I point and he says, “Sure, I guess.”
Gary turns his attention back to Justin and Doug. The idea of “signing” to Gary’s imagined indie label is bound to hold their attention for a while. Normally, I’d be on board for the whole fantasy too. You never know, right? And it’s not like anyone else is taking us seriously. But right now it’s almost like I have no choice but to get my hands on that guitar—that tingling at the back of my neck telling me there’s something I need to know. As much as I wish I could, I’ve never been able to ignore these feelings.
I cross the store while Gary, Justin and Doug continue talking but I’m not listening anymore. They sound muted and far away. I reach up and take the Telecaster from its mount. The weight of it surprises me and I have to tighten my grasp to keep from dropping it. I’ve checked out some of the new Fenders but this one feels different, more solid. Definitely, this guitar has a story to tell. I sense that story in the scratches and worn pickguard. How the cream finish has been rubbed off along the top. This guitar has traveled. It’s been around for a long time. Decades maybe.
I flip it over to discover that someone has carved their initials into the back—J.M.—two old wounds left in the wood. Who would do something like that? Someone who wanted to leave a mark on this guitar, obviously. Someone who wanted to remain part of the story. I snag one of the cables Gary leaves coiled on the floor, plug into an amp and sit on the edge of it. I cradle the Telecaster on my knee. I barely touch the strings but that’s when it happens.
An image flashes inside my mind—a woman, young, probably in her early twenties. She’s onstage, red hair dripping sweat as she slams at this same guitar. A crowd stares, enraptured. It’s like I watch from the side of the stage, both there and not at the same time. Suddenly, she turns and startlingly green eyes bore into mine. Her lips don’t move but her whisper echoes. Bring it back to me.
In that moment, I know—I hold part of her soul in my hands.
I jump up and drop the guitar against the amp. I step away as the whine of feedback builds.
“Jack, what’s up?” Gary stares from the front counter. Next to him, Justin and Doug block their ears.
I hear him and see them. But it’s like I’m still inside my flash—in that moment when her eyes found me.
“Kill the amp!”
The feedback spikes against my brain. I snap out of it, click off the amp and the sudden silence might as well be a spotlight pointed right at me. I walk toward the door. I know I should put the guitar back but I have to get out of there.
I get closer to where they are and Gary says, “Hey, are you okay?”
I keep my eyes fixed on the door. “Sorry. Not feeling so good. I should go.”
I hear Justin say, “What the—”
“I know,” Doug says. “Looks like he just saw a ghost or something.”
I feel the three of them watching me but I don’t look back. Soon, I’m outside and walking fast.
2
Energy Transfer
My mother is on the phone when I get home. She’s always on the phone, planning things, staying involved. She’s baring her teeth in a smile that looks forced even though whoever she’s talking to can’t see her.
“I absolutely agree,” she says, “I’m so glad the committee agreed with our assessment. Tell me, what was historic about that building?” She waits, then laughs. “Exactly, sometimes old is just old.”
My mother doesn’t work. She doesn’t have to for three reasons: Atkinson, Atkinson and Atkinson. My father’s law firm. His father and grandfather were both attorneys. These days, my father is the only attorney at his firm with the last name Atkinson but the name remains the same despite four other lawyers working there. Family legacy: Egotism cubed.
I grab a bottle of water from the refrigerator and snag a bag of chips from the pantry. My mother doesn’t break off her conversation as I leave the room.
My sister tromps down the stairs as I climb them. She doesn’t remove her earbuds, her eyes meeting mine just briefly.
“Hey,” she says.
“Hey,” I say, even though she can’t hear me.
I close my bedroom door and grab my laptop. I take it to my bed and sit, legs crossed, hunched over the screen. I scroll through some stuff on Tumblr but I can’t stop thinking about that flash. I’ve never had one that strong before. Never that vivid or intense. And somehow I heard her. That’s never happened before either. Who was she?
