Aries Rising

by Bonnie Hearn Hill

  I glanced up at the moon. It would be in the emotional sign of Cancer for another day-and-a-half. No way was I going to let that moon influence my wallowing. Time to focus on the good.

  Here I was with a fellowship to the California State University at Monterey Bay for outstanding high school journalism students. My new roommate, Candice Armstrong, and I would soon join twelve other kids to take a tour of Monterey’s supposedly haunted downtown. Our guest lecturer was none other than Henry Jaffa. The Henry Jaffa. Bestselling paranormal investigative journalist, who donated time and money to help young writers. That Henry Jaffa.

  He had sat right across the table from me at dinner, and I’d barely been able to eat. All of us had just kept staring at him. Except for Vanessa Lowe, that is, a pushy, curvy brunette from Texas. She’d hammered him with questions and flattery from the clam chowder right through the halibut parmesan. She was still talking while Jaffa tried to swallow a few spoonfuls of his melting hazelnut gelato.

  Candice and I stood together outside the restaurant waiting for the tour bus. We both wore jeans and our black T-shirts with Writers Camp in purple letters on the front. I had to admit neither of us filled them out the way Vanessa did hers.

  Candice was about my size, except on her, thin looked good. She had shiny, streaked rich-girl hair and a way of carrying herself that made her appear taller than she was. In a word, she was elegant. A steady Earth sign, I guessed, with a cool exterior that made me guess Capricorn somewhere in her chart. Dirk, a cute British guy with a long ponytail, had been checking her out at dinner, but she told me she had a boyfriend back home in Colorado. She also had two older sisters, who were, she said, a royal pain. I had worried that I would get stuck with a Vanessa-type roommate and was glad that Candice seemed so calm and easygoing.

  The two redheads from New York were twins and, of course, roomed together. Christopher Ritter, who introduced himself as Critter, was a stoner with blond curls and a laid-back way of speaking that must have taken a lot of practice to pull off. I didn’t have names for the others yet.

  “Could you believe the wicked witch of west Texas?” Candice asked. “With Vanessa in the workshop, we’ll be lucky to even talk to Jaffa.”

  “With him,” I said. “I don’t think it’s about the talking.”

  Candice nodded. “It’s about the writing. Let’s hope she sucks at it.”

  “Or that she’s easily distracted.” On the other side of the walkway, Vanessa chatted up a cute guy in a khaki jacket with a matching bag over his shoulder. “If that guy’s part of our workshop, she might not be that interested in Jaffa after all.”

  “He’s cute, but he isn’t a bestselling writer,” Candice said.

  “He is hot, though,” I replied.

  Just then, a dark green bus pulled up, and a woman with a gray bob stepped out. Her face was younger than her hair, her eyes hidden behind pink-tinted glasses.

  “Writers Camp tour boarding now,” she called out in a starched, professional voice. “We leave in ten minutes. Mr. Jaffa, please come forward.”

  Jaffa emerged from the crowd and climbed up the stairs.

  The cute guy was next. Then came the African American chick who’d sat on the other side of Jaffa at dinner. As she swung up the steps to the bus, her violet tie-dyed scarf blew behind her. It matched the streak of hair falling over one eye.

  “Let’s go,” Candice said, and we began to run.

  She got there first. Then, finally, I was aboard. Ahead of me, Henry Jaffa sat next to a window paging through a guidebook. His bushy gray hair caught the lights of the bus. The seat beside him was empty. This was my chance. I started toward him.

  Then I felt someone hit me from behind. In the back. Hard.

  As I fought to maintain my balance, Vanessa gave me a final shove, pushed ahead of me, and claimed the seat beside Jaffa.

  A hand on the other side of the aisle shot out and grabbed mine. I looked up into riveting eyes the color of the sea. The noise of the others blurred into a steady hum. It was the cute guy who’d been talking to Vanessa outside.

  He was about my age with hair so straight and shiny black that I immediately thought about my own auburn curls, no doubt hopelessly frizzed by the sea air. Although our connection must have lasted only moments, time stretched out. Then slowly, he pulled me down in the seat next to him.

  Finally, the sound in my head switched back on. I heard the chatter of the others and was able to remove my hand from his.

  “Thank you,” I said. “I guess I tripped.” The words fell out of me clunky and stupid.

  “What’s your name?”

  “Logan.”

  “I’m Jeremy.” His voice was husky, yet soft. “Jeremy Novack.”

  “And you’re part of the Writers Camp too?”

  He opened his jacket, pointed at his shirt, identical to mine. “My plane was late. I just got in.”

  “Where are you from?”

  “Jersey,” he said. “I’m sorry I missed the dinner, but I can’t believe I bothered to show up for this sham.”

  “They’re doing it because Jaffa’s next book is going to be about ghost sightings,” I said.

  “He needs to stick to the investigative stuff. You don’t believe any of the ghost stories are real, do you?”

  “I don’t know.” Those eyes of his made it almost impossible for me to remember my name, let alone anything else.

  “It’s hype.”

  Taurus. He had to be that fixed Bull of the Zodiac. I could guess his opinion of astrology.

  The silver-haired tour guide stepped inside the bus.

  “Is everyone aboard? Our first stop will be a bar and restaurant that has two ghosts.”

  Jeremy sighed.

  Ahead and to the other side of us, I watched Jaffa nod. Beside him, Vanessa paged through what looked like a well used booklet. She’d obviously done her Monterey-lore homework.

  “Big deal,” Jeremy whispered to me. “All that stuff’s easy to fake.”

  “The female ghost at the restaurant leaves salt in the wineglasses,” Vanessa piped up.

  Jaffa looked intrigued. “Monterey is full of legends and mysteries,” he said. “That’s one of the reasons I agreed to come here.”

