Wide Awake

by KB Anne

  When I’m far away from prying eyes, I collapse against the wall. Thank the gods that the good students of Vernal Falls have hurried themselves off to their next class. There’s relief in the silence. I take deep breaths in and out and try not to think about Lizzie and what she wanted to do with me. The panic attack claws at my chest. I push my breaths in and out. In and out. I am not ruled by my fear. I am not ruled by my worry. I am in control of the situation. In and out. In and out.

  When the risk of hyperventilating is over, I rest my cheek against the cold concrete block to steady myself. The air shifts. The hair on the back of my neck springs up. Someone else is here.

  I glance up at the camera Donahue installed a few months back after complaints of cigarette smoke in the stairwells. The live feed plays on one of the monitors in the back corner of his office. At least if something happens to me, they’ll have it on film, because I haven’t had a chance to alter this camera yet.

  I slide over to the railing. My boots aren’t loud and clunky like Kensey’s. They’re built for utility and stealth. I peek over the rail.

  “Hello?” I call out in a much smaller voice than I intend. The type of voice that will ruin my reputation. I try again, hoping I sound more confident. “Hello? Is anyone there?”

  No one answers. I stand back up and concentrate. Thoughts come to me jumbled, like I’m listening to an FM radio and I’m just out of range. I slip down two steps. The thoughts tune in but still aren’t clear. I creep down two more. I’ve never tried to eavesdrop on anyone’s thoughts before.

  My heart’s pounding so hard it’s making it difficult to concentrate. I can’t tell if it’s a male or female. I take a deep breath, trying to pick up the scent.

  A fresh breeze replaces the stale hall air. The edges of my vision go soft. It’s like the day Breas came to school and I passed out.

  If it’s Breas following me, I’m going to kick his ass. I slip down four more steps and really try to tune in, but the thoughts don’t make sense. More impressions and smells. The moon. My face. Dancing in the haze. My face. Breas and I making out. My face.

  “Psycho stalker!” I scream, leaping the final steps. I land and twist to confront Breas, but he’s not there. No one’s there. The landing’s empty.

  I sprint into the hall. Not a soul in sight. Not even the echo of footsteps.

  Whoever’s following me isn’t getting away with this. That I promise.

  The alarm goes off when I leave through the emergency exit. I’m pissed because my stalker can come and go without setting off the alarms—I’ve been trying to do that for years. And now Donahue and a security guard will come running to find out who illegally left the building, because even though there’s a camera, it’s not trained on the door.

  I catch a hint of smoke. I whirl around. In the far distance behind a giant oak tree, there’s someone standing there. I can just make out the edge of his black leather jacket. Then he’s gone.

  He made sure he was close enough to keep an eye on me, but far enough away that he wouldn’t get caught.

  I’m not scared. Though maybe I should be. All my instincts tell me I should be, but my instincts are not always very reliable.

  Something tells me I just discovered my mysterious dance partner. I just need to decide if he’s a murderous psycho stalker or something else.

  28

  Dead Man’s Curve

  Gram’s forgiven Breas for giving her granddaughter hickeys. She’s not entirely happy with me. Evidently, I should know better, or at least shouldn’t prance around with my neck on display. Scott’s come to grips with us hooking up. He doesn’t approve, but he’s decided to let the shit show stage its own production. He thinks I’ll grow bored with Breas, and Breas will shuffle back to Kensey, which is probably true.

  Mind you, none of this conversation was spoken aloud. I feel a little guilty about creeping in on their thoughts, but I mean, if you had a mind-reading ability, wouldn’t you use it? Besides, I didn’t put my ideas in their heads. I only read theirs.

  Throughout dinner, the four of us are all very civil to each other. Scott and Breas entertain us with stories about Breas’s first football practice. Evidently, he’s quite the place kicker. We laugh. We smile. It’s weird but nice that we’re all getting along without me wanting to stab Breas with a fork.

