Better Late Than Never

  Once in a while, she'd be struck with a pang of guilt when she mocked a classmate. But whenever that happened, all she had to do was recall the awfulness of waking up as Tracey Devon and the mean comments spilled out pretty easily.

  Charles had finally finished his story, and Madame called on Sarah Miller next. Given Sarah's very

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  special gift and the fact that she never demonstrated it, Amanda was actually curious to hear what she had to say. With her pretty heart-shaped face and short black curly hair, Sarah looked so sweet that it was hard to believe she had the most dangerous gift of all.

  She was such a good student that she'd actually prepared notes for her report, and she consulted them now before she spoke.

  "I was six years old, and my parents were fighting a lot. They weren't violent or anything like that-- they just argued--but they were loud. One night they went on and on and on, and I kept thinking, Stop, stop, stop . . . And they did."

  Madame raised her eyebrows. "Couldn't that have been a coincidence?"

  Sarah looked sheepish. "Maybe ... except just having them be quiet wasn't enough for me. When I realized what I could do, I made them hug each other. Then I sent my mother to the kitchen to make popcorn, and I made my father turn on the TV, and I had us all curl up together on the couch to watch The Wizard of Oz."

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  Charles spoke up. "Wow! You are so lucky. I can only make things move. You can make people do what you want them to do."

  Amanda didn't think that Sarah looked as if she felt lucky. Madame must have been thinking the same thing, because she looked at Sarah with an expression that was unusually sympathetic.

  "Were you happy about this?" Madame asked quietly.

  "At first . . . and then I got scared. Because when I realized what I could do . . ." She shivered and looked pleadingly at the teacher. "Do I have to keep on talking about this?"

  "No, that will be enough," Madame said. "For now. Emily, when did you first realize you could see the future?"

  Emily didn't look like she particularly wanted to talk either. She took off her glasses, cleaned them with a cloth, and put them back on. Then she started twisting a lock of her long, straight brown hair as she mumbled something.

  "Speak up, Emily," the teacher said.

  The girl's voice was only slightly louder. "I talked

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  about this in class before."

  "Tell us again," Madame said. Her voice was kind but firm. Amanda couldn't believe she was going to force poor Emily to tell that dreary story again. Even she had to admit that it was pretty depressing. Did Madame really think this would make Emily feel better about her gift?

  Emily did as she was told. "I was really little, only five. It was in the morning, and my father was just about to leave for work. I remember that he wore a suit and carried a briefcase. I had a vision that he was going to be hit by a car just in front of our house, and I didn't tell him. And he was struck by a speeding car and was killed."

  Amanda could see the tears forming behind Emily's thick glasses. Despite herself, she felt sorry for the girl, and she became nervous. She had to do or say something right away or she might find herself inside that spacy girl's body.

  "You shouldn't feel bad," she declared quickly. "I mean, it's not like it was your fault."

  "I feel guilty that I didn't tell him about the vision," Emily said.

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  Amanda waved a hand in the air as if to brush that notion aside. "Get over it. Like you said yourself, it was the first time you had a vision.You couldn't have known you were seeing the future."

  Emily whispered something.

  "Speak up, Emily," Madame said again.

  "What if. . . what if it wasn't the first time?"

  Madame looked interested. "What do you mean?"

  "I keep thinking . . . maybe I had visions before that. Like I remember one day, my mother said she was going to bake a cake, and in my mind I saw a burned cake, and she forgot to take it out of the oven, and it did burn. And another time, I could see the people who would be living in the house next door even before it was sold . . ." Her voice was trembling now. "What if I had told my father what I could see in his future? I could have saved his life!"

  Jenna spoke. "Emily, you were five years old! You didn't understand what was going on inside your head."

  "You can't feel guilty about it," Tracey declared. "Even if you'd told your father that he was about to be hit by a car, what makes you think he would have

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  believed you? Who listens to little kids making predictions?"

