by Sean Platt
“So, what happened? Did he teach you to fight?”
“No, mostly he just knocked me down. To be fair, he did try to teach me some moves, but I’m not very coordinated, and I couldn’t really counter his blows. I always wound up on the ground. So finally, I just said thank you, but no thank you.”
“And how did he take that?”
“Not well. He threw a fit, complained to my mom that I needed to man up or I was never gonna get anywhere in life. I don’t know what she said to get him off my case, but he eventually stopped trying to teach me. But I know when I go home, it’s gonna be one big See, I told ya … I hate when he’s right.”
“I’m sure everything will be all right.” I’m not sure why I said that, especially with Frank being such a volatile man.
Tommy takes a long sip of tea, sets his glass down, and meets my eyes. “Everything won’t be fine.”
“What do you mean?”
I wonder if he’s going to tell me about Stacy’s confession, that Frank threatened to kill them if they ever left. And what will I do with that information if he does? What advice do I give him? And what will that mean for Tommy and Ruby’s friendship tomorrow or the next day when I’m in another body? Will she remember what he told her? Will she act on it in a way that puts Tommy, Stacy, and maybe even herself in more danger?
I don’t like where this conversation is headed, but what can I do — tell Tommy to shut up and go home? No, I need to be here for him, whatever he decides to say to me.
“Frank is a bad person,” he says, measuring his words.
I decide to nod, let him get out whatever he wants to say.
“He hits my mom. He hit me a couple of nights ago.”
“He hits you all?” I say, acting surprised.
“Yeah. It’s not as bad as … well, what Evan was doing to me. Just a slap here and there when he explodes. But that’s not the worst of it.”
Oh boy, here we go.
I wait.
He continues, eyes tearing up. “No, the worst is the things he says to her. He’s always calling her things like stupid, bitch, whore, and just always putting her down.”
He shakes, about to burst into tears. “She’s not any of those things, though. She’s my mom. She’s awesome. She works hard, she’s smart, she’s funny, and she’s way cooler than any other mom I know. She’s my best friend.”
Tommy breaks down.
I move to the couch and put my arms around him. He leans against me, crying against my shoulder.
I want to wrap him up and protect him from that monster, keep him and his mother safe.
But what can I do? I won’t be here tomorrow. Even if I am, I’m making choices with Ruby’s body. If I confront Frank, hell, even if I went and did the absolute worst, and murdered him, I’m committing another person to my decision. Someone else would suffer my consequences. Someone else would go to jail, or maybe wind up in the crossfire as Frank’s victim.
I feel as helpless as Tommy.
I hug him harder.
After a minute, he pulls away, maybe embarrassed by the outpour of emotion, and looks down at the ground.
I want to say something to help him. But what? Do I tell him to go to the police? We all know how that usually turns out. The police can’t provide constant protection for Tommy and his mother, or be there to stop Frank when he finally explodes. They can only enforce a court order, or respond to a crime scene after the fact.
I’d love to go over to Frank’s right now and put a bullet through his head. I wish I’d not intervened when the assassin was about to do it a few days ago.
God, if I knew then what I know now.
Tommy stands. “I should go. I’m sure Frank’s probably looking for me by now.”
He gives Oreo one last scratch between her ears. The cats at his feet look disappointed by his obvious departure.
I’m still struggling to find the right thing to say.
“Tommy, if you need me, if you need anything, please don’t hesitate to come over or call me. Do you have my number?”
“No, I don’t think we do.”
I go to the kitchen, find a piece of paper, and scratch Ruby’s number down as it comes to me. I hand him the paper. “I’m serious, Tommy. Anything. You all don’t have to go through this alone.”
“Thank you,” he says, meeting my eyes. He puts the ice pack to his lip, then pulls it away. “Mrs. Simmons?”
“Yes?”
“Do you think it’s ever right to do the wrong thing for the right reason?”
“What do you mean?”
He pauses, as if trying to articulate his thoughts, then shakes his head, “Never mind.”
He opens the door, steps outside onto the porch.
“Wait,” I say, “what do you mean?”
Tommy looks toward his house, sees Frank standing outside looking up the street. “Oh, crap, there he is. I’ve gotta go. Thanks again, Mrs. Simmons.”
Tommy jogs off my step and heads home.
I close the door, head back to my bedroom, and peer through the curtains, watching Frank meet the boy.
He turns Tommy’s face, examining the wound, asks him something I can’t hear, probably along the lines of “What the hell happened?”
Rather than embrace Tommy or offer him any form of comfort, Frank makes a disgusted face then turns and stomps into the house.
Tommy follows.
I find myself wondering what Tommy meant by his question: Is it ever right to do the wrong thing for the right reason?
I hope he’s not about to do anything stupid.
I spend the rest of the night wondering what Tommy meant, and what he might be planning to do. I don’t remember seeing any alarming memories while I was in him. Maybe this is something new.
I wonder if I should call Stacy and warn her that Tommy might be about to do something stupid, but what could she do? If anything, Stacy might escalate the problem.
