The Adventures of Jillian Spectre

by Nic Tatano

  She reaches in her purse for a pen and quickly writes something on the paper, then folds it into a paper airplane. She aims it at Jake and lets it fly. It lands a few feet from his chair. He leans over to retrieve it.

  “So what the hell was it?”

  “You won’t believe it.”

  “Try me.”

  “Jake asked me out for this weekend.”

  My mouth hangs open. “C’mon, don’t mess with me, Rox.”

  She shakes her head. “No, really. Telekinetic bad boy wants moi for a dinner companion.”

  “So you told him to get lost in your own special vernacular.”

  “Nope. I told him if he wanted a date with me, to come over and ask me like a man.”

  “Oh, you just want to shoot him down face to face.”

  “Not necessarily.” Roxanne turns to look at Jake, who reads the note, nods, and gets up.

  “You can’t be seriously considering dating him.”

  She turns back to me. “Why not? He’s off your draft board.”

  “Why not? Uh… because he stood me up and you kicked his ass in front of the whole school?”

  “Think about it. I’m the one who tamed the bad boy. Every girl’s dream, right?”

  She has a point. (Not that there’s anything about Ryan that needs taming, though the twins revelation did surprise me.)

  “Besides,” she says, “I’ve always thought he was cute. Now that he’s all prepped out, he’s kinda taken cute up a notch. And he’d fit nicely on my lap.”

  I’m speechless as Jake arrives on Roxanne’s side of the table. He clears his throat, looking nervous as he shoves his hands in his crisp khakis. “Uh, how are you two girls today?”

  “Fine,” I say.

  Roxanne stands up and looks down at him. “Something you want to ask me, Jake?”

  “Could we talk outside?”

  “Whatever you want to say to me you can say in front of my best friend.” She moves a little closer.

  Jake gulps, looking positively petrified, probably because he’s wondering if this Sicilian Amazon is about to take him on a non-stop flight that includes a first class seat and if the janitor has already cleaned the girl’s bathroom. “I, uh, was wondering, uh, if… you might… like to have dinner with me. And then go see a movie.”

  Roxanne’s eyes narrow into the death stare. She’s making him sweat but I have no idea what she is planning. Snappy comeback? Another spin cycle in the lavatory?

  But then she blows me away as she maintains the soul-sucking glare, slowly nods and says, “Sure, Jake, I’ll have dinner with you.”

  Jake’s exhale is audible. “Pick you up at seven?”

  “Not a minute later. If this is some sort of trick and you stand me up, you know the consequences.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “And don’t call me ma’am. I’m not old.”

  “Yes, m…. I mean, okay.”

  “Good.” Roxanne sits down and waves him off. “Run along now, little one. Jillian and I have important things to discuss.”

  He nods, turns on a dime and heads back to his table.

  “See, got him trained already,” she says.

  “You’re incredible.”

  “Hey, this girl needs some exercise.”

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  While Roxanne is headed out with Jake, I’m stuck with Fuzzball’s experiment which has been approved by Sebastien.

  We need to find out what “properties” my alter ego has. After that, I think The Council has some secret mission in mind for me.

  Same deal as Sunday. I’m on the couch with Fuzzball sitting on the edge. Ryan and Mom will apparently be critical to this experiment.

  The detective looks at Ryan. “So what’s your range?”

  “For reading minds? About fifteen feet.”

  “Okay. Just to be sure you go out into the back yard. Zelda, you go with him. And you guys remember what I told you.”

  Mom and Ryan head out the back and I hear the creaky screen door snap shut. I still have no idea what’s in store.

  “Jillian, we’re gonna do the same thing we did before. And remember, no emotion. You’re not healing anyone either.”

  “So what am I doing?”

  “You’ll find out momentarily. But when you’re out of your body, it is important that you do not speak to Ryan or your Mom.”

  “Copy that. Ten-four.”

  Fuzzball laughs, then does his FM-voice hypnotist routine and I melt once again into the couch. Then he gives me my orders.

