by Nic Tatano
Except for my own mother.
***
“You okay, Sparks?”
Ryan’s soothing voice makes me turn around as I’m heading into homeroom. “You have to turn it off today,” I say, knowing he must be picking up my anxiety.
He furrows his brow and looks at me with genuine concern. “You’re extremely worried. Anything I can do to help?”
“Yeah, stop reading my thoughts today. I know you’re just trying to be helpful, but please, Ryan, I’m going through something that is very private.”
He nods, closes his eyes for a moment. It’s what he does when he disconnects, or whatever you want to call it, his mind reading ability. He opens his eyes and offers a soft smile. “Sorry, Sparks. I didn’t mean to intrude.”
“I’m sure you didn’t. But you can’t go around sneaking up on girls who might be thinking… you know… stuff.”
I get the sheepish grin that makes him look like a little boy who’s been caught with his hand in the cookie jar, the look that reminds me of when we first met in the second grade. He started calling me Sparks back then because he said when the sun hit me just right it looked like sparks were coming out of my hair. “Sure, I get it. I guess I should really leave my abilities at home. At least… when I’m around someone I care for.”
My heart hits a speed bump and takes my mind off The Council for the first time since the talk with mom. I’ve known the guy since I was seven… is he finally getting it after all these years? Can you please stop thinking of me as your oldest female friend and look at the total package which is dying for a date? “You shouldn’t need to read minds to know how a girl feels, Ryan.” (Well, so much for playing my cards close to the vest. But honestly, when it comes to romance, the guy needs a road map, so I might have to be his GPS.) I wonder how he’s taking my comment. Does he realize I’m talking about myself, or just girls in general? His casual nod tells me it’s the latter. Sonofabitch.
“Hey, girls are always saying boys are clueless when it comes to understanding women. I was trying to get ahead of the curve. You guys aren’t exactly easy to figure out.”
“Part of our charm.” I glance at the clock and know we have about one minute before class. “Better get rolling,” I say, as I head into my homeroom.
“Yeah. See you at lunch. Hope the thing that’s bothering you goes away.”
“Thanks.”
I’m heading into the room and think the conversation is over when I hear him again. “But what you were thinking was pretty spectacular.”
***
The drive to rural New Jersey (yeah, it exists in the western part of the state) is a pleasant one, a welcome change from the crammed together lifestyle that is New York City. I love living in the Big Apple, but it’s nice to get out of town and clear my head. And not worry about someone reading my mind. We’re going to a place known as The Summit, which is not spoken in italics like The Council. It’s basically the home office for the people who oversee those of us in the paranormal world.
I’m trying to pump mom for information about her visit years ago. She keeps telling me “it’s privileged” and can only be revealed with special permission, even though I’m her daughter.
“Can you at least tell me why you only came here once? Did they help you?” I ask.
She shakes her head while keeping her eyes on the road. “Jillian, please stop. We’ll be there in ten minutes and they’ll start as soon as we arrive.”
“They’ll start… what?”
She rolls her eyes. “I wish I could’ve read my own future. I woulda put you on a bus.”
I fold my arms in front of me. “Fine. I’ll be a good little seer. Change the subject.”
“I understand there’s a dance comin’ up at school.”
Now it’s my turn to roll the eyes. “Pick another subject.”
“Why? You’re not hangin’ out with that Jake, are you?”
Change the topic. “I’m getting an A in all my subjects. Aren’t you proud of your daughter?”
“You got an IQ of 160; I should hope you’d breeze through school.” (Great, she took the bait.) “So is that nice young man Ryan going to be escorting you to the dance, or what? Or is that… hooligan.”
“Hooligan? Really, mom, where do you get these terms? Was ne’er-do-well already taken?”
“He’s a hooligan, young lady. Who other than a hooligan rearranges lawn gnomes in suggestive positions?”
