Manifest

by Artist Arthur

  “Hi, Sasha. Please tell me there’s a good reason for you to be sitting here with her.”

  That is Alyssa speaking, I think there is like this un-spoken rule that she has to talk first before Camy can follow up. The way Alyssa tossed her head in my direction and spat the word her was something else to make me laugh. This girl took herself way too seriously.

  “Oh? You know Krystal? I hadn’t realized you two had met.” To her credit, Sasha doen’t seem to fall into Alyssa’s snobbish trap. Although she certainly could have considering she is a Richie just like Alyssa and Camy.

  “She’s in one of our classes,” Camy adds with a roll of her eyes. “But really, you can find better lunch partners.”

  “I’m not begging anyone to sit here,” I finally speak up, tired of them talking around me.

  Sasha shoots me a look that I can’t tell is wounded or irritated. You never can tell with Sasha, as moody as she is.

  “I happen to like sitting here,” Sasha says. “You want to join?” Then, without even looking at Alyssa, Sasha reaches into her purse, pulls out a lip gloss tube and proceeds to smear it on her lips.

  “Ugh, please. I wouldn’t be caught dead at a table with her.”

  There it is again, that special way Alyssa has of saying “her.”

  “Then be gone,” I snap.

  Camy, probably without permission to speak, simply lifts her hand and forms an L shape with her fingers, pointing in my direction.

  I take the last swallow of my soda and say, “Bite me.”

  “Digestion is not conducive to arguing, ladies,” Sasha says. “Besides, the bell’s about to ring.”

  And as if all things work at her command the bell does just that.

  Scooping up my trash, I don’t waste any time moving away from the table. Jake, who has been quiet during the exchange, is right behind me. Alyssa and Camy, who are too dumb to know when their intimidation tactics have totally failed, stand in my way, looking grim like Nazi police.

  I guess they think they’re scaring me. Well, I have news for them. I am receiving daily visits by dead people, these two pampered princesses don’t stand a chance. I push past both of them, hard, hoping I’ll knock one of them to the ground the way Ricky did the other day.

  “You better watch your back, new girl.” I hear Alyssa yell but don’t bother to turn around.

  I have other things to deal with besides her.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I catch a glimpse of Ricky. He is sitting at the table where the other hip-hoppers sit. The other guys are there, too, but of course they can’t see him. I wonder what they are saying, what, if any, information Ricky is getting from them.

  Then I wonder why it matters so much.

  fifteen

  It is my job to talk to Franklin, but that will have to wait. Janet, true to her words from last night, shows up after school to take me to the shrink.

  Sasha is going to talk to Antoine to see what she can find out about Ricky and what happened before he was killed.

  Jake is going home to fix his grandfather dinner and to hopefully get some more information from him about this Power we all share. We all seem pretty cool with the fact that we have it and that it comes from some freak storm, but we want to know more. Like if there are more of us out there. I believe there are since bizarre weather could happen anywhere in the world, if that is the real cause. Sasha wants to find out really bad so we can build some type of network of Mystyx all over the world. She really does think big, which I guess is okay when you are rich and have everything. But the funny thing is that having everything doesn’t seem to make Sasha too happy. I mean, she doesn’t strike me as an Alyssa or Camy; money and status don’t really seem to faze her one way or the other. Because if it does, she certainly wouldn’t be hanging with Jake, or me for that matter.

  This might be the tallest building I’ve seen in Lincoln. It is on one of the main streets, right at the end of the block past the post office and pharmacy. Built with red brick and white trimmed windows, it looks both modern and old at the same time. It is five stories high and has a sign in the front lobby that states which office is on what floor.

  My destination is floor number four.

  Janet has been quiet on the ride over here and she is quiet now that it is just me and her in the elevator. I don’t much care because I have a lot on my mind already. Trying to be polite and talking to her would just distract me.

  She opens the door for me after we both stand in front of it for longer than is probably necessary. I wonder if she is changing her mind. I definitely would not have a problem with it if she is. But then she moves ahead and I have no choice but to follow her.

  The nurse-receptionist lady is old, her face like cracked leather, her glasses sliding down her shiny nose. She isn’t happy with her job, I surmise by the pinched look on her face. Either that or that fake bun on the back of her head is pinned on way too tight.

  Bitter Lady (what I am now calling the nurse-receptionist because I don’t know her name and she hasn’t bothered to tell us) calls Janet’s name and gives her some forms to fill out while I just sit there looking at this big-screen television with a never-ending infomercial on it. I can feel my cell phone vibrating and wonder if I should dare to answer it. Janet would not like the interruption and I might not like who is calling. Although I do need to talk to Franklin—if it is him—I can’t do it in front of Janet.

  Or it could be Daddy calling me back. Finally. But Janet won’t like that either. By the time I finish debating, it stops vibrating and Janet never notices she is so busy writing on that clipboard.

  The purse I carry is small compared to the other girls in school, compared to the large designer bag Sasha carries. I can’t figure out what she keeps in there, her entire bedroom probably. But I don’t like all that clutter so I have a cute bag Janet bought for me the last Christmas we were all together as a family. It’s black with silver fringe and has a long enough strap to criss-cross over my body. I don’t like for it to swing off my arm. Anyway, my cell phone is in there. I’ll dig it out later and see who the missed call was from.

