Discretion (2 page)

“Looks like it. And you’re getting more creative.”

Jamal gives me a nudge with his elbow. “You need a breather. Get some fresh air from the studies.” I nod back and watch my surrogate father in the rearview.

Kwame chuckles a little and adjusts the temperature, and then says, “We like your company, Colin. Besides, you need to…to…to… get out…on Sundays.” His cackle is like that of an old man in love with life.

“That’s true.” The notion of sitting through church is not my idea of a good time. I don’t care to go in the slightest, but I enjoy the company of my adoptive family. It’s nothing new to me, being indoctrinated.

My mother, during a spiritual exploration, dragged me along to various churches around town a few years ago and traumatically scarred me before calling it quits.

Kwame and Leilani Laake are from Accra, Ghana. His soccer scholarship landed him in the US with little more than a duffel bag and the clothes on his back some twenty-five years ago. He arrived at Dulles International in the middle of winter wearing shorts, short sleeves, and sandals.

Leilani’s method of getting to Phoenix is not known to me, as she spares me the details when the topic comes up. She is the mother I don’t have. Leilani will often say that it doesn’t matter what race we are, for we are all children of the same God, made to be equal in His sight. She often quotes the Bible, but Nelson Mandela and Martin Luther King are high on the list. Leilani means “heavenly,” a fact she likes to remind us of.

The traffic is busy in Scottsdale for a Sunday, and we talk about the developing area. We gab about college sports, the hot weather, and the lack of rain these past eight weeks.

The car makes a turn in to a shopping center and stops in the parking lot of Blu, a trendy bistro open about a year. Conversation over breakfast is fantastic, on par with the enormous stack of pancakes I order, smothered with strawberries and whipped cream. And the server who the Laakes’ know well takes good care of us.

We leave Blu stuffed and pile into the Lincoln. The church is a few minutes away from the restaurant and we arrive in time to socialize with many great friends of the family, going back generations it seems.

The congregation of the Chapel, as it’s called, is energetic. There is plenty to amuse myself with, to pass the time while everyone else is getting into the service. When the music stops, the congregation simmers down and sits.

Hello there, Colin
, says a female voice, like that of a lover, whispering so close she could touch me. The voice startles me and without thinking, I turn to my right, half expecting a lady, like in the ads for gentleman’s clubs, to be there with that sultry look in her eyes, but the mature woman sitting to my right doesn’t fit the profile. Behind me, there’s a young girl, maybe twenty, who looks out of place, but smiles back. She has a tattoo of a snake on her forearm with simple yet bold colors and design—its detail is refined. Could she be playing a trick, whispering to me like that?

No one else takes notice of my startling movement; the congregation’s attention is glued to the woman speaking on stage—her words have no meaning to me, like faint music playing in the distance for someone else.

Are you looking for me?
I know in an instant that I heard a woman speak—it was not my imagination.

There’s a burning desire to say something back, and I turn around on the seat. The unknown girl behind me just smiles, like before, and acts as if I’m invisible. Jamal and his family stare at the stage. I get his attention and he waves me off, to keep my voice down.

Couldn’t he see me moving around, erratic? Panicked?

Three kids are behind me, close by, and look bored. Any of them could have somehow made the voice I heard. Staring at them a moment, in the hope they will crack under pressure, does nothing. I gander about at the same bland faces, the same clothes, and lack of emotion. Where does this voice come from? Has to be the young girl…right? I watch her a moment, turned sideways on the wooden pew with soft blue fabric seating.

Colin, you need not fear me
.

Her lips never moved, but I…heard her? A chill courses along my back, as if the blood in my veins is freezing. My skin tightens and muscles go limp, as if I’m in a dream, being stalked in a dark alley and unable to run away. I feel an unseen eye watching and it’s as real as anything physical about me, yet invisible.

Am I going crazy? Is this the onset of schizophrenia? Does she expect me to talk to her? Will this mysterious voice hear me if I say something? Only one way to find out…

What shall I call you? I ask in the privacy of my head, expecting only silence in return.

