by J. L. Powers
“What if I don’t want to become a soul guide?” Rachel asks.
“Ridiculous.” His nostrils flare ever so slightly. “There is no other conceivable job for you. Unless you fail and then we put you to some other menial use. But you will be part of our world.”
“So why don’t you ask the Finders what clan we’re from?” I ask.
“Ah, for reasons they haven’t chosen to share, they are keeping your identities secret, even from me. Usually paperwork—birth certificates, etc.—accompanies students. You two have none.”
His blue eyes lock on mine. “And you, Adam? Adam Jones. Don’t tell me you’re an orphan too.” The biggest crabs I’ve ever seen fall out of his mouth. One attaches itself to his nose and pinches, hard. He wrinkles his nose like he smells it.
“No,” I say.
“Well, where are you from? Who are your parents?” He sounds impatient now, his stare a proboscis. He stabs, cool but sharp, smiling the entire time—releasing paralyzing venom directly into my bloodstream. The poison spreads slowly through my body, muscles going soft and watery one by one. I’m a jellyfish. Slowly, I start to slide off the chair, barely keeping erect by pressing my feet hard against the dark wood floor.
He continues to probe, feather-light fingers tickling their way through my life.
First, he finds those things I keep skin deep, toward the surface—the things I don’t want anybody to find out but if they do, I’m okay. Like, wondering whether my friends really like me or only put up with me.
But then he tunnels deeper. Did my mother love me? Will I ever feel normal?
He keeps pushing the needle. I swim in the icy waters of his eyes, floundering, and then he reaches the place where the real fears begin: those nights in my room, all the lights on and yet darkness surrounds me. I lie on my bed with vertigo, trying to keep myself awake, trying to keep myself there, in Brooklyn . . . but I can’t . . .
I find myself in a familiar place, walking through a muddy graveyard, only this time it’s Principal Armand at my side, not my father, and I’m panicking and he’s surprised too, and I’m worried because what happens when Dad arrives and Principal Armand sees my father and then knows who I am and—
Rachel touches my arm, concerned. Those panting, grunting sounds must be coming from me.
A bony figure beckons to me. Black liquid laps at the desk, my shoes. The faceless woman reaches for me, drags me into the dark night, the endless fall.
Rachel grabs my shirt, hauls me back into my seat.
In the darkness of my mind, Principal Armand watches the light approaching—my father, coming to rescue me.
But he can’t find out who my father is. He can’t see that spark. I won’t let him.
And then I’m surprised by the sudden warmth welling up from deep inside. My father, a hidden sun—but still with me, the way he always is. I grab onto that spark. Focus. What was it he told me just before I left? Remember, Adam, you have powers. Don’t be afraid to use them, to protect yourself and others.
Gripping my armrests, I stare back at Principal Armand, sucking all the fear toward a flat line of nothing. I keep a picture of me falling in the darkness and the light of my father in the forefront of my mind so that the principal thinks he’s still gaining on us, then circle back around, filling the gap between him and me with powerful emotions neatly packaged and ready to explode when he probes them.
He reaches for me. But the traps I laid hit him by complete surprise. I lash out at the small dark pearl in his mind, with all the strength I can muster. At the same time, I sneak inside, a dog slinking through a hole in the back fence—hiding behind the trees and bushes in his mind, until I’m deep, deep, so deep he can’t dislodge me.
We’re in a dark, cramped space. A young child huddles against a pile of wood, light piercing the darkness through cracks in the sides. The stench of swamp rot permeates the air. The child cocks his head, listening. Something—probably a rat—scrambles against the wood, kicking dirt up. He brushes his face to remove cobwebs and cowers against the wood.
And then it comes . . . the sound he was waiting for. The heavy tread of footsteps. Gravel crunching as someone passes by, stopping at the side of the shed, covering the cracks that let in the light, plunging the child into total darkness.
The door opens. Light floods inside and the child cringes at the sudden brightness, shrinking back from what’s coming next. A pair of heavy work boots steps inside. Slow. Ominous.
The child screams.
Rachel hauls back and punches me in the face. “Stop it!” she shouts.
