Death, Doom and Detention

by Darynda Jones

  He settled back in his chair and clenched his teeth in frustration. “I told you before. He’s fuzzy around the edges.” Then he glanced at Ashlee, and I could tell he wasn’t sure what he could say in front of her.

  “It’s okay,” Brooke said, “she’s trying to help us figure out what’s going on.”

  After a moment, he gave in and said, “I’ve been sensing all kinds of abnormal activity for days. Stuff I couldn’t put my finger on. But the minute Neanderthal gets here, it stops. Everything stops and there’s just this low hum of energy, like when you hear the bass of a stereo before you can see the car. Something is coming, and I don’t know what.”

  “So,” Brooke said, “he’s not a warlock?”

  “A what?” When she took another bite of her salad, he asked, “Where did you get that idea?”

  “It was just a thought.”

  Cameron frowned at her. He was worried. He hadn’t touched his pizza. Something that never happened.

  “Have you sensed Jared yet?” I asked him for the thousandth time.

  He pushed his pizza aside and shook his head.

  After we sat in silence for a good thirty seconds, Ashlee took an apprehensive bite of her sandwich. “How does it work?” she asked after swallowing. “Your visions. How do you do it?”

  Glitch looked at her in surprise. I’d have to fill him in later.

  It felt weird talking about it with someone other than my family and friends. I wasn’t sure how much to tell her, but she’d kept our secret for weeks. Sure, for nefarious reasons, saving it up for extortion and all, but clearly she could keep a secret.

  Once I made sure Glitch was breathing okay, I said, “Sometimes I can touch someone and see something from their past or future, but only if there is something to be seen. It doesn’t always work.” I stabbed a carrot slice. “And sometimes it works too well.”

  She frowned. “What do you mean by something to be seen?”

  I sat back in my chair. “Well, I don’t get a vision every time I touch someone, thank God. If there is something important that needs to be seen, I can see it, but not always. It either happens or it doesn’t. I can’t really explain it beyond that.”

  After regarding us with uncertainty she asked, “What about with Isaac? Will you be able to see what’s going on?”

  “I won’t know until I try. I hope so.” I really did. If Isaac saw something or had inside info into what was going on in Riley’s Switch—or more important, with Jared—I wanted to know.

  “I hope so too,” she said.

  Brooke leaned into me. “Lor, are you sure? From what you told me, this could be dangerous.”

  “It’s worth the risk to my mental well-being. If he knows anything that could help us—”

  “I understand. Just make sure I’m around when you try it, okay?”

  I’d started to ask her why, when I heard someone off to the side.

  “Smile for the camera.”

  I blinked and looked around, but as my gaze panned to the right, the cafeteria dissolved and in its place, trees formed and playground equipment for small children materialized before my eyes. I was in a vision, but I wasn’t touching anyone. And no one I’d touched recently was in it. I looked around and saw a junior—Melanie, I think, was her name—snapping pictures of a group of kids. They were young, probably kindergarteners, with a few high school kids scattered throughout, and they were posing on the playground equipment while holding a banner. It had dozens of tiny handprints with the words THANK YOU written in bright red letters.

  The images swam by me, like we were underwater, not crystal clear, but not really blurry either. The sounds were only slightly lower than would be natural. The light only slightly brighter.

  “Say yes to literacy!” Melanie said, and all the kids shouted her sentiment as she clicked several pictures in a row. On the last one, just as the banner slipped from one girl’s hand, a bright light flashed in my eyes. I blinked again to refocus and saw four people sitting around me, talking. I was back at the lunch table, and Brooklyn was arguing with Cameron about appropriate lunchroom behavior.

  Ashlee was staring at me with a curious glint in her eyes. “Are you okay?”

  “Did you see that?” I asked her.

  Brooklyn stopped talking immediately. “What?” She glanced around, then asked, “Did you have a vision?”

  “Yes, kind of. But, it was strange.”

  She edged closer, as did everyone.

  “It was Melanie something-or-other, that junior in Yearbook. She was snapping pictures of little kids on playground equipment.”

