"Yes, Mother."
Faye sighed and slid the door shut. I heard the rustle of sheets as she settled back in bed.
"Leftover biscuits and gravy in the fridge,” she called.
The image of congealed, gravy-coated biscuits lurking in the refrigerator triggered an instant gag reflex. I swallowed hard. “Oh, yum."
It's possible Faye may have picked up a tinge of sarcasm in my tone. Even though she mumbled her reply, I clearly heard the words, “Smart ass."
I got ready for school quickly and smeared peanut butter on a slice of leftover toast from the diner. As I munched, I thought about my dream. It was just plain wrong on so many levels. First of all, despite having a picture-perfect family in my nightmare, Baxter was a creepy Trimark who wanted to chop off my mother's fingers one-by-one before he killed us both in a slow, painful way. No woman in her right mind would marry him, much less risk bearing his children. Furthermore, when he died, nobody had come forward to claim his body.
My intention had been to merely disable him so Faye and I could get away. I didn't mean to kill him. Okay, I did use telekinetic power, and I did make a bunch of heavy apple bins fly through the air and land on top of him, but I was tied up at the time. Literally. The only weapon available was my mind.
So why did I feel so guilty? Why did I keep dreaming about Baxter's wife and big-eyed children? My only conclusion was ... nightmares aren't logical, so using logic won't make them go away.
I brushed my teeth, grabbed my backpack and ran down Uncle Sid's driveway just in time to climb onto the school bus behind Manny and Mercedes.
Manny turned and gave me his shy grin. Mercedes said, “Hey, girlfriend!"
I followed them down the aisle toward our usual seat. Cory Philpott, a bully I thought I'd vanquished, but who'd grown bolder without Junior around to beat the crap out of him, sneered, “Hey, Algae. You got slimy, green stuff growing on your face."
Unfortunately for Cory, I was still out of sorts, big time. Also, unfortunately for Cory, he needed a hair cut.
I grabbed a handful of greasy hair and yanked. Instant facelift for Cory. I looked deep into his eyes and snarled. “Do ... Not ... Mess ... With ... Me ... Today!"
Cory started flapping his arms and hollering, “Hey, let me go! Dammit, that hurts!"
Kids at the back of the bus starting chanting, “Fight, fight, fight!"
I was so angry I didn't realize our driver, Patti, was standing behind me.
"Allie, let him go!"
Patti's raspy voice broke through the red mist of my rage. I released Cory and looked down at the top of Patti's head. Short, but fearsome, she had a black belt in karate, claimed she had a closed-circuit camera tucked inside her bleached-blond pony tail and smoked nasty, unfiltered Camels during her breaks. Nobody sassed Patti.
She thrust out an arm and pointed at the seat across the aisle from the driver's seat. “Go! Sit!"
The “Bad Kid” seat. Biting my lip and avoiding eye contact with my classmates, I slunk down the aisle, plopped myself down and stared out the window.
Patti pulled out onto the road and started in on me. “What the hell's the matter with you, girl? You're mad all the time. You used to handle Cory with your mouth, not your fists."
"I didn't hit him,” I protested.
She shook a finger at me. “Be quiet and listen!"
I hung my head in shame while Patti lectured me. She was right. My emotions were on the ragged edge, as raw as an open sore. It was like an evil Allie twin lived deep inside me and popped out every so often to call the shots. I knew I was screwed up. I just didn't know what to do about it.
When we pulled up in front of the school, I grabbed my backpack and stood, preparing to bail out quickly. I leaned close to Patti and whispered, “Thanks for not turning me in."
She glanced back at Cory. “No blood, no broken bones, no problem."
As the doors hissed open, Patti said, “Hang in there, Sweetie. Things will get better."
I nodded, then shot down the steps and headed for home room, where we spent the first twenty minutes of each school day, listening to announcements and catching up on homework required for graduation. As I trotted down the hall, a sense of calm settled over me. I've always loved school. The prescribed routine allowed me to feel normal. For at least seven hours a day, I knew what to expect, unlike the rest of my messed-up life.
My French teacher, Mrs. Burke, was also my English teacher and home-room teacher. As usual, she was delighted to see me.
