by Bill Myers
Ever since their father had died in a plane crash while on the mission field in South America, she and Scott had drawn closer. In many ways, they were the best of friends even though he was two years younger. When he was hurting, Becka hurt with him.
She forced herself to put her daydream on hold, dried her hands on a towel, walked to the table, and pulled up a chair. “So what’s up, bro?”
Scott noodled his spaghetti with a fork. He shrugged.
“Come on, Scotty,” she said, pulling her hair back. “Are you bummed out that Philip won first place in the debate?”
He looked up. “No way. I’m happy for him.”
“Then why the long face?” As she waited for Scott to respond, Muttly wandered into the room and rested at Becka’s feet. Becka leaned over and rubbed his belly.
Scott leaned back in his chair and folded his arms. “Philip’s being a dork, big time.”
“Okay, like how?”
Scott shook his head in disgust. “Get this. He kicked me out of the car and made me walk almost halfway home.”
Oddly, that actually struck her as funny. She bit her bottom lip to suppress a laugh. “You’re kidding, right?”
“For real. The guy’s nuts in the head,” Scott said, making cuckoo circles next to his ear. “He slammed on the brakes, which just about killed us. Then he yelled and told me to get out of the car. He’s so messed up.”
Becka, still fighting back a snicker, said, “Mom and I wondered what took you so long to get home.”
“Actually, we stopped at that Madame Weirdo’s place first.”
“Huh?” Becka watched as Muttly stretched his legs and then strolled out of the room, apparently losing interest in the conversation.
“She’s a lady that tells the future with tarot cards — whatever they are,” Scott said. He reached for a roll. “At least that’s what Philip claims.” He munched on the bread for a second.
Was Philip the person Z wanted them to help? No matter what, Becka didn’t like the sound of Philip getting mixed up with a fortune-teller. Although she was no expert on the subject, she knew enough about the Bible and had come face-to-face with demonic powers to know that stuff like palm reading and fooling around with contacting spirits was a bad deal. “Do you think that this what’s-her-face — ”
“Madame Theo,” Scott said, as a picture of her turban-bound head came to mind.
“Yeah, that this Madame Theo might have something to do with Philip’s reaction?”
“I don’t know. Probably.” Scott popped the rest of the roll into his mouth. “At least, it looks that way, now that you mention it.”
Becka sat cross-legged on the chair. “I know. Why don’t you just call and talk to Krissi? Maybe she knows what’s up with Philip.”
“You think so?”
“Sure. I mean, this involves Krissi too.”
“How’s that?”
“Think about it,” Becka said. “Philip was so not himself yesterday in the cafeteria, right?”
“Yeah. So?”
“I say there’s a connection between what happened today and what was going on yesterday. See?”
“I . . .”
“Trust me,” Becka said, starting to stand. “Just call it a woman’s intuition.”
“But what do I tell Krissi?” Scott said, scrunching his nose. “I don’t know the first thing about tarot cards.”
“Why not ask Z first?”
Scott smacked his forehead. “I knew there was something I forgot to do. I’ll see if he’s online.”
Scott walked into his bedroom and quietly turned on the small desk lamp. Cornelius, his pet military macaw, stood asleep on a perch near his desk. With one foot drawn to his chest, his powerful beak was buried in a patch of bright green and scarlet plumage. Scott scratched the back of his bird’s neck before taking a seat in front of the computer.
Scott tapped the space bar to wake the monitor from its sleep mode. He typed in his password — Dirty Socks — and logged on to the computer. After many months, they were no closer to knowing much about the mysterious Z, even though on several occasions they had tried to discover Z’s true identity.
One thing was certain: Z was an expert on the supernatural and for some strange reason had taken an interest in Scott and Becka’s efforts to fight the forces of darkness. Whenever they had a question about the occult, they’d send Z an email. Often Z would be online in the evenings. Scott noted the clock on his menu bar: 8:47. His fingers danced across the keyboard.