The image of what Jake did to the McGuire’s front yard flashes through my mind and it’s all I can do to keep from laughing. I bite my lip as my own twisted sense of humor envisions the gnomes in a suggestive Travelocity commercial. “He’s got a different kind of wit, mom. And the McGuire’s son is a bully. He had it coming.”
“Here’s our exit,” she says, thankfully getting off the topic of Jake and sexually frustrated garden ornaments. She gets off the highway, makes a right turn and drives about a mile until we arrive at a large, ornate metal gate, which stands guard over a long driveway that disappears into the woods. Mom pulls up to the intercom and hits a button. I note a camera atop the gate, which is busy turning toward our car.
A soft voice floats through the intercom. “Yes?”
“Zelda Spectuh and my daughtuh Jillian.”
I see the lens in the camera twist and it’s obvious someone is getting a closer look. There’s a buzz and the gate swings open. Mom maneuvers the car past the gate and down the winding driveway that seems to go on forever.
And then I see it.
A massive stone castle that looks right out of the middle ages. “That’s The Summit?”
Mom smiles, and nods. “Impressive, huh?”
“I didn’t know there were castles in Jersey.”
“Yeah, but what’s inside aint no fairy tale.”
***
An hour later I feel like I’m on the witness stand being grilled by a bevy of prosecutors. I’m seated in a massive, elaborately carved oak chair that feels like a throne, complete with a ruby red velvet seat cushion, while four members of The Council, two men and two women, press me for more details about my experience and take notes on legal pads. It’s chilly and a bit damp inside; castles are apparently not equipped with central heat. The huge room has stone walls, high ceilings, and a few large windows which overlook a pond. I feel like I’ve told the story six times already, but they continue to pepper me with question after question, wanting the minutiae of the whole affair. Finally, I’ve had enough.
“Look, with all due respect,” I say, sitting up straight, “haven’t you gotten enough information—”
My mom whips her head around and shoots me the glare which I’ve learned means shut the hell up.
The tall, thin gray-haired man who introduced himself as Sebastien (no last name, like Madonna) narrows his dark eyes a bit and seems to shove me down with his stare. “Young lady, I dare say you do not understand the ramifications of your experience. Though our questions may seem redundant, I assure you there is a purpose behind each one.” He smoothes his snow white beard with one hand as he turns to the others. “She is a great deal like her father.”
“You mean, like my father was when he was my age?”
Sebastien looks at my mother. “I think it’s time we told her the truth.”
Now it’s my turn to give my mother the eyes, only mine are as wide as they can be. She bites her lower lip and her eyes well up as she looks at me for forgiveness.
And I can tell she’s been lying to me about my father my entire life.
“What?” I ask.
Her mouth opens but she says nothing.
“What, mom? You mean the truth about how he died?”
“Young lady,” says Sebastien. “Your father is not dead.”
CHAPTER THREE
While Ryan is my oldest male friend, Roxanne has been my best friend forever.
Literally.
We were born on the same day in the same hospital. Our moms met in the maternity ward, hit it
off, and have been buddies every since. We’ve shared a crib, a crush, a crisis. A lotta birthday cakes. Unlike other girls who toss around the BFF tag to a different person every month, we know it will be till death do us part as far as our friendship is concerned.
What’s really funny is that she’s jealous of my talent and I’m jealous of hers.
Roxanne Falcone is a muse.
Yeah, I know, you thought those didn’t exist. That they were ethereal, mythological creatures who, according to legend, inspire the great creative minds of the world. Ah, grasshopper, you have much to learn before you may roam the earth.
For one, Roxanne isn’t remotely ethereal. She’s as Italian as her last name, turning heads with the shoulder length black hair, chocolate brown eyes, classic high cheekbones, mile long legs in lacquered on jeans, and a wicked New York accent. But when you need inspiration, she’s your girl, morphing into a paranormal sultry vixen as she drops that whiskey voice a few octaves to deliver the goods. One reason I’m jealous is that she gets “royalties” as a muse; the girl is constantly getting Broadway show tickets, movie passes, DVDs and albums as “thank yous” for her services. She’s always dressed in the latest outfits since one of her clients is a fashion designer and sends her racks of clothes that haven’t even hit the market yet. So she’s a trend setter before the trend even begins.
