“I told you . . . it’s complicated.”
“Because of what you’ve seen. Because you think I’m in danger.”
“That . . . and everything else.”
“You mean, you don’t want to get involved with me.”
“I don’t want to get involved with anyone,” he says bluntly.
She doesn’t blame him, after all he’s been through, but it’s not easy to hear.
“So what now?” she asks him.
He shrugs. “How about if you just tell me what’s been going on?”
“You mean, with Blue?”
Long pause.
Uh-oh. Oops.
“I meant, with everything else,” Jacy says gently. “You said you weren’t okay . . . I didn’t think that had anything to do with Blue.”
No, it had a lot to do with you.
Sighing inwardly—will she ever get it right with him?— she fills him in on all that’s happened since they last spoke: the ghosts, the billets, the bear fountain and Darrin Yates, the book and Leolyn Woods, Aiyana.
Jacy is quiet for a long time, thinking it over. Then he asks, “You said the fountain is in Geneseo?”
“I think so. Have you ever been there?”
“No, but I know where it is. We should go check it out.”
Her heart skips a beat. “You’d go with me?”
“You can’t go alone.”
No, she can’t. For starters, she has no way of getting there.
“Do you have a car?” she asks. “Because I don’t want to tell my grandmother about it and ask to borrow hers. There’s no way she’d let me go.”
“Walt and Peter lend me their car on weekends sometimes.
I’ll ask them.”
“You can’t tell them where we’re going, though. They’re friends with my grandmother. It’ll get back to her.”
“I won’t tell them. We’ll make something up. Want to go tomorrow?”
“Yes!” she exclaims, then, “No. I can’t. It’s homecoming.”
“Oh. Right.”
“Sunday for sure, though. Okay?”
“Can’t. Track meet.”
“Oh. They won’t let you borrow the car during the week?”
He shakes his head. “That’s one of their rules. They don’t have many, but . . . I guess it’ll have to wait until next weekend.” “I’m going away,” she tells him. “To Florida. I already have my plane ticket.”
Hearing another siren in the distance, they look at each other, then toward the school. “Something must have happened there,” Calla says anxiously.
“Sounds that way.”
“I hate sirens. They remind me of . . .” She closes her eyes, trying to shut out the horror of that awful day. But the memories come anyway: walking into the house to find Mom’s body, running screaming into the street, one of the elderly neighbors dialing 911, the sirens.
“I know. I don’t like them either.” Jacy squeezes her hand, and she remembers that he’s had his own share of sorrow.
“So . . . I guess Geneseo will have to wait,” she says reluctantly.
“Yeah. But for now, I think I should tell you . . .” He hesitates. “What?”
“About what I’ve been seeing. With you. You know . . .”
“The visions?”
“Yeah. Just so you know, because you’re going to Florida, and . . . well, it’s about water.”
Her heart stops. “Water?”
“Don’t go in the water in Florida, Calla. Promise me.”
Dread creeps over her as she remembers Odelia’s cryptic warnings about not going into the lake here. “Why not?”
“When I see you . . . you’re in the water. Struggling.”
“You mean . . . drowning?”
“I’m not sure. But I don’t feel like it’s an accident.”
TWELVE
Saturday, September 29
9:32 a.m.
“Calla, you’ll never believe this . . . Did you hear what happened last night?” Evangeline asks breathlessly in her ear.
“Yeah. I heard.” Calla sinks onto the couch, clutching the phone, her hand trembling.
“I can’t believe it. You must be so upset!”
“Yeah. Poor Blue.” Renewed guilt threads its way into her brain as she thinks of him, laid up at Brooks Memorial Hospital down in Dunkirk, his left foot fractured.
The ambulance that had raced past Jacy and her was real, all right. And it was going to rescue Blue. He’d collided with a beefy player from the opposing team on the wet soccer field, and had gone down hard with the other guy on top of him. It was a freak accident, according to everyone who witnessed it.
