by Kym Brunner
What happened was this—I watched the boy drink some hooch and then set his sights on courting Twinkle, but the poor girl looked about as bored as a lad in school. That is, until all the partygoers started rushing around. They all looked scairt, making me think there was a raid. Flashing lights rushed in through the boy’s eyes into mine, and for a few seconds, I thought I was headed for my face-to-face meeting with my Maker. I even heard music. Even though Mama tole me that the angels play the harp all day long in heaven, this music wasn’t nothing sweet. It was a loud, awful squallering, like a sow being slaughtered by a blind butcher.
The quality of music ain’t what’s important though, it’s that I heard it at all. Because them was the first sounds I heard since I had my Second Coming. So imagine my surprise when, instead of standing at the pearly gates, I felt a smooth wooden windowsill beneath my fingertips. It was my hand, my fingers grabbed that window ledge. If this was a raid, I had to get out of there right quick. I wasn’t about to spend a second of my new life in the cooler. Me and Bonnie did enough of that in our first ones and there ain’t nothing in this world I hate more.
Before I had a chance to help Twinkle climb out, the flashing lights stopped and I was thrust back into the deathly quiet, only able to see out through the boy’s eyes. I could kick myself for being asleep at the switch! Then he did the low-down, dirtiest trick in the book—he left his moll behind. Just took off running and left her with the rap.
What kind of good-for-nothing crumb does that?
I don’t know how or why I was able to take the boy over in the first place, but I know one thing I’ll do different the next time them flashing lights stream in. I’ll push all my energy into becoming the boy and jump into his skin with both feet. And then I’m hanging on tight. Because the next time he stumbles, he’s going to fall.
And I’ll be right there to catch him when he does.
CHAPTER 7
Friday, May 20th // 11:42 P.M.
Monroe
As Jack and I walk toward the counter to order our food, I’m still reeling from his confession that the other bank robber called him Clyde. Jack doesn’t seem concerned in the least, ordering a Big Mac Extra Value Meal. With my stomach in knots, I purchase only a small fry and drink to be polite. As we fill our cups at the drink station, I decide to come clean with Jack about his dream, the voices in my head, and the weird power that the slugs hold. I need to gently explain that we might have awakened Bonnie and Clyde’s spirits—and then ask for his help brainstorming how we can put them back.
We navigate past group after group of loud teenagers, no empty tables in sight. Jack says, “Looks like everyone has the late night munchies.”
We walk aimlessly past occupied tables, the normally mouthwatering aroma of burgers and fries now only adding to my intestinal discomfort. I finally spot a guy in a brown UPS uniform in the farthest corner, loading his trash onto a tray. “There’s one.” I point to the booth, then zigzag between tables and sidestep people’s legs in the aisles to get there. As we approach our table, I notice a guy with shoulder-length brown hair wearing a red knit hat in the booth across from us. I wonder why he’s wearing a hat in May, but when I see his torn jeans, his Element logo t-shirt, and his skateboard with a grinning skull alongside him, it’s clear.
We slide into our seats, setting our trays onto the table. Jack stuffs three fries in his mouth while unwrapping his burger. “I’m starving. Kyle had nothing but potato chips at his party.”
“Typical guy.” I pull out my phone and type, “Clyde Barrow gang member, Ralph” in the search window. I wait for the information to load, folding and pinching my bottom lip. I don’t even need to click on the blue links to see what I was looking for, because the mini-descriptions are sufficient.
“Clyde Barrow’s first gang member, Ralph Fults, joined the gang when he—”
“Ralph Fults met Clyde Barrow when he was only nineteen. Sources say—”
“Hey, Jack. Take a look at this.” I turn my phone and hold it closer to his face so he can read the headlines.
He takes a huge bite of his burger, filling his cheeks. “What is it?”
“It’s about your dream. Clyde Barrow actually had a fellow gang member named Ralph.”
“Oh yeah?” He dabs a stack of fries into his ketchup and bites the ends off. “Aren’t you going to eat?”
