Moon Rise

by Marilee Brothers

  I'd had a cell phone once. Last spring, my newly-discovered father gave me one. He thought I needed one since I was supposed to save the world from evil. Faye thought differently. (About the phone, not the “saving the world” part)

  She had glared at me and said, “I don't care if you're the next queen of England. Send it back. Does Mike Purdy think I can't provide a phone for my daughter?"

  I knew better than to answer that question. When she got her job at Busy Bea's she'd made good on her promise to get us a phone, even though our phone was one of Brain Dead Roy's cast-offs.

  I opened the door of the diner, practically empty at three in the afternoon. Only two tables in Faye's section were filled. A young guy wearing a Seattle Seahawks cap was having pie and coffee. Faye was deep in conversation with a couple she called The Tweeners, because they came in every day between lunch and dinner and ordered their meal before the price went up. She looked over and waved.

  Bea, the diner's owner, paused from wiping down the counter to greet me. She turned and called through the serving hatch to the kitchen. “Hey, Harold, Allie's here."

  Harold's face, dominated by a gigantic nose, appeared in the opening from the kitchen side. He winked a bloodshot eye and said, “How ya doin', kid? The usual?"

  "Sure,” I said, slipping off my backpack. When I plopped down on a stool next to the counter, I heard the sizzle of grease.

  "How you been, doll-face?” Bea asked.

  She crossed her arms and leaned on the counter, her piled-up hair shifting precariously. Bea, in keeping with the diner's bee theme, had what Faye called a beehive hairdo. It looked exactly like Marge Simpson's blue cartoon ‘do, except Bea's was flaming red.

  I smiled and sniffed the air, now filled with the delectable aroma of French fries. “I'm fine, Bea. How are you?"

  "Could be better. My back's been bothering me and..."

  Bea launched into a lengthy recital of her many ailments, all imaginary, according to my mother. I listened and nodded, my mouth watering in anticipation. Harold wasn't exactly a gourmet cook, but his fries were magnificent. Crisp, never soggy. Just the right amount of salt. Since I'd been too upset to eat lunch, I was famished.

  "Order up!” Harold sang out, a plate of golden French fries appearing in the window.

  "Here you go, honey.” Bea set the plate in front of me. “This should meet your minimum daily requirement from the grease group."

  I smiled my thanks and dug in, practically salivating in my eagerness. After one bite, I swallowed hard. Harold had forgotten the salt. Geez, you can't eat French fries without salt! Harold was watching me through the window and Bea was hovering nearby, both waiting for my reaction. The salt shaker was further down the counter, out of reach.

  I didn't want Bea to know Harold screwed up, because she would rag on him for hours. But, I really needed the salt.

  "Good, huh?” Harold called from the kitchen.

  "Mmm hmm,” I agreed.

  I popped another fry in my mouth and looked longingly at the salt shaker, now bathed in an eerie, greenish light. Could it be...? Yes! I heard a loud buzzing sound like a colony of bees had flown in my ear and set up housekeeping inside my head. I knew what was happening. I stifled a shout of joy when the salt shaker jumped straight up in the air, plopped down and began to jiggle and dance its way down the counter toward me. Just the salt. Not the pepper ... a small, but important detail unnoticed by Bea.

  Her hands flew up and she screamed, “Oh my God! We're having an earthquake. Everybody out of the diner. Now!"

  The Tweeners didn't want to leave their mashed potatoes and fried chicken. Faye, with a quick glance at me, herded them to the door. They grumbled as they exited, “What earthquake? I didn't feel anything. The siren's not blowing. They always blow the siren when we have an earthquake."

  The pie and coffee guy threw some money on the table and left. Bea yelled at Benny the dishwasher to get out of the kitchen. We all gathered in the parking lot, where Bea scanned the sky (as if earthquakes came from the same place as tornadoes) and used her cell phone to call 911. I wanted to tell her earthquakes come from below, not above, but since I was just a kid, I kept my mouth shut.

