Edgewood Series: Books 1 - 3 (23 page)

Could they be trusted? Carly didn’t think so, but I was a pretty good judge of people and I thought they were okay. A bunch of grown-up nerds playing at saving the world? Yes. But well intended, I thought.

I was almost asleep when I heard it. A female voice, undulating like a shimmer in my mind.
Russ?

If it had been a real voice, one spoken aloud, I would have sat up and turned on my bedside lamp, but it wasn’t a real voice. It was a thought, or a memory, or a figment of my imagination.

Russ? Can you hear me?

I stared at the ceiling, which was softly illuminated by the light of my clock radio, and wondered if I was losing my mind.

It’s me, Nadia
.

“Nadia?”

She laughed, and it reminded me of Tinkerbell in a production of
Peter Pan
my mother had dragged me to when I was a kid. A delighted, pleased-with-herself laugh. Her voice came through again:
I just figured out I could do this!

I smiled. “How?”

I was in bed wishing I wasn’t trapped in the house all the time and the next thing I knew I was rising out of my bed and over the house and then I came here. It was like flying, Russ! I can’t believe I can do this. I’m free!

“So is your body still asleep back home?”

I don’t know. I guess
.

She seemed unconcerned about her physical self back at home. What if something happened and she couldn’t get back? “Aren’t you worried about being out of your body? Like this might be dangerous?”

I still feel linked to my body, like I’m somehow tethered to it. I know I can go back anytime I want
.

“So you’re not worried at all?”

I felt the equivalent of a shrug on her part, and then she said,
I don’t feel worried. I feel euphoric, like someone opened the door to my cage.

I tried again: “But don’t you feel like getting all these abilities is confusing and overwhelming and scary?”

No, I love it. Love it. Now I can tolerate the hell that is my life
.

“Well, be careful.”

You don’t have to speak out loud. I can pick up on your thoughts.

Okay. Be careful.

What could go wrong? I’m going to go see Mallory next.
The sound of her voice in my thoughts had a different quality than her real world voice. Happy. She sounded happy.

Okay.

Should I tell her you said hi?

No, that’s not necessary.

Because you like her, right?

Of course I like Mallory. I like all of you.
Which was a little white lie, since I wasn’t all that crazy about Jameson. I didn’t exactly hate him or anything, but I wouldn’t miss him if he were gone. I wondered how much of my thoughts Nadia could read. Like right now, could she tell I was wondering how much she could read, or could she only pick up on the messages I wanted to give her?

She said:
All the guys like Mallory. She’s the obvious choice.

She’s very likeable.

She told me you can shoot lightning bolts out of your palms. And that you’re getting good at healing.

Working on it, yeah.

You need to be careful with that. It makes you stand out.

I’m always careful, Nadia. You do the same.

Good night then.

Good night
.

The air in the room felt different after she left. The sparkle was gone. As I dozed off I thought about everything that had happened in the last week. Nadia didn’t find any of it confusing or overwhelming or scary, but I sure did. What could possibly happen from here?

I was pretty preoccupied in school the next day, thinking about everything that had happened in the last eight days. Part of me wondered if I’d imagined having Nadia visit the night before, but no—it seemed real enough. The next morning I remembered the correct term for this type of out-of-body experience: astral projection. Not knowing had been bugging the crap out of me, but I didn’t dare look it up online. Not being able to Google things was really setting me back.

By now I was used to feeling electricity all around me in the same way I was used to breathing. I generally don’t notice air unless something about it changes a lot, and that’s an apt comparison. Being able to direct the electricity was another thing, and I couldn’t resist trying it out from time to time, just because. In English class I sat all the way in the back in the last row by the window. While my teacher, Ms. Lawson, droned on about something or other, I combated boredom by passing electricity back and forth between my hands. I kept it very low level so that it was barely perceptible, except to me. I’d been so zoned out that I didn’t realize we were about to watch a video clip, and when Ms. Lawson turned out the lights, I was so startled that the electricity between my hands sparked, lighting up the area over my desk. I stopped right then, of course, but the damage had been done.

