Once the threat is contained, the teachers move everyone out of the cafeteria and into a safe zone. Dejana, Logan, and I go together to the Texaco gas station just across the street. It’s easily accessible and the first location in an emergency where students are sent to wait for their parents to pick them up. Since both Dejana and Logan drive to school, we are the lucky ones that can leave, as long as we have our parents’ permission. I call Mary at the vet school of the University of Georgia where she works as the senior admissions director.
“Are you sure you’re okay, Aim?” she asks in her concerned voice that, of late, seems constantly on edge. Ever since the fire at our house set by the killer, Mary hasn’t been quite herself. Or rather, she is herself, just a more paranoid version.
“Yes, I’m perfectly fine. We were very far away from what happened and Logan was with me the entire time,” I add, knowing that she worries less when Logan is with me. Since he was the one who helped save us from the fire in our home, he has become my own personal bodyguard in her eyes. Not that I mind.
“Well, okay then, sweetie. Just please text me when you get to Dejana’s house. I don’t want you to be alone right now and I can’t get out of here for at least another hour.”
“Thanks. I promise that I’ll be home in time for dinner,” I say trying my best to ease the worry that is her ever-constant companion now. It isn’t easy loving someone who’s cursed.
I say goodbye to Mary and push the end button at the same time as Dejana. We look at each other and laugh; sometimes we are so in sync I wonder if she isn’t really my sister.
Grateful to have this day completed, we all walk to the student parking lot adjacent to the memorial. We pass through the garden they erected filled with every flower imaginable, careful not to tromp on any of the delicate petals. As we pass by the freestanding plaque with the names of each student who died in the bombing that cold day in September, we kiss our hands and lightly touch it. It is our way of showing tribute to the fallen. Even more so for the three of us, since we know the truth of the horror brought to light that day from beneath the rubble.
Chapter Three
~ No One Knows What Lies Within ~
Dejana’s house isn’t far from school, so within minutes we’re dropping our book bags by the back door and settling in for a snack since our lunch was interrupted. Dejana grabs some chips and dip from the pantry while I take out three Cokes from the fridge. We all gather around her huge wooden kitchen table and dig into the food.
None of us are talking since each of us is caught up in our own thoughts about what happened in the cafeteria just an hour ago. I keep seeing the shocked look on Mr. Hardigree’s face as the knife entered his gut. That isn’t something you so easily forget. And why was the boy so surprised when he finally realized what he had done? It was like the blood brought him back to reality. But where did he go in the first place? What did he expect would happen after stabbing Mr. H? That he would get back up, laugh, and just skip away?
That boy must have been on drugs. I hear some kids sniff bath salts to get high. Maybe that’s what happened and he had some adverse reaction. That makes the most sense to me.
I’m brought out of my shell of memories by the crunching sound of my friends enjoying their snack. I’m the first to break the silence.
“So, what do you guys think happened to that boy? I was thinking maybe it was a bad reaction to drugs or something,” I say, trying to break the ice a bit.
Beside me, Logan draws in a deep breath like he is reluctant to say what he feels he must. “His name is Eddie Mitchell. He’s on the lacrosse team. He’s one of the nicest guys I know, and I’ve never seen him act like that. And in answer to your question, Aim, I don’t think it was drugs. He treats his body like a temple. Maybe he just lost it, ya know? Exams are coming up and getting into college is getting tougher and tougher. So maybe he just snapped,” finishes Logan, clearly not buying into his own theory.
To my right, Dejana stays silent. I am fairly sure that she doesn’t know him, but even as her best friend, I don’t know all of her secrets. I see a tear fall down her face and sigh. She does know him after all.
“Dejana, are you okay? Do you want to talk about it?” I ask hesitantly. The last thing I want to do is talk about it, but like any good friend, I also want to do what is best for her.
Dejana shoves chips into her mouth like they might disappear, and pointedly ignores me. I look to my left and see Logan doing the same thing. Well, this isn’t awkward at all.