“In a sec. This is important.” I glance over at the skateboarder to make sure he’s not listening. He’s holding a paperback, his eyes focused on his novel. I lean forward, pushing my tray to the side. “What I’m trying to say is that I think your dream wasn’t a dream at all, but an actual replay of a robbery that Clyde Barrow and Ralph Fults pulled off back in the 1930s.”
Two guys walk past us laughing loudly, temporarily sidetracking Jack’s attention. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. “Cool. What are the chances of that?”
I resist the urge to reach over and shake him. “Don’t you get it?” I snap, impatient for him to comprehend the magnitude of my revelation. “Your dream wasn’t a coincidence. I think that when we touched the slugs, we”—I lean forward so only he can hear me —“unleashed the spirits of Bonnie and Clyde into our bodies. Your dream proves it.” I watch, waiting for the light to go on.
Jack has his burger halfway to his mouth, when he stops and looks at me. My irritation must show on my face because he says, “Wait. You’re serious?”
“Yes, I’m serious.” I take a deep breath. Jack is obviously not the perceptive sort. “And I’m freaking out because other weird stuff has happened ever since I took those slugs from my dad’s collection and it has me worried. Really worried.”
“Like what?” He pulls a pickle off his burger and drops it to the side.
“Like lots of things.” I recount the mind movies in which I play the starring role of Bonnie Parker, the southern voice of a woman in my head taunting me, and finally, how an icy pain ran up my arm and settled in my throat when I touched the slugs at the party.
He sips his Coke. “That was the same time I had my asthma attack, right?”
“Right. Except that maybe it wasn’t an asthma attack. Maybe…” I glance at Skater, who’s still engrossed his book. “Maybe Clyde Barrow inhabited your body right then and was trying to choke you from the inside.”
Jack stares at me, his eyebrows raised high, but I can’t tell if his expression is shock, suspicion, or worse, mockery.
“So… what do you think?” I start tugging at my bottom lip again.
He smiles, looking amused. “Exactly how much did you have to drink tonight?”
Frustrated by his refusal to take me seriously, my face heats up. “Just that one beer. Come on, Jack. I’m not joking around!”
He takes a sip of his drink. “Okay, okay. Chill out, will you? First of all, I really did have an asthma attack. I couldn’t fake that. But the other stuff you mentioned could be coincidental. I’ll admit my bank-robbing dream seemed authentic, but maybe I saw it on TV or something. Same with you and your Bonnie Parker mind movies.”
I pick up a fry and dip it in the ketchup repeatedly, thinking about his conclusion. I want him to be right more than anything, but the queasiness in my stomach tells me otherwise. “I do watch History Channel a lot.”
“You see? So stop looking so sad. Unless you wanted us to be possessed by Bonnie and Clyde?” He grabs a handful of fries.
“No! God, no. You’re right. I’ve seen the Bonnie and Clyde movie a ton of times. I’m sure I’m just imagining things.” I smile. “It’s probably all the pressure I’m under lately, that’s all.”
“Me too—studying for finals, the golf tournament, work, my parents, you name it.”
I nod, mentally adding “missing my mom” and “court case” to my list, as a screeching girl in a pink hoodie races past us. She’s holding a baseball cap high in the air while a boy chases after her, laughing. “Give it back, Melanie!”
Jack watches them as he does one of his bang flips. “Plus,
I don’t believe in all that paranormal stuff—ghosts and spirits and all that other crap.”
I shrug. “I don’t know. So many people believe in it that part of me thinks it has to be true. Take those ghost bus tours, for example. People must believe or they wouldn’t pay to go on it.”
“Some people might believe, but that doesn’t make it true. Kyle’s dad points out places where people actually died, but you have to decide for yourself if you sense ghosts around.” He balls up the wrapper from his burger. “Kyle and I went on it once for fun when we were like in fifth grade. We secretively kept touching some of the tour guests with a pigeon feather we found. One lady got totally spooked thinking the ghost of her dead brother was touching her. Kyle and I laughed our heads off behind her back.”
