Entranced

by Tamara Hart Heiner

  “Why didn’t you respond?” I frowned out the window.

  “I’ve been busy. I’m at school,” he said, as if it were totally obvious.

  Too busy to text me? I bit back the words. “Yeah, okay.”

  “All right?” he asked.

  No, I wasn’t all right. But he didn’t have time for me right now, anyway. “Yeah. I’m all right. Thanks for thinking it through with me.”

  “Sure. I’ll ring you later tonight.”

  “Yeah.” This time when I hung up, I did toss the phone away from me. I turned the car on and pulled away from the curb, anxious to get home and watch the unfolding news story about Mike Spencer.

  Mom joined me in the den when I didn’t leave the television even for dinner.

  “What’s going on?” she asked.

  I chewed away at my fingernails, anxiously waiting for a new revelation. “A friend from school died,” I whispered.

  “Oh, I’m so sorry.” She sat down next to me, her posture stiff and unbalanced. “What happened?”

  “I’m not sure.” I gestured at the TV. “The news hasn’t even reported on it. I heard at work it was a suicide. I keep waiting for something, but they haven’t said a word.”

  “Well, honey,” my mom said, her tone consoling and sympathetic, “not every suicide makes the news. The paper might write something up about it, and it will be in the police section, but there won’t be anything on TV unless it was somehow unusual. Now if it was a murder or a tragic accident . . .”

  “But it couldn’t be a suicide,” I said, my throat clogging with tears again. I was waiting for the big reveal. The moment when the news reporter said, “Breaking news.”

  Mom hugged my shoulders. “I’ll bring you some dinner.”

  “No.” I clicked the TV off and stood up. “I’ll join you at the table.”

  Around ten p.m., the online newspaper finally had an update. A small block of paragraph from the police beat mentioned responding to a 911 call. It didn’t list any names, but stated they found a high school senior shot dead by his own hunting rifle. He was alone and no foul play was suspected. No other victims and no other injuries reported.

  Not much else was said. I reread it several times, wanting something else to jump out at me, make more sense.

  Only after I’d crawled into bed and turned out the light did I realize Aaron had never called.

  *~*

  Students were a mess when I walked into the building on Wednesday. I made my way around sobbing groups of girls, arms supporting each other as they bawled. I grew more uneasy with every step. Everyone believed the story. They thought Mike had killed himself. My eyes swept around the corridor, searching for Clay. Not that I really expected him to be here today.

  I stepped into the office. The two ladies who manned the desk were huddled together, whispering. Ms. Arnold, the one who had always helped me rearrange my schedule during previous years, pushed her glasses up on her nose and looked at me.

  “Yes, dear?” she said. “How can I help you? If you want to talk to a counselor, there will be an assembly later this morning.”

  “Um, no.” I shook my head. “I actually need to change my schedule around. I’m doing the work-study program.”

  “Oh. Absolutely.” She returned to her computer and sat down. “Name?”

  “Jayne Lockwood.”

  “Good, there’s already a note on your file. Did you get your paperwork filled out?”

  “Yes.” I opened up my backpack and retrieved the papers, glad I’d gotten them signed before everything blew up at work.

  “Perfect.” Ms. Arnold took my papers. “You’re choosing the afternoon shift. Looks like we’ll need to move a few of your classes.”

  Ten minutes later, my schedule was set. I now had psychology first, history second, journalism third, and chemistry fourth. I’d completed my math courses last year, thanks to Dana, and journalism counted as my English credit.

  I slipped into first period right before the bell rang. Meredith leaned over my shoulder.

  “Did you hear about Mike Spencer?” she whispered.

  “Yes,” I breathed.

  She started to say something else, but the intercom turned on.

  “Students and teachers,” our principal said in a very grave voice, “by now most of you have probably heard about the loss of one of our own, Mike Spencer. We invite all students to the gymnasium for a special grief counseling assembly. Teachers, please excuse those who wish to attend.”

  The linoleum squeaked as chairs scooted away from desks and most of the class darted for the door. Meredith started past my desk and stopped.