  “Oh, wait a minute,” Glitch said, his voice breathy. “I’m getting a vision, too.” He held one hand high and pressed the fingertips of the other to his forehead. “Were they holding a banner that said ‘thank you’?”

  My eyes widened. “Yes, they were.”

  Brooke crossed her arms and leaned back in disappointment.

  “I’m psychic! I knew it!” Glitch said.

  Ash smiled dutifully.

  “Very funny, Lor,” Brooke said, scowling. “I was really worried. If we’re going to save the world, you have to take your responsibilities—and your mental state—seriously.”

  At that point, to say I was confused would have been an understatement. “What are you talking about?”

  Cameron tapped on the table, and I realized he wasn’t grinning like the rest, but gazing at me with a deep curiosity. I looked down at what he was pointing at. The newsletter Brooke handed me was lying underneath my elbow. The exact picture Melanie shot in my vision, the one snapped just as the banner slipped from that girl’s hand, was featured on the front page in an article about literacy. The bundled kindergartners were waving and laughing. The high school students were smiling, each of them holding a different kid. The banner was draped across the front, only the picture was black-and-white, while my vision had been broadcast in glaring Technicolor.

  “You’re going to save the world?” Ashlee asked.

  I clenched my teeth and frowned at Brooke, before saying, “No. Not really. Not the world, so much. More like … the … coffee shop.”

  “Yeah,” Brooke said, joining in. “The coffee shop. It’s in trouble. Financially. With money.”

  Ashlee laughed softly. “You guys really are the worst liars.” She was so lovely, with dark, shoulder-length hair and big brown eyes. I wanted brown eyes. All the cool kids had brown eyes.

  Just as I was going to defend my mad skill at lying, the creature whose name shall not be spoken aloud waltzed toward us like she owned the joint. She had blue eyes.

  She stopped at our table, unfortunately, and glanced around, probably looking for Jared. When she didn’t find him, she turned her attention elsewhere. It would seem our friendship had been fleeting, like two ships passing in the night. Or two planes passing during peak hours, almost colliding in midair, and killing dozens of innocent people.

  “Ash,” she said, flipping a blond strand over her shoulder, “what are you doing?”

  I cringed at the abrasive sound of her voice and tried not to seize. It had some kind of paralyzing superpower.

  “What do you mean?” Ash asked her.

  Tabitha scoffed. “This is not our table.”

  “I didn’t know we’d bought real estate.” Ash indicated the room with a wave. “I just figured I could sit anywhere. Crazy, right?”

  “Oh … my gawd. Whatever.” Then she focused on me, and her expression changed to one of sympathy. “That’s so sad about your clothes,” she said, her face a picture of faux pity.

  Brooke jumped to my defense. “And that’s so sad about your face.” She was almost getting better with the comebacks.

  Tabitha snorted and turned to Amber, her comrade-in-arms. “Wow, I’ve been put in my place.”

  “And good,” Amber said, agreeing.

  Ashlee leaned forward, wearing the same sweet smile she’d offered Glitch. “What’s really sad is when girls old enough to know better we
ar pink and orange together.”

  Tabitha’s breath caught. She looked down at her pink outfit then at her orange bracelet.

  “You know,” Ashlee continued, “like a third-grader might.”

  A scarlet tinge infused Tabitha’s pale skin, and her mouth thinned as she forced it into the shape of a smile. “I guess it is. I’ll see you at practice.”

  “See you there!” Ash said with a huge grin.

  “Wow,” Brooke said. “You’re my new hero.”

  Ash smiled again, bashfully. “You just have to know how to handle her. The faster you shut her up, the better it is for everyone involved.”

  JUICE: ORANGE AND BITTERSWEET

  I was a little floored that Ashlee had joined us for lunch, but when her attention kept flitting toward Glitch, I was even more floored. Like carpet on installation day.

  Brooke and I had four classes together, and our seventh-hour Foods and Nutrition class was one of them. We walked in about five seconds late, but Ms. Phipps didn’t notice. She didn’t seem to feel well and decided to show a video on nutrition so she didn’t have to teach. Which worked out perfectly, since I didn’t want her to teach. My mind was full up for the day.

