Reluctant Guardian

by Melissa J. Cunningham

  Reluctantly, and with a heavy sigh, I picture Brecken, focusing on his sad face, his penetrating eyes. This time I only take a second to appear at his side. He sits at a worn Formica table, slurping up Kraft macaroni and cheese. Two young girls eat beside him.

  “Hey,” I say, sinking down in the one remaining chair. “I'm back. Sorry I had to leave—family emergency.”

  Brecken freezes, the fork halfway to his mouth. He doesn't say a word, but looks around, taking a hesitant bite.

  “You can hear me, right? I'm back,” I say again. “Just so you know.”

  After a slow, controlled breath, he takes another bite, and I take in the scene. Brecken's eyes are the only things that move other than his methodical eating. The two little girls, roughly the ages of twelve and nine, continue to eat in silence.

  “I guess you can't see me anymore since you're looking in the wrong direction,” I say, leaning back with a chuckle. “Who are these two?”

  The slurping continues until the younger girl drops her fork in her bowl and says, “I'm done.”

  “Put your bowl in the sink,” Brecken says, not looking up.

  The girl obeys and not long after, the older girl follows suit. “I'm going outside,” she says with a half wave.

  “K,” is Brecken's only response. When the door shuts firmly behind them, he places his hands on the table and frowns, his lips forming a pucker. “Why did you come back?”

  “I'm supposed to help you. Duh.” I figure if I am open and honest then maybe my job will go quicker, and I can get out of here.

  “With what?” he asks, clearing the table.

  “I have no idea. They don't tell us. We have to figure it out ourselves. Maybe your drinking problem?”

  He laughs, his eyes squinting, trying to see me. “I don't have a drinking problem.”

  I laugh right back. “Yeah. Well. Whatever.”

  He turns toward the sound of my voice. “So who are you?”

  I forgot I haven't introduced myself. “I'm Alisa.” I'm not sure how much I should tell him, and I can’t ask Raphael or Anaita since I'm pretty sure they already explained the rules when I wasn't listening.

  “So you died or something?” he says, walking out of the room.

  I figure I'm supposed to follow, so I do, floating a foot off the ground. It makes me feel cool and spooky. “Yep. I died.”

  “How?”

  “I really don't want to talk about it.”

  “And I really don't want you around.”

  “Touché.”

  I follow him to the basement, to the room where I saw him earlier when he took his psycho pills. My mother has strict rules about going into a boy's bedroom. It's a big, fat no-no. And I have a hard time wanting to break her rule now.

  I stare at him, and he stares at the wall, thinking he is staring at me. “Fine. I'll tell you a little about me, and you tell me a little about you. All right?”

  “Fine.”

  I decide, as his guardian, that it's okay for me to go into his room, because it's not like we are going to make out. I walk in and sit down on a lonely wooden chair that faces his bed. Brecken plops down on this bed, crossing his feet.

  “So, ask me anything,” I say, ready to deflect questions that get too personal.

  He crosses his arms over his chest and contemplates. “I can see you again. Just barely.”

  This is not what I expect him to say, but I don't leave in a panic this time. “How?” I ask, curious.

  “I am a man of many talents,” he says with a chuckle, waving his hand through the air. “It's something I've always been able to do. I don't know why. I see auras too, but the light has to be dim. They’re hard to see otherwise.”

  I nod, thinking this over. “I guess that's why you can see me down here in the dark.”

  These are definitely the special gifts Raphael spoke about. They have to be. And if I want to succeed, I have to be okay with it. I take stock of my feelings and analyze them, realizing that for the most part I'm cool with it. Kind of.

  We sit silently for a moment.

  “You're hot,” he says with a crooked smile. “At least from what I can tell.”

  I swear I blush, if that's even possible. I've always thought my straight, dishwater blonde hair and dull brown eyes are plain, bordering on boring. I don't know why, but his compliment warms my cold, little heart a tiny bit. “Thank you. Do you see spirits on a regular basis?”

  He laughs and sits up, brings his arms up to rest on his knees. He turns serious. “Naw. But I’ve seen my grandpa and my grandma a couple of times. Not my mom though. Don't know why.”