  “Aren’t you coming, Jayne?”

  I opened my mouth to tell her no and reconsidered. On one hand, I resented that a large number of these kids were using Mike’s death as an excuse to miss class. It felt cheap to take advantage of such a tragedy. On the other hand, I actually felt sick inside. And the assembly might be a good place to get more information about what really happened. “Okay,” I said slowly, uncertainly.

  “Didn’t you know Mike?” she asked me as we started across the street toward the main building.

  “Yeah.” I exhaled. “I just can’t believe he killed himself. I’m kind of having a hard time with it.”

  “Oh.” She nodded. “I guess we never really know what someone’s thinking? I mean, he seemed like such a nice, happy guy. To be considering suicide—wow. If only we’d known, maybe we could have stopped it.”

  If only we’d known. Truer words never spoken. “Maybe he didn't kill himself.”

  She cast me a sideways glance. “The police report says he did.”

  “But what if someone just made it look like he did?”

  “Um . . . Well . . . I guess that could happen.”

  I knew she was saying that to appease me, though, and not because she actually believed it. I shivered and played with the knot in my scarf.

  In the gym, the principal gave a short speech eulogizing Mike’s life and talking about his leadership at school. I stirred on the bleachers, becoming more antsy with each passing moment. I needed to talk to someone about his death. I just had to rule out what I’d Seen.

  “Where’s Clay?” I asked her. “Aren’t they best friends?”

  “He’s not here,” she said. “This must be so hard on him.”

  “Yeah, I bet.” The image flashed through my head of Clay accidentally shooting Mike. “Really hard.”

  “I wonder how he heard the news?” Meredith sighed. “He posted on Facebook just an hour before it happened. He was out to dinner with his family for his mom’s birthday.”

  I stopped fidgeting, her words sinking in. “Wait, what? When?”

  She shrugged. “Last night. They went to Long Beach Island. Awful, isn’t it? He’s out enjoying a good meal while his best friend shoots himself.”

  My mind worked in double-time, trying to fit the pieces together. “Are you sure?”

  “Yeah. He posted lots of pictures.” She eyed me. “Why?”

  Long Beach Island. Half an hour away. Not with Mike, not even hunting or doing anything similar. I squeezed my eyes shut, trying to summon the images from my vision. What had they been wearing?

  Then I remembered. Big winter jackets. Camouflage pants. And they’d been in a cabin, loaded with hunting gear.

  The pieces clicked into place. They hadn’t been in Lacey Township. They’d been on a hunting trip in the winter and probably somewhere up north.

  A tremor started at the base of my spine and rattled me to my teeth. My vision was wrong. Again.

  *~*

  The assembly took up all of first period. I snuck away as soon as it was over, finding a secluded nook in the hallway. My hands shook as I dialed Aaron’s number and waited for him to answer. I wasn’t surprised when his voicemail picked up. Rather than leave a message, I sent him a text.

  Call me. ASAP. Something really freaky going on.

  The text sounded urgent enough. I pockete
d my phone, ready to jump out of class and answer it if he called.

  He didn’t, and he still hadn’t by the time I headed to fourth hour. I called again, stalling as long as I could before going into my new chemistry class. Still nothing.

  I hurried inside and sank into an empty chair, willing myself to think about something else. Anything but the less-than-reliable visions that kept popping into my head.

  Someone bumped my desk, jostling my pencil to the ground. I bent to retrieve it.

  “Hey, Jayne. I didn’t know you were in this class.”

  I knew that voice, but it still took me a split second to place it. I straightened up, coming face-to-face with my ex-boyfriend, Stephen. “Stephen! I just switched into this class. How are you?”

  He smiled at me, a hollowness in his green eyes that hadn’t been there at the start of our junior year. My mind flashed back to the vision I’d had last spring of his father’s death. I wish I could have stopped it somehow. I’d gone to the funeral. Both, actually, since his mother had died just a few months before from cancer. But we hadn’t spoken to each other. Between Stephen’s new girlfriend and the lacrosse team, he’d been well-guarded. I doubted he’d even noticed me.

