The Guardian's Playlist

by J Powell Ogden

  “That little lying sack of…” I murmured.

  The Gardiners have refused to comment.

  Detective Lucas McCready said, “Students are turning to prescription drugs to get high because they think they’re safer than street drugs, which is a dangerous assumption.”

  This was not the first time Casey, who was no stranger to the juvenile court system, was found with drugs. Last winter, he was charged with misdemeanor possession of marijuana on the grounds of Fairview High School, his former school of record, and was placed on probation. He subsequently was charged with felonious assault after pushing another teen through a plate glass window during a fight.

  The coroner has ruled Casey’s death an accident with the actual cause of death listed as Traumatic Aortic Rupture. This condition occurs when the aorta, a major artery, is torn apart from the heart, and is often seen in severe falls and automobile accidents. Casey was only fifteen at the time of his death.

  My mouth flooded with hot, salty saliva as Michael’s last few seconds alive came to mind in vivid detail. I clamped my teeth together to keep from throwing up.

  “I’m so sorry, Cate,” consoled Cici from behind me. Something cold and solid tapped me on the shoulder, and I turned to see an open bottle of Gatorade in Spencer’s extended hand. I took it gratefully.

  So the rumors were true. Michael warned me, but I hadn’t believed him. I hadn’t wanted to believe him. Had he really tried to get Shawn to use Ritalin with him?

  As we unfolded ourselves out of the car in front of the school, Claire tugged on my arm and whispered, “At least you’re off the hook now.”

  I looked back at her, puzzled.

  “Your promise?” she reminded me. “The police ruled the fall an accident. You’re off the hook. Did you think I forgot?”

  Right. I wouldn’t have to relive Michael’s death for the police. Justice was served. Or had it? I watched as she walked away from me and disappeared into the shadow that blanketed the school’s front doors.

  Grace and Meri were waiting for me in the school foyer. The news travelled fast.

  “I’m sorry the rumors were true,” consoled Grace.

  “He probably had a tough life,” Meri said. They were trying to make me feel better, but I was having a hard time focusing on anything but sifting through the jumbled mess that was becoming Michael’s past.

  “Cate…that was the first bell.” Grace tilted her head sideways in front of me, trying to coax me out of my stupor.

  “Huh? Oh.” I followed her wordlessly to my locker, realizing for the first time that other kids were staring at me and whispering. Fingers were tapping on phones up and down the hall. A tall girl I didn’t even know held up her cell and took my picture.

  “What the…?” I blinked a few times, confused.

  “They all know you two were friends,” Grace murmured as we reached our lockers. In the month and a half since the accident, word had gotten around that Michael and I had known each other. They now looked at me with new eyes, wondering if I was involved in whatever Michael had been involved in. The mystery and drama was the perfect breeding ground for more rumors.

  Meri glared back at them.

  “And she knows a few hitmen, too,” she informed the onlookers, slamming her locker shut. Most got suddenly busy with their own lockers, and I had to smile at Meri’s feistiness. She was so tiny, but it never stopped her from speaking her mind.

  “Thanks,” I said.

  “You’re welcome.” She squeezed my arm before heading to class.

  A few hours later, I stood in the entrance to the cafeteria with my tray balanced on my hands, listening to the overwhelming din of the students echo off the walls. The noise was too much, and I veered to the right and pushed open a pair of glass doors that led out into a small courtyard between the cafeteria and the school’s east wing of classrooms. There were a few stone benches planted next to a circular, flagstone path, which surrounded a small garden well past its summer prime. In the center of the garden was a life-sized bronze statue of Saint Joan of Arc.

  Most images of Saint Joan show her sitting on a horse or standing upright with her armor gleaming and her sword upraised, but this statue was different. It was weathered with the green patina of age, and instead of standing she was kneeling; instead of grasping a sword, her hands were clasped in prayer. Her eyes, full of anguish, were lifted upward, searching for strength. I liked the statue because it showed her vulnerability, and it reminded me that faith didn’t always come easily, even to the best of us. And I liked the courtyard because it was usually empty on cold days. But surprise, today it was occupied.