Everyone around me besides the girl seems to be frozen in time, as if they’re still alive, but as inattentive as a lazy dog lying asleep. I slap Jamal on the leg and he grins at me and says nothing—only the casual smile and returns his attention to the front.

Seconds tick by and the euphoria of motion is around me, though I am sitting still. Then the voice speaks, as intoxicating as the last time.
You may call me Christel.

C
hristel? I don’t know anyone by that name. I should approach this logically. If a voice spoke, someone else must have heard it besides me, right? I contemplate this for several minutes. Then, I work up the courage to turn around and ask the girl her name. But her seat is empty. I look to the man who had been sitting next to her and he makes eye contact and smiles warmly, but he’s of no use. Maybe she just went to the bathroom and will be back?

I wait in anticipation for her return the rest of the service, but she never comes back.

Church ends and I file out with the Laake family, wondering what caused the female voice. Can I really be sure I heard a voice—and didn’t just imagine it? We enter the parking lot of the church, and I trip, catching myself with my hands, my face close to the pavement. Jamal and Kwame help me to my feet and I try not to make eye contact, because I’m fine and tripping is normal. Jamal starts laughing, though he tries to suppress it. He knows I hate being laughed at, that it hurts more than being hit or falling down.

“Dude, you okay?” Jamal says. I get the feeling that Jamal is sincere in his concern.

I nod curtly and walk ahead of Jamal and his parents. A moment later, Kwame pats me on the back and keeps in stride. Jamal takes the right side and tells me if I fall again, he can catch me. I feel like telling him to fuck off, but we’re close to the church and I don’t want lightning to hit me. Plus, his parents would be highly offended and I love them dearly.

We get in the car and buckle in. Kwame takes it easy driving out of the church parking lot, which has staff in yellow vests like at a big sporting event.

I can’t help but wonder what the voice was in church. I don’t hear it now, so it must have been something exclusive to the church, right? Perhaps that’s the spirit everyone listens to there?

“Are you all right, Colin?” Leilani says, and I come unwillingly out of the maze of my thoughts.

“I’ll manage,” I say, though I feel confused and out of sorts.

“You tripped. This okay. Happens to everyone,” Kwame says. He merges with traffic on the I-17 North.

“No worries, man.” He pats me on the leg. “You’re not hurt, are you?” Jamal says.

“I’m fine, I think.”

“You don’t sound like yourself.”

I don’t feel right at all, as if the world around me is a dream. Traffic races by on the freeway and it’s all I can do to distract myself by staring out the window. “I’m not quite right. Maybe I’m tired.”

“You’re studying too hard,” Jamal says.

“Could be. My head hurts,” I say to the window. Silence passes for several minutes among the four of us in the car. I try not to think about the voice from church, but it’s like a song that’s stuck in my head.

Leilani breaks the silence; her eyes meet mine. “So did the spirit speak to you, Colin?”

Is that what she is? Must be. I didn’t know the spirit speaks to people like that.

“I don’t know,” I say, as I can’t think of anything else to say that would avoid explanation and I don’t feel like talking about how crazy this is. And I ought to have the story straight before I go blabbing.

She smiles. “The heart has to be right to hear Him. I think if you earnestly seek after Jesus, He will speak to you.”

Him? The Spirit is a Him? Hmm. Perhaps the voice only sounded feminine, but is actually…male? An all-powerful being can sound any way it wants. If the spirit wanted to sound like a woman for my sake, it could be done. But then, why the deception?

Does Leilani know of Christel—could she hear the same voice? Perhaps she can explain something, but there’s no way to approach the subject without great risk.

“So what time does the game start?” I ask Jamal, for something new to talk about.

“One.”

“Are we going to watch any of it?”

Jamal shrugs. “Maybe. Lots of people will be at the house.”

My head naturally jerks in his direction. “Meaning?”

He laughs a little. “It’s a small party, Colin. Some friends. It’s called socializing. You might like it.”

“I do enough of that.”

“Your books see you more than anybody else. Take some time off. It will do you some good. It’s summer break.”

“I won’t survive the semester if I don’t prep now.”

“Sure you will. Besides, Natalie is going to be there.”

“Huh?”