  "They're right, Emily," Madame said. "You're not responsible for your father's death."

  "I just wish I knew what he thinks," Emily said. Suddenly, she drew in her breath sharply, leaned forward, and tapped the shoulder of the boy sitting in front of her.

  "Ken, you talk to dead people, don't you? Could you maybe try to find my father and ask him if he's mad at me? And tell him I'm sorry I didn't warn him?"

  Ken's brow was furrowed as he turned around and faced her. "I don't talk to dead people, Emily. Dead people talk to me!"

  "You don't talk back? I mean, haven't you ever had a conversation with one of them?"

  "Are you nuts?" Ken exclaimed. "I don't want to encourage them--I want them to stop!"

  Amanda listened to this exchange with interest. It was clear to her that Ken didn't like having a so-called gift any more than she did.

  "But if you could just--"

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  "Emily!" Madame interrupted her. "This is inappropriate. As you well know, there are people out there who would want to exploit us if they knew about our gifts. We do not exploit one another. Ken, will you tell us about the first time a dead person spoke to you?"

  Ken squirmed in his seat. "I really don't remember."

  Charles stared at him in disbelief. "Oh, give me a break. You don't remember the first time you heard a dead person talking to you?"

  Ken didn't look at him as he responded. "No. Um, I guess maybe they've been talking to me since I was born, so I never noticed."

  Little Martin Cooper turned to Ken. "What does it feel like, hearing dead people? Is it like having ghosts inside your head?" His expression was fearful, as if he was afraid that the ghosts might suddenly pop out of Ken's head and start haunting him.

  "It's not fun," Ken said shortly.

  "Is a dead person talking to you right now, Ken?" Tracey asked.

  He flinched. "Jeez, you make it sound like I'm a crazy person, hearing voices. No. Maybe. I don't

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  know--I don't listen."

  Amanda was skeptical, and she could tell that Madame didn't believe him either. Personally, she didn't care one way or another. She was too busy contemplating Ken from another angle. As a boyfriend.

  Why not? He was cute, he was cool, and her friends would be impressed if she hooked up with him. Even Nina would have to show her some respect. Being with someone like Ken Preston would definitely put her back on top. And it wasn't as if she'd suffer in the process of creating a relationship with him. ..

  "Amanda? When do you first recall experiencing your gift?"

  Amanda began to tell her story about the beggar she saw when she was five. As she spoke, she kept glancing at Ken. Maybe he'd be impressed with the fact that she could feel so sorry for people. But he wasn't even paying attention.

  She didn't tell the part about how she had been Tracey Devon--she couldn't bear the thought of Ken picturing the old Tracey in his mind and connecting the image with Amanda. Even the

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  new-and-improved Tracey wasn't up to her standards.

  Then Tracey's hand went up, and Amanda's stomach fell. Fortunately, it was almost time for the bell.

  "We'll hear from you tomorrow, Tracey," Madame said. "And from Jenna and Martin."

  "What about Carter?" Charles wanted to know.

  Martin started laughing, and Madame shot him a warning look. Then she looked a
t the boy whom no one knew.

  "Carter, will you give a report on your gift tomorrow?" she asked.

  There was no response to her question, and like the others, Amanda wasn't surprised. They couldn't be sure he had a gift. For as long as he'd been at Meadowbrook, he hadn't spoken. No one even knew his real name. A teacher had found him wandering on Carter Street. Not only mute, but he appeared to be an amnesiac, too. He was a complete and total mystery, which meant that he was very weird, and Amanda knew that was why he'd been put in this class. With the other weirdos.

  Who, in a million years, would ever believe that Amanda Beeson might have anything in common

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  with someone like Carter Street? It was truly sickening. She had to get out of here. And it certainly wouldn't hurt to have a partner to help her plan how to make her-- their --exit.

  Her seat was closer to the door than Ken's, so when the bell rang, she hurried out and then waited for him. As soon as he emerged, she began walking alongside him and spoke casually.