  After dinner, Scott washes the dishes, and we dry them. When everything’s all cleaned up, Breas turns to Gram and says, “Miss Rose, may I take your granddaughter for a ride this fine evening?”

  And that’s when the trouble begins.

  I sigh in exasperation. “Shouldn’t you ask me first?”

  “Of course, I know you’d like to go with me, but we need your grandmother’s permission.” He raises his hand palm up as he bends at the waist in front of Gram. In his own mind, he’s quite the charmer.

  And while at times I do find him irresistible and, as Lizzie once called him, a delicious piece of man-flesh, I don’t like to be told what to do. “Motorcycles are dangerous.”

  Scott snorts. “You’re so full of BS, Gigi.”

  Gram puts her hand on her hip. “Mind your language, young man.”

  Scott ducks his head. “I’m sorry, Gram.”

  “Now,” she says, “Gigi, are you really going to use that excuse again? Didn’t we talk about that the other day?”

  Before I can come up with a satisfactory retort, she continues, “That lie didn’t work when you tried to cover up the ‘real’ reason you and Lizzie fought, and it’s not going to work now.”

  She knows? Scott thinks, broadcasting his thoughts loud and clear in my mind. Much different than the mixed channel from this afternoon when I received images instead of thoughts, like a TV station trying to capture a radio frequency.

  No. I shake my head. By physically acknowledging his question, I feel human instead of some freak who can read minds and project thoughts.

  If Gram knew about the spell book or that Lizzie was practicing black magic she’d be pissed. She hid that book for a reason. Probably because of the curses and what they can do to people.

  Breas, oblivious to the internal conversation going on between Scott and me, bows before me. “Gigi,” he says, offering his hand, “may you do me the honor of going for a ride this fine evening?”

  “I don’t—” I start to say, but Scott interrupts me.

  “You know you want to go. Stop using the danger element as a cop-out. You’re not kidding anyone.”

  “But Gram still needs help filling the kiln.”

  “I’ll help her,” he says.

  Gram pats his arm. “It won’t take long anyway. Besides, Scott and I need time to chat.”

  “It’s a sign, Gig,” Breas says, leading me out the door.

  “A sign of what?”

  “That you should go for a ride—it’s been written in the stars.”

  I roll my eyes and point to the setting sun. “The stars aren’t even out yet.”

  He shrugs as he tosses me a helmet. The foul thing reeks of some sweet flowery perfume that has never touched my body.

  “Ridden with anyone else lately?”

  He pulls his hand to his chest, pretending to be aghast. He’s in full form tonight. “Gigi, how could you accuse me of such a thing.”

  “Don’t lie. It doesn’t become you.”

  He juts out his chin. “But it becomes you.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “You lied to Gram about Lizzie cursing me.”

  I shove my finger into his chest. “First off, she is my gram, not yours. You switch between ‘Gram’ and ‘Miss Rose’ depending on what suits you. She’s my gram period.” He tries to argue but I jab my finger in deeper. “Second, if you ever combine the words ‘Lizzie’ and ‘curse’ in the same sentence again, I will break your arm.” He almost snorts, but the edge of a strategically pointed fingernail stops him. “Third, you need to pick Kensey or me, because I don’t play sloppy seconds to anyone, especially to that bitch.”


  He steps closer. With blood racing through my veins, I try to catch my breath. My threats don’t faze him. If anything, they’ve turned him on. He presses against me. My instincts tell me not to. My brain screams, “Don’t do it,” but that other part, that base primal part, wants to yank his lips to mine and cause the neighbor to abandon her Bible study for the rest of the evening.

  “You know you want me,” he murmurs as if reading my mind, but so far as I know, I’m the only one here who can do that. He edges closer. The space between us grows nonexistent. A needy burn blossoms in my chest. I lift my arms and jerk him to me. He covers my mouth with his, pushing his tongue in and out. It’s not gentle. It’s not seductive. I let him kiss me for several long minutes before I yank away and tug on the helmet. My patchouli essential oil will overpower the cheap perfume.