Hey, Z. Are you there? It’s Scott.
As Scott waited, he couldn’t help but think of all of the things Z knew about them . . . personal family things. In a way, it was unsettling. Z knew stuff that only somebody really close to them could know. So far, Z had never steered them wrong or done anything to make them uncomfortable.
Still, the fact that this stranger knew about him and seemed to care about him was difficult for Scott to process. In an odd sort of way, Z made Scott long for his dad. His dad, after all, was someone who, like Z, knew a lot about the Bible and who always helped him figure stuff out.
Scott watched a response form on the screen.
Great to hear from you, Scott. How’s your friend?
Scott swallowed. He assumed Z was referring to Philip. How in the world does Z know about him? Scott thought. He hadn’t said anything about Philip, at least not yet. That eerie sensation returned, but Scott shrugged it off. Z just seemed to have his sources. Scott typed:
Z, Philip is really stressed out. He’s using tarot cards to figure out the future. What do you know about tarot?
After several seconds, a message from Z appeared:
Tarot cards are nothing more than a tool of divination used to foretell events, much like crystal gazing, palmistry, or soothsaying.
Is it dangerous?
Indeed. On several levels.
Like how?
Scott waited as his cursor blinked impatiently on the screen. No response.
Z, I have to know. What’s Philip getting into?
After a pause, an answer appeared:
People who promote tarot cards claim it’s an innocent way to discern the future. They use words like spiritual development, inner knowledge, life forces, and cosmic energies to explain what you’re tapping into with the cards.
So what’s the danger?
Another extended pause. Scott took a deep breath. He knew sometimes Z wouldn’t answer a direct question, at least not immediately. And other times, Z would answer a question with a question. A question formed on the screen:
Who holds your life in his hand?
That’s easy. Jesus does.
Who knows everything about your future?
Jesus.
How does he invite you to communicate with him?
By talking with him. Through prayer. What’s this got to do with tarot cards?
As Scott waited for a response, Becka walked into the room and leaned over his shoulder. “What’s Z saying?”
“I’m a little confused,” Scott said, scratching the side of his head. “I don’t think he really answered my question.”
“Let’s see,” Becka said, reaching for the mouse. She scrolled back and read the conversation thread. “Hey, I think I get what Z’s trying to say.”
“Okay, if you’re so brilliant, what’s he saying?”
“You’ve got to read between the lines, Scott. Look here.” She pointed to the screen. “We’re supposed to talk to Jesus through prayer, right?”
“Right . . . but . . .”
“Which means we don’t need tarot cards,” Becka said. “We already have a direct line to God. So who, then, are people talking to when they use stuff like tarot cards to communicate? It sure can’t be God. Get it? That’s Z’s point.”
“I guess . . . but . . .”
Becka nudged Scott to the side and typed a question:
Z, it’s Becka. Are you saying that tarot cards can open up a person to satanic activity?
They waited several seconds before one word appeared on the screen:
Exactly.
Scott felt a sudden chill creep up from the base of his spine. If tarot cards were really just another form of spiritual counterfeit, one with roots in the occult, then Philip was in more danger than he probably knew. Even though Scott was still hacked off at Philip for kicking him out of the car, there was no way he’d stand by and let his friend get sucked into a trap.
Scott pounded out one last question:
Z, it’s Scott. I’ve got to know. How dangerous are they?
Nothing. Scott exchanged a look with Becka. He checked the screen again. After what felt like forever, Z’s response scrawled across the screen one letter at a time:
Can be lethal.
Z
7
Speaking of lover boy,” Scott said, lowering his voice to Krissi the next day before study hall. He nodded in the direction of the door.
Krissi, who sat next to Scott, looked over his shoulder as Philip shuffled into the crowded study hall. His T-shirt was partially untucked in the back, his jeans wrinkled, and his hair had a bad case of static cling.