  Right now my name’s being called by the Bitter Lady and I have to go see the whack quack so he can try to figure out what’s wrong with me. I can answer that question in the first few seconds of our visit—nothing.

  “So, Krystal, why don’t you tell me about yourself?”

  He starts talking the minute Janet leaves me in the room alone with him. Or should I say, the clock starts ticking. He doesn’t think I notice but I can see the clock on his desk tilted so that only he can see it. Plus there are clocks all over his office.

  One on the wall near the door, it is brown and matches the dull color of the sofa along the wall. There is another one on a small table near a recliner that may have been comfortable twenty or thirty years ago. And on one of the bookshelves that line the whole opposite wall, there is a small digital blaring the numbers 4:35 in bright red.

  I sit in one of the chairs right across from his desk—oh, his name’s Dr. Heathcliff Small. But his nose is huge—a definite contradiction to his name. I wonder if his mother had any idea when he was born.

  “Don’t you already know that stuff?” I ask, slouching in the chair. My mind is so not on this so-called doctor’s visit, or cry for help that Janet believes this is. Instead I’m more worried about how Sasha’s interrogation of Antoine is going.

  More importantly, I’m wondering where Ricky’s been hiding himself. Or, actually, who he’s been hiding out with. I mean, let’s face it, for all I know he could have already found his way over to the other side and left me high and dry. That’s usually what people in my life do.

  “Do you like school?”

  Dr. Whack Quack (I’m going to keep calling him that because that’s what I think he is) is asking me another question. I guess to pass the time I might as well go ahead and answer him. I mean, really, I don’t have to agree with being here but since I’m still under eighteen and since Janet
seems to think this is the best course of action for me, I might as well go with the flow.

  “School is okay.”

  “Do you have a favorite subject?”

  I shrug. “Does anybody?”

  He looks at me funny, like maybe he’s getting tired of my teenage attitude. Well, I’m tired of his old-man shrink attitude.

  “I like math, I guess.”

  “Are you passing all your classes?”

  “Yes. I’m passing all my classes. I don’t hook school, I do my homework. I turn in all my projects. I don’t hang out late. I’m always in the house. I don’t do drugs. I don’t have friends who do drugs.”

  Then he holds up a hand as if to stop my monologue. I lift my brow, waiting for him to come up with another question because I could swear I’ve answered all the normal ones already.

  “How about your home life? How do you feel about your mother’s new husband?”

  Well, okay, I guess I didn’t anticipate that question, but since he put it out there we’ll just hop right to it. “I don’t have to like him. I’m not the one married to him.”

  “That’s fair. However, I understand you’ve been through a kind of transition. How do you feel about that?”

  “I feel like I’m fifteen. I don’t really have a whole lot of choice in the matter. The adults call the shots. That’s just the way it is. So for right now I have to listen.”

  “You don’t sound too happy about that.”

  “What teenager would?”

  “Let’s try it this way. How do you feel about the breakup between your parents?”

  That is probably the million-dollar question. How do I feel about Janet and my dad breaking up? How do I feel about being uprooted from the only life I’ve ever known, to come and live in this small town where Janet had grown up? More importantly, how do I feel about the fact that it has been almost a month and a half since I’ve spoken to my father and more than a dozen phone calls and voice mails to him are left unanswered? How is a fifteen-year-old supposed to feel about that?

  “I don’t really know,” I answer him honestly.

  “Are you angry?”

  “No. I don’t think so.”

  “Are you sad?”

  “Not really. I mean, I was in the beginning but I’m really not now.”

  “Take a few minutes to think of a word that would best describe what you’re feeling at this very moment.”

  “Disappointed,” I say after only a few seconds.

  “Disappointed in your mother?”

  I nod yes.

  “Disappointed in your father?”

  I continue nodding.

  “Disappointed in yourself?”

  I pause for a minute and think about that one. Then I just shrug because I think he may be right.

  “Let’s start with your mother. Why are you disappointed with her?”

  “Because I think she’s a coward. She ran away instead of staying and trying to make things work between her and my dad.”

  “Did she tell you why she left?”

  “No. And that’s another reason why I think she’s a coward. Why can’t she just answer my questions?”

  “Do you answer all the questions she asks you?”

  Folding my arms over my chest, I look toward the bookcase he has on the side of the wall. There are a kazillion books piled onto it with titles that I don’t understand.

  “I wonder if you and your mother made an agreement to every day answer, honestly, at least one question each other has, if that would make you feel better.”

  “She won’t do it.”

  “Will you?”

  I look at my watch to see if our hour is almost over.

  “What are your plans for the rest of the day?”

  I turn back to stare at him, more than a little puzzled by the quick change of subject. I had thought since this was Janet’s idea for me to come and talk to him she’d have this shrink on her side and he’d spend an entire hour telling me how wrong I am for not talking to her or for being upset with her. Instead, he’s asking me about a whole bunch of other stuff that I really don’t want to talk about either.

  I really don’t want to be here.

