~~~
Ian tried to talk himself out of going over there. After all, why was he doing it? All he had to do was call and cancel. The whole thing was ridiculous, he knew. Thank God he hadn’t mentioned it to Lisa or anyone else. Just bail and turn around, he kept thinking. Still, he kept driving across town. Evidently, common sense had gone out the window. Still, no one would know, so that was good. Also, he’d soon find out she was some total scammer or something and that would be that. Hopefully, the result would also be that he’d stop thinking about his new imaginary friends as well. After that, he’d totally relax during the winter break and start off fresh again next semester.
A few minutes later, she opened her apartment door. “Hi, I’m Julie,” she said, “How’s it going?”
She offered her hand and Ian noticed the firm, confident grasp. He’d imagined a cliché, he now realized—a wizened, old lady with penetrating eyes. Instead, he found himself facing a cheerful looking woman with long blonde hair, probably somewhere in her late twenties, possibly early thirties.
He entered the apartment, still expecting a dimly lit space and maybe a crystal ball prominently displayed on a table, but instead found a brightly lit room with the blinds open to let in the daylight. A sofa, love seat and coffee table. An easel stood in one corner showing a painting in progress—what looked to be a seascape featuring the monolithic rocks of Cannon Beach, Oregon. Framed photos adorned the walls—faces and places, some color and others black and white. Nice photos, actually.
“Can I get you anything?” Julie said. “I just made some jasmine green tea. Doesn’t it smell great?”
Ian wasn’t much of a tea drinker but it was chilly day and the tea really did smell good. Still, he said, “No, thanks. I’m fine.”
“I’ll get you some tea,” Julie said, as if Ian hadn’t responded. “It’ll warm you up. Besides, the jasmine will give you a boost. I’m getting that you might be a little tired.”
Ian figured it didn’t take a psychic to figure that one out. It was finals week, after all. Then again, he hadn’t told her he was a student. Although, Ian supposed he might have dark circles under his eyes. One of the pitfalls of being fair-skinned. Tired showed.
Julie walked toward the kitchen. “Have a seat,” she said over her shoulder. “I’ll be right back.”
Ian wondered how it could be that she didn’t seem to care who he might be. How could she know that he hadn’t arrived with some sort of sick agenda? Then again, he didn’t look all that threatening. He’d heard a million times before that he had a kind face, whatever that meant. Sometimes, he’d tried to imagine himself as an angry, dark person but had never been able to pull it off. He couldn’t see it in himself either, he had to admit. Maybe it was the freckles.
Julie came back into the room a minute later with two steaming mugs. She set them on the coffee table and took a seat on the sofa. Ian settled into the love seat.
“Try the tea,” she said.
Ian did as told and didn’t regret it. A nice flavor that tasted totally natural. He felt the warmth in his stomach almost immediately, chasing off what was left of the chill. “Do you paint?” he said, although it seemed a stupid question.
Julie shook her head. “No, that’s my roommate.”
Psychics had roommates?
Julie smiled as if she knew what had just passed through his mind. “She’s in the graduate program at UW. I’m in the art school too. Photography.”
Another possibility that hadn’t occurred to him, that a psychic might be a graduate art student.
“You’re a history major, right?” Julie said.
Ian hesitated, considering whether she might have some sort of angle. “Yes.”
Julie sipped her tea and nodded. “Okay, here’s what I’m getting. You like history because time has always fascinated you—how in one way it seems to take forever but in another way a hundred years is almost like the blink of an eye. Sometimes you even imagine a place where people experience time differently than we do.”
Ian sat there stunned. He’d never told anyone that before. He’d never quite known what to think of it himself. Now, he wasn’t sure what to say.
“Do you like the tea?” Julie said.
Ian had almost forgotten the mug in his hand. He took another sip. “It’s really good.”
“I get it at a little shop in Wallingford. A friend of mine owns it. Anyway, I’m guessing you must have something on your mind. True?”
Ian had already started to trust her instincts. Still, it was a general question. Everyone had something on their mind. “Your flier kind of caught my eye,” he said. “I got curious.”