  “Yeah, I’m great,” he said, and the statement was such a contradiction with recent happenings that we both laughed. My shoulders loosened, some of the tension slipping out of me.

  He sat on my table, his grin fading. “I’ve been better. But you? How was your summer?”

  Before I could answer, Mr. Joenks came in and started class. Stephen hopped off my desk and joined his friend Toby at the table behind me. But I couldn’t help being hyper-aware him. I could sense the suffering rolling off of him in waves.

  Class ended, and Stephen headed to the door with his friend. I shoved my things into my backpack and checked my phone. Nothing. I stood up, shouldering my bag with more hostility than was really necessary.

  “See ya,” Stephen said to Toby, and then turned to face me as I came up beside him. “Mind if I walk with you?”

  I shrugged. “’Course not.”

  He followed me to my locker, chatting with friends we bumped into as I changed out my books. He seemed to be doing well. I shut my locker and faced him.

  “You going to lunch?” he asked.

  I shook my head. “I’m in the work-study program. Get to go to work now.”

  “Oh!” He arched an eyebrow. “Look at you, Jayne. Miss Go-Getter.”

  My face warmed. “That’s why you liked me, right? Because I was the journalist following your lacrosse team?”

  “I liked you because you were the beautiful girl who came to every game,” he said.

  “Yeah, well.” I forced a smile. “You got over that.”

  He blinked and shook his head, grinning sheepishly. “You’ll never forgive me, will you?”

  I shrugged. It wasn’t about forgiveness. It was about trust and feelings and—well, I’d moved on. I motioned to the door behind me. “I’m off. Guess I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  “Oh.” He ran a hand through his wavy brown hair. “Can I walk you to your car?”

  My brow furrowed. “Why?” I didn’t mean it to come out that way, but we weren’t the kind of exes who stayed friends.

  “Can we walk?” He looked away from my gaze, but I felt a brittleness in him, as if his composure hung by a thread.

  “Yeah.”

  He motioned for me to lead the way, and I started for the door that went to the senior parking lot. We reached my car without a word. I dug through the side pocket of my backpack and found my key. Just when I thought maybe he wouldn’t say anything at all, he cleared his throat. I looked up from where I had the key in the door handle.

  “Remember when you called me last spring?”

  I hesitated. Not because I didn’t remember; I did. I’d called Stephen to warn him. Of course I hadn’t come out and said, “Gee, Stephen, I have visions, and your dad’s going to die.” Instead, I’d tried to convince him to strengthen his relationship with his father.

  I played dumb. “Which time?”

  He licked his lips. “There was this one time you called. You said some things—you don’t remember? As if you—as if you knew something was going to happen.”

  My heart ached for him. I shook my head.

  “But did you know?” he pressed. “Did you suspect something?”

  “I’m so sorry for what happened to you, Stephen,” I whispered, reaching out and touching his forearm.

  He crumpled before my eyes. His eyes narrowed, brow furrowing, shoulders hunching forward. He pulled his arm away from me and pressed a hand to his forehead, hiding his face.

  I put my backpack down and hugged him. He didn’t hug me back, but I felt the way he rested his weight against me, the way his body trembled. Then he pulled away, shaking his head and looking anywhere but at me.

  “Never mind. Forget I said anything.”

  I felt like a jerk. Here he was, suffering the worst kind of emotional anguish, and I couldn’t even throw him a bone. “You’ll get through this, Stephen,” I said.

  His head bobbed in acknowledgment. “See you in class.”

  “Yeah,” I said. I watched him stride away, then I got into my car and hit the steering wheel in frustration.

  When I’d first realized I could do something about people’s deaths, I’d felt so powerful. Now I felt as helpless as before.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Just as I pulled into the parking lot at the office, my phone rang. Aaron’s name danced across the screen. I grabbed the phone and flipped it open.

  “Hello?”

  “All right, Jayne?” he greeted.