  "I can totally relate, Ken."

  "Huh?"

  "With what you said in class today. I really do understand."

  He looked at her in puzzlement. "Dead people talk to you, too?"

  "No--I mean, I don't want my gift either."

  "Yeah, well . . ." He looked away, and she understood. The busy, crowded hallway was no place for a discussion about something so personal.

  "I was thinking, maybe we could talk about it sometime," she ventured.

  There was a considerable lack of enthusiasm in his expression. "Isn't that what we do every day in class?"

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  "Sure, but I was thinking, just you and me ..." Her voice trailed off as he frowned. She wasn't even sure if he'd heard her.

  "I gotta go," he said abruptly. And he ducked into a boys' restroom.

  She supposed he might have really needed to go to the bathroom. Because why wouldn't he want to get together with her? She was pretty, she was popular--most boys would be pleased to find her flirting with them. And Ken had actually kissed her once, at Sophie's pool party the previous spring. Of course, it hadn't meant anything. Some other boys at the party had probably dared him to do it--they were all acting pretty goofy that day--but still ...

  Maybe he really hadn't heard her. One of those dead people could have been trying to get his attention. But that was exactly why he should listen to her. If she could lose her gift, she might be able to help him get rid of his.

  Those other "gifted" kids--they were freaks. She and Ken were cool. They belonged together--and out of that class.

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  Chapter 4

  JENNA HAD LEFT BROOKSIDE Towers only two days before, but already the buildings looked more grim and forbidding and not like home at all. She was very glad that Tracey and Emily had offered to come along with her after school.

  Of course, she didn't tell them that she was grateful.

  "You know, I could do this by myself," she informed them. "I don't know why you guys are tagging along."

  To Emily, Tracey said, "That's Jenna's way of saying thank you."

  Jenna ignored that. "And if the elevator is out of order, you'll be sorry. I'm on the fifth floor."

  "You can't bring back everything by yourself," Tracey pointed out, turning to Emily. "She forgot her raincoat, her bathrobe--lots of things. Including all her school stuff."

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  "A Freudian slip," Emily commented.

  "What's that?" Jenna asked, suspecting that it wasn't something you wore underneath your clothes.

  "It's when you think you're doing something accidentally but you have a subconscious reason. Like, you forgot your school stuff because you don't like school."

  That was one of the interesting things about Emily, Jenna thought. She might act all spacy and out of it, but then she'd come out with something really smart like that.

  "And don't worry about the elevator," Emily added. "It's working."

  And that was another weirdly interesting thing about Emily. "I can't believe you waste your gift predicting such stupid stuff," Jenna remarked.

  "I know," Emily said mournfully. "Things like that just come to me. Then when I try to predict something, I get it wrong. I'm getting better, though. I got four out of seven weather forecasts right last week."

  She was right about the elevator, too. But when they got off on the fifth floor, Jenna hesitated.

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  "What's the matter?" Tracey asked.

  She couldn't tell them the truth--that she was afraid her mother had given up, had left rehab, and was now passed out on the living-room floor.

  "Nothing," she said. Thank goodness they couldn't read her mind. "The apartment is at the end of the hall." Gritting her teeth, she strode forward, and the other two followed her. To her relief, the apartment was empty.

  "Have you heard from your mother?" Emily asked.

  Jenna shook her head as she led them into her bedroom. "People in rehab aren't allowed to be in contact with anyone on the outside. I guess she's doing all right." She heard something in Tracey's mind and turned to her. "Okay, maybe it's wishful thinking, but I can hope, can't I?"

  "Hey, you promised!" Tracey exclaimed in outrage.

  "Sorry, I forgot, "Jenna lied. She opened her dresser drawer and began throwing stuff onto the bed.

  "What are you guys talking about?" Emily wanted to know.

  "Jenna promised not to read my mind while she was staying with me," Tracey told her.

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  "You should do what I do," Emily said.

  "What do you do?" Tracey asked.