I careen off the chair and skid across the floor, wrist twisting as I hit the rough wood planks.
“Can’t you see what you’re doing to him?” she yells.
Principal Armand is lying on the floor in a fetal position, his back to me, shoulders trembling.
Rachel shakes the hurt out of her hand, pacing the room, hugging herself. “I quit,” she says. “I quit this sick school.”
Principal Armand’s moans get louder and louder. The door crashes open and Aileen runs into the room. She slides around the desk and gapes at Principal Armand’s body twitching on the floor. “What the hell?” She helps him sit up and he slumps over in his chair.
Blood drips from my nose. I wipe it away with the back of my hand. Bet my nose is broken. Thanks, Rachel.
“This has never happened in an orientation,” Aileen says. “Never! What did you guys do to him?”
I can’t look at the three of them, shame and anger chained together and throttling the breath from my throat. I think I’m sorry for what I did . . . but nobody—and I do mean nobody—is going to root around in my mind or soul without my freaking permission. Take that, Principal Armand. Just try to do it again. I look him in the eye and dare him to try.
Aileen puts her arm around Principal Armand. He’s mumbling, a confusion of words bubbling out of his mouth. She massages the back of his neck and whispers in his ear.
His eyes spring open. He wipes saliva off his trembling chin and points a thick index finger at me. “I don’t know where you came from, boy, but you’re not allowed to summon souls without permission. I could have you expelled.”
Oh no. I haven’t even been here for twenty-four hours and already my grandfather’s prediction is coming true.
“He what?” Aileen glares at me. “He can’t possibly have summoned your soul. He hasn’t even been through the first year of training.”
“It was worse than that,” Principal Armand declares. “He didn’t just summon my soul. He took me to Limbo. My Limbo. How the hell did you get there, you little shit?”
“I didn’t know I was summoning his soul, Aileen,” I say. “I didn’t know I was going to Limbo. I was just protecting myself. He was poking around in my mind, trying to figure out who I am, where I’m from.”
Aileen inhales deeply, taking in what I just said. Her lips thin, razor blades, as she glances at Principal Armand. “Sir, I don’t know what happened here. It sounds altogether suspicious. Perhaps I need to bring this incident up to the Synod.”
“Aileen, I was just trying to evaluate his abilities.” Principal Armand wraps his voice up in just the right amount of tightness.
“I’m sure the Synod will be very curious about what you discovered,” she says. “After all, they also want to know who these two are and what their abilities are. And I’m sure they’ll be very curious to hear Adam’s side of the story as well—whatever it is that happened.”
They stare at each other. I see a lot in that quick exchange. Principal Armand is technically in charge but it appears that Aileen has access to power he doesn’t want to challenge. Is it my father? Because it seems like he’s sort of her mentor, or maybe her hero, or both, and I think maybe she’s answering to him, not Principal Armand. Not that he knows my father is my father.
“It won’t be necessary, Aileen.” His eyes are rimmed red. “Neither one of us did it on purpose. Right, Adam?”
I look at hi
m. His eyes narrow. My own narrow too. I’m watching you, his eyes say. I’m watching you back, mine respond.
Dad would want me to let this go. Grandpa definitely told me to keep my nose clean. Okay, I can pretend. For now. I’m good at pretending things. I’ve been pretending to be normal all my life.
“We’re all good, Aileen,” I say. “We’re all good.”
CHAPTER 14
As soon as the three of us reach the stairwell, Rachel sits down on the top stair, tears rolling off her cheeks and splashing on the floor. “Damn it, Adam, what was that about?”
“I was protecting myself,” I say. I’m surprised by the bright red spots of anger on her cheeks.
“You seem like a nice guy. Don’t let them turn you into an asshole.” Her eyes are dark holes in a perfectly white face. “I survived the foster care system with only a shred of my dignity intact. Just a shred. But I have held onto it with everything in me. I won’t let you guys take it from me. I won’t. Do you understand?”
Aileen looks like she’s working something around in her mouth. “Okay, Rachel,” she says. “Let’s talk. I’ll come find you when we’re done, Adam.”