Even though we’re exactly the same age I’ve always considered her a big sister; Roxanne’s the tough one who’s protected me, a girl with a hard edge; her street smarts coming in handy when needed. She can also kick your ass if you piss her off, as she’s six feet of solid muscle and towers over most of the boys in her stacked heels. Last year a scrawny senior decided he’d come up with a clever pickup line for a muse. Not realizing Roxanne could snap him like a twig, he yelled, “Hey legs, inspire me!” at her across the crowded cafeteria. (She hates being called “legs” more than anything, except for the mimes in Central Park.) Anyway, he later became the only boy in the history of the school to receive an atomic wedgie from a girl, which turned him into a soprano for a week. I can still see his feet dangling in the air as the waistband from his Jockeys reached his neck.
Her height advantage has always made me look up to her, and in more than the literal sense. I admire her more than anyone I know. She’s really a human Tootsie Roll pop; get past the hard exterior and inside you’ll find someone really sweet with a huge soft spot in her heart.
My BFF, the glamazon kick-ass muse.
But right now, after pouring out my soul to her on the front porch for a half hour on this Sunday afternoon, I need more than inspiration. I crave the emotional comfort food that is my best friend.
One long, sinewy arm wraps tightly around my shoulder and pulls me close while she brushes away my tears with her free hand. “Your mother was probably trying to protect you. She probably woulda told you eventually.”
“Yeah, right.” I lean my head on her shoulder and she begins to gently stroke my hair. “Telling me my father is actually alive when all these years I thought he was dead. And that he had some sort of unusual power that may have been passed down to me. Kinda important truths to leave out when you’re raising a daughter.”
“Yeah, it would piss me off too. But you’ve got a wonderful mom, Jillian. I know she had her reasons. Give her time to explain.”
“Whatever.”
Long pause. “So why didn’t you tell me about this afterlife thing?”
“It scared the hell out of me, Rox. I didn’t even tell mom till the next day. I don’t mind seeing the future when it comes to romance, but changing the future is something else. And seeing someone murdered? God, that was awful. It makes me wonder.”
“Wonder what?”
“If I’m cut out for this. I mean, I enjoy being a seer and a lot of times it helps people, but staring into a crystal ball for the rest of my life?”
“It’s a gift, Jillian. Just like my talent is a gift. It’s a sin not to share it.” (It should be noted that Roxanne is Catholic and thus ruled by guilt.)
“Yeah, I know. But my intelligence is also a gift. I could be a doctor, a lawyer. Wouldn’t it be a sin to waste that?”
“Hell, you could do both.”
I rolled my eyes. “Yeah, Jillian Spectre, MD. I could find out if my patients are going to die before I treat them. Here’s your prescription, Mr. Jones. You won’t need a refill because you’ll be reaching room temperature soon. And by the way, you’re going to Hell. Here’s some SPF 1000 sunblock.”
She squeezes my shoulder. “Okay, enough with your own career. Listen… all this stuff about the afterlife makes me wonder… would you do me a favor?”
She then asks me to do something I’ve never done.
***
After a breakfast during which my mom seemed afraid to look at me, I’m still ticked off at the revelations of the weekend. My face is tightened, eyes narrowed into slits, and I’m glaring at anyone who crosses my field of vision as I head to Geometry class.
I feel an arm wrap around my shoulders and get a whiff of the familiar earthy perfume. “Still pissed off, short stuff?”
I look up at Roxanne, who’s smiling at me. “I’m entitled.”
“Well, if you’re tryin’ to give people my Sicilian death stare, it aint workin’, honey. With the red hair and the freckles you look like the Little Mermaid with PMS.”
The line makes me lighten up, but only a little bit. “Fine. I’ll get a black wig.”
