Teenage Psychic on Campus

by Pamela Woods-Jackson

  —Client desperately trying to reach you. Call or text when you get this.—

  I already had a busy week, and now I had a psychic client trying to track me down. Besides classes, I had a story to cover for the newspaper, and then there was that Ghost Stalkers meeting. I sighed and sent a reply:

  —I’ll try to make time in a few days.—

  ****

  “Are you ready, Mr. Riddell?” Dr. Danson tapped his foot impatiently while Gary dug in his backpack for the script. He’d read it and reread it, practicing over and over the lines Mr. Darcy would say, even memorizing some of them, and now he couldn’t find his script.

  “Sorry, I—” He dug down to the bottom of his backpack, tossing out returned blue book essays, a syllabus for History, and his graded Acting 101 midterm test over stage terminology, an A- circled in red ink prominently displayed on the front.

  That grade reminded Gary how relieved he was that midterm exams were over. Five courses, fifteen credit hours, and a lot of money at stake if he hadn’t made his grades. Luckily his scholarship had survived this first serious round of tests. That unfortunate C- in Oral Interpretation was offset by an A in English Lit, since the essay question on Midsummer Night’s Dream was a slam-dunk. Calculus was a little tough, but he’d earned a C+ on the exam, plus a B+ in History and that stellar Acting 101 grade.

  “If you’re not ready, we can go on…”

  “Found it!” Gary pulled his now-rumpled copy of Pride and Prejudice from the bottom of his bag and held it up triumphantly. He hopped up onto the small stage, the one used for auditions, rehearsals and classroom presentations, and thumbed through his script. Tricia Palmer, who was reading for Elizabeth Bennet, was glaring at him.

  The spotlight suddenly flashed on from the lighting booth at the back of the room, forcing Gary to shade his eyes with his hand and squint out into the seating area to try to spot the student director. Of course it was Foster Benning, just like everyone had predicted, and Foster always behaved as if Gary’s acting abilities were subpar.

  “Can someone please douse that spot?” Gary called out.

  The student lighting coordinator turned it off. Gary blinked a couple of times till his eyes readjusted and he was able to locate the director and the Acting class teacher. Movement at the back of the room indicated there were a few other aspiring actors either coming in for their auditions or going out after, and there were also a couple of people whose faces he couldn’t make out, just milling around.

  “Tricia, Gary, go!” Foster said with an impatient wave of his arms.

  Gary and Tricia turned to face each other, Tricia reading from her script and Gary holding his at his side, accessible for a quick glance if need be. He hoped the fact that he’d partially memorized this scene would impress both Dr. Danson and Foster.

  Darcy: Miss Bennet—in vain have I struggled! My feelings will not be repressed! You must allow me to tell you how ardently I admire and love you!

  Elizabeth: (Perfectly astounded) Mr. Darcy!

  Darcy: Miss Bennet, I can well understand your own astonishment at this declaration, for I am amazed at myself! My feeling for you has taken possession of me against my will, my reason, and almost my character!

  Elizabeth: But Mr. Darcy—I have never desired your good opinion, and you have certainly bestowed it most unwillingly.

  Darcy: And that is all the reply which I am to have the honour of expecting?

  Foster let out a long, loud exaggerated groan. “Gary, aren’t you a little off today?”

  Gary cringed as he walked to the edge of the stage. “Off how? I thought…” True, this style of romantic comedy wasn’t really his thing. In his heart of hearts he was a Shakespearean actor, but this was the play the drama department had chosen to do this semester. If he wanted to act, he’d have to bow to the will of the Jane Austen fans on campus and do his best.

  “You memorized the words but forgot about the emotion.” Foster Benning folded his arms and shook his head. “Never mind. Continue.”

  ****

  Gary a little off today? “Understatement,” I muttered under my breath.

  I’d been sitting in the back of the studio theatre watching this farce of an audition and taking notes for the school newspaper. Del must have thought I could do the story justice since I was such a big Jane Austen fan, because at the last minute he texted and asked if I could be here. Women all over campus were giddy with anticipation, wondering who would be cast as the most romantic hero in all of English literature. But Gary Riddell was no Mr. Darcy. I jotted down some notes: Better suited to play Bingley, or Mr. Bennet, or maybe even that buffoon Mr. Collins.

