The Awakening

by Marley Gibson

  "Yeah, well, I could have told you that," Celia says.

  I hear a sniffle and turn to see Taylor's bright blue eyes swimming with tears. "She just flipped me off."

  "No, she flipped me off," I correct.

  "She flipped all three of us off," Celia adds.

  Taylor sniffs. "A bird's a bird. I haven't been flipped off in my life ... ever."

  "Oh, Taylor! Don't cry," I beg. I hand her my unused napkin from lunch. "It was worth a shot."

  She snivels a little more and then wipes the water away from her bottom lid, not messing up her impeccable—obviously waterproof—makeup one bit. "I just don't understand why people are like that. Why they have to resort to name-calling and finger motions like that. Rebecca and I used to be friends before she went off the deep end and got all tough and stuff."

  "Taylor, it's okay. It's about her, not—"

  "What have y'all done to my sister?" a voice roars out.

  I don't have to be psychic to know what I'll see when I pivot.

  Jason Tillson.

  Gorgeous and pissssssssssssssssed.

  Celia steps backwards and I somehow find my voice. "Jason, it's okay. We were just—"

  "You were just what? Upsetting my sister. Which I knew you'd do with your asinine plan to form this ghost-hunting group." He's totally in my face. I can smell the slight scent of musky cologne, mixed with his own boy sweat. My heartbeat accelerates and not because of any of my sensitivities. Okay, my normal girlie sensitivities are on maximum. Does this guy even know how hot he is?

  "Look," I start to say.

  "No, you look here," he says forcefully. He holds a finger in my face, and for a moment, I swear he's going to poke me with it. "Taylor's been acting all weird since you waltzed into this school. She's got a lot of personal shit going on in her life and she doesn't need any craziness added to it. I won't have you"—he turns and looks at Celia—"or anyone else doing anything that's going to make things worse for my sister or make her cry more."

  More?

  Poor Taylor. I had no idea there was something bad going on in her life. I mean, Celia mentioned the isolation, but I didn't pick up on anything. Some sensitive I am.

  Taylor pushes her way between us. "Grow up, Jason. It's not about that. Leave Kendall and Celia alone. They're my friends."

  "I'm just watching out for you."

  "For the six millionth time, I don't need a protector."

  He laser-beams his startling blue eyes at me. "You'll need an MD and a psychologist if you keep hanging out with her."

  "Hey now!" I say in my defense. But then I feel an incredible squeeze around my heart. Not like I'm having an attack or like I'm sensing a spirit's pain. Uh-oh. Here we go again. This agony is all my own. Like my heart is breaking—shattering, really—into a million tiny pieces. I steady my breath and put my hand to my chest. While the Tillsons name-call and argue, I completely foresee myself falling again in the future. Dizziness trips me, along with a fear similar to dropping three floors in an elevator. This time, I call out to Jason for his help, and he catches me swiftly in his grasp. Before I know it, we're kissing. Not just any kiss. A kiss straight out of the pages of a romance novel. Like magical-moment-in-the-movies kissing.

  Celia puts her hand on my arm. "Kendall?" she whispers. "Are you all right?"

  "I-I-I don't know."

  It's right here and now that I know without a doubt that Jason Tillson is destined to break my heart.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  "KENDALL, YOU SHOULDN'T SLEEP OVER at someone's house on a school night," Mom says Thursday evening as she loads the dinner plates into the dishwasher. That's supposed to be Kaitlin's chore, but she's in front of the television playing Guitar Hero with Okra Carmickle's little sister, Penny.

  "But Penny's spending the night here," I nearly whine. God, I sound just like Kaitlin.

  Mom waves a towel at me. "That's different. They're young and can't get into as much trouble as you can."

  Jesus, Mary, and Saint Joseph! "I'm just going to Celia's to work on a project we're doing together. I'll be in the backyard, practically. I can wave at you from her window."

  Dad strolls in and looks at my backpack slung over my shoulder. "Running away from home, kiddo?" Then he winks.

  "I'm trying to go over to Celia's to spend the night. Mom's giving me a hard time."