  While we waited, I took the opportunity to check out Benny the dishwasher. Faye mentioned him frequently, but I'd never gotten a good look at him before. While I checked him out, he was checking out my mother's backside, his flat, gray gaze crawling over her like slow-moving spiders. He was the type of guy who made me go “Eewww,” which meant, of course, Faye was attracted to him. His dark hair was cropped short. He wore faded jeans and had a dirty dish towel tied around his waist. Big, beefy shoulders strained the fabric of a too-small, black, AC/DC tee shirt. A fake-looking gold chain hung around his neck, the lower portion tucked inside his shirt.

  Suddenly, he lifted his gaze and caught me looking. His lips were full and sensual. He smiled—more like a leer—and winked. I was tempted to turn my back to him, but I didn't want his eyes crawling over my butt, so I just held my ground and stared over the top of his head.

  After Bea summoned Sheriff Philpott, Peacock Flats’ only law enforcement officer, and demanded to know why he hadn't blown the siren, we filed back into the diner. Bea, still in a tizzy, had to go lie down in the break room, and I got to salt my fries. The salt shaker sat right where it had jumped on my psychic command.

  And so I found out Beck Bradford wasn't just a hunky half-demon whose main goal was to get in my pants. Okay, maybe it was a secondary goal, but the healing thing was for real.

  My telekinetic powers had returned.

  * * * *

  On the ride home, Faye said, “What got into Bea? Did you feel anything?"

  I shrugged. “Dunno. Maybe her big hair shifted, and she thought the earth moved."

  Faye tried not to laugh. She shook her head sadly. “That mouth of yours. It will get you in trouble someday."

  I thought about Nicole Bradford. Yeah, like today.

  I'd decided not to tell Faye about the salt shaker. I knew she'd get all worked up and make me practice when we got home. Like use the TKP to lift up the couch so she could clean under it, or see if I could make the dishes fly out of the sink into the cupboard. I wasn't in the mood. Instead, I told her about our counseling session.

  First, she made a pouty face. Then she looked over at me and winked. “I think the two of us can handle a school counselor. What do you think?"

  "Right on,” I said.

  We slapped hands and that was that.

  Turned out Faye had something else on her mind. “Roy's leaving tomorrow for a salvage job in Puget Sound. He wants to take me out tonight for a nice dinner. You okay with that?"

  Was I okay with that? Other than my heart leaping with joy at the possibility of Roy having an unfortunate encounter with a giant octopus, I was very much okay. I tried to tone down my enthusiasm. “Sure. I hope you have a great time. You deserve it."

  She steered the truck down the driveway and parked next to the trailer. “I won't be late. You've got Roy's cell number. Right?"

  "Yep."

  When Roy arrived, I decided I would make an effort to be nice to him. (A) I wanted Faye to enjoy her big night out. (B) I was feeling a little guilty about wishing Roy's death by giant sea creature.

  Too bad he had to spoil it. He pulled up in his monster four-wheel drive. It was so high, he had to practically throw Faye into the passenger seat. When he knocked on the door, Faye was still getting ready, and I was forced to make small talk.

  I opened the door. “Faye's almost ready. Come on in."

  "Hi, A.C. How's it hangin'?"

  He thrust out his palms so I could slap them. Apparently I was supposed to congratulate him for this witty remark. I tapped his palms with my fingertips and stepped aside so he could enter.

  "It's hangin’ just fine,” I responded, although I truly believed this remark was intended for the male gender. Really, at my age, nothing much was hanging.

  Roy was wearing a lea
ther jacket, a light-blue dress shirt and crisp black jeans. In the spirit of being a good daughter, I said, “You look nice, Roy."

  If he'd had a tail, he would have wagged it. “Gee, thanks, A.C. How's school going?"

  "School's okay. I hear you're leaving for a while."

  I tried not to sound too excited.

  "Yeah, got a gig over on the coast."

  Fresh out of conversation, I was relieved when Faye threw open the sliding door. She looked hot in a slinky black dress, her blond hair pulled back in a sleek twist. She usually didn't wear her hair back because she didn't like her pointy ears. I thought they were cute—kinda elf-like—but cute. Poor Brain Dead Roy didn't have a prayer. When he saw Faye, the small amount of blood lingering in his brain immediately rushed south.

