by Alex Hayes
Shit. What is Marek doing dragging me back down that yellow brick road? Better to say goodbye.
The Toyota bumps over a set of railway tracks as we enter the rundown industrial park. Abandoned warehouses with chainlink fences line the right side of the street. On the left, faded storefronts are still in use. A mom and pop hardware store, pawnshop and discount liquor mart are first in line. A right turn carries us past silos that once stored animal feed, until the farmers sold off their land to hotel developers.
We bounce over another set of tracks that disappear into the dirt under a cyclone fence woven with green tape. A hundred yards further, Marek turns into the old train station parking lot. A long wooden sign perches above the front eves. The paintwork is peeling, but the name Thorny Rose, separated by a bleeding rosebud, is still visible. The car swings around the building, bounces over two more sets of rail tracks and pulls into a parking space.
Once Marek unlocks the back door, I step into the Thorny Rose, arms folded around the battered box of recording equipment, and whistle. “Wow, would y’look at this place.” Dark wood paneling covers the walls giving it an old time feel.
“Sweet, huh?” Marek flips a switch and a series of lights flash on along a passageway and through the center of the old nightclub.
The place is covered with a couple of years worth of dust that blankets the cafe tables, padded chairs and curved mahogany bar. Even glassware lines a shelf at the back of the bar, though the liquor shelves are empty.
I deposit the box on a small wood-topped table and walk the length of the bar, passing stools tucked neatly under its overhang.
A few yards further, I reach the host stand and stop at the main entrance, a distressed plank door with an ironwork window. A stained glass rose in varying shades of red fills a third of the window, its stem split into a thorny briar with deep green leaves. I reach out and touch the leading to find the metal thorns actually poke out of the window like a subtle threat to anyone who enters.
I finger the spikes. “This is cool, man.”
Marek grins. “If you have any doubt this place was owned by a gangster, wait till you see the basement.”
I backtrack, grab the box off the table and follow Marek down a set of steep curving steps. He flips another switch and light floods the space. The room is fully furnished and even dustier than upstairs. A long glass-topped conference table sits dead center, circled by eight leather wheely chairs. In the back of the room, a black leather L-shaped sectional fills one corner, and a countertop with stove, sink and small refrigerator edges the other.
Setting my box down on the glass surface, I turn full circle, eyes traversing the walls. “You said there was a small room good for recording.”
“Yeah.” He straightens and heads to the first of three doors along one wall and opens it. “A small office in here.” He points to the door at the opposite end. “There’s a bathroom in there. And the middle one leads to a bedroom.”
“A bedroom?”
Marek smirks. “With king-sized bed and all the trimmings. Guess the gangster guy used this place like an apartment. Maybe he picked up girls in the club and brought them down.”
“Sounds like a sleazeball.” I open the door to the bedroom. The bed sits on a raised base with a backboard of dark wood carved with the same thorny rose motif that decorates the club upstairs.
Closing the door, I follow Marek to the office, where we plan to set up.
“The walls look like they’re soundproofed.” He taps the uneven surface as I set the equipment on the desk and look around at more wood furnishings.
I rub my hands together. “This’ll be perfect.”
“Why don’t you unpack the stuff? I’ve got a bottle of Squirt in the car. Want some?”
“Sure.” I pull out cables and stands, excitement tingling in my fingers. Can’t wait to get started on a music demo. I’ve got just the song in mind. A passionate little piece I came up with a few weeks ago.
Marek returns with the bright green soda bottle and two red plastic cups. His eyes flip between the holiday colors as he hands me a half-filled cup. “So what d’you put on your Santa list this year?”
I take a swig. “An electric guitar.”
Marek’s eyes bug out. “Whoa, bro. You asked for an electric guitar from your dad?”
“And that’s the only thing I asked for.”
He scratches his neatly trimmed hair. “Crazy. So, what you expecting? Nothing?”
I purse my lips. “That’s a risk, but I think my parents will rise to the occasion. After winning the Go Tell It Competition, I figure I’m in good standing with the Santa man.”
