Reckoning

by Molly M. Hall

  I shake my head, knowing I should just stop thinking about it and eat my lunch. Yeah, it was weird. But when has it ever not been? You’re not supposed to see the things I see. Hear the things I do.

  Ghosts.

  Spirits.

  The Undead.

  Whatever you want to call them, it all amounts to the same thing: Images that shouldn’t be there, but are. Voices that shouldn’t exist, but do.

  Like the girl in the pink dress. I know she’s dead. Just like all the others I’ve seen over the years. But why can I see them when no one else can? I have no idea. It’s just always been that way, from the time I was born. It’s something I can’t explain.

  And it’s something I don’t talk about. Ever. Because how do you convince someone that you can see something they can’t? Something that shouldn’t be there to begin with. Try it. It’s impossible. I learned that the hard way. So I’ve become very good at ignoring them. I thought that if I ignored them long enough, they would go away. And for a while they had.

  Until two weeks ago.

  That’s when the girl appeared. Changing everything. Because for some reason I can’t ignore her like the others. Everything I’m seeing and hearing now is totally different than anything I’ve experienced before.

  But why?

  I sigh and lean my head back against the tree, unable to come up with an answer.

  I watch as David tosses an empty orange juice container into the trash. Remembering my reaction in class, I smile and laugh softly. I feel embarrassed, but proud for having stood up to him in my own small way. I usually try to stay under the school radar because the last thing I want is to be singled out for extra attention. The last time I had reacted that strongly to someone was in the second grade when rat-faced Luke Mulgrew had deliberately stuck his foot out while I was running to the swing set during recess. Falling down and skinning my knees, I had turned and glared at him, seething with anger and frustration. He had looked at me, immobile for a moment, before bursting into tears and running to the teacher. Unbelievably, it had been me who had gotten into trouble. Not that I had actually done anything. I’d only stared at him. But it’s my eyes. They freak people out. They’re green and slightly slanted at the corners. Like cat’s eyes. But they’re not that soft, pretty green that’s always thought of as so attractive. They’re an odd, kind of mossy green, with strange flecks of gold and yellow. And when I’m really angry, it almost looks like they’re glowing. Probably just something to do with their odd color, or the way the light hits them, I don’t know. But I was told it was wrong to frighten people.

  I had wanted to ask if intentional tripping was OK, but I knew that would just get me into more trouble. So I’d kept my mouth shut.

  The glass doors to the cafeteria open, the sun’s reflection in the glass momentarily blinding me. My vision refocuses and I immediately tense. Rick Laurent walks between the tables, lunch tray in one hand and a large bottle of red Powerade in the other. He pauses for a moment, his eyes scanning the crowd. Someone at one of the far tables waves. Lifting his head in acknowledgement, he heads in their direction.

  I watch him, greedily drinking in every move and gesture. The lean muscles. The golden tan. The dark blonde hair that falls in messy waves around his face. The slightly rumpled look that somehow always looks stylish. The wide, slightly crooked nose and the full lips that are usually turned up in a smile. The deep brown eyes that make your knees quiver when he looks at you.

  At least, I assume they would. But he’s never looked at me so I can’t attest to the fact of whether or not there is any actual quivering. I would have given anything to know him, but the thought of actually talking to him makes my stomach clench and roll so much I feel sick. What could I possibly say to someone like that, anyway? “Hi. I think you’re wonderful. Would you like to be my boyfriend?” Yeah. Perfect icebreaker.

  Beneath the safety of the tree I continue to watch, like some kind of voyeur, imprinting every subtle movement onto the film reel in my head. I will replay it later, merging it with the other images stored in my mind. I bite the corner of my lip, the music playing in my ears providing the romantic soundtrack to my fantasy: Rick walking towards me, hands casually stuffed into his pockets, a small smile turning up the corners of his mouth. The smile grows wider, and he ducks beneath the branches of the tree, taking a seat beside me.

  “Hey, Kat,” he says softly, putting his arm around me. “I’ve been looking everywhere for you.” Leaning in, he brings his face close to mine, his brown eyes glowing with desire.

