Whispers From the Grave

by Leslie Rule

  The tide had crept in so far that we’d only made it halfway back when it became impossible to travel along the shore without icy waves slapping our feet, threatening to drench us.

  Shane said, “There’s a trail through the woods that leads to the road. Let’s go that way and I’ll walk you home.”

  Of course, I couldn’t go home. My family didn’t know I existed. But Shane wasn’t aware of that, so I followed him up the sandy path. He knew his way through the brush and pointed out landmarks. “If you come this way again, turn left on the path before you get to the tree house,” he instructed. “There’s nothing but acres of blackberry bushes past it.”

  I wanted to see the tree house; so we strayed from the path to inspect the boxy wooden structure cradled in the maple’s strong branches. “Who does it belong to?”

  “Probably some kid,” said Shane. “I discovered it one day when it started pouring. I waited out the storm in there.”

  It wasn’t anything fancy, but it was shelter. I knew where I would sleep.

  Shane walked me all the way to Banbury House. I strolled up the walk to the front porch, as if planning to go inside. I waved to Shane, and when he rounded the corner, I backtracked, staying in the shadows by the side of the road—just in case Ben was lurking around!

  Safely nestled in the house in the tree, I gazed out at Puget Sound, inky black below the bright moon. The tree house was pieced together with odd scraps of wood and not much bigger than a closet. I sat down on a sleeping bag I found curled up in the corner and inhaled the sweet spring air, my mind spinning. There had already been so much to think about. And now there was Shane.

  Shane, I said it out loud. “Shane!” I loved the taste of his name on my tongue.

  Was I being disloyal to Kyle?

  It wasn’t as if Kyle and I were getting married. For all I knew, I might never see Kyle again. Even if I decided to return to 2070, I might not be capable of it.

  Now that I was back where I belonged, I could stay forever. The idea appealed to me. But it brought with it a hot rush of guilt. How could I so easily abandon my 2070 life? Was my mother worrying about me?

  I didn’t want to think about that! That woman wasn't even my real mother. She was simply the person who had lied to me for seventeen years. A fresh surge of anger burst through me, strengthening my resolve.

  As for Kyle . . .

  Yes, I still cared for him. But something happened to me when I was near Shane. No boy had ever made me feel that way before. I closed my eyes, relishing the hug he had given me when he left me at Banbury House. As our bodies pressed together, it felt as if our souls touched.

  I fell asleep, imagining Shane’s strong arms still around me. And—amazingly—I slept through the night, not waking until the morning sun stained the distant mountains pink. But it was not the light that woke me. It was fear. For the first thing I heard the next morning was an angry voice whispering. “Don’t move or I’ll blow your head off.”

  18

  My eyes popped open and I stifled a scream.

  The short, black gun was inches from my face, aimed between my eyes.

  “Don’t shoot!” I cried.

  A grubby finger pulled the trigger and a stream of water splashed my forehead. It was only a squirt gun!

  A little boy with a mop of blond hair glared at me. “Who said you could sleep in my tree house?” he demanded.

  “I’m sorry,” I said, wiping the water from my face with my sleeve. “I didn’t have any anyplace else to sleep.”

  “I don’t allow girls in here,” he informed me. “You better not have gotten into my stuff!”

  He was somehow familiar. I studied his impish, freckled face and asked, “What’s your name?”

  “I’m Chuck, and my brother built this house for me, so get out.”

  Of course! I’d read about Chuck, Rita’s pesky neighbor, in her diary. Yet the familiarity went beyond that. Why did I feel as if I knew him?

  “Look, Chuck, I’m really sorry. But I didn’t get into your things. I’ll leave if you really want me to.”

  His squinty green eyes darted about suspiciously, finally resting on a wooden box in the corner. He moved to sit beside it, guarding its contents.

  “What’s in there?” 1 asked. “Your comic book collection?”

  “None of your business.”

  “Do you know where the high school is?” I asked. “Did you see your neighbor Rita leave for school this morning?”

  “You sure ask a lot of questions,” he said defensively.

