Entangled Summer

by Barrow-Belisle, Michele

  “Do you know her?” she whispered. But then her name was called first.

  She gave me a determined half grin before she marched boldly into the office behind the redhead.

  Chapter Three

  I was so out of my element. A few years of sculpting hardly qualified me to teach at a prestigious art camp. I glanced around the room, checking out the other applicants. Each one had an impressive portfolio, without a doubt. Mine, had to have been weak, aside from whatever Kenzie padded it with.

  The walls were lined with group art projects. I stared at the designs, one after another. They felt more like one-one-upmanship than collaborative art. But what did I know. I was a loner who preferred the solitude of my sculptures, over colliding with the egos of others. Maybe the need to collide stemmed from a desperate need to belong. It took confidence to stand alone. At least I'd convinced myself it did. They were checking me out with as much curious speculation and judgment as I had. I fidgeted, wishing I was in my favorite black sweatshirt, so I could tug the hood up over my head and hide from what was sure to be yet another epic fail moment.

  Silver trays of sandwiches and wraps of every variety were delivered to the long table under the window, by one of the wonder twins from the front doors. At one end was organic coffee, herbal tea and bottles of imported water. Nothing but the best, apparently. My stomach made a rude gurgling noise, and I realized I was starving. But no one else was eating, so I held off for a full five minutes before deciding the noise my stomach was making was worse than being the first one in the food line.

  I stared at my e-reader glancing up periodically as one name after another was called. As people left their first interview, some, like Kenzie were ushered into another room, further down the hall. And others were escorted back out the main doors, where I imagine the wonder twins would show them to their cars and see them safely off the property.

  When I got bored with the selection of novels loaded on my e-reader, I switched to the pamphlets and brochures about the school that lined the tables. I flipped over one that featured a picture of a group of children wearing hand painted t-shirts. ‘Wanderlust Academy... Magic happens when you let your mind wander’. Catchy. I scanned the list of previous attendees. A ton of well-known celebrities had apparently attended a summer of two. The school had a rich and eclectic history, having changed ownership multiple times, the last as recently as a year ago. Every type of creative and artistic class imaginable was offered. Too bad I hadn’t heard of this sooner. I’d have preferred teaching sculpting classes, or painting, or something arts related. But according to Kenzie those had been filled months ago. I knew nothing about puppetry. How was that even a class? If the newest owner, Troy Bellisaro, hadn’t come in and insisted it be added to the curriculum, I’d still be back in my apartment, fighting off the mice. Instead of being served gourmet sandwiches and beverages while waiting to be interviewed. Part of me started to want this job in a way that made me uncomfortable. I’d gotten used not getting what I wanted. So a new desire springing to life was not a welcome feeling. Stay detached, I self-lectured, as I helped myself to a fourth rice paper veggie wrap.

  I browsed another brochure, while munching on my wrap. This Troy guy was from my area. He’d decided to purchase the school, when he heard it’s previous own had fallen ill. So he was the savior type. Nice. That had to have been his motivation, because none of his credits indicated anything even remotely related to the arts. He’d done some corporate stuff in New York. Graduated top of his class in Harvard law. And studied past-life regression and paranormal studies in the UK? Wow, talk about eclectic. He’d traveled most of the world and held an undergraduate degree in medicine. What was this guy, a hundred? That’s a lot to accomplish in one lifetime.

  I was so engrossed in Troy Bellisaro’s accomplishments, that I didn’t hear the door open and the redhead call out my name.

  “Last call for a Nora Dultry,” she said with her faint British accent.

  I jumped up, sending an avalanche of brochures to the floor. “Here. Sorry,” I mumbled around a mouthful. I chewed fast, trying not to choke, while collecting my mess.

  She didn’t look impressed, peering over the top of her square, polka-dot-framed bifocals. “Follow me please Ms. Dultry.”

  I did and we entered the room so many others had entered and exited today.

