Uncle Pat and I just moved here, remember? We really don’t know anyone.”
“Then how . . .”
“Maybe I’m psychic, okay? When you go home this evening, get out your new checks and look through the pads. You’ll find a couple of checks will be missing from each one. Confront Carla. She’ll fold. And don’t forgive her to the point of letting her keep babysitting for you . . . because she’s using the money to buy drugs.”
“Oh dear Lord,” Mrs. Farmer gasped, and reached for her cell phone.
Tara ducked her head and made a run for the hall. She’d done all she could do. The rest was up to Mrs. Farmer.
She made it to second period just as the last bell rang. That teacher frowned as she slid into her seat. Tara heard a soft masculine whisper from behind her.
“Good save, Moon girl.”
She turned. Flynn O’Mara grinned at her. Tara rolled her eyes and then dug her book out of her backpack, trying not to think about how stinkin’ cute Flynn was. Kind of had that classic heartthrob look, but with more muscles and straighter hair.
Henry showed up about fifteen minutes later and began trying to get Tara’s attention. She sent him mental signals to be quiet, but he wasn’t getting the message. Just before class ended they heard a loud commotion out in the hall. It sounded like doors banging—dozens of doors—against the walls. Henry threw up his hands and vaporized. That’s when she realized whatever was going on out in the hall might have something to do with Millicent. The door to her classroom opened and flew back against the wall with a loud bang. The fact that it seemed to have opened by itself was not lost on the teacher or the students.
“Wait here!” the teacher cried, and dashed out into the hall.
Moments later Tara heard the fire alarm go off. The teacher came running back into the room.
“Walk in an orderly line and follow me!” Students grabbed backpacks and folders and fell into line behind her as she strode quickly out the door.
Tara’s stomach sank as she slid in between Flynn O’Mara and a girl with blue hair.
“It’s probably nothing,” Flynn said over her shoulder.
Tara shivered. She knew better. It was something all right. It was Millicent. But why?
The halls grew crowded as students filed out of the classroom and made for the exits. To their credit, the exodus was somewhat orderly. As soon as they reached the school grounds, security guards began directing them to the appropriate areas. In the distance, Tara could hear sirens.
She kept looking back toward the school building. What had Millicent done?
Henry appeared in front of her, as if to say I told you so, then disappeared just as quickly again. A pair of fire trucks pulled into the school yard. Firemen jumped down from the rigs and hurried into the building. As Tara watched, smoke began to pour out of one of the windows on the second floor.
OMG! Millicent had s
et the school on fire? Why would Tara’s lifelong ghost pal set the school on fire?
The moment she thought it, Tara heard Millicent’s voice in her head.
I didn’t set the fire. It was already burning between the walls. Give me a break. I was trying to help.
Sorry, Tara told her.
As if that wasn’t enough drama for the day, a loud rumble of thunder suddenly sounded overhead.
Ghosts couldn’t control the weather, so this wasn’t Henry or Millicent’s doing. A strong gust of wind suddenly funneled between the school and the gym. She shuddered. Even though the day was warm, that wind gust was chilly. Then it thundered again. She looked up at the underside of the building storm clouds, frowning at how dark they were getting.
“Are you cold?” Flynn asked.
She turned to find him standing right behind her.
“A little. Who knew we’d need jackets today? It was in the nineties when I left home this morning.”
“Take mine,” he said, as he slipped out of his denim jacket and then put it over her shoulders.
“Then you’ll be cold,” she said.
“Nah. I’m good.”
She slipped the jacket on. The warmth from his body still lingered in the fabric, giving her a momentary impression of how it would feel to have his arms around her. It was an image that made her blush.
The wind continued to rise, with thunder rumbling every few minutes.
Tara shivered nervously as she looked up at the clouds. She hated storms.
“We’re going to get soaked,” she muttered.
A shaft of lightning suddenly snaked out of the clouds and struck nearby, sending the crowd into a panic.
