A Soul's Kiss (3 page)

The door opens and two girls file in. They walk between me and the mirror. The first girl, flaunting a style mix of Goth and Grunge, is already pulling a cigarette out of her purse. She ignores her own reflection as she passes, but I do not. I stare at the girl that trails her, dressed in sweet pink, soft bouncing curls framing a softer, yet identical, face. No reflection. I grip the edge of the sink behind me and hold my breath.

The pretty girl turns her attention toward me and looks me in the eyes, only the second person to do that today. She reaches forward and taps the Goth girl’s head several times, but all the smoker does is bend down and check under each bathroom stall. Satisfied that she’s alone, she leans against the far wall and blows smoke at the ceiling. Except for one reflected and one un-reflected spirit, me and pretty girl, no one can see her.

“Who are you?” I take a chance that one of them will hear me.

“Nobody,” pretty girl replies. “I’m just a nobody.”

“And Goth girl?” I tilt my head toward the cloud of smoke.

“She’s me. She’s the new me. Amy. Amy Harper. Used to get good grades. Used to babysit little kids and help mom around the house and . . . be happy. We’re kind of disconnected now.”

I stare at this girl, this spirit-Amy. No way. I can’t be listening to somebody’s soul talking. I must be hallucinating.

“Amy. Hi, I’m Jessica Mitchell.” I forget about my shoeless feet and cross over to the smoking girl. “Hi!” I get no reaction. Nothing. The real flesh and blood Amy Harper can’t hear me. She unknowingly blows more smoke at my face and I choke and cough.

I continue to choke and cough until Amy finishes her cigarette and leaves the restroom, her hazy soul a quick step behind, no wave to me or any indication that we’d spoken.

I’m alone for a moment and then Keith is here, leaning against the first stall.

“Sorry about disappearing,” he says.

“What are you doing here? This is the girls’ restroom.” I speak fast and cough again.

“Now you see me, now you don’t.” Keith laughs. “This is sort of fun, you know. Appearing, reappearing, floating above their heads.”

The coughing fit returns and I can hardly manage the spasms that shake my body. Maybe somewhere there’s a me who’s coughing up blood.

“You’ll be all right,” Keith says. “Just relax and go with the flow. They’re taking care of you.”

“Huh?”

“Come on, I’ll show you.” He takes my hand and leads me past the mirror where I can see how ragged I look and how pale Keith’s reflection appears. I’m vaguely relieved that we both have reflections.

I can’t make heads or tails of his explanation as he leads me out of the school and to a mangled blue Ford. He opens the passenger door for me and I get in. Somehow he manages to open the driver’s door and squeeze himself behind the steering wheel. The dashboard is collapsed, the radio is hanging forward, and the windshield is a web of cracks. He peels out of the lot with all the recklessness of rage and immortality combined.

“If I disappear on you again, don’t worry. Disappearing is a good thing . . . for me, anyway. It means I’m back in my body.” He chuckles while I ponder that one. Too strange. He pulls into a space in the emergency parking lot at the hospital, and says, “Follow me, Jess.”

“Jessica,” I correct him. I hate
Jessie
or
Jess
and I thought everyone knew that. How could he know my address but not know that?

Whoa. Slow down. I’m getting angry over nothing.

But I can’t control this apprehension. I keep on his right side after we maneuver the revolving doors, pass the nurses’ station, and enter the ER. I don’t want to see bed pans, puke buckets, or blood vials. I don’t want to hear screams.

But I hear them.

And crying. And short, dry sobs.

And then Keith is no longer on my left.

I stand in front of one of those curtains that curve around a hospital bed, hiding the sight but not the sound of a sick or injured patient. I hear a groan. Anxious parental voices cry out Keith’s name, hopeful and soothing, yet guarded. I duck under the curtain and stand at the foot of Keith’s bed. At least I think it’s Keith. It looks like his hair. His face is bandaged and the parts I can see are swollen. His mom and dad are holding his hands and cooing his name. This must be Keith. The clothing he was wearing is in a clear plastic bag under his mom’s chair. Bloody. His leg is held aloft by some contraption.

“Cool, huh?” he says. He stands next to me again, pointing at himself, or rather his body in the bed. “I’ve been in and out of consciousness for hours, popping back home or to school. Even went to church once.”