Marek shakes his head. “Just can’t tell with parents. They’ll turn on you when you least expect it.”
“Yeah, well. Like I said, it’s a risk.”
He sucks in a breath. “Or a test?”
“Maybe.”
I glance at my phone as we head back upstairs and dial Rebecca’s number. Voicemail. “Gotta be out Christmas shopping.”
Marek glances over his shoulder. “Do you ever wonder why it takes five attempts to get an answer from her?”
“Figure she’s somewhere she can’t talk. Out with her friends or something.” I zip up my jacket as we head outside.
“Mmm-hmm,” my best friend says as he locks the back door.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” My phone rings before he can answer. I fumble as I pick up, but my voice comes out steady and cool. “Hey, babe. How’s it going?”
Marek rolls his eyes and makes a gagging motion. I shake my head and turn away.
Rebecca’s sweet voice slips into my ear. “Hi, Idris. How’re you?”
“Wonderful. That’s what talking to you does to me. Every. Time.”
Her responding laugh is soft. “You’re so sweet, Idris.”
“Guess you’ve been busy, huh?”
“Yeah, sorry. I was out with Lola and Samantha when you called. Three days left till Christmas, you know.” Discomfort shows in her voice.
“Sure, that’s why I was calling. I’ve been thinking about what to get you for Christmas.”
“Oh, Idris. You shouldn’t… I mean, you don’t have to get me anything.”
Her response makes me hesitate because she’s saying that like she really means it. I keep my tone light, glad Marek is back in the Toyota with the door shut. “Come on, Rebecca. I’m not gonna take you out on Christmas Eve empty-handed.”
The silence from her end is pin-drop deafening.
“Rebecca?”
Her sigh wafts like smoke from a dying fire. “I’m so sorry, Idris, but my parents have decided to come visit me this Christmas.”
I close my eyes. That means she’s staying in NYC. How is that even possible? She loves the mountains this time of year. “Well, that sucks, but I might be able to talk Mom and Dad into a weekend in the city over break, then I can come see you.”
“Oh, no.” Rebecca’s answer rushes in like a gale force wind. “I mean, I-I want you to come, but my parents have so much planned and…won’t your parents want to spend Christmas at home?”
She’s right. My parents always spend the holiday at home, but the break’s a week and a half long.
“Wow, I’m really going to miss you, baby doll.”
“Me too,” she whispers. “What do you have lined up for vacation?”
Nothing beyond the usual, but I exaggerate a little, so she won’t think I’ll be sitting home wishing she was around. Then I head into my standard wrap-up. “It’s killing me, but I’d better let you go.”
Rebecca laughs. “Okay.”
“Love you, baby doll. Talk to you soon.”
“You too,” she says with musical undertones.
I drop into the front seat next to Marek with a heavy sigh.
He looks over as he reaches to turn the key. “Hey, bro. Not gonna be sick, are you? Your face is kinda green.”
“Nah.” Another sigh. “Rebecca won’t be home for Christmas. Her fo
lks are going to NYC instead.”
A Swoosh eyebrow rises. “That seriously blows.” He claps my shoulder, hard enough to hurt. “You’ll live though. Maybe the writing’s on the wall.”
What writing? No way. Rebecca loves me. She tells me so every time we say goodbye. She did just then, right?
4
Cadi
The alarm clock buzzes. Six a.m. I wake from half-sleep and a memory, a puzzle piece from my past that’s haunted me for as long as I can remember. In a misty place, a hand clenches mine. My voice screams, “Dre!” as that hand is torn away.
The sense of fear and loss fades, and I’m distracted by an itch in the center of my chest. Fingers zero in on the irritation and find a lump. I imagine a bloated tick drilling its teeth into me. A scream builds in my chest as I bolt upright and yank on my tank top.
My pendant is stuck to my skin, not a bloodsucking insect. The strangle hold on my throat loosens. The stone must have spent the night pressed against my chest. I slide fingers around the crystal, eager to dislodge it, and feel resistance. I pull and a tingly burn flares.