“So... This is fun. But how about we do something else? Anyone up for some Ping-Pong or air hockey? Dejana has the best basement game room around,” I point out in a hopeful voice.
Anything is better than this silence. I’ve lived too long alone in the dark to ever want to hear the sound of silence again.
Both of them perk up, grateful to have something other than bloodshed to think about. Logan smiles and nudges Dejana; a silent message every girl seems to understand, even though we aren’t given any kind of instruction book for boys. Dejana takes a swig of Coke, sets it down loudly on the table, looks me straight in the eyes, and states, “I’m game. But I get Logan on my team, Aimee, cause you suck at sports amiga.”
I don’t even get the chance to pretend to be offended because Dejana looks playfully at me and Logan, touches both of us lightly on the arms, and says, “Tag. You’re it!” before running down to the basement. Logan follows her deftly, using his strong legs and years of running for sports to not only catch up with Dejana, but to dodge in front of her and take a flying leap down the stairs to the basement two at a time. From the kitchen, I can hear her scolding him playfully as I lag behind to shove one more chip into my mouth. I chew slowly as I smile and make my way to the basement door, enjoying this perfectly normal teenage moment. I completely ignore that gnawing feeling in the pit of my stomach saying that it isn't going to last.
* * * *
After four hours of playing mindless games with an eclectic selection of music blaring in the background, all was officially right with the world again. As much as I loathe for the fun to end, reality calls. Whether I like it or not, it's time to go forth into the big bad world again. I promised Mary I would be home by dinner, which is usually around six o’clock, so I’d better get a move on or she'll worry, especially after what happened in the cafeteria today.
After losing yet another game of Ping-Pong to Dejana, I throw down my paddle and it lands with a thud on the table.
“Sore loser huh, Aim?” she teases as she tosses the tiny, evil, impossible-to-hit, white ball in her hand. Even though she isn’t paying a bit of attention to it, each toss lands perfectly back into her cupped hand. Show off.
“Nope, I bow to your highness, the queen of Ping-Pong,” I say as I give her a mock bow. “I am but a lowly peasant, grateful for the ass whooping.”
Dejana laughs heartily and shakes her head at me. “You got that right girl. Learn your lesson well or I’ll have to give you another beat down.”
From the corner, I hear Logan laugh. I turn to the deep sound of mirth coming from an oversized black leather chair next to the stereo system. Everything in Dejana’s basement is top of the line. I guess having a lawyer for a father and a doctor for a mother offers certain advantages in life. And those advantages are seen everywhere in her museum-like mini-mansion they call a house. Logan is scrolling through his iPod, trying to find another song. I make my way over to the chair and lean over a bit to look at it with him. Logan moves so fast, I don’t even see it. One second I am watching him scroll, the next I am sprawled across his lap, gasping and doing my best to get up. His grip is like iron though, and he anchors me to the spot. I look into Logan’s face and see a mischievous look in his eyes. One I have become more and more familiar with these past few months; and one against which I am powerless.
“Let me up, Logan,” I command in my best assertive voice. He isn’t buying it.
“I’ll let you up, but it is going to cost you,”
he warns.
Butterflies invade my stomach as I contemplate the odds of me getting away before he states his offer. I look at Dejana for help, but see that she has disappeared. Not sure now if I want to thank her or punch her, I put on my best stern face and look back at Logan, intent on telling him I am not a person to be trifled with, but the look on his face stops me cold. I see seriousness in his eyes, the likes of which I haven’t seen since Tyler stabbed me in the torture room in the middle of nowhere. It was a miracle that Dejana found us in time to save us. But even that came with a price. A price I am not willing to pay again. Ever.
“What’s wrong?” I ask as I sit up in his lap and place my gloved hands on his shoulder. “Please tell me,” I plead.