“Into the gym!” Coach Jones yelled.
He waved his arms and pushed kids toward the gym.
“To the gymnasium!” a teacher echoed, and the crowd began to move. When the next shaft of lightning struck, this time in the football field nearby, they began to run. And then the rain came down.
Tara ran as hard as everyone else, but the ground was getting muddy and more than once she lost traction and slipped. If she fell, she would get trampled before anyone knew she was even down there. No sooner had the thought gone through her mind than her feet went out from under her. She was falling and all she could see were the legs of hundreds of students aiming straight for her.
Suddenly, Flynn pulled her upright. “Hang on to me, Moon Girl!”
She grabbed hold of his hand. Together they made it into the gym. They were heading for the bleachers before they realized they were still holding hands. They turned loose of each other too quickly, then grinned for being so silly.
“Thanks for your help,” she said, and took off his jacket. “It’s soaked. Sorry.”
“It’ll dry. Are you okay?”
“Yeah. Sure. Thanks again.”
He eyed the dark hair plastered to her head and the wet t-shirt she was wearing as his grin widened. “You might wanna keep that jacket for a while.” She looked down, then rolled her eyes. Everything—and she did mean, everything—showed, right down to her blue bra and the little mole next to her belly button.
“Perfect,” Tara muttered. “Just perfect.”
“Yeah. I agree,” Flynn said.
She thumped him on the arm and then crossed her arms across her chest.
“Stop looking,” she hissed.
“I’m trying, but hey . . . don’t blame me for an appreciation of the finer things in life.”
Tara laughed despite herself, then put his jacket back on and climbed the bleachers. She sat down a little away from a crowd of sophomores and began wringing the water out of her hair.
I like her, Flynn thought. I like this crazy girl.
Flynn paused. If he followed her up and sat down beside her, it would only intensify what he was already feeling. There was no pretense with her. She was a little odd and definitely different from the other girls in school, but he had plans for his last year of high school that didn’t include getting messed up by another female. Bethany Fanning had done it to him big time over the summer, and he wasn’t in the mood to go through another dose of female drama. Still, something told him that Tara Luna wasn’t fake, and if there was drama in her life, she wasn’t the kind to exaggerate it.
He felt someone push him toward her, but when he turned around, there was no one there. Frowning, he climbed the bleachers and then plopped down right in front of her. That way he was close, but not staking out territory.
Tara had seen Millicent give Flynn a push. So, Millicent wasn’t satisfied with playing havoc at school today. Now she was playing matchmaker.
I delivered him. You do the rest.
“I can do just fine on my own, thank you,” Tara said beneath her breath.
Flynn frowned. “Sorry. I didn’t know you’d set up boundaries. Want me to move?”
“No. No. Not you. I wasn’t talking to you. Sit here . . . wherever you want. Sorry.”
Flynn’s frown deepened as he looked around. “Then who were you talking to, if not to me?”
“Ghosts,” Tara said. “I was talking to ghosts.”
“Yeah, right. Whatever. I can take a hint.” He got up and moved away.
Now see what you did.
“Just stop meddling,” Tara snapped.
Whatever, Millicent said, echoing Flynn, then made herself scarce.
Tara slumped. Could this day possibly get any worse?
About Sharon Sala
Sharon Sala’s stories are often dark, dealing with the realities of this world, and yet she’s able to weave hope and love within the words for the readers who clamor for her latest works.
Her books repeatedly make the big lists, including The New York Times, USA Today, and Publisher’s Weekly, and she’s been nominated for a RITA seven times, which is the romance writer’s equivalent of having an OSCAR or an EMMY nomination.
Always an optimist in the face of bad times, many of the stories she writes come to her in dreams, but there’s nothing fanciful about her work. She puts her faith in God, still trusts in love and the belief that, no matter what, everything comes full circle.
Visit her at http://sharonsalabooks.com and on Facebook.