I want to ask where Michael is, if he’s dying, too, because it certainly looks like Keith doesn’t have much time left in this world. Instead I say, “Hey, you’re barefoot, too.” He smiles and I ask the question that is burning hottest in my head: “How come you knew my address?” As soon as it’s out of my mouth I know it’s not the question I should be asking.

His laugh is sweet, such a contrast to the weeping of his mother. His father, or it must be his stepfather, keeps up a steady stream of soft words in his mom’s ear.

“Tyler’s been talking about you for years. Had me drive him by your house. But he’s shy, you know. He’s just gonna keep his feelings to himself and never even ask you to—”

“Ask me to what?” But Keith is gone again. The edge of the privacy curtain trembles. I stare at the bandaged head of the real Keith, listen to his mom’s whimpering, watch the blips and lines on the monitor he’s hooked up to. The heartbeat is steady now, but an irregular pattern is rolling off the screen and I know what that means—he has reappeared somewhere else.

This is no dream. Maybe I have some special ability now that lets me see and hear spirits or souls or ghosts even.

Or maybe I’m dead.

The echo of screams from the car accident fade in and out. My head and chest hurt now, the nausea is back. I’m not going to wait for Keith to reappear. I need to search around right now. I have the sickest feeling that I’m going to find Michael in one of these hospital beds.

Or myself.

Then my breath escapes in a rush as I remember that I wanted to check on Rashanda. It was Rashanda that I was so concerned about before. Something happened to
her
. I’m sure of it.

I duck under the curtain and scan the room. There are twenty numbered cubicles, most empty of patients, their curtains opened, all facing the long nurses’ station.

I run to the counter and read the dry erase board that charts patients, doctors, nurses, medications, and procedures. I suck in too much sterile smelling air as soon as I read the name next to bed four. My name.

Bed four.

Back past Keith’s curtain.

Seven. Six. Five. The curtain to bed four waves open as a nurse whooshes out with a metal tray filled with vials and bandages and silver instruments. I catch a glimpse of the patient and three visitors.

My parents. And Rashanda. And me, in the bed.

Rashanda

Last Week

I
hate
school. I told Jessica that last week as we were sitting cross-legged on the floor of my messy bedroom. I said I wasn’t looking forward to all the hoopla at the end of this month, homecoming week with all of its insanity: the pep assembly, class competitions, hall decorating, the parade, and
especially
the dance.

“Are you insane?” Jessica said. She tapped at the floor with her copy of
The Scarlet Letter
. We’d finished reading the final scene aloud and my exclamation about school surprised her. Normally I would dive into a discussion of the symbolism in what we were reading, or start right in on the worksheet, or ask her if she understood it all. She knew I absolutely loved school. I wanted to be a teacher someday. But I hated the social aspect right now. “Really,” Jessica continued, “are you out of your mind? Homecoming week is the best part of the year. I wish it came in the spring instead so we’d have something to look forward to all through the winter.”

Yeah, that fit Jessica. She was all about daydreaming, fantasizing, looking forward. She was pure optimism—one of many reasons I admired her. I wished I could be more like her. Lately I’d been into dreading everything. “Aren’t you worried that nobody will ask us to the dance?” We’d been munching on popcorn and I tossed a handful into the air and managed to catch two kernels in my mouth.

“Well, I don’t know about you, but I’m working on a plan. There’s a guy in my dramaclas
s
—
” She wasn’t going to finish that statement, didn’t have to. I knew perfectly well who she meant. She talked about Michael Hoffman like he was the best thing since Josh Hutcherson.

“Oh, please,” I said, leaning over and drawing out the syllable until my head almost hit the floor. I took advantage of the position to stick my tongue out on a piece of popcorn and suck it up like a frog on an ant. “If I have to hear about him again . . . sheesh, he has a girlfriend, Jessica, leave him alone.”

“He
might
have a girlfriend. I haven’t seen Hannah with him at his locker more than once a day.” She picked up a kernel, checked it for lint, and aimed it at my open mouth. I missed it.

“Trust me; Hannah is not going to break up with him this close to Homecoming. She probably already has her dress.”

Jessica scrunched up her mouth. Her cell rang and she checked it.
My mom
, she mouthed to me as she answered it.

