by Parker Blue
"I'm fine,” I said. “Just a little sore."
"Did you check the mail?"
"The first's not until Friday. Today's the twenty-ninth,” I said.
"Sometimes it comes early."
The welfare check never came early. The state of Washington was very reliable when it came to issuing checks.
"Yeah, okay,” I said, not wanting to burst her bubble.
Wrapped in the towel, I took two steps into the living room/kitchen, reached under the table and pulled out the plastic crate containing my clean clothes. I dug around and found clean underwear, a tee shirt and a pair of cut-off shorts.
I slipped into my bra, once again thinking how cool it was I finally needed one. Though I hoped for peaches, I'd managed only to grow a pair of breasts roughly the size and shape of apricots. Oh, well, apricots are better than cherries. Our valley is called “The fruit bowl of the nation,” hence, my obsession with naming body parts after produce.
I slipped into my treacherous flip flops, headed out the door and spotted Uncle Sid darting behind the barn. Faye says Uncle Sid is not a people person but I thought he was just trying to avoid Aunt Sandra and her constant nagging. That woman's voice could make a corpse sit up and beg for mercy.
I trotted down the driveway, stopping suddenly when I spotted a pair of denim-clad legs sticking out from under the Jeep Wrangler parked next to Uncle Sid's house. Legs that belonged to Matt, Uncle Sid's son and older brother to spoiled brat, Tiffany.
How can one kid—Tiffany—be so annoying and the other—Matt—so totally hot? I tried to avoid Matt because of the way I got when I'm around him. Though I'm normally loquacious (last Wednesday's vocabulary word that I copied and vowed to use at least three times,) one look at Matt and I lost my power of speech. My jaw dropped and my mouth went dry. There's just something about him—sleepy blue eyes, light brown hair that usually needs combing, a crooked grin and a sculpted, rock-hard body.
It wasn't some creepy, incestuous thing since Matt and I weren't real cousins. Sid was Faye's step brother. Nope, we didn't have the same blood coursing through our veins. Matt's was probably blue, while mine came from the mystery man Faye refused to talk about.
I tiptoed past the Jeep to spare myself further humiliation. I'd almost made it when he rolled out on one of those sled thingies and grabbed my ankle. “Hey, kid, how ya doin'?"
The warmth of his hand against my bare skin turned my normally frisky brain cells to mush. Sure enough, my lower jaw was heading south. “Uh, just great, Matt,” I said, averting my eyes and licking my suddenly parched lips.
He released my ankle and stood up. “Good,” he said. “Your mom still got that . . . whaddaya call it?"
"Fibromyalgia.” As I said the word, I felt my upper lip curl in a sneer. “So she says."
"She getting better?"
"She's trying to get social security benefits, you know, the one for disability."
The words tasted bitter in my mouth.
"Oh yeah,” Matt said. “I saw Big Ed's car here the other night. He's her lawyer, right?"
My hands automatically curled into fists. I narrowed my eyes and studied Matt's face, looking for a smirk or maybe a suggestive wink. Even though I didn't want to punch him, I could and I would. I knew how to punch. Faye had made sure.
No problem. He'd moved on. Wonder of wonders, he was looking at me. I mean, really looking at me with those sexy blue eyes. His gaze lingered for a long moment on my chest. Whoa! Was he checking out my ‘cots? I was suddenly aware I'd outgrown my shorts and tee shirt. Not knowing what else to do, I shoved my hands into the pocket of my cut-offs and took a step back.
"Well, hey, I gotta go check the mail. See ya, Matt."
His voice followed me as I headed down the driveway. “Hey, kid. If you ever need a ride somewhere, let me know. I got the Jeep running real good."
Because my mouth had fallen open once again, I settled for a casual wave of acknowledgement even though I wanted to pump a fist in the air and scream, “YES!"
As I trotted to the mailbox, the late April sunlight warm on my shoulders, I pondered this strange turn of events. Even though he called me “kid,” clearly Matt had noticed a couple of new bulges on my formerly stick-like body. Hmmm. Had my tumble off the ladder, followed by the electric fence zapping, released some sort of male-attracting hormone?
