Believing

by Wendy Corsi Staub

  “Well,” he says, and gestures at the Taggarts’ empty porch, where the candle is now extinguished. “That was fun.”

  “Yeah. You sound surprised.”

  He shrugs a little, like he’s thinking about all that just happened.

  Then he says, “Cal, if you really want to stick around here a while longer, maybe even until the end of the year . . . it’s okay with me.”

  Whoa. Maybe Ramona isn’t just a psychic, but a witch as well. It sure feels as though Dad has fallen under some kind of magical spell to have done such a quick about-face.

  “The end of the year, year? Or the end of the school year?” she asks, trying not to sound too excited. After all, it also means they’ll have to be apart for a while longer.

  “Maybe both. I just don’t know anymore. I’m not crazy about this California situation.”

  “The job? Or trying to find a place to live?”

  “Everything.” He shrugs. “I don’t know why I didn’t realize until just now, tonight, sitting here with your friends, that as much as I miss you and worry about you, you’ve adjusted incredibly well here in a short time. And it’s probably not a good idea to get you involved in another new place when I’m still trying to figure things out myself.”

  “Figure what out? You mean, if you’re going to stay there?” she asks, feeling as though she’s suddenly reading his mind.

  He doesn’t want to be there, she realizes. He’s not sure where he wants to be right now, but it isn’t there, and it isn’t back home in Tampa.

  Poor Dad.

  “Where would you go?” she asks. “If you don’t finish out the sabbatical, I mean. Back to Florida?”

  “I don’t know what I’m going to do. But I’ll figure things out,” he adds with a reassuring nod that doesn’t ring true. “Listen, all that matters to me, really, is that you’re in a good place right now, and that you’re surrounded by good people who care about you. Maybe Mom would want you to be here, even . . . I don’t know.”

  “I don’t, either.” Calla sighs. “There are so many things I wonder about her, and now I’ll never have the answers.”

  “I feel the same way,” Dad says, wearing such a cryptic expression that Calla realizes he, too, is searching. Maybe not for the same thing she’s trying to find, but Mom’s death left him with questions, too.

  “You knew her better than anyone, though, Dad.”

  He shakes his head. “I used to think that. But . . . I wonder.”

  “I guess that’s what happens when people die. We look back and—”

  “No, not just after she died. I wondered while she was alive, too.” It’s not like him to speak so freely to Calla.

  Maybe it’s the dark, or the wine, or the laid-back mood that lingers from the Taggarts’ porch.

  In any case, Dad goes on. “Last spring wasn’t the greatest time.”

  Yeah, tell me about it, Calla thinks, remembering her breakup with Kevin.

  But of course, that’s not what Dad’s talking about.

  “I was getting ready for this sabbatical,” he says, almost like he’s thinking out loud, to himself, “and Mom was wrapped up in her work, as usual, and . . . things were tense.”

  “You mean, between you and Mom?”

  “I shouldn’t even be telling you this. I don’t even know why I am. Except . . . it’s been on my mind, and who else am I going to tell?”

  “So, were you guys, like, fighting a lot?” Calla asks, thinking back. She was so caught up in her own problems back then. “I remember Mom not wanting to take time off from work to go to California.”

  “No, not fighting so much. I mean,we argued—everyone argues. But your mother was starting to become . . . detached. That’s the only way I can explain it. It was like she’d taken a big step back—from me, anyway. And now I wonder if . . .”

  “If what?”

  “Never mind,” Dad says quietly. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me tonight.”

  I wish there were a way to know what was going on with Mom before she died, Calla thinks, frustrated. But her secrets died with her. It’s not like she kept a diary or wrote letters or— Wait a minute. Of course!

  Mom might not have left an actual paper trail, but she might have left a record somewhere else.

  Before Calla can blurt anything to her father, he shakes his head abruptly and gets into the car. “I’ve got to get going. It’s late and I’ve got an early flight in the morning.”

  “I know . . .” Calla’s thoughts whirl. Should she even suggest it? Would it upset him further?