“Real nice,” I say, smiling. If nothing else, Jack seems to have a good sense of humor.
He goes to dip his fries into the ketchup cup, but knocks over his Coke by accident. “Dang it!” He grabs for it, but not before the lid falls off and Coke starts running across the table in seven directions.
“I’ll get napkins.” Dashing to the nearest condiment station, I grab a stack about four inches thick and race back, tossing them on top of the brown river tributaries. Jack and I blot up the liquid, throwing the drenched napkins onto my tray, which now has a Coke pond with French fries floating around like dead koi fish.
“Well, that was—” I hear a metallic clink. “Uh-oh.” I touch my pocket and feel the outline of only one slug. My heart falls out of my chest. “Shit!” I scoot to the edge of the bench and look down over the side.
“What’s wrong?” Jack asks.
“One of the slugs fell out of my pocket!” A gold blur catches my eyes as the slug snakes lazily across the aisle. Skater leans over, stopping it with his foot.
I leap out of my seat as Skater grabs the slug, holding it out to me.
“Sorry about that. Thank you.” I open my palm, smiling.
As he places the slug into my palm with one hand, he latches onto my wrist with his other. I’m about to protest when the most intense, pleasurable calmness washes over me. It’s the once-in-a-great-while feeling of total happiness, like when you wake up and hear the ocean, or the boy you like smiles at you from across the room.
In a flash, a low buzz surrounds us, blocking out all other sounds and images. When I look into his eyes, I gasp. His irises have turned completely white, with only the pupils visible. They glow dimly from within, as if made of candlelight, making me wonder if he’s even human. But if he’s not human, what is he—an angel? A demon?
“Do not be afraid,” he says in a soft, comforting voice as if reading my thoughts. “I have been sent to bring you a message. Powerful forces have taken up residence within you and your ally—forces that have proven deadly in the past. You two must toil together to appease these spirits with haste, thus ridding them from your body, or they will dwell within you for the rest of your days.”
I try to yank my arm out of his grasp, but he gently squeezes my wrist. Another wave of warmth and reassurance courses up my arm, as the intoxicating scent of lilacs fills my nostrils.
His pupils dilate and then contract as he gazes at me, hypnotically pulling me in. “An opportunity exists at the moment of death to purge these spirits from existence. Do not squander this gift like the ones who came before you. While many have been warned, few have taken heed.” He presses the slug in my hand and curls my fingers around it before releasing my wrist.
The scream of death accompanied by live footage of a machine gun fills my vision. Gold casings flip out from the side of the machine gun in an explosion of blasts. I stuff the slug into my pocket and the image stops. I don’t take my eyes off Skater, half-expecting angels to swoop down and bring him back to heaven. When nothing happens, my mouth falls open in disbelief. “Did you—”
The tranquility of a moment ago is gone and I’m left standing in a noisy McDonald’s, staring at a skateboarder. I whisper, “Wait. Was that for real?” I have to ask him straight out because I could swear he just told me that if Jack and I don’t get rid of the spirits inside of us quickly, we’d share our bodies with them forever.
A cock and bull story. Don’t believe it.
I’m not sure if I should scream, “Shut up!” or check myself in to the mental ward when Jack walks up, swirling the ice in his newly refilled cup. “What are you guys doing?” His voice is as jarring as the machine gun blasts of a moment ago.
Skater blinks and whips around, as if someone is about to attack him from behind. His dark brown eyes dart from mine to Jack’s as he nervously licks his lips.
He looks freaked out, but I need clarification about all those crazy things he just said to me. “Why did you say that stuff? What did it all mean?” I reach out to touch his forearm, wanting another sweet hit of that warmth and reassurance I felt a moment ago.
Skater backs away, his hands out in front of him, as if he’s afraid of me. “That… that wasn’t me.” He grabs his skateboard and dashes out the emergency door. McDonald’s’s ear-piercing alarm goes off throughout the restaurant, shocking my body into action.
“Hey, wait!” I run after him. A person can’t say the kinds of things he said to me, and then bolt without explanation.