  I stuffed my notepad in my oversized handbag, slipped my coat on, and hurried out of the rehearsal hall. I had to get all these thoughts written down before I forgot what a bad actor Gary Riddell was. Like I could forget. Some things you just couldn’t unsee.

  I thought back to sophomore year in high school. I had a fantastic literature teacher who led our class step-by-step through Pride and Prejudice, kick-starting my love of all things Austen. Of course that class also kick-started my romance with Quince Adams. “Cut it out, Caryn,” I chided myself as I pushed the thought of our breakup to the back of my mind. I opened the theatre building’s door that led onto The Commons. And shivered.

  “Brrr!” It was getting really cold outside. Even though I was originally from Houston, I’d managed to adjust to the Indiana climate. Still, it seemed winter was settling in way early this year.

  I buttoned up my coat and dashed across campus to the newspaper office. Once inside, I wiggled out of my coat and tossed it on the back of my desk chair, pulled the notes I just took from the bottom of my handbag, turned on the laptop and began typing fast and furious.

  “What are you writing?”

  “Eek!” I jumped in surprise. I’d been really in the zone, venting my spleen about the poor excuse for acting I’d just witnessed. I paused to take a couple of deep breaths and slow my beating heart, but then something about being sneaked up on brought back my mysterious dream from this morning. Something about a scary old house and a warning from Uncle Omar. It was gone as quick as it came.

  “Sorry,” Annabeth said. She pointed to the screen. “What’s this?”

  “I’m expressing my outrage at the chutzpah of that drama department!” I told her. “It’s an op-ed piece about the upcoming production of Pride and Prejudice.”

  Annabeth stepped around to my side and leaned down to look me in the eye. “I thought you were looking forward to that play.”

  “I was until I saw the auditions.”

  “Aren’t you being a little premature? It’s auditions, not dress rehearsal.” Annabeth crossed her arms and fixed me with a curious gaze. “What’s this really about?”

  I turned back to my computer and tried to continue, but I was losing momentum. “Moral outrage on behalf of Jane Austen fans everywhere. Gary Riddell, reading for Mr. Darcy. Great part, worst actor ever.” I threw up my hands in disgust as I got worked up all over again.

  Annabeth frowned. “But last summer he was awesome! Maybe he was just having an off day?”

  “That’s what Foster Benning said, and he’s the director.”

  “Spilling all that venom on the opinions page will just look vindictive, girlfriend. And Gary may not even get the part.”

  “He won’t.”

  Annabeth groaned. “Since your sixth sense already told you that, why bother with the op-ed piece?”

  “Because Del assigned me to write about the auditions, to capitalize on the fandom on campus.” I stretched my fingers, rolled my neck, and bent over my laptop.

  Annabeth continued reading over my shoulder. “Yeah, okay, but I still think you should tone it down.”

  “No way. That theatre department is in way over its head. They should stick to contemporary comedies. Gary Riddell wasn’t the only bad actor I saw today.”

  “Your funeral.” Annabeth shrugged and moved to her own desk, boo
ted up her computer and began editing photographs.

  ****

  Gary wasn’t a morning person, to say the least. He regularly slept through his alarm and was frequently late to his first class of the day. Sean, on the other hand, was an early riser. He was always up, showered, and ready to greet the day while Gary was still hitting snooze. This morning Sean had literally dragged Gary out of bed, where he landed with a thud and a few expletives on the floor. Sean was always hungry first thing in the morning. At seven a.m., the most Gary could choke down was black coffee.

  “It should be illegal for college kids to get up and eat at this ungodly hour,” Gary grumbled as they walked into the almost-empty dorm cafeteria. “See? This place is like a ghost town.”

  Sean chuckled. “You would know.”

  Gary grunted his acknowledgement of his own pun. While Sean was going through the buffet line, Gary poured himself a cup of steaming black coffee, grabbed a free copy of The Hamilton Campus Herald from the stack next to the cash register, swiped his meal card, and ambled to an empty booth. Sean rejoined him, his plate piled high with eggs, sausage, and toast. The smell was enough to make Gary gag. He sipped his coffee and perused the paper.