  “Hey,” I breathe, lifting my face to his…

  “Sheesh, I’ve been looking everywhere for you. Should have known you’d be under here.” The smell of Rachel’s perfume is soft and flowery against the sharp tang of the pine tree. Her bracelets clink together in a staccato rhythm as she adjusts herself on the ground.

  I open my eyes and smile at her, reaching for my bag of chips.

  “What’re you listening to?” She takes one of the earpieces, pressing it into her ear.

  “Evanescence,” I say, munching a potato chip, still watching Rick.

  She listens for a moment before handing it back. “I love them! Have you heard the new one by Three Days Grace?”

  I shake my head. “Is it good?”

  “It’s awesome! I just downloaded it last night.”

  I nod, offering her half my cheese sandwich, now looking pathetically flat and unappetizing after spending the morning in my backpack.

  “No, thanks,” she says, holding up a shiny red apple and a small bag of chocolate chip cookies from the vending machine. “Naturally sweet and crunchy, and artificially sweet and chewy. A nutritionally balanced meal.” She crunches into the apple, chewing slowly before saying, “Just go and talk to him, already, Kat.”

  I turn and look at her, my eyes widening in innocence. “Who?”

  “Rick. Richard Alexander Laurent. Your dream hottie.”

  “Yeah. Whatever.” I shake my head and concentrate on my sandwich, picking off small pieces of bread and cheese while wondering how the heck she knows his middle name.

  “You could just go up and say hello. Introduce yourself, at least.”

  “Why would I do that?”

  “Because you loooove him.” She smiles, popping a bite size cookie into her mouth.

  “Oh, God. I do not.”

  She narrows her eyes, seeing right through my feeble attempt at nonchalance. I shrug and open my bag of chips.

  “Stop thinking about it so much and just do it,” she admonishes.

  Rachel continually tells me that I over-analyze things, putting entirely too much thought into even the simplest situations. She’s probably right, but adopting her philosophy of less thinking, more doing isn’t something I can easily master.

  “Come on, Kat,” she continues. “This could be your only chance. You know he’ll be a senior next year and after that he’ll be gone forever. You should take advantage. Get to know him now so you can date all next year.” She says this as though it’s the most natural, easy thing in the world. And that there’s no question he’ll want to go out with me. “It’s what I would do.” She lies down on the ground, drawing up her legs, using my backpack as a pillow.

  “Yeah. Whatever,” I say again, wishing she would drop the subject. It’s easy for her. She dates all the time, even though she usually never gets beyond the three-month stage, growing bored after a few weeks. For her, striking up a conversation with just about anyone is as easy as ordering a hamburger. But agreeing with her and doing it are two entirely different things. There is no doubt in my mind that the last thing Rick wants is someone fawning over him, red-faced and stuttering. Although, thinking about it, it would probably give him a good laugh. I imagine myself going for the comic effect, appealing to his sense of humor. But the image quickly dies.

  I glance back to the eating area. Not surprisingly, the ever-present-whenever-Rick-is-around chesty brunette with the two hundred dollar highlights wande
rs up squeezing herself in next to him, her arm snaking around his waist in her usual possessive gesture.

  “Looks like Princess Jasmine has claimed her property,” I mutter dryly, using the name Rachel and I had given her after hearing her hum A Whole New World in the girl’s bathroom last fall. As for her real name, I have no idea what it is, nor do I care.

  Rachel studies them for a moment, nibbling the edges of a cookie “She’s nothing. You can tell he’s not really that into her. Watch. She’s the one doing all the touching. I’m telling you, strike while the iron’s hot.”

  What iron? What hot? The guy doesn’t even know I exist, let alone lay awake at night dreaming about our future together.

  I take a deep breath and let it out softly. “Isn’t he gorgeous?”

  Rachel glances at him, wrinkling her nose and cocking her head to the side. “I don’t know. I guess in the right light he’s not too bad.”

  I look at her in disbelief.

  She laughs, shoving my shoulder playfully. “I’m kidding. You should see your face! Of course he’s cute. Could use a little more muscle, though,” she adds, winking.