  “I want you to see Ryan and your Mom in the back yard. See the patio table under the umbrella, the gas grill, your garden with the tomato plants in the bright sunlight. The baskets of flowers hanging off the deck.”

  “Okay, I see it.”

  “Now, before you see yourself there standing next to Ryan and your mother, I want you to think of one thing and one thing only. Think of pink elephants.”

  “Pink elephants?”

  “Right.”

  “I don’t—”

  “Shhhh. When you get to the back yard, focus on the pink elephants when you look at Ryan. Then your mother is going to give you a glass of milk and a cookie. I want you to take them, take a bite of the cookie and a drink of milk. You got all that?”

  “Pink elephants, milk and cookies.”

  “Okay, see yourself in the back yard.”

  I focus, making the image of myself appear in the back yard—

  And I’m there.

  Ryan jumps back as my sudden appearance startles him. “This still blows me away,” he says.

  I start to say something but my mother puts up one finger. “No talking, remember?”

  I nod.

  Ryan says, “Think of something.”

  I remember my instructions and think of pink elephants. He looks deep into my eyes for a few moments and I can tell he’s reading my mind.

  “Okay,” he says. “That’ll do it.”

  “Have a snack,” my Mom says, handing me a plate with a chocolate cookie and a glass of milk.

  I put the cookie in my mouth.

  It has no taste. It might as well be cardboard. I chew it and try to swallow but for some reason I can’t. I begin to gag, take a sip of milk, but I can’t swallow that either.

  Then everything goes black.

  ***

  When I awaken Fuzzball, Mom and Ryan are talking in the kitchen. “Hey, I’m up!”

  They all come quickly into the living room. “That was fast,” says Ryan, who looks at his watch. “Fourteen minutes.”

  “There seems to be a correlation between emotion and the amount of time it takes you to recover,” says Fuzzball. “Or you’re simply getting the hang of it. How do you feel?”

  I shrug. “Fine, same as last time, like I’ve been in a deep sleep or taken a power nap. So what the hell happened?”

  “I couldn’t read your mind,” said Ryan.

  “I thought you were cured.”

  “I am, and I can read it now. But I couldn’t get anything from your double. Even though I could see you and touch you it was like there was no one there when it came to mind reading. You were a blank slate. You know, like a few of our cheerleaders.”

  “This is good,” says Fuzzball.

  “How so?” I ask.

  “I’ll get to that in a minute. Tell me what you remember about trying to eat and drink.”

  “Just that the food had no taste and I couldn’t swallow no matter how hard I tried.”

  The detective nods. “Just as I suspected.”

  “So… what does this all mean?” I ask.

  “For one thing, your alter ego is a pure physical projection. It appears as you but it is not you.”

  I have no clue what he’s saying. “Whuuu… huh?”

  “It does not have some of the usual abilities of a human. It cannot take in food or drink.”

  “So what happened to the bite of cookie and the sip of milk?” I ask.

  “Wh
en you disappeared, it hit the ground, along with the plate and the glass,” says Mom.

  “So you can’t be holding anything when you disappear,” says Fuzzball.

  “Okay,” I say. “So is that why Ryan couldn’t read me, because it was my projection and not me?”

  “Exactly,” says Fuzzball. “Your thoughts are controlled by your real self. The projection is simply doing what you tell it to do. But Ryan can read you now. Think of what I told you to focus on before.”

  “You’re thinking of pink elephants,” says Ryan, an instant after I focus.

  I sit up and lean forward on my elbows. “So, no eating or drinking when my other self is out and about and don’t be holding anything when I disappear. Though I don’t seem to have any control over when that happens.”

  “Yeah, I gotta work on that,” says Fuzzball.

  “But what does the mind reading stuff mean?” I ask

  “It means,” says Fuzzball, “that since your brainwaves do not accompany your projection, we have an advantage.”

  “Okay….”

  “You can send your alter ego down to the electronics store to get your phone turned on and not worry about your father getting into your head.”

  “But,” I say, “the phone needs to connect to brainwaves. And if I have none, how will it work?”

