What's a Soulmate?

by Lindsey Ouimet

Fading. It’s another thing I never thought about in terms of color before.

  I hear my mother stirring in the kitchen downstairs and refold the skirt, placing it back on the shelf.

  I get dressed quickly, my gaze darting to my laptop more than once. I’m antsy as I get dressed for the day and blame it on the fitful night of sleep. I can’t remember exactly what it was I dreamed about last night, but I’m certain there was blood. And dimples.

  A chill runs up my spine and I know here and now I won’t be able to rest or put myself at ease until I find out the truth. I cannot accept the person who’s supposed to be my Soulmate is the same person who put a cop into the hospital. Into a coma.

  I am, by no means, some self-righteous, holier than thou, goody goody, and I don’t think anyone else thinks of me in those terms either, but it all feels so wrong. I don’t have a violent bone in my body, and not only because I’m not a fan of confrontation like we’ve already established. The very idea of someone hurting another person for any reason sets my teeth on edge. Even if there’s a good reason for it, I’m still left with an uneasy feeling that, in my opinion, is better left avoided.

  So I refuse to believe this is the kind of person I’m meant for. That’s this is the person meant for me.

  I have to figure out a way to visit him at the Center. I have to meet him.

  ****

  I get through most of the day with few things on my mind other than exactly how I’m going to pull this off.

  My first few classes pass without incident. During lunch, Beth is still going on about her encounter with Ryan on Saturday. I feel bad for not listening, but I’m also so certain she’ll repeat all of the details so many times over the next couple of days, it’ll leave me unlikely to miss anything. She doesn’t press me on my silence today and I’m thankful because trying to think about anything other than what I’ve talked myself into doing is nearly impossible.

  By fourth period, the last of the day, thank God, I’ve managed to psych myself up as well as out so many times I’ve lost count. The only thing I know for sure is I need more time to prepare. Last night finding out his name was enough. Finding out what he did was too much. Yet, oddly enough, I still need more.

  The margin of my history notes looks like some sort of secret code.

  - Friends and family on FriendSpace?

  - Image search

  - Sporty looking—Check sports pages @ D.Daily

  - Keep fingers crossed

  Well, maybe not so much secret code as it is straight from the Stalker 101 handbook. I’d say it’s called for in this situation though. And if someone wouldn’t agree … well, he or she should try finding out their Soulmate is a criminal they know absolutely nothing about, and then we’ll talk.

  Taryn Messer approaches and tries to rope me into volunteering for prom committee on the way to my car, but I shake her pretty quickly. She’s had perfect attendance since kindergarten and intends to continue the trend until we graduate in May. Pretending to cough up a lung is enough to dissuade and send her on her way.

  “We can talk another time,” she calls after she’s put the hood of my car between us. “Feel better, Libby!”

  Beth bumps my hip and I jerk my elbow into the open car door.

  “Yeah. Feel better, Libby.”

  She smirks and I watch one corner of her black-stained lips pull up. It really is amazing how precise her lines are, and I wonder how they would look in a pale-pink like some of the photos I’ve come across online. While wincing and rubbing at what I’m sure will be a bruise, of course. At least I missed my funny bone.

  “Oh, shut it. You want to get stuck deciding on a theme and then having to cover an overpriced ballroom with glitter and balloons? You hate glitter.”

  “Fair enough.” She nods, digging through her purse. She unearths a pair of her mom’s ancient, over-sized sunglasses and plops them on her face. “You headed straight home?”

  “Yeah.” I squint a little and bring my hand up to shield my eyes from the sun as a way to keep from looking at her. “I’ve got a lot of work to get done. Then I told my mom I’d take her measurements for this dress she’s too cheap to buy. And, on top of that, I’m exhausted.”

  Even though they’re not really lies, I still hate it.

  I haven’t lied to Beth since we were in the tenth grade and she asked me if her braces made her sound like a cartoon character with a lisp. They did, but she didn’t need that kind of complex. They came off a year later anyway.