Julie smiled. “Fair enough.”
“So, how does this work? Should I pay you now?”
When Julie had left a message, she’d suggested ten o’clock although she hadn’t mentioned anything about payment. Ian hadn’t actually called back again to confirm. He’d figured he’d just end up blowing it off. But that morning when he’d woken up he’d started thinking about Professor Russell’s past again. He wondered if any of it had really happened or if the whole story was just some sort of bizarre rumor. He’d also kept wondering why it mattered. What did Professor Russell’s past have anything to do with the him? At the last moment, he’d told himself it wasn’t cool to just not show up for the appointment he’d made. After all, he’d been the one to call Julie in the first place.
“Not worried about it,” Julie said. She made eye contact and shrugged. “That part will work out. Are you okay? Don’t be nervous. This isn’t that big of a deal. I’ll just tell you what I think might be going on with you and you can take it from there. How does that sound?”
Ian set his mug down. “Sure, that sounds good.”
“Okay, cool. I’m going to close the blinds so we can hear better.” She got up, crossed the room and adjusted the blinds.
Ian waited, wondering what light had to do with hearing.
Julie took her seat across from him again. She closed her eyes and fell quiet, her expression placid, as if Ian wasn’t even sitting there a few feet away. Seconds passed that way, then minutes.
Finally, she spoke, her voice soft. “I’m getting someone whose name begins with E. Wait, B,” Julie said. “Do you know her? She seems to know you.”
Ian wasn’t sure what to do with the question. This didn’t seem to bother Julie, whose eyes remained closed as if there was no need to rush things.
“Oh,” Julie said, “she says to tell you it’s Grandma Beth.”
Ian had, of course, heard about chills running up your spine but this was the first time he’d felt it happening. Grandma Beth was actually his grandmother’s sister—on his mother’s side—who’d died three years ago. Ian had never met her. She’d lived in Arizona but there had always been cards and gifts over the years. Ian felt guilty for never even bothering to try connecting with her.
“She says she doesn’t want you to worry,” Julie said. “She totally understood. You were young and didn’t know her. She doesn’t want you to feel guilty anymore. Do you understand what she means?”
In that moment, Ian wished they’d never touched that freaking Ouija board. That he’d completely ignored that brightly colored flyer he should have continued walking past. Still, it was too late now. He’d opened this door.
“I think so,” he said.
He watched, waiting for Julie to open her eyes but that didn’t happen. After a few more moments, she smiled. “She’s gone but I’m getting something else now. Someone you knew on the other side. I’m getting H. His name begins with H, I think. Yeah, I’m pretty sure.”
When Julie didn’t follow with any more, Ian said, “I don’t know anyone whose name starts with H.”
Suddenly, Julie laughed “No, that’s fine. You don’t, not anymore. At least, more than likely you’ve forgotten. I’m getting other names now. Someone whose name starts with J. Also, N. Do you know anyone whose name begins with N? Like maybe Nancy? Something like that?”
Despite the fact that Julie’s eyes remained closed, Ian shook his head. “No, I don’t. Sorry. This is getting weird. I think I better leave now.”
Julie didn’t seem to hear him. “Wow, all of that came through really clearly. Almost like you have a group of friends there who still think about you. Wait, I’m seeing something else. Yes, definitely. I’m getting an image. Yeah, it’s really—”
Julie took a deep breath and her eyes shot open. She stared at Ian for a moment before quickly averting her gaze.
Ian didn’t want to ask—something told him not to—but he asked anyway. “What was it?”
Julie, he noticed, had suddenly gone pale. She tried to smile but barely pulled it off. “I think it was just something unrelated,” she said. “That can happen sometimes. I’m sure it’s fine.”
All of this was freaking nuts. Ian wanted to get out of there. What the hell had he been thinking? “Are we done?” he said.
It took a moment, but then Julie nodded. “Yes, I think so.”
