The next day, I spot her in the hall after my Geosystems class and trail at a distance. When she opens her locker, I wait nearby. She checks her phone, apparently not in any rush, which is good since the hallway keeps clearing. The bell rings a minute later and it’s just the two of us left in the hall. Lauren slips a book into her backpack while I lurk silently nearby wondering what to say.
Suddenly, she turns to face me. “So, are you maybe impersonating a stalker?”
My eyes shoot around as if she might be talking to someone else. My face grows warm. Not a great start, obviously, but I decide to forge ahead. “Hey, Lauren. How’s it going?”
She frowns, then slings her backpack over her shoulder. “Okay.”
I’m not sure if she even knows who I am. At school, I fly under the radar as much as possible. “Sorry, I’m Jack.”
“I know. The quiet guy in Algebra last year. Sat in the back and spent most of his time writing what looked like lyrics in his notebook.”
She noticed I was writing lyrics? She’d been two desks away the entire time. Talk about observant.
“But you followed me for a reason,” she says. “Or did you just get so absorbed in one of your little sonnets that you became disoriented?”
Man, she’s a killer. I’m not feeling so sure about this now. “No, I followed you.”
Lauren narrows her eyes. “So, you are stalking me.”
“Honestly, I’m not stalking you!” My words echo down the hall. A moment later, I hear footsteps approach from a distance. Perfect.
A smile tugs at the corner of her mouth. Amusement shows in her eyes. She was just messing with me and I walked right into it. Nicely played. I can’t help crack a smile even while my face burns.
“Glad we cleared that up,” Lauren says. “What’s going on? We’re almost out of time before we get detention.”
Suddenly, I’m not sure where to start. Does she experience things like I do? How does it work for her?
“Well, there’s this guitar,” I say. “A thing happened when I picked it up. It’s hard to explain but I got this sort of—” I stop there. The footsteps grow louder.
Lauren’s expression changes to curious. “What did you get?”
“I saw something. And sort of heard something.”
Lauren considers, her eyes on mine. “Sounds like an energy transfer. No biggie but it freaked you out, obviously.”
“I wouldn’t say it freaked me out, exactly. More like it sort of—”
“Scared the crap out of you. Got it. Has that sort of thing happened before?”
“Sort of. Not exactly.”
“What’s your phone number?”
I tell her and Lauren’s thumbs dash at her phone. Mine buzzes in my pocket.
“I should get to class.” She gestures to a door about two feet away. “You have my number.”
My class is half-way across the school.
A second later, Lauren arrives late for class and I get detention.
3
Pajama Boy and the Resonant Object
That night, my parents make me go to one of Caitlin’s dance recitals. Caitlin’s only thirteen so I understand the part about being supportive. And it’s not like I stare into space while she performs. I watch and I’m truly impressed with her skill. At the same time, dance isn’t really my thing and it’s not like I force my music on my parents or sister. Most of the time, they ask me to turn down my amp when I’m practicing and my parents won’t let us jam in our garage. That part, I’m used to. But I have a ton of homework and should be studying for exams next week. Still, I wait it out, not complaining. I know better.
We get some dinner after and it’s pushing nine by the time we’re heading home. I stare out the window as we cruise through the dark, past all those big houses and bright lamp posts. I’m sure many people would think Edmonds is a perfect town. Safe, good schools, pretty parks and annual community events. But I grew up here, so I know this town is a little too perfect. There’s not a whole lot of acceptance if you deviate from the norm—the norm being white, straight, conservative and superficial. There’s also no shortage of money in Edmonds so almost everyone lives in giant houses and drives shiny new cars.
We’re no different and maybe that’s the part that bothers me. We too have plenty of money and a giant house on a huge piece of property. My parents drive shiny new cars. We have lightning fast internet and massive televisions. Pretty much, you name it and we have it. After all, my father runs a law firm named after him three times.
Sometimes I imagine being part of a different family. In my imaginary family, my parents are creative people who sometimes forget to comb their hair. They wear faded jeans and sweatshirts and splatter paint while working on artistic projects. They make sculptures in the living room. My imaginary parents listen to current music on alternative radio stations. Sometimes they listen to jazz and blues too (I’m totally fine with that). I picture them being well-educated, but at the same time doing what they love rather than what they think they should to keep up with everyone else. In a word, they’re cool. I’m on the fence about having siblings in my imaginary family. I’d probably be okay with that too but I just haven’t spent a lot of time imagining who they might be.
Where have these images come from? A fantasy, obviously. And it isn’t like it matters. My imagination can do whatever it wants but I’m still stuck in my actual life. At least I get to be around Doug’s and Justin’s families sometimes. Maybe it’s ironic that they’re both from families on the outside of the whole Edmonds affluence thing. Doug’s dad is a carpenter and Justin’s family owns a pizza and sub place. But the thing is, I’ve been around their families enough to know they’re way happier than we are. They actually smile and laugh. They have favorite shows they watch together. At the same time, being around their families sometimes just reminds me how much I feel like an outsider in my own.
