He nodded and took his seat. He glanced at
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Amanda and then looked quickly away.
He's embarrassed, Amanda thought. He knows I was using him and he's feeling awkward. Not to mention the fact that he came to in a girls' restroom.
She waited for the bell to ring and went to his seat before he could even get up.
"Hi . . ." she said, uncertain as to how he would respond.
He finally looked directly at her. "What happened?"
So he knew he hadn't been himself and he knew she had something to do with it. She realized honesty was the only way to go.
"I was inside your body. I saw you watching the soccer team practice. You looked so sad, and I felt sorry for you, and then, well, it just happened."
Okay, she wasn't being completely honest. But he didn't have to know her real motives. Mostly because those motives had disappeared once Rick had come into her life.
"How did it feel?" she asked. "Having me inside you?"
"I don't know," he said. "I mean, it was like a dream, all blurry and ... and not real. Like I was here
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and I wasn't here . . ." He looked at her helplessly.
She could almost understand how he felt. It had to be so personal, having someone else inside you. Funny how she had never considered what Tracey felt when she had left her body. But then, Amanda Beeson didn't ever consider other people's feelings.
"What did you make me do?" he asked suddenly.
"You gave me a poem," she admitted. Even as she spoke, she knew it was a mistake to tell him this. Because, of course, there was only one thing he could say.
"Why?"
She confessed, "I wanted you to like me."
It wasn't a very flattering reaction. He looked confused and then embarrassed again. He also seemed curious.
"Was it a good poem?" he asked.
"Yeah. But I didn't appreciate it."
He nodded and then rose. "I have to go."
She watched him leave and wondered if she'd ever have any kind of relationship with him again. Of course he wasn't surprised to learn that she hadn't appreciated a poem. The Amanda Beeson
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he knew wouldn't care.
If she'd known then what she knew now--about people and feelings. About herself. About pain and hurt and sadness.
But now she understood. And like the old poster proclaimed, this could be the first day of the rest of her life. She could be a different person, a better person.
Without Rick. And she had to call on the resources of the old Amanda, the Amanda who didn't care, to keep herself from bursting into tears right there and then.
Because she didn't think the memory would be enough.
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Chapter 16
SOMETHING WEIRD WAS GOING on with Amanda, Jenna thought as she half listened to Sarah's report. She could tell, just from the snotty girl's expression. She could explore her mind and find out what was happening.
But she had too many other things to think about. She was excited and she was scared.
Her father had called the principal to get her excused. He was picking her up right after this class, in less than 30 minutes. They'd be going directly to the airport, where he'd return the little rental car and they'd board a flight to Las Vegas. That was the exciting part.
She hadn't told Tracey, and she hadn't left a note for the Devons. But that wasn't the scary part. She wasn't sure what the scary part was. Flying for the first time? She didn't think that was it.
Sarah had finished her report, and Madame called
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on Ken. Ken was reluctant.
"Could I put this off till tomorrow?" he asked. "I'm kind of not in the mood."
That wasn't the sort of excuse that Madame usually accepted, but for some strange reason, she smiled at Ken and nodded. "Yes, that's all right. Let's see . . . has everyone given their reports?"
Emily's hand shot up. Madame looked puzzled.
"You gave your report last week, Emily."
"I just have a question to ask Ken, Madame. I was wondering if maybe he's had a chance to think about what I asked him. If he could contact my father."
Madame frowned. "Emily--"
But before she could go on, Amanda spoke.
"Knock it off, Emily! Leave him alone!"
Jenna was stunned, and she assumed that everyone else in the room was having the same reaction. This wasn't like Amanda. She was way too emotional.
And she didn't stop. "You don't know what it's like for Ken--to get involved with people like this, people he can't see or do anything for. It's hard enough for him to cope with the ones who contact
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him--he shouldn't have to go out and seek them. He suffers. Don't you understand that?"
Was there another body snatcher around? Jenna wondered. Had someone taken over Amanda? She'd never heard Amanda speak with such passion before, not even about herself.
Ken was looking at Amanda, but he didn't seem quite as shocked as everyone else. And strangely enough, Madame was almost smiling.
Suddenly, Ken clutched his head. Madame looked at him in alarm. "Are you all right, Ken?" she asked for the second time that day.
"I'm getting a message," Ken blurted out.
"From my father?" Emily asked excitedly.
"No." He turned to Jenna. "From yours."