  “Good afternoon. I am Miss Strange, and I’m here to delve into whether or not you would be a suitable fit for our academy.”

  Her spiel sounded like she’d recited it a dozen times already. She gestured to a wooden chair with a tall back. “Please. Sit.”

  Swallowing back the ball of nerves climbing up my throat, I did as I was told.

  Miss Strange didn’t bother to sit, but continued to wander around the office. My gaze shifted to the plaques and framed diplomas lining the dark paneled walls. Grace Eleanor Strange. Psychiatrist. Grace Strange Psychotherapist. Grace Strange Clinical Hypnotist and NLP Practitioner.

  Nowhere did it say anything about her arts training or her position at the academy. Like Troy Bellisaro’s qualifications they glaringly lacked an art focus.

  “So, please tell me why you would like to work here Ms. Dultry.” She didn’t turn to look at me when she asked the question.

  I straighten in my chair. “Well, I’ve always loved working with kids- I mean, children.” I said.

  Her pacing stopped, but she didn’t respond.

  “And I received an arts scholarship to return to college.

  “You took a year off? Why?”

  “My grandfather got sick. I had to stay home to look after him.”

  “And now?”

  “Well, now...” I shifted uncomfortably. “He’s in hospital full time, so...” Were these questions allowed? What did my personal life have to do with getting a summer school job?

  There was a long silent pause. For a second I started to wonder if she’d fallen asleep. And since I could only see the back of her, it was a very real possibility.

  Finally she turned abruptly and marched to her desk. She slid into her chair and flipped open the manila file folded in front of her.

  “Well, let’s go over your documentation. I see here you have a few recommendations, from,” she glanced up, “your friend Kenzie? And your art teacher. Hmm. How quaint.”

  I nibbled my thumbnail, expecting the worst. It was like being sent to the principal’s office for something you didn’t do, hoping you don’t get caught for the thing you did do that they don’t know about yet.

  “No real experience teaching.” She flipped through a few more pages. “Or working with children.”

  When her eyes peered up at me over her bifocals, I cleared my throat. “I uhm, well, I used to babysit.” I said. Then I mentally smacked myself in the forehead. What happened to all of the coaching Kenzie had given me. It’s like all the right answers had jumped overboard, leaving me with nothing but one stupid reply after another. I pressed my clammy palms onto my thighs. “I think you’ll find everything else is intact. My diploma, schooling, college acceptance, criminal reference check, uhm... oh yeah, first aid.” I added.

  She pursed her lips, and flipped the fold shut. Pushing back her chair she rose then paced a few steps, hands locked behind her back. “The thing is Miss Dultry, the students who come to our summer school are... special. You might say they are gifted.”

  “Yes, I know.”

  She paused to gaze through the window. “I don’t think that you do,” she said, then turned to look at me. "But you will."

  I forced a smile because well, I didn't know what to say to that really. Just as I was wondering what her next question would be, she crossed the room to shake my hand.

  “Thank you for coming in Miss Dultry.” She gestured toward the door.

  Interview over, I guess? I walked toward the door, then paused to look back. “Thank you for your time.” I said, then quickly made my escape.

  Okay, wow. Strangest. Interview. Ever.

  Chapt
er Four

  I stepped out of the room into the hall. Still sweating. And confused. What was that? I hadn’t been to many interviews before, but honestly. What. The. Hell.

  She basically told me I had no experience and no business being anywhere near their precious students. Yet she hadn’t bothered to have me escorted out the front door like so many others who’d exited her office with their tails between their legs. I stood rooted in place starring at the backside of her closed office door.

  “Nora, over here.” Kenzie’s voice half-whispered half-shouted.

  I looked around to make sure no one was watching before I darted down the hall in her direction. The direction that less than a quarter of the people who’d been interviewed today had gone. The direction I was fairly certain I was not supposed to go.

  Kenzie grabbed my arm and dragged me to the side of the hall, near a bay window.