Logan’s hands placed on either side of my waist tighten and curl, crunching up bits of my black shirt. His stare gives nothing away except that he’s struggling; yet struggling with what, I have no idea. His brow furrows deep in thought, and he stares at me in such a strange way, it makes me wish I could get up and leave. Yet here I stay, mesmerized by his eyes and anchored by his hands. I place my gloved hand on his face in a silent plea for him to come back to me. The minute he feels my glove against his skin, the intense stare is gone. His eyes begin to refocus and he blinks multiple times in an effort to clear his thoughts and confusion. Logan looks around the luxurious, albeit empty, basement.
“Where did Dejana go?” he asks in a completely normal voice, as if the last minute never happened. After such a weird day, I decide to let it go. My mind honestly can't handle any more weirdness.
“No idea where she went. How about we go and find her?” I suggest as I move off his lap and offer my gloved hand for him to take. Logan shakes off his confusion and accepts my hand with a smile.
“With you by my side, girl, I would go anywhere,” he states, his lip curving up into the familiar sexy lopsided smile. Together, we climb the steps to the second floor kitchen and find Dejana raiding the fridge.
“You two have fun while I was gone?” she asks, not even bothering to come out of the fridge and look at us as she speaks. “I know you don’t get a lot of alone time at either of your houses. Good thing my parents work all the time.”
Realizing that Dejana must be alone a great deal, I decide to invite her for dinner. Her family may be loaded, but both her parents also live for their jobs. It doesn’t leave much time for Dejana.
“Hey, do you want to come and have dinner with me?” I ask her, hoping I sound nonchalant. She finally comes out from the depths of the fridge with a leftover chicken finger from Chick-fil-A in her mouth.
“And miss all this greatness?” she says sarcastically, motioning with her hand towards her house. “No, thank you.”
I sometimes forget how proud she is, how hard it is for her to ask anyone for anything. Despite her popularity and her great personality, she doesn’t seem to mind being alone.
“Besides,” she adds, “I need to stay here and complete my painting for AP art design. But thanks for the invite, amiga,” she finishes, gently nudging me with her hip to soften declining.
Logan and I say our goodbyes and climb into his Nissan once again to head home. We drive in relative silence, the hum of the car lulling me into a pensive state. For the first time today, I welcome the silence. So many strange things have happened since I woke this morning and I don’t want to open myself up to any more occurrences. Besides, after the episode in the basement with Logan going all weird on me, I’m afraid to say much of anything for fear it will happen again.
We arrive at my house, just a short ten minutes away from Dejana’s neighborhood, and I see the light on in the kitchen. Mary is home and cooking. I hope I’m not too late. I grab my book bag and look awkwardly at Logan. We don’t kiss goodbye like normal couples since I am still very leery of any kind of contact. But we don’t need kisses; our bond is stronger than that. Our bond brought me back from the dead; he brought me back. When I died, I saw an image of him in a lake. I left behind all the beauty of heaven for the promise that was him. Since then, he has shown me exactly how awesome it can be to live. I look at him with all the love I have yet to divulge and say my usual departure line.
“Only for a little while,” I state, my voice cracking a bit.
“Or five minutes past forever,” he returns with his usual departure line.
I exit the car and run to the front door, pull out my keys from my pocket, and let myself into the house. In the kitchen, I can hear familiar sounds of cooking. I drop everything and head straight there, hoping to help at least a little bit with the preparation. I am not the kind of teenager that takes a parent for granted. I spent my whole life in and out of foster care. I know what it is to be unloved, unwanted, and to live on the streets. I know what secrets lurk behind the façade of the happy family. I will take Mary over that crap any day. So, I do what I can to make her life a little bit easier.
I push open the revolving door to the kitchen and see Mary, dressed in her dark blue pantsuit, and cooking in heels. She put her long blonde hair up with a two small chopsticks she keeps in the cutlery drawer. For a woman in her mid-forties, she is in top shape and the ideal weight. She watches what she eats and tries to see the good in life. I accidentally absorbed her memories shortly after I came to live with her. I saw nothing but good, kind thoughts and a willingness to help people. I knew then that I never wanted to leave her.