“Russ Becker!” Ms. Lawson turned the lights back on. “What is it you have there?” My stomach dropped as she marched over to me; every kid in the room turned to stare.

I stammered, “No-no-nothing,” which made me look really guilty.

“Cell phone use is not allowed during school hours,” she said, repeating something we’d all heard a million times. Now she stood over me, giving me an unflattering view of the inside of her nostrils.

“I know, ma’am,” I said. “I don’t have mine with me.”

“Then what was that light I saw?”

“Static electricity,” I said. “The soles of these shoes are a problem that way.”

It was pretty lame, but since my desktop was completely clear, except for a notebook and pen, and I wouldn’t have had time to hide anything, she let it go at that. I made a pact with myself to be more careful in the future. It didn’t take much to arouse suspicions.

At my last class at the end of the day, I slid into my seat in Mr. Specter’s class, eager to talk to Mallory, but she was busy speaking to a girl in the seat in front of her. I gave her ponytail a gentle yank, and when she finally turned around, I said, “I got a visit from Nadia last night.”

“Me too,” she said, looking thoughtful. “Wasn’t that bizarre? I couldn’t believe it. Kind of creepy, but she seemed pretty happy about it.”

“She said she felt free.”

“I guess if one of us was going to develop that particular talent, I’m glad it was her.”

And then class began and our time ran out. Not that there was much to discuss besides the wow factor of having a friend who could do astral projection. I was getting to the point that nothing much surprised me anymore.

When class was over, Mr. Specter called out, “Mr. Becker, could I talk to you for a moment?”

What could I do? I nodded and watched as Mallory picked up her books, preparing to leave. I’d hoped to talk to her, but this was the last class of the day and she’d soon be gone. Our discussion would have to wait.

I gathered up my stuff and went to the front of the room where Mr. Specter stood waiting next to his desk. I’d always liked him as a teacher. He had passion and was entertaining. Plus, his class was an easy A for me. Last night had changed things. I still liked him as a teacher, but I didn’t entirely trust him. “Yes?”

Other students lingered in the back of the room. They weren’t paying any attention to us, but he lowered his voice anyway. “I wanted to touch base with you about the subject of last night.”

He paused for so long that I finally said, “I’m listening.”

“I know your sister is biased against me and my colleagues,” he said. “But I want you to know that our offer of help still stands. We’d love to serve as mentors to you and your friends. We can help ensure your safety.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

Mr. Specter looked at me over his glasses. “It sounds like you’re dismissing me.”

“No, just weighing my options,” I said, glancing back. Mallory had already left the room. “There’s a lot to think about. You understand, I’m sure.”

He sighed. “Yes, I understand more than you know. Well, if you change your mind, I’m available any time of the day or night. Feel free to call or come over.” He went behind his desk, opened a drawer, and pulled out a business card. “Keep this with you at all times. You never know when you’ll need it.”

This was the second time someone told me to carry something with me always—first Gordy’s medallion and now this card. I took it from his hand and stuck it in my pocket. “Thanks, I’ll do that.”

***

Almost five hours later I walked into the funeral parlor wearing my best and only suit, the one that had been hanging in my closet under a plastic sleeve since the homecoming dance the year before. We arrived early, a bad habit in my family. My parents walked on either side of me, like guards escorting a prisoner. It felt like that too.

“How long do we have to stay?” I asked out of the side of my mouth. My mother gave me a sharp look which indicated we’d be staying as long as necessary, and that she’d be deciding what constituted necessary.

Once inside the entryway, we were greeted by a guy who seemed to be the funeral home butler. He ushered us through a doorway on our left. While my parents signed the guest book, I surveyed the nearly empty room. The place was fancy, with heavy velvet drapes and fussy-looking furniture. Floral wallpaper covered the walls; the pictures were framed landscapes topped with their own spotlights. On the far end of the room, rows of folding chairs faced an open casket surrounded by flowers. The air smelled like floral-scented fabric softener. Up front, my sister Carly stood talking to the only other people in the room, an older couple.

