The teacher turned, then frowned. “Can’t you wait,” she whispered.
“No, ma’am. It’s an emergency. Please. I’ve got to go.”
“All right then, but—”
Tara was out the door before she finished the sentence and running up the hall toward the teacher’s lounge. She needed help fast, and knew that was where the teachers spent their prep hour. She burst into the door without knocking. Coach Jones and several other teachers looked up from their papers, some were frowning. Others just appeared surprised.
“Please. You’ve got to help me!” she cried. “A boy is having a seizure in one of the boy’s bathrooms. He’s going to die if he doesn’t get help.”
They were on their feet in seconds.
“Where is he?” Coach shouted.
“I don’t know. I just know he’s on the floor in a boy’s bathroom. Please. You have to hurry.”
“Wait! What do you mean you don’t know? If you don’t know where he is, then how do you know what’s happening?”
“I just do,” she cried, and then ran out of the room with the teachers right behind her.
“I’ll take the south end,” Coach said.
‘I’ll go with you,” a teacher offered.
The Spanish teacher and the debate coach jumped up. “We’ll take the north wing.”
Tara’s heart was pounding so fast she could hardly breathe. Oh God, please don’t let him die, Tara thought.
He’s on the north end.
Millicent! Why didn’t you tell me earlier?
“He’s at the north end!” she screamed, and started running.
Two of the teachers did a quick about face and followed Tara, who was running down the hall as fast as she could. She could feel the boy’s heartbeat ebbing. The fear that they’d be too late was overwhelming.
Then she saw Coach Jones come flying out of a boys’ bathroom with a look of panic on his face.
“In here!” he yelled. “And call 911,” then pivoted and ran back inside.
Tara flew in behind him and slid down on her knees beside the boy.
“Is he still breathing?” she asked.
The coach was checking for a pulse.
“No . . . God help us, no. He’s not.”
“I know CPR,” Tara offered, but before she could help, another pair of teachers came into the bathroom on the run and pushed her out of the way.
They began performing CPR while another was on the phone. Tara flattened herself against the wall, trying to stay out of the way when she sensed someone standing beside her. She glanced over and found herself staring at the spirit of the boy who was lying on the floor.
Is that me?
Tara nodded.
Am I dead?
“I think . . . I think you’re somewhere in-between,” Tara whispered.
There was a sad expression on the boy’s face. I don’t want to die.
“Then go back,” Tara said.
The spirit disappeared. Tara didn’t know whether he’d passed into the light, or if he’d gone back into his body, but from where she was standing, she didn’t see any signs of life. Her legs were shaking and there were tears in her eyes. She’d never seen anyone die before, and even though she saw ghosts on a daily basis, watching someone become one was startling.
Then all of a sudden, the boy on the floor gasped, then coughed and groaned.
“He’s breathing on his own!” the coach cried.
“I’ve got a pulse,” the other teacher said. “It’s not good, but it’s there.”
“I hear the ambulance,” Tara said.
The coach looked up at her, as if just remembering she was still there. “Go down and show them where we’re at.”
“Yes, sir,” Tara said, and gladly ran out of the bathroom, down the hall, and then out the front door.
After the EMTs entered the bathroom, loaded the boy up on a stretcher, then headed back to the ambulance, Tara felt better. At least, whatever happened was out of her hands. She started back to her classroom, and then halfway down the hall her legs went out from under her. She sank down against the wall to keep from falling, then slid to the floor and started to sob.
She was still crying when someone touched her on the shoulder. She looked up. It was Coach Jones.
“Are you all right?”
“Yes, sir,” she said, swiping at the tears still on her face.
He squatted down beside her, then took a handkerchief out of his pocket and handed it to her.
“You did good,” he said.
Tara nodded, wiped her eyes, then blew her nose.
“What’s your name?” Coach Jones asked.
“Tara Luna.”
“So, Tara Luna, tell me something. How did you know?”
She blew her nose again, and then handed him his handkerchief.
He grinned, then shook his head. “You keep it.”
“Oh. Yeah. Sorry,” she said, thinking about how many times she’d blown her nose in it, and stood up.
“Hey! Tara!”
She stopped, then turned back around. “Yeah, Coach?”
“You didn’t answer my question.”
Tara sighed. “You’re not gonna like the answer.”
“Try me,” he said softly.
“Sometimes I just . . . I just know stuff, okay?”
He followed her for a few steps without comment, but as she started back to her room, he touched her shoulder.
“About this knowing stuff?”
“Yeah, what about it?” she asked.
“Are we talking psychic, here?”
“You might be, but I’m not going to talk about it,” Tara said.
“I see,” Coach Jones said.
“Sometimes I wish I didn’t,” Tara said quietly, and then walked away.
Chapter Five
Tara was quiet when she walked back into the classroom. She wouldn’t look at anybody. She just slid into her seat and picked her book back up.
“Hey, Lunatic . . . what was going on?” someone asked.
Tara shrugged. They’d obviously heard the ambulance. But she wasn’t going to volunteer anything. She just wanted this day over with as fast as possible.