In spite of my mini-triumph, Matt-wise, a dull headache began to throb painfully at the back of my skull. I opened the mailbox and, as predicted, Faye's check had not arrived. There was, however, a familiar tan envelope from the Social Security Office of Adjudication and Review. Probably another form for Faye to fill out asking questions like, “Are you able to push a grocery cart?” And, “Can you walk up a flight of stairs?” Questions Faye had already answered “No” and “No."
When I handed her the envelope, Faye sighed and dropped it, unopened, onto the pile of similar tan envelopes stacked between the bed and wall.
"Big Ed's coming tomorrow. I'll let him deal with it.” She looked pointedly at her watch.
I took the hint. It was time for Fay's nightly ritual, two slices of peanut butter toast and two cans of Busch Light. The menu varied only on Thursday night. Big Ed night. He always brought burgers, fries and a fifth of Stoli. Not that I'm around on Thursdays. No way. But, when I come home on Friday, the place smells of grease and vodka.
Let me make this crystal clear. Big Ed was Faye's lawyer, not her boyfriend. That was what Faye said. He'd been working day and night on her case for two years. That was what Big Ed said. Me? I had my doubts.
Later that night, I heard the sound of Faye's rhythmic breathing and tiptoed back to the bedroom. I gathered up the empties and the plate littered with peanut butter-smeared crusts and tossed them in the garbage.
Tomorrow was Thursday, Big Ed night. I'd be staying with Kizzy Lovell, the town witch. That was what a lot of kids called her. Since I wouldn't be home until Friday, I made sure I had clean underwear in my backpack.
As the evening wore on, my headache grew steadily worse. At ten, I turned out the light. I pulled the curtains back so I could see the night sky, a brilliant canopy of far-flung stars and a full-faced moon. I held my hand up to the window. Bathed in moonlight, my palm looked washed in silver, its tell-tale lines carved in dark relief by the unknown maker of my fate. I thought about the times Kizzy studied the lines on my palm and said, “You're a special girl, Alfrieda. Like it or not, you have the Gift."
Every time I'd say, “What gift?” Kizzy would smile mysteriously and say, “You'll see,” which really irritated me because, clearly, the only gift I had was the ability to get all-A's on my report card. Even that wasn't a gift, since I hated Algebra and had to work my butt off.
I had no sooner wrapped up in my faded pink quilt and snuggled into the couch bed when I remembered the aspirin and glass of water I'd placed by the bathroom sink before I brushed my teeth. I groaned and switched on the light. The bathroom was only a few steps away. But in my present state—cotton-mouthed and head pounding with pain—the distance seemed as vast as the Sahara Desert. I swung my feet to the floor and turned my head slowly toward the bathroom. I could see the glass of water perched on the counter like it was taunting me, “Come and get me, Allie."
I reached out a hand, thinking, It would be a whole lot easier if you came to me, and it happened again. The whole dark-around-the-edges, tunnel-vision, buzzing-in-the-head thing. The glass teetered back and forth, danced a little jig across the counter and shot into the air for a moment before it slammed onto the floor and shattered into about a jillion pieces.
"What the hell's going on, Allie?"
I looked up to see my mother standing in the narrow hallway. My hand, still extended toward the glass that wasn't there, shook violently. “I dropped it. That's all,” I said. “Go back to bed. I'll clean it up."
Faye's eyes narrowed in suspicion but finally, she turned and trudged back to the bedroom. When I opened the door and stepped outside to fetch the bro
om, I was greeted by a symphony of night music. Strangely, the pain in my head was gone. The soft spring air was alive with a chorus of crickets backed by a full orchestra of spring peepers, their mating songs accompanied by the tinkle of wind chimes.
But, hold on. We didn't have wind chimes. We'd never had wind chimes. I walked to the back of the trailer and stared up at the gnarled old apple tree next to Blaster's pasture. Nudged by a gentle breeze, long silver tubes bumped together, creating a melody with subtle variations as the air around them ebbed and flowed. It was stabilized by a dangling iridescent glass ball whose surface caught and held the moonlight.