Such a freak accident that if Calla didn’t know better, she might think she had somehow willed it.
Or maybe she doesn’t know better. What if she—or Jacy—did have something to do with it?
No. Blue had already been injured before they even discussed going to Geneseo. It was a freak accident, and nothing more.
Not like Mom’s death.
“Poor Blue,” Evangeline is echoing, “and poor you. It’s so unfair that this had to happen now, before the dance. I can’t believe you don’t get to go.”
You have to tell her.
“Evangeline . . .”
“Ramona and I were really looking forward to the three of us going to the salon today. I mean, you should still come. I know it won’t be the same, but—”
“Evangeline, I’m going.”
“To the salon? Great! At least you can still get your hair cut, and—”
“No, not the salon . . . to the dance.”
“Really? You’re going alone?”
“No.” Guilt, guilt, guilt. So many reasons to feel guilty right now, mostly for the web of lies she’s about to spin, not just to Evangeline, but to her grandmother, and Ramona . . .
But you have no choice. It’s the only way.
She takes a deep breath. “Jacy Bly is taking me. Just as friends,” she feels compelled to add, hoping that makes it easier, not just on Evangeline, but on her.
Silence.
“Evangeline?”
“That’s . . . I, um . . . I think that’s nice.Of him. And, uh, for you.”
“We’re friends, Evangeline. He felt bad when we heard what happened to Blue last night, so he . . . you know . . .”
“Yeah. He’s a good guy. You’ll have fun with him.”
“It’s not like that. We’re not . . . you know.”
“Yeah. You said. Just friends.” Evangeline’s voice is tight. “Well, I’m glad you get to go. I guess I’ll see you when we go to the Hair Wharf. I think the appointment is for two.”
“What about class?”
“Class?”
“Patsy’s class. You’re going this morning, right?”
“Oh . . . I am, but I’m going to be a little late. Go on over without me, and I’ll see you there, okay?”
“Okay. Sure.”
She doesn’t want to walk over with me, Calla thinks, hanging up the phone.
Does she really blame Evangeline for being upset?
She has a date for the dance—supposedly, anyway—with the guy her friend likes.
Okay, so it isn’t really a date.
But what’s gone on between her and Jacy isn’t platonic.
He kissed her last night.
Not just that first time, but later, too. Even after they had walked over to the school just in time to see Blue Slayton being loaded into the ambulance.
He didn’t see Calla. He was obviously in too much pain to notice much of anything.
But he did call her, late, from the hospital.
“I know,” she said, when he told her what had happened.
“I was there. I saw you. Are you going to be okay?”
“Eventually.” He sounded groggy from the medication.
“But I won’t be doing any dancing tomorrow. They’re not even letting me out of here until at least Sunday.”
She told him how
sorry she was, and told him to get some rest.
“Yeah, I will. It was such a freak thing, you know? That guy came at me out of nowhere. I can’t believe this happened to me. All I’ve been thinking about lately is that you and I were going to have a great time at the dance, and now look.”
She couldn’t help but remember what Evangeline said about Blue being a powerful psychic, like his father. Shouldn’t he have had an inkling that something was going to happen to him on the soccer field that night?
Maybe not. It’s not a precise science, by any means.
She hung up with Blue and turned to Jacy, who had walked her home and come inside.
“He can’t go,” she told him.
“Then let’s do it.”
They had already hatched a tentative plan at that point.
Now it’s in full swing.
There’s no going back.
“Good morning!”
Calla turns to see her grandmother in the hallway, at the foot of the stairs. She’s wearing the orange satin kimono she uses as a bathrobe, and yawning.
“Hi, Gammy.”
“Today’s the big day.” Odelia pads into the room in her purple terry-cloth scuffies. “How do you feel?”
Might as well get it over with.
“Um. . . the thing is, Blue got hurt last night on the soccer field, so I’m not going with him. Jacy Bly is taking me instead.”
