by Nic Tatano
“Remind me never to piss you off,” I say. “You’re incredible.”
“What?” she asks.
“What? You pick a guy up in front of the whole school like some deranged cave girl, carry him into the bathroom, give him a swirlie and you ask what?”
She shrugs. “I can neither confirm nor deny what happened. I think there was some water on the floor and he slipped. Too bad he landed face first in the toilet.”
“You’re gonna get in trouble for this.”
“Seriously? You think he’s gonna tell Ms. Harris that a girl did that to him?”
CHAPTER TEN
Mom is waiting at the kitchen table when I get home, sipping a diet soda as she reads the New York tabloids. A pot of pasta sauce and meatballs is simmering on the gas stove and fills the room with a wonderful aroma. She looks up as I head to the stove without saying hello, tear off a piece of Italian bread and dip it in the sauce. (Something I learned from Roxanne.) I pop it in my mouth and savor the fresh, crusty bread and thick, spicy sauce. (Something she learned from Roxanne’s mom.)
“Have a good day?” she asks, with a huge smile.
“Nothing special,” I say, talking through the bread.
“Oh really.”
“Yeah, really,” I say, grabbing another hunk of bread.
“Not what I heard.” Her voice goes up with a lilt that tells me a juicy piece of gossip has already bypassed the telephone and gone straight to tell-a-neighbor.
“You been talking to Rox’s mother?”
She nods and smiles. “Payback’s a bitch, huh? Don’t think he’ll stand up anyone else.”
I can’t help but smile at this point. “It was pretty damn funny. Had the shit beat out of him by a girl and got a two day suspension to boot.”
“You’re lucky to have a friend like her. Speaking of which…I talked to Sebastien this morning.”
“Annndddd ….”
“The Council thinks there’s a way to find out what’s going on during your sessions with Roxanne.”
“Okay. What is it?”
“It involves using a mindreader during your session. The theory being that your subconscious can be read while you’re engaged with Roxanne.”
My eyebrows go up. “Really. I didn’t know that was possible.”
“Well, it’s never been done, but then again a lot of what we’re doing is breaking new ground. Anyway, and I think you’ll like this part… Sebastien thinks it’s important we use a mindreader that you personally know and trust.” She flashes a huge smile and I know exactly what she’s thinking.
Ryan.
***
The next day I’m sitting on the porch in a rocker, trying to read my history homework assignment in the fading sunlight, but the concept of letting Ryan invade my subconscious keeps interrupting. On the plus side I’ve known him forever and would trust him with my life. On the other hand, am I ready to let him to know how I feel about him? And God only knows what mature audiences only thoughts are bouncing around in my subconscious. Would my dreams of ravishing him scare him away and result in my losing an incredible friend? Would they intrigue him and finally make the light bulb turn on? (And, perish the thought, would he see my recurring daydream about Christian Bale?)
My interruptions are interrupted as a white small box from Roxanne’s family bakery floats through my field of vision and gently lands on the end table next to me. I glance at the street and see Jake standing there, with a slump shouldered, hands-in-pockets look that tells me every ounce of bravado and confidence has been drained from his body.
But it’s not the body language that surprises me.
The ripped jeans are gone, replaced by new khakis with razor-sharp creases. He’s wearing a pale blue, long-sleeved button down Oxford instead of the usual t-shirt with a suggestive message. The hair has been trimmed and is neatly combed with a part on the side. Docksides instead of sneakers. Clean shaven instead of stubble. If I didn’t know him, I’d think he was one of those kids who rode bicycles and handed out religious books.
But I do know him. And, it pains me to say this, he looks really hot. The bad boy looks even better as a nice boy. It’s the result girls dream about when they think they can “tame” a guy of dubious character. (Sonofabitch, Roxanne could make a fortune doing this.)
Of course, I can’t let him know what I’m thinking.
“What the hell happened to you?” I ask, as I put my book aside and fold my arms. “Your other outfit still in the dryer?” (Ooooh, that one left a mark.)