Must be some prank of Matt's. Vowing I'd figure it out in the morning, I grabbed the broom, opened the door and froze. A woman sat on my couch bed. A woman with flowers in her long, dark hair, wearing a pink-and-yellow, tie-dye dress embellished with a blazing purple sun. A woman, smoking what looked and smelled like weed. I opened my mouth, preparing to scream so loudly and shrilly the shards of glass on the floor would shatter into even smaller pieces.
The woman said, “Hi. I'm Trilby, your spirit guide. Guess what? You just passed your first test. Isn't that groovy?"
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Chapter Two
I stepped inside and whisper-screamed, “Are you nuts?” while fanning the air and glancing back toward Faye's bedroom. Thank God, the door was closed. “Out!” I said. “I don't care who you are. Get out!"
All I could think was, Grounded for Life. Trust me, it's no picnic being grounded in a twenty-four-foot trailer.
Trilby giggled. “Oh, you're worried about Mom. It's okay. She can't hear me.” One of her fingers shot up. “Or see me.” A second finger joined the first. She got through “smell” and “taste” then stopped, looking puzzled. “I know there're five senses but I'll be damned if I can remember the last one."
"Who cares?” I jerked my thumb toward the door. “Outside,” I ordered. My voice was shrill with panic.
"Allie,” my mother called. “Who are you talking to?"
My heart leaped into my throat then settled in my chest, banging so loudly I was sure Faye would hear it and ask who was playing the drums. I flapped my hands at Trilby, frantic to be rid of her. She blew out air in disgust and rolled her eyes but rose from the couch and, in a blur of color and a blast of frigid air, disappeared.
"Nobody's here, Faye,” I said. “I have to memorize something for school. I'll go outside.” I backed out the door reciting, “We, the people of the United States, in order to form a more perfect union . . . “
"Cool, huh?” Trilby said from directly behind me.
I whirled around. “This isn't happening! I'm sound asleep in the middle of some stupid dream."
But then Trilby fluttered her fingers in my face—and I do mean inside my face—and said, “Neato. I didn't know I could do that.” She passed her hands through my body. “Wooooo! Are you scared?"
I jumped back, trying to wrap my mind around the fact I wasn't dealing with a flesh-and-blood woman, a living, breathing human being, but an apparition, a spook, a wraith. Swear to God, Trilby was a ghost! Not a particularly scary ghost, but most definitely a ghost.
I said the first thing that popped into my mind. “Scared? I don't think so! Look at you! Your lipstick is on crooked, your eyes are bloodshot, you're higher than a kite. And that ‘wooooo’ thing? It went out about a hundred years ago."
"That's just mean,” Trilby said, pouting. She plopped down in a lawn chair. “I'm trying to help you and you're messing with my groove."
I sat in the other chair and pointed at the wind chimes. “Yours?"
"Yeah, my signature touch. Nice, huh?"
I sucked in a shaky breath. “This is probably a dream, but why are you here? What do you mean, I passed the first test?"
Trilby straightened her shell-and-bead necklace then touched the peace sign painted on her wooden bracelet. She leaned toward me and narrowed her eyes. “You're my ticket out of a bad scene. If we do this right, I get to go up there."
She pointed at the sky.
I sniffed in disapproval. “Smoking weed can't help."
"Listen, little girl. I've been stuck in the SeaTac airport since 1971. Talk about hell!"
My mind swam with confusion. “SeaTac?"
"Yeah. Some of us aren't quite ready for the big crash pad in the sky. So we get to hang out at Concourse A, watch the planes take off, sleep on the floor, drink coffee and wait for ‘the call.’ You're it. So, cooperate, okay?"
"Focus, Trilby. What test did I pass?"
"At journey's end I lie close to her heart, the maid who is strong of mind,” she quoted. “You know, as per the prophecy. That one."
Trilby had to be in the middle of some sort of drug-induced hallucination. I wasn't sure how to deal with her but then, I reasoned, she was a ghost, so maybe this was typical ghostly behavior. I needed more information. “I have no idea what you're talking about."
"Hmmm,” she said, rolling her eyes heavenward. “I'm trying to remember my instructions. Today's the thirtieth. Right?"
"No,” I said. “It's the twenty-ninth. At least for another hour."
"Oh, damn, my timing sucks! You don't have it yet,” Trilby said. “I blew it."
