Bees. NO!
I cough and cough, though there are no obstructions in my throat. The tickle is only my imagination.
When I reach the safety of the ring of light at the front of the cabin, I check my arms. I have only the smallest of red blotches, and those may be from the branches on the trail.
I bang on the cabin door until Julie opens it, wearing heart-dotted flannel pajamas and rubbing her eyes.
“Facepuncher?” she asks, looking left and right of my head for her brother.
“No. Twins this time.”
She shrugs. “Someone's gotta get some,” she says, which is unusual for Julie. She's usually disgusted at her brother's sexual exploits.
We go inside and I sit at the little kitchen table with the peeling blue paint, trying to make sense of the evening—the whole day, really. Under the blue paint on the table is green, and under that, red. What color is the table? What does anything even mean?
Julie produces a mug of hot cocoa and I am grateful—times infinity—for the beverage and the human company.
“I was totally asleep for a bit,” she says, tossing mini marshmallows into her own mug. “Did you know, before the Industrial Revolution, people would have two sleeps? They'd go to bed right after dark, then wake up later and hang out for a bit before going back for the second sleep.”
“Before light bulbs?”
“Yeah.”
“I believe it,” I say.
After a few more sips, my jaw finally stops shaking. I didn't realize it was trembling until it stopped.
“I nearly killed myself out there,” I say.
She sets her mug down hard, with a bang. “We have to get you proper mental help.”
“No, no, I'm not depressed. I was trying to work my bee power. My so-called defensive power.”
She asks me to continue, so I tell her what happened, as best as I can make sense of it all.
When I'm done, she asks, “You're sure you didn't imagine all this bee stuff? Bees do not live inside people, whatsoever.”
Everything happened so fast, but some of the ash remains on my hands, which I hold out to her. “They disintegrated into these ashes. That's not regular dirt.”
“That dust? Could have come from the bonfire.”
“It didn't. I'm telling you, the bees were really there, and they were clumping together, all angry.”
“Bees do have a swarming instinct,” Julie says. “When one bee stings someone or something, she lets out a pheromone to drive the other bees crazy. Well, not crazy. They're just doing what they're programmed to do, for the survival of the hive.”
“Since when do you know about bees?”
“Uh, since they keep stinging me? Know the enemy, I say.”
“I'm sorry.”
She catches me under the chin with her finger. “Don't apologize. I know you didn't mean it. James and I are going to help you with this, because that's what friends do. I could ask my family doctor for a referral to a good psychiatrist.”
“Ugh. Julie! I'm not crazy or depressed, and I'm not going to a psychiatrist.”
“We both saw that dead body. There's trauma counseling, I think. Didn't that cop lady say we could talk to someone for free? Deal-io! Hey, we could go in as a couple. That would be funny.”
“You're doing okay though. No nightmares or anything, right? That scene was pretty gruesome.”
She fidgets with the mini marshmallows, licking their flat sides and gluing them into towers. “Actually, I don't think about it much, though I do want to drive by there and look at the place again sometime, just to see everything standing there, real and solid. Seems almost like something that happened on TV, or to someone else.”
I think about what Ms. Mikado has said in class about memory, and how time is supposed to dull our pain and highlight our joy, when our brains are working properly.
“That's good,” I say. “A little disassociation seems healthy.”
She makes explosion sounds as she flicks over her marshmallow towers.
I catch her hand in mine and give her what I imagine is a weak smile. Julie's so pretty, not like her brother, who looks like her but without the pretty. That guy, Liam, doesn't know what he's missing out. He should not have stood her up at the Halloween party.
“What are you thinking?” Julie asks.
I drop her hand and pick up my mug of cocoa again. “Liam's a dickweasel.”
She sighs. “I wish I had magic powers or psychic powers.”
“No you don't.”
“Don't tell me what I want or don't want.”
“Julie ...” I feel strange and tingly all over, as though I need to hug her or something. If I could hug her, everything would be much better. Her pajamas are so cute. They have little hearts on them, and they make me feel safe.
The door to the cabin blows open and James struts in, his hands on his hips.
“Oh, Hell no,” I say. “We're never going to hear the end of this.”
“Ew,” Julie says, taking one look at the miles-wide grin on her brother's face. “Oh, ick. I'm going back to bed. Ick.”
“TWINS!” James says.
“Never mind me, you're the one with the truly magical power,” I say. “Must not have been that great, you weren't gone for long.” Even as I'm talking, I realize how wrong I am. The little clock on the kitchen wall, a vintage '50s style that plugs into a wall outlet and hums constantly, shows the time as three in the morning. I was in the woods with the bees for three hours?
“Jealous?” James asks. “You only have one girlfriend, and you only had sex with her once.”
“Say-what-now?” Julie sputters. “Once?”
James is sitting at the table now, so I kick him in the shin. That was private information, and not anybody's business. Austin and I were together the night we met—for the record, it was twice—but she hasn't felt comfortable being with me in that way since. Sometimes she says I'm too young, and says she'll reconsider after I turn eighteen. I love her, so of course I'm willing to wait a few months, but I wonder what her excuse will be then. Thinking ahead makes my heart feel heavy, so I try not to.
