Death, and the Girl He Loves

  I closed the sketchbook when I realized it was doing no one any good. I doubted if they knew him that they’d recognize him from my six-year-old’s memory and amateurish drawing. “We have to keep looking. It seems our only shot at stopping this war before it starts is finding this man’s identity.”

  “And stopping him,” Glitch said.

  Granddad started the van and we headed back to Riley’s Switch. It would take a little over an hour to get there, which meant I had a little over an hour to snuggle with Jared. I leaned back against him and squirmed until I found just the right spot. He laughed softly and nipped at my ear.

  “You have to tell me everything,” Brooklyn said from over the back of my seat.

  I couldn’t help but notice how much effort she put into avoiding eye contact with Cameron. Surely they’d kiss and make up eventually.

  “I want to know all about Maine. And the kids there. And boarding schools. They seem so foreign.”

  “They are,” I said with a grin. “They definitely take some getting used to.”

  “A little different from Riley High?” she asked, one corner of her mouth rising.

  “A lot different.” Then I thought about it. After a quick glance toward Kenya, I said, “And yet not so much.”

  Brooke nodded in understanding. “Did you keep up with your exercises?”

  I rolled my eyes. “Yes, Mom.” She was always pushing me to try to see more. In my visions. In pictures. I remembered one such exercise and grabbed my bag to rake through it. Finding the picture I had of us in the fifth grade, I took it out and showed it to her accusingly. “You took Mrs. Bradshaw’s paperweight.”

  “What?”

  “You took it. The whole class got in trouble, and you’re the one who took it.”

  She snorted, indignant. “I so did not.”

  I narrowed my eyes on her. “I was there,” I said, shaking the evidence at her. “I saw the whole thing. She made you mad when she wouldn’t let you go to the bathroom because you’d just been, so you took her dragon paperweight when she was busy snapping pictures.”

  After several false starts at a comeback, she switched directions. “I put it back the next day,” she said, more than a little disconcerted. “Maybe you don’t need to practice quite that much. Don’t want to overdo, you know? Pull a brain muscle or something.” She tapped her head for emphasis.

  “Yeah, that’s what I thought.” I gave her my best tough girl attitude, channeling Kenya.

  Unfortunately, Kenya picked up on it and leveled a deadpan expression on me.

  “What?” Brooke and I said in unison.

  BETTY AND THE BARCALOUNGER

  Driving through Riley’s Switch after so long an absence caused a lump to form in my throat. The warmth of nostalgia spread through me as we passed familiar trees, schools, and the small businesses that lined Main Street. But all that stopped when we hit the square. Glitch was right. We’d been invaded by the media.

  News vans littered the area around the courthouse and gravitated toward the Traveler’s Inn, one of our more famous structures. People swore it was haunted and we’d had everything from ghost hunters to novelists visit to get a glimpse of the lady in white. But the news vans and all the visitors were like blemishes on our small town. I realized how selfish I was being. The world would want to know about all the strange activities going on, but having the signs of the apocalypse, the one that I was supposed to stop, advertised all over the world upped the stress levels already coursing through my veins.

  And then I saw them. Sprinkled among the throngs of sightseers snapping pictures and end-timers praying en masse were those who were just a little bit different. They stood in the middle of all the chaos and yet apart, their stares vacant as we passed by. A blond woman in her thirties. An elderly man with a gray beard. A young girl no older than myself with dark circles under her red-rimmed eyes and a snarl on her mouth. They watched us as we slid past. No, they watched Jared. These were the possessed people Glitch told us about.

  I turned an astonished gaze on him, but he was busy staring back through glittering, dark eyes, as though promising their fates would end soon.

  Then we pulled up to my grandparents’ store. My home. We lived in the back of the store and my bedroom was upstairs, above it. I never thought I’d be so happy to see that old store, but I was a little shocked at the state in which I found it. Most of the plate glass windows were broken and either had to be boarded up or duct-taped. One corner had been spray-painted, but not tagged as one would expect. It was a threat. An accusation. All it said was TRAITOR.

  I looked away from the evidence of what my grandparents had been going through on my behalf, and anger coursed through me. How dare they treat my grandparents with such disrespect after everything they’d done for the church, for the town. A thought—so small, it barely took root before I pushed it away—flashed in my mind. Why would I want to save people like that? Why would I want to risk my life to help those who treated my grandparents so horribly?

  But I couldn’t think like that. The mere idea caused a wave of nausea. How dare I judge them. That made me no better than those who would behave so callously.

  Several old friends and members of the congregation were waiting for us at home. They’d organized a potluck, and Betty Jo, my grandma’s best friend, was busy setting out utensils when we walked in through the store. She stopped, her round face full of relief and joy and something that resembled hope. I tried not to let it weigh me down. She was a member of the Order. She knew what was supposed to happen just like the rest of us. She knew the premonitions where I was concerned. And she believed.

  I set my jaw. Tried to believe with her as she rushed forward and wrapped me into her soft arms. Getting hugged by Betty Jo was like getting hugged by an overstuffed Barcalounger, comforting and warm.

  “We have missed the dickens out of you,” she said when she set me at arm’s length. “Your grandmother has been beside herself.”

