“Why have you been following me? Are you trying to take over my body?” I ask, trying, unsuccessfully, to keep the frightened shriek in my voice to a minimum.
“No,” Mara says. “That’s not how it works. I promise I only want to help you.”
“How are you supposed to help me? By possessing me so you can make Conor like me?”
“I can’t possess your body for too long or your spirit will abandon your body. Without a spirit, you’ll die.”
“Oh, great!”
“Wait. I’m not explaining myself well,” she continues. “I want to help you and Conor… fall in love.”
The blunt delivery of this confession, as if making two people fall in love is as easy as saying a magic word, makes my stomach clench. Love isn’t that easy. I know this. I’ve watched my mom struggle to get over my father’s death. It’s been seven years and she hasn’t moved on. And, of course, there’s Frankie. Love isn’t something that can be artificially created. It just happens. You can’t force it and you certainly can’t stop it.
And I’m no one’s charity case. Anger coils inside me. She’s been studying me for two months and Mara’s convinced I’m utterly pathetic.
“I want you to leave,” I whisper.
“But I can help you.”
“I don’t need your help.” I’m beyond anyone’s help.
A crease forms between Mara’s shimmering eyebrows, below the pulsating jewel in her headdress.
“What? You thought you’d confess to spying on me and I’d be jumping for joy? That’s not being helpful. In this century, it’s called being creepy. Please leave.” My anger is dotted with shame that makes my voice shake. If a spirit can see my loneliness, it must be written all over my face.
Mara’s face flashes with anger for just a split second, but it’s enough to glimpse the striking beauty beneath her round, innocent features. She was betrothed and she killed herself so she wouldn’t have to live without her true love. Then she killed some guy because he broke her heart. This girl is dangerous. Beautiful, but deadly.
I don’t want her anywhere near Conor or me… or Frankie.
Chapter 9
Belinda may think she doesn’t need or want me around, but I know better. After just two months, I probably know her better than she knows herself.
I stand motionless in the corner of Conor’s bedroom as he’s sprawled out on his bed, blankets dangling off the edge of his mattress and drool staining his pillow. I have to find out more about Conor. I must find a way to bring him and Belinda together.
But why? The question flashes in my mind and I try not to answer it the way Darius would: because it is their fate.
In the past 105 years, my path has collided with Darius’s spirit more than two hundred times. We’ve never gone more than three years without seeing each other. Darius calls it fate. I call it exactly what Belinda would call it: creepy. But I haven’t seen Darius in nearly twelve years. Either he’s finally given up or I’m due for a visit soon.
I don’t think my refusal to let go of my grudge against Darius is childish as he says. His affair was the catalyst for the disaster that took our bodies from us—again. I don’t want to be a carrier spirit anymore.
I want to feel the wind in my hair. I want to taste a fresh summer berry bursting on my tongue. I want to feel the rhythm of a symphony vibrating in my bones. None of that is possible now.
I haven’t come across two individuals more properly suited for each other than Conor and Belinda, and I will not allow this opportunity to slip through my fingers. I can help them fall in love. I can earn my body back.
But first, I must learn more about Conor. What is he interested in? What makes him angry? What makes him happy? Who does he trust?
My fingers glide over the edge of his glass desk, but I can’t feel the coolness of the glass on my fingertips. My hand hovers over a sketchbook on the desk and the cover flaps open revealing a sketch of a flower. If I had a heart it would have stopped beating.
I trace the edges of the flower, a star lily, and my mind is flushed with three-hundred-year-old memories: Darius’s drawings of lilies stacked, tied with ribbon, and tucked inside the stuffing of my pillow. Hundreds of drawings all signed Darius instead of Samuel, the way his other artwork was signed. He often hid secret messages in the drawings. A star lily with five petals meant I love you and African lilies meant meet me at the dock at midnight.