He took one of the remaining available seats in the front right corner of the room close to the door. Not that he had much of a choice. All of the seats in the back were already taken. Philip flopped into his chair, plopped his stuff on the desk in front of him, and leaning forward, dropped his chin onto the stack of books.
“I’d say he had five minutes of sleep last night,” Scott said, leaning closer to Krissi. “Five minutes, tops. I told you something’s up with him. I bet he was up in the middle of the night watching that Madame Whacko I was telling you about.”
Krissi’s eyelashes fluttered. “Really? Okay, you’ve got to tell me all about this place you guys, like, went to after school. And don’t skip anything.”
Last night, at Becka’s suggestion, Scott had planned to call Krissi to talk about Philip. As usual, Scott got distracted and forgot. After first period, he caught up with her and made a plan to talk with her during this study hall.
The bell sounded and, as Scott started to answer, the librarian stepped into the room. “What’s Mr. Lowry doing here?”
Krissi tossed her auburn hair. “Beats me. I almost never see him doing study hall duty, you know?”
Scott nodded. “Well, he’s cool. The last time I was in detention, he let us talk as long as we didn’t cause a riot.”
Mr. Lowry stood at the front of the room tapping a thin, black attendance book against his thigh. Scott noticed most of the other students ignored his presence. This was, after all, a talking study hall. Unlike the silent study hall in room 305, where conversation was forbidden, Scott knew the students here were normally allowed to talk as long as they kept the general noise level lower than a sonic boom.
“May I have your attention,” Mr. Lowry announced, mustering up a commanding voice.
A girl with thick glasses turned in her seat and started to shush the others.
“As you may have guessed, I’m a substitute teacher for this period.” He circled around the teacher’s desk and leaned against the front edge. “I understand that this is usually a talking period. Today, however, will be different.”
Several students groaned.
Mr. Lowry started to pace back and forth at the front of the class as if addressing the troops. “As of this moment, there will be no talking — ”
More groans.
“No talking . . . no eating . . . no sleeping — ”
Another round of whines and moans.
“And there will be no passing of notes,” he said, pointing with the black attendance book like a battle-ax.
One of the jocks on the basketball team blurted, “Mr. Lowry?”
“Yes?”
The jock leaned back in his chair, legs sprawled as if in a lounge chair at the beach. “Um, sir. In case they didn’t tell you, this isn’t junior high.”
Several of his buddies snickered.
“What’s next? No gum chewing?” he added with a laugh.
Mr. Lowry stared at him as if torn between ordering him to do five hundred push-ups or settling for a swift boot to the seat of his pants. “Young man, what is your name?”
He looked around as if Mr. Lowry were addressing someone else and then said, “Who, me?”
He marched forward three steps. “I’m waiting.”
Every eye in the room was on him. The student cleared his throat. “Jordan Bolte.”
“Thank you, Mr. Bolte, for that wonderful idea.” Mr. Lowry turned to face the others. “At the suggestion of Mr. Bolte, there will be no gum chewing either.”
“Oh, that’s great, Jordy,” one of his buddies said, with a punch to his arm.
“For those students with PDAs, cell phones, or any kind of instant messengers,” he said, scanning the faces through narrowed eyes, “if you want to keep them, I’d suggest you turn them off and put them away. Thank you. I have a pounding migraine headache and will not tolerate any extraneous noise.” Mr. Lowry took a seat behind the desk and opened the roll book. He started to take attendance.
Scott exchanged a look with Krissi. Scott whispered, “What came over him?”
Krissi shrugged and then silently mouthed the words, Now what?
Scott threw up his hands. He hadn’t planned on this curve-ball. Whatever Mr. Lowry’s reason, which, for obvious reasons, Scott wouldn’t dare question, the option of talking was nixed.
Krissi took out a sheet of paper and a pen. She motioned to him to do the same.
Scott wasn’t sure that was such a good idea. Without speaking, he mouthed back, “Pass a note?” What if they got caught? If only he had remembered to call her last night.