My flashes are why my mother and sister have a hard time looking me in the eye. My father too, when we spend time together. Which isn’t often. Bad enough that I’m pale and thin, with long hair. That my grades keep slipping. That I love music more than anything. That I’m nothing like him. There’s no way he’s going to deal with the flashes too. It’s easier to just not deal with me.
Maybe I had flashes before that—probably, I did—but the first one I remember happened when I was six. I remember it because my parents fought in front of me for the first time. My father yelled at my mother for losing a folder full of legal documents. My mother raised her voice too, insisting she didn’t move it. From there, the conflict escalated and I started crying. I wanted them to stop so I told my father to look on top of the refrigerator. After a moment, he did, probably because he felt guilty for upsetting me. Then I told him I meant the one in the garage. I knew what his folders looked like and, inside my mind, I could see one up there in that place I couldn’t actually see. A few minutes later, he came back from the garage holding the folder. He stared at me for a long time.
The next flash I remember happened a year later. I told my little sister I was sorry she’d be going to the hospital and she ran to my mother crying. My mother told me how mean that was to scare her that way. The following week, Caitlin fell off a play structure at the park and broke her arm. On the way back from the emergency room, my parents kept whispering.
That flash was followed by the time my parents were packing for a cruise to the Bahamas and I told them they shouldn’t go. They went anyway, of course, and everyone on the ship got sick from some sort of virus. Twice, I predicted the deaths of family pets. First, our cat, Stripes, one morning before going to school. I kept holding her, tears streaming down my face, saying she wouldn’t be there when I got back. My mother forced me out the door to catch the bus. Stripes got hit by a car that same morning. The second time was for my hamster. I somehow knew he’d be dead in the morning but staying up all night did nothing to change that.
Over time, I learned to stop telling my family when I get a feeling about something. It doesn’t make any difference and each time something like that happens, they back away from me even more. Obviously, they’re not going to be supportive if I tell them I just had a mental meltdown after picking up an old guitar. There’s no way I’m sharing that experience with Justin or Doug either. This much I know—it’s not normal. People get scared. When I was a kid, I didn’t realize. Now I do. The best thing? Pretend I don’t see what I see, that I don’t get a feeling every so often about something that’s going to happen. Just act normal. I go back to staring at my computer screen but inside my mind I still see her green eyes. I still hear her.
I don’t want this.
~~~
There’s only one person I can think of who might be able to understand the flash I got off the Telecaster. I can’t say for sure because I’ve never really talked to her. Not that I haven’t wanted to know her better. It’s just that Lauren Turner isn’t very social. As in, not at all. And not in the awkward, you know she really needs some understanding friends sort of way. Just the opposite. By all appearances, Lauren seems completely comfortable remaining a loner.
I’ve always had this thing about moths. How they fly at night, beautiful spots and patterns not meant for our eyes. Everything about them intended for some other realm we might glimpse but never fully experience. Hidden. Magical. Secret. That’s Lauren to me. Jet black hair streaked with blue, green and sometimes red. Black eyeliner. Purple hoo
die, gray jeans, black combat boots. A midnight rainbow. Compared to the popular girls—butterflies competing for admiration—it seems like Lauren just happens to be trapped in the daylight next to us. Something that wasn’t supposed to happen and that she just has to live with for now. With my borderline translucent skin, red hair and freckles, I’ve wondered many times if maybe I’d be better off flying at night too. But I’ve never once gotten the impression Lauren wants anyone sharing her environment.
Lauren also has a reputation for being kind of strange. Even now, people talk about how she found that money for her mother. Lauren joined us in elementary school when she and her mother moved into in an old house on the outskirts of town—one of those old Virginia properties that probably once had a farm around it. The place was built in the 1930s or something and it’s changed hands a number of times over the decades. The house was basically falling apart, the roof shot, the paint peeling, shudders missing, all that. One day, Lauren’s mother suddenly had plenty of money. Enough to fix up the house and buy a new car. It turned out she discovered a stash of money within her kitchen wall. No one knew how much but people said she found thousands, maybe even tens of thousands. Possibly someone’s life savings or money from an old bank heist. Rumors flew but it was all just speculation.