  "You kids have fun now.” I winked at Faye. “Remember your curfew!"

  Faye gave me a bemused look. “Yeah, right."

  My comment proved to be a real knee-slapper for Roy. I heard him ha-ha-ing all the way to the truck. After they left, I noticed Roy's Swiss Army knife on the chair. Apparently, it had fallen out of his pocket while he was waiting for Faye. I picked it up and put it in the silverware drawer.

  I closed the shades, locked the door and cranked up the heat. With Faye gone, I was free to give the TKP another test drive. I sat on the couch and focused on a dishrag hanging from a hook next to the sink. Dishrags weigh practically nothing. Should be a piece of cake. I gathered my scattered thoughts and focused on the dishrag, commanding it to lift. Lift! No aura. No buzzing. The dishrag didn't even twitch.

  Aggravated, I glared at the thing and said aloud. “Stupid dishrag! Wouldn't you like to soar like an eagle?"

  My disgruntled remarks were interrupted by the phone. When I answered, I heard a deep, male voice and the word, “Hey."

  I thought it was Beck, but wasn't absolutely sure. Cautiously, I said, “Hey, yourself,” praying I wasn't talking to some perv making an obscene phone call.

  "What's up?"

  Okay, it was definitely Beck. “Not much,” I said. “Just homework."

  "Need any help?"

  Actually I did. The whole etre “to be” thing in French had me on the ropes. Il est ... Je suis ... Nous sommes ... Swear to God, it was making me crazy! Beck was eager to help.

  "The library's open until nine. We can hang out there."

  He picked me up at 6:30. As we drove down Peacock Flats road toward the library, I told him about making the salt shaker move and my disappointing follow-up with the dishrag.

  He glanced at me through his special glasses. “Remember, last night was just the first step."

  I heaved an impatient sigh. “So, what happens next? Do you have to anoint me again or something?"

  "Probably not. But, I need more information about your use of TKP and, of course, the moonstone."

  He sounded exactly like our science teacher explaining how litmus paper worked. For some reason, I found this hilariously funny and started laughing like crazy.

  Staring straight ahead, he said, “Is something funny?"

  "Oh, don't mind me,” I said, gasping for breath. “It's just this thing I do when stuff builds up and, oh, by the way, your sister wants to kill me."

  Beck shot me a quick glance but didn't respond. He pulled into the parking lot of our small, community library, turned off the engine and stepped out of the truck. In fact, he didn't speak again until we reached the door of the library. Before I could open the door, he put his hands on my shoulders and turned me to face him. “We need to talk about Nicole."

  "Did she tell you about the volleyball match?"

  He nodded.

  "We kinda, uh, got caught up in the moment."

  "Yeah, I figured that. But she doesn't want to kill you."

  "She sure acts like she does."

  "Nicole's afraid of you, Allie."

  "No way! She could kick my butt with both hands tied behind her back."

  "It has nothing to do with her physical abilities. She's afraid you'll tell people what she is, and she'll lose her friends."

  "Well, that's just stupid,” I scoffed. “I'm a little different myself, you know? It would help if she didn't act like such a drama queen."

  "Yeah,” Beck said, releasing me. “I'll talk to her."

  "Good,” I said, though I doubted it would help. I reached for the door.

  Suddenly, Beck said, “Nicole is very talented. She's experimenting with astral travel."

  My hand floated away from the door handle. “Astral travel?” I repeated, dumbly.

  Beck said, “It's like an out-of-body experience. In this case, the astral body separates from the physical body and travels to another place."

  I had a sudden image of a pissed-off Nicole hovering outside our trailer, glaring at me through a window. I tried not to snicker. “So, if you do astral travel, does your body disappear?

  "No, your physical body remains."

  "That's not possible ... is it?"

  "It's possible."

  I dithered a while, trying not to say what I was thinking, that Nicole was so shallow she couldn't possibly have an astral body. “Well, it's good to have a goal."

  After I said it, I realized it sounded snotty. I opened the door, and Beck followed me to an empty table. I pulled out a chair and sat, satisfied we'd finally laid the subject of Nicole to rest.