He bites his lip and looks sheepishly at the ground. “It was, you know, time for a change.”
“Really.” I cock my head at the bakery box. “What’s this supposed to be?”
“Small attempt at an apology. Or the beginning of one. Cannolis. The people at the bakery said they’re your favorite.”
My mouth waters at the thought of the creamy Italian pastry. “You think that even begins to make up for what you did to me?”
“No, not even close. I know that I hurt you. I’ve hurt a lot of girls trying to be something I’m not. But I wanted you to know that I’m sorry. You’re a good person and you didn’t deserve to be treated that way.”
“Jake, why should I believe you?”
“I guess you probably shouldn’t. But I had to start somewhere.”
I lean back in my chair, looking down at him, enjoying the upper hand. “Well, you’ll have to show me a lot more before I even consider forgiving you. And I may never do that.”
He nods. “I know,” he says, voice barely audible.
“So, what may I ask is the reason for this sudden epiphany?”
“Just time to grow up, I guess.”
“I don’t suppose it has anything to do with a girl putting you in the rinse cycle in front of the whole school.”
His face reddens a bit. “Let’s just say your Amazon friend gave me a wake up call. And I figured I’d better change quickly because I’m not in the mood to be bench pressed by her during gym class.”
I try to suppress a smile but am unsuccessful. “Roxanne is very persuasive.”
“Anyway, my parents were pretty pissed off about the suspension and being called to the school. So they read me the riot act. Plus my mother took my cell phone, car keys, and burned all my clothes.”
“Damn, and I really needed some rags to wax the car this weekend.” I can tell he wants to talk more, wants me to invite him up to the porch, but that aint gonna happen. Make him sweat. “Well, thank you for the cannolis. Now get lost.” I wave him away like I’m shooing a fly.
He nods and waves. “Sure, Jillian. See you at school.”
I watch him walk away, head down. Then before he’s out of earshot I yell, “Show me you’ve changed, Jake. Don’t just tell me.”
I hear the screen door squeak open and turn to see Mom walk outside. “Talk about an extreme makeover,” she says, looking at him as he walks away.
“You were watching?”
“Saw the whole thing. Hey, don’t blame me, the windows were open and I heard you talking to someone. What’s a mother to do?” She picks up the pastry box.
“Beware of hooligans bearing gifts. His lame but tasty attempt at an apology.”
“Hope you didn’t forgive him.” Mom unties the string, opens the box, peeks inside and smiles. “Tribute,” she says, and grabs a cannoli before handing me the box. “So, you gonna forgive him?”
“Give me some credit, Mom. That doesn’t begin to make up for Friday night.” I pick up a cannoli, take a bite and savor the sweet creamy filling.
“Speaking of Friday nights, you got another hot date tomorrow?”
“Not even a cold one. I’m fresh out of hobbits and ne’er-do-wells, which I’m sure pleases you to no end.”
“Well, I had an idea.” Her eyebrows go up and I know this is something I probably won’t like.
“And that idea would be?”
“Why don’t you invite Ryan over for dinner?”
; ***
I’ve been through every class picture, going back to kindergarten, hoping for a clue.
No Carrie L. No Carrie, period. Mom has never known anyone by that name, and neither have I.
Then again, maybe it’s not a who, but a what.
Maybe it’s not the name Carrie, but the word carry. And maybe it’s not the letter L, but a word. “El” is a prefix in Spanish, not a suffix, so that’s out. When in doubt, do an Internet search.
I type “carry el” into the search box and hit return. I get a bunch of cash ’n’ carry places in El Paso, Texas.
I try “carry L” and roll the dice. The results are endless carry-on baggage rules for airlines with the “L” meaning the length of the bag.
It dawns on me that I once knew a girl named Elle. Could it be two separate names?
I type “Carrie Elle” and hit return. What pops up makes my pulse kick up a notch.
Did you mean carrielle?
Could it possibly be one word and not two? I click on the link.
The first hit makes my jaw drop.