What is it with this thing?
I gaze down at the dip between my boobs and realize the stone has come free of the necklace, its silvery bail hanging loose from the chain.
Pursing my lips, I dig fingernails along the stone’s edge, determined to remove it. Pain prickles through my skin, creating a hot spot against my breastbone. The crystal glows, sending heat into my fingertips until I’m forced to release them.
I hop out of bed. How do I get this thing off me? I wave my arms frantically while dancing a crazy jig. Fingers turn into claws as I prepare to wrestle the crystal off my body.
A flare of coolness rushes outward from my chest, freezing me in my manic dance, and an otherworldly calm takes over. My shoulders relax and my fingers drop. Fear flutters away like falling leaves from a tree, and a message, gentle but insistent, repeats in the recesses of my mind. I won’t hurt you. I belong.
After a dozen deep breaths, I’m calm and feel okay about the implanted crystal, though I still think it’s super weird. Too weird to tell anyone about. As if one secret wasn’t enough. Now I have two.
My foster families’ reactions to my abilities have run the gamut from thinking me dangerous to wanting to involve me in illegal exploits. One dad suggested a bank robbery.
What is up with me, anyway? I’ve read about telekinesis, that it’s thought to be a bunch of hooey. But mine’s definitely real. I’m guessing the idea of a crystal sinking into one’s chest and sending telepathic messages would get the same response. Total BS.
Brow scrunched, I head for the bathroom to study the stone in the mirror. This should be freaking me out, but a hum from the crystal maintains my equilibrium. Eyes stray to my face. Yesterday’s greenish tinge has gone, replaced by pale pink. I look completely normal. Except for the crystal sinking into my chest.
I strip and step into the shower. Hot water makes me glow and the feeling of wellness pervades. A foreign but pleasing sensation washes over me, a feeling of companionship, of not being alone.
With a puzzled shake of the head, I dress and gather my school books.
Dean and Shri have been at the farm since five o’clock, helping Papa milk the goats. They’re both seniors like me and have worked at the farm since the beginning of last summer. I guess Dean needs the work, but Shri stays on because she’s thinking about studying veterinary medicine.
Backpack slung over a shoulder, I gulp down a glass of goat milk and snag three homemade breakfast bars from the Victorian cookie jar on the kitchen counter. I hand a bar each to Dean and Shri as we pile into the backseat of Papa’s old Suburban. With his broad shoulders, Dean fills his third of the seat.
He was tall and skinny when he first came here. Now he’s all muscle from the heavy lifting. Shri pushes in after me and drops her backpack on the floor between scuffed combat boots.
I always end up in the middle. The space either side of me is lit by phone screens accompanied by the tap, tap, tap of text messaging.
Not wanting to be tempted into spying over anyone’s shoulder, I munch on my breakfast, eyes pointed straight ahead.
Dean elbows me.
I throw him a dark look. “What?”
He grins and shakes his head. Dark golden hair drops in front of his eyes until he flips it away. “Nothing.”
I roll my eyes and finish eating. The crystal tingles, sending warmth through my chest, and a happy memory rises. Dre’s warm hand gripping mine. I want to feel that hand again.
Papa pulls the Suburban up to the curb outside school. We file from the car and Dean takes off. Heaven forbid his friends see him with the misfits.
Shri’s not really a misfit. Not the way I am. While I try to hide the fact and fit in, she relishes being different. Her hair is thick black, cut short on one side, and falls in braids on the other. A row of stud earrings in rainbow colors circle her exposed ear. Thick eyeliner edges dark brown eyes and her lips are encased in deep purple. Her clothes come in one color. Black.
Shri leans into me as we walk up the front steps. “He was flirting with you.” Her voice is matter-of-fact.
I give her a sideways glance. “What?” I’m too average looking to attract the attention of a guy like Dean.
One of her dark eyebrows lifts as if to challenge me.
I parry. “How does bruising my ribs constitute flirting?”
Shri smirks. “Because guys are lame.”
We reach our lockers.