  Fuzzball scratches his head. “Yeah, that’s the other part I need to figure out.”

  ***

  Roxanne’s family has owned their Italian pastry shop for more than fifty years, which means that ever since I can remember my Saturdays have included a sugar high. The little round corner table in the back with the wrought iron chairs has been our “office” throughout our childhood, where the discussions have graduated from finger paint to nail polish to what has been the all-encompassing topic of late; boys. Nothing soothed a dateless and desperate girl better than a creamy, sweet cannoli in a fresh, crispy shell while breathing in the sugary atmosphere of a bakery. It’s like oxygen to a chocoholic.

  Of course, I’m no longer dateless and desperate, while Roxanne, who never carried the desperate tag, has always had her pick of the litter. Though, as previously mentioned, said litter did not always impress her enough to trump a Saturday night with her best friend and a zombie movie marathon.

  Which is why I’m so puzzled that she went out with Jake last night and dying to find out if she had a good time. Then again, Roxanne’s definition of a “good time” ranges anywhere from escapades that land her in a confessional to kicking the living shit out of a guy who wishes to send her to said confessional without being invited to aid her in the commission of the appropriate sin.

  And since she’s wearing sunglasses as she enters the bakery, I can’t tell if there’s an afterglow or if her jaw got a workout from chewing up and spitting out her date. She gets a cup of coffee and a plate with two cannolis from the counter and heads to our table.

  I’m sipping a hot chocolate as she grabs the chair across from me, sits, puts the plate in the middle of the table and takes off her sunglasses.

  Still can’t read her.

  Unfortunately I’ll have to wait since she starts the conversation. “So, how’d the experiment go?”

  “It worked. Everything Fuzzball theorized was accurate.” I grab a cannoli, give her the play by play of the events and the puzzle of trying to turn on the phone without brainwaves.

  “Hmmm. Maybe we should try asking the angel on that one.”

  “Speaking of angels… were you one last night?”

  She stirs some cream and sugar into her coffee, then hits me with the wide-eyed innocent face she uses on the faculty. “Why, Jillian, I’m always an angel.”

  I nearly gag on the pastry and have to wash it down. “Right. Every time you hear a bell Roxanne gets her wings. C’mon, spill.”

  She sips her coffee, takes a huge bite of the cannoli, then turns to look at the bakery case. “Not sure if I want a second cannoli or a napoleon.”

  “Cut the bullshit, I want details.”

  She turns back to me and smiles as she grabs a paper napkin from the black-and-silver dispenser and runs it across her mouth. “Sorry, it’s just too much fun to torture you.”

  “I’m glad it gives you so much pleasure. Did he show up?”

  “Ten minutes early. Jacket and tie. I wish I’d shot some video of my dad answering the door. Jake looked like he shoulda been out on a quest for a ring.”

  “Fine, so the hobbit picks you up, and…”

  “Dinner at Rotelli’s. I guess he assumed the Italian only ate Italian food, but at least he picked a good place with big portions since, as you know, I’m a growing girl. Then we went to a movie. The new Bruce Willis shoot-em-up. Funny, he thought I wanted a rom-com and I wanted to see stuff explode.”

  “Okay… annndddd…”

  “Good movie. Not as good as a Die Hard flick, but—”

  “Stop it!”

  She can’t help but laugh. “Fine. Bottom line, Jake is a bad, bad boy.”

  “Really? I honestly thought he’d changed.”

  “Sweetie, there are different definitions of bad. Before I kicked his ass he was simply garden variety bad.” She looks around, apparently checking to see if anyone’s within earshot, leans forward and drops her tone into the sultry voice. “Now he’s a bad boy. The kind of bad boy that needs a good spanking. Got it?”

  My eyes bug out. “Oh my God—”

  She leans back, smiles and playfully bats her eyelashes. “We had a very good time.”

  “Good good or confession good?”

  Her mouth drops open and she playfully slaps her cheek with one hand. “I’m shocked and appalled you would think I’d need to visit a priest after a first date. What kind of girl do you think I am?”

  “Sorry, the way you were talking—”

  She licks her lips. “Maybe after the second.”