Odelia levels a long gaze at her.
She knows I’m lying.
Calla feels sick inside.
Then her grandmother breaks into a smile. “It’s not that I wish anything bad for Blue,” she says, “but this is how it was supposed to turn out.”
“What do you mean?”
“You and Jacy. I knew it. I’ve felt it all along. I knew you two were going to connect, even before I ever introduced him to you.”
No way.
“Gammy, we’re just going as friends,” she says, thinking of Evangeline.
Odelia waves that notion away with her hot-pink-polished fingers. “Don’t give me that. I know there’s more to it.”
“Really . . . there isn’t. And please don’t say anything to Ramona, or . . . Evangeline.”
“She likes him. I know.”
Calla nods glumly.
“She’ll get over him. There’s someone else for her out there.”
“Russell Lancione?” Calla asks, brightening. “Do you have some kind of premonition about the two of them, or something?”
That would be great, and it would let her off the hook with Jacy.
“No premonitions. There’s just someone for everyone. Including Evangeline. And Jacy Bly isn’t her someone.”
Is he really mine? Calla wants to ask but doesn’t dare.
“The thing about Jacy,” Odelia says, “is that he’s been through hell and back. His parents—they really hurt him. He built up a lot of walls because of that. Likes to shut people out. Is afraid of losing even more than he already has.”
It’s just like Calla thought. He doesn’t want to let her in, doesn’t want to care about her—or anyone.
“Walt and Peter have made a lot of progress with him, but . . . some kinds of hurt take a long, long time to heal. And some don’t ever heal,” Odelia adds sadly, shaking her head and thinking, Calla suspects, not just of Jacy.
“You go easy on him, and you’ll see. He’ll come around.”
“Gammy . . . it’s just a dance.”
No. It’s not even that.
“I’m so happy for you, Calla. What I wouldn’t give to be your age again, going to a dance with a boy I’m crazy about.”
Great. Calla can only hope her grandmother never finds out she and Jacy never made it to the dance.
Evangeline will notice, that’s for sure.
I’ll have to figure out something to tell her, Calla promises herself.
For now, she can’t think past tonight, and getting to Geneseo with Jacy.
“Well? What do you think?”
Calla looks up from the gossipy pages of the Us magazine she’s been trying, with little success, to read for the last forty-five minutes. Mostly, she’s just been staring out the plate-glass window of the Hair Wharf salon at the dark gray waters of Lake Erie off the Dunkirk Pier.
Standing in the doorway of the salon waiting room, Evangeline does a mock-modeling spin, turning this way and that to show off a face full of makeup and her new hairdo, an elaborate mass of curls falling from a black satin headband.
“Wow . . . you look gorgeous!” Calla exclaims sincerely.
“Thanks. What do you think, Aunt Ramona?”
“Oh, honey . . .” Sitting beside Calla, Ramona is obviously emotional. “I think you’re growing up. And you’re beautiful.”
“That’s what I told her.” Leslie, the pretty, dark-haired young stylist, looks on proudly, a can of hairspray still in hand.
“You don’t think I look like a Disney princess?” Evangeline wrinkles her nose—the freckles oddly buffed away by a thick layer of foundation.
“Not in a bad way,” Calla assures her.
“Wait till that kid sees you. He isn’t going to know what hit him,” Ramona declares.
“Who? Russell?” Evangeline’s nose wrinkles even more. “I don’t want him to like me that way.”
“I hate to break it to you, but I don’t think you have a choice. He already does.”
Evangeline flashes a smile at Calla’s comment, though Calla can’t help but notice it isn’t quite as warm as in the past.
She hasn’t exactly been cold-shouldered by her friend today, but it’s been clear that Evangeline isn’t thrilled she’s going to the dance with Jacy.
She made no effort to mask her jealousy during their awkward walk home from Patsy’s class, and she asked a million questions, most of which Calla couldn’t—or wouldn’t— answer.