Ian got up, put his jacket on and walked toward the door. He didn’t know what to say so he didn’t say much. Soon, he strode down the hallway. Only when he reached the street did he realize that he hadn’t offered to pay her. Whatever, I’ll take care of it later, he thought. For now, he had to keep moving. That other part would just have to work out somehow.
5
Balancing Act
One of the survival skills Emilio had developed was the ability to actively pay attention in class while looking like he was completely tuned out. Actually, it wasn’t too hard since all he had to do was imitate pretty much everyone else in the room. Keep your eyes cast on the floor or window, never move your pen and only turn the page when Mr. Posten raises his voice to get everyone’s attention. Sure, there were a few kids—girls mostly—who got away with keeping their eyes on Mr. Posten as he spoke, who actually participated in the conversation. That same approach would mean hell to pay for Emilio.
Only later, when he had some time alone, would he enter as many notes as he could recall from the blackboard or Mr. Posten’s lecture that day into the notebook no one else ever saw. As for grades, Emilio worked hard to keep them low—but not failing low. He caught enough crap from his homies for getting Cs. He always shrugged it off saying something along the lines of, “It wasn’t like I tried. Guess I must be smart is all, bro.” At the same time, Cs were just enough to keep his mother from freaking on him. Bring home Ds and Fs, and there would be a different kind of hell to pay.
Emilio kept his eyes glassy and his head cocked at a bored angle even as he nearly memorized each point Mr. Posten made about the story and characters of The Outsiders. The fact was, Emilio had read the book twice and enjoyed it both times. Freaking hard to believe it had been written like sixty years ago. Occasionally, Mr. Posten might call on him and only then would Emilio say something, usually just enough to indicate that he hadn’t spaced out entirely. Mr. Posten didn’t call on him often, though. Sometimes, Emilio wondered if Mr. Posten cut him slack on purpose, that he understood the whole balancing act.
Apparently, Emilio didn’t appear sufficiently uninterested. Probably because his eyes remained open. He knew this when he felt something pelt the back of his head. He looked down to see a crumpled ball of paper on the floor.
“Mealy’s into it,” he heard Pablo say.
Carlos snickered. “Teacher’s freakin’ pet.”
That was the thing about the South Enders—the gang was totally pervasive. Emilio didn’t have one class—one moment of his waking life, for that matter—without one of them breathing down his neck. Thanks to Marcos’ past status with the gang, they breathed hard and loud to be sure he knew he was being measured at all times.
Emilio did what he had to do, silently apologizing to Mr. Posten. He turned and flung his book at Pablo, striking him in the face.
“Mother—”
Carlos burst out laughing. “Ooh, he got you good, bro.”
Pablo stared death at Emilio, who still hadn’t turned away. Emilio wasn’t worried about it. Pablo was a scrawny, little dipshit. It wasn’t like Emilio wasn’t tough—Marcos had made more than sure his little brother could hold his own. They’d spent many hours sparring to toughen him up when he’d just been starting elementary school. Emilio had not provided the same kind of training for Javier, hoping to somehow break the cycle.
Mr. Posten spun from the blackboard and stared at Carlos, then Pablo. “Both of you, out.”
Carlos pointed at Emilio. “But he—”
“Out.”
That was the thing about Mr. Posten, he didn’t mess around. And the guy had some serious guns—word was he’d once broken up a fight by dislocating two shoulders.
Pablo and Carlos screeched their chairs against the floor, got up and walked toward the door. Pablo made kissing noises at Emilio as he passed by. Yeah, whatever, Emilio thought. It wasn’t lost on him that Mr. Posten had pretended not to notice who’d flung the book. But with his fellow South Enders now out of the room, Emilio could actually pay attention for a while.
~~~
The bell rang and only then did Emilio retrieve his book from where it still sat on the floor next to Pablo’s desk. Had Mr. Posten actually not noticed? Not likely. Still, by the time Emilio got the book into his backpack he was at the rear of the herd. Mr. Posten’s eyes bored into Emilio’s as he walked past. Yes, he’d definitely noticed.
Emilio was almost out at the door when Mr. Posten spoke. “Emilio, hang on a second.”