  “Okay. Well, call me later if you get a chance.”

  She bobs her head a little as she talks, still wary. I say I will and watch her as she walks off, toward her ridiculously nice car that is totally at odds with her rough edges, and exhale loudly once she’s out of sight.

  When I lean my head against the steering wheel a second later, I really am exhausted.

  Three hours, one measuring session, a quieter, more awkward than usual dinner, and seventeen web searches later, I’ve added exactly six items to the list of things I know about Andrew McCormack.

  He has at least one younger sibling, a brother. The boy in his profile picture I saw yesterday. I can’t nail down an exact age, but his name is Blake, and my best guess would put him around eleven years old.

  Most of the people on his friends list have security settings that would make technicians at the Pentagon proud. Okay, probably not, but they’re annoying and impossible for me to work my way around.

  He seems to be a popular guy. While my friends list is nothing to brag about, he still has at least a hundred more people on his.

  Uploading his profile picture to an image search returns precisely one result. His page on stupid FriendSpace.

  He plays soccer! Note the exclamation mark is not because I am a soccer enthusiast, but because this is first personal thing I’ve managed to unearth. His Varsity team got second at State last year, and there is a tiny, grainy photo that refuses to enlarge without a disturbing amount of distortion on the Dawson Daily’s website.

  Now I have to figure out exactly how I’m going to get in to see him.

  My father has worked at the Center for years now, probably almost a decade, but other than visiting him every Friday in his little corner, I’ve never paid very close attention to how it actually operates. As with everything else I’ve been pulling at my hair to find out, going to him would be the easiest thing to do. So of course it’s completely out of the question. He would answer me no problem, but he also knows I never do or say or ask for anything without a reason. And even if he didn’t ask what the reason was, I’d feel obligated to tell him.

  Long story short? This is the first thing I’ve kept from my father, so I don’t exactly have a lot of practice at hiding things from him. Absolute no poker face right here.

  I’m already in bed, trying to keep my eyes closed and to will sleep to make its appearance when it comes to me. One would think someone who’s spent more time on the Internet in the last few days than in the entire last year would have thought of it sooner.

  My feet get tangled in the covers and I nearly fall flat on my face as I scramble out of bed. I snatch the laptop from my desk, practically ripping the cord for the charger out of the wall and nearly falling all over again, and then crawl back across the mattress. The homepage of the Clarkesville Juvenile Detention’s website opens slowly—slower than I’d like it to anyway—and I drum my fingers against my thigh impatiently.

  Once fully loaded, it only takes a second for me to locate the section labeled ‘Questions About Visitation’.

  Visitation days and times are as follows:

  - Walk-in visitation is prohibited. Visitation will be conducted by appointment only.

  - Visiting will be scheduled in half hour blocks. A maximum of two (2) visits will be allowed per time slot.

  - Visits will be conducted Wednesdays, Saturdays, and Sunday by appointment only.

  - To arrange visitation, call administration at (555)505-0407. Dates and times available
are listed below.

  I scan the days, Wednesdays, Saturdays, and Sundays, listed with time slots in fifteen-minute increments that run from 2:30 PM until 7:00 PM. If I can manage to ensure my father doesn’t see the list of visitors, I might really be able to pull this off. He’s working the graveyard shift for at least the next two months, not going in until 9:00 PM each night, so at least I know our paths wouldn’t cross.

  Who is allowed to visit?

  - Parents and guardians are the only people allowed to visit while youth is detained.

  Well, hell. My heart drops and I come close to pushing the computer off my lap completely.

  If you are not a parent or a guardian, can you visit?

  Yes! Yes, this is the information I need!

  - There are exceptions to this rule. 1. Other family members aside from parent or guardian are allowed visitation if youth is a level 3 or level 4. The levels are based on youth’s behavior while detained in facility. 2. Lawyers, counselors, or assessment agencies are allowed to visit youth with a court order. 3. Teachers, coaches, clergy/youth leaders are allowed to visit youth with permission from youth’s administrator.

