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Here's the blurb followed by a sneak peek at chapter 1.
When a tragic accident leaves Jessica comatose, her spirit escapes her body. Navigating a supernatural realm is tough, but being half dead has its advantages.
Like getting into people’s thoughts.
Like taking over someone’s body.
Like experiencing romance on a whole new plane - literally.
Jessica learns an amazing truth as she struggles to return to her body before the doctors pull the plug, only she can’t do it alone. Now the only two people willing to help Jessica’s splintered soul are the two she’s hurt the most. They must find a way to guide her soul back to her body . . . before it’s too late.
What readers are saying about A SOUL’S KISS:
I could not put it down! – Michelle Chamberlin ★★★★★
Loved it- it
was exciting and had me wanting to find out more all the way until the end.
Just the right balance of romance, suspense and magic! Definitely recommend! –
Amazon customer ★★★★★
I got hooked in right off the bat! In
different POV and I enjoyed each one and it made the book awesome. … this book
has so many great points that you just get so sucked in and lose track of
everything going on around you! I love books that can make me lose track. –
Serenity ★★★★★
A thrilling tale, beautifully imagined and carefully
crafted. A must read if you like young adult paranormal books.
Chapter 1
Jessica
Thursday and Friday
J
|
essica Mitchell,” my drama teacher, Mrs.
Clark, calls out my name. “Your group is first.”
We walk up the stage
steps. Kayla first, then me, then Michael. I get goose bumps just knowing he’s
right behind me.
I signed up for drama
class because I saw the play last year and Michael blew me away. It’s not
unusual for a junior, like me, to add drama to her schedule. I’m pretty sure
Kayla had the same goal in mind when she switched into the class the second
week of school: Michael Hoffman. How else could we get into a class with a
senior?
We get into position on
the stage.
I hold the knife steady,
steady, directly over Kayla’s heart. Her eyes do not flutter open. I stay
poised, waiting for the exact moment when I will raise my arm higher, release
my breath with a scream, and plunge the weapon downward with jealous rage.
Or resentful hate.
Or odious envy.
I haven’t really got hold
of my circle of emotion yet. What I really want to do is giggle. I stare at her
closed eyes, waiting for a signal. She looks like my archrival Hannah. They
share the same long blonde hair. Pretty like her, too.
Michael will step between
us at any moment now and save her.
“Jessica,” Michael
whispers my name. I raise my arm. Jerk it. I feel a tingle in my shoulder like
a tendon snapped and I half turn without meaning to.
Her eyes open. She doesn’t
scream and neither do I, though one of us should. She sneers instead, rolls her
eyes toward Michael and whispers the classic save me.
I slam the knife down, my
fist stopping a quarter inch from her chest. In the same instant Michael leaps
from behind me and punches at my hand. He knocks the knife’s handle. It easily
flips away and thumps on the floor with no resounding metallic clatter. Of
course not. The rubber stage prop is as phony as we are. Our sixty second
impromptu warm-up exercise receives the hesitant applause of the other twenty-seven
kids watching. Three guys take the stage as we return to our seats.
Today we had to limit our
dialogue to three words or less per person and concentrate on blending actions.
Like a dance, Mrs. Clark had said. Michael, Kayla, and I step down and trail
toward the empty fifth row as the next group gets into position. Like a
dance, I think, and I sidestep my way past Kayla so I can sit next to
Michael. He is so hot.
Now that I’m sitting so
close to him I get more nervous, if that’s possible. I want to say something,
anything, but the words are stuck somewhere near my pounding heart.
My best friend, Rashanda,
would have something smart to say. Her constant advice rolls around in my head:
just be yourself.
“So, Michael,” I whisper
as the second group on stage begins, “what are your biggest fears?” I’ve
practiced questions like this in front of the bathroom mirror. Now I feel like
a fool for actually asking him such a lame question so I flip my hair back with
my hand and angle my body toward him, crossing my right leg over my left. Why
do I bother trying to act cool? I’m hopeless at this acting stuff, and I am über-scared
that people won’t like me.