Lauren’s mother told everyone it was because of her daughter. One day, Lauren pointed at the wall and said, “Mom, money! There’s money in there!” And she kept saying it over and over, for days, until her mother got either got mad enough or curious enough to grab a hammer and knock a hole through old plaster. After that, people started looking at Lauren like my own family looked at me.
There were other stories about Lauren too. In elementary school, she told one of our teachers, Mrs. Murphy, that her father wasn’t really gone—that he was right there in the classroom watching. That he was proud. Mrs. Murphy broke down crying and left the room. None of us knew that her father had passed away over the summer. In middle school, Lauren warned John Hewitt to stay home one Saturday rather than play soccer. Nothing happened on the soccer field but John ran across the street after the game and got hit by a car. He lived but was in intensive care for weeks. Just stories, old history now but that history has lingered. And while I’ve wanted to talk to Lauren for a while, until now I’ve convinced myself that my flashes are fairly trivial. Better off ignored. With this last one, though, it feels like something’s changed.
The next day, I spot her in the hall after my Geosystems class and trail at a distance. When she opens her locker, I wait nearby. She checks her phone, apparently not in any rush, which is good since the hallway keeps clearing. The bell rings a minute later and it’s just the two of us left in the hall. Lauren slips a book into her backpack while I lurk silently nearby wondering what to say.
Suddenly, she turns to face me. “So, are you maybe impersonating a stalker?”
My eyes shoot around as if she might be talking to someone else. My face grows warm. Not a great start, obviously, but I decide to forge ahead. “Hey, Lauren. How’s it going?”
She frowns, then slings her backpack over her shoulder. “Okay.”
I’m not sure if she even knows who I am. At school, I fly under the radar as much as possible. “Sorry, I’m Jack.”
“I know. The quiet guy in Algebra last year. Sat in the back and spent most of his time writing what looked like lyrics in his notebook.”
She noticed I was writing lyrics? She’d been two desks away the entire time. Talk about observant.
“But you followed me for a reason,” she says. “Or did you just get so absorbed in one of your little sonnets that you became disoriented?”
Man, she’s a killer. I’m not feeling so sure about this now. “No, I followed you.”
Lauren narrows her eyes. “So, you are stalking me.”
“Honestly, I’m not stalking you!” My words echo down the hall. A moment later, I hear footsteps approach from a distance. Perfect.
A smile tugs at the corner of her mouth. Amusement shows in her eyes. She was just messing with me and I walked right into it. Nicely played. I can’t help crack a smile even while my face burns.
“Glad we cleared that up,” Lauren says. “What’s going on? We’re almost out of time before we get detention.”
Suddenly, I’m not sure where to start. Does she experience things like I do? How does it work for her?
“Well, there’s this guitar,” I say. “A thing happened when I picked it up. It’s hard to explain but I got this sort of—” I stop there. The footsteps grow louder.
Lauren’s expression changes to curious. “What did you get?”
“I saw something. And sort of heard something.”
Lauren considers, her eyes on mine. “Sounds like an energy transfer. No biggie but it freaked you out, obviously.”
“I wouldn’t say it freaked me out, exactly. More like it sort of—”
“Scared the crap out of you. Got it. Has that sort of thing happened before?”
“Sort of. Not exactly.”
“What’s your phone number?”
I tell her and Lauren’s thumbs dash at her phone. Mine buzzes in my pocket.
“I should get to class.” She gestures to a door about two feet away. “You have my number.”
My class is half-way across the school.
A second later, Lauren arrives late for class and I get detention.