When we get home, I spend an hour plowing through math and drafting an essay on The Scarlet Letter for English, which is at least in keeping thematically with my earlier thoughts about our conformist town. It’s after ten when I’m staring at Lauren’s number and wondering if it’s too late. I drift off, thinking about the way her hair frames her face and the intensity of her eyes. I think about her full lips and the curve of her hips. I wonder what it would be like to kiss her. I force myself to stop fantasizing. I’m not doing myself any good and it’s also not getting any earlier.
I send a text. are you up? (Not exactly a brilliant start, I realize.)
Of course.
sorry. wasn’t sure (Kind of pathetic. I’m on a roll so far.)
Do you know how to form capital letters? Use the shift key. Are you stalking again?
no!
To which, stalking or forming capital letters?
neither. I mean Neither!
Seriously? Never mind. Is this about the guitar?
Yes (Face burning, but proper capitalization.)
Sentences end in a period. Even short ones. For example: “Yes.” (She hates me, for sure.)
My phone buzzes and I jump. For some reason, I ruled out that possibility. “Um, hello?” I say.
“Um, hello to you too,” Lauren says. “You know, you could have just called. A quaint custom, I realize.”
I wish I could see her expression. I think I hear a smile but I’m not sure. “But it’s kind of late.”
“It’s ten-fifteen. But okay, in this town that’s considered late. Are you like all in your jammies?”
Actually, I am like all in my jammies. Not that I wear actual pajamas but I’m wearing the sweat pants and T-shirt I’ll be sleeping in. But I fake-laugh and say, “No, I was just—”
“You’re totally in your jammies.”
“Why would I lie?”
“I’m not sure,” Lauren says. “Why would someone lie about that? Kind of weird. Anyway, tell me what happened with that guitar you found.”
I tell her about being drawn to the Telecaster and how, when I
picked it up, the world around me basically vanished and I saw that woman onstage. About that moment when it seemed like she looked right at me. I hesitate, then tell Lauren how I imagined hearing her.
A few moments of silence follow. Then, Lauren says, “Why do you think you imagined it? You experienced it, right?”
The thing is, I’ve given that part a lot of thought. In that moment, it really did feel like she looked right at me. As for what she said, it wasn’t like I actually heard her with my ears. I heard her inside my head.
“I don’t know,” I say. “I’ve never experienced anything like it before.”
“Fair enough. Let me ask you this—did your friends have any sort of reaction to the guitar? You know, were they curious, did they get a feeling about it? Anything like that?”
I think back to Gary talking about his past, trying to recall if Justin or Doug even noticed the old Telecaster while to me it suddenly seemed like the only thing in the room. “Nothing like that,” I say. “It was just me. I had to check it out.”
A pause. Did she yawn? I think I heard her yawn. “Then my guess is you’re the intended recipient. That part seems clear.”
“Recipient of what?”
“The resonant object.” By her tone of voice, I can almost see Lauren shrug.
“Resonant object? What does that mean?”
A second or two ticks by. “Well, that would be an object that resonates. At least, for you.”
Helpful. “But what’s a—? Never mind. I’m assuming you mean the guitar.”
“Definitely. You need to get it.”
“How?”
“I guess you could buy it,” Lauren says. “Sorry, but I should probably finish my homework. It’s getting late.”
“But you just said it wasn’t late.”
“Whatever. Have a good night, Pajama Boy.”
~~~
At first, I’m not sure why I wake up in the middle of the night. I listen but the house is perfectly still. It’s just me, alone in the dark. At least, that’s what I think until I notice the outline of a man standing in the corner of my room—a dimly glowing silhouette that can’t possibly be there. I close my eyes and open them again. He still stands there, only he’s solidified a little. I sit up, heart hammering in my chest. I stare across the room. He looks young, maybe in his late twenties, hair reaching almost to his shoulders. I keep staring at him and he seems to be staring back.
“Is this about the guitar?” I say, even though it makes no sense. But it doesn’t have to make sense. Obviously, I’m dreaming. Telling myself this doesn’t help when he suddenly flickers forward and stands next to my bed. I rear back, wanting to call out but my throat seizes. I sit there gulping like a fish.
Then he’s gone. There’s just darkness where he stood even as his image continues to fade from my retinas.
I don’t sleep after that. I stare at the ceiling, eyes wide, until sunrise. I wonder if I should see a psychiatrist or ask my parents to schedule a CAT scan. Maybe I have a brain tumor or something. I’m used to unusual things happening but I’ve definitely turned some sort of corner. Finally, I climb out of bed to the sound of birds chirping outside. I go to my desk, pick up my phone and see a text from Lauren.
Don’t rule out spectral visits. Probably should have mentioned that.
4
Reverse This Curse
It shocks me a little to see Lauren sitting in the cafeteria the next day. She has a way of coming and going from school at odd hours, disappearing from classes and then reappearing days later. No one knows why, although her grades are always rumored to be perfect (which might explain the leeway she’s allowed). Either way, one thing about her behavior always remains consistent—she never joins the rest of us in the cafeteria at lunchtime. And who could blame her?