  Shawn stood on the path, surrounded by three large, brutish boys who were taking turns shoving him back and forth between them. The largest, a football player named Lance, who could often be found anywhere a fight broke out in the school, was taunting him. “You holding out on us, punk? You a big tough guy? You want me to fall off a cliff?”

  I might have been pissed at Shawn, but how could anyone torment him about the accident?

  “We know you’re like, dumb and all, but you should have shared the smart pills,” Lance sneered.

  “Hey!” I blurted out. All three of them looked in my direction. Lance let loose a wicked grin and sauntered toward me. Shawn looked down at the ground and then toward the safety of the double doors that led out of the courtyard into the east wing. The two other boys blocked his exit. I gripped the tray I was holding tighter.

  “Maybe you know where we could score some pills. Weren’t you like his girlfriend or something?” The words slid out of Lance’s mouth like oily fumes, and my eyes narrowed as I realized he was talking about Michael.

  “Shut the hell up,” I shot back. He took a step closer and cocked his big, fat, bleached blonde head to the side, cracking his neck.

  “Did you hear that? Sounds like she doesn’t want to share her source either,” he said, looking over his shoulder. He turned back toward me and poked me hard in the shoulder with his index finger. I stumbled backward a few steps. My tray tilted precariously.

  “See,” he said very quietly. “You’d fall easy, too.” My blood rushed to my temples. Then I heard the glass door from the cafeteria open behind me.

  “So…Lance,” I heard a boy’s voice say. “Did you lose your way outta here? I mean, I know the path is circular, but…”

  Lance immediately stepped away from me. “Just sizing up your competition,” he said, his chin jutting out defiantly.

  “She doesn’t know anything, Lance,” the voice assured him smoothly. “So you can like, go find someone else’s ass to play with.”

  Lance looked back at me and hissed, “Stay away from cliffs,” and then left through the east wing doors.

  Shawn started to walk past me in the opposite direction when the voice behind me said, “Wait.” Shawn waited.

  I turned to see who had managed to disperse the bullies and found the tall, thin boy with the dark curly hair and brown eyes I’d met briefly at Michael’s wake. He was standing on the flagstone path, his arms relaxed at his sides, wearing a thick charcoal gray sweatshirt over his white collared shirt. He didn’t seem big enough to scare off Lance. What was his name? Lou…? Lewis…?

  “Call me later, Shawn,” the boy said.

  Shawn started back toward the door, but I had a few questions for him first.

  “Wait,” I tried, but Shawn kept walking.

  “Shawn,” the boy said, glancing over his shoulder, and Shawn circled back around, avoiding my eyes. At the moment, I didn’t care who the boy standing next to me was. I was going to take advantage of whatever influence he had over Shawn, and I didn’t waste time getting to the point.

  “Why did you lie about who slipped at the top of the cliff? If it hadn’t been for Michael, it would have been you who fell.” I heard the boy next to me whistle sharply through his teeth.

  “How the hell would you know that?” Shawn spat. “Everyone knows Michael was a pothead and—”


  “You’re lying!” I burst out. Even after everything I’d read in the paper, everything the kids were saying at school, I still couldn’t believe it. “Who really brought the drugs to the park?”

  “He did, you stupid little—”

  “Okay, you can go now, Shawn,” said the dark-haired boy, his tone dismissive. Shawn clamped his mouth shut and stalked back into the cafeteria.

  “He’s lying,” I murmured.

  “Yeah…probably. But you won’t get him to admit it,” the boy next to me said. I glanced at him, startled. He actually believed me, believed Michael was innocent.

  “Luke Devlin,” he said.

  “What?”

  “I’m Luke Devlin,” he repeated. “I met you at Mike’s wake?” He shifted his weight to his left foot and tilted his head, studying me.