“Uh,” he says. He keeps
his eyes forward, frowns a bit, and then turns toward me. For a second, we are
the only two people in the auditorium. He keeps his voice to something less
than a whisper. I read his lips. “I’d have to say robbers, the dark, and
balloons on the floor.”
I stifle my laughter.
Kayla nudges me.
“What’s so funny?” she
asks. Her voice is a little too loud. I shake my head, keep my lips glued shut,
and focus on the three kids that are acting like animals on the stage. Mrs.
Clark’s piercing glance in our direction misses me and settles on Kayla. Kayla
slumps back.
I dig my hand in my
pocket for a breath mint, but only find lint. Drama is the last period of the
day and the most important class to have fresh breath. Because, well, because I
could get picked to do a romantic scene. And Michael Hoffman, man of my dreams,
might have to do a scene with me, like today, and like two other times this
semester, and I might get to sit next to him in the auditorium. Like today. So
breath mints are a must.
I can’t believe I’ve run out
of mints. I put my hand up to my face and give a little fake cough, trying to
catch a whiff. Not bad, I guess. I join the others in clapping faint approval for
the finished skit on stage.
Now’s my chance to
respond and not be heard by Mrs. Clark. “Balloons on the floor?” I lean toward
Michael, match his last two hand claps. “You’re going to have to explain that
one to me.”
“I’ll tell you later,” he
breathes.
Michael curls up one
delicious corner of his mouth then breaks into a full grin. I memorize the
moment as his deep blue eyes hold mine for a fraction of eternity. I didn’t
know that a guy’s eyes could sparkle so. If I swallow now, will he notice the
lump in my throat? When his eyes flicker to the stage I take advantage of two
whole seconds to admire the way his sun-bleached hair falls across his
forehead. He gives a tiny toss of his head like a rock star. I’ve seen him do
that a hundred times, but maybe my ogling spurred the unconscious gesture.
My heart thumps. Later.
What could that mean? Right after school? Alone in the auditorium? With Michael
Hoffman?
As if to mock me the
entire class howls at something silly that the third group on stage is doing.
Michael catches it, and Kayla, too, so I laugh along with them. Three senior boys,
friends of Michael’s who are nice and cool and popular even though they aren’t
in the party crowd or jocks, troop off the stage. They file into our row from
the other aisle and Michael stands to high five them. I wish I knew what had
been so funny.
As the next several
groups do their skits we sit quietly. It takes half the hour to get through
everybody, and then Mrs. Clark marches us back to the drama room and passes out
some scripts.
Later. Later. Isn’t
it time for the last bell to ring? I really want to get to the later
part of today and talk to Michael.
Finally the bell rings. I
fish under my desk for my Spanish book, the only class I have any homework in
tonight, and take my time getting to my feet. If I time it just right I can
exit with Michael and—
“Jessica.” Mrs. Clark
motions me over as I pass her desk. “I want you to practice the part of the girl
looking for her soul mate. You don’t have to memorize anything.” She laughs like a troll and adds, “Yet.” I can
sense Michael passing behind me. He’ll be out the door in two more seconds.
“But go over it enough times to get a sense of the timing and rhythm.”
“All right,” I say. She hasn’t
given anyone else an assignment like this. She must think I need all the extra
help I can get. Right. I fold the script in half and then fold it again and
stuff the bulky square into my back pocket.
There are three slowpokes
between me and the door. Michael is through it and heading for his locker. Of
course I know exactly where his locker is located—I pass it several times a
day.
I push past the slowpokes
and enter the hallway. This is the third time I’ve left drama class after
Michael. That means I’ll have to see him meet up with his girlfriend, Hannah.
Yup, there she is. She catches
up to him at the corner, gives him a peck on the cheek—what I wouldn’t give to
be in her shoes—but then she says something and waves him off. He continues
down to his locker, but she keeps going straight.
Dilemma.
Do I go to my locker? I’ve got my Spanish homework and the drama script. I
didn’t wear a coat today. I can go down the senior hallway to the parking lot
before heading to the pool. I can stop and ask Michael about his funny fear of
balloons.