  Suddenly Gary read something that made him choke on his coffee. After a brief coughing fit he slammed the newspaper down on the cafeteria table. “Are ya kidding me?”

  “What?” Sean asked around a mouthful of eggs.

  Gary shoved the Editorial page underneath Sean’s nose and poked the offending article with his finger. “An opinion on my audition! Seriously? She couldn’t even wait to see if I got the part and then review my performance?”

  Sean put his fork down and took the paper from Gary. “By Caryn Alderson.” His eyes widened as he read it. “I guess she doesn’t think you’re right for the part.” He tossed it aside with a shrug, grabbed his fork and continued his breakfast.

  “Ya think? Geez. What did I ever do to her? She says here”—he began reading from the paper—“‘Gary Riddell would be better suited to play Elizabeth’s crotchety old father Mr. Bennet, or better yet, work on the crew and stay off the stage altogether.’”

  “Ouch,” Sean said.

  Gary sighed and took a sip of his coffee. “Moot point anyway, since I didn’t get the part. I’m playing Bingley.”

  “Well, that’s good. Right? Solid supporting role?”

  Gary shrugged. The more he thought about this article, though, the madder he got. How dare Caryn trash his acting career? Okay, it wasn’t Shakespeare, but still. He grabbed his coat and book bag.

  “Where ya headed?” Sean asked.

  Gary didn’t answer as he marched out of the cafeteria.

  In fact Gary didn’t know where he was going, but he was determined to confront the high and mighty Miss Alderson. He had no idea where he could locate her, where her classes were, where her usual hangouts were.

  He pulled out his phone, punched a number and said with clenched teeth, “Hey, Annabeth, when you get this, give me a call. I’m trying to track down your backstabbing roommate.” He shoved the phone in his pocket, glanced up at the clock tower and wondered what Dr. Danson would say when he arrived early for Oral Interp class.

  Dr. Danson did seem surprised when Gary got to class on time, so he called Gary up to the front of the class for an impromptu reading from To Kill a Mockingbird. It was Chapter 20, the scene where Atticus Finch gives his summation to the jury at the end of Tom Robinson’s trial. When he’d finished the reading, his classmates applauded and Dr. Danson gave him an imperceptible nod. Gary left class much more confident about his acting abilities than when he’d arrived, but he still checked his messages to see if he’d heard back from Annabeth.

  —Newspaper office any time after ten this morning.—

  “Does that girl ever go anywhere but the newspaper office?” Gary asked himself. Maybe that was why it was late October and until a few days ago, he hadn’t so much as laid eyes on Caryn on campus. Even though their roommate situations created a sort of Six Degrees of Separation thing, he and Caryn obviously had nothing in common.

  Gary realized he didn’t even know where the newspaper office was, so he headed to the administration building to consult the oversized campus map covering the entire wall in the lobby. He stopped and gazed up at the monstrosity, stepped back to get some perspective, scratched his head in bewilderment, and moved in for a closer look. This was a really old map, and parts of it were way outdated. In fact the date at the bottom of it read 1954. Since then buildings had been renovated, renamed, or simply torn down.

  “I believe what you’re looking for is in The Magazine,” said a voice behind him.

  Gary flipped around and didn’t see anyone, although he did feel that recognizable tingling on the back of his neck. “What magazine?” he asked, hoping anybody within earshot thought he was just thinking aloud about the map.

  “I said, THE Magazine, young man.”

  “Okay.” Gary ran his fingers down the descriptions of the historic buildings, until he found it on the map key: The English and Creative Writing Building, originally The Magazine. Oh, that kind of magazine, Gary realized. The old-fashioned term for firearms storage.

  And the newspaper office was in the basement of that building, all the way on the other side of campus from the theatre department. For once a ghost had been helpful. He checked the time to make sure she’d be there, but it was going on eleven, so he took off across campus.