  He reaches out and turns the key in the ignition. “You’ve got to get to bed and so do I.”

  They hug each other fiercely.

  “I’ll come back to visit again in a few weeks,” he promises before driving away, leaving Calla with a major lump in her throat.

  Lurking in the dense growth of shrubs outside the yellow brick building that houses the community theater, he watches people trickle out to the parking lot.

  Voices call out cheerful goodnights, car doors slam, engines start.

  Hayley Gorzynski has yet to appear.

  Tense, he waits, making sure to stay well out of the glare each time an arc of headlights swings past on the way to the street. His breath puffs smoky white in the cold night air.

  There’s supposed to be a first frost by morning. Erin Shan-nahan wouldn’t have survived this, he thinks in frustration.

  Renewed anger ignites inside him just as the theater doors burst open one last time.

  Sure enough, a pretty blond emerges, flanked by a middle-aged woman and a lanky dark-haired kid he recognizes as the boy who’s playing Danny Zuko. All three of them are carrying what look like scripts, the woman’s attached to a clipboard.

  “So if you can both stay late after rehearsal tomorrow night,” the woman is saying, “we can go over that dance scene until we get it right. I know the choreography is tricky.”

  “She’s got it down,” the kid says. “I’m the one who’s having a hard time.”

  “You’re doing great. We just need to practice together, that’s all. We’ll be fine by opening night.” That’s Hayley’s voice, sweet and melodious.

  He wonders what it would sound like pleading for her life. Or screaming.

  You’ll find out soon enough, he promises himself. Meanwhile, there’s that other problem to take care of.

  Yes. It’s about time for a road trip.

  TWELVE

  Monday, September 10

  12:51 p.m.

  Seeing Dad was great, but on Monday morning, Calla is glad to get back to the routine of school.

  The old brick building already feels familiar, and she’s getting the hang of the daily rhythm here already. When she saw Willow this morning, she offered to help Calla again with math, tomorrow night. She said she can’t do tonight because she takes a class in the Dale. She didn’t say what kind of class, but Calla figures it’s much more likely to be in metaphysics than, say, gymnastics.

  It was Calla’s turn to be team captain in gym, so she picked Kasey first and was rewarded with a smile and an invitation to eat lunch together.

  She said she’d try, not sure what to do about Willow and Sarita.

  In the end, though, it doesn’t matter. She finds Jacy waiting for her, leaning against the wall outside the door to the cafeteria. At least, he seems to be waiting for her, because the moment he sees her, he straightens and says, “Come on. Come with me.”

  “Where are we going?”

  “Outside. For a walk.”

  She wants to point out that they’re not allowed to leave the school during lunch period. But then, he knows that. He just doesn’t care.

  Does she?

  Not enough to tell Jacy to go without her.

  He leads the way down a flight of back stairs past the janitor’s rooms, then out a door that opens onto the athletic field, behind the bleachers.

  The day is breezy, and the golden September sun shines brightly o
verhead. Calla, dressed in a short-sleeved top and a cute, summery skirt, wishes she had a coat.

  “Here,” Jacy says, and shrugs out of his own jean jacket as they cross the grassy meadow alongside the track. He hands it to her.

  “Oh, I’m okay.”

  “You’re cold. Take it.”

  She is cold. She slips it on and is enveloped in the clean, unfamiliar masculine scent of him. This is what it would be like if she were in his arms, she decides. Well, almost.

  And she really hopes he doesn’t know what she’s thinking.

  They quickly reach the dappled shade of the woods on the far side of the field. A narrow path cuts through the brush, and Jacy follows it so easily she can tell he’s done it dozens of times.

  “Is this where you come when you skip lunch?” she asks, her voice hushed because it seems necessary here. Almost as though this is some kind of sacred place.

  “Sometimes I come here,” Jacy says with a shrug. “No one else is ever around, so I like it.”

  She nods. If he were any other guy, she might think he was trying to get her alone in the woods so he could make a move on her.