She is singing a song as she cooks, the steam rising up and flushing her cheeks. She tastes the broth the chicken is cooking in and declares it is ready for consumption. She turns to the already set table to put the pot full of chicken on it and jumps slightly, startled to see me standing there in the kitchen.
“Oh Aimee, you scared me! When did you get in, hon?” she asks, thankfully nonplussed by my late arrival.
“Just now, actually. Sorry I’m late. I meant to be home in time to help you make dinner.”
“No worries,” she says cheerily. “I decided that I had done enough today and left a bit early so I could cook you dinner. I hope you’re in the mood for chicken.”
“Sure,” I respond, a bit taken back by this change of events. As nice as Mary is, she still expects me to hold up my end of the household; which includes cleaning toilets, keeping the living room free of clutter, and helping cook dinners. We usually cook together, seamlessly moving around the kitchen, lending our talents to whatever is needed. I am pretty good at cutting; she specializes in adding spices to dishes that make them taste amazing. I look at her bustling around the kitchen, dinner completed and on the table, and I wonder why she really came home early.
I wash my hands and we both sit down at the table. Mary serves me chicken and mashed potatoes before offering me a roll. We eat in silence for a minute before I hear Mary clear her throat beside me. A clear indicator that she is about to talk, and I am not going to like it one bit.
“So,” she begins, “how are you handling what happened at school today? I hear it got pretty rough in there.”
So that’s what this is all about. Cooking dinner alone, not being upset at my late arrival; it’s all out of concern for my mental well-being and how I’m dealing with what happened today at lunch with Mr. Hardigree. Damn, this is going to turn into a therapy session. I hate talking about my feelings almost as much as I hate touching people. Nah, the suckiness that is talking about feelings wins hands down.
“I’m fine, really,” I state emphatically as I shove food into my mouth. Mary always says one can’t talk with a full mouth. I just might get out of this. Besides, the sooner I get this food down, the sooner I can escape to my room.
“You don’t seem fine. In fact, you look far from fine. Unless of course shoving food into your mouth like it’s going to disappear is the definition of fine,” she points out.
I say nothing, which is an obvious invitation for Mary to continue.
“In fact, avoidance therapy is the stage after shock. What you experienced in the cafeteria today must have shaken you, and your mind h
as shut it away so you don’t have to experience it again. Pretending nothing happened is the mind’s best defense against horror, and the least effective at dealing with the problem.”
Shock? Really? I know that Mary is aware of my curse, but I am certain now more than ever that she doesn’t truly understand it. If she did, she would know that I already house hundreds of ‘shocking’ memories. I don’t need to avoid them; I can relive them at any time. Shock would be a blessing for some of the feelings that I have experienced over the years—especially the last few months after absorbing Tyler’s memories of murder and mayhem. Avoidance therapy you say, Mary? I wish it were that easy.
With truly nothing to add to the conversation, I shove another spoonful of mashed potatoes into my mouth. I am three more spoonfuls away from freedom. I keep my head down and concentrate on my plate, hoping Mary gets the hint that I don’t want to talk about my feelings. Mainly because I want to protect her from all the horrible and disgusting memories I deal with daily. If she knew what memories I harbored in my mind, she’d hire an in house therapist and never let her leave my side.
The sound of a fork hitting the floor startles me. I look up from my mashed potatoes and see Mary holding her head. Despite my earlier annoyance, concern instantly fills me.
I wouldn’t say Mary is a delicate flower per say, but her stint in the hospital almost dying from smoke inhalation has definitely made her more fragile. Hell, it would soften most people. Most normal people at least. For a freak like me, facing death and coming out the other end damaged but alive, changed me. It has made me hard, unbending, and unwilling to let anything I love come to harm. Some would call that strength. Most would call it stubborn. I just call it my life.
“Mary, are you okay?” I ask in a soft voice, careful not to startle her.
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