  He arrived winded from the exertion yet feeling warm despite the chill in the air. He pushed the “down” elevator button, tapped his foot for what seem like eons, then gave up and descended the stairs to the basement.

  Gary found himself in a hallway of doors that all looked exactly alike and contained no markings except for consecutive numbers. The top floors of this building had been restored years ago, maintaining the solid wood doorframes and transoms that everyone said gave it character. But the renovation hadn’t gotten down here because the basement was sterile and dank. Its walls were old-fashioned white plaster, all the doors were painted white, and there wasn’t a window in sight. He walked up and down the corridor, trying a few doors that turned out to be locked, and was about to give up in frustration when he heard voices coming from the opposite end of the hallway. He followed the sound to an open doorway that actually had a sign, The Hamilton Campus Herald. He poked his head inside to discover a student newsroom. The staff members were crammed so tight into that tiny room, Gary had no idea how they got any work done. Desks with laptops were arranged in two narrow rows, closets and storage bins lined the walls, and there was a closed door at the far end that read Faculty Advisor.

  Gary spotted Sydney Marshall and Annabeth with their heads together, one camera between them as they looked at some digital photos. He recognized Alex Bonham from his picture and byline in the sports section. There were a few other people Gary didn’t know, but he was in no mood to make friends. He gathered his righteous indignation and stormed in, scouted out the room and easily located Caryn staring at what looked to Gary like chicken scratches on a white board.

  “Thanks a lot!”

  Startled, Caryn gasped and flipped around, but relaxed when she saw who it was. “I take it you didn’t care for my op-ed piece this morning.”

  Gary got up in Caryn’s personal space and growled, “Duh. I guess you don’t have to be psychic to figure that out.”

  She smirked, but backed away a little. “I only write what I see.”

  “What you saw,” Gary said, crossing his arms in front of him, “was an audition. A tryout. Not even a rehearsal! How can you judge my acting abilities based on that?”

  “I saw enough to know that you have no business playing Mr. Darcy.”

  “Well, thanks to you, I’m not!” Gary knew that wasn’t really true, that her op-ed piece hadn’t influenced casting, since he’d gotten the text from Foster sometime after midnight. But he was angry and it felt good to blame her anyway.

  “Not my fault yo
u were in over your head. Jane Austen is probably turning over in her grave.”

  Gary gaped. “What makes you such an expert anyway? Ever done any theatre? Ever written about it?” He felt his face flush, whether in embarrassment or anger he couldn’t be sure.

  “Yes, back in high school, I did write reviews of the school’s plays.” Caryn crossed her arms and glared back at him.

  “And that makes you an expert? A few articles—” Gary’s voice trailed off as he suddenly became very aware of all the attention they were attracting.

  “Hey, Gary,” Annabeth said, wedging herself between them, camera in hand. “How’d the audition go?”

  “Bingley,” both Caryn and Gary told her at the same time. They turned back to glare at each other.

  “Cool.” Annabeth aimed the camera and snapped a picture of Gary and Caryn glowering at each other. She stepped back and checked the digital image. “Besides, you don’t have time to do the lead since you’re going to be really busy ghost-stalking.”

  Gary pointed at the camera. “That better not end up in the paper.”

  “On the contrary, I think it makes a great human interest piece.” Annabeth gave them both a big wide grin and ran her hand along an imaginary image in the air. “I can see the caption: Staff writer and student actor face off over artistic differences.”

  “I dare say, young man, you would have made a smashing Darcy!”

  Gary cringed. Did Annabeth’s mention of ghosts bring this one in, or was it the same disembodied voice he’d heard earlier? He looked over Caryn’s head—not hard to do since he towered over her—and saw the ghost of a professor, probably from the 1950s judging by the fedora and the tweed jacket with elbow patches.

  Gary could feel his face flushing. Anger? Embarrassment? He wasn’t sure. “Dude, you’re dead. Get off this campus and go to the light.”

  “How rude, young man!”

  Caryn glanced quickly over her shoulder. “Why, Gary. You look like you’ve seen a ghost,” she snickered.

  “You mean to tell me you didn’t see him? Aren’t you some kind of psychic medium hotshot?”