  “Now, now, Betty Jo,” Grandma chided, a soft warning in her tone that only someone who knew her as well as Betty Jo and I would pick up on. “I have been just fine.”

  A look that I could only describe as horror flashed across Betty’s face, and I almost laughed out loud. Clearly Grandma was a big fat liar. I’d have to tease her about that later.

  “Right,” Betty said. “Fine.” She winked at me and I smothered a giggle.

  Sheriff Villanueva came in through the store then, his arms full with ice in one hand and a casserole dish in the other. “Mrs. Chavez said this needs to go in the oven.” He stopped then and, after looking me up and down, dropped his load on the breakfast bar and came forward for a hug, too. I’d never hugged the sheriff before, but he was part of our family if anyone was. He’d been there for us when we needed him most.

  “Good to see you, kid.”

  I offered him my very best grateful smile. “Thank you for sticking by them.”

  He shrugged it off. “Wouldn’t dream otherwise.”

  We followed the hum of voices. A few of our closest friends were grilling hamburgers and talking about the strangest things they’d seen so far, each trying to one-up the other.

  Many of our congregation were there, people rushing around preparing for a cookout. Most came up and hugged me. It was a nice homecoming. But a few didn’t. They were clearly just as angry with me as they were with my grandparents, and that made me angry. I wanted to rail at them. Turn on my cyclone-with-arms trick. But that hadn’t worked very well the first time. I could take only so much humiliation.

  Kenya fixed herself a plate after some preemptive introductions and said to me, “Seems like a lot of your grandfather’s parishioners are a little peeved with him.”

  The feelings of resentment came crashing through again. “How dare they try to dictate what we do. It’s our lives. My life.”

  She shrugged and crunched a chip. “You can’t be too mad at them.”

  Brooklyn’s jaw came unhinged. “Yes, we can
. They don’t have the right to try to tell Lor or her grandparents what to do. How to live their lives.”

  “You have to understand,” Kenya said, “they believe in you. They believe you are going to save them from whatever is coming. When you left, they felt abandoned. You need to try to see it from their side.”

  “Well, their side is stupid,” Brooke said, stealing a chip off Kenya’s plate. “They don’t know what Lorelei has been through.”

  Kenya eyed Brooke as though she was going to shank her for grand larceny. It was a tense moment. After coming to her senses, she said, “True heroes are never heroes for the recognition. They do what they are supposed to do, play the hand they’ve been dealt.”

  “Is that what you think?” I asked, my mouth hanging open. It couldn’t have been appealing. “That I want recognition? I never asked for this. I never wanted to be this great prophet who is supposed to figure out how to stop this stupid war. I don’t expect anything, especially a pat on the back.”

  The barest hint of a smile tilted her mouth. “And true heroes don’t seek out their heroism. It’s thrust upon them. Kind of like what’s happening to you.” She winked at me and strode away as Brooke and I both just stood there like bumps on a log.

  “She sucks,” Brooke said, indignant. “She’s way too calm about this whole thing. Too logical.”

  “Right? Since when does logic enter into anything we do?”

  “Exactly.”

  Dinner was wonderful. We had a kitchen full of food, including my grandmother’s famous green chile stew, Betty Jo’s amazing asparagus casserole, and Mrs. Chavez’s hand-rolled tamales. I ate more in that one meal than I did the entire time I was in Maine. Unless one were to count seafood. I pretty much ate my weight in seafood.

  Brooke and Glitch wanted to know everything. I told them what I could about Maine as we sat in plastic chairs, drinking orange soda around a fire pit. I explained how we only assumed we had the whole layering thing down. “They have that stuff down in Maine. It’s layer up or die a slow and painful death.”

  They nodded in understanding. But could they ever truly understand the depths of my near-hypothermic experience?

  Still, Maine was kind of cool. I’d certainly miss Crystal.

  With the sun dipping low on the horizon, I strolled as nonchalantly as I could over to Cameron. He’d eaten and was busy surveying the surroundings. He had yet to say ten words to me.

  “Hey,” I said, taking a sip of orange soda and leaning against the building beside him.

  He offered me a quick glance, then went back to scowling at the dirt. The dirt probably deserved it.

  “I love your hair. It really suits your face.” And it did. He was a handsome guy, even when glowering like now.

  But I got nothing. Not even a nod of acknowledgment.

  “I’m sorry. If that helps.” When he still didn’t reply, I continued. “I thought maybe if I left, things would change. They’d stop. Maybe this war wouldn’t happen.”

  “Do you think I give a damn about this stupid war?” he asked as though appalled. “I’m not here to fight a war, Lorelei. I’m here to keep you alive. Remember? That’s why I was created in the first place. I should have gone with you.”

  I blinked in surprise. “If I’d made you go with me, what do you think that would have done to Brooke? Your girlfriend is my best friend. You forget that sometimes.”

  “She’s not my girlfriend.”

  I’d noticed a strained silence between them all the way back. Brooke could hide things well, but clearly something was wrong.

  “What happened?” I asked him; then I glared at him and rephrased my question. “What did you do?”