Evangeline wanted to know exactly how their date had come about. In detail. She wasn’t entirely satisfied with Calla’s explanation: that she had run into him at the soccer field, and after they both witnessed Blue’s accident, Jacy just naturally asked her if he could take her in Blue’s place.
“Jacy never goes to anything but track meets,” Evangeline pointed out. “I never see him at dances, or football games, or soccer. And believe me—I look for him. Everywhere. I guess I’m just surprised that he was around last night, and that he wants to go to homecoming tonight.”
Calla almost told her then that it wasn’t really going to happen, that they aren’t really going to the dance, but in the end, what difference would that make?
She’s still going to be with Jacy later, and it might be even worse if Evangeline realizes that something more compelling than a date for the dance is drawing the two of them together. Not even just the physical attraction, which Calla doesn’t dare acknowledge to her, but the mystery surrounding Darrin Yates.
She doesn’t want to tell Evangeline about that, either.
Better to just leave things the way they are, for now.
And later, after she doesn’t show up at the dance with Jacy . . .
I’ll just make up something else. Another lie.
“All right . . . it’s your turn.” Leslie gestures at Calla. “Ready?”
“Sure.” Trying to muster casual enthusiasm, she puts the magazine aside and follows Leslie to the next room.
There, Calla spots a filmy pair of women whose hair is set on big fat rollers, with a few loose tufts taped to their cheeks. They’re both wearing baby doll negligees and false eyelashes. On the far side of the room, a buff and fabulous—and nearly transparent—young male stylist snips an invisible patron’s hair.
Oblivious to the spirits, Leslie keeps up cheerful small talk as she washes and trims Calla’s hair. The weather, food, Hollywood gossip.
Calla tries to relax and get into it, but she can’t. She’s too distracted by the ghosts and worried about tonight.
“You’re so tense,” Leslie comments. “You must be thinking about
the dance. I hear you have a hot date.”
“Where’d you hear that?” Calla asks, knowing full well.
“Evangeline told me. Sounds like she wants to switch dates with you.”
Calla tries to laugh, but it comes out sounding kind of strangled.
“Okay, it’s time to make you fancy. Hair, makeup . . . the works. What kind of dress are you wearing?”
“It’s . . . vintage.”
“Vintage—like Victorian? Or more like the seventies? Not that I was around then,” she adds slyly.
No, but the two women in the fat rollers and false eyelashes probably were, Calla thinks, glancing again in their direction.
“Um, more like the eighties,” she tells Leslie.
“Ooh, I love the eighties!” declares Leslie, who couldn’t have been alive for much of that decade either. “What color is it?”
“Kind of a reddish brown.”
“That’ll be gorgeous with your coloring. Do you know what kind of style you want?”
“I’m not sure. I guess you can just surprise me.”
“Are you kidding? Really?”
“Go for it.”
“Okay. I live for customers saying that . . . not that anyone ever does.”
Calla shrugs. Her heart isn’t in this, and she just can’t pretend.
“I’m spinning you this way, okay?” Leslie twirls the chair so that Calla’s back is to the mirror. “If you’re going to give me free license with this gorgeous face and head of hair, I don’t want you to change your mind halfway through. You can see it when we’re done, and believe me, you’ll love yourself.
” Leslie intently paints her face while holding a makeup kit like it’s a painter’s palette, dabbing on a little of this, a little of that.
“You totally look like a supermodel,” she tells Calla, who cringes a little inside. Maybe it wasn’t such a great idea to let Leslie do whatever she wants. Calla usually goes for a natural look.
Oh, well. Too late now. As Leslie combs and curls and teases and gels and sprays her way around Calla’s head, Calla goes over, and over, what’s going to happen later.
Jacy is planning to pick her up at Odelia’s and go along with the homecoming dance charade. Odelia said something this morning about checking to see if she has batteries in her camera so she can take pictures of the occasion, which made Calla feel even more nauseous than she has been.
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