I wander outside, alone, scrambling across large boulders covered in thick moss and lichen. The ground begins to slope steeply away as the sound of the surf breaking on the rocks grows stronger. I reach the end of the trees and step out onto a rock shelf, the sun glinting off the Atlantic.
Seagulls take flight, screeching as they soar over the ocean. Large rollers break below, flecks of water splashing up into the sky. I sit on the edge of the rock shelf, turning that shiny black card Dad gave me over and over in my hands.
My phone still shows no coverage. So, I’m stuck on an island with a bunch of kids training to be Angels of Death, and adults who think reading your mind is a great way to get information.
I lick my lips and taste salt.
Training to take over Dad’s business? I already see my future written on the wall. Growing old by myself, wearing grubby underwear, spending my nights in an office all alone to usher people from this world to the next. No wonder Dad never sleeps. Or eats. I imagine Sarah finding out and running away, screaming in horror, even as I call after her, Wait! Don’t go! I’m still the same guy you knew two weeks ago!
As I watch yachts pushed and pulled by the waves far out at sea, I resolve to figure out a way to get Rachel alone so we can talk. Maybe I can help her understand why I had to do what I did. She and I are in the same boat. We don’t know who we are or who to trust. Maybe we can help each other.
* * *
That afternoon, Tomás, Sean, and I drink three or four cups of cappuccino apiece as we play games out on the deck.
I’m pretty good at chess but Sean is a whiz. He beats us again and again in a rapid succession of very quick games. Before long, we concede total defeat.
And Tomás would kill us at Monopoly if he had any luck with the dice. Despite ending up with some of the crappiest properties, he bankrupts Sean in under an hour. I win only because I have Park Place and Boardwalk and Tomás lands on me twice in a row. He mutters something in Caribbean argot and starts mortgaging properties to pay me.
Right as I’m about to collect the money, Sean kicks the board. Money, cards, red plastic hotels, and a metal dog and car fly everywhere.
Tomás smiles, lighting his pipe and leaning his head back against the patio couch. He seems awfully relaxed. I’m so hopped up on caffeine, it feels like I’m levitating an inch off the cushions.
“Hey, what’re you guys doing?” Sean yells into the barn.
A bunch of guys run out, Zachary in the lead, carrying an oblong ball that looks like an oversized football. “Rugby!” he yells.
We spend the rest of the afternoon tackling each other.
Olan Crowley, dressed in only a loincloth, his crow perched on his shoulder, is wily and fast, scoring several times before Sean gets a bead on him and brings him to the ground. The crow starts dive-bombing Sean, forcing him to take cover in the barn. Olan tries to catch his bird but every time he gets close, Sean charges from the barn and runs around the deck, laughing and waving his arms, riling up the crow all over again before ducking back to cover.
Olan finally catches his pet and puts him in a cloth-covered cage, while someone brings a vat of ice water and a pitcher of lemonade. We lounge on the deck and hydrate.
My T-shirt is ripped, my clothes are covered in grass stains, and my knees are scraped from getting tackled so often. It doesn’t take long before I stiffen up. I’ve used muscles I didn’t know existed and been pummeled from head to toe. But it’s a good hurt.
When the bell rings for dinner, we head to the barn, where they’re handing out sweet and slightly bitter lemon drinks in what appears to be a predinner ritual. I find out later they’re shandies when I get a little light-headed and ask Sean what we’re drinking.
I load my dinner plate with hot steaming lobster rolls and clam chowder and head to the table where Rachel’s sitting, alone. She looks away when I sit down. I’d move to another table but Tomás and Sean sit down beside me.
Sean starts in right away: “Hey, guys, let’s sneak out and row to the mainland, go see a movie.”
“You just want off this island so you can call your girl,” Tomás says.
“What girl?”
“Oh, right, too bad Liliana’s AWOL.” Tomás grins at him.
“Shut up.” Sean’s face gets really red. “She’s not my girl.”
“Who’s Liliana?” I ask.
“Liliana La Muerte,” Tomás sings. “Sean’s been crushing on her since he was twelve.”
“Shut up. I don’t like like her,” Sean says.