When Carly saw us walk in, her face dropped in disapproval and her mouth set in irritation. I’ve seen that look before—the storm before the even bigger storm. She rushed over to confront my mother. “What is Russ doing here?”

“You look very nice, Carly,” my mother said in a level tone. And Carly did look nice. For her it was a conservative look—knee-length black skirt and frilly gray button-down top with some kind of clunky silver necklace. She wore such high heels she was nearly my height.

“Take him home,” she hissed. “He shouldn’t be here.”

I was about to say I didn’t even
want
to be here, when I saw, coming up behind Carly, the couple she’d been talking to up front by the coffin. The woman led the way. “Good evening,” she said softly, extending her hand toward my parents. “I’m Marian Hofstetter.”

Carly switched from irritated to charming and introduced our parents to the Hofstetters. (It turned out that Marian’s husband was John Hofstetter, Gordy’s son.) Both sets of parents remembered each other from when Carly had been dating the Hofstetters’ son, so many years before, but no one spoke David’s name. The four adults did the usual exchange. My parents:
Our condolences on your loss,
and the Hofstetters:
Thank you for coming
. I saw a pained look on Carly’s face. Perhaps she was thinking that if David hadn’t died, they’d be married by now with a bunch of kids, and this couple would be her in-laws. Maybe she thought that would be a better version of her life and that she’d be happier. If only. Of course, we wouldn’t have Frank Shrapnel then, which was hard to conceptualize. What would holidays be like without that kid?

“And who is this?” Mrs. Hofstetter said, and I realized she was repeating herself but I hadn’t heard the question the first time because I’d been lost in thought.

“This is our son, Russ,” my dad said, gripping my shoulders and steering me closer, which was incredibly weird, not to mention rude.

“Hi,” I said, sticking out my hand.

But she didn’t take my hand, just gave me such an uncomfortably piercing look I was tempted to look away. Then she did something really odd. She placed her hands on either side of my face and said, “Russ? That’s your name?” Mrs. Hofstetter stared as if I were under a microscope. Between my family’s behavior and this, I wasn’t sure what to think.

When I nodded, she pulled her hands away. I said, “My name is actually Russell, but no one calls me anything but Russ.”

“It’s a lovely name,” she said, looking at her husband, who wasn’t doing anything but standing there. “I guess I’m just surprised because I didn’t know Carly had a brother.” There was an accusatory note in her voice I couldn’t quite understand.

“It wasn’t a secret,” Carly pointed out.

But Mrs. Hofstetter’s attention was on me and me alone. “How old are you, Russ?”

“Fifteen.” It sounded young, even to me. “I’ll be sixteen this summer.”

“I see,” she said, and then I heard the hushed voices of other people entering the room, which seemed to break the spell.

“I’m sorry for your loss,” I said to both of them.

“Thank you,” Mr. Hofstetter said.

I sensed someone behind me and felt a tap on my shoulder. To my surprise, it was Mallory. I gave her a big smile until I noticed Jameson lurking like a snake right behind her. “This is my good friend Mallory Nassif,” I said. “Mallory, this is Mr. and Mrs. Hofstetter. Gordon Hofstetter was Mr. Hofstetter’s father.” I purposely left Jameson out. He could maneuver his own introduction.

Mallory was good with the social graces. “I was sorry to hear about your father’s death,” she said, her head tilting sympathetically to one side. “I saw him often at the diner in town and enjoyed talking to him. He was a very sweet man.”

During all of this, Carly looked uncomfortable, like she wished we all would just go away. Probably, I surmised, it was because she knew the Hofstetters and we were intruders. Well, too bad. I might not have known Gordon Hofstetter for as long as she had, but I was with him the night he died. Maybe I didn’t even want to be at the funeral, but I was entitled to attend.

People drifted in behind us, and Mr. Hofstetter thanked us for coming and said, “If you’ll excuse us, I think we have a few other people we need to talk to.” His wife reluctantly followed him to the front of the room.