"Bon jour, Allieeee!” she exclaimed in her fake French accent then stared at me expectantly until I responded, “Bon jour, Madame Burke."
The rest of the class straggled in, trailed by Sonja Ortega, who accidentally on purpose stepped on my foot. I'd already had one confrontation today, so decided to let it slide. Shortly after the bell rang, the intercom crackled to life and our principal, Mr. Hostetler said, “Good morning, students and faculty. I have an important announcement."
He paused and cleared his throat. I heard papers rustling. “A certain matter has been brought to my attention. It seems we have a male individual here at John J. Peacock High School who is, shall we say, invading the personal space of other individuals of the female persuasion, inflicting pain and suffering upon said person's lower regions."
He paused and rattled his papers again. I noticed Mrs. Burke's face was a study in confusion. We all looked at each other and went, “Say, what?"
Sonja, who was no dummy, said, “He's talking about the ass pincher."
"Ahhh,” we chorused.
"Let it be known,” Mr. Hostetler continued “this person will be apprehended and will be suspended. Such actions will not be tolerated in my school. Whoever you are, take heed. This is your warning!"
I saw a couple of boys squirm in their seats, leading me to believe my theory about an individual serial ass-pincher was wrong. Apparently, we had an ass-pinching gang.
After Mr. Hostetler signed off, the breathless voice of Miss Yeager, the school counselor, came over the speaker.
"Hey, all you awesome dudes and chicks!” she began.
Everybody rolled their eyes and groaned.
"Do you sing, dance, do magic tricks, perhaps play the flute? Run, do not walk to my office and sign up for the first ever John J. Peacock High School talent show. Think you're not good enough? Well, think again. Who knows? This could be your springboard to success ... the launching of your star!"
As she rattled on and on, Mrs. Burke's pleasant smile began to fade. I tuned out and checked my geometry homework. Half way through the pitch, Sonja hollered, “Hey, I can sing and dance. I wanna sign up."
Mrs. Burke nodded, and Sonja tromped out of the room on her three-inch wedgie slides. It was then I remembered Halloween night and Kizzy's comment to Sonja, something about her singing in front of an adoring crowd. Oops.
* * * *
The rest of the day passed without incident. In my last class of the afternoon, French, Beck Bradford was back to his arrogant self, ignoring me, as usual. Not so much as a glance. He even waited until I was at the board, conjugating verbs, before placing last week's work on my desk. So, what was the deal the other night? Why had he stared at me like I was the eighth wonder of the world? Not that I cared. Okay, maybe I cared a little.
Beck Bradford was still on my mind when I got off the bus and trudged down the driveway toward the trailer. Let me say, up front, I've never been a big believer in coincidence. At least, not until I read the note stuck to our trailer door.
"Allie. We got our backpacks mixed up. I've got yours so apparently you have mine. Bring it to my house at exactly 7:30 tonight. Don't knock on the front door. Go around to the back."
It was signed, “B. Bradford."
My first reaction was ... No way! I unzipped the backpack. It looked exactly like mine except for the physics and calculus textbooks lurking inside. He was right, but how could we have switched bags? We hadn't been within six feet of each other.
&nb
sp; I studied the note again, more than a little ticked off at his demanding tone and strange message. Why exactly 7:30 p.m. and no front door knocking? Did I have to use the servant's entrance? Even stranger, why was I being summoned to the Bradford place at all? Beck had a car. He obviously drove to our place and stuck his stupid note on the door. Why didn't he wait until I got home to drop off my backpack and pick up his?
If Beck was a Trimark, I'd be putting myself in grave danger by going to his house. Besides, the Bradford place was the scene of my almost-fatal encounter with Revelle and Baxter. Of course, nobody was living there at the time, at least nobody living was living there. I'd never seen the ghost of old Mr. Bradford, who hung himself in the warehouse, but plenty of other people had. So what if old Mr. Bradford's daughter, Melissa had moved back and was fixing the place up? The thought of returning there, especially after dark, made goose bumps pop out all over my body.
Decision made. Even though I couldn't do my homework, no way was I going to Beck Bradford's house.