  I tried another tactic. “You know, Chuck, this is the frazzinest tree house I’ve ever seen!”

  “What’s ‘frazzinest’ mean?” he asked.

  “When something’s frazzin, it means it’s really great,” I explained. “Like the best.”

  “It is a great tree house,” he said, beaming proudly.

  “Your brother must have worked really hard to build it for you.”

  “Yeah!” he said, his eyes shining with a memory. “And I helped him.”

  “You did? You must be some frazzin carpenter.”

  “I pounded lots of the nails in all by myself,” he said, leaning back on his elbows. Soon he was answering my questions. I learned that it was now almost nine and that the high school classes had already started. Chuck drew me a map, and I was surprised to see Rita’s school was located in the same spot as mine.

  “It was nice to meet you, Chuck,” I said and stuck out my hand to shake.

  He jerked away. “I don’t shake hands with girls,” he said, apologetically. “They have cooties.”

  For a second, he looked almost sad to see me go, and my heart twisted in sympathy as I remembered what Rita had written about his home life. But there was no time to think about it. I needed to find my sister!

  By the time I’d walked to the high school, the first class had let out and the hallways were jammed with people.

  “Do you know Rita Mills?” I asked a tall girl in a plaid skirt who was shoving books into a locker.

  “I’ve heard her name,” she said, eyeing me strangely. “But I don’t know her.”

  Why was she looking at me like that? Why was everyone staring at me?

  Though I’d slept in my clothes, my jeans weren’t that wrinkled. But every place I turned, kids were pointing and gawking. I couldn’t figure it out until a teacher confronted me.

  “What are you trying to prove, coming to school dressed like that?” he demanded, his frog eyes glaring from behind thick glasses. “If you want to look like a boy after school, that’s your business. But when you set foot in this school you are to look and behave like a young lady. If you do not follow the dress code, you will be expelled.”

  Glancing around, I realized that all the other girls wore skirts or dresses.

  A group of girls walked by and clapped. “Right on!” one yelled and flashed me the peace sign.

  “What’s your name?” the teacher asked, his whiny voice sharpening with annoyance. “I can’t believe your homeroom teacher didn’t send you to the principal. Go see him now! I know Mr. Pratt will tell you to go home and change into a skirt.”

  “I don’t have a skirt,” I admitted.

  “Do not smart-mouth me, miss!” he snapped.

  “Sorry,” I mumbled and found the closest exit and left the school, shaking my head. I couldn’t believe it. Girls not allowed to wear pants!

  Across the street I ordered a cup of water at a fast-food restaurant and sat on the curb, listening to my stomach grumble and wishing I had money for food.

  When the sun was high in the bright blue sky, the school’s big red doors flung open and kids poured out. Lunchtime. A herd of teenagers stampeded toward the restaurant.

  I studied the noisy crowd. Giggling girls, shouting boys. If I just looked at the faces, it was no different than watching the swarm of students that populated my high school. But as my eyes traveled over the clothing and hairstyles, I was once again struck by the fact that this wa
s no longer 2070.

  The girls in Rita’s school wore short bright-colored skirts with tucked-in blouses, knee socks, and saddle shoes. The boys wore colorful bell-bottom pants. Their shirts were made from slippery-looking fabric with loud designs and sported ridiculously large collars. The kids from my era would laugh if they could see these styles.

  It was all perspective, of course. The styles of 2070 would look ludicrous to these kids. But these were the styles I was meant to wear. And these were the kids that should have been my peers. If I’d been born when I should have been.

  Was it possible to fit in now? Had I stepped back in time to claim my rightful place? Was there any way the Mills family—my family—could grasp the fact that I’d traveled through time to be with them? Would they love and accept me?

  Though I’d come here to save Rita, in the back of my mind, I’d longed to be here for me. My life in 2070 was nothing more than a lie. It was unnatural. But this was real. This was my time.

  “It’s not fair Mr. Frink made you leave.”

  Startled, I glanced up to see a petite, pretty girl in a red dress smiling at me. She shuffled an armload of books and tossed her head so her long amber hair sailed over her shoulder. “We’re tired of being forced to wear skirts to school,” she said, gesturing to the group of girls beside her.