Another tingle at my breastbone. I rub it with two fingers. All that’s left of the crystal is a shallow bump.
Not something I can tell Mama about. At least people have heard of telekinesis, like it exists, even if the whole world thinks it’s made up. But a crystal sinking into my chest? No one would believe that.
I close my locker and turn to Shri. “Why are the boys in this school such jerks?”
“You think Dean’s a jerk?” She seems surprised.
I hadn’t been thinking of Dean. “Not him so much. He can be nice when he wants, but his friends are mean. Jake the Jock in particular.” Jake’s the quarterback on the football team. Dean’s on the team, too, though I’ve no idea what position he plays. They made it to the state finals this year, apparently. I bet if they’d won, Jake’s ego would’ve grown into the Blob and swallowed the whole school.
Shri adjusts her messenger bag, which sports the line, I tolerate you, in block letters. “You mean Jake the Jackass?”
I laugh. A just moniker considering we’ve both overheard him humming the theme for the Addams Family when passing Shri.
As we head down the hallway, she says, “Heidi and Melissa aren’t much better.”
Heidi and Melissa are my friends, when the mood strikes them. If a guy they like is in the vicinity, they act like they don’t know me. I trawl the local secondhand shops most weekends, trying to mimic their skinny-jean, low-cut-boot style, figuring if I dress like them, I’ll fit in.
Heidi and Melissa aren’t as popular as the Gilbert twins, the high school’s self-elected blonde goddesses, but I couldn’t dress like them, anyway. Too much makeup.
I adjust my heavy backpack. “I heard Dean likes Angie Gilbert.”
Shri rolls her eyes. “Every guy would kill to go out with that bitch, though god knows why. Problem is, Angie knows it, which means she can play the field.” She glances at me. “Are you trying to look like her?”
My lower lip drops. “Me? What?” No way.
She crunches her eyes like she’s inspecting me under a microscope. “You’ve lightened your hair and it’s curlier than it used to be. More like Angie’s.”
“It is?” I grab my shoulder-length hair and try to see, then shake my head. “Gotta be the lighting in this place because I haven’t bleached anything.”
During gym, Mr. Cooke calls everyone to the basketball courts. He chooses Dean as one of four team captains, who take turns picking team members. I hate it when they choose t
eams like this. Not being a guy or athletic, I’m always one of the last chosen.
When Dean’s turn comes next, he points at me, ahead of the Gilbert sisters.
I’m stunned. Dean has always ignored me in school. I suck in a breath and wonder what’s changed as I stride over to join his team.
On the way, I catch a venomous glare from Angie Gilbert. Great.
I pass the ball to Dean twice during the game, and he scores both times. As we head back to the locker rooms, he catches my eye and winks. I pray Angie didn’t see him.
No such luck.
Angie struts over to me while I’m tying my bootlaces. Heidi and Melissa slide along the bench in the opposite direction. Such great friends.
Stepping up close, Angie crosses her arms and taps her foot. “Do you have a problem, foster girl?”
Not until you showed up. I pull in a deep breath. “Not today, but it sounds like you do.”
“What’s going on with you and Dean Whittier?” she demands.
Behind her stand a semi circle of girls, her groupies, including her sister, Tess. The Beat Up Squad.
Heidi and Melissa are quietly minding their own business, apparently so engrossed in conversation they haven’t noticed I’m surrounded. I figure they’d join Angie if forced to take sides, anyway. Then there’d be six against one.
I shrug. “Dean works for my papa, so I know him. That’s all.”
Angie leans in so close I can see the swell of a pimple reddening on her chin. “You don’t have a papa, foster girl.”
Narrowing my eyes, I say, “What’s your point?”
She grabs my shirt at the chest. In such close proximity, I smell her sweat…and blood. Yuck! Angie’s on the rag. “This,” she says, and swings an open palm at my face.
I block. Not with my hands, but with my mind.
Angie’s fingers thwack an invisible barrier, while I don’t react to the strike at all. Maybe I should have faked it. She’s looking at me like I’m a monster.