  “Your mom? She's—”

  “Yeah.”

  “Oh. Sorry.”

  He shrugs and doesn't say anything more about her. “The other people who've come, the ones like you, didn't like it that I could see them, and they wouldn't talk to me. There were three others.”

  “Really? Girls or boys?”

  “Two girls and one guy.”

  I wonder who they were and what it was that made them give up and leave. “How long did they last?”

  “Hanging with me, you mean?”

  I nod and he glances at the ceiling, thinking. “Let's see. The first one only one day. That was a girl. The next guy lasted a week, but got totally frustrated when I wouldn't obey him.” He laughs and shakes his head. “Idiot. And the last girl stuck around for almost three weeks. I'm still not sure why she left.”

  “Yeah. That is weird.” I wonder where those guardians are now. Did they get to try again with a new charge? I don't intend to bail on Brecken because this might be my only shot. I can't mess it up, and anyway, talking to him like this seems nice. Maybe we could even be friends. Maybe if he can like me, even a little, he'll listen to me.

  “No it's not. You'll see. You'll leave too, but you are different. I can't tell what it is, but I'll figure it out.” He gazes at me, his eyes steady.

  I sit up straight, uncomfortable with his scrutiny. “I'm different? How?”

  “Well, first of all, you're talking to me. Second, you kinda have a pink glow around you. None of the others did. They were white.”

  I hold my arm in front of my face and turn it back and forth. No glow that I can see. “Hmm.”

  “So, anyway, I need to go. You should probably stay here.” He grabs a jacket from the foot of his bed.

  “What? Where are you going?”

  “Somewhere you won't want to follow.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  ~Little Sisters~

  Alisa

  In front of his house, dust blows across the sidewalk, dry and stale. A lone tree grows by the curb but isn't thriving. Neighborhood kids play outside in a grass-less park to the south, dust devils rising on the breeze. A few cars are parked out front, none of them worth enough money to steal.

  Brecken straddles a motorcycle and turns the key. It roars to life, the black paint gleaming in the sunshine. It isn't new or particularly expensive-looking, but it isn't rusty and falling apart either.

  “Where are you going?”

  “Don't worry about it, angel. I'll be back in a few hours.” He revs the engine and smiles. As he peels out, gravel peppers me like gunshot.

  “Idiot.”

  ***

  I follow my charge. Like he thought I wouldn't? I hold back though, worried he will sense me. If I hide in the background and watch, get a sense of who he is, maybe it will help me know how to deal with him. Technically, it's a good plan.

  He drives to a house not far from his and pulls into the driveway. I stay across the street, figuring it's far enough away. He raps on the front door of a ranch-style house with black shutters. When he enters the house, I move closer. Peeking through an open window, I watch Brecken talk to a kid his age. They don't even bother to whisper. And considering their plan, I'm surprised.

  “They'll be gone by six,” the kid says. “The back door will be unlocked, just like last time.”

  Bre
cken nods but doesn't say anything.

  “Her jewelry box is upstairs in the master bedroom on a white dresser. That's all we want. Got it? The jewelry box. Nothing else.” The boy hands Brecken a white envelope. “You get half now, and the rest after.”

  Brecken nods.

  “Cool, dude.”

  Brecken turns to leave.

  “Oh, and don't get caught,” the kid laughs as he shuts the door.

  I stare at my charge, my mouth hanging open in disbelief. I have to guard a criminal? If he doesn't care about robbing his neighbor, why would he listen to me? I watch him climb onto his bike and frown. He tucks the white envelope into the waistband of his pants and revs the engine. With gritted teeth, he takes off.

  His form grows smaller and smaller. A moment later, I appear behind him on his motorcycle. The wind buffets me, and I throw my arms around him so I won't fall off—a reflex. He jerks in my grasp and the motorcycle swerves. He over-corrects, and I scream in fright, hugging him tighter—reflex again.