Jenna stared at him. "My father isn't dead."
Ken held up one hand and rubbed his forehead with the other. "Wait . . . yes. Okay. I will."
No one had ever actually seen or heard Ken talk to dead people before. The room was hushed and expectant.
His face cleared, and he spoke to Jenna. "He died eight years ago, Jenna. From a gunshot wound, in a
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fight. He wants me to give you a message."
"This is crazy," Jenna declared hotly. "I don't know who's talking to you, Ken, but it's not my father. Stuart Kelley is alive and well, and he's picking me up in less than thirty minutes."
"He's an impostor," Ken told her. "Your father says that guy found out about you, but he doesn't know how. He's a professional gambler. He wants to use you for your mind-reading gift so he can win at poker."
"That's not true! He saw my mother at the hospital. She'd know if he was an impostor."
"Are you sure he saw your mother, Jenna?" Madame asked quietly.
Amanda reached inside her handbag. "Here, use my cell phone. Call the hospital and find out if she's had any visitors."
"No!" Jenna cried out.
Ken was rubbing his head again. "He's a scam artist, Jenna. He's got a friend working with him. Someone named Arnie. Have you ever heard of him?"
Arnie. The guy in the restaurant who knew him from way back when. The poker game in the back
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room. Jenna's stomach turned over.
"This isn't true!" she screamed. But it came out as a whisper.
"Your father, your real father--he wants to save you from him, Jenna," Ken told her. "He's trying to protect you. He's had a hard time reaching me, but he wouldn't give up."
Jenna burst into tears.
She couldn't remember the last time she'd done this. Jenna Kelley didn't cry. That's what she'd told Emily when Emily had made that prediction about the tall, dark, handsome stranger. Who gave off bad vibes. Who would make her cry.
Tracey came over and hugged her. Jenna didn't pull away. She was aware of other people leaving their seats, coming over to her, surrounding her. Even Charles wheeled himself over. Madame came, too. Only Carter Street remained in his seat, oblivious to what was going on as usual.
Everyone else made a wall of support around her, keeping her safe, keeping her strong. Still, she couldn't stop crying.
She buried her face in her hands. "It's okay," came
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a soft voice. "Let it out." It sounded like Amanda, but of course that was impossible.
Slowly, the tears began to subside, and sh
e could hear Madame's voice over them. "This is why we have to watch out for one another. People will try to use us. And who knows what this man really wants? He could be part of something bigger, some conspiracy. We are always in danger from the outside world, class. What's happened to Jenna--it's a lesson for all of us. We're in this together."
"Why couldn't I read his mind?" Jenna asked in a whisper.
"Who knows?" Madame said simply. "He might have gifts of his own."
"And how could he have known that my mother wouldn't be home when he came to my apartment?"
Madame gently touched her head. "As I said, Jenna, other people could be involved."
Charles spoke. "What a jerk! Hey, Jenna, do you want me to drop a house on him?"
"I'm getting the feeling," Martin said excitedly. "I could go beat him up."
Jenna took her hands away from her wet face.
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Tracey silently passed her a tissue.
"It's okay," she said, her voice trembling. "I can handle this myself."
"No, Jenna," Madame said. "We need one another."
The bell rang. Jenna looked at Madame. "He's picking me up in front of the school."
Madame nodded. She made a gesture, and everyone moved away, giving her room to stand up. Carter Street walked out of the room. Everyone else waited around Jenna. When she started to move toward the door, they encircled her, walking with her. Charles rolled along by her side.
Outside, the little yellow compact was waiting by the curb. The circle parted, letting Jenna see the car clearly. And the driver.
The handsome man was smiling. There was no question about it--he had a charming smile. It felt like a knife stabbing her in the heart.
Their eyes met. She still couldn't read his mind, but maybe he read hers. Or maybe it was just written all over her face.
His smile faded. She could see his hand go to the
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gearshift. Then, suddenly, he sped away.
Dimly, Jenna heard Madame suggesting to Tracey that she take her home. Emily was saying she'd wait with Jenna while Tracey collected their things. She was aware of a hug, a pat on the shoulder, a hand briefly clutching hers. She wasn't sure who was hugging, who was patting . . . but they were friends, she thought. Maybe.
The only thing she was really sure of was the fake tattoo on her arm. Dad. It was already starting to fade. She'd just have to wear long sleeves until it was gone completely.