  “It’s not right,” I agreed.

  “Yeah,” chimed in a busty girl in pigtails with round brown glasses. “The boys are allowed to be comfortable. Can you imagine if they were forced to wear dresses?”

  “Why should we have to show off our legs for the boys?” asked a girl with cinnamon skin whose hair was bubbled up into an Afro.

  “I think it’s pretty stupid too,” I said.

  “My cousin at Foster High School organized a protest,” she added. “Nine senior girls came to school in jeans.”

  “What happened?” I asked.

  “They were sent home and suspended for three days. But if enough of us get together we could make a change.”

  “Right on!” The blond-haired girl said, and pumped her fist in the air. “Women’s Lib is here to stay!”

  My vow to remain inconspicuous withered up and blew away on the breeze as I found myself in the middle of a protest.

  In the restaurant, a half dozen girls squeezed into the orange vinyl booth beside me, sharing limp, salty french fries and discussing the protest.

  “It’s so cool you started this protest,” Pam, the pigtailed girl, told me. I grinned back at her, feeling oddly at ease with these strangers. Teresa, Celia, Lynn, Pam, Laura, Becky. They would have been my friends—if only I’d been born when I was meant to be!

  I was soon caught up in the excitement of the dress code rebellion as we giggled and joked. I felt charged with the energy at that table as we made plans and talked about the awful Mr. Frink.

  “You know,” Lynn said, “you sure look like Rita Mills. Are you guys related?”

  Without thinking, I nodded. “Yes, she’s my sister.”

  Perhaps it wasn’t the smartest thing to tell people I was Rita’s sister, when she herself did not know I existed. But it was the truth, and it just popped out.

  My new friends accepted the fact, and I was relieved when they didn’t question me. I sat facing the window and scanned the parking lot, searching for any sign of my sister.

  I did not know how I would warn her about Ben— only that I had to do it soon. But I’m ashamed to admit that I momentarily forgot Rita as I listened to the girls discuss “Women’s Lib.” It was fascinating to learn that in 1970, women were usually the secretaries and nurses, while the men were the executives and doctors. In 2070, women’s accomplishments not only equaled men’s, they actually surpassed them somewhat!

  “Someday, women will run the country,” I volunteered.

  “Right on!” Lynn yelled, and I smiled at her enthusiasm. I wished I could tell her that all the presidents in my lifetime had been women.

  We’d studied Women’s Liberation in history class, but at the time it had seemed like an ancient topic that had nothing to do with my life. Now, listening to this group of girls who felt so oppressed, I was inspired by the fire in their eyes, their resolve to make things right.

  Swept away by the excitement, it caught me completely off guard when someone tapped my shoulder. I turned to see a familiar girl, her cheeks flushed pink, her hazel eyes blazing.

  Rita!

  “Why are you telling everyone you’re my sister?” she demanded. Her anger gave way to shock as she stared at me.

  “I can explain,” I said. “Let’s go outside.”

  I rushed ahead of her—out the double doors, across the paved parking lot—not ready to look her in the eye.

  What would I say to her? How could she possibly believe I had traveled from the future? I could hardly believe it myself.

  “Let’s sit here,” I said and settled on a short brick wall bordering a flower bed where tall red geraniums bobbed their heads in the breeze.

  “I don’t want to sit!” Rita cried, her eyes round with astonishment, her hands clenched into fists at her sides. “Who are you?”

  As I stared back at her confused face, I wanted to leap up and throw my arms around her—to hug her close and keep her safe forever. My sister was alive! And I was actually there with her. The enormity of that fact sent a crushing wave of emotion through me and I blinked away tears.

  The truth was so incredible—so unbelievable—I decided to give her just half of it. I said, “Did you know your parents made an embryo for Twin-Star Labs?”

  “How did you know that?” she asked. “What does that have to do with you?”

  “That embryo was put inside a surrogate mother in Idaho,” I said, forcing myself to speak calmly. “I am the result.”