  “Roxanne!”

  “Kidding. But there is definitely some chemistry there, so light a candle for me. By the way, after what I did to him in school…”

  “Yeah?”

  “I’m definitely wearing the pants in this relationship.”

  ***

  As we walk home I’m noticing something about the people we pass on the sidewalk.

  That pod people concept Sebastien didn’t get? I think he needs to rent a certain movie.

  “You seeing what I’m seeing?” I say.

  “Yeah,” says Roxanne. “Half the people have this vacant, vapid look. It’s like the world has been invaded by prom queens.”

  Some of the people we pass are walking at a normal pace, others could try out for the road company of The Walking Dead. I spot a girl from our class coming toward us who seems to be moving in slow motion. “Hey, here comes Stacy. She got a phone, right?”

  “Yeah, she was going on and on about it all week.”

  “Let’s talk to her.”

  We pick up our pace since Stacy is barely lifting up her feet as she shuffles along the sidewalk. The perky little blonde cheerleader who was always on the arm of the star quarterback is walking in a daze, her trademark boundless energy nowhere to be seen. Her face offers no recognition as we come up to her.

  “Hi Stacy,” I say.

  She looks at me, studies my face even though we’ve known each other since grade school. “Oh. Hello, Jillian.” Her voice is robotic, without emotion. Which, for Stacy, who always seems to be on a natural sugar high, is very unusual.

  “You doing okay?” asks Roxanne.

  She nods slowly. “Uh-huh.”

  I ask about her boyfriend of the past two years. “So where’s Brian? I thought you guys were joined at the hip.”

  “Oh. We broke up.” She says it matter-of-factly, with no emotion. Without the tears and sobbing I’d expect because if this were not the pod version of Stacy it would be emotional Armageddon.

  This bit of news qualifies as earth-shaking by high school standards. If there were ever two people meant for each other, it’s Stacy a
nd Brian, also known as Bracy, which doesn’t have the cachet of Brangelina but gets the point across.

  “What happened?” asks Rox.

  “He and I are going in different directions, that’s all,” she says. Her eyes don’t seem to be focused on anything. “Lately he doesn’t understand me and I’m seeing him in a different light. Well, nice talking with you.” She stares straight ahead and walks between us, bumping both our shoulders and resuming her glacial pace down the sidewalk.

  “Did Brian get a phone?” I ask.

  “I’ll bet he didn’t,” says Roxanne. “You know what this means.”

  I do, and it makes my blood run cold.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  “If a train traveling east hits eighty-eight miles per hour, how many years can it go back in time?”

  My math teacher’s bogus question gets a chuckle from about half the class and no response from the rest of the Geometry undead.

  I turn around and see facial expressions usually reserved for long-winded ministers, realizing what prompted a reference to an eighties movie.

  “Hello, McFly! What is with you people today?” asks Ms. Hansen, obviously frustrated by the vacant expressions exhibited by some of her normally talkative students. “Half of you are so zoned out you didn’t even realize I asked a time travel question.”

  “Is the answer fifty years?” asks a guy in the back of the class.

  Ms. Hansen rolls her eyes, shakes her head and heads back to the blackboard as the bell rings.

  ***

  I hear the house phone ringing as I arrive home. I know Mom’s not here so I quickly bound up the front steps. (I’m still in cell phone withdrawal, so even the prospect of chatting with a telemarketer quickens my pulse.) It’s still ringing as I open the door. I pick it up, slightly out of breath. “Hello?”

  “Is this Jillian?” The voice is male, one I don’t recognize.

  “You got her.” I’m standing ready with Thanks, but I’m dating someone. (And won’t that feel good!)

  “Jillian, this is your father.”

  My backpack hits the floor, dropping at the same speed as my jaw and the blood draining from my face. I break out in a cold sweat. “Uh… hello.”

  “I was just checking to see if there was a problem with my gift.”

  My head spins as I try to process what’s happening but I’m caught off guard. “A… uh… problem with your gift?” My voice cracks and is barely audible.