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 carpenter 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 thema
tically 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—”
“You’re totally in your jammies.”
“Why would I lie?”
“I’m not sure,” Lauren says. “Why would someone lie about that? Kind of weird. Anyway, tell me what happened with that guitar you found.”
I tell her about being drawn to the Telecaster and how, when I picked it up, the world around me basically vanished and I saw that woman onstage. About that moment when it seemed like she looked right at me. I hesitate, then tell Lauren how I imagined hearing her.
A few moments of silence follow. Then, Lauren says, “Why do you think you imagined it? You experienced it, right?”
The thing is, I’ve given that part a lot of thought. In that moment, it really did feel like she looked right at me. As for what she said, it wasn’t like I actually heard her with my ears. I heard her inside my head.
“I don’t know,” I say. “I’ve never experienced anything like it before.”
“Fair enough. Let me ask you this—did your friends have any sort of reaction to the guitar? You know, were they curious, did they get a feeling about it? Anything like that?”
I think back to Gary talking about his past, trying to recall if Justin or Doug even noticed the old Telecaster while to me it suddenly seemed like the only thing in the room. “Nothing like that,” I say. “It was just me. I had to check it out.”
A pause. Did she yawn? I think I heard her yawn. “Then my guess is you’re the intended recipient. That part seems clear.”
“Recipient of what?”
“The resonant object.” By her tone of voice, I can almost see Lauren shrug.
“Resonant object? What does that mean?”
A second or two ticks by. “Well, that would be an object that resonates. At least, for you.”
Helpful. “But what’s a—? Never mind. I’m assuming you mean the guitar.”
“Definitely. You need to get it.”
“How?”
“I guess you could buy it,” Lauren says. “Sorry, but I should probably finish my homework. It’s getting late.”
“But you just said it wasn’t late.”
“Whatever. Have a good night, Pajama Boy.”
~~~
At first, I’m not sure why I wake up in the middle of the night. I listen but the house is perfectly still. It’s just me, alone in the dark. At least, that’s what I think until I notice the outline of a man standing in the corner of my room—a dimly glowing silhouette that can’t possibly be there. I close my eyes and open them again. He still stands there, only he’s solidified a little. I sit up, heart hammering in my chest. I stare across the room. He looks young, maybe in his late twenties, hair reaching almost to his shoulders. I keep staring at him and he seems to be staring back.
“Is this about the guitar?” I say, even though it makes no sense. But it doesn’t have to make sense. Obviously, I’m dreaming. Telling myself this doesn’t help when he suddenly flickers forward and stands next to my bed. I rear back, wanting to call out but my throat seizes. I sit there gulping like a fish.
Then he’s gone. There’s just darkness where he stood even as his image continues to fade from my retinas.
I don’t sleep after that. I stare at the ceiling, eyes wide, until sunrise. I wonder if I should see a psychiatrist or ask my parents to schedule a CAT scan. Maybe I have a brain tumor or something. I’m used to unusual things happening but I’ve definitely turned some sort of corner. Finally, I climb out of bed to the sound of birds chirping outside. I go to my desk, pick up my phone and see a text from Lauren.
Don’t rule out spectral visits. Probably should have mentioned that.
About David Pandolfe
David Pandolfe is the author of the Streetlights Like Fireworks and Jump When Ready series. Reading his books, you'll soon learn that he likes writing stories about psychics, ghosts, unusual settings and characters who approach adventure with a sense of humor. He’s not sure where the ghost obsession came from but he figured he might as well roll with it.
Before becoming a writer, David did a few other things. For example, he was once a bartender in Seattle, a singer/songwriter in a Los Angeles rock band and a college writing teacher in Richmond (not all at the same time, of course). These days, he lives near Richmond, Virginia, with his wife, two kids and a dog who's terrified of thunder. Not the best situation for their dog since it thunders from spring until fall in Richmond.
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Author blog : http://davidpandolfe.com
1: A House Full of Memories
2: The Veil
3: Gazing Up at the Stars
4: All I Have to Do
5: Intuition
6: Moths to a Flame
7: In the Garden
8: Lost Angel
9: The Rapids
10: Seeing a Sign
11: No Greater Mystery
12: Almost Like It Couldn’t Happen
13: Living the Dream
14: Nostalgia
15: Hopes, Dreams, Memories and Imaginings
16: Testing a Theory
17: Stepping into the Sky
1
2
3
Copyright © 2015 David Pandolfe
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the publisher or author, except in the case of a reviewer, who may quote passages embodied in critical articles or in a review.
Cover art and design by Samantha Pandolfe.
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Stepping into the Sky: Jump When Ready, Book 3 Page 20