“Where you going, Monroe?” Jack calls out.
Without looking back, I push open the door and race outside. Skater’s already halfway across the parking lot, cruising fast on his skateboard toward the back alleyway. I chase after him, waving my arms, screaming, “Come back! I just want to talk!”
He throws a quick glance over his shoulder but doesn’t stop. I keep running and nearly get hit by a gray Dodge exiting the drive-through. Darting around the car, I resume my chase, but Skater turns the corner and is gone.
“Noooo!” I stop my pursuit, knowing I’ll never catch him on foot. Interlocking my fingers on top of my head I wait a few seconds, but he doesn’t reappear. I turn and trudge slowly toward the restaurant. Assuming Jack didn’t put him up to this, could mean trouble.
Life and death trouble.
“Damn it!” I only needed two minutes to talk to him. Two minutes and I would have been able to tell if he was really some sort of legit messenger, or if he’s a sicko who gets off on saying weird shit to people at McDonald’s and then running away. I kick an empty can, sending it skittering across the pavement. What am I going to do now?
When I’m nearly back to the restaurant, I look up. A burly man with a full mustache stands at the door with a group of teenagers behind him—all of them staring at me. Judging by the yellow arches embroidered on the front pocket of his dress shirt, he’s the manager. He’s shut off the alarm, but apparently not his anger.
He props the door open with his foot, leaning his head out. “This door is for emergencies only,” he barks. “I can call the police on smartass kids, you know. If you don’t leave right now, I’ll do it too.”
He doesn’t move to let me through, so I yank the door open, pulling it out of his grasp. “I didn’t set off your alarm, that skateboarder did.” I indicate the direction Skater went, but of course, he’s long gone. The manager doesn’t even bother to look where I’m pointing. I step past him, but he continues to glower at me, keys jangling in his fingers.
Jack appears beside the manager. “It’s true. That dude left so fast, he even forgot his book.” He holds it up as proof. It’s a copy of George Orwell’s 1984.
A possible clue to his identity. “Can I see that a second?” I snatch it from his hand before he can answer. The onlookers have lost interest in the false alarm scandal and now file back to their seats. I flip open the inside cover, smiling when I see the words, Property of Lane Technical High School, stamped across the top. Underneath that, there’s a list of about seven students’ names, each one crossed off in succession. The bottom name reads Milo Ricci, 6th period.
You can run but you can’t hide, Milo, I think as I stuff the book into my purse sideways.
“Time to lea
ve,” the manager says, crossing his arms in front of his chest.
“Fine. Let’s go, Monroe.” Jack swirls the ice in his drink and heads toward the front door.
Part of me, the rebel half, wants to turn and race back out the emergency door just to be a bitch, but I decide against it. That was the old me, the fun impulsive crazy girl. Probation Girl needs to be more mature, not so rebellious.
I follow Jack outside, anxious to share what Skater said. Before I can speak, Jack says, “Weird how that skateboarder flew out of there like that, huh?”
“What was even weirder was what he said. Either he’s on drugs or he’s possessed.”
Jack squints at me. “Why would you say that?”
I pause, trying to find the words to best describe what happened. “I wish you could have heard him. First, his voice got all soft and whispery and he told me that we have evil spirits within us.”
“We?” Jack interrupts. “As in both of us?”
“Yes, both of us. He even called us allies,” I confirm, waving a finger between us. “He said that we needed to get rid of the evil spirits right away or we’d share our bodies with them forever. Then his eyes glowed like headlights and the only thing I could see were his pupils.” Rubbing my forehead, I keep trying to digest what I witnessed. Surely Jack will believe me now.
“He whispered weird things and his eyes glowed like headlights?” Jack smirks, his eyes sparkling with amusement. “All in the time it took to refill my drink?” A car full of girls cruises past us toward the drive-through. Jack’s head turns in perfect sync, watching them.
I throw my hands in the air, as much to make my point as to regain his full attention. “I know it sounds crazy, but it’s true! Didn’t you see anything?”