He looked into Krissi’s pleading, green eyes and guessed that if he didn’t tell her what he knew, Krissi would nag him through the entire forty-five-minute period. What harm could there be in telling her the basics? Besides, Mr. Lowry, he reasoned, was a substitute study-hall teacher — a tough one, sure. But he was a seasoned student. He knew all the tricks of silent communication.
What were the odds of being noticed in the last row?
He slipped out a piece of paper, clicked open his pen, and began to write in large block type, stealing quick glances in the direction of the teacher. As he worked, his heart started to pound. The last thing he needed was another detention. When he finished, he propped up a textbook and, with a suppressed cough, signaled to Krissi.
Krissi, trying not to be too obvious, tilted her head. She squinted. Scott lifted the paper for a better view behind the book. She squinted again but couldn’t read it. Frustrated, Scott pretended to look at the ceiling and then the bulletin board before scanning the front of the room.
Mr. Lowry’s head was down as he called names and scrawled marks in the attendance book.
Krissi tapped her pen twice. Scott looked at her as her eyes widened, as if to ask, “Are you going to give that to me or not?”
Scott’s heart tapped away. He knew he was taking a risk. A big risk. No way would he want anybody but Krissi to see what he had written. Against his better judgment, he carefully folded the paper several times. His movements were slow and deliberate so as to attract as little attention as possible. When finished, the paper fit in the palm of his hand.
He stole a final look at the teacher and then sniffled.
As if on cue, Krissi pretended to accidentally knock her pen onto the floor between them. It rolled toward Scott. As smooth as a well-rehearsed play, Scott picked up the pen and handed it to Krissi, slipping the note into her hand in the same motion.
Although the adrenaline was pumping through his veins, Scott lowered his book, satisfied that they had pulled it off. He exhaled a slow, long breath.
Several seconds passed when, from across the room, he thought he heard someone say, “I’ll take that.”
Scott’s heart skipped a beat. No mistake about it. Mr. Lowry’s eyes, like two laser-guided missiles, zeroed in
on Krissi.
“Excuse me?” Krissi said, playing dumb. She tried to smile.
With a wave of the hand, Mr. Lowry beckoned. “I may spend most of my time in a library, but I wasn’t born yesterday. Hand me the note.”
“I . . . I just — ”
“Now, please.”
Krissi looked at Scott and winced. Her otherwise fair complexion reddened. As she walked to the front of the class, he knew they were busted. Big time. Talk about a bad dream. Make that a nightmare. Krissi dropped the note on the desk and turned to leave.
“Don’t move. Remain by my desk,” Mr. Lowry said, promptly unfolding the page.
The clock on the wall ticked away a painfully long minute. If only the floor would open up and swallow me, Scott thought, burying his face in his hands.
With a jerk, Mr. Lowry stood up and faced the class. “I’d like for the person who wrote this to join her.”
Scott tried to swallow, but his throat was as dry as sand.
At first, he didn’t move — couldn’t move was more like it. His feet felt as if they were encased in cement. What choice did he have? Every eye in the room was on him. He inched out of his seat and sulked his way to the front. The room was so quiet, Scott could hear the blood throbbing along the edge of his earlobes.
“People,” Mr. Lowry said, obviously delighted to enforce the rules, “this is how we handle those who can’t follow basic instructions.”
Scott took his place alongside Krissi, drooping his shoulders as if waiting to be court-martialed. From the corner of his eye, he couldn’t help but see the angry scowl on Philip’s face. Scott looked away. He tried to focus on a spot on the floor instead. His mind ran wild. Whatever you do . . . starve me . . . use Chinese torture on me . . . just don’t read that out loud.
Mr. Lowry raised the note for all to see, as if holding the scalp of someone from a warring tribe. He lowered the paper and held it at arm’s length. “I now have something to share with the group.”
Scott stopped breathing. Oh, great, I’m so dead, he thought.Looks like for once Krissi won’t be blamed for starting the rumors.