I went inside and called Faye, letting her know I was home. At loose ends without my backpack full of homework, I flopped down on the couch. It was then I heard the tinkle of wind chimes, a sound I hadn't heard for six months. Not like this: Loud. Louder than the windchimes could possibly ever sound.
So this could only mean one thing ... Trilby, my ditsy spirit guide, was back.
[Back to Table of Contents]
Chapter Five
"It's about time you got out here, girl! Seems like I've been ringing these damn chimes for hours,” Trilby scolded.
I'd stepped outside and found her perched on a thick branch about half way up the gnarled, old apple tree next to Blaster the bull's pasture. My mouth dropped open when I saw what she was wearing. A tailored gray skirt and white blouse topped with a dark blue blazer, pantyhose and sensible, low-heeled pumps. Her wildly curly dark hair was slicked back into a neat bun.
My hippy-dippy Trilby? Dressed like a real estate agent?
Teetering precariously, she muttered curses and yanked on her blazer, which was snagged on the branch directly above her.
"Careful!” I called. “You'll fall."
She scowled down at me. “In case you haven't noticed, Sherlock, I'm already dead. It's this damn jacket! Trust me, if I tear it, there'll be hell to pay in heaven."
"Want me to get a ladder and help?"
She ignored me and gathered herself for one last assault. First, I heard “Stupid tree!” and then the sound of a breaking branch. The jacket popped free and Trilby plummeted to the ground. I felt a familiar icy chill as she passed through my body.
"Boo!” she said from directly behind me.
I turned and grinned at her. “Still working on that ‘scary’ thing, huh?"
I was no longer freaked out by the fact I was the only one who could see or hear Trilby. A hippy during what she called “the days of peace and love,” she'd smoked a lot of weed before passing on. Consequently, she usually forgot her instructions, forcing me to read between the lines. Irritating? Yes. Scary? No.
She'd first appeared last spring, the day my telekinetic power kicked in. I was her special project, she'd told me, her ticket to a better place. The last time I saw her, I'd passed the tests and she'd made it to heaven, but only to the first floor ... the “pink gown level,” she'd told me..
I looked her over. “I see you got rid of the pink thing. What floor are you on now?"
The corners of her mouth turned down. She smoothed a hand over her skirt. “Second. They make us dress like this."
"How many more to the top?"
She shrugged. “Hell if I know. You'd think they'd have hand-outs or public service announcements, but ... noooo.” (Huge eye roll) “That would be too easy."
"What about that guy with the long, golden hair from the first floor? The one you had the crush on?"
Her eyes turned dreamy and she smiled. “He was hot. Micah, with the big, old ... uh..."
"Furled wings?” I supplied, helpfully.
"Yeah.” Suddenly, her mood changed and she snapped, “No Micah now. No men at all. Second floor is all women. Dress code? ‘Business casual.’ It sucks, big time!"
Whoa, my idea of heaven had just been altered forever. But, then again, maybe it takes time to let go of one's physical body and its needs. I decided to keep an open mind.
"Why are you here? Do you have a message for me?"
Trilby sat down on a nearby stump, hoisted her left leg and examined it carefully. “Damn tree! Ruined my pantyhose."
She lowered her leg and glanced out at Blaster's pasture. “Hey, where's the farting bull?” Your uncle make hamburger outta him?"
Last week, Uncle Sid loaded Blaster into his special trailer and delivered him to a dairy farm in the lower valley. “Off impregnating cows. Trilby. Focus."
She gazed up at me, puzzled, clearly trying to remember her mission.
Finally, she snapped her fingers. “Okay, I've got it. It's all connected ... my moving to the next level and you screwing up."
"Hey, I couldn't help it! My telekinetic power's gone."
Trilby shook her head. “Not that. Here's the deal. To get to the next floor, I have to memorize a bunch of stuff. That's kinda hard for me, so they gave me another option. It has something to do with a hot guy who's supposed to heal you, but you're being a big weenie and won't go. If I send you on the right path, I get to move up. So, don't mess it up! Okay?"
"Are you talking about Beck Bradford?” I asked.
She punched a fist in the air. “Right on, sister! That's the guy. Scoot your ass over there and get healed."
"But, he might be a Trimark,” I protested.