  “Let’s ride,” I growl.

  He revs the engine as he lifts his boot and takes off down the road. We chase the last remnants of the day together.

  Today. At this moment. We are perfect.

  But the moment won’t last.

  It never does.

  He banks a left to Radley Pond and revs the engine again. The bike flies down the road, ever increasing its speed. He drives with the careless, reckless abandon of someone who thinks he is invincible. As if the entire world is crumbling behind us and we need only to hit the next bend, and we will be free. It’s thrilling and amazing and absolutely terrifying.

  I clutch his waist tighter as a silent plea to slow down. It only encourages him to go faster.

  Deadman’s Curve approaches at an alarming speed. The cliché will soon become our reality if he doesn’t slow down. I strum my fingers against his stomach. He hits the throttle in response.

  “Slow down!” I scream.

  He doesn’t hear me, or he ignores my plea.

  “Slow down! Slow down!” I scream again and again.

  Still no response.

  “Breas! Slow down!”

  In answer, the bike goes faster.

  I squeeze tighter and scream again to stop, but he doesn’t stop, and he doesn’t slow down. He wants to kill us.

  My god. He will kill us.

  The giant pine on the hairpin curve waves to me. “Join me,” it says. “You’ll like it here.”

  But I’m not ready to die.

  I’ve only begun to live.

  * * *

  Somehow he navigates the curve. I don’t know how he did. All I know is that we didn’t die. I’m glad we didn’t. Fuck that. I’m fucking amazed we didn’t.

  He pulls up to the boulder overlooking Radley Pond.

  As soon as he cuts the engine, I leap off the bike, stumbling to catch my footing. “Are you freaking nuts? Were you trying to kill us?”

  His eyes shine bright in the dusk light, drunk on the adrenaline coursing through our veins at the near-death experience. He climbs off the bike, his legs strong. The ground bends to his will. He stalks over. Expectant of my praise. Expectant our high will join us as one.

  I backpedal away from him. “You’re nuts, you freaking psycho. Get away from me.”

  He narrows his eyes. I can’t read his mind, but I know what he wants. I’ve seen that determination in many eyes before. He will not be diverted.

  Fear crawls up my spine. He will not overpower me. Not tonight. Not ever. I will not allow that to happen again. Ever again. Swallowing my nerve, I reach into my pocket and withdraw the black canister. I flick the red switch.

  “How lucky do you feel?”

  “Mistake,” he snarls and backs away. His eyes bore into mine before he gets back on his bike and disappears into the night.

  I sway back and forth with the can of pepper spray. When the bike roars out of hearing range, I collapse. The fear, the panic, the adrenaline, all rush out of me in one mighty exhale, leaving me without even the ability to stand. Crickets lull me to sleep on a bed of soft grass.

  An image of me fighting with Breas pops into my head. First at my house. Then here, along the banks of Radley Pond. I stretch my mind to read the channel, but the effort further exhausts my already weakened state. I become aware of a heat source, but I don’t possess the strength to do anything about it.

  As whoever approaches, my vision blurs. My thoughts too. I must be dreaming. Arms cradle me to a chest radiating with heat. Just before everything goes black, I project out, “I’ve only begun to live.”

  29

  New Channels and Seances

  A pillow knocks into the side of my head.

  “Rise and shine, sleepyhead,” Scott (a.k.a. Mr. Annoying) yells cheerfully from the foot of my bed.

  I clutch the blankets to my chest, the habit so familiar I almost forget that I didn’t fall asleep in my room last night.

  I jerk up. How did I get into my bed?

  His brow furrows. “Everything all right?”

  “Yeah, just give me a minute.”

  “You’ve got ten. Don’t waste them.”

  “Whatever.”

  When he closes the door behind him, I fling off my covers and leap out of bed. My sheets are covered with dirt and grass. My jeans are even still damp.

  Last night wasn’t a dream. It really happened. The hair on the back of my neck stands up. I hurry to the window. There, in the distance, behind a large oak tree, is the same figure I saw yesterday after the stairwell incident. He takes a long drag of his cigarette. The smoke spirals around him, clouding his presence.