  Not Jacy. Which is almost too bad, because despite how badly she wants to talk to him, she honestly wouldn’t mind his making a move on her, either.

  It’s cooler in the woods, and the air smells of moist, damp earth and decomposing leaves.

  For a split second, Calla thinks of poor Erin Shannahan, lying for days in a remote forest, left for dead.

  Then she thinks of the nameless, faceless person who did that to her—and how he’s still out there somewhere—and her stomach churns. Dizzy enough to stop walking for a moment, she gulps a deep breath to steady her nerves.

  Jacy doesn’t seem to notice. He’s up ahead, stopping and pointing to a massive fallen tree.

  “This is a good spot,” he decides as she catches up. “Want to sit?”

  “Sure.” She lowers herself onto the moss-covered log after checking only briefly to make sure she’s not about to sit on anything wet or muddy or . . . alive.

  “It’s clean,” he says, and she looks up to see him watching her, almost looking amused.

  “Oh, I don’t care about that. It’s just . . . I’m used to Florida. There, I’d be worried about poisonous snakes and spiders.”

  “We have a few of those here. Poison ivy, too,” Jacy tells her, and she gingerly moves her bare lower legs out of the foliage.

  “Which one do you want?” Jacy holds out a couple of brown bags. “One is peanut butter and jelly. The other is peanut butter and honey—we ran out of jelly.”

  “It’s okay. I’m not big on jelly.” She takes the bag he offers her, deciding not to tell him she’s not big on honey, either. “Thanks.”

  “You’re welcome.” He sits beside her, takes out his own sandwich and takes a bite.

  Calla unwraps hers, finding it touching—and yeah, kind of romantic—that he actually thought to bring her a lunch. In the bag are a bottle of water, a napkin, and an apple.

  She’d probably actually be hungry if she weren’t so caught off guard about being alone here with him—and so expectant about whatever it is he’s going to say.

  She takes a small bite and listens to the birds chirp overhead, wishing he would talk.

  He doesn’t seem to be in any hurry, though. Nor does he seem to mind the silence.

  She wonders if he did, after all, bring her here to talk. Maybe not. Maybe he just thought it would be nice to have a picnic.

  “I think you’re right.”

  She looks up, startled. And confused. Did she miss something?

  “Right about what?” she asks.

  “Your mother.”

  At those words, the hunk of sandwich turns to paste in her mouth and she has to gulp water to get it down.

  “What do you mean?” she asks Jacy, her heart beating so loudly she’s sure he must hear it.

  “I think that something happened to your mother. And I’m sure Darrin’s visit had something to do with it.”

  She nods slowly. “What about Aiyana?”

  “She’s your guide,” Jacy says simply.

  “My spirit guide? How do you know?”

  “I meditated on it. I asked my own guides. And that’s the answer I got,” he says, as though that’s an everyday thing. “Have you seen her lately?”

  “At Evangeline’s the other night—I caught a glimpse of her.”

  “What was going on? When she appeared, I mean.”

  “Oh, nothing, really. Evangeline was making her brother get off the computer so I could use it. Aiyana popped up out of nowhere, but only for a few seconds.”

  “And that was it? That was the only time you’ve seen her, aside from what you told me the other day?”

  Remembering the disembodied hug by the lake on Saturday morning, she hesitates. Then she says, “Yes. That was it.”

  After all, she has no idea if it was Aiyana who hugged her, or her mother, or . . .

  Well, for all she knows, it could have been some other spirit.

  What Jacy asked is whether she’s seen Aiyana any other time, and the answer to that is definitely no.

  “If you think Aiyana is trying to tell me something about my mom’s death, what am I supposed to do about it?” Calla asks Jacy, feeling helpless. “I mean, I can’t go to the police in Tampa and tell them a spirit is telling me they need to look into what happened to her. I don’t have any proof.”

  “No. You don’t.”