  Youth leader. I could so pass as a youth leader. How quickly the lie pops into my head surprises me, but I try not to think about it too much.

  I fall asleep thinking of everything I’m going need to do in order to carry out this ruse, and wake up with my laptop still on the pillow beside my head. I have until Friday to figure this out. Appointments have to be made at least a day in advance, so if I want to get in to see him this weekend—and I do—I’m going to have to really start brainstorming. Which, ugh, I feel like I’ve been doing all week. I’m surprised I’m still capable of cognitive thought.

  I’d take a mental health day if I didn’t think it would lead to so many questions.

  When I pull into the parking lot and see her stepping out of her car, I know I’m going to have to talk to her. Taryn Messer. The very same Taryn Messer I avoided like the plague, or rather like I had the plague, just yesterday afternoon.

  We’ve never been on anything but good terms, but not so good we frequently walk in together from the parking lot in the morning. Or hang out. Or talk about anything not school related.

  But Taryn Messer, I remember with startling clarity, is a youth leader at Meadow Baptist Church. The largest, closest thing our county has to a Mega Church. And I suddenly have a lot to learn from her. Or at least enough to get my foot in the door.

  “Taryn, hey!”

  She spins on her heel to face me and I swear a split-second look of fear crosses her face. She manages to cover it up quickly, but still pulls a bottle of hand sanitizer from her purse. I get the vague impression if I got too close she wouldn’t hesitate to wield it like a weapon.

  “Hi, Libby. Are you… Are you feeling better?”

  Waving my hand in a dismissive manner, I smile and try to roll my eyes in the most playful way possible. I’m not sure that can even be done in a playful manner, but it’s early and this idea just came to me, so cut me some slack.

  “Oh yeah. I had something, probably spit, go down the wrong pipe yesterday. No biggie.”

  She looks a little grossed out for a second, but then offers a shaky smile.

  I hold up my hand in what I think is the classic ‘scout’s honor’ signal. “Promise. Haven’t coughed since. Not even once.”

  “That’s good.” She nods. “Have you given any more thought to joining the prom committee?”

  “Actually.” I turn to face her and find myself instinctively hunching my shoulders to put myself more on her five-five level. “I was wondering if I could talk to you about something else when you have a minute. About church. Umm… I’ve been thinking about joining a … a congregation. Somewhere with a really good youth leadership program, maybe?”

  I’m going to hell. I’m going to hell. I’m actually going to go to hell for this.

  I don’t even know if I believe in hell, but I’m going there anyway.

  “That’s great, Libby!” Her smile is so big, and I feel another tiny piece of my soul turn black and wither away. “I have a meeting with the yearbook staff during lunch, but we could talk after school.”

  “I’ll see you then.”

  She smiles at me again, another one practically stretching across her whole face, and I swallow hard. Maybe I’ll join the prom committee after all. That’s one way to make up for my betrayal, right? Glitter, streamers, balloons, and arguing over song choices in my spare time.

  Yeah… I’m not going to join prom committee.

  The day passes much like the last two. In a fog, intermittently broken up by a quiz here, a conversation that can’t be avoided there, and of course, lunch with Beth and the guilt that comes with not letting her in on every single detail of my life. I think the guilt is only compounded by the way she’s obviously trying not to let me feel guilty at all. When I tell her I have plans to meet Taryn after school, after apologizing profusely for completely forgetting to call her the night before, she says it’s cool, but I’d better not bail on her again this weekend.

  I’m grabbing a book from my locker when Taryn appears out of nowhere at my side. Which is great because I didn’t even bother to ask her where she wanted me to meet her this afternoon, and I can’t remember what her car looks like. It still scares the crap out of me when I turn to see her standing there though. She says my name and I actually jump a little.

  “Libby!”

  God, is she always this … cheerful? Or maybe just loud, it’s hard for me to differentiate sometimes. “I’m so sorry, but I completely forgot I have another meeting after school today.”

