M.I.N.D. (5 page)

I need to get back to my body pronto, but I don't know how this works. What did I do the last two times? I remember wanting to get out, but that can't be all there is to it. Can it? I concentrate as hard as I can, but nothing happens.

Oh. My. God. What if I'm stuck in Skankville forever?

“Rule Number Six,” Mr. Greene says, tapping my shoulder. “No sleeping allowed.”

Stephanie pulls out her lipstick and puckers her mouth, and all at once, as quick as one of her fake-passion hiccups, I'm back in myself.

All right! Except I'm busted again, and there's a tsunami in my head.

“I want a five-hundred-word essay on why you shouldn't break the rules,” Mr. Greene says, “and I want it on my desk tomorrow morning.”

Great. On top of my regular homework, my social studies paper, and that psychology presentation I have to make next Monday but still have no clue what to do it on, now this. I have a life, you know. Okay, not really, but how am I supposed to get one with all this work?

On the one hand, I'm glad he didn't make the connection to my condition. How embarrassing would that be? On the other hand, I get penalized for literally doing nothing while Casanova and the skank get off scot-free. Where's the justice in that?

***

At lunch, I look around the cafeteria, but I don't see Leanne. She wasn't at her locker, which tells me she's avoiding me. Very annoying.

Whenever Leanne's not in school, I take my lunch outside. Unless it's raining. Then I have to hide in the bathroom. We had a really cold winter, so I'm just grateful that Josh has a different lunch hour or I'd probably be dead from frostbite. Either that, or from some vile disease I caught in the bathroom.

Vardina sees me and waves. I'm almost tempted to go over, but then I see Brendan in the pizza line and that decides it. I head on outside.

I cross the field to the bleachers and sit on the bottom bench. I rip open the smiley-faced paper bag and pull out my sandwich. Grilled eggplant. I hate eggplant. I keep telling my mother I can make my own lunch, but does she listen? Does she ever? I examine my dessert, a fresh store-bought whole-grain muffin.
Bor-ing
. If she insists on treating me like a six-year-old, could she at least add sprinkles?

***

After my last class, I find Leanne waiting at my locker.

“Hey,” she says.

“Hey,” I say.

“Heard you fell asleep in sweeps.” A worried look creases her face. “You didn't have…you weren't…?” She lets her voice trail.

“It wasn't a seizure,” I say, rolling the dial to my combination lock. “But it
was
an episode. Like what happened with Vardina, and yesterday with you.”

She doesn't reply.

I open my locker, pull out my backpack. “Look, I know you don't believe me.
I
wouldn't believe it if you were the one telling it. But I wasn't snooping. And I'm not a liar.”

“I know that,” she says quietly. “I've been thinking about it all day. You wouldn't go through my things. And you wouldn't lie to me either.”

I look back at her. “What are you saying? You believe what happened?”

“I believe
you
believe it.”

I slam my locker shut. “Great. So you think I'm crazy.”

She places her hand on my arm. “Hear me out, okay? I know you think I'm close-minded, but you're wrong. I'm actually very tolerant of the abnormal, as long as it's reasonable. I don't believe you can just plop yourself into someone's body, but I'm willing to admit that something weird is going on. Like ESP, for instance. The police wouldn't use mediums to solve crimes if it didn't work at least sometimes, right? Maybe the bump on your head altered your switshetshela and made you psychic, and that's how you knew I was on the pill. I'm not saying I believe it a hundred percent. I'm just saying it's possible.”

Wow. The spiritual skeptic is a closet convert. Who knew? Too bad her theory is bogus. “Except for one thing,” I say. “I'm not a mind reader.” I tell her about Stephanie, specifically about my close encounter with Zack. “I don't know what she was thinking, just what she was feeling. Physically,” I clarify. “Not emotionally.”

“She
has
no emotions,” Leanne says. Then she smirks. “Maybe you should start an exchange program for body parts. Too bad you couldn't keep the boobs.”

So much for tolerance. Not that I blame her. How can I expect her to understand what I don't understand myself? “My whole life is shattering,” I wail. “This morning was the final crack.”

“You mean there's
more
?”

I tell her about the locket. “I think I might be a klepto.”

“There was a locket in your dream,” she says, looking pensive.

“What dream?”

“You know, after the bus crash. You told me Amanda was wearing a locket.”

My mouth drops open. “Wow. I forgot about that.”

“You probably saw her wearing it on the bus. Maybe she gave it to you. The accident made you blank it out, and then you dreamed about it.”

“That's ridiculous, Leeny. Why would she give me a locket? Besides, it wasn't a dream. I know what I saw. I told you, I was there.”

“You
think
you were there,” she corrects.

I sigh. Her perspective on reality might differ from mine, but at least she doesn't think I'm a liar. Just deranged. “Fine,” I say. “Whatever. But what about Stephanie? She was making out with Zack, and I felt everything. Explain
that
to me.”

“Wishful thinking,” Leanne says. “So was it good for you?” she asks with a straight face.

I grimace. “Let's just say the earth didn't move. I felt…
she
felt…blah.”