  “Well, did you see him?” She was still doing the half whisper/ half shout thing.

  “Him? Him who?”

  “Holy hell. Just wait till you meet him. He looks exactly like Theo James.” She gasped a breath of air. “Maybe it was Theo James!”

  Distracted by my really odd interview, it took me a moment to finally register the epic level of excitement on her face.

  “Who?”

  “You know, the crazy-sexy guy from that movie,” she said.

  “Crazy and sexy?” I frowned. “Which movie was that- nah, never mind.” I massaged my temples. “I'm not getting sucked into your fantasy world this time, Miss Drama-major. You always think someone is someone famous.”

  “Okay fine. He looks like Theo James's twin brother. Happy?” She shook my arm when I didn’t respond. “The point is he's mind-meldingly hot.”

  I sighed and pulled away. “I'll take your word for it.” I said. It wasn't like I was going to get a chance to set eyes on him anyway. Nothing about the meeting I’d just had indicated I had a snowball’s chance in Hades, of moving on to the next interview. The one held by Theo's imaginary twin. I told myself it didn’t matter. Maybe he wasn’t a hundred, but I still pictured him in an Armani suit, next to his Ferrari convertible, name-dropping super models and rock stars, waiting for me to go all weak-kneed and doey-eyed. Not. Gonna. Happen. Never has. Never will. I just don't do gaga over guys. Except for one.

  The door that Kenzie had escaped from opened, and I was called again, only this time over a paging system, filling the hall with the sound of my name. “Nora Dultry. Please enter.”

  I glanced at Kenzie before I headed into part two of the weirdest interview ever.

  This room was the complete opposite of the previous one. There was another massive desk with two chairs, but behind it was a wall-sized window overlooking the forest. The top of the window was arched and filled with a stained glass scene. The center held an emblem that seemed familiar. A tree, but not just any tree. Its branches and roots seemed to reach beyond itself into the past and the future simultaneously. The space looked alive with color, full of tropical plants and antique collectibles. A vintage typewriter, an old phonograph, an antique paint box, a first edition copy of Ulysses, not kept under glass. The bookshelves were lined with titles like Dream States, Parallel Universes and Alternate Realities by authors I couldn’t pronounce, and The Game of Life and How to Play It by Florence Schovel Shinn, circa 1925. I slid the books back in place and roamed the mausoleum until I heard voices outside the door.

  Phase two begins, I muttered to myself and dutifully took a seat in the arm chair across from the glass top desk.

  Miss Strange stepped into the room, looking less than impressed to see me. I sprang back to my feet. Should I run? Make an excuse that I was waiting for Kenzie? Lie down and play dead? Which one of the three would keep me from being tossed over the iron gates and banned from the premises? She would inevitably insist there’d been some mistake and that I was not supposed to be here. And I’d be out on my ass, which is where I figured I’d end up.

  But she didn’t call security to have her guards throw me out the main doors. That was a good sign. I think. Instead, she sat down on the arm chair next to the bookcase.

  “Normally you would be speaking with Troy Bellisaro, our department head. But he is, indisposed, at the moment.”

  It was evident by the way she said indisposed, she didn’t approve of whatever task he was indisposed with. I let it go... not my circus, not my monkeys. I was just relieved she hadn’t railed on me for not leaving the premises. I relaxed a bit after that, even tried for casual conversation. “Interesting selection of books here.” I pointed to the shelves. I’d expect to find Monet art books, or Shakespearean plays, instead of,” I grabbed the closest book from the shelf and read the title, “Quantum Dreaming, A Journey Through the Unknowable?” I slid it back in place.

  Miss Strange didn’t flinch, or even respond to my observation. “Please sit down Miss Dultry.”

  She waited for me to settle in the arm chair across from hers.

  “My function here at the school is to monitor the physiological and psychological wellbeing of everyone associated with Wanderlust Academy. We have a certain profile to uphold and we pride ourselves on our holistic approach to everything that we do. One cannot perform one’s duties with the same rigor and attention to detail when one is suffering in mind, body or spirit, wouldn’t you agree Miss Dultry?”