  The wheels skid to the right. The bike slides in the loose gravel, and Brecken's boot smokes, skimming along the asphalt as he tries to balance us out. My screams echo loud in my ears, and I close my eyes, not wanting to witness his demise. He manages to straighten the bike at the last second and pulls over to the curb, a panicked expression on his face. He turns around on the seat, trying to see me. “What the hell are you doing?” he yells, yanking off his helmet.

  “What a stupid question,” I say, already hopping off his death machine.

  “I told you not to follow me!”

  I laugh. “And I'm supposed to obey? I have a job to do, cowboy, and I'm going to do it.”

  “I don't need a babysitter.” He glares in my direction, his mouth tight.

  “From what I've seen, you need a jail cell.”

  He eases back into traffic and doesn't say anything else the whole way home, which is fine by me. Nothing he can say at this point will matter.

  After we arrive at his house, he lifts off his helmet and stares at where he thinks I stand. Totally in the wrong direction. I hover a foot off the ground to his left and he looks to the right. “It's not what you think,” he says with a tired sigh.

  “Oh really?”

  With a heavy shrug, he kicks the kickstand, and then throws his leg over the bike.

  I have to be honest here. Watching his thigh muscles bulge under his Levis distracts me... momentarily. His blue eyes sparkle in the bright sunlight, and his full lips curl into a grimace. I can't quit staring. Just because I don't trust boys doesn't mean I'm not attracted to them in other, dysfunctional ways. I've never had a serious boyfriend, but I want guys to like me. I need them to like me. I don't understand it, and probably need therapy.

  He drops down on the porch and rests his helmet on his thigh. “We're out of money. My dad's out of town. We're out of groceries, and if I don't pay the electric bill tomorrow, they'll turn off our power. I don't have a job right now. Okay? I'm looking, but haven't found anything yet. I have to do this.”

  “Nice. Try the sympathy card.” I cross my arms over my chest and glare. “It's not going to work.”

  He curses, his hands in a fist, and then stomps inside the house.

  “Excuse me? You can't talk to me like that!”

  He ignores me and slams the door in my face.

  Like it can block me. I slide through the closed door to see him standing at the kitchen table, breathing hard.

  “I can talk however I want,” he says, his back to me. “And I didn't say any of that to get your sympathy.” He turns to face the door. “I just thought you might understand.” We face off in the small kitchen, neither of us wanting to give in. “You're a real piece of work. You know that?”

  “Fine,” I say. “Be stupid. Rob someone. Take things that aren't yours, things that are probably precious keepsakes, and give them to your idiot friend.”

  His expression falls. He holds onto the back of a kitchen chair, his knuckles white, looking like he wants to explain, but then he straightens and gives his head a hopeless shake. “Whatever.” He runs down the stairs, taking them two at a time.

  I let him go, and I go back outside, wishing I could feel the sun's warmth on my face. I feel warmth, but it's not the same as really feeling it. It's the same with cold. It's there. I can sense it, but it doesn't bite my skin or feel uncomfortable.

  To my right, I hear the squeal of children and notice the playground nearby. The two girls who ate lunch with Brecken are there. The youngest is on a little merry-go-round with a couple of other kids. Faded red paint is worn thin under their feet. The older girl sits in a swing, barely moving, but keeping her eye on the younger one.

  I wander over and sit in the swing beside the older girl, her long, dark hair reaching past her waist. She looks up and the sun catches her blue eyes—deep pools of sadness. Almost identical to Brecken's. She watches her little sister, silent and waiting.

  I push back in the swing, but it doesn't move. I always loved swing sets and I ache to feel that roller coaster tug in the pit of my stomach after going too high. Instead, I sit still, bored and frustrated. “So, you're Brecken's sister?”

  She doesn't answer. I didn't think she would, but maybe Brecken's talent runs in the family. “Okay. I'm going to ask you some questions. If the answer is yes, push back on the swing. If no, just stay where you are. Got that? Back for yes, stay for no. All right. Here we go.”

  I pause for a moment, thinking of the things I most want to know. I decide to start with an easy question. “Are you a brat like Brecken?”

  The girl pauses and after a couple seconds, pushes back with her foot, setting the swing in motion.