  “Right,” I replied. “I’m—”

  “I know who you are. Look, if I were you, I’d stay outta Lance’s way from now on. He’s just pissed off about…some stuff. And I wouldn’t worry about Shawn. He’s like, at the bottom of the food chain. Do you get what I’m saying?” His brown eyes glittered darkly as he imparted this warning.

  “Yeah…sure,” I stammered, not getting what he was saying at all. As Luke left, I thought about what Lance had said. That he was sizing up Luke’s competition. Was Luke dealing drugs in the school, then? Stuff like Ritalin? And even if he was, how had he gotten Lance to back off?

  Maybe I knew a hitman after all.

  TWELVE

  COINCIDENCE

  MY DAD FINALLY handed over the keys as promised after Mass on Sunday, but not to the Demon.

  “You still have to earn that privilege back,” he said. I groaned as I slid behind the wheel of the van. It was like driving a massive white refrigerator on wheels, and it seemed to get larger and heavier as I approached the steeper grades of the park.

  I told my mom and dad I was going to take more samples from the river and then head over to Jai Ho, a local tea and coffee shop, to study. By the time I pulled into the Lewis Woods parking area, I already had the water sample stowed in the dashboard cup holder. My hands were shaking as I turned off the car. I was praying that Michael was still here. If he wasn’t, I would never know what happened to him, and I didn’t think I could live with that.

  I struck out across the cold, desolate field, patting my back pocket where I’d stuffed the article from last Monday’s paper. I hoped I wouldn’t need to show it to Michael to get him to tell me what happened last August on the cliff. I was worried about his reaction. How do you ask someone if they’re a pot-smoking, pill-popping juvenile delinquent prone to violent outbursts without making them upset? The obvious answer? You didn’t. But I knew we needed to talk about it before he had any hope of moving on. Michael probably had mountains of unresolved feelings to deal with. My many years of watching the Syfy channel and reading supernatural fiction told me that. Sure, laugh, but that’s all I had.

  I saw him as soon as I reached the thicket of long dead wildflowers, and my heart leapt with relief. He was sitting on the hollowed out log at the edge of the woods, bouncing his heels up and down with that excess energy he never seemed to run out of. He hopped to his feet when he saw me, grinning.

  “Now there’s the hair I remember!” he called as I approached. I smiled back. I’d tied it up in a ponytail but had left it frizzy curly for him. It was the least I could do.

  “Turn around so I can see the back,” he ordered, twirling his downward pointing index finger around in a circle.

  “Um, okay…” I said and spun around while he laughed to himself.

  “What?” I demanded to know, trying to run my fingers through the back to smooth it out.

  “Those little tiny curls in the back around your hairline. They’re still there,” he said. “I used to want to yank on those so bad when I sat behind you in class.”

  “Well, then I guess I’m lucky you can’t do that now,” I teased. A faint shadow crossed his face. “I’m sorry, Michael, I…”

  The shadow was gone as quickly as it had come, but so was the smile. “No, it’s fine. Whatever.”

  But I knew it wasn’t. “I was worried about you,” I admitted. “That you might not be here today.” The pale sunlight seemed to penetrate the outer layers of his subtly-flickering skin, but he looked steadier, more solid than last week.

  “Yeah…well…I’ve been practicing staying focused. I can pull myself together and stay visible a lot longer now.” He pulled his fingers into a fist to illustrate. “And when I do let go and disappear…” He opened his fist and spread his fingers apart. “I don’t feel so lost and mixed in with everything else. I still feel like me…mostly.”

  “Can you still feel the edges of things around you?” I wondered, fascinated.

  “Sure. Temperature, texture, shape. Everything. It’s actually kind of cool…especially if there’s something warm or soft nearby.” His eyes gleamed, and a teasing grin spread across his lips. My face warmed as I remembered the blush he’d detected in the dark last week.

  He laughed. “I’m kidding,” he assured me. He looked down at his hands and flexed his fingers. “I respect your…um…personal space.”