  She thinks of the idea she had the other night and wonders if her mother might, indeed, have left some proof after all. But there’s no way of knowing that yet.

  It’s a good idea to keep that on the back burner for now.

  “What am I supposed to do?” she asks Jacy, deciding not to mention that to him, either.

  “Start by finding out where Darrin is now.”

  “How?”

  “His parents still live in Lily Dale.”

  “And you want me to . . . what? Knock on their door and ask them where their son is?”

  “It’s a start.”

  “I can’t do that,” Calla protests.

  “Sure, you can.” He pauses. “I’ll go with you.”

  “You will?” She considers that. “When?”

  He shrugs. “Whenever you want.”

  She nods slowly. “Okay. I’ll think about it. But . . . I have to figure out if I’m ready to do that.”

  “I know.”

  She smiles faintly. “You know an awful lot about me.”

  Jacy tilts his head, and his expression is serious.

  “Yeah,” is all he says, and she gets the impression he knows more about her, in some ways, than she knows about herself.

  ————

  Walking down the empty hall at school, Calla wishes her science teacher had asked someone else to go up to the media center to pick up some handouts. Still playing catch-up, she was planning to spend the five-minute break the teacher just gave them to go over her notes from last week.

  Oh, well. It does feel good to stretch her legs a little. Spending lunch hour outside with Jacy sparked some hint of cabin fever this afternoon.

  Her footsteps echoing down the corridor, Calla turns the corner and stops short just outside the auditorium, startled by the sudden, jaunty sound of a piano playing inside.

  Someone is singing. A girl’s melodious soprano.

  She recognizes the song after a moment: “Hopelessly Devoted to You.” Olivia Newton-John sang it in the movie Grease with John Travolta. Calla watched it with her mother whenever they caught it on television. Mom said it was one of her favorite movies when she was a kid.

  Unable to resist a peek, she slips into the back of the auditorium to see who’s singing.

  To her shock, the cavernous space is dark. Deserted. Silent.

  The piano bench is empty, lid closed.

  And the music stopped as suddenly as if someone had turned off a radio. Maybe that’s all it was. Only . .
.

  There’s no radio that she can see, and it really sounded as if someone were rehearsing live music in here.

  Spooked, Calla backs out of the auditorium and hurries toward the media center, wondering if the school might be as haunted as Lily Dale itself.

  ————

  It’s been another long day, and Calla is relieved when the last bell rings as Mr. Bombeck is in the midst of working a difficult problem on the board. She has no clue what he’s doing. Her thoughts keep drifting to what happened earlier, in the auditorium.

  It’s probably no big deal—just a random haunting—but for some reason, that ghostly music left her with a lingering feeling of, well, doom. As if that makes any sense at all. “Hopelessly Devoted to You” might be a melancholy song, but it’s not a funeral march.

  “All right. We’ll save this equation for tomorrow,” Mr. Bombeck announces above the immediately chattering voices and scraping chairs. “Calla? Can you please stay for a minute and see me?”

  She sighs inwardly and approaches Mr. Bombeck’s desk as the room clears out and the hall beyond fills with voices and lockers slamming.

  “Have a seat.” Mr. Bombeck closes the door and gestures at the chair beside his desk.

  She sits. So does he.

  He looks intently at her, steepling his fingers beneath his chin as if he’s about to pray. “Were you able to follow today’s lesson, Calla?”

  “Pretty much,” she responds, trying to put her other concerns out of her head.

  “You seemed a little lost.”

  Oh, yeah, that’s just because every time I turn around, I’m seeing and hearing ghosts, she wants to say. Other than that, no problem.

  “How about if we take a few minutes to go over what we did today?” he asks, reaching for the chalk. “And I’ll give you some worksheets. You can meet with Willow again tonight or tomorrow, and hopefully, you’ll be getting up to speed by the end of the week.”

  She nods, deciding not to mention that Willow has a homecoming committee meeting tonight. She has a feeling Mr. Bombeck won’t consider that a good reason not to meet with her study partner and do homework.