  I know she's still concerned over the whole talking-to-spirits thing and probably thinks if she just keeps me in her line of sight, nothing will happen. And you know, she's right. Because I am going to Celia's to do some research on the people who owned our house previous to Mrs. Elliott. And I am ghost hunting under my own roof, right down the hall from Mom.

  "Why, Sarah?" Dad asks.

  She totally gives Dad the hairy eyeball and flattens her mouth. "You know exactly why, David."

  Dad reaches into the fridge and refills his iced tea. "Come on, Sarah. We talked to her like she's an adult and told her our expectations on her behavior moving forward. I don't think we have to do a house arrest."

  Right, considering this particular house seems to be actually haunted.

  "Hello! I'm standing right here."

  "I know, kiddo. Go on over to Celia's. We trust you to be an adult. Right, Sarah?"

  Mom knows she can't fight both of us. Besides, how much trouble can I get into, looking at the names of the former tenants of our house?

  I quickly kiss Mom's cheek and then go to do the same to Dad. Something stops me, though. Cold in my tracks, right on the tile kitchen floor. A warming sensation throbs on my left hand, between my thumb and forefinger. It's like there's a gash there. But not on my hand... Dad's hand.

  Reaching out, I seize his left hand and spread the fingers out. Sure enough, there's a large Band-Aid covering its side. "What happened?"

  "It's nothing," he says.

  Mom, the nurse, steps forward too. "Oh, David. Why didn't you show me this? Kendall, go get my kit, would you?"

  Dad stops me with his hands raised. "It's fine. I'm fine. It's just a little cut."

  No, it's not.

  "How'd you cut your hand, Dad?"

  "I was working on some plans and I guess I knocked my coffee mug off my desk. I cut myself when I picked the pieces up and threw them away."

  "Didn't that happen to the guy before you?" I ask.

  "I suppose so. Maybe the office is too close to the train station."

  "There's no train in Radisson," Mom notes, as concerned as I am.

  "Oh, well. I'm just a klutz then." He holds up his hand. "I'll be fine. No harm, no foul."

  The words come out of his mouth in a normal enough way. A common office mishap. However, I know—that part of me that suddenly just knows things—that it wasn't merely an accident. It was knocked off his desk on purpose. By someone.

  Which means we've got to amp up this ghost hunting before Dad's next boo-boo is something that lands him in the hospital.

  "Sorry I'm late, girls."

  Taylor plops on the floor with Celia and me. We're perusing the printouts from her Googling and backdoor researching of the previous owners of my house.

  "Did you have any trouble getting away?" Celia asks Taylor.

  "Jason was being a turd blossom."

  I almost snort Diet Coke out of my nose. I've concocted many descriptions of him in my head, and turd blossom is definitely not one of them. I catch my breath of laughter and ask, "Has he ratted out our activities to your parents?"

  "Not yet," she reports. Taylor hangs her head a bit and pouts, something that doesn't go unnoticed. Worry crosses Celia's face, and I do believe it's time to dig a little deeper into the psyche of Ms. Taylor Tillson.

  "What's going on with you, girlfriend?" I ask, trying a playful tone. "I mean, it's great that you've joined us in our adventures, but you don't hang out with anyone at school other than us, and your brother acts like your own personal National Guard unit."

  She sniffs and then rubs her nose. "I'm sorry, y'all. It's just that the
re's so much going on in my life right now and I'm really, really thankful to have the ghost hunting to focus my attentions on instead of thinking about how horrible things are."

  "What's so horrible?" Celia asks.

  "My dad moved to Alaska to be a park ranger. It was just supposed to be this finding himself thing at first. You know, instead of hiding his bald head under a Braves cap and buying a convertible, he thought he'd get in tune with the great outdoors."

  "Alaska's certainly the place to do it," Celia says, and Taylor smiles.

  "About a week ago, he called and I heard Mom say she's going to file for divorce. I never factored that into my life plan, you know? Divorced parents?"

  "No one ever does," I say.

  Taylor wipes a lone tear from under her eye. "Dad and I were close, and he was real overprotective of me. I guess that's why Jason's always Mr. Attitude about things now. He thinks he's my dad now. Mom started off a basket case when Dad left in June, but now, she's all into herself. Everything's moving so fast, too. She went to Buckhead three weeks ago to consult with this doctor about having a nose job and breast implants. When she was there, she met this Delta Airlines pilot named Fredrick, and they've been e-mailing each other. She's more concerned about her looks and her UDC activities than us, so Jason and I are pretty much on our own."