So Conor likes to draw. The crucifix on the wall above his bed glints in the moonlight. He loves Jesus. A pile of dirty laundry is stacked on the desk chair. He hates putting his dirty clothes in the hamper. The shelves above his desk are stacked with everything from sports magazines to Hemingway. In between the piles of books are baseball trophies and track medals. He’s a walking contradiction.
His mouth hangs slack as he sleeps. I have a sudden urge to smell him. I remember what I smelled when I was in Belinda’s body and his lips were on mine. He smells like sunshine and seawater. His lips were so soft and tasted like candy.
What am I doing? I’m here to get Conor to fall in love with Belinda, not me. It’s not as if I haven’t experienced these sensations through the dozens of humans who’ve carried me in the last couple of centuries… and with Darius.
But Conor is different. No, he’s not. He’s my ticket to getting out of carrier spirit prison. Nothing more.
This tug-of-war in my mind goes on for a few moments as I watch him turn onto his belly and pull the blanket into the crook of his arm, like a child with a teddy bear. The blue light from his alarm clock illuminates his face as the corner of his mouth stretches into a tiny half-smile. He must be having a pleasant dream. Maybe he’s dreaming about Belinda. Maybe he’s dreaming about our kiss.
Chapter 10
Listen
Frankie stares at me across the table at Islands Café with a look of utter shock on his slender face as if I’ve just confessed to pushing a stroller full of kittens in front of a moving bus.
“You kissed him on the first date?” he replies after I recount my date with Conor.
“It was just a kiss,” I reply as I take a sip of my mocha frappe. “It’s not like I did a strip tease for him.”
Frankie glares at me from beneath the fringe of golden-auburn curls that dangle above his hazel eyes. He’s not amused with this comparison.
Frankie is a Payne Bay paradox: a serious surfer who has never ditched first period to catch a wave. The bronze skin on his shoulders and cheeks is dotted with light freckles from spending every sunny afternoon at the beach for the past six years. His boyish features, outgoing personality, and surfer’s body allow him to have his pick of just about any girl at Pacific High, but he hardly dates and he’s never been in a serious relationship—unless you count the three days in March that nearly ruined our friendship.
He toys with the straw in his iced black coffee. He drinks his coffee black, whether it’s hot or cold. He’s serious about almost everything, including surfing, coffee, studying, and, at one time, me.
Sometimes, like right now, Frankie and I experience extreme moments of discomfort; moments when we’re both reminded of that time we lost our heads and tried to take our friendship to the next level. We both agreed not to mention that whole experience, but sometimes I wonder if not talking about it makes it more awkward and painful.
I want to change the subject from Conor. I want to tell Frankie about Mara, but he would think I’ve lost my mind. And, after confessing my first-date escapades, I don’t want to create any more awkwardness between Frankie and me.
“So… I thought we were going to work on Mrs. Preciso’s project,” I say as I stir the frothy whipped cream into my frappe.
“I forgot the book in my locker,” he replies, shrugging apologetically.
I can’t help but laugh, even though our English project is due in two days and forgetting the book at this point is completely reckless. Frankie never forgets an assignment and he’s always prepared. This isn’t like him.
&
nbsp; “Is everything okay?”
“Yeah, just surfing stuff. Nothing interesting.”
A few minutes later we toss our empty cups into the trash bin and hop onto our bikes to head for the library. Frankie and I have spent every Friday and Sunday night at the Payne Bay Library for the past three years as volunteers. Ever since the economy tanked and hundreds of city employees were sacked, the Payne Bay Library has relied on a steady stream of volunteers to keep them from shutting down.
Frankie shakes his head as I lock up my bike and we make our way to the library entrance. “I don’t think the lock is necessary anymore,” he teases me.
“The rust gives it character,” I reply.
“There’s always the option of rolling it into the garage, you know, that thing attached to your house where your mom keeps her car.”
“Yeah, well, what happens when a rapist comes in through my bedroom window and I have to make a run for it? Am I going to stop to unlock the garage door? No. I keep my bike on the side of the house so I can hop on it and—boosh!—out of there.”