“Is that true?” Julie asks. “I don't know what to make of this. I thought women's sex drives sped up as they got older. I figured she'd be all over you, every chance she got.”
“I'm tired.”
“Do you guys do other stuff?” Julie asks. “Like, are you just making out all the time or, um ...” She covers her face with her hands, as though finally realizing how embarrassing she's being.
“Twins!” James says.
“Yes, James, you win,” I say. “You win the prize. It's a trophy. Julie and I wanted to surprise you, but we got you a sex trophy. We'll pick it up when we get back to town.”
“Awesome,” he says, then without missing a beat, he continues, “so what happened was I got to Shay and Dawna's cabin, and—”
Julie interrupts with, “Zan was nearly killed by magical bees that came out of his mouth!”
“What? How?”
“Pretty much what Julie said.” I tell James what happened, careful to access the memory as though standing outside of it. I don't want to remember the bees too vividly and trigger a return—not just for my own safety, but out of fear of what might happen to the twins. I might have some immunity to bees that come from myself, but my friends could get hurt.
“Make one bee now,” James says. “Just one.”
“No. Too dangerous.”
Julie yawns, and within seconds James and I are yawning too. I really am tired, which is such a comforting feeling compared to being scared or shaky.
“Yawn transmission successful,” Julie says, getting up to return to bed.
After she's wandered off, James pulls his chair in closer and asks if he can tell me what he did with Shay and Dawna. It's nearly four in the morning now, but I guess I could stay up a few more minutes.
“That Dawna,” he says. “The quiet ones are always the freakiest, you know that. Dawna was the one with the e
arrings and the tiger-lady nails, right?”
“Yup.” I sip my cocoa and try to be a good friend, though as he describes his adventures, I'm uncomfortable with how vivid the description seems, as though I was actually there, experiencing it. Perhaps this is what Heidi meant about the visions getting more real, less about simply observing.
I don't know how I feel about this. What I do—finding secrets—isn't simple and clearly beneficial, like, say, getting the winning lottery numbers. I've tried to help girls, to offer guidance when I've seen bad things in their future, but is that my call to make? I like the idea of becoming more powerful, but at what cost?
If my visions continue to get darker, my power might disappear, and that's not necessarily a bad thing.
* * *
By the time we crawl out of our respective beds, it's noon. Most of our food is gone, since James and I ate Gran's sandwiches late last night, so we eat hot dog buns with peanut butter for breakfast then pack up to return home.
My mind is on more earthly things and off magic bees and visions. I want a shower that's not freezing cold from Julie using up all the hot water ahead of me, and I want to see Austin. Specifically, I want to see that sweet smile she makes when I walk in the room. Her smile makes me feel like the wealthiest guy in the world, and I can't wait to hold her in my arms. I'm going to hug her and never let go.
James is driving the Jeep, and as we make our way back to town from the lake, we round the corner where the gas station is and all three of our cell phones beep and vibrate simultaneously.
“Back in range,” Julie says, checking her texts from where she's sitting in the front passenger seat. I'm in the back because I was slow to call shotgun.
What I see on my phone makes me swear. There's a series of messages from Austin, with the second-to-last one saying she's going out of town for a bit. The last one says Don't be angry, and she's included a frowny face.
I wasn't angry ... until she told me not to be.
“What's all the swearing about back there?” Julie asks.
“Nothing.”
She turns and bats her dark eyelashes at me. Her eyelids are sparkly. Since when did Julie start wearing girly makeup every day?
“You should talk about your feelings,” she says. “It's healthier. Those swarming bees might represent your repressed emotions. You know, when people say they're choked, it's because their throats actually close up from emotion.”
James goes, “Hah!”
“I'm fine, I swear. I had a reminder on here for some homework I forgot about.” I'm not sure why I'm lying to Julie, but I guess I'm embarrassed my girlfriend isn't making me a priority. Or, rather, I feel embarrassed this bothers me.
Instead of sending Austin a message back, I pull up some local newspapers and look for the funeral announcements. We're in luck: Newt's funeral is this afternoon.
“Who wants to come with me to a funeral?” I ask.
James says, “Cricket noises. Tumbleweeds.”
Julie giggles. “I'll go with you. Oh, I can wear my new black dress!”
“It's not prom,” I say.
James asks, “Is it customary for the people who discovered the body to go to the funeral?”
“I thought I might meet some people who knew the guy, get some clues.”
“Ooh, detective work,” Julie says. “Undercover work.”
James sighs. “Fine, I'll go too.”
* * *
When we pull into town late afternoon, we stop by the twins' house for them to get changed into more formal attire, then my house. I have some other dress pants and long-sleeved shirts, but I decide to try on the suit from my Charlie Chaplin costume. It looks good with my dark purple shirt, the one I bought with one of the gift cards Gran gave me last Christmas. Without the bowler hat and mustache, I'm not Charlie Chaplin, but a regular smart-looking guy. Dapper.
Julie whistles when I come back out to the Jeep.
James looks closely at my face. “Dude, are you blushing? I can't tell.”
“Shut up and drive, jamtart,” I say.
James runs a few yellow lights, and we arrive at the funeral home just in time.