Or
do I follow Hannah and see what she’s up to? Seems like a no-brainer, except
that Hannah starts waving at Keith Mullins as soon as Michael turns away. If
she’s two-timing Michael, well, that would be nothing but good news for me.
I
turn down the senior hallway. Doors slam, lockers clang, locks jangle. Guys
yell, jerks cuss, girls laugh. I’m pretty much ignored since I’m a lowly junior.
I plaster a semi-smile on my face, ready if Michael bangs his locker shut and sees
me. This is a practiced smile, one that doesn’t make my chin crinkle, but lifts
my cheeks to create a higher cheekbone effect. I’m just average looking so I
have to do the most with what I have.
I
slow my pace.
And
don’t see the elbow. Just feel it. Hard. Around my eye socket.
I’m
flat on my back. Lights out.
“Sorry,”
some moron says.
“Hey, are you all right?” I recognize that
voice. Michael helps me up. The moron gets my book and hands it back to me.
“Yeah,”
I say, “I’m . . . I’m fine.”
“Hey,
I didn’t see her,” the moron says to Michael.
“What
happened?” Hannah is right beside me. I stare at her shoes. Keith lags behind.
Michael
explains to them in vivid detail. Has everyone slowed their pace to stare at
me? Maybe I really did get knocked out. I’m not sure. My tail bone hurts and my
wrists tingle from being pulled to my feet. My eye socket throbs and so does
the back of my skull.
“We
should take her home,” Hannah says to Michael. Then to me, “Did you drive or
take the bus?” I guess I don’t answer fast enough because she keeps talking.
“We’ll take you home. You shouldn’t drive. You seem all disoriented.”
More like embarrassed.
Mortified. Humiliated. Totally self-conscious.
They huddle me out the
back door and down the steps. Hannah has my free arm and guides me between two
rows of cars until we reach a new Ford Focus. Midnight blue. Michael, or maybe
it’s Keith, takes my Spanish book as Hannah helps me into the back seat, and
then he hands it back and I stare at the book’s cover, still too embarrassed to
lift my eyes. And dizzy.
“Where does she live?” I
hear Hannah ask as she closes my door. The three of them stand outside and I’m
shocked to hear Keith recite my exact address and give directions. How strange is
that? Why would he know where I live?
Two of them skirt around
the car and then all three of the doors open and they slide into their spots
like a dance. Like a dance? Music blares from the radio, but I don’t recognize
the song and now I can’t remember who was sitting next to me or who was
driving.
~*~*~*~*~
Suddenly I wake to
swirling walls. I focus on the ceiling and wait until the dizziness passes. I’m
not in my room; this is my sister’s room. She’s studying abroad this year so
sometimes I use her room.
I turn my head and stare
at the red numbers on the clock radio. I try to remember if it’s Saturday or a
school day. If this isn’t Saturday then I’m seriously late. I sit up on an elbow
and listen for the usual house sounds: dad in the shower or mom emptying the
dishwasher or the kitchen TV spouting the Early Show.
Nothing.
I chuck back the
comforter and realize I’m still wearing my jeans and blouse from yesterday.
That’s a tremendous time saver and it isn’t as if anybody will remember what
Jessica Mitchell wore the day before. Fashionista I am not. Now if only my hair
isn’t too bad.
The bathroom mirror reflects
my oval face which is maybe a little paler than usual. Sleepy green eyes, unfashionably
thin lips, and messy hair. I don’t waste more than ten minutes on trying to
look better. Hardly a bruise around my eye. No swelling.
I don’t have time for
breakfast and from the looks of the kitchen neither did my parents. No toast
crumbs on the counter, no cereal bowl in the sink. I don’t even smell coffee.
Something seems off, but
I don’t have time to figure it out.
Toothpaste, mouthwash,
find some breath mints, grab my homework—did I have homework?—and I’m outta here.