  “Yes—well, no,” I corrected. “No, I’m not all right.”

  “What’s wrong?” he asked, his voice just the right mixture of sympathy and alarm.

  “It’s that kid I told you about yesterday,” I said, the words gushing out in a rush. “The one they thought committed suicide. Well, it looks like he actually did, Aaron.”

  “I’m so sorry. Was he a good friend of yours?”

  Totally beside the point. “No, no, it’s not about that! I just—suicide, Aaron!”

  “I know. I can’t imagine the anguish he must have been feeling to resort to that.”

  I pressed a palm to my forehead. “That’s not how he was supposed to die! I Saw his death in a vision, and it wasn’t supposed to happen for a few more months, at least! And it was an accident!”

  “Oh, well . . .” Now he sounded decidedly guarded. “Perhaps you Saw it wrong.”

  I was already shaking my head. “The details, Aaron. I can recall it all so clearly. The clothes he wore, the weather, everything.”

  “Your vision had to be wrong.”

  The words stabbed me to the core. The same thoughts had run through my head, but to hear them spoken out loud . . . “It wasn’t wrong. My visions aren’t wrong. The deaths only changes if Laima changes them!”

  “But this isn’t the first time. The last vision you had was wrong, too.”

  “What are you saying?” I snapped. “That I’m delusional? Maybe I’m making this up?”

  “Jayne. You know that’s not what I’m saying—”

  “This isn’t right, Aaron! Something’s not normal here!” I was shaking again, my throat aching with unshed tears.

  “All I’m saying is maybe the future isn’t as concrete as you thought. Maybe things can change—”

  “They can’t!” I clutched the phone tightly. “I tried and tried for years! Nothing changed what I Saw!” The sobs broke out of me, and I covered my mouth to muffle the sound.

  “You’re upset. Let’s meet when you get done with school. Grab a cup of tea or something.”

  “I’m not in school.” I swallowed back my tears, fighting to compose myself. “I started the work-study program. I told you about it yesterday. Remember? And I don’t want tea. I want to talk to someone who believes me.” I snapped the phone shut, not giving him a chance to defend h
imself. Then I wiped my eyes with my fingers, cleared my throat, and got out of the car.

  Yesterday’s suicide was yesterday’s news, and I was grateful everyone at work seemed to have moved on. Mr. Edwards assigned me to work with Kate, since we’d worked so well together over the summer. When I’d first met Kate, she’d had the lemon scent. I’d faced her death months ago and knew she would die in another thirty-two years from a heart disorder.

  I’d debated long and hard if I should try to change her death. In the end, I left it the way it was. While tragic, Kate’s death didn’t feel wrong.

  Mr. Edwards put us on the college sports page. I’d done the sports byline at Lacey Township High for two years, and Kate had all the right connections to get good interviews. We made a good team.

  “Check out this layout,” she said excitedly, spinning my chair toward the computer screen. “All I need are the stats for the game this weekend. See?”

  “Looks great,” I agreed.

  “Awesome.” She handed me a slip of paper. “Call these numbers, will you? I want to get some pre-game interviews lined up. See who’s available for phone interviews tomorrow.”

  Phone interviews I could do. Even though I had come to terms with my Sight, I still flinched at the thought of meeting random strangers.

  I got three interviews set up for the next day, then worked on a few questions. At five o’clock, Mr. Edwards sent me home.

  “When you work here full-time, you can stay after hours,” he said with a wink.

  Kate followed me out, her long blond hair swishing with each step. “Yeah, I don’t get to stay either,” she said with a sigh. “You and I, we do the grunt work. We do the layouts and get all the information. And then Shane comes in and writes the articles and gets the byline.”

  “That will be you after you get your degree,” I promised her, unlocking my car.

  “And you,” she said.

  Not sports, though. My line of interest had changed. Sports used to be my way of hiding from real people. Now, I wanted to explore and discover. Investigative journalism was calling my name. Maybe even working for a magazine someday instead of the paper. Who knew?