At the funeral itself, we figured we'd blend in with the crowd, but there aren't a lot of people here, and less than a handful of them have hair that isn't white. The three of us take a seat near the back row for the service. At the front of the room, the simple-looking coffin rests on an elevated platform, and Julie squeezes my hand as if to say there's that body again. I don't know how this setup compares to typical funerals, as I've only been to one, and that was a long time ago.
A white-gloved finger taps me on my shoulder, and I turn to find Heidi, which makes sense, as she is—was—Newt's sister.
“He would have been touched by your concern,” Heidi says. “You do believe me that he didn't mean you any harm that night, don't you?”
I turn and whisper, “Sure, why not.”
“Newt was a little squirrelly the last few years. Senility, we think. We only needed a bit of your blood for the ceremony.”
I look around at the other people here, all unaware of our odd conversation. To them, Heidi and I are probably talking about what a great guy Newt was, and how peaceful he looks now. I sneak another glimpse at the body. What they do to the face during embalming is a mystery to me, but the man doesn't look at peace to me. He looks terrified.
“That's all in the past now,” Heidi says, patting me on the shoulder. “My family means you no harm.”
“Okay,” I say, though there's nothing that triggers my threat warning quite like someone trying to assure me I'm not in danger.
“He was a mixed-up person,” she says. “I hope his soul finds some closure before we meet on the other side.”
A small woman in a dark blue suit walks in the door: Detective Wrong. She takes a seat across the aisle from us, pats down her hair with one hand, and narrows her dark brown eyes at me. Is it customary for police to go to the victims' funerals, or is she here for the same reason I am—to get clues?
Whispering, I say to Heidi, “I'll do what I can for him, since he asked me to. Killing people is wrong, no matter who it is.”
“Of course,” she says with such sweetness my teeth ache. She stands and takes her place at the front of the room for the service.
Julie, sitting between me and James, grabs both of our hands when the music begins.
Some people get up and talk about Newt's life, and about how much the world has changed since he and Heidi were born on a farm in the Midwest. Their mother went into labor prematurely, after slipping on some ice while carrying milk buckets from a barn. In those days, there wasn't much in the way of care for premature babies, especially ones as small as the twins, Heidi and Newt. All those incubators you see in hospitals today weren't in use yet.
The nurses took turns holding the tiny twins through the night, though the care was more like last rites than medical care. The nurses blessed their souls and urged the twins to “go on” and be with the angels rather than suffer, gasping for every breath.
To everyone's surprise, the babies lived through the first night, and then the next. They gained strength, survived, even as their mother died from her injuries. The twins would live, but they had no mother, and their father, a struggling farmer, wasn't able to care for them, nor did he want them.
When the twins were big enough to leave the hospital, they went to separate orphanages. This is another part of Newt's story that shows how much times have changed, because healthy babies born today in our country are usually placed in adoptive homes. There are still orphanages in other countries, of course—at least two of the girls at my school are from Chinese orphanages. The world is changing so fast.
The story of Newt's life is way more interesting than a typical history class in school, and I wonder if it's because he was a real person, someone I knew.
The woman on stage talking about Newt's life says there are photos for the next part, and she pulls down a projection
screen.
Heidi, an adorable little bug-eyed baby in the scratchy brown and white photo, was adopted within a year by a kind family. Newt, who looked sullen and strange even as an infant, stayed at the orphanage and was taken in only once he was eight, and by people who were not as kind. His adoptive family wanted another hand to help on their farm, and he worked that farm every day of his life until he ran away at seventeen.
Seventeen is how old I am. I fold my hands on my lap and say a silent prayer of gratitude for everything I have.
I look to my right, catching Julie wiping a tear from her eye. I wonder if she's feeling as grateful as I am.
The rest of Newt's life seemed more fun than his early years. He worked as a dish washer and later as a cook, and though he never married, he did have a son out of wedlock, and two granddaughters.
The presentation ends, and the woman at the front asks for his granddaughters to stand.
When they do, James has a coughing fit. We know those girls. Newt's descendants are none other than Missy and Facepuncher, the two girls we met at the lake back during the summer.
Julie whispers in my ear, “Do you know them?”
I whisper back, “The original lake skanks. The dark-haired one is Facepuncher.”
Julie's mouth drops open.
Chapter Ten
As James tries to get control over his breathing, I stare at Newt's granddaughters.
We met the girls while we were out at the cabin, the weekend after the school year ended. James and I built a bonfire, as usual, and they wandered over and joined us. One after the other, they both poked my belly button, and I saw a future version of Missy robbing jewelry stores. The other girl, whose name I don't remember, hooked up with James later that night, and at the height of their passion, she punched him in the face, giving him a black eye. Hence the moniker, Facepuncher.
Julie didn't meet them, just heard about them. “Aren't they bad girls?” she says in my ear. “They totally killed Newt.”
I haven't jumped to that conclusion quite as quickly as Julie, but I do have my suspicions. If those two girls are related to Newt, they might be somehow involved in his death. Wow. They probably inherit his entire fortune. How is this not an open and shut case?
Witches and Ghosts Supernatural Mysteries Page 133