  I poked Brooke in the ribs. We’d scooted our desks closer under the pretense that we couldn’t see the video.

  “What?” she whispered, eyeing Ms. Phipps, who was sitting at her desk with sunglasses on. If I didn’t know any better, I’d say she had a hangover. Then again, I didn’t know any better. She could’ve been a lush, for all I knew. “I’m trying to sleep.”

  I leaned closer and whispered, “I saw into that picture.”

  She pointed at the screen and asked through a yawn, “Can food get any more boring? I thought lettuce was supposed to be green. You saw into what picture?”

  “That picture from the newsletter. I was touching it with my elbow, and I saw into it. I saw it literally being shot.”

  She frowned. “I don’t understand. What does your elbow have to do with it?”

  “No, nothing. Brooke, stay with me. I was there. Melanie what’s-her-name was taking pictures. The kids were on the playground equipment. I was there. In the middle of it all.”

  Brooke’s mouth parted as my meaning dawned. “You mean, you had a vision?”

  “Yes, only, I don’t know. It’s like I went into the picture. Like I was just there.”

  She leaned forward. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “I didn’t want to say anything in front of the others. I don’t know what this means.”

  “It means you’re the coolest chick I know, that’s what it means.”

  I pursed my lips before saying, “Besides that.”

  “Oh. Well, I don’t know either, but whatever it means, we need to work on it. To hone it.” She splayed her fingers in the air. Not sure why. Then she bounced back. “This must be part of your gift.”

  “I love that you call it a gift,” I said.

  “I’m sorry. It’s just, well, it is a gift. It’s just hard for you to see it as such with you becoming suicidal and all every time you get a vision.”

  “I don’t become suicidal every time. And they’re counting on me, Brooke. My grandparents are counting on me. Jared is counting on me. Even people who died hundreds of years ago are counting on me, if the ancient texts in the archive room are any indication. It sucks.”

  “I know. And I’m so sorry, Lor.” She gave me a moment, then asked, “But, really, are you finished wallowing in self-pity yet?”

  I breathed out a heavy sigh. “Almost. Give me another minute.”

  “Can’t.” She did a head dive toward her backpack. “We have to work fast.”

  “What? I don’t want to work fast. Slow and steady wins the race.”

  Brooklyn reemerged with a grin and a picture. She passed it to me. “Try this. Try to see into it like you did at lunch.”

  I handed it back. The girl was a menace. “Brooke, it’s been a long day. I think I’m visioned out. And I need a break.”

  “Oh, okay, I can respect that.”

  She turned back to the program projected on the screen that showed some kind of yellow squishy stuff and swore it was good for building muscle and keeping the body lean, but I could tell from the tone of her voice that this conversation was nowhere near over.

  Sure enough, about twelve and a half seconds later, she leaned back to me. “When the apocalypse begins and the world is ending, let me know if your break is over yet, okay? I’d sure hate for you to miss that.”

  I rolled my eyes until I saw stars, then snatched the picture out of her hand. Without even looking at me, she grinned again. A wickedly conniving thing that would’ve made Stephen King proud.

  “I don’t even know what to do.” The statement was more of a whine than a … well, statement.

  “Do what you did before.”

  “Touch it with my elbow?”

  She chuckled, then caught herself and looked over at Ms. Phipps.

  “I honestly think she’s out,” I whispered.

  She was sitting up straight, her head unmoving, her body rigid.

  “How can she sleep like that?” Brooke asked.

  “I don’t know, but I want lessons.”

  We laughed softly together before Brooke grabbed the picture. “Okay, tell me if you get anything,” she said. She touched it to my elbow, and we burst out in more hushed laughter that, had Ms. Phipps not been taking a siesta, would surely have deserved her attention.

  Snatching the picture back before we woke her, I took a deep breath and focused on the image. It was a picture of Brooke at her seventh birthday party, which would have been about a year before I’d met her. A banner hanging in a doorway said HAPPY 7TH BIRTHDAY, BROOKLYN!