  “Good!” I knew it. She has that sassy-britches expression just like her brother. I think for a moment then ask, “Do you like where you live?”

  She lets the swing slow to a standstill. I don't blame her. The neighborhood is a dive, not to mention rundown, dusty, and altogether ugly. “Okay. Time to tell me about Brecken. Is he a nice brother?”

  The swing moves, but she keeps her toe on the ground as she swivels back and forth. I take that for a kind of. “Hmm. Are you two close?”

  Again the swing moves, but this time hard. The girl leans back, her face determined. She pumps the swing a few times before letting it slow again. Anger radiates from her, pricking me like darts. What is she so angry at?

  “Okay, okay. I get it.” I don't know the details, but I can tell this girl is hurting terribly.

  The other little girl runs up to the swings, a wide smile spreading across her dimpled cheeks. “Heidi. Will you push me?”

  Hmm. Heidi. Cute name. “Heidi, say your sister's name for me, please.”

  Heidi stops swinging and frowns. “I'm not really in the mood,” she says to the little girl.

  “Please. Just once?”

  “Fine, but you have to make my bed for me.”

  The little girl's expression dips, a frown taking the place of her smile, but she climbs onto the last swing in line and waits.

  “Say her name, Heidi,” I say again.

  “Come on, Sophie. You don't have to pout.” Heidi gets up from her swing and gives Sophie a half-hearted push.

  “Good job, Heidi! Thank you.”

  The two stay on the swings for a few minutes more, and I watch them interact. I always wanted a sister and luckily found one in Natty. Thinking of her brings a smile to my face. We loved going to the local park and sitting on the swings. A rush of memories comes to mind. All of them good.

  Soon, Heidi and Sophie became bored and run off to play on the sun-faded big-toy across the field, dust puffing up around their feet as they race. What a crappy, depressing park.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  ~The Break-in~

  Alisa

  After Brecken's sisters run off to play, I decide to take the easy way back instead of walking. I close my eyes and concentrate, but I don't appear in Brecken's house—which is what I ex
pect—but in a dingy, smoke-filled living room.

  Not his.

  Sunlight filters through the ratty, brown curtains and onto a dark, shag carpet. I can't tell what color it was originally, but now it's throw-up, orangish-brown. Brecken sits on a couch with large holes in the worn, tangerine fabric. His feet are propped up on the scuffed coffee table, and his arm is draped around a girl—Jill. A joint dangles in his other hand.

  How did he leave his house without me knowing? Sneaky little devil.

  He brings the joint to his lips, taking a long inhalation, and then laughs when someone tells a stupid joke. He seems strangely relaxed with the four other teens who laze around the room too, puffing away. Loud music blares from a stereo in the corner, and empty beer bottles lay scattered over every surface. I definitely should have stayed with his sisters.

  I march over and stand before him. “This place is disgusting. Why would you even want to be here?” I cross my arms over my chest and glare, hoping he can see me.

  He freezes, the butt halfway to his mouth. With narrow eyes, his lips tighten and he clenches his jaw, leans forward, snuffs out the joint and grumbles.

  “If you have something to say, just spit it out,” I say. “What exactly are you doing here?” I stare at the homemade cigarette in his fingers. “You're smoking weed? Are you freaking kidding me?” I am fully aware that kids in high school smoke marijuana, but I never did. Not that I was a goody-goody—as if that's a bad thing—but compared to Brecken, I was the freakin' pope.

  “Great,” he growls, rising from the couch.

  “Aw Brecky, don't leave,” Jill whines, snuggling deeper into his side. “We're just getting started.” She pouts, her lips turning down at the corners.

  “I know. Sorry, but I need to go.”

  “Where?” a boy across the room asks. His sandy-blonde dreadlocks haven't been washed in a month. Neither have his jeans with holes in the knees. His feet are bare just like his chest. He takes a swig from a dark bottle.

  “Just somewhere, Jeff,” Brecken answers, grabbing his helmet beside the front door.

  “Get me some too!” Jeff calls with a chuckle.

  Brecken hurries to his motorcycle and turns the key, ignoring his friend.