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NINE SECRET GIFTS IN ONE CLASS-- WHAT COULD POSSIBLY GO WRONG?
Find out in an excerpt from Book 1 in the GIFTED series:
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THERE WERE 342 STUDENTS at Meadowbrook Middle School and three lunch periods each day. This meant that during any one lunch period there could be no more than 114 students in the cafeteria. The noise and commotion, however, suggested that half the population of mainland China was eating lunch together.
Students roamed the cavernous space, shouting, racing from one end to the other, knocking over chairs, banging trays down on tables. There were a couple of teachers who were supposed to be supervising the scene and maintaining order, but they couldn't stop the occasional flying meatball from that day's Spaghetti Special or the far-reaching spray from a soda bottle that had been intentionally shaken before being opened.
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From her prime seat at the best table, Amanda Beeson surveyed the chaotic scene with a sense of well-being. The cafeteria was noisy and messy and not very attractive, but it was part of her little kingdom-- or queendom, if such a word existed. She wasn't wearing any kind of crown, of course, but she felt secure in the knowledge that in this particular hive, she was generally acknowledged as the queen bee.
On either side of her sat two princesses--Sophie Greene and Britney Teller. The three of them were about to begin their daily assessment of classmates. As always, Amanda kicked off the conversation. "Ohmigod, check out Caroline's sweater! It's way too tight."
"No kidding," Sophie said. "It's like she's begging for the boys to look at her."
"And it's not like she's got anything on top to look at" Britney added.
Amanda looked around for more victims. "Someone should tell Shannon Fields that girls with fat knees shouldn't wear short skirts."
"Terri Boyd has a new bag," Britney pointed out.
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"Is it a Coach?"
Amanda shook her head. "No way. It's a fake."
"How can you tell from this far away?" Sophie wanted to know.
Amanda gave her a withering look. "Oh, puh-leeze! Coach doesn't make hobo bags in that shade of green." Spotting imitation designer goods was a favorite game, and Amanda surveyed the crowd for another example. "Look at Cara Winters s sweater."
"Juicy Couture?" Sophie wondered.
"Not.You can tell by the buttons."
Sophie gazed at her with admiration. Amanda responded by looking pointedly at the item in Sophie's hand. "Sophie, are you actually going to eat that cupcake? I thought you were on a diet."
Sophie sighed and pushed the cupcake to the edge of her tray. Amanda turned to her other side.
"Why are you staring at me like that?" Britney asked.
"You've got a major zit coming out on your chin."
Britney whipped a mirror out of her bag.
"It's not that big," Sophie assured her. "No one
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can see it."
"I can," Amanda declared.
"Really?" Britney stared harder into the mirror. Amanda thought she saw her lower lip tremble, and for a moment she almost felt sorry for her. Everyone knew that Britney was obsessed with her complexion. She was constantly searching her reflection for any evidence of an imminent breakout, she spent half her allowance on face creams, and she even saw a dermatologist once a month. Not that she really needed to give her skin all that attention. If Britney's face had been half as bad as she thought it was, she wouldn't be sitting at Amanda's table. But she was still staring into her little mirror, and now Amanda could see her eyes getting watery.
Oh no, don't let her cry, she thought. Amanda didn't like public displays of emotion. She was always afraid that she'd get caught up in them herself.
Three more of their friends--Emma, Katie, and Nina---joined them at the table, and Britney got more reassurance on the state of her skin. Finally, Amanda gave in. "You know, I think there's a smudge on one of my contact lenses. Everybody looks like
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they've got zits."
Britney looked relieved, and Amanda made a mental note not to waste insults on friends. She didn't want to have to feel bad about anything she said. Feelings could be so dangerous.
Luckily, Emma brought up a new subject. "Heather Todd got a haircut."
"From Budget Scissors," Amanda declared, referring to a chain of cheap hair whackers.
"Really?"
"That's what it looks like."
Katie giggled. "Amanda, you're terrible!"
Amanda knew this was intended as a compliment, and she accepted it by smiling graciously. Katie beamed in the aura of the smile, and Amanda decided not to mention the fact that Katie's tinted lip-gloss had smeared.
Besides, there were so many others who were more deserving of her critical attention. Like the girl who was walking toward their table right now: Tracey Devon, the dreariest girl in the eighth grade, the most pathetic creature in the entire class--maybe even in the whole school.
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Marilyn Kaye, Better Late Than Never
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