  He straightened. “Me? I didn’t do anything. She’s the one full of piss and vinegar.”

  I kind of gaped at him. First, I’d only ever heard my grandparents use the piss-and-vinegar phrase. And second … “Brooke is mad at you? Why?”

  “She says I have no right to be angry. With you.” He said the last bit accusingly, then leaned closer. “But I do have that right.”

  Uh-oh. My running off in the middle of the night had caused more damage than I thought it would.

  “She’ll get over it,” I said. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to cause a rift between you two.”

  Maybe that was the root of his anger.

  “I’m not worried about Brooklyn’s temper either, Lor. I thought … I was created for one purpose only. My entire existence is because of you. If I can’t protect you, what good am I? What is my purpose?”

  “Is that what you think? That your only worth lies in protecting me?”

  He snorted. “Duh.”

  I almost laughed. I’d never heard him use the word “duh” before, either. If “duh” could be considered a word. “Did you ever think that maybe this whole thing is because of me? Maybe if I’d never been born, it would never have begun?”

  “That’s not egocentric at all.”

  He had a point. “Okay, sorry. But don’t you think it’s possible? I mean all the prophecies say that the last prophet of Arabeth will stop the war before it even begins. Maybe my birth was some kind of catalyst to the end of times.”

  His hard gaze turned almost sympathetic, but not in a nice, caring way. “The only thing your birth catalyzed was the constant pain in my ass.”

  Well, that was uncalled for. But again, he had a point.

  * * *

  Jared’s gaze followed me as I said my hellos to our friends. Mr. Moore only glared at me when I greeted him, but he was relieved to have me back. I could tell. Mrs. Henderson and the Dixon sisters were almost giddy to have me back. It was sweet. And there were new members, too. I knew their faces, but they’d never been members of our church, much less members of the Order.

  “Granddad, is everyone here members of our super-secret club?”

  “Sure are.” When he noticed where my gaze landed, he added, “We’ve had a few people come to us looking for answers. The whole town has been dealt a tricky hand.” He glanced down at me, his eyes sad. “I guess it’s time to set things right.”

  “I don’t suppose you’ve figured out how I’m supposed to do that?”

  He bit down, gestured toward Grandma and the rest of the gang, and took my hand. “I need to show you something.”

  Granddad gave the cue to the rest of the Scooby gang and herded us down our creepy stairs that led to our even creepier basement. It was not my favorite place to be, and yet it still held memories. Creepy memories, but memories just the same. Being in the shadowy room flooded me with feelings of nostalgia. It surprised me and I took a moment to absorb those feelings, pretending I was allowing my eyes to adjust to the darkness. I’d never been so glad to be in a creepy place.

  A single bulb burned overhead as Granddad took down an old box off a shelf. It was my father’s stuff. I’d riffled through it before. It was how I found out that my paternal grandfather was not only still alive, but he lived close by, doing fifteen to twenty in the state pen.

  Granddad gestured for me to sit on an old sofa we should have thrown out years ago. He sat the box on a rickety table my grandmother had refused to get rid of because I’d made it in middle school. It was a constant reminder of one field I should never go into: woodworking.

  Brooke and Glitch took up half the sofa, too. They scrunched together so Grandma could sit beside me, while Jared stood against the arm, close enough to touch my shoulder. Kenya seemed to feel like a fifth wheel. She scanned the small room, trying to figure out where to stand. She chose to sit on the other arm of the sofa, the one by Glitch. He smiled up at her when she did so. Oh, yeah. There was definitely something there.

  Cameron was busy being Cameron. He stayed near the stairs. Still refusing to join in the fun. Pouter. I wanted to tell him his face was going to freeze like that, but he probably wasn’t as gullible as I was. In my own defense, I was seven the last time I fell for the frozen-face thing. Possibly eight.

  “I’ve scoured the ancient
texts for years,” Granddad said. “Studied the prophecies that talked about the end of times. But there were several things I never noticed until recently.” He raked through the contents of the box, looking for something specific. He paused to focus his attention. “For one, there is one text that talks about you going into hiding before the war. It’s short and easy to miss.”

  My ears perked up. “You mean like I did?” I asked, astonished.

  He nodded. “They speak of you going into hiding in a place that is void of the sun.”

  “Granddad,” I said, grinning, “Maine has sunlight. Just not as much as we do.”

  “Exactly,” he said, slapping a hand on the table. “That is exactly what I want you to realize. To know deep in your heart, Pix. These texts are translated from the original documents. Some of them were in French. Some in Italian. But all those from Arabeth were in a very old form of Gaelic. They had to be translated, and because of that, they were diluted. The original meanings, the truest sources, are lost.” He fixed a pointed stare on me, willing me to understand his deeper message. “What I’m trying to get across to you, to all of you, is that we have to take everything the documents say with a grain of salt.”

  “So, you’re saying don’t take them literally?” Brooke asked.

  “Kind of. I mean, there are just some aspects that are going to be inaccurate.”

  Hope spread through me like a warm blush. “You mean, they could be wrong? I may not be the prophet? This whole war thing may not hinge on me?”

  He dropped his gaze. “No. I’m sorry, hon. That part is pretty clear.”