Like Edmonds, Patrick Henry High isn’t the most accepting kind of place. At Patrick Henry, those less than perfect and popular do their best to remain invisible. This tactic applies to the cafeteria too, of course, which means imperfect people gather around tables at the back of the room—tables which might as well have “Losers Sit Here” banners above them.
Justin, Doug and I aren’t quite that looked down upon, although we aren’t too far off. Not exactly fitting into the loser class, we’re considered more mutants with some acceptable traits. Justin, for example, has a deserved reputation as a math genius and runs killer hurdles on the track team. Doug kicks ass at soccer and it wouldn’t surprise anyone if he bench-pressed a rhino. As for me, three words: Atkinson, Atkinson and Atkinson. In Edmonds, a respectable family history is usually enough to do the trick (even though, in almost every other respect, I should qualify as an outcast). Accordingly, we typically claim one of the tables near the back but not fully in the social shadows.
Either way, we’d never sit at the table Lauren now occupies alone. Did she know what she was doing when she claimed the premier table, front and center? This doesn’t appear to concern her as she sits reading a tattered copy of Hetalia. She locks her eyes on mine and curls in her index finger, that smile of hers tugging at the corner of her mouth. I have to admit, I don’t mind this part one bit.
“What’s up with that?” Doug says. “That chick scares me.”
“Dude, are you seeing her or something?” Justin says. “Awesome.”
“We’re just friends,” I say.
“You should change that,” Justin says.
I join Lauren while a bunch of flustered, perfect people mill around, glaring and not quite sure where to set their trays. Evidently, Lauren scares them too.
“We appear to be throwing nature out of balance,” I say.
Lauren rolls her eyes. “Just ignore them. They really hate that. So, did you get the guitar?”
“We talked yesterday. How could I have gotten it already?”
She shrugs. “I don’t know, but I really think you should.”
“Are you sure? I mean, it could have been just some random—”
“Did you have a visitor last night?” Lauren seems to be having fun. Her eyes shine with curiosity.
I think back to her text that morning. “How did you know?”
She nods and sets her book down. “Confusion understandable. I didn’t actually know but I had a feeling. And I trust my feelings. I also had a dream about it.” Lauren’s cheeks redden but I barely have time to consider the fact that she had a dream involving me, before she adds, “It’s more common than you think when this sort of thing happens. Obviously, that guitar you found meant a lot to someone. Enough that you picked up on all that energy. But the thing is, living people usually move on. They find new objects. So, it occurred to me that your lady friend might just be a ghost. Don’t worry, you get used to them. My place is like ghost central.”
She has to be kidding, except for the fact that I spent the night waiting for the sun to rise. I’ve still been trying to convince myself it was a dream. A long dream in which I remained awake the whole time.
“It wasn’t her,” I say.
Lauren’s eyes widen. “Seriously, it was a different ghost?”
She doesn’t try to keep her voice down, whereas I pretty much whisper, “I’m just saying I saw a guy.”
“Cool! Did you two have a conversation?”
“Sort of.”
Lauren stares at me.
“Problem?” I say.
“I was joking. That almost never happens.” She leans in closer. “You’re not lying, right?”
I shake my head. “Not lying. I asked him if it was about the guitar and he sort of got in my face before disappearing again.”
Lauren raises an eyebrow, thinks for a moment, then says, “This is going to be fun. Call me when you get the guitar, okay?”
With that, she gets up and leaves the cafeteria, throwing nature further out of balance by leaving me alone at the prime piece of real estate. I don’t linger. It’s not exactly an address I ever wanted to live at.
~~~
Now, I face two dilemmas
. First, I have to find a way to get the guitar even though I have almost no money. Second, I have to get the guitar when it’s the last thing I want to do. After all, the guitar brought with it visions, voices and a ghost in my bedroom. Still, the guitar has also brought Lauren into my life—a girl who previously showed no awareness of me being alive. Not that she pays a lot of attention to anyone else, but that just makes her interest that much more intriguing as far I’m concerned.
There’s something else I admit to myself. I don’t just want to know Lauren because she’s hot in a dark, kind of scary, way. Or because she might be able to crack the code on that guitar flash. Her existence in our town also means I’m not totally alone in the world. That there’s someone else out there—in real life, not on television or in movies—who suffers from the same condition of knowing things they can’t possibly know and don’t want to know. I definitely have to get that guitar.
But how? I have less than fifty dollars remaining from Christmas cards and that sort of thing. I have my “savings” from various odd jobs over the years, such as raking and mowing lawns, but I don’t even know where that money is. My parents deposited it into some sort of “college savings” account as some sort of plan intended to teach me responsibility. Either way, that isn’t going to cut it. Which means asking my father, bread winner and hence finance czar of our family. Thankfully, he’s been pretty upbeat lately after representing a development company whose proposal to build on a wildlife habitat met with objections from a local environmental group. His argument: the herons, deer and beavers can easily find a new place to call home. Right now, job creation and economic stimulation matter more. The result: Soon, we’ll have more condos for sale alongside the river.
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