Okay, the hammer was still coming down. Why he’d waited, Emilio couldn’t guess. But it now looked like Pablo and Carlos got off easy getting kicked out. Emilio’s guess was detention for him. And South Enders might sometime show up for class but they sure as hell didn’t stick around for detention. Emilio wouldn’t have a choice, which would just sink him further when he was just barely treading water between one world and the other.
“What?” Emilio wanted to add “Mr. Posten”—after all, his mother had taught him better—but you never knew who might overhear.
Mr. Posten sat on his desk and waved Emilio closer. Emilio did as he was told and took a few steps.
Mr. Posten kept his voice low. “You can tell your friends I was ripping you a new one for throwing the book. Tell them I’m so stupid that I didn’t figure it out until later when you picked it up off the floor. Got me so far?”
Emilio nodded, not sure what to say.
“Good. When was the last time you talked to your guidance counselor?”
“Why?” The fact was, Emilio had never talked to his guidance counselor. What would be the point?
“Listen, Emilio. It’s not like we don’t notice how hard you work not to get better grades.”
Emilio’s self-defense mechanisms kicked in. “What the hell are you—”
“Knock it off.” Mr. Posten’s voice dropped even lower. “You’re getting Cs just by phoning the whole deal in. Not just in my class. I know that. Which tells me you want something better. That you get it but just keep telling yourself it’s not yours to have. That you have to go down with the rest of your home boys. You don’t.”
Emilio felt his blood start to boil. “How the hell would you know?”
Mr. Posten unbuttoned his cuff and rolled a sleeve back, showing ink Emilio never would have imagined being on Mr. Posten’s arms. Crudely cut gang tattoos. “You want to know how I the hell I’d know? I grew up in the CD, that’s how I know. I just smartened my ass up and didn’t go down with my home boys.”
The second bell rang, signaling that Emilio was already late for his next class. Not that he was supposed to care. Emilio turned and started walking toward the door.
“Wait,” Mr. Posten said.
Emilio turned and gave him a surly look, more an automatic response than anything intended. The truth was, he wanted to know how Mr. Posten got out. How he’d managed to create a half-way decent future.
Mr. Posten opened his desk drawer and withdrew a
hall pass. He scratched the time and his signature down. “Don’t worry, you’re covered,” he said. “Think about what I said, okay?”
Emilio just barely met his eyes. “Okay,” he said. Then he slung his backpack over his shoulder and walked out the door.
6
Ghost of the Living
They each had secret places of their own and for Nikki that place was her garden. Okay, maybe Henry was the only one among them who’d shared everything—after all, she and Jamie had been to his pond. Technically, though, that first time she’d found him there had been an invitation even though Henry hadn’t known at the time. After witnessing Bethany’s abduction, his traumatized state created a psychic distress call Nikki had picked up on. No, she couldn’t read people here like she could those in the other realm, but certain signals still came through. At the same time, Nikki suspected Henry had created a new place of his own. One day, he’d mentioned something about a sunrise and seagulls, not even thinking about it. Nikki and Jamie had exchanged knowing glances. Totally fine, just the way it went. In this realm, just like the other, everyone needed some privacy every so often. Kind of like Simon’s library. None of her business.
So, for now she tended to her garden. Okay, sure, everything remained in full bloom, her roses, zinnias and lilies perfect. Nikki understood that they were, to a degree, unnaturally perfect, but that didn’t bother her since there was watering and pruning to be done along with weeds to be pulled. Somehow, even in the afterlife, weeds kept creeping in and trying to take over. There was also the bright, blue sky above and the sun warming her shoulders.
Nikki carried a seedling from her greenhouse toward the hole she’d dug for it. She knelt in the dirt and widened the hole a little more with her trowel, then placed the roots against the ground. Did it matter that this plant would still be healthy if she ignored if for a year or that the dirt she knelt in had been created from her imagination? Not really. This was Nikki’s own spot of ground, hers for as long as she chose to keep it.
Memories from a Different Future: Jump When Ready, Book 2 Page 4