  “That’s not possible!” she whispered. “The embryo is still in the freezer at Twin-Star. I’ve seen the container myself.”

  I thought fast. “The containers holding the embryos were mismarked,” I said, the lie flying from my lips. “I was implanted inside my mother almost immediately after my conception seventeen years ago.”

  Rita gasped, her face slack with shock.

  “Look at me!” I cried. “Can’t you see we’re sisters?”

  “Yes,” she said slowly. “I guess I can.” Her knees seemed to fold involuntarily as she sank down beside me, She could not peel her eyes from my face, an almost mirror image hers.

  “My name is Jenna. I came here for a reason. I have something very important to tell you.”

  She squeezed my hand, her fingers icy. “I always wanted a sister,” she said breathlessly. “I can’t believe this is happening.”

  “I know. I was shocked to find out about you too. I only learned the truth a little while ago. I spent my whole life thinking the woman who raised me was my real mother.”

  “Do our parents know you’re here?"

  “They think I’m still a frozen embryo. I’m not ready for them to know about me. So much has happened so fast. And the truth is, I came here to see you. Will you please try to be open-minded about what I have to tell you?”

  She laughed nervously. “Is it something awful? You look scared.”

  “I am scared,” I admitted. I took a deep breath. “The thing is, I’m psychic—very psychic. I came here because I’m worried about you. I saw something in your future, Rita. Something terrible!”

  “What did you see?”

  Before I could respond, someone moved up beside her and threw his arms around her shoulders. Her eyes lit with pleasure and she kissed him on the cheek. It was Ben.

  19

  I worried Ben would remember me from the night before. But his eyes held no glimmer of recognition—only amazed curiosity. He looked from me to Rita and back again, obviously struck by our resemblance.

  “You’re not going to believe this, Ben,” Rita said. “This is my sister.”

  “I didn’t know you had a sister. What a trip!”

  I regarded him coolly
and said, “Yes, it is kind of a vacation.”

  Rita smiled. “He means a mind trip. Don’t they use that expression in Iowa?”

  “Idaho,” I corrected her. “I’m from Idaho.”

  “Far out,” Ben said.

  “Well, it’s not that far out,” I said. “Just one state away.”

  “I think she’s putting us on,” Rita said.

  “Right on!” I said, grabbing for one of the new expressions I’d learned. It wasn’t easy getting used to the odd phrases kids in 1970 used. Rita had used some of these expressions in her diary, but they still echoed strangely in my ear. I forced myself to laugh, so they’d believe I was just putting them on.

  Ben laughed too, his blue eyes sparkling. So this is what a killer looks like when he’s sober, I thought bitterly. He seemed taller than last night. Probably because he was standing straighter.

  I was sure now Ben didn’t recognize me. He probably didn’t even remember the evening. Was he so drunk he blacked the whole thing out?

  Ben sat down and slid his arm around Rita’s waist. Smiling contentedly, she rested her head on his shoulder.

  Startled, I realized that when Rita wrote about this day, she and Ben had not yet made up. Obviously things were unfolding much differently than they had in the diary. My presence here had already made an impact.

  “Why didn’t you tell me you had a sister?” Ben asked Rita.

  “I didn’t know,” she replied. “And I can’t possibly concentrate on school today so I’m skipping the rest of my classes. Ben, it’s going to blow your mind when you hear where Jenna came from. It’s a really weird story—”

  “It’s a long story,” I cut her off. “And Rita and I have lots of catching up to do.” I stood and grabbed her hand, tugging her away from Ben.

  His eyes widened in annoyed surprise as I pulled Rita from his arms. Thrown off balance, she fell against me. “Let’s walk home,” I said, still clinging to her hand.

  She giggled nervously and held her other hand out to Ben. Her slim white fingers were lost as his big hand folded over hers. “Ben can give us a ride,” she said.

  I did not want to let go of her, and neither did he. It was like we were playing an odd game of tug-of-war with Rita as the prize. My eyes met Ben’s. I glared coldly. He stared back with an icy challenge of his own.