  My parents may be a little overbearing right now, but at least they're still together. I couldn't imagine what I'd do if Dad up and moved to the frozen tundra and I couldn't see him regularly. And then, what if some other guy slipped into his place? Ewww! "What's UDC?" I ask, getting my thoughts back on track.

  Taylor quirks her mouth. "Oh, it stands for United Daughters of the Confederacy. They're like a sorority dedicated to honoring those who served and died in the Civil War. Well, on the Confederate side, that is. It's all a bunch of hooey, if you ask me. Mainly, they get together and carp about their weight, their kids, their husbands—if they still have them—and drink mint juleps and play Bunco."

  "Oh ... okay," I say. Taylor's mom sounds like a woman with a new lease on life. Too bad her offspring aren't part of the equation. Maybe this is the shit that Jason was referring to earlier when he went postal on me in the caf. I can see where both Tillson kids would be stressed out from a separation, to a divorce, to parents dating again. Guess I should cut Jason some slack next time he takes a verbal pop at me.

  Taylor snaps back into her positive self and says, "Seriously, y'all. I'm okay. I love what we're doing."

  I'm glad she could tell us what's going on in her life. Now, for her sake, we should get back to work so she can concentrate on other things. "Okay then. Let's get down to business."

  Celia slides a box out from under her desk. "I got this stuff in the mail today from GhostMart.com." She starts plundering through the plastic shipping popcorn like a kid on Christmas morning. "There are three EMF meters, some flashlights, another temperature gauge, and this cool vest."

  "Abercrombie and Fitch, it's not," Taylor comments when Celia unfurls this brown thing.

  It's a vest with a ton of pockets. "What on God's green earth is that for?" I ask.

  Slipping it on her long, lean limbs, Celia says, "It's super comfortable!"

  "Yeah, but what the hell is it for?" I press.

  "It's specifically made for paranormal research and ghost investigations because it's got tons of pockets to hold everything," she says proudly. "Check it out. I can carry all my gear wherever we go. Everything's easy to access. Look at this small spot here. I can carry extra batteries in this one."

  I pull my grandma's crystal necklace from my pocket and say, "This is the only equipment I need."

  "Some of us ain't psychic, Kendall," Celia says with a laugh.

  Only Celia Nichols would put on something so ridiculous and still manage to look completely at ease and adorable. I wish Clay Price could see her. I bet he'd freak, in a good way. Okay, okay, I promised not to go there anymore.

  As Celia's loading up the vest with all of her Mega-Mart-sponsored purchases, I return the ad hoc dowsing pendulum to my pocket and then pore over the names she's printed off the computer.

  "It's amazing what you can find on the Internet," I note.

  "I know," Taylor says. "My dad found some chick on the Internet. She lives in Reykjavík."

  "Like, Iceland?" Celia asks.

  "Yeah. She's a flight attendant for Icelandic Air, but she really wants to get into life coaching. She and my dad met in a chat room and she flew out to Alaska to meet him. Crazy, isn't it? Thus, Mom filing said divorce papers. What's with them getting involved with airline personnel?"

  Celia cocks her head to the side. "At least you'll be able to get some good discount family fares, right?"

  I gaze open-mouthed at Celia and then over at Taylor. She's shaking her head. Looking back at Celia, I say, "I don't even know what to do with that one."

  Not missing a beat, Taylor says, "Maybe you can learn to do tarot readings and we can find out what's in store for them."

  "Maybe so."

  "First, we need to focus on Emily and the Moorehead house," Celia says, bringing us back to reality.

  I agree. "Right. Dad got hurt at work today and I have a bad feeling that Emily followed him there." I fill them in on his flying coffee mug and how the previous office tenant had a similar problemo.

  "I think you're looking at this all wrong, Kendall," Celia says. "If this happened previously at your dad's office, then I don't see how it could be Emily. I think we're dealing with another entity."

  "But I saw that image of Dad getting hurt, like, really bad."