He presses his knuckles against my shoulder. “It’s your chance, tiger. No fear.”

“Easy for you to say.” I brush him off.

“She’s like a sister to me,” Jamal says flatly. “If she’s going to be with anyone, might as well be you.”

“Are you playing wingman here?”

“I’ll give it my best shot, just as long as you hold up your end. Can’t chicken out. Deal?”

I inhale and hold it for several seconds, determined to keep it together. Anxiety sets in and it’s here to stay, like the time before a speech in front of a packed school auditorium. The need to urinate hits and fifteen minutes at the minimum stand between me and the bathroom. I shift side to side in my seat and hope for the best. I can get through this.

“Deal. But you have to help me,” I say.

“Just be yourself, man. And don’t talk about any academic subjects. She loves baseball; that should be a good start.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, really.”

“You’ll do just fine, Colin,” Leilani says, joining in.

A smile makes it to my face. “Thanks, I guess.”

Jamal does his best to distract me by talking about irrelevant things and I wipe the sweat off my palms. When he can see that’s failing, he asks about my summer class load, as if he’s dying to know. None of it works. It’s all I can do to keep from shaking.

I’m not commonly around girls my age; Wheaton is an all-boys school, so practice is rare. Jamal, attending the public school, gets practice for both of us.

I met Natalie Merian a year ago and it’s been torture since. She has long, dark hair, beautiful hazel eyes, and curves that bring it all together. She lives about a mile away, but those five thousand, two hundred eighty four feet feel like we’re worlds apart.

Jamal and Leilani work hard at distracting me the rest of the drive. I make a run for the front door to hit the bathroom, thankful it’s unlocked. The alarm chirps the single beep, indicating the countdown until it gets real loud inside. Jamal calls after me when I finish, to help him setup drinks, tables, and chairs. People start arriving, not in droves, but a family at a time and they enter through the side gate like it’s home. Jamal introduces me to a few people, but I forget their names instantly. My world becomes a blur.

And the next thing I know, Natalie is standing a few paces away from me with no one to talk to.

She likes you,
Christel says, her voice sounding as sensual as in church and I attempt to leap through the ceiling. Natalie looks around, as though waiting for someone.

Sweat trickles down my side underneath my polo. She still hasn’t noticed me, or does well at pretending not to.

She wants to talk to you.

Fantastic. First Jamal trying to play matchmaker, now a ghost is doing the same? Whatever this mysterious thing is, how does it know what Natalie wants?

I suppose talking to her is a good idea. Maybe that will stop my crazy thinking for a while. My feet cooperate on a limited basis. I manage to get a word out, which sounds something like hello. She smiles back, as if relieved—I get the sense that she’s happy to see me.

“So, Jamal tells me you love the D-Backs,” she says.

I grin at her, I think, but can’t be sure. It may come across as some goofy smile and give away what a dork I am. I try to relax and act natural, though I am freaked out completely. “Yeah…I like them. Two-game lead, in first. Long way to go, though.”

“They played well against the Dodgers who are off to a slow start this year.”

“You’re a real fan? I mean, you follow baseball?”

“Love the game.” She fidgets. “I’m on the team, you know.”

It occurs to me that she’s on the high school team, plays second base, as if I simply remembered it. This knowledge has the fingerprints of Christel and the oddness is unsettling and is distracting from the conversation. A test is necessary here, using a safe question. “So you play…second base?”

Her eyes light up and she steps toward me. “Oh, so you know I play. Duh. Sorry.” She fiddles with her hair—a nervous twitch. She plays baseball—a fact I didn’t know before—so I must be learning about her as we go. Maybe this is telepathy.

“It’s fine, really. I bet you’re good at it.” My face heats up after the words leave. Can I be cornier than this?

“Don’t tell me you’re gonna talk baseball without me.” Jamal stands beside me, a slap on the back, to let me know he has it.

The party gathered at the Laakes’ home is mostly from church, very few teenagers in attendance. Two are talking by themselves outside in the yard. The rest stand here.

“We’re talking National League,” Natalie says, waving a finger between her and me.

“Lame. Like a JV league to the American.”