A few minutes later, the bell rang. She was putting her book and folders into her book bag when she heard Flynn’s voice behind her.
“Hey, Tara . . . how’s it going?”
She looked up.
It was the tears in her eyes that hit Flynn like a fist to the stomach.
“What happened?” he asked.
“Which time?” she drawled. “When everyone started calling me a witch, or when I ran out of the room?”
Then she walked away without giving him time to answer. By shunning her earlier, his star had already dimmed. Whether it was beyond redemption or not remained to be seen, but right now she was too rattled to deal with it.
She moved through the rest of her morning classes with her head down and her eyes on her feet. She didn’t look up. Didn’t want to see the whispering. Didn’t want to know what was happening.
It’s time for lunch and you’re going the wrong way.
“I’m not hungry, okay?” Tara muttered, as she shoved her back pack in her locker and headed for the front doors.
The fresh air felt good on her face. She paused at the head of the steps, glanced around the campus, then headed for a tree at the far corner of the school yard. There was a small patch of shade and enough distance between her and the building that hopefully, no one would notice her until it was time to go in.
From a distance she would be anonymous, just another teenager, tall and leggy, wearing a loose-fitting tee and a pair of faded jeans. The breeze lifted the lengths of her long dar
k hair off the back of her neck as she walked, cooling her skin and her senses. By the time she got to the shade tree, she was feeling better. She sat down on the bench beneath the tree, then pulled her knees up under her chin, rested her forehead on her knees and then closed her eyes.
You saved his life. Millicent’s voice was gentle.
Tara didn’t answer. She felt the air shift slightly and knew Henry had joined her, too.
Their presence was soothing. She could feel the love and concern, which made her more teary than ever. She had to get hold of herself. The last thing she wanted was for the blonde mafia to see her all weak and weepy. What a pitiful heap she was. Two ghosts were her only BFFs and she’d been branded a witch. School sucked and she wanted this year to be over.
Then her cell phone began to vibrate in her pocket.
She pulled it out and answered absently.
“Hello, Uncle Pat.”
“We heard an ambulance had been dispatched to high school. I was just checking on you.”
A sob caught in the back of her throat as she reminded herself she still had Uncle Pat, too.
“I’m fine,” she said.
“You don’t sound fine,” he said. “You sound like you’ve been crying.”
“Oh. Well. I am sort of teary,” she said. “I mean, it was scary to see that boy being carried out on a stretcher.”
“What happened to him?”
“I heard that he had a seizure. He didn’t have a pulse when they found him, but I heard they did CPR successfully. I hope he’s going to be okay.”
“Okay, honey,” he said. “Sorry to bother. Just have to make sure my best girl is okay, you know.”
“Yes, Uncle Pat, I know, and I appreciate it, more than you know.”
“Yes, well,” he said, and cleared his throat. “I’d better get back to work. See you this evening.”
“Yeah. This evening,” Tara said, and then dropped her phone back into her pocket.
She leaned back against the tree and then looked up. Henry was sitting on a tree limb, looking down. She grinned.
“You look like a squirrel.”
He frowned, then vaporized.
Tara sighed. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to insult you,” she said.
An acorn dropped on her head. She laughed. “Okay, I had that coming.”
“There she is!”
Tara heard the shout and turned around, then groaned. “Why me?”
Bethany, Prissy, and Mel were heading her way.
I’ve got this one, Millicent chortled.
Tara sighed. Ever the faithful Millicent. It felt good that someone—even if it was only a small wraith with a pinkish tinge—had her back. She folded her arms across her chest and leaned back to watch.
Prissy was beyond angry. Yes, she’d been caught cheating; now she was off the cheerleading team, and totally blamed Tara for it. Despite the fact that Tara wasn’t even in the class where she’d cheated on her test, Prissy had decided that Tara was the snitch who told on her.
“You ought to just let it be,” Mel said, unwilling to get any closer to Tara Luna. “That girl might cast another spell on us.”
Bethany was reluctant to get involved. She liked being the center of the cheerleader universe, but she didn’t like being associated with losers, and right now, Prissy was a loser. It wasn’t so much that she’d cheated on her test as it was she’d gotten caught at it. Bad, bad, karma.
“Davis is waiting for me,” Bethany said. “I’ll see you guys at cheerleading practice this evening.” Then she realized what she’d just said and looked at Prissy. “Sorry. I didn’t mean . . . ” Bethany sighed. She didn’t need to apologize for Prissy’s screw-ups. “Later, Mel.”
“Yeah, later,” Mel said, but hung back as Prissy started across the campus toward the bench where Tara was sitting.
Prissy stopped, then looked back. “Well, aren’t you coming?” she asked.
Mel shook her head. “You need to leave Tara alone. I’m scared of her.”
Prissy was furious. Her carefully plotted world was slipping out from under her, and it was all because of the lunatic. Everything had been fine until she came.
She headed for Tara with her head up, her arms swinging at her side in an opposite motion with her short jerky stride—like a drum major marching without a band.
Just a little bit closer.