3
Pajama Boy and the Resonant Object
That night, my parents make me go to one of Caitlin’s dance recitals. Caitlin’s only thirteen so I understand the part about being supportive. And it’s not like I stare into space while she performs. I watch and I’m truly impressed with her skill. At the same time, dance isn’t really my thing and it’s not like I force my music on my parents or sister. Most of the time, they ask me to turn down my amp when I’m practicing and my parents won’t let us jam in our garage. That part, I’m used to. But I have a ton of homework and should be studying for exams next week. Still, I wait it out, not complaining. I know better.
We get some dinner after and it’s pushing nine by the time we’re heading home. I stare out the window as we cruise through the dark, past all those big houses and bright lamp posts. I’m sure many people would think Edmonds is a perfect town. Safe, good schools, pretty parks and annual community events. But I grew up here, so I know this town is a little too perfect. There’s not a whole lot of acceptance if you deviate from the norm—the norm being white, straight, conservative and superficial. There’s also no shortage of money in Edmonds so almost everyone lives in giant houses and drives shiny new cars.
We’re no different and maybe that’s the part that bothers me. We too have plenty of money and a giant house on a huge piece of property. My parents drive shiny new cars. We have lightning fast internet and massive televisions. Pretty much, you name it and we have it. After all, my father runs a law firm named after him three times.
Sometimes I imagine being part of a different family. In my imaginary family, my parents are creative people who sometimes forget to comb their hair. They wear faded jeans and sweatshirts and splatter paint while working on artistic projects. They make sculptures in the living room. My imaginary parents listen to current music on alternative radio stations. Sometimes they listen to jazz and blues too (I’m totally fine with that). I picture them being well-educated, but at the same time doing what they love rather than what they think they should to keep up with everyone else. In a word, they’re cool. I’m on the fence about having siblings in my imaginary family. I’d probably be okay with that too but I just haven’t spent a lot of time imagining who they might be.
Where have these images come from? A fantasy, obviously. And it isn’t like it matters. My imagination can do whatever it wants but I’m still stuck in my actual life. At least I get to be around Doug’s and Justin’s families sometimes. Maybe it’s ironic that they’re both from families on the outside of the whole Edmonds affluence thing. Doug’s dad is a carp
enter and Justin’s family owns a pizza and sub place. But the thing is, I’ve been around their families enough to know they’re way happier than we are. They actually smile and laugh. They have favorite shows they watch together. At the same time, being around their families sometimes just reminds me how much I feel like an outsider in my own.
When we get home, I spend an hour plowing through math and drafting an essay on The Scarlet Letter for English, which is at least in keeping thematically with my earlier thoughts about our conformist town. It’s after ten when I’m staring at Lauren’s number and wondering if it’s too late. I drift off, thinking about the way her hair frames her face and the intensity of her eyes. I think about her full lips and the curve of her hips. I wonder what it would be like to kiss her. I force myself to stop fantasizing. I’m not doing myself any good and it’s also not getting any earlier.
I send a text. are you up? (Not exactly a brilliant start, I realize.)
Of course.
sorry. wasn’t sure (Kind of pathetic. I’m on a roll so far.)
Do you know how to form capital letters? Use the shift key. Are you stalking again?
no!
To which, stalking or forming capital letters?
neither. I mean Neither!
Seriously? Never mind. Is this about the guitar?
Yes (Face burning, but proper capitalization.)
Sentences end in a period. Even short ones. For example: “Yes.” (She hates me, for sure.)
My phone buzzes and I jump. For some reason, I ruled out that possibility. “Um, hello?” I say.
“Um, hello to you too,” Lauren says. “You know, you could have just called. A quaint custom, I realize.”
I wish I could see her expression. I think I hear a smile but I’m not sure. “But it’s kind of late.”
“It’s ten-fifteen. But okay, in this town that’s considered late. Are you like all in your jammies?”
Actually, I am like all in my jammies. Not that I wear actual pajamas but I’m wearing the sweat pants and T-shirt I’ll be sleeping in. But I fake-laugh and say, “No, I was just—”
Memories from a Different Future: Jump When Ready, Book 2 Page 19