  “Gigi, I’m leaving in five,” Scott yells from downstairs.

  “Coming,” I shout back. I turn back to the window. The figure is gone.

  Creepy stalker turns protective guardian angel. Now, that’s an interesting turn of events.

  I’m not even that upset with Breas. If he didn’t have his psychotic break, I would never have discovered the true nature of the person following me. I hurry to get dressed, looking forward to the prospect that my guardian angel will follow me to school again.

  * * *

  The car ride was uneventful. So were my morning classes—even the ones I skipped and spent in the stairwell. No special visitors, no cigarette smoke, no leather jacket in the far-off distance. By the time fourth period rolls around, I’m distracted enough that a cluster of freshmen on their way to lunch crashes into me and knocks me over. I hiss, and they scatter like marbles, leaving paper trails behind them. I’ve been neglectful of my duties these past few weeks. I glare around the near-empty hall, daring anyone to fight, but only one person would willingly put herself in harm’s way.

  Kensey rests against a locker, picking at her fingernail. “Funny they didn’t move out of the way. Almost as if you didn’t exist.”

  One thing I’ll admit Kensey is good at—she always goes for the low blow. But so do I.

  “That’s how your boyfriend acted last night on my front lawn.”

  Her arms tighten into toothpicks. “You keep away from him.”

  A Joker smile crosses my face. “I think you should be telling your boyfriend to keep away from me. He’s the one who keeps showing up at my doorstep.”

  She gasps. “Only because he feels sorry for you and your crack whore mom.”

  She makes me laugh. She really does. “You know, Kensey, it used to bother me when you said stuff like that, but now it’s just white noise. Everything that comes out of your mouth is white noise.”

  “Well …” she yells at my disappearing back, “well, at least I’m not a skank.”

  I turn around and rush at her. She backpedals, covering her face in case of a frontal attack, but I’m not going to cut her. No. Mental warfare is far more powerful and potentially more devastating.

  “If I were you, I’d stop at Planned Parenthood and schedule an exam. I’d hate for you to catch everything I have.”

  The whites of her eyes turn a glaring shade of putrid. Gasping, she scurries off to the office.

  To commemorate my win, I withdraw a black, chisel-tipped Sharpie from my backpack. The students of Vernal F
alls should witness Miss Cheerleader Prom Queen in a tissue paper gown tagged with a self-deprecating speech bubble coming out of her mouth.

  You can make donations at the “Gigi Brennan, Awesome Artist” GoFundMe site.

  The Sharpie squeaks and pulls across the large picture of the cheerleading captain. Not loud enough to lure students out of their classes to watch live art, but distracting enough that I almost miss the whisper of footsteps down the hall. I add the finishing touches to my artwork before capping the marker.

  I concentrate on the mind of my fellow class-skipping comrade. I’ll admit, in the beginning I was hesitant about reading other people’s thoughts. I mean, my thoughts are scary enough. But now I have decided to embrace my gift. My personal history has been broadcast throughout the school since the second grade. It’s my turn.

  I catch impressions of two people. One is Lizzie—I’d know her mind anywhere. She stole the spell book again, though I don’t know how she found it. I hid it in the greenhouse under a crate of lily bulbs. She’s barely ever been in the greenhouse. Everyone knows it’s off-limits with the exception of Gram and occasionally Scott. It’s my private sanctuary away from the real world, and she broke it.

  From what I can tell, she has no intention of performing a sweet little séance with the other person. She’s got something dark and tragic in mind for the girl who was supposed to call her mom and get checked for STDs at Planned Parenthood. Somehow she persuaded Kensey to go up to the school attic with her.

  I don’t think she’s ever been up there before, though I did tell her how to open the locked door. I slip through the door and relock it behind me. Whatever she has in mind, she doesn’t want to be disturbed. I climb the stairs quietly, going more by feel than sight.