  "I don't know, but Jenna never reads my mind."

  Jenna grinned. "That's because I don't believe you're ever thinking anything that's worth paying attention to."

  "Ha-ha, very funny." Emily picked up Jenna's slippers. "What are we going to put all this stuff in?"

  Tracey produced several empty bags from her backpack, and the girls began filling them. Emily picked up a notebook and stopped.

  "Are these your notes from the gifted class?"

  Jenna glanced at the notebook. "Yeah. Why?"

  "Because I just got a vision of our next homework assignment."

  Tracey looked at her with interest. "So if you can touch something, it helps with your predictions?"

  "I don't know--this has never happened before." She sighed. "There's so much I don't understand about my gift."

  "Same here," Tracey said. "Now that I don't feel like a nobody, how can I make myself disappear?"

  "And why can't I read everyone's mind?" Jenna

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  wondered. She turned to Emily. "What's the assignment? Not that I care," she added hastily. "I probably won't do it anyway."

  "Madame is going to ask us to think about how we could use our gifts in a career."

  "Great," Jenna groaned as she picked through her underwear in search of items without holes. "I guess I could be some kind of magician. Like, 'Think of a number and I'll tell you what it is.'"

  "You could be a psychologist," Tracey suggested. "It would definitely help to know what people are thinking."

  "Or a police officer," Emily said. "You'd always know when people were lying, and you could solve crimes that way."

  "If I could become invisible whenever I wanted, I could be a detective," Tracey remarked. "Or a spy! That would be intense!"

  "I'd like to do something that helps people," Emily mused. "If I could predict natural disasters, like earthquakes, I could warn people to move before they happen."

  "No one would believe you," Jenna told her.

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  "You'd be like Chicken Little, running around yelling, 'The sky is falling.' Can you predict what's going to happen to me this week?"

  "Let me think . . ." Emily scrunched her forehead and closed her eyes. After a moment, she said, "You're going to meet a tall, dark, handsome stranger."

  Tracey started laughing. "You sound like one of those fake gypsy fortunetell
ers."

  "No, really--I see that," Emily insisted. Then her expression changed.

  "What?" Jenna asked.

  "He's going to make you cry."

  "Oh, puh-leeze!" Jenna snorted. "The day some stupid boy makes me cry . . .You know, Em, if I had your talent, I'd use it to become a professional gambler and make some money. Like, in horse races, I'd know who to bet on. Or I'd figure out the next winning lottery numbers."

  Emily winced. "Like Serena."

  "Oh, right." Jenna had almost forgotten about the awful student teacher who had tried to make Emily do exactly that. "Sorry." She turned to Tracey. "If I could be invisible, I'd follow around famous

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  people and see how they really live. Wouldn't it be awesome to hang out with Britney Spears? Or Prince William?"

  "That's not exactly a career," Tracey said, "unless you're writing a gossip column."

  A sudden knock on the door made them all turn in that direction. "Are you expecting anyone?" Tracey asked Jenna.

  "No." Jenna went out of the bedroom and headed to the door.

  "Then don't answer it! "Tracey called.

  Jenna looked through the door's peephole. Unfortunately, it hadn't been cleaned since--well, it had never been cleaned, probably. So she couldn't see much---just the fact that someone sort of tall with dark hair was standing on the other side of the door.

  "Hello?" she called.

  "Excuse me," replied a masculine voice. "I'm looking for Barbara Kelley."

  "She's not here."

  Tracey was at her shoulder. "If you don't know who it is, don't let him in," she hissed.

  The man at the door must have heard her.

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  "Whoever said that is absolutely right. Never open the door to strangers. I'll come back another time."

  The figure disappeared, and Jenna turned back to her curious friends. "Probably a bill collector," she said. "Or he's selling something. I've never seen him before."

  "Did you get a good look at him?" Emily asked.

  "Not really. He was tall, he had dark hair . . .Why are you grinning like that?"