What is the assassin waiting for?
I’m in Frank’s house.
I know this can’t possibly be real, so it must be a dream. But here’s the thing — I haven’t dreamed in a year. I don’t know where I go when the host’s body sleeps, but I don’t think I’m in them once I lose consciousness. I’m not even sure if I ever sleep.
But now I am in a dream in Tommy’s bedroom. I’m in his bed, staring out his window as rain pelts it with a million liquid nails. Lightning flashes, thunder exploding loud enough to shake the walls. I feel it in my bones.
I draw the sheets tighter, pulling them over my body, afraid.
Suddenly, Tommy’s door violently shakes — someone trying to get in. Is it Frank? It must be. But why isn’t he saying anything, demanding that Tommy opens the door? It isn’t like Frank to keep his big mouth shut.
The door shakes louder, so hard, I’m sure it will fly off its hinges.
I climb out of bed, looking for a weapon, something to defend myself. I find a bat in the closet, then stop in front of the mirror and am surprised to see that I’m not in Tommy’s body.
I have no body at all.
The bat floats in the mirror as if held by a ghost.
The door continues to shake.
Suddenly, I hear Stacy crying, “No, don’t!”
The door stops shaking.
There’s screaming from the other side, Frank shouting incoherently.
A gunshot explodes.
Silence.
I stare at the door.
Oh, God, Frank did it. He shot Stacy.
No, no, no.
I can’t move.
Footsteps approaching. He’s coming for me, or maybe Tommy.
A knock on the door.
No, go away, I’m not answering.
Another knock …
Chapter Five
I wake to three loud knocks.
I turn and see a bright, blinding light on my face.
I jump, startled, then realize I’ve woken in a car. The light to my left is from the officer who
knocked on my window.
Now that the cop has my attention, he makes a circular motion with his left hand meaning he wants me to roll down the window. His right hand is on his gun, still holstered in his belt. He’s tall, broad-shouldered, in his late thirties, with thick dark hair hinting at gray on the sides. His expression is all business.
I fumble in the unfamiliar car for the button, hit it, but nothing happens.
Then I remember to turn on the car. I look for keys, then remember the start button. I push it and roll down the window, knowing the cop is likely taking my confusion for inebriation.
“You okay, sir?”
I see the clock. It reads, 5:15 a.m. Not a good hour to be found sleeping in the car.
“Yeah,” I say, though my back and head are both throbbing. From the corner of my eye, I see a second officer at the passenger side door, flashing a light through the cabin.
“Do you mind explaining why you’re here?” the cop asks.
I realize I’m in the parking lot of Tommy’s middle school.
Why am I here?
I’m still waiting for information on my host’s details, like a name, or something. Anything. I certainly don’t know why I’m sleeping in a school parking lot.
Am I a teacher?
Yes, that’s it. I am a teacher.
Not just a teacher, but Craig Carson, the neighbor that Old Man Wilbur thinks is screwing around with Stacy. The man I watched storm out of his house.
“I work here,” I mumble, trying not to sound drunk. I’m not sure if Craig did get drunk last night. I don’t see any alcohol lying around, but I sure feel hungover.
“And what, you live in the parking lot?”
“My wife kicked me out last night,” I say, details coming as they fall from my mouth. “I was driving around all night trying to figure out how to make things right, then decided not to bother with a hotel when I’ve gotta be at work early. Figured I’d come here, then shower and change in the gym before school started.”
“License and registration, please,” the cop says. “And do you have a school ID?”
“Yes, sir.” I fumble through the glove box, then my wallet, to get him everything he needs.
Both cops retreat to their patrol car where they’re probably running my plate and checking my story. I realize how damn cold it is in the car, then roll up my window and turn on the heat.
My heart is racing. I feel moments from puke.
I have vague flashes of an argument Craig had with his wife, Colleen, but can’t remember the details. Did she discover the affair?
Was he even having an affair with Stacy?
If so, I don’t remember one. I wish I had more control over my hosts’ memories, or that I could direct them and get information. How can I take control of their bodies and feel so many of their emotions yet not tap into their brains to get everything I need? If this is a system put in place by whoever put assassins in the field, their engineers, scientists, or whatever, got it way wrong.
Maybe it’s not an exact science.
Another knock at my window yanks me from my thoughts.
The officer is back, my license, ID, and proof of insurance in his hands, though he’s not yet handing them back.
“If we did a breathalyzer now, would you blow positive?”
“I haven’t been drinking, sir. Just a rough night, I swear.”
He stares into my eyes, and I’m nervous not knowing what he’ll see. Maybe he’ll sense something is wrong, even if he isn’t sure what, then pull me out and arrest me.
I remember my dream.
I don’t know what it meant. Only that I need to find Stacy and Tommy to make sure they’re okay. Maybe in Craig’s body I can convince them to leave Frank once and for all. I don’t have a plan after that, but we’ll figure something out.
But first I need to get these cops to leave. If they think I’m drunk and arrest me, my day is shot.
I maintain eye contact with the officer, just enough to show I’m not hiding anything, but not enough to make him think I’m psychotic or on drugs.