  Celia holds her hand up. "Yeah, I understand. Maybe it happens at work, though, and not at home."

  "I don't want it to happen at all!" I screech.

  Taylor reaches over to hug me. "We've got to get on this, ASAP!"

  Getting a grip on my emotions, I deliberate over the printouts. "I just feel like everything starts at the house with Emily. The names on this list go back to the 1840s, Celia. Awesome work."

  "Told you I was good with research."

  I read off the names. "Elliott, Saunders, Curtis, Hinckley, Barrington, Richards..." Pausing, I breathe in deeply to see if I'm picking up anything on these names. "You know, I think I saw a couple of these names in the cemetery. We should go tomorrow and see if we can find anyone named Emily with one of these last names."

  A mischievous grin crawls across Celia's lips. "Why don't we go right now?"

  Taylor wrings her hands. "Now? Like, in the dark? It's almost nine."

  "Ghost hunting is best done at night," Celia explains. "Especially in the dark. That's when the spirits come out. Like a witching hour. You know, researchers offer a wide array of opinions on the optimal time for successful ghost hunting. Some say dusk, others will tell you nine p.m., many say midnight, and then there are those that say it's three a.m., which is the exact antithesis of the time of Jesus's crucifixion."

  "Celia, now's no time to get all deep on our asses," I fuss.

  "Taylor asked. I'm just saying. These are all factors we need to take into account."

  Taylor reaches for her camera bag. "There's so much to remember."

  Celia grabs the list and three flashlights from the new box of equipment. She tosses one to each of us and says, "Follow me."

  "Won't your parents hear us?" I ask.

  Shrugging, Celia says, "Dad's watching TV in his den and Mom's probably zonked out on her medication du jour. If Seamus doesn't bark and give the game away, we won't be missed. Just leave the TV on and they'll never bother me."

  Taylor fluffs her hair and puts the camera bag strap over her shoulder. "I'm ready when y'all are."

  "'Why, then, to-night let us assay our plot,'" I say with a wink to Celia.

  "Thanks, Helena," she says with a giggle.

  Taylor's confused. "Huh?"

  "Shakespeare—All's Well That Ends Well," Celia explains.

  I let out a deep sigh. "Let's hope so."

  After sneaki
ng out of Palace Nichols through the back slider doors, the three of us creep along in the darkness toward the cemetery. So far, so good. No weird feelings, sensations, or abnormalities. Ironically, Taylor's handling this whole actual ghost hunt quite well. She's far from the Barbie that Rebecca Asiaf accused her of being. And for that matter, what I'd judged her as in my head. Barbies would be home washing their hair, giving themselves home manis and pedis, or surfing Sephora.com for the latest top beauty products. They wouldn't be slipping their sneakered feet into the wrought-iron railings of a cemetery gate.

  "Careful, Taylor," Celia whispers from the other side of the fence.

  "Here, hold my camera case."

  Celia catches the gray bag and sets it on the ground. Then she holds her hands up above her head to spot for Taylor as she swings her leg over the top of the gate and crawls down the other side.

  "Come on, Kendall. It's a breeze."

  Last time I climbed something was Jenny Enos's attic ladder in eighth grade. She'd said we could see into Walker Pittman's—a real eighth grade babe and a half—room from the attic window. All it got me was an allergic reaction to the dust mites and a nosebleed from her accidental elbow in my face when we were fidgeting with the binoculars.

  I grasp the railing and hoist myself over the fence with little or no incident. There is a slight ripping sound, but these are old jeans, so I won't worry about it. With my grandma's crystal fisted in my right hand, I join the other two.

  Our three flashlights cross like swords on the battlefield as we weave our way through the worn stone paths. The moon shines brightly above, casting a spot on our activities and outlining each of us in a blue-gray glow. Taylor's taking pictures left and right, following behind Celia with list in hand. I'm clutching the EMF meter like it's a lifeline, watching to see if the red lights catch any electromagnetic energies.

  We find a Hinckley, a Richards, and a Barrington. "No one named Emily buried here," Celia notes. She points down toward the bridge where I'd seen the Union soldiers—or, rather, what appeared to be Union soldiers. "Let's go to the lower level."