Angel Carrielle.
Another click brings up the page.
Guide to Angels
Carrielle
The Angel Carrielle is a divine being who has been known to appear in order to deliver important messages from Heaven. Very often the messages are strong warnings about events that may possibly happen in the future and are delivered to those who may have great influence on the world. Carrielle is not a guardian angel, but one who uses looks at the future to inspire people to choose the right path. For this reason Carrielle is often referred to as “The Messenger.”
I sit bolt upright, eyes wide.
An angel talking to me? Is it possible?
I did, after all, get a warning about the future regarding my father. But as to how a seventeen year old girl is going to have a great influence on the world, well, that part seems like a real stretch.
Still, for a girl who already has too much to think about, this just adds another side dish to all the things on my plate.
And if I really am somehow in contact with an angel, Roxanne isn’t the only one who needs to talk to a priest.
***
After a sleepless night weighing the pros and cons of letting Ryan inside my head, I’ve decided to throw caution to the wind and let the chips fall where they may. After all, I might actually have an angel on call waiting. That sort of tipped the balance of things in favor of giving Ryan an all-access pass to Jillian World.
I may have to do damage control if my thoughts scare him, but the upside is too great to do nothing.
Besides, I need to know what the hell I saw during that last session with Roxanne.
I spot Ryan walking home from school so I pick up my pace and catch up to him. “Hey, got a minute?”
“For you, always,” he says. “You doin’ okay, Sparks? I mean, about what happened last weekend.”
“Yeah, I’m good, thanks to Roxanne.”
“No kidding. I read Jake’s mind right after that little incident. Interesting mental picture from his point of view, especially when the view went underwater.”
I laughed a bit. “I’ll bet.”
“Still, I’m sorry you got stood up. Hard to believe something like that would happen to a girl who looks like you.”
The out-of-the-blue compliment makes my heart skip. Is the light bulb over Ryan’s head beginning to flicker? I’m greedy for more, so I’ll play dumb. “What do you mean?”
“You know. No guy in his right mind stands up a hot girl.”
Annndddd …. cue the blazing freckles. “Wow, Ryan. I didn’t know I was considered hot.”
“I think the green dress you wore to the dance elevated your standing.”
So… you noticed. Maybe there’s hope.
“Well, you made my day. Thanks for the compliment, kind sir. You keep it up and a girl could fall for you.” (Hint, hint…)
“You deserve a lot better than him, Sparks. I know there’s a great guy out there for you.”
Let’s… play… Jeopardy! I’ll take boys-who-miss-the-obvious for a thousand, Alex. “Thank you. Anyway, enough about that. I need the services of a mindreader I trust and of course I immediately thought of you.”
“You need me to read some guy who asked you out?”
“No, nothing like that.” I explain the situation, the readings with Roxanne, how Sebastien thinks a mindreader might be able to find some clues as to what I’m experiencing.
“Sure, I’ll do it.”
“Great, I was hoping you’d say yes. By the way, when you read someone’s mind, can you be, you know, selective?”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, in this case, can you simply focus on my subconscious and tell me what I’m thinking at that particular moment? Instead of cluttering things up with thoughts I might have had previously?”
He shakes his head. “Not how it works. Most of what I pick up are current thoughts, but there are always some residual things bouncing around in people’s heads. Usually it’s things they’re thinking about a lot. Obsessions, lifelong goals, that sort of stuff. But I’ll do my best to focus on the reading.”
Obsessions. Uh-oh. “Anyway, my Mom was hoping you’d come over for dinner so she can explain things to you in more detail. So, would you like to come by Friday night?”
“I’d love to come for dinner, but Saturday would be better if that’s okay.”
“Saturday will be fine.” My spirits soar.
“Thanks, ‘cause I have a date Friday night.”
Those spirits take a swan dive, and then he delivers another punch in the gut.
“Would you believe a girl asked me out?”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
“Are you gonna stir that batter or beat it to death?”