But my car isn’t in the
garage. My mom’s car, I mean. Dad drops her at work when I need to use her car
to stay after school for practice. Like yesterday. For some reason my head is
all fuzzy for a moment before I realize that I missed practice. My car is still
at school! I step out the garage door, lock it, and glance up the street. Three
kids are standing at the bus stop. I start walking toward them trying to
remember why I left my car, skipped practice, and somehow got home. I stop in
the middle of the road as a throbbing around my eye brings back the memory. I was
in Keith Mullins’ car. A wave of embarrassment washes over me as I remember.
I start walking toward
the bus stop again. Little groans escape between my teeth as I think of Hannah,
Keith, and most of all Michael, taking pity on poor little me. The ride out of
the school parking lot is hazy, though. I imagine that it was Hannah who sat in
the backseat with me, but that doesn’t seem right if it was Michael’s car. I can’t
picture the car. In fact, I can’t remember arriving home or anything else about
last night.
The rumble of the
approaching school bus cuts off my reflection. The bus’s gears shift down as I
shift up into a jog. I’ve been on the bus when the driver has pulled away
leaving behind a kid who was racing to catch it. I don’t want to be that kid
today. If I have to ride my bike three miles to school I’ll miss first hour for
sure. I ramp it up another notch as the stupid yellow monstrosity huffs to a
stop and swings open its door. Three neighborhood kids I rarely speak to take
their sweet time, thank you, thank you, and trudge up the steps. I make it and
I’m not even out of breath. The driver closes the door practically on my heels
and I fall into my usual seat as the bus lurches forward, spewing diesel fumes.
~*~*~*~*~
I’m
in first hour English, last row, last seat, before the tardy bell rings. The
bus ride smudges in my memory under a growing headache.
The
seat next to me is vacant. Rashanda’s seat. Rashanda is the token black kid in
our English class and my very best friend. I can get away with teasing her about
it because we’ve been best friends since first grade. Her dad is white and her
mom is half African American so technically Rashanda is a quadroon, a word we
learned last year when we had to read Uncle Tom’s Cabin for extra
credit. Sometimes I call her a silly
quadroon whenever she does something peculiar, which is pretty often. She
has some persistent health issues so she’s at the hospital a lot. I worry about
her all the time, but she tells me not to. Everything will work out, she says.
She trusts God, she says, and so should I. I still worry.
There’s
a weird feeling about today. Like the stars aren’t lining up right.
Mrs.
Brown’s student teacher is waiting for the bell to ring so she can click enter
on the computer and finalize the attendance. She stares at Rashanda’s empty
seat and then at my desk, but not exactly at me. She looks oddly sad, but maybe
that’s because she started teaching the class this week and it’s not going too
well. Junior English is a far cry from Junior Honors English. I was in the
Honors section last year with all my friends, but I couldn’t fit it in my
schedule this semester.
There
is the usual pre-bell ruckus going on with half the kids not even in their
seats. A bunch of girls are knotted into a whispering frenzy near the front of
the classroom. Their heads turn one by one to look back here. At me? Maybe they’re
staring at my black eye. I guess I didn’t use enough cover-up. They whisper
some more and then file down Tyler Dolan’s row.
A
couple of the kids that sit around Tyler are making a fuss over him, reaching a
hand out to tap his arm, nodding their heads in unison. The girls join in the
conversation. Tyler’s freckled face holds a deeper blush than usual, almost as
red as his hair. I like Tyler; he’s one of those guys I’ve known all my life,
but usually take for granted. He held a door open for me last week. Last year,
before I got my driver’s license, I missed the bus and he walked me all the way
home.
He looks so uncomfortable
with the attention he’s getting. There is something seriously wrong. With all
the noise in the large room I can only make out a couple of phrases. Expressions
of sympathy.
Mrs. Brown gathers her
things like she’s going to leave the student teacher to fend for herself today.
I hope she doesn’t go too far away. Some of these jerks wouldn’t think twice
about harassing Ms. Gardner to tears. Suddenly I feel overwhelmed by those
possible tears, like I’m somehow connected spiritually to a whole range of
emotions present in the room.
The tardy bell rings and
Mrs. Brown stands up. That’s all it takes for some of the kids to find their
seats; others have to be herded, hushed, and hovered over. When Mrs. Brown is
satisfied that everyone’s attention is focused she turns the reins over to Ms.