“You are so ridiculous.”
I shrug as we walk past the twelve-foot-tall sculptures of book stacks. Little Women is three-feet-thick at the Payne Bay Library. This is Frankie’s excuse for never reading it.
Frankie and I wave at Krista as we pass the front desk and she casts a weary smile in our direction. We find a tattered copy of Heart of Darkness and an empty study nook, then we settle ourselves in for a long study session. We’re halfway through our outlines when my phone vibrates in my pocket. If I’m with Frankie, it has to be my mom.
I fish the phone out of the small pocket of my backpack and my heart flutters when I see Conor’s name flashing on the screen.
“Your mom?” Frankie asks.
I can’t help but flash him a weird smile as I hit the green button. “Hello?” I whisper, but there’s no sound on the other end. “Hello?” I whisper again and finally Conor’s voice comes through.
“Hello?” he says. “Belinda, are you there? I can’t hear you.”
“I’m here,” I say a little louder and Frankie flashes me a stern look. I’ve violated the sacred library code of silence.
Shaking my head at Frankie, I mouth, “I’m going outside,” as I stand from the wooden chair and make my way down the stairs toward the exit.
“Conor?” I say as I approach the sliding doors. “Are you still there?”
“Belinda?” he replies. “Are you busy? Why are you whispering?”
“No, I’m not busy. Just studying with—at the library. What’s up?” I say as I finally make it outside.
“Big project?”
“Yeah, AP English. It’s sort of a big deal.”
“Oh, well, I’ll let you get back to your studying then. I just called to ask if you want to see that new doomsday movie tonight.”
“Tonight?”
“It’s probably too late. I should have called you yesterday.”
“No, no, it’s—it’s okay. Yeah, I’d love to go… tonight.”
A short pause on the other end of the line makes me wonder if he’s rethinking his decision to ask me out based on my lame response. Part of me wishes he’d change his mind so I don’t have to tell Frankie about another date with Conor.
“I’ll pick you up at 7:30?”
“Perfect.”
When I make it back to the study nook, Frankie has packed up all his notes. He heaves his backpack over his shoulder and starts toward the stairs. He almost walks past me, as if he doesn’t see me.
“Where are you going?” I ask, grabbing his forearm, but he quickly yanks his arm out of my hand.
“Sorry, I didn’t see you.”
“Didn’t see me?” I reply. “You looked straight at me when you were slipping your backpack on. Where are you going?”
“I have to get home and finish this outline, then I have a SurfRiders meeting at Hopper’s house.”
Hopper: a strange name for an even stranger guy who Frankie likes to surf with once in a while. He keeps refusing to look at me, choosing instead to gaze at the steel handrail or the maroon carpet. It takes everything in me not to confront this awkward behavior. The truth is, I would probably behave the same way in Frankie’s place. It hurts to see my best friend hurting. It hurts even more to know that I’m the cause of his pain.
“I guess we’ll finish the outlines on our own. I’ll call you later?”
He nods at me then takes the stairs down two at a time.
I finish my outline at the library then ride my bike home at six o’clock. I don’t have time to take a shower. I slather on some extra deodorant and change my clothes in hopes that Conor doesn’t smell the sweat from my bike ride. I finish brushing my teeth and grab a hand towel on the way out of the bathroom to blot my mouth. I open my bedroom door and Mara is sitting on my bed.
“What are you doing here?” I whisper. “I thought you left.”
“I’m here to give you another chance,” she responds.
“Another chance for what? To be part of your creepy experiment? No, thanks.”
“Are you sure you can do this without me?” she asks with a condescending smile. At least, it looks condescending to me.
I glance at the alarm clock on my bedside table: 7:24 p.m. I toss the towel onto my bed and it passes right through Mara’s stomach. I shake my head as I leave the room and sprint down the stairs.