My mother’s words bring a halt to my slamming of a wooden spoon against the side of a stainless steel mixing bowl. I look down and see my t-shirt is dotted with bits of chocolate. I put the bowl on the kitchen counter and slump into a chair.
“What’s wrong, sweetie? You’ve been edgy all day. Nervous about Ryan coming tonight?”
I shake my head. “No. I’m pissed off at myself and about what might have happened last night.”
“Not sure I understand.”
“Ryan was on a date last night, that’s why he couldn’t come for dinner.”
Mom gives a slight nod. “Oh,” she says softly.
“And what makes this worse is that the girl asked him out! So I’ve been kicking myself all day for not doing the same thing because I actually had the idea awhile ago. And what makes it even worse, is the girl he took out.”
“Why, is she trashy?”
“No, just the opposite. She’s pretty, she’s smart, she’s sweet. Arrrgghhh! I wish she were a bitch then I could at least hate her! But I know her and I actually like her. Dammit!”
Mom gives me a light pat on the back as she picks up the bowl and takes over the mixing duties, gently stirring the batter. “I think you’ve effectively destroyed the lumps in here.” She pauses, sets the bowl on the table. “Your turn will come, Jillian. Maybe tonight.”
“He might already be in love.”
She crouches down a bit so she’s at eye level with me, then lifts up my chin so I’m looking at her. “Ryan is already in love, Jillian. With you. He just doesn’t know it yet.”
“Yeah, right. He wouldn’t know it if it was on Page Six of The Post.”
“You know, it might not hurt for you to get dressed up for dinner.”
Hello! McFly!
We teenagers often think our parents are clueless. Then they hit you with something so obvious you can’t believe you missed it.
***
Ryan loves Italian food, but there’s no way I’m dealing with red sauce in this dress.
So it’s seafood alfredo, loaded down with shrimp, scallops and hunks of crabmeat. It’s simple enough to make that even I can do it, but tastes exotic. (Normally I
’m banned from the kitchen, especially after my recent attempt at surprising my mother by making biscuits. Instead of two cups of flour and a teaspoon of baking powder, I reversed the recipe, resulting in biscuits that went off like hand grenades in the oven.) Mom is making me cook (though under her watchful eye), and plans to let Ryan know I made dinner from scratch, using the old standby way-to-a-man’s-heart-is-through-his-stomach tactic. Ryan’s had dinner at our house plenty of times, but Mom has always worn the chef’s hat. She says I need to let him know I can keep him fat and happy. Though I could do without the fat part.
As for my dining attire, after much consideration of the rack of designer clothes I acquired from Roxanne’s client I’ve settled on a turquoise dress that fits me like a glove. The hemline hits a few inches above the knee, it has a high neck and long sleeves. Very elegant. Matching heels have straps that snake their way around my ankles. Mom has helped me put my hair up, which I’ve never done, but she says it makes my eyes stand out. Of course, the eyeshadow that I rarely wear would do that anyway. I must say it gives me a very mature look. I’m way overdressed for dinner at home, but since Sebastien’s coming it’s like having royalty present, so I have an excuse. I also told Ryan to dress nicely, as this will be his first exposure to anyone from The Council. So it’s not like he’ll show up in jeans while I’m wearing something appropriate for a wedding. Mom has even ditched the Stevie Nicks collection for a nice gray suit. We’ll be eating in the dining room instead of the kitchen. On the good china.
The doorbell rings and sends my adrenaline racing through my veins. I’ve told Ryan to arrive earlier than the others since I wanted a little alone time with him. I head down the stairs, where Mom is waiting.
“This time you’re really not my little girl anymore.”
“Hopefully he’ll feel the same way,” I say, as I head for the door.
I open it finding Ryan in a dark gray blazer, white shirt, black-and-red striped tie, and light gray slacks. A few seconds later he’s also wearing a wide-eyed look and a slack jaw.
“Whoa.”
“What?” I ask, playing dumb again.
“Good God, Jillian, you look… amazing.”