Gardner and leaves with a final scowl at two boys in the front.
Sometimes the bell also
is a signal for me and Rashanda to go into the storage room at the back of the
classroom. Since our seats flank the storage room door, we’re responsible for
passing out the classroom set of grammar books that we use once or twice a
week. It only takes a few seconds to grab a couple armloads of the tattered
manuals and distribute them to our fellow classmates. Groans and grimaces
follow. Hardly anyone likes to learn about fragments and participles and
gerunds.
“Today we’re going to
cover the use of apostrophes,” Ms. Gardner says. I figure that’s my cue and I stand
up. Without Rashanda I’m on my own. “Tyler, would you mind getting the books
from the storage room?”
Well, that’s nice. I’ll
have some help and maybe I can find out what’s up with him.
The classroom erupts into
the customary whining and moaning as I slip into the dusty storage room. The
long center table is covered with stacks of materials for the debate team
instead of the grammar books. The shelves are crammed with thirty copies each
of various novels, plays, and classics.
Tyler
shuffles in and looks at the table and then the shelves.
“I
don’t know where they are,” I say. “They’re usually on the table.”
He
gives a little hoarse grunt like he’s trying to clear his throat, but doesn’t
say anything. He scans the bottom shelf. I do the same on the other side of the
cramped room. If we take too long I don’t want to think of the teasing we’ll
get when we come out, you know, like: What were you two doing in there? How
long does it take to make a baby? Zip up, Dolan and worse, gross stuff
either whispered or, because there’s a student teacher, yelled.
“Ah,
here they are,” Tyler breathes out the words like he’s talking to himself.
“I’ll
help,” I say, but he’s already piling the whole set against his chest. He rises
from a squatting position and two books slip to the floor just as another kid, Jason
Phillips, frames the doorway.
Jason
catches about a dozen more of the paperbacks as they flop out of Tyler’s grasp.
“Got
’em,” Jason says. He waits while Tyler retrieves the ones from the floor. I stand
there like an idiot, my eye throbbing again and a sudden thirst sticking my
lips together.
“I
can help, too,” I say. My mouth is so dry that the words must sound like
crackers on sandpaper. “It’s my job anyway.”
They
rudely ignore me and Jason says to Tyler, “Sorry about your stepbrother. I hope
he makes it.”
Tyler
nods with his whole book-laden body; his freckles melt into another blush. I
wish I knew what the problem was. I didn’t even know he had a stepbrother. What
could have happened that’s making everyone be so sympathetic? Did he get killed
in the military or something? I try to ask these questions, but my breath skips
past my vocal cords and no sounds come out.
I
watch them leave. How stupid am I going to look coming out of a small dark room
empty handed? I’m half tempted to stay in the storage room until Ms. Gardner
starts talking and all eyes will be looking forward. I reach into my pocket for
a breath mint, pop it into my mouth, and relieve the parched taste. I almost
collide with Tyler as he comes back in to toss the extra copies on the table.
“Oops,” I say as I jump
out of his way. I smile and crush myself against the shelf with my hands flung
out at my sides like I’m avoiding a steamroller. I have a sudden impulse to be
funny, to say something to cheer Tyler up, but he doesn’t even look my way. I
don’t blame him; I haven’t been as friendly to him in the past as I should have
been.
He touches the top book
and mumbles my name, a signal, I suppose, that he hasn’t left a book on my
desk. I still cannot speak. I pick up the book and follow him out, the corners
of my mouth drooping to match his shoulders.
Class is a bore yet
speeds by in a flash. When Jason and Tyler get up to collect the books at the
end of the hour I stay glued to my seat. I can’t seem to make myself move. Oh
well, I’ll let the boys do it. I push the grammar book to the edge of my desk
and watch Tyler frown as he stares at it. His lips form an o, but no sound comes
out. His face reddens and he avoids my eyes, as if I’m not even here.
When the bell rings, a
couple kids linger to talk to Tyler so I join the tight group and listen.
“So what happened,
exactly?” one girl says. “I heard it was a really bad car accident.”
“Yeah.” Tyler keeps his
head down.