Her lower lip quivered and she blinked hard to hold back tears.
Chagrined, I thought about poor Trilby, trapped forever in SeaTac Airport, Concourse A. I'd never been there but it didn't sound much like paradise.
"Okay, so it's the wrong day,” I said. “Maybe that's not so bad."
She brightened. “Do you really think so?"
"Tell me everything you remember about your instructions, starting with this thing I'm supposed to have."
Trilby started to answer then pinched her lips together and shook her head. “No,” she said. “If you don't have it, that part will have to wait."
"Have what?"
She fiddled with her beads. “I said, IT WILL HAVE TO WAIT!"
"Okay, okay.” I cast a nervous glance toward Faye's window. “You don't have to shout. Just tell me what you can."
"You have the sign on your palm, right?"
I thrust out a hand, palm up, and turned it toward Uncle Sid's yard light. She leaned toward me and traced a finger across my palm. Her feathery touch left a trail of light, and I gasped in surprise.
"Yep, you've got it."
She touched the tiny red mark in the middle of my forehead. “And you had an unusual experience today."
I told her about Blaster running backward and the flying glass.
"All right!” She pumped a fist in the air. “I'm not totally screwed. TKP. Telekinetic power. The ability to move things with your mind. You did it. You're ‘the maid whose mind is strong.’ Oh, this is so groovy!"
I still didn't understand. “What's next?"
"Oh, it gets much better. See ya around, kid. I gotta get back."
"Wait! Wait!” I said as she started to fade away. “Next time write the instructions down. That's what Mrs. Burke makes us do in English class."
Too late. Trilby was gone.
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Chapter Three
The next morning I stood out by the road with Mercedes and Manny Trujillo, waiting for the school bus and thinking about Trilby and wondering if I'd dreamed her. The wind chimes were gone. I checked. Maybe she took them with her to wherever . . . SeaTac airport if you can believe a ghost. Or, maybe it didn't happen at all.
I almost told Manny and Mercedes about the night. But they believed in things like vampires, werewolves and wendigos, whatever those were. Manny and Mercedes thought that stuff came from the devil. I was afraid they'd think the devil had paid me a visit, and they'd stop hanging out with me. I didn't have that many friends.
I had to talk to Kizzy and find out what the heck was happening to me. Was this the Gift she kept talking about? And, more importantly, could I get rid of it? Maybe there's an exchange counter where a person can go to return special gifts, li
ke I returned the hideous pea-green stocking cap Aunt Sandra gave me for Christmas.
Before I could get answers to my questions, I was faced with a more pressing problem. Namely, protecting Mercedes and Manny from our arch enemy, Cory Philpott. The Trujillos lived on Uncle Sid's property. Their mother, Juanita, cleaned Aunt Sandra's house and Pedro, their dad, ran the Mexican crews that did all the hard work in the orchard.
Manny and Mercedes were way too nice. With seven kids and two parents sharing a three-bedroom house, it seemed like they'd know how to defend themselves. They didn't. Apparently that was my job. Cory Philpott lived to torment Manny and Mercedes.
At exactly 7:45, the bus rolled to a stop and the doors opened with a groan and hiss. We formed a single-file line. It was always the same. First me, then Mercedes, then Manny.
Patti, our vertically-challenged bus driver, used a booster cushion, had big hair, dagger-like fingernails, and a deep, raspy voice due to the pack of unfiltered Camels tucked in her shirt pocket. She greeted us as she always did, with high fives and our special name.
"Hey, Gorgeous Green-eyed Girl,” she said to me. (Sometimes just “G.")
"Sweet Cheeks!” she exclaimed as Mercedes plodded up the steps.
"There's my Stud Muffin,” she said to Manny, whose moon face split in a broad grin.
We made our way down the aisle as Patti ground the gears and lurched out onto the road. As usual, the only seats left were next to Cory Philpott, whose evil, troll face brightened as we approached. I gave him a squinty-eyed glare as Mercedes slipped into her spot next to the window.
He looked away from me and hissed at Manny, “Hey, beaner boy. Your backpack full of tacos? Do you share with your big-ass beaner sister?"