"News flash from the top.” She jerked a thumb skyward. “He's not. See ya, kid."
She shot up and away before I could ask her about my troublesome Jesus/moonstone problem. Not that she'd have an answer, but it was worth a try. Maybe next time.
* * * *
"You sure you want to go there?” Manny glanced over at me. His hands were positioned at ten to two on the steering wheel of his 1985 Chevy Impala. The car had once belonged to his dad, Pedro. After the birth of his sixth child, Pedro parked it behind Uncle Sid's barn and purchased a mini van. Manny was totally in love with the old clunker. He was in the process of restoring it and talked endlessly about the car's throttle body fuel injection and 5.0 liter V-8 engine. Like I knew what that was! The car was covered in primer and full of dings, but hey, it beat walking along Peacock Flats Road after dark.
Manny was seventeen, and because his driving record was spotless, he was now allowed to transport people other than family members in his car.
"Do I want to?” I repeated. “No, but I need to get my backpack. I'm having some problems in French. Beck said he'd help me with my homework. If I need a ride home, I'll call you."
I said this to squelch Manny's natural desire to serve and protect. He was determined to wait and drive me home. But, I figured this “healing” thing could take a while so I had to come up with a good excuse.
His chubby face was filled with concern. “You're not scared? After what happened? You almost got killed there. I heard the place is haunted. You know, when people kill themselves, they can't go to heaven. That's why Mr. Bradford's ghost is hanging around."
Manny and Mercedes were real superstitious. That's why I didn't dare tell them about my paranormal abilities or, my lack thereof.
"I'm not scared,” I lied. Actually, I was trying to ignore the butterflies fluttering around in my belly.
"All that stuff happened when the place was deserted,” I said. “I heard Ms. Bradford fixed the house up real nice. She even hired a foreman to take care of the orchard. I sure didn't see any ghosts when I was there."
Okay, maybe I saw a few Trimarks.
Before we reached the Bradford property, Manny pulled onto the shoulder, put the car in neutral and revved the motor.
"You know what that is?” He turned and looked at me. In the dim li
ght of the dash, I could see his blissful smile. Without waiting for an answer—good thing, because I didn't have one—he said, “That is the sound of 165 horsepower!"
I murmured something like, “Um ... that's nice. Can we go now?"
Manny eased the Impala into gear, carefully checked the rearview mirror for oncoming traffic and pulled slowly onto the road.
When we hit Bradford property, I noticed several new Private Property, Keep Out signs posted next to the road. “The driveway's up ahead."
Manny gave me a disgusted look. “I know where I'm going, Allie."
"Okay, okay, just trying to be helpful,” I muttered and came up with the following conclusion: Guy plus Car plus Helpful Suggestions from Female Passenger equals Snarly Response from Guy. Live and learn.
He turned right and we proceeded, at a snail's pace, up the long, gravel driveway. The house was set well back from the road. At the rate we were traveling, it would be morning before we arrived.
"You sure you don't want me to wait? I don't mind,” Manny said.
"I'll be fine."
As we drove through the night-shrouded orchard, my heart began to pound. Maybe I wouldn't be fine. What if Trilby was wrong? What if I was about to deliver myself into the hands of a Trimark? Because I still had my suspicions about Beck, I'd left the moonstone at home for safekeeping.
A sudden gust of wind danced through skeletal branches, setting the few remaining leaves aflutter. Clouds, heavy with rain, obscured the moons and stars. The twin beams of the Impala's headlights revealed nothing but row after row of trees. I peered through the murky darkness, trying to spot the house on a hill to our left. If we continued to follow the driveway, we'd end up at the warehouse where Faye and I were held captive. I really, really didn't want to end up at the warehouse. The pitch-black night had me spooked and disoriented. A few more turns and I caught a glimmer of light filtering through the trees.
"There! The turn-off's just ahead."
Manny gave me another look, but refrained from comment as he turned onto the spur that led to the old, two-story house. Another hundred feet of bumpy driveway and we'd arrived. Manny turned off the ignition. We studied the house in silence. Surrounded on both sides by overgrown shrubs and trees, the house loomed like a tall, dark specter.
Moon Rise Page 4