“I didn’t even know Keith
was your stepbrother,” another kid says.
“Me neither,” I chime in,
finally able to speak though my words sound distant, my voice hollow. I wonder
which Keith they mean. I can think of three in our grade.
Tyler looks my way, then
up at the ceiling like he’s blinking back tears. He answers the kid, “Yeah, my
mom and his dad got married when we were six and seven. I mostly just see him
on weekends, but, you know, after ten years it’s like we’re brothers.”
I reach my hand out to
give him one of those consoling pats on the shoulder, but a girl swings her book
bag up and around and bangs it against my chest. I feel more than a little
embarrassed as I dance back a step. She doesn’t even say excuse me or
anything. Instead she asks, “Is Keith in as bad a shape as the girl in our
class?” She swings her head in the direction where Rashanda and I sit and my
heart skips. I think she means Rashanda, but then she says, “Jessica, right? Jessica
Mitchell?”
That can’t be right. She
must have Rashanda confused with me. I try to correct her, but again I am
breathless and can’t form the words.
I watch Tyler’s face
scrunch into a red knot like he’s going to correct her, but then he shakes his
head no and says, “Concussion, I guess. He should recover completely. But he
broke his leg.”
A concussion and a broken
leg sound pretty serious to me, and yet it isn’t as bad as “the girl” in our class? I turn and
stare at Rashanda’s seat. Kids from the next class period are wandering in and
someone sits down in her seat. I bolt from the room and pat my pockets for my
phone. It isn’t on me.
I see Carrie, a girl in
my social studies class, and call out, my lungs finally working, “Hey, Carrie,
can I borrow your phone a sec?” She totally ignores me and walks around the
corner.
Then I see Kayla. She’s headed
for Tyler who is being mobbed by a bunch of kids near the drinking fountain.
She won’t ignore me, I’m sure. I come up behind her as another girl asks her if
she knew that Keith Mullins was Tyler’s brother.
I stop short. Huh? Keith Mullins?
The senior who is friends with Michael Hoffman? The guy I was in a car with
yesterday? I could have been in that accident!
And then somebody else swings
a book bag at my chest. On purpose.
It’s like they can’t see
me.
I land on my back, the
breath knocked out of me. I need a doctor with a set of those shock paddles.
I feel like a flipped
turtle flailing away to right itself, and nobody is coming to my aid. Not even
chivalrous Tyler. Kayla is steps away and as soon as I get some air in my lungs
I gasp a plea. “Kayla, hey.”
“She can’t hear you,”
someone says, kneeling down next to me. The voice is familiar. I can’t decide
if I’ll be elated or deflated if it’s gorgeous Michael Hoffman coming to my
assistance again. A hand takes mine and pulls me up. The bell rings and
everyone scatters to class, a few of them, no doubt, facing detention for
reaching the limit on tardies.
“Thanks,”
I say, brushing off my butt. I have that funny feeling like I’ve forgotten
something. Where are my books? Did I remember to bring back the drama script? I
pat my back pocket, uncertain. I need to go to my locker before next hour, but
now it’s too late.
“You’re
welcome. How do you feel?”
“Okay,”
I say and finally look at the angular face of tall, dark, and handsome Keith
Mullins. Keith Mullins! “Hey.”
“Hey
yourself.”
Keith’s
eyes flicker back and forth from my right eye to my left eye. One of his eyes
is more dilated than the other. He has a bump on his forehead that his hair
partially hides. We spend an uncomfortable moment evaluating one another, alone
in the hallway.
I
remember something and say, “I heard you broke your leg.”
“I
did. It’s in a cast, slung up on some kind of contraption.”
“What?”
The tender tissue around my eye protests the scrunching I’m giving my forehead.
“Huh? What are you doing here? Weren’t you in a car accident?”
Tyler
steps out of room 236 and crosses in front of us to head to the boys’ bathroom.
“Tyler,
look, it’s Keith.” He completely ignores me.
“He
can’t hear you,” Keith repeats, almost like a chorus. “Or see you. Us, I mean.”
“Tyler!”