“Still won’t work. You want me to beat someone up for you? Will that make you smile?”
“I just need some time to work through this.”
“You talkin’ to your mom?”
“Barely.”
“Well, you’re still the same Jillian and I still love ya, kiddo. Catch ya later.”
***
Did you know it takes a lot of energy to stay pissed off all day? I’m discovering that as I already feel exhausted and it’s only third period.
Still, I’m busy trying to bore a hole in my Geometry textbook with my Disney cartoon that-time-of-the-month death stare while squeezing the life out of my pen. Ms. Hansen’s lecture on problem solving and the squeaking of her blue dry erase marker on the white board are merely audio wallpaper, fading into the background of my thoughts.
I can’t keep this up forever.
Mom and I have to talk tonight. I don’t care if The Council wants everything confidential.
I have to know—
“Jillian, would you please name these triangles, since no one else seems to have done the weekend assignment.”
The teacher speaking my name jolts me back to reality, and I raise my head. “Uh, I’m sorry, Ms. Hansen. What was the question?”
My petite blonde fortysomething teacher looks at me quizzically, probably because I’m her best student and this is my favorite class and I never, ever zone out. She then points at the board, filled with two geometric figures. “These triangles. Name them.”
I causally lean back in my chair, fold my arms and shrug. “I dunno. How about… Joe and Harry?”
The class explodes in laughter, partly because it’s a terrific smartass answer and partly because Jillian Spectre, front row girl with perfect standardized test scores who always raises her hand and sits up straight, has never, ever cracked a joke in class.
Ms. Hansen raises one eyebrow and takes a step toward me. “See me after class, young lady.”
“Oooooooh,” comes the frightened chorus from the rest of the class.
I look closer at the board. “The triangles are obtuse and equilateral,” I say, trying for some damage control.
“Correct,” says the teacher, shaking her head as she turns back to the board.
***
I remain at my desk as I wait for the class to file out, then slowly stand up. Ms. Hansen is leaning against her desk, arms folded. “So what’s wrong, Jillian?” Her voice is soft, filled with genuine concern.
“I’m so sorry, Ms. Hansen. I don’t know wha
t came over me.”
“That kind of comment I’d expect from the boys in the back row, not from a girl with sixteen hundred on her SATs.” She stands up, moves forward and puts her hands on my shoulders. “You wanna tell me what’s on your mind?”
I exhale, look to the side, then back at her. “It’s really personal.”
“Does it have to do with a boy?”
I roll my eyes. “If a boy were actually interested in me, it might be. No, Ms. Hansen, it’s a family matter.”
“You okay? Your mother okay?”
“We’re fine, and it’s nothing physical. It’s something to do with my past that I can’t discuss.”
“Do you want to talk with the school counselor?”
“No offense, but the school counselor is a moron.”
She laughs, knowing I’m right.
“And if I wanted to talk to a member of the faculty, it would be you. Again, I’m sorry, and it won’t happen again.”
“Okay, you can go,” she says, patting me on the shoulders as she smiles. “Joe and Harry. I gotta admit, it was pretty funny. Especially coming from you.”
***
Mom is on the phone as I walk into the kitchen, toss my backpack on the table and head for the fridge. I pull out a cold Doctor Brown’s creme soda and pop the top. I take a long sip and let the bubbles bathe my throat. I do not make eye contact.
“Thank you,” she says. “I know Jillian will appreciate it.”
Okay, now I make eye contact.
“Yes,” mom says. “This weekend. Saturday at ten. Goodbye.”
She hangs up the phone and turns to face me.
“Who was that, and what will I appreciate?” I ask.
“That was The Summit. They gave me permission.”
“Permission to…”
She cocks her head to the side as her eyes grow moist. “Tell you about your father.”
Her words stun me for a moment. I feel a bit lightheaded, grab a chair and sit down, taking another hit of sugar in the process. She pulls out the chair opposite me, sits down, takes my hands and locks eyes with me.