  She nudged me with her shoulder. “I want you to tell me three things,” she whispered. “One, what was in my shoe?”

  “Your foot?” I offered.

  She grinned some more. “Besides that.”

  “Okay, sorry. Two?”

  “Two, I want you to tell me how it got there.”

  “You’re getting very demanding in your old age.”

  Then she leaned closer. “Three, I want you to tell me why this picture is so very special to me.”

  Cool. Intrigue. I looked at it more closely, studied the kids as they ate ice cream and smiled for the camera. It wasn’t a posed picture but a candid, random record of the events of that day. Brooke was running into someone’s arms, a tall, African American man’s, her mouth open in surprise.

  Okay, I could do this.

  I concentrated for several minutes, but nothing happened. I held my breath and squinted my eyes. Nothing. I clenched my teeth and ordered myself inside the image. Nothing.

  Brooklyn swayed toward me again. “You weren’t concentrating today at the lunch table. And you don’t concentrate when you get visions throughout the day. Maybe that’s what we’re doing wrong. Maybe I’m pushing you too hard.”

  “You think?”

  “Smarty pants. Okay, just relax. Think about something else.” She paused a moment, then added, “Not Jared, though.”

  She had a point. I let my fingertips rest on the photo and relaxed with deep and steady breaths, calming my heart and letting the rest of the world fall away. I breathed in through my nose and out through my mouth several times. Then I imagined a sheer curtain over the party. I reached out mentally and pulled it back. It slipped through my fingers a few times like smoke before I got a good grip and swept it aside. I blinked, waited for the image behind the curtain to crystalize, then slid inside.

  Everything in my periphery dissolved. The colors melted together, then reshaped themselves, molecules fusing into patterns until they formed the items in the Prathers’ living room nine years ago. On the day Brooklyn turned seven.

  “Mom!”

  I heard a little girl yelling above the roar of grade-schoolers and looked over at Brooklyn, fascinated that I was there, at her seventh birthday party.

  “M
itchell poured juice into my shoe again.”

  Juice, compliments of Mitchell Prather, Brooke’s little brother. Two down, one to go.

  Brooke’s mom, a beautiful African American woman with a stylishly spiked do, stepped out of the kitchen. Wiping her hands on a towel, she gave Mitchell a withering look. “Mitch, if you can’t behave yourself, I’ll send you upstairs and you’ll miss the party.”

  “No!” he shouted, his voice edged with the fear of someone facing certain death. His short legs dangled off the chair. He crossed them at the ankles, locking his feet together, and folded his hands in his lap. “I won’t do it again. I promise.”

  Brooklyn’s dad chuckled and scooped her little brother into his arms. Mr. Prather was like a sand-colored stick wearing a polo shirt. Tall and slim with pale skin and sandy-colored hair, he was so opposite Brooke’s tiny, dark mom that, when I first met Brooke, it had taken some time for me to realize they were married. Then I started noticing little things about them. About their relationship. How her dad doted on her mom. How her mom ordered her dad around. Oh, yeah. They were definitely married.

  “There’s someone here to see your sister,” Mr. Prather said. His eyes sparkled with mischief when he indicated someone behind Brooklyn with a nod.

  At her dad’s beckoning, Brooklyn glanced over her shoulder and screeched, “Uncle Henry!” She jumped up and ran into a man’s arms just as a bright light flashed in my eyes. And just like last time, the image ended when the picture was taken.

  I blinked back to the present, my entire body tingling with wonder.

  “Maybe you’re still concentrating too hard. You need to loosen up.” She wiggled her shoulders to demonstrate. “Be a loosey-goosey.”

  “It was your uncle Henry,” I said, astonishment softening my voice. “You were so happy to see him even though your brother had poured juice in your shoe.”

  With the slow movements of shock, Brooklyn turned and gaped at me. After a long moment, she asked, “What happened to him? To my uncle?”

  The emotion roiling in her eyes wrenched me back to my senses, and I realized who that man was. He was that uncle, the black sheep of her mother’s family, the one they hadn’t seen in years, quite possibly since that very day.