He doesn’t even look back as the door swings shut. I stare hard at Keith. “What
do you mean he can’t hear us or see us?”
“Do
you remember the accident, Jessica?” he asks.
What
accident? My head hurts so much for a moment that I think I’m going to puke.
Tyler
comes out of the restroom and walks by us again, closer this time. I hear him
say my name like a prayer, “Jessica.”
“What,
Tyler?” I answer.
Keith
snorts. “He’s got such a crush on you,” he says. “I sure hope you don’t die.”
“Gee,
thanks, that’s nice.” When I turn back Keith is gone, the flap of the boys’ bathroom
door my only clue. Tyler has vanished into his classroom, too, and I’m left
wobbling in the middle of the hallway.
Maybe
I should go puke. I pull open the door to the girls’ washroom and walk in. I
stop inches before passing the full length mirror on the side wall. What did
Keith mean? Why can’t anyone see or hear me? I thought people were being mean
or ignoring me today, starting with the bus driver. But if they can’t see me .
. . I step forward and look at my reflection. Head to toe, there I am. I can
see myself: yesterday’s clothes, yesterday’s black eye, crappy hair, five
pounds to lose, a couple of pre-menstrual blemishes, no shoes. Huh? I close my
eyes. It feels like I have shoes on. I open my eyes. Bare feet. Yuck, bare feet
in a public bathroom. Have I been barefoot all day? Maybe I’m dreaming.
The
door opens and two girls file in. They walk between me and the mirror. The
first girl, flaunting a style mix of Goth and Grunge, is already pulling a
cigarette out of her purse. She ignores her own reflection as she passes, but I
do not. I stare at the girl that trails her, dressed in sweet pink, soft
bouncing curls framing a softer, yet identical, face. No reflection. I grip the
edge of the sink behind me and hold my breath.
The
pretty girl turns her attention toward me and looks me in the eyes, only the
second person to do that today. She reaches forward and taps the Goth girl’s
head several times, but all the smoker does is bend down and check under each
bathroom stall. Satisfied that she’s alone, she leans against the far wall and
blows smoke at the ceiling. Except for one reflected and one un-reflected
spirit, me and pretty girl, no one can see her.
“Who
are you?” I take a chance that one of them will hear me.
“Nobody,”
pretty girl replies. “I’m just a nobody.”
“And
Goth girl?” I tilt my head toward the cloud of smoke.
“She’s me. She’s the new
me. Amy. Amy Harper. Used to get good grades. Used to babysit little kids and
help mom around the house and . . . be happy. We’re kind of disconnected now.”
I stare at this girl,
this spirit-Amy. No way. I can’t be listening to somebody’s soul talking. I
must be hallucinating.
“Amy. Hi, I’m Jessica
Mitchell.” I forget about my shoeless feet and cross over to the smoking girl.
“Hi!” I get no reaction. Nothing. The real flesh and blood Amy Harper can’t
hear me. She unknowingly blows more smoke at my face and I choke and cough.
I continue to choke and
cough until Amy finishes her cigarette and leaves the restroom, her hazy soul a
quick step behind, no wave to me or any indication that we’d spoken.
I’m alone for a moment
and then Keith is here, leaning against the first stall.
“Sorry about disappearing,”
he says.
“What are you doing here?
This is the girls’ restroom.” I speak fast and cough again.
“Now you see me, now you
don’t.” Keith laughs. “This is sort of fun, you know. Appearing, reappearing,
floating above their heads.”
The coughing fit returns
and I can hardly manage the spasms that shake my body. Maybe somewhere there’s a
me who’s coughing up blood.
“You’ll be all right,”
Keith says. “Just relax and go with the flow. They’re taking care of you.”
“Huh?”
“Come on, I’ll show you.”
He takes my hand and leads me past the mirror where I can see how ragged I look
and how pale Keith’s reflection appears. I’m vaguely relieved that we both have
reflections.
I can’t make heads or
tails of his explanation as he leads me out of the school and to a mangled blue
Ford. He opens the passenger door for me and I get in. Somehow he manages to
open the driver’s door and squeeze himself behind the steering wheel. The dashboard
is collapsed, the radio is hanging forward, and the windshield is a web of
cracks. He peels out of the lot with all the recklessness of rage and
immortality combined.