I looked at the remainder of the popcorn in the bowl. Jessica had eaten most of it. I wasn’t supposed to eat any, in fact, and all told I most likely only had ten kernels, but I could already feel the rumblings. I suffer from an inflammatory bowel disease that affects my intestines. Popcorn can give me major problems. If I finished the bowl I’d spend tomorrow in bed for sure. Next week I had another treatment scheduled at the hospital. It took four hours to get a bunch of expensive chemicals dripped into my arm while I did homework or snoozed. I should’ve been a lot more careful about what I ate, I know, but that popcorn was buttery and salty. I popped another piece in my mouth.

“Gotta go,” Jessica said, closing her phone. “My mom needs the car, but I can drive us to the football game tomorrow. Okay?”

*  *  *

That was the third football game that Jessica and I went to together this fall. We bought our tickets, scurried through the barriers, met up with some kids we knew, and watched the game from various places. At first we stood around the fence and ran out onto the field to make a tunnel for the team to run through, then we moved into the stands until halftime. I say we “watched” the game, but mostly we goofed around, talked and yelled. And joked. Neither of us knew what was going on. We cheered when the crowd did, but there was no instant replay, so other than checking the scoreboard now and then, we didn’t have a clue.

Of course, Jessica knew where Michael was on the field at any given moment. It was amazing that he was allowed to play football and also be in the marching band at half time. He must be a quick change artist. Coach let him leave the field when there were thirty seconds left on the clock and the band was moving down from the stands.

I watched Jessica stare at him as he returned to the field and I suddenly had that creepy feeling that someone was staring at us. I didn’t move my head, just my eyes, and scanned the stands until I saw Tyler Dolan. We’ve known him since grade school. Nice guy. He’s always had a thing for Jessica. I waved.

“Who are you waving at?” Jessica swiveled her head around and back. I knew she caught the motion of Tyler’s hand as he returned my wave, but she ignored it and fixed her gaze on the field again. “Oh, just Tyler,” she said and her face narrowed into a squint to locate Michael amidst all the kids in their band uniforms.

“Hey,” I whispered, “Tyler could be plan B for Homecoming. I’ll bet I could get him to ask you.”

“Nah, he likes you.” She kept her eyes on the forty yard line. “Besides, you’d make a better couple. Very exotic. The Irish freckle-man and the American quadroon.”

I didn’t laugh this time and she didn’t notice. I was slightly tired of all the quadroon jokes. Of course she didn’t mean anything by it and we both thought it was funny before, but I’d been thinking about race a lot lately. My mom had two sons by a soldier, an African American man who died when the boys were eight and nine. They’re my half-brothers but because their dad was black they’re three-quarters black in ancestry. So they’re not quadroons, they’re griffes. Like President Obama’s daughters. Like Beyonce. Like Malcolm X. Jessica has never seen them because when I was little and they still lived at home I didn’t invite friends over. I went through a phase when I was embarrassed to be seen with my black grandmother or my half-brothers. But I got over it.

“I’ll be right back,” I said. She could watch the halftime band show without my witty banter. I went to buy us some candy bars and sodas.

I walked down the bleacher steps with one eye on the field. If the truth were told, there was a brief moment when I considered hooking up with Michael Hoffman, but Jessica saw him first so I gave up my chance when I had it a couple of weeks ago.

That white trash, Hannah, stepped out of her row, obstructing my descent. She and a few of her girlfriends moved to the railing where, like at the last three football games, they formed a tight knot that jammed things up. She obviously wanted a closer position to see the band’s performance. It didn’t matter to her that she was blocking the first three rows from seeing or that she was hindering the traffic flow. She didn’t care that people had to wait their turn to squeeze around her little mob. The line at the refreshment stand got longer as I fumed behind them.

And then I heard her say something that made my skin crawl.

“We’ve already picked out victim number seven,” she laughed, turning her head to the brunette on her left. “Michael chose her. We’re going to plan something really wicked.”

“Excuse us, excuse us.” Tyler Dolan had my elbow and steered me past the blockade.

“Looked like you needed some help getting by them,” he said as we reached an open area.

“Thanks.” Maybe Jessica was right and Tyler did like me.

Nope, his eyes darted back into the stands toward Jessica as he asked, “So, anybody going anywhere after the game? Heard of any parties?”

“Jessica wants to go to the frozen custard shop one last time before they close for the winter.”