  I roll my eyes, abandoning my lame sandwich in favor of the chips.

  Rachel finishes the cookies and returns to her apple. Sitting up, she licks the juice from her fingers. “Hey, my mom and her friend Ilene are going to this gem and jewelry show downtown this weekend. I thought I might tag along. Wanna go?”

  Rachel loves jewelry and accessories. She’s even started designing her own pieces. But the thought of spending hours looking at uncut stones and designs that all look pretty much the same to me doesn’t exactly fill me with excitement. “No, thanks. I’ll pass.”

  “OK,” she says, tossing the apple core onto the grass. “But let me know if you change your mind.”

  We spend the last few minutes of our lunch period discussing finals and joking about whether or not Steph ever found her chemistry paper. When the bell rings, I gather my iPod and trash and step back into the warm sunshine. Tossing the trash into the bin, I glance once more at Rick. He turns and looks directly at me. I could be mistaken, but I think I see his lips form a tentative smile. Somewhere in the recesses of my brain I think that I should smile back and wave. Do that flirtatious thing with my eyes that lets him know I’m interested. But my stomach clenches and I can feel the heat rising to my face. So I just quickly look away, hurrying back into the building.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  The day finally comes to an end, and, as promised, Rachel drives me home. Dropping me in front of my house, she waggles her fingers through the sunroof, before tooting the horn and speeding off.

  I smile and wave back, unable to suppress a twinge of jealousy. Now that the shock has worn off, I’m really not that surprised she has her own car. Rachel has always had a charmed life. With a father who is a world-renowned heart surgeon, and a mom who has been decorating the homes of the city’s elite for over twenty years, their family has money. The kind that buys ridiculously large houses in one of the most exclusive areas of town, and memberships to country clubs and private golf courses. Rachel could be one of those snotty rich girls that like to think they’re better than everyone else. But she’s not. Just the opposite, in fact – humble, down-to-earth, and accepting of everyone. Which are some of the reasons I love her so much. And her younger sister Cassidy is no exception. Sweet, outgoing and the most popular kid in her fifth grade class, she is like a little carbon copy of Rachel.

  But I’m still jealous.

  My eyes travel down the street, and I gaze longingly at the Jeep. It’s been parked there for a month, and I know exactly what the sign in the window says: FOR SALE - $800 OBO.

  It needs work. Probably everything from a paint job and tires to a new engine. But I still want it. I have four hundred dollars saved, so I’m at least halfway there. And I know a guy at school who loves to mess with old cars. He asked me out once, but I turned him down not really interested in dating someone who always smells like an odd mixture of Pennzoil, Axe and cigarettes. Along with that herbal essence that isn’t shampoo. Despite my earlier rejection, maybe I could get him to fix it up for me.

  I shudder, thinking about what he might want in return. Sighing, I turn away. It doesn’t matter until I can come up with the rest of the money anyway. And even if I do, I still have to talk my mom and dad into letting me buy it.

  I walk slowly down the street, savoring the quiet of the afternoon. I love this time of year - the warm weather, the new leaves on the trees, the green grass and blooming shrubs. It’s like a rebirth after the long winter. I close my eyes, letting sound and scent wash over me: The steady hum of a lawn mower from the next block; the leaves on the aspen and birch trees rustling in the breeze; the smell of lilac, thick and heavy in the warm air.

  “Katriona.” My name whispers across my eardrums, making my skin prickle.

  My eyes snap open and I scan the length of the street, up and down. There is no one. A car slowly passes on the cross street. A dog barks twice, the sound echoing from the next block. The windows of the surrounding houses look back at me blankly, the glass a dark reflection of the afternoon sunlight.

  The wind rustles through the trees and I hear it again, fainter this time, the last syllable lingering in the air. “Katrionaaa.”

  My jaw clenches and I wonder again about my sanity.