  Sure. I guess. I think. I actually have no idea what you’re even talking about. I nodded my head.

  “Based on your psychological profile, you have suffered some severe trauma in your life.”

  “Hasn't everyone?”

  “Not to the same degree. Nor do all of us handle, or mishandle things the same way.” She squinted at me over her bifocals.

  Every impulse in my cells wanted to get up and leave. Who did this woman think she was? Leave it to the secretary-slash-guidance-counselor of a summer school for over indulgent rick kids, to make me feel like I didn't deserve to sweep up the crumbs from under their table.

  “I have some questions to ask you, of a rather personal nature Miss Dultry. Are you willing to answer these questions?”

  Did I have a choice? I shrugged. “I suppose so.”

  “I understand you have had recurring dreams for the past few years.”

  My fingers dug into the seat of the chair. “How do you know that? I mean no one knows that. And I really don't see what it has to do with this job.” Getting defensive was one of my strengths, but she might as well have asked me about my sexual preferences, or how much money I had in the bank...the answer to both would be none. Any one of which would have been preferable to discussing my dream guy with her.

  “Your mental and emotional state matter to us here at the school and we thoroughly investigate all of our candidates. What if you were to awaken in the middle of the night from a nightmare, or perhaps begin sleepwalking?” she said. “It is our policy to unearth every piece of relevant information pertaining to our applicants, and we pay them handsomely for the perceived invasion of privacy.”

  Perceived invasion of privacy? What were they CIA? I had serious reservations about all of this. It broke almost every anti-discriminatory, code of conduct, human rights violation ever documented around job interviews. Yet I’d been given the interview by sheer luck, and when I thought about the handsome pay she’d referred to... well, if I had to open myself up to a few uncomfortable questions, it was worth it, wasn’t it?

  Chapter Five

  “Please, indulge me. Tell me about the dreams.”

  I bit the inside of my cheek to force myself to stay calm. “Well, they’re almost the same every night,” I said. “For a long time I remember dreaming of a boy with a blue bike, who saved me. Then I guess that boy grew up when I did and became, well, a man. Sort of.” I shrugged awkwardly. “It was more like a past memory than a dream.”

  “And you remember living in this past life?”

  I blinked at her directness. “No, of course not.” I wanted to say yes, but that would s
ound crazy. And no one hired crazy.

  I shifted in my seat and stole a furtive glance around the office. It seemed normal enough. The standard councilor’s office of a normal summer school for the arts. Except there was nothing normal about any of it. This wasn’t just any arts school, I was discovering. And I wasn’t a student, receiving well needed guidance to help me on my path. I was sent here for a coveted teaching position, yet the questions I was being asked, seemed to have a different intent entirely.

  “I’m sorry...,” I leaned forward and my chair squeaked under me, “who did you say you were exactly? I mean, your relationship to the school?”

  She looked back at me with cold eyes and stared for a beat. And then another, before folding her long fingers under her chin. “I’m here to perform psychoanalysis on all of our staff. This is a very unusual school, with demands placed upon its staff that are very different from most academic institutions. It takes a special individual to fit in here.”

  I frowned and then swallowed the saliva collecting in my mouth. Great. There goes another potential job down the toilet. If they’d been questioning my art skills, my academic record, my criminal reference check would pass with flying color. Even my driving record was flawless. They landed on the one area where my past left a lot to be desired. My psyche. Stained with a history of questionable actions stemming from past traumas. At least that was their latest diagnosis from the last psychologist I was sent to. Before Granddad took ill. Before grandma died in her sleep. Before my life fell into utter ruin... once again.

  I cleared my throat. “So, do you think I need psychoanalysis?”

  She peered at me through her rectangular spectacles. “I think it’s very rare for a twenty-year-old to have gone through life unscathed by events that haunt them.”