Tomás nudges my arm. “Yeah, he has it bad.” He laughs. “But he will regret it, my friend. That Liliana is a loose cannon. She got expelled last semester.”
“What happened?” I ask.
Tomás drops his voice to a whisper: “She flunked the final exams at the end of last year.”
“Bullshit,” Sean whispers back. “There’s no way Liliana La Muerte would flunk her final exams. She’s smart. And the teacher who gave the test was ‘mysteriously’ transferred somewhere else the very next day. My dad says there’s something fishy about it all.”
I look over at Rachel. She’s busy shredding the lobster roll into crumbs. I imagine we’re inmates surrounded by prison gangs eating dinner in the cafeteria. A three hundred–pound muscle man in the corner, racist tattoos all the way up his shaved head. A little guy who “knows how to get stuff” so no one messes with him on the other side of the table. Rachel, in an orange jumpsuit, tearing food apart and avoiding eye contact. This makes me nervous, worried for her, like maybe she’s the person that could be picked on until she shrivels up and dies. But the tightness in her shoulders suggests another possibility, like maybe she’s the quiet one with the big-ass shiv hidden up her sleeve and she’ll cut you, cut you bad, if you look at her the wrong way.
Tomás nudges me in the ribs.
“What?” I say.
“You in or out?” Sean asks.
“Uh, sure, I’m in,” I say, even though I didn’t quite catch what I was agreeing to do.
“All right, we’ll meet up at the grain silo tonight,” Sean whispers. “I’ll put a chair under the loft window so we can climb onto the roof. But be quiet—that roof might be pretty creaky.”
“You’re going to learn how to suck people’s souls out of their bodies,” Rachel says, her voice bitter, “and you’re worried you’ll get in trouble for sneaking out at night?” She gets up and hurries out of the dining room.
“I take it the lost girl isn’t too keen on us,” Sean says. “Or what she’s supposed to do with her life.”
“Um . . . no.” I pick up both her plate and mine. “Listen, guys, I’ll see you later. I’m going to go talk to her.”
I catch up with her underneath an enormous craggy hemlock. She intercepts me with, “Look, it’s nothing personal.”
Lo
gs fall out of my mouth. “I know it’s nothing personal, Rachel, okay? At least not the way you mean it. But maybe it is personal. Maybe it’s completely, 100 percent personal! You and I are the only people—the only ones here—who weren’t raised to be this thing, this whatever-they-call-it, a soul guide. So couldn’t we just, you know, be friends? Lay aside the hatchet and get along, maybe even be on each other’s side? Because I don’t know anybody else here who could be on my side the way you can. I don’t trust any of them. I like some of them, I think some of them could become friends, but I don’t know. You? I have to trust you. Don’t you get it?”
She stares at me and I stare back and that lasts for a while until it gets uncomfortable.
“Okay,” she says. “You’re right. You’re right. Okay? Let’s be friends.”
“Serious?”
“Serious.” She nods and holds out her hand for a shake. I give her my hand. She takes it and I feel a tiger’s paw beneath the human skin and fingers. A good tiger. Ferocious. She’s strong and she’ll do what she has to do.
I trust her already. No matter what Grandpa said.
CHAPTER 15
That evening, I unpack my suitcase while waiting to join the guys. It doesn’t take long. I throw all of my clothes into the closet and arrange the books around my built-in bed.
I open the banned book. It’s leather soft, and lighter than you’d think for a book that’s supposed to contain the ultimate answer to the thing that everybody wants most.
I flip it open, at random.
One phrase stands out starkly: Beware the Reapers and Angels of Death, the ones who take you to the grave, for their business is death and they cannot endure the light of life. Ouch. I slam it shut and take care to hide it under the mattress. If I’m supposed to become the next Grim Reaper, why in the world does my dad think reading drivel like this is supposed to help me?
I check my watch. It’s eleven. An hour to go.
I pull out a book of poems Dad gave me for my birthday last month, a collection of jisei, which I discover are Japanese death poems. Apparently, it’s a Japanese thing to write poems on your deathbed, because supposedly people finally understand the meaning of life as death approaches.