She came to plant a seed of doubt in my mind and she has succeeded. My stomach bottoms out as I reach the last step as I imagine getting through this date without Mara. I didn’t have these doubts and anxiety when Frankie took me out. No, this is what Mara is trying to do. I cannot let her get inside my head—or my body!
“I’m going to a movie. Be back in a few hours!” I shout as I wrench the door open just in time to see Conor’s sleek black BMW pulling up to the curb.
Pulling the door closed behind me, I catch a glimpse of Conor’s face through the windshield. He looks so handsome and hopeful. And so disarming. Just one look at him and already my pulse is racing. I take the first step down from the porch and I step too far forward. My foot lands on the corner of the step and I tumble face first onto the stairs.
My left knee and elbow crash against the concrete stairs with a sickening crack. The impact drives a bolt of electric pain through my arm, into my shoulder and collarbone. Within seconds, Conor is at my side and my humiliation scalds my cheeks.
“Are you all right?” he asks. “You came down hard.”
The walkway is damp from the sprinklers and the smell of wet concrete mixes with the clean smell of Conor’s shirt. I close my eyes and breathe it in. Maybe if I never open my eyes I’ll die of embarrassment with his scent embedded in my memory.
I open my eyes and he’s still there, his brown eyes wide with concern. His mouth is moving, but I can’t hear his words over the roaring rush of mortification throbbing inside my ears. He makes a move toward the front door and I finally shake off the haze.
“I’m fine!” I shout before he can knock on the door. “It’s just a scratch.”
I push myself up and try not to grimace as the burning sensation on my elbow flares up. Glancing at my wounds, I see tiny droplets of blood bubbling up from fresh scrapes on my elbow and knee.
“See.” I hold up my elbow for a split second. “Just a tiny scrape. Let’s go. I don’t want to miss the beginning of the movie.”
Heading toward Conor’s car, I make a concerted effort not to limp on my scraped knee. When I make it to the car, I lean discreetly against the car door so the inside of my skirt soaks up the droplets of blood on my leg.
I reach for the door handle, but Conor beats me to it. “Are you sure you’re okay?” he asks as he opens the door for me.
Scooting around him, I try to maintain my composure, though my chest has accidentally brushed against his arm. “I’m fine,” I repeat this a few more times as I slip into the passenger seat and he shakes his head as he closes the door.
&nb
sp; He gets into the car and his gaze immediately falls on my leg. I attempt to pull my skirt over my knee, but it doesn’t reach far enough to cover the scrape, so I just leave my hand on top of my knee as if that’s what I was trying to do.
“Let me see your knee,” he says with that boyish smile that makes my entire body weak.
“It’s fine.”
He reaches over and lifts my hand then sets it down in my lap. He pulls a tissue from a small packet of tissues in his glove compartment and wets it with a few drops of water from a water bottle in his cup holder. He gently dabs the scrape on my knee and I grit my teeth against the burn. But even with the pain, I don’t want him to stop touching me.
Suddenly, all I can feel is the soft sand beneath me and all I can smell is the ocean… and Frankie. I shake my head as I snatch the tissue out of Conor’s hand.
“I’m fine. Really. Can we go now?”
He notices the tight smile on my face and he nods. “You weren’t kidding about falling down and bumping into things,” he says, and a grin spreads across his cheeks. “It’s kind of hot.”
Hot?
We get our popcorn and soda and make it to our seats in the theater without further bloodshed. As we watch the previews, Conor reaches into my lap and grabs my hand. My chest expands with warm fullness as he brings my hand to his lips and plants a soft kiss on my knuckles.
“Thank you for coming with me,” he whispers.
I’m grateful for the darkness of the theater as I’m certain my face is as red as the scrape on my knee. As we watch the movie, Conor lightly brushes his thumb over the top of my hand and I can hardly focus on anything else—not even the booming explosions on the screen. The more he caresses my hand the more nervous I get. The more nervous I get, the more my tongue becomes glued to the roof of my mouth.