  I cleared my throat self-consciously. “So…you’re not worried about losing yourself in darkness anymore?”

  “No…but…” and there was that little shadow again, haunting the corners of his eyes. “I just have to be careful…”

  “Careful of what?” I prompted, worried.

  “Sometimes I think it would be easier to let go completely,” he said, becoming uncharacteristically still. I watched, alarmed, as his eyes became unfocused and distant.

  “Well…don’t,” I said.

  Fatigue and self-doubt replaced the emptiness in his eyes. “I won’t. That stupid little gumball ring you hung on the lightning strike tree? It helps me remember why I want to stay.”

  He was struggling, and I had the sense that he couldn’t hold out against the dark nothingness forever. We needed to get started trying to figure out why he was stuck here. But before I could work up the courage to ask the uncomfortable questions, his eyes brightened with excitement. “Hey, Catherine,” he said, grinning again. “I want to show you something.”

  Then he vanished.

  I whirled around a few times until I heard his voice from inside the woods, farther up the shady path. “Meet me at that little wooden footbridge near the overlook.”

  “Why don’t you walk with me?” I said, not moving my feet.

  He appeared suddenly at my side, and I jumped. “It’s still hard for me to move long distances while I’m visible. I can’t seem to stay focused long enough, you know? First I’m here, and then I’m a few inches from here, and then…it’s really exhausting.”

  “You should practice, then,” I suggested. “Improve your focus and strength, right? Don’t you think?”

  He disappeared again. “Just meet me at the bridge.”

  I rolled my eyes, and waited stubbornly.

  “Please?” he whispered from the cold air near my left ear. “…Catherine…?” he breathed into my right ear. I rubbed it reflexively with my shoulder in reaction to the soft, unexpected sound. I shoved my hands deep into my jacket pockets, resigned, and walked down the familiar path alone. Who could resist that?

  Like last Sunday, the clean scent of Higher followed me, and I knew he wasn’t far away. He was watching from somewhere nearby, and the thought produced a small quiver in my chest. When I arrived at the footbridge, he was sitting up on the handrail and studying me expectantly. He looked enormously pleased with himself.

  “What do you see?” he asked, running his ragged fingertip over the top of the railing. I walked onto the bridge, my feet crackling through dry, fallen leaves, to look closer. There were a few glittering hot pink hearts painted with nail polish on the handrail next to a carving of a crown, and an empty beetle carcass hung from an old spider web. Then I saw the phrase that so intrigued me on the day he died:


  “God is dead. Where art thou, Ubermensch?”

  Is that what he meant? I pointed to it.

  “A+, Genius,” he said, hopping off the railing and leaning back against it. “Isn’t that what you called me that first night you saw me?”

  I nodded.

  A triumphant look lit up his whole face. Then he asked, “So…why’d you call me that? What’s it mean?”

  What was I supposed to say? I think God speaks to me through the radio? That I thought He was trying to send me a message about a “superman?” I wasn’t ready to acknowledge that yet, not out loud anyway. Admitting I could see and talk to ghosts was bad enough.

  “How do you do that?” I asked instead.

  His curiosity was replaced by confusion. “Do what?”

  “You know, lean against things? Stand on the ground? I would think you’d fall right through.”

  He scratched the back of his head. “Hmm…I don’t really lean against stuff, because…well…I can’t. It only looks that way to you because I hold myself close to stuff. It anchors me so I don’t…like…drift, you know? I don’t like drifting.” He looked up to see if I was following.

  I nodded, and he went on.

  “So…nothing really feels solid to me, except…um…me,” he ran his fingers through his damp hair, which parted for them as they passed, “and the stuff I’m wearing.” He pulled up the gold Claddagh and twisted it on the chain, then let it drop back down under his black sleeveless shirt.

  “Everything else…” He let his fingertips fall through the splintered wood railing of the bridge. “It doesn’t exactly hurt when I pass through things. It just feels…strange.” He looked up to see my reaction. I was mesmerized. Emboldened, he went on.