  No, no, no. I’m working on a deadline here, damn it.

  “It’s crazy I forgot about it at all since we actually talked about it this morning.”

  I take a deep breath. I can’t believe I’m about to do this. Not that it really looks like I have a choice. I mean, technically I could try to wing it and keep my fingers crossed that using polite language and seeming as prim and proper as possible will be enough to pass as credible.

  But I think it should be pretty obvious by now I’m not one to jump into anything feet first.

  “Actually, I’ve given that some thought, too.” I gulp. “I’d love to join the prom committee. You know, extra curriculars and all. You can never have too many on those college applications.”

  I nod my head like an idiot.

  “Of course! But didn’t you get into Southerland on early decision already?”

  My first thought? How do you even know that? My second thought? I’m such an idiot. I’ll be surprised if Southerland even wants me after I inevitably get caught in all of these lies.

  “Yeah.” The word comes out with way more syllables than it should. “But, you know, it’s practice for all of the clubs and stuff I might want to join once I’m there.”

  She doesn’t know me well enough to call my bluff. At least I hope not.

  But just in case…

  “Your sweater is adorable, by the way,” I lie through my teeth. It’s not ugly per se, but adorable isn’t quite the word I would use for it. I balance out the deceit with a bit of the truth. And a huge freakin’ smile. “The boat-neck neckline really flatters your collarbone.”

  And this is how I end up sitting in a circle of desks in Mr. Ring’s drafting room discussing the pros and cons of hiring a DJ versus having an actual band play. I camouflage my disinterest with lots of head nods and echoes of ‘yeah, variety is always a good thing’. Thankfully it’s only a half hour meeting, and I only have about a dozen more of them to look forward to before the big event.

  Taryn is more than willing to go grab coffee with me afterward and I mentally prepare myself as I follow along in my car behind her.

  I arrive home a little over an hour later with better news than I could have ever possibly hoped for. Not only was she super willing to help me out and explain, in great detail, her responsibilities as a youth leader, but she also h
elped me add number six to my List of Things I Know about Andrew McCormack.

  6. Until about a year ago, his mother attended Cornerstone Church of Christ.

  This matters because of two reasons.

  One, it tells me at some point in time at least one member of his immediate family was religious. So having a youth leader contact the center to request a visitation isn’t totally out of left field.

  Two, since she hasn’t attended recently, there is reason to believe his mother would ask an actual youth leader to go see her son.

  I was almost able to keep my voice from shaking when I called the number listed on the website to request a visitation. I was so scared whoever answered would somehow know it was me on the line I went as far as turning out the lights in my bedroom before dialing. Because obviously that works when the person I’m talking to can’t even see me in the first place, right?

  But I was nervous, okay?

  And I’m nervous again now.

  I’ve been so nervous I really didn’t even let it sink in that not only will I be seeing him, but he’s going to be seeing me, too. It shouldn’t matter, but damn it, I want to look pretty, so it does.

  Maybe I should be worried about why, but I’m not ready to face all that.

  My wardrobe consists of about ninety-five percent dresses and skirts, and I realize I’m trying to talk myself into a pair of sensible pants after staring into my closet for a full five minutes. Why I suddenly think I’m walking into the lion’s den filled with unruly men who haven’t seen a woman in years is beyond me. For Christ’s sake, there are almost as many girls there as there are guys. Granted, they’re separated at all times, but still!

  I run my hands over the skirt still tucked away on the top shelf before getting back to the task at hand. For a second, I contemplate wearing it for the simple fact it’s the only article of clothing I own with any actual color on it. A stain, true, but still color.

  I settle on a dress with a fitted black top and a black and white striped skirt with a hemline long enough to be considered ‘youth leader appropriate’, but short enough so I don’t feel like I’m compromising my sense of style. Besides, that’s what tights are for, right? It may seem silly, but—as previously stated—I take clothing very, very seriously. By the time I’m dressed, there’s only half an hour left until I’m due at the Center.