  A strand of hair catches on my eyelashes, and I flick it to the side, pushing the thought from my mind. The incident this morning has been enough. I don’t want to think about it anymore. I glance to the right, my eyes involuntarily straying to the dilapidated house at the end of the block. Dark and shadowed, it sits like a lonely sentinel, its graceful curves and arches testament to its forgotten history. It has been empty for longer than I’ve been alive, the former grandeur of its two and a half stories slowly crumbling. Years of neglect have left its toll: Rusty wrought iron fences and overgrown shrubs; long trails of ivy pushing through cracks in the brick walls and broken windows; the front steps falling away in large chunks; old, yellowed newspaper and wind-blown neighborhood flyers littering the yard.

  Something moves behind the window and I quickly turn away. Abandoned, yes. Empty, no.

  Hurrying down the sidewalk I turn to my house. For decades most of the houses in my neighborhood looked the same – small, 1920’s and ‘30’s brick bungalows, fronted by deep, brick porches and mature trees, with detached one-car garages accessed through an alley in the rear. But in the last few years, owners have started remodeling, popping the tops to add another level or extending out the back. Or even tearing the house down entirely and building a new one from the ground up. And it’s usually more house than the lot can hold, which gives the neighborhood an odd, mismatched appearance: Small, historic houses cowering beside modern monstrosities.

  Fortunately, ours is still one of the originals, with a short, central hallway, two small bedrooms and a bathroom on one side, and a living room and small dining room on the other. There is a tiny kitchen in the back. With the exception of finishing the basement, which added a third bedroom and a half bath, and updating the kitchen appliances and bathroom fixtures, the house looks pretty much the same as it did seventy years ago. And I love it. The wood floors, the gorgeous trim and fireplace mantles, even the little dip in the floor of the hallway where a long ago roof leak warped the wood. It’s a house with history. My mom and dad have talked about moving, or renovating for more space, but the thought sickens me. Sure, a bigger closet would be nice, but remodeling would mean wiping out everything that makes our house unique.

  I dart up the front steps, noticing with surprise that the lawn next door has been mowed. The dead leaves have been swept from the porch and the For Sale sign removed. I hope that someone bought it. For the past year, it’s been an eyesore, the untended yard slowly becoming a mass of weeds and overgrown clumps of grass that shrivel to dried brown clumps in the heat of summer.

  Turning back to my house, I can see the front door standing open
behind the screen door, so I know my mom is home. Which surprises me since she hasn’t been getting home until eight or nine o’clock for the past month. She works as a legal assistant for Katzenmeyer & Wilton, a firm that specializes in real estate law. She usually does a lot of her work from home, but they’ve been calling her into the office more and more lately. Although she complains about it, I think it’s good for her to get out.

  I drop my book bag by the door and head to the kitchen, the sound of the television growing louder. As usual, my mom has left the small TV on the kitchen counter on, tuned to CNN. Mom is a news junkie. At almost any hour of the day or night at least one TV in the house is be tuned to some news channel, supplying her with a never-ending rundown of the day’s events. I don’t know how she stands it. To me, it’s just information overload.

  Grabbing the remote, I turn it off, pleased to see the blackened shell of a bombed out car disappear. In the ensuing silence, the sound of my mom typing away on her computer floats up from the basement.

  “Hey, Mom,” I call down the stairs. “I’m home. You won’t believe what happened today.” I want to tell her about Rachel’s car, but need to do it in a way that will work in my favor. If I can put the right spin on it, maybe it will help convince her to let me buy the Jeep. I decide on the positive approach: Play up all the good points of having my own set of wheels, then act nonchalant, dropping subtle hints over the next few weeks.

  And hope that no one buys the Jeep in the meantime.

  “Hi, honey,” she calls back. “I’ll be up in a minute. I’m just sending an e-mail to Dad.”

  My dad is kind of non-existent. Since he spends most of the week traveling between Chicago, St. Louis and Dallas selling medical supplies to doctors and hospitals, I usually only see him on the weekends. And even that isn’t guaranteed since meetings and conferences sometimes keep him out of town for two weeks at a time.

  Alecto stretches in a patch of sunlight by the back door, her velvet black fur glistening. Mewing softly, she blinks sleepy blue eyes at me. Bending down, I scoop her up.