  “Sean Baylor is another one.” Vanessa glanced up from her book with a superior smile. “He was a folk singer who almost made it big in the late sixties. Some believe his spirit still occupies the restaurant where he drank before he went out on his boat that last time after the Monterey Pop Festival.”

  “There’s no proof that Baylor is a ghost,” Jeremy said. Then to me, he whispered, “Do you see what I mean about this stuff?”

  Before I could reply, the tour guide said, “Well, his sail-boat was found deserted in a storm. There’s no way he could have survived.”

  “So that means he decided to stick around and haunt old Monterey?”

  The woman flashed him a condescending smile. “There’s no way we can know which spirits remain, or why. And, for your information, this is one of the most popular walking tours in Monterey.”

  “Well, have fun with your popular walking tour.” He stood, said “Nice meeting you, Logan,” stepped across me, and headed down the aisle toward the door.

  “Wait,” our tour guide shouted as he brushed past her. “This bus leaves in five minutes. It isn’t going to wait for you.”

  “That’s all right.” He looked back at me again. I felt the connection and realized I couldn’t stay in my seat.

  “Logan,” Candice called from behind me. “What are you doing ?”

  “I’ll be right back,” I said. Then I hurried past the guide, got off the bus, and started after him.

  “Jeremy, wait.”

  He stopped and turned his head. He gave me that look again. “You’d better get back on the bus.”

  “Not without you,” I said. “I know how hard you must have worked to get this fellowship. How can you walk away from it? How can you walk away from Henry Jaffa?”


  He pulled his jacket closer and met my gaze. “I can walk away from anyone, if I have to.”

  I felt a chill and forced myself to ignore his words. “But you don’t have to. Please come back on that bus with me.”

  “No way. I have to check in at the college, and I’m up to here with the ghost stuff.”

  “All right. If that’s the way you want it.” I felt like a fool for chasing after him. Slowly, I turned away. This was the smartest thing I’d done all day. Just walk back to the bus.

  “Logan, don’t go.”

  He was right behind me. I could feel his breath on my neck.

  I whirled around and found myself face-to-face with him. “ What?”

  For the first time since he’d grabbed my hand back in the bus, he smiled.

  “Let’s ditch the tour and get something to eat.”

  “I can’t.”

  “Why not?”

  Because Henry Jaffa was on that bus. Because the beginning of the fellowship I’d fought like hell for was on that bus. Because regardless of how hot Jeremy was, I couldn’t blow my dream.

  “I’m sorry,” I said. “I really wish . . .”

  “Three minutes,” announced the tour guide. She’d stepped outside the bus and was glaring at us now. “Two minutes, forty-five seconds. Are you two boarding, or would you like to walk back to the college?”

  “I’ll walk,” Jeremy shouted back at her.

  I ran for the bus.

  The doors whooshed shut behind me.

  The bus driver hit the gas, and I had to grab the back of his seat to steady myself. Our guide slid behind him. I made my way to the seats Jeremy and I had occupied earlier. When I saw his empty one next to the window, I felt unreasonably sad.

  I’d made the right choice, though. This fellowship could change my life. I looked up to where Henry Jaffa sat. It was only then that I realized that Vanessa was still occupying the outside seat. She gave me a smirk and then she turned back to Jaffa.

  Oh great. My first night in Monterey, and I already had an enemy.

  Notes to Self

  For some reason, Vanessa hates me. When we had to introduce ourselves on the bus and tell where we were from, she made fun of my answer. I’d said Terra Bella Beach and explained it was about ninety minutes south between here and Santa Barbara. “I can tell you’re from California, Logan,” she’d said with a condescending smile. “You give directions by how long it takes to get to a place.” I didn’t like the way she looked at me; I didn’t like the laughter of the others. I especially didn’t like that Jeremy wasn’t in the seat beside me. So, yes, I have an enemy, a Fire sign, I’ll bet. Tomorrow is our first day in class, and I’d better be ready for her.

  Hamlet Was a Libra

  “To be or not to be?” With all of his wondering and all of his questioning, Hamlet had to be a Libra. They frequently have trouble making up their minds. His love for beauty—think Ophelia—is par for the course for one ruled by Venus. There’s a lot of talk from this Air sign, too, and Libras are known for their communication skills.

  I stop writing. The talk could also mean that Hamlet was a Gemini or even a Sadge. And with all of that karmic family emotional stuff, he could have been a Scorpio or a Cancer. The emoting on stage could be the sign of a Leo or Aries. Many Capricorns have unsettled childhoods. He certainly qualified in that department. Then, there are emotionally stuck Pisces, pondering Aquarius, perfectionist Virgo, anduncompromising Taurus. When I first discovered Fearless Astrology, I would have made that easy assumption about Libra. Now I realize that what I need to do with my article is to show how the Sun sign is really only the beginning. Yes. Instead of trying to argue the sign of a fictional character, I’m going to show how impossible it is to use only the Sun to understand someone, fictional or otherwise.

  Jaffa is known for his interest in subjects off the beaten track. I can’t wait to see what he thinks about astrology.

  Bonnie Hearn Hillis a Gemini and a full-time writer and a former editor for a daily newspaper. She is the author of INTERN and five other adult thriller novels, and teaches writing in her hometown of Fresno, California and on Writer’s Digest Online. She also mentors writers and speaks at numerous writing conferences. Read more about Bonnie and your astrological sign at: www.bonniehearnhill.com

  Copyright © 2010 by Bonnie Hearn Hill

  All rights reserved under the Pan-American and International Copyright Conventions

  This book may not be reproduced in whole or in part, in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system now known or hereafter invented, without permission from the publisher.

  Digit on the right indicated the number of this printing

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2009940138

  eISBN : 978-0-762-44042-9

  Typography: Chronicle Text, Knockout, Affair

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