“Don’t hurt her,” Tara warned.
I won’t draw blood.
“That’s all I ask,” Tara muttered.
Prissy was within twenty feet of where Tara was sitting when she started mouthing off, calling Tara a snitch, and a witch and a liar. Prissy was gearing up for more when she was suddenly engulfed in a swirl of grass, dirt and leaves.
She shrieked, and then covered her eyes as the air continued to boil around her.
A bunch of students who were hanging around the front doors heard her scream. They turned to look, and then began to laugh and point, thinking she’d just gotten caught in a dust devil. Those were common in Oklahoma and not unlike mini-tornadoes, only dust devils always dissipated as quickly as they formed, and the only thing they blew away were bits of grass and dirt.
Tara stood up, watching as the dust devil engulfed Prissy. Millicent was outdoing herself, which meant she was really angry on Tara’s behalf.
Prissy turned around to run, assuming she would run out of the dust devil within a step or two. But it didn’t happen. Every step Prissy took, the dust devil moved with her. It didn’t take long for the students to realize this was not normal. In fact, it was so out of the ordinary, it was downright spooky.
Prissy was running and screaming and waving her arms above her head.
“Help! Help! Make her stop! Make the witch stop!”
When everyone began hearing what Prissy was saying, they looked to where Tara had been standing, but she was gone. At that point, even the doubtful began to believe. Maybe Tara Luna was a witch. What else could explain what was happening?
Tara hurried through a side door, took her backpack from her locker, and headed for third period, even though it was early. All she had to do was get through the day and pray for no more excitement. She should have known it wouldn’t be that easy.
“Miss Luna.”
Tara turned to see the principal, Mrs. Crabtree, standing the doorway of her office.
“Yes, ma’am?”
“I would like to talk to you.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Tara said, and sighed. Of course Mrs. Crabtree wanted to talk to her. Everyone wanted a piece of her. She was the freakin’ witch of Stillwater High.
She followed the principal into her office.
“Please, have a seat,” Mrs. Crabtree said, and pointed to a chair on the other side of her desk.
Tara sat, put her backpack on the floor next to her feet and waited.
Mrs. Crabtree sat down, rested her elbows on the table and, for a few quiet moments, just looked at Tara.
Tara wasn’t going to fall for that. She’d faced ghosts and dark shadows on a daily basis. A principal whose only strong point was staring to elicit a guilty conscience was a piece of cake.
“Talk to me,” Mrs. Crabtree finally said.
Tara frowned. “About what?”
“How did you know Corey Palmer was having a seizure?”
Ahh, that one. Okay. She could play along. “I didn’t know his name,” she said, then added. “It’s hard to explain.”
“I’ve been an educator for twenty-three years. I’ve heard every explanation you can imagine in every context you can imagine. Try me.”
“Sometimes I just know stuff.”
“How do you know stuff?”
“I’m psychic?”
To Mrs. Crabtree’s credit, she only blink
ed twice before her mouth sort of dropped. And even though she did it without thinking, the fact that she suddenly took her elbows off the table and leaned away from Tara, spoke volumes.
“Really?” Mrs. Crabtree said.
“Yes, ma’am, but I’d appreciate it if you sort of kept this under wraps. It makes my life difficult enough as it is.”
Mrs. Crabtree frowned. “You’re serious? I mean . . . you’re actually asking me to believe this?”
“No, ma’am. I’m not asking you to believe it. I just answered your question.”
“And what if I don’t believe you?”
Tara swallowed past the knot in her throat and prayed she didn’t wimp out and cry again. Showing weakness to the enemy wasn’t wise.
“It’s your call,” Tara said. “By the way, is the kid . . . you said his name was Corey? Is he okay?”
“Yes, he is, actually.”
“That’s great,” Tara said, nodded.
The principal frowned.
Millicent whispered, I want a piece of her, too.
“Lord, no,” Tara muttered. “I’m in enough trouble, already.”
“I’m sorry. What did you say?” the principal asked.
Tara rolled her eyes. “I . . . uh, I wasn’t talking to you.”
Mrs. Crabtree’s eyebrows rose. “You talk to yourself?”
“No, ma’am. I was talking to Millicent. And before you ask, she’s a ghost. I’ve known her forever.”
“My dear. I had no idea,” Mrs. Crabtree muttered. “I want you to bring your parents in tomorrow. We need to get you into therapy so—”
The cold cup of coffee on the principal’s desk suddenly levitated in the air, then turned upside down in her lap.
“Millicent! I told you not to,” Tara wailed.
Mrs. Crabtree’s mouth was open, but nothing was coming out.
“I’m so sorry,” Tara said, as she jumped up and grabbed a handful of paper towels from the adjoining bathroom. “It was because you doubted me. Millicent is very protective.”
She handed the principal the wad of paper towels and then started to sit down when two pens and a pencil on the principal’s desk suddenly shot straight up in the air. Then they flew across the room like mini-missiles before sticking in a cork bulletin board like darts.
Sharon Sala - [Lunatic Life 01] Page 7