“If I disappear on you
again, don’t worry. Disappearing is a good thing . . . for me, anyway. It means
I’m back in my body.” He chuckles while I ponder that one. Too strange. He
pulls into a space in the emergency parking lot at the hospital, and says,
“Follow me, Jess.”
“Jessica,” I correct him.
I hate Jessie or Jess and I thought everyone knew that. How could
he know my address but not know that?
Whoa. Slow down. I’m
getting angry over nothing.
But I can’t control this
apprehension. I keep on his right side after we maneuver the revolving doors,
pass the nurses’ station, and enter the ER. I don’t want to see bed pans, puke
buckets, or blood vials. I don’t want to hear screams.
But I hear them.
And crying. And short,
dry sobs.
And then Keith is no
longer on my left.
I stand in front of one
of those curtains that curve around a hospital bed, hiding the sight but not
the sound of a sick or injured patient. I hear a groan. Anxious parental voices
cry out Keith’s name, hopeful and soothing, yet guarded. I duck under the
curtain and stand at the foot of Keith’s bed. At least I think it’s Keith. It
looks like his hair. His face is bandaged and the parts I can see are swollen.
His mom and dad are holding his hands and cooing his name. This must be Keith. The
clothing he was wearing is in a clear plastic bag under his mom’s chair.
Bloody. His leg is held aloft by some contraption.
“Cool, huh?” he says. He stands
next to me again, pointing at himself, or rather his body in the bed. “I’ve
been in and out of consciousness for hours, popping back home or to school.
Even went to church once.”
I want to ask where Michael
is, if he’s dying, too, because it certainly looks like Keith doesn’t have much
time left in this world. Instead I say, “Hey, you’re barefoot, too.” He smiles
and I ask the question that is burning hottest in my head: “How come you knew
my address?” As soon as it’s out of my mouth I know it’s not the question I
should be asking.
His
laugh is sweet, such a contrast to the weeping of his mother. His father, or it
must be his stepfather, keeps up a steady stream of soft words in his mom’s ear.
“Tyler’s
been talking about you for years. Had me drive him by your house. But he’s shy,
you know. He’s just gonna keep his feelings to himself and never even ask you
to—”
“Ask
me to what?” But Keith is gone again. The edge of the privacy curtain trembles.
I stare at the bandaged head of the real Keith, listen to his mom’s whimpering,
watch the blips and lines on the monitor he’s hooked up to. The heartbeat is
steady now, but an irregular pattern is rolling off the screen and I know what
that means—he has reappeared somewhere else.
This
is no dream. Maybe I have some special ability now that lets me see and hear
spirits or souls or ghosts even.
Or
maybe I’m dead.
The
echo of screams from the car accident fade in and out. My head and chest hurt
now, the nausea is back. I’m not going to wait for Keith to reappear. I need to
search around right now. I have the sickest feeling that I’m going to find
Michael in one of these hospital beds.
Or
myself.
Then
my breath escapes in a rush as I remember that I wanted to check on Rashanda.
It was Rashanda that I was so concerned about before. Something happened to her.
I’m sure of it.
I
duck under the curtain and scan the room. There are twenty numbered cubicles,
most empty of patients, their curtains opened, all facing the long nurses’
station.
I
run to the counter and read the dry erase board that charts patients, doctors,
nurses, medications, and procedures. I suck in too much sterile smelling air as
soon as I read the name next to bed four. My name.
Bed
four.
Back
past Keith’s curtain.
Seven. Six. Five. The
curtain to bed four waves open as a nurse whooshes out with a metal tray filled
with vials and bandages and silver instruments. I catch a glimpse of the
patient and three visitors.
My parents. And Rashanda.
And me, in the bed.
###
Buy it on Amazon in Paperback or Kindle .
Also available through Barnes & Noble and other online bookstores.
Buy it on Amazon in Paperback or Kindle .
Also available through Barnes & Noble and other online bookstores.
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