His expression goes from suspicious to understanding. Maybe he can relate to Craig’s problems, or feels a kinship in that we both have demanding, thankless jobs. I’m not sure what it is, but he’s moved enough to hand me my license, work ID, and proof of insurance.
“Okay, sir, I suggest you find somewhere else to sleep tomorrow night.”
“Thank you, officer.”
He heads back to his car. A few minutes later, the cruiser leaves, and I’m left alone in the dark lot. I can’t stop thinking about the dream. The only one I’ve had since I started Jumping. It wasn’t just terrifying, the dream was ominous, maybe prophetic.
It sounds silly to think I somehow glimpsed the future, but considering everything else that’s happened to me, prophetic dreams aren’t even especially crazy.
But how can I see the future? Is this time travel — am I getting hints of what might happen, and their prevention is up to me?
I don’t know, and the lack of answers is maddening. But I do know one thing: ignoring the dream would condemn Stacy and Tommy to tragedy.
I have to do something.
I think I have an idea.
I pull out of the parking lot and head to Baker Street.
I find a spot a block away, parking in front of a vacant lot and sit listening to the radio while I wait.
I’m overcome with a deluge of memories from Craig’s argument with his wife.
It began rather innocuously with Colleen complaining about him working late. She asked why he never made time for her.
He said that he can’t help it if he has to stay late sometimes. He’s a teacher and subject to external forces — last-minute staff meetings, parent conferences, needing help from the guidance counselors after hours for problem students, and kids who ask to see him after school.
“I wish you cared as much about our marriage as your stupid job,” she said. “And why do you put so much time for such low pay? Do you like being treated like shit?”
This was easy for her to say, of course, since she worked part-time for her father’s air conditioning company, where she’d been since college. She’d never had a real job, one she had to earn on her merits, without carte blanche to come and go as she pleased. Colleen was also paid at least three times what her position was worth, simply because she was Daddy’s Girl. She worked a third of Craig’s hours but often brought home more than him, which justified her questioning his job.
To make matters worse, he sometimes agrees. Yes, his job has long hours and is often thankless. He didn’t make nearly what he was worth. Add inept board members, ignorant parents who barely care to help their own children, and yes, sometimes Craig hates his job.
But he also likes making a difference. And all the crap is worth it for those few kids each year whom he could genuinely help.
She went on about his “stupid job," and Craig found himself wondering why he’d married her. And then why he stayed with her. He hadn’t loved Colleen in at least eight of the ten years they’d been married, but at the same time, he was raised to believe that you didn’t break a vow. You made the most of a situation, just as his parents before him had for thirty miserable years.
Craig wasn’t sure if Colleen had changed after they got married, becoming more materialistic and less caring about others, or if she’d always been that way and he’d been blinded by her better qualities. She was beautiful, confident in a way that he wasn’t, funny and outgoing. She challenged him in ways he’d never been challenged. Craig liked that. But after a few years, challenges became more like character attacks. She had a complaint about nearly every aspect of his personality: Craig was too into his job, he was too obnoxious when around his male friends, he didn’t care enough about having bigger and better things. He was, she often said, a perpetual college kid refusing to grow up. Forget for a moment that it was she who didn’t want to have children, while he’d always wanted to settle down and rai
se a family.
At some point, the conversation shifted, so fast and so jarringly, that he was blindsided by her accusation.
“Are you cheating on me? Are you sleeping with another teacher? Or maybe one of those single moms you’re always meeting with?”
“What?” Craig said, barely able to believe the accusation.
“Well, you don’t have sex with me anymore. So, who is it?”
“Nobody!”
“Bullshit.”
“I’m not sleeping with anyone! I swear.”
“Then why don’t you touch me?”
No answer would please her.
“Maybe you wish I was more like Stacy? Is that it?”
“What?” he asked, annoyed and ashamed by the truth. He’d come to care a lot about Stacy in the past year. He’d come to know her when he had them over to tutor Tommy in math. She was everything that Colleen wasn’t — warm, a nice person, a loving mother, and someone who would do anything for her family.
Yes, he’d thought about Stacy a lot. And it was more than a crush. He wasn’t sure if he’d come to love her or if he just related to her because they were in similar situations — trapped with miserable people. There’d been a few times when Stacy had met him after school, and it was just the two of them in his classroom. They’d started talking about Tommy, but recently the conversations ended with her tears on his shoulder. She’d never told Craig about the death threats, but Stacy had confessed that she was sad and sometimes scared. He’d told her to call the cops, but she always backed down, saying it wasn’t that bad. Seeing her cry like that, he longed to rescue her — take her and Tommy somewhere safe, where they’d be appreciated instead of abused. Not only would Craig be saving them, but he’d also be saving himself from a life sentence with Colleen.
Despite his feelings, he’d never once flirted. The fact that Colleen had somehow figured out his feelings only angered him more. She had no right to talk about their friendship, or make accusations. Craig had been faithful and would’ve probably remained miserable with Colleen forever.