“Huh,” was all he said as he readjusted his ball cap. It was my turn in line. I bought our snacks and said
see ya
to Tyler. I decided to walk around the back of the stands, go up the far side, and cut across some rows to get back to my seat. A bunch of sophomores were hanging out under the bleachers, trying to act all cool, but not fooling anyone.

It was going to rain and I knew it before anyone else. My hair was crinkling up into a frizziness that would challenge the Bride of Frankenstein. I sat down next to Jessica, gave her the treats, and pulled my hood up over my head.

“I told you Tyler likes you,” she said, her eyes still glued on the drum major, though her comment made me think she had watched us. The band was loud, the music a familiar tune I heard them practice at six a.m. in the parking lot. Living a block from school had a couple of disadvantages.

“He was just being helpful.” I pulled the drawstrings tight on my hood until only my nose and mouth were showing and stuck my tongue out at her.

“Somebody’s gonna see you, Rashanda,” she said. She wedged her thumbs under the material and stretched the opening. “Oh . . . your hair.”

“Exactly. It’s gonna rain.”

Jessica chuckled, pulled her own hood up and shared the style. We took turns making some little kids down the row laugh at our silly behavior. I liked that she didn’t ignore my predicament to watch Michael lead the band. They finished and then the cheerleaders ran onto the field to do a routine. I guess that was enough time for Michael to change back into his uniform. Jessica pointed him out again as he ran across the field with the team. With their helmets on, they all looked alike to me.

She mumbled something about Hannah not deserving him.

I weighed that statement as I thought about the fact that Hannah said Michael had chosen victim number seven. I considered telling Jessica what I’d heard. I was about to, really I was, but it wouldn’t make any difference to someone so smitten.

It started to rain at the beginning of the fourth quarter so we left.

*  *  *

Nothing out of the ordinary happened the rest of the weekend or the beginning of the school week. I had my monthly infusion on Thursday and spent the whole morning at the hospital. As usual it took two nurses trying and then failing to get the needle into my arm until they finally called the vein therapist. I don’t know why they hadn’t learned to start with the expert; my veins are fragile.

I was in a special wing of the hospital that zigzagged in a maze of halls and small rooms. This time they led me past the coffee station and around the corner to the extra spot they had cubby-holed next to a washroom. It’s kind of claustrophobic, but there was a flat screen TV, Wi-Fi, a recliner for me, and a regular chair for my mom. As usual, Mom would stay an hour then head for the department stores, and I would call her when the bag got down to the last few milliliters.

We settled in to watch one of the morning talk shows but my mind kept wandering. The first guest on the show reminded me of Hannah and I kept replaying what I heard her say. That feeling of dread started to fill my veins right along with the monoclonal antibodies that dripped from the IV bag. They both headed toward my digestive tract, one to do good, and the other to fill my gut with anxiety.

Mom left precisely ten minutes before Kohl’s opened and I reminded her not to buy me anything. I liked to pick out my own clothes. Our tastes in styles did not match.

I used the remote to mute the commercials and closed my eyes to imagine which class I was missing at that moment.

I felt the dread again. It was kind of like that sixth sense you feel when something bad was about to happen. Mostly I felt it when I watched horror movies or when I sat in Jamison’s math class and he pulled out a surprise quiz.

And then I heard the nurses’ voices. Two women at the coffee station didn’t know I was back here.

“Jeannie’s daughter, Ashley, finally told her. It was some sort of hazing,” one of them said.

The other woman said, “That’s awful. There is so much bullying going on it’s like an epidemic. This internet thing is out of hand.”

“There wasn’t anything she could do about it. Her daughter didn’t want to make things worse. She closed her Facebook account, but that’s about all she could do. Those pictures are out there forever.”

The other woman slurped some coffee, then said, “Somebody has to name names before these kids go too far.”

She could have been talking to me. I could name names. Four at least. I’d heard the rumors all fall that there were “phantoms” who dressed in black, wore masks, and grabbed kids at night. Those were the first stories, but they weren’t completely true. I knew the real story because I was victim number five. And I guess Ashley was number six. I could tell those nurses why Ashley didn’t want to make things worse. I knew what “too far” was. That chance I had with Michael a few weeks ago, well, it wasn’t exactly a golden opportunity.