  I just don’t want to talk to him. Or anybody else for that matter.

  Answering his questions makes me think and what I’m thinking isn’t too cool.

  sixteen

  This really isn’t a date.

  A date is when a guy picks you up and takes you someplace like the movies or dinner.

  I’m heading to the library to meet Franklin. I guess that could be like a study date, although I don’t plan on studying.

  I saw him in the hallway today and he asked if we could study together after school. I knew I needed to talk to him about the weather stuff so I agreed. But now, walking up the steps toward the heavy glass and brass doors of the public library, I begin to think it might be for some other reason.

  My jeans are new, the skinny fit in dark denim, and my white T-shirt and hoodie matched the inseam threading as well as my white high-top sneakers. Coordinating my wardrobe had never been a big deal before. I guess hanging with Sasha is rubbing off. Or maybe I secretly want to look good for Franklin. A few nights ago I would have said Ricky, but I’ve since come to terms with my crush on the spirit that needs my help. Speaking of which, I haven’t seen him in a minute and wonder what that means.

  I am just about to walk through the library doors when I hear someone scream behind me. Stopping, I turn because now I’m tuned in to screams, yells, anything that projects fear, because I think it involves a ghost. So anyway, I turn but don’t think it’s a spirit that I’m seeing. Instead a group of younger kids are running, their arms waving in the air. Above their heads are three large birds, black birds like crows, I think.

  Without hesitating I run down the steps and get in front of the children. I wave my taller, longer arms upward to shoo the birds away. The screeching grows louder and I think my wrist actually makes contact with one of them. At that moment it’s like they shift and take aim at me.

  “Get inside!” I yell to the kids and keep swatting at the nuisance birds trying to peck my eyes out.

  From out of nowhere a heavy gust of wind rushes around the corner and past me. I stumble and fall flat on my face, my cheek kissing the asphalt. Above I still hear the screeching and with the fear of the birds pecking the hell out of the back of my head I hurriedly roll over.

  The birds are still there, screeching, flying over me, but they are not alone. The wind is still blowing and a thick black cloud of smoke is rolling up from my feet to my waist. I try to scoot back out of its way but it just keeps coming, keeps trying to cover me.

  There’s a pounding in my chest and I feel like I can’t breathe. The blackness is getting closer and closer; I feel like I’m dying.

  Then I’m lifted into the air. Well, not exactly lifted, but my arms are pulled up so hard and my chest slams into another chest and I’m both dizzy from the movement and coughing from the cloud of dark smoke.

  The cloud of smoke that, when I turn back around and look down, is gone.

  “So what happened out there? Did you trip or something?” Franklin asks. We’re sitting in the back of the library, near the “W” section of nonfiction.

  We’re sitting at a long table with chairs around both sides, but we’re the only two people here. Franklin’s chair is so close to mine they almost touch. Our legs are most definitely touching, his left one aligned neatly against my right one. That makes me feel tingly inside but not enough so that I can forget those stupid birds or that nasty black smoke. This is the third time I’ve seen it, the other two times in my dreams. I’m not really a believer in coincidences.

  “Ah, yeah. There were these kids and they were running from some birds. I tried to help and I guess I fell.” I finally answer Franklin because he’s looking at me with eyes that I swear look like root beer soda.

  My hands are flattened on the table and he puts one of his on top
of one of mine. There is a slight contrast in our complexions but I have to say our hands look good together. Especially when he flips mine over and entwines our fingers.

  “I didn’t know what to think when I saw you lying on the ground.”

  “Probably that I was a lunatic,” I say, only half joking.

  He shakes his head. “No. I was worried that you were really hurt.”

  Wow, he was worried about me.

  “I’m fine. Just a mishap, no big deal.”

  “Good,” he says. “I’ve been wanting to spend some time with you for a while now.”

  “Really?”

  “Yeah. Since you first started at Settlemans. I’ve been trying to think of a way to approach you because you don’t seem like all the other girls here.”

  “Why? Because I’m not a Richie or a Tracker?”

  He chuckles. “I don’t go by those status codes. It’s stupid and most of the people who follow them are, too.”

  “I agree,” I answer, thinking that I am liking Franklin more and more.

  Apparently my feelings are known to others as down at the other end of the table Ricky appears. He lounges back in the chair, arms crossed over his chest, giving me and Franklin a knowing smirk.

  “So, you think you’ll start accepting my calls now?”

  I hear Franklin talking but I’m still looking at Ricky. Then Franklin waves his hand in front of my face.

  “Krystal? Did you hear me?”

  “Huh? Oh, yeah, I’m sorry. Just dazed off for a minute. Of course I’m going to take your calls. I’ve just been kind of tied up lately.”

  “Oh really? Is it schoolwork? ’Cause I can help you study if you want.” Then the corner of his mouth lifts in a smile. “I mean, really study.”

  Because what we’re doing now is definitely not studying. He’s holding my hand, his other arm draped around the back of my chair and we’re chatting like a boyfriend and girlfriend stealing time in the back of the library.

  “Thanks, but it’s not schoolwork.” And then I figure that since Ricky has decided to invade my nice private moment with Franklin I might as well get down to business.