  [Back to Table of Contents]

  Chapter Twelve

  The library was buzzing with people. I'd forgotten it was Oprah Book Club night. I waved at Kizzy, who was sitting with ten other women. Charlie, her driver, was slouched in an easy chair, reading Popular Mechanics. One of the women in the Oprah group was sobbing. Kizzy looked over at me and rolled her eyes. Mr. Linde, the librarian, glanced at the sobber, then returned to what he was doing before, namely, leaning over a glass aquarium, admiring Buster, his pet snake. Mr. Linde loved reptiles and brought Buster to work with him every day. Kizzy said the snake creeped out the Oprah ladies. To tell the truth, Buster creeped me out too.

  Beck removed his glasses, scanned the room and settled in next to me. His eyes looked almost normal in artificial light but I could still detect a slight glow. Once again, I noticed how ripped he looked. His brawny shoulders stretched the fabric of his tee shirt to the max. I was about to make a comment about his wardrobe challenges when he picked up on our previous conversation.

  "You know what's even better than having a goal?” he said.

  I lifted an eyebrow.

  "Achieving it,” he said.

  Since I thought Beck was engaging in idle chitchat, I gushed, “Oh, yes. Absolutely! Like when I first learned to ride a bike and..."

  When I heard him chuckle, I stopped, mid-sentence. Beck rarely chuckles. In fact, this was a first. A light bulb in the dim recesses of my brain flickered to life. He was still talking about Nicole. “You don't mean she can actually..."

  "The astral travel thing?” He looked over at me and winked. “Oh, yeah,” he said, “She can."

  I'm not speechless often. But the notion that self-centered Nicole could bear to part with her physical body long enough to travel astrally, blew me away. Embarrassed, I studied the tops of my shoes. Finally, I mumbled, “I guess there's a lot I don't know about Nicole."

  Beck scooted his chair next to mine. He brushed my hair back, put his lips against my ear and whispered, “You don't know the half of it."

  An involuntary shiver ran down my spine. Whether it was from Beck's words or the warmth of his lips, I couldn't say. “Like what?"

  He pulled back. “If she wants you to know, she'll tell you."

  Okay, this was weird. On one hand, it was like Beck wanted to defuse the tension between Nicole and me. But, his comments and actions made her seem more mysterious, if not downright scary. Maybe he was using some sort of half-demon logic beyond the comprehension of a mere mortal. Of one thing, though, I was absolutely sure. I was sick of talking about Nicole Bradford.

  I pulled my French book out of my
backpack. “Let's hit it,” I said.

  We got down to business. Beck made me practice until I could respond rapidly to the following questions:

  "Where did you go?” “Je suis alle’ en France."

  "How's the weather?” “Il fait beau."

  "What nationality are we?” “Nous sommes Francais."

  We were about to wrap it up when the door slammed open. A hush fell over the library as a slim brown-haired woman scanned the room. Melissa Bradford, sparks shooting from her eyes, spotted us and marched toward our table, wearing her anger like a suit of armor. Beck groaned.

  "Busted,” he muttered. “Supposed to be in church."

  I was watching his mother approach when Beck mumbled again, something that sounded like, “Don't worry. I'll use the Taser."

  Say what? I glanced at his backpack. No way would Beck be carrying a Taser, much less use it on his mother. I'd heard him wrong.

  Beck gave his mom a sickly grin. “Oh, hi. What are you doing here?"

  "What am I doing here?” she repeated, hovering over Beck like an avenging angel. “Imagine my surprise when I stopped by the church and you weren't there!"

  I cringed. Every person in the library was tuned in to our little drama.

  I said, “Maybe we should go outside and talk."

  Big mistake. Melissa's eyes narrowed, and she plunked down in the chair next to me. She shook a finger in my face. “You have no idea what you're dealing with."

  Well, actually, I did, but I wasn't about to share that bit of info with her.

  Moving quickly, Beck reached over and wrapped his hand around hers, holding it fast. “Mom,” he said. His voice was deep and reassuring. “Look at me."

  I watched, fascinated, as Melissa Bradford released me from her furious glare and looked into Beck's eyes. Just as they had the night before, his dark pupils grew until only a narrow rim of gold remained.