“Maybe he's a lousy kisser. You'll have to find someone else to obsess about.”

“Just because there was no chemistry with her, it doesn't mean there won't be any with me,” I point out. After all, I'm such an expert. “Maybe she has PMS.”

“See? You know that because you read her thoughts.”

“I'm not a medium,” I reply irritably.

“No, you wear an extra-small petite,” she jokes.

I shake my head. “You're hopeless.”

“Hey, just trying to lighten things up.”

I sling my backpack over my shoulder. “So we're good?” I ask. Even if she does think I'm a crackpot.

“What you said about me and Josh…”

“I'm sorry,” I murmur. “I shouldn't have said those things. I was out of line.”

“Did you mean them?”

Now why did she have to ask me that? How do I answer without lying? “You were right,” I say, dodging the question. “I was jealous.”

“I'm sorry too. For accusing you.”

“Fair enough,” I say.

She nods. “Fair enough.”

“I didn't see you at lunch,” I say. “I had to eat outside.”

“Really? I ate in the bathroom.” Then she smiles. “Hey, I have my mom's car. Want to go for coffee?”

I hesitate. My mother didn't actually say I had to come straight home after school. All she said was that she didn't want me exerting myself. How much energy can coffee take?

“Sure,” I say to Leanne. I smile back at her, though the cynical part of me suspects that if Josh wasn't working today, she wouldn't have asked.

***

As Leanne is pulling into my driveway, I see my mother in the living room window. Just my luck. The one time I'm late, she isn't out selling houses. Her hair is even wilder than Mr. Greene's, like she's been running her fingers through it for hours.

She starts in on me the second my foot is in the doorway. “I thought I'd made myself clear,” she says in her fake-patient voice. “You're supposed to come home right after school, not go wandering off God-knows-where with your friend. You know how I feel about teenagers driving. What about that accident on Canton Hill Road? That little girl died today. It was just on the news. Rose, her name was. Poor little Rose, only three years old, her life cut short by a senseless hit-and-run.”

“Are you saying it was a teenager who was driving?” I'd heard about the hit-and-run, and I'm really sorry about that little girl, but sometimes my mother's logic totally evades me. “Did they actually say that on the news? Did the girl's parents identify him?”

“Well, no. It happened so fast, and they were knocked out on impact. But the police are saying it was a stolen car. Apparently, it was taken from the parking lot of that snobby country club. The driver abandoned it after the accident. It was a Porsche,” she adds, like that explains everything.

“Right. So that automatically means the thief was a teenager.”

She flushes. “All I'm saying is that the roads in this area aren't safe. Too many twists and turns, not to mention that two-lane highway. You kids can't handle them.”

Again, totally illogical. “Mom. How are we supposed to get experience if we're not allowed to drive?”

“I'm talking about maturity, Cassie.”

“You're right,” I say, and tune her out. How many times do I have to hear this?

I head upstairs to work on my essay for Mr. Greene. I fire up my laptop and punch in the heading, “WHY YOU SHOULDN'T BREAK THE RULES.” Then I key in, “Reason #1: Your mother will drive you crazy.” I think for a moment, then enter, “Reason #2: So you won't have to write an essay on why you shouldn't break the rules.” Then I delete it all. I rest my hands on the keyboard and let my mind wander. Oreo lets out a grunt from the top of my dresser, and I remember the locket stashed in my drawer.

Maybe there's an inscription inside, or a photograph. I go over to the dresser, take out the locket, pry it open. Inside is a picture of a single red rose. I scrape it out with my nail. There's nothing underneath, nothing engraved in the metal. No name, no date, no initials. I turn the picture over. Not a mark there either. It slips through my fingers and flutters to the floor. I pick it up, then gently replace it in its cradle.

Poor little Rose.

For the second time today, I get an uneasy feeling in the pit of my stomach. But this time the feeling is mine.

Five

My Mother, My Self

It's Tuesday after school and I'm at my desk, staring at my laptop. I'm trying to come up with ideas for my presentation while simultaneously reminding myself why I decided to take psychology in the first place. Here's what I have so far (reasons, not ideas):

1. 1.
   I heard from Leanne, who heard from Josh, who used to work with Zack at the country club, that Zack had signed up for the class. He probably thought it was an easy A. Apparently so did Brendan. He was the first in line.
   
2. 2.
   See Reason #1, the part about it being an easy A. I was wrong.
   
3. 3.
   I thought it would meet my science requirement. It doesn't. Turns out I need something hardcore like biology. Hence the frog-dissecting in first period.
   
4. 4.
   I thought figuring out why people do the things they do would be fun. And it is, except for these presentations. I hate speaking in public. Everyone stares at me like I'm about to go off like a shorted-out toaster.
   

“It's hopeless,” I tell Leanne. “My mind's a blank.”

She's in her usual spot on the floor, leaning on her elbow, examining the locket. “That's because you're not organized,” she says, fiddling with the clasp. “I bet you didn't even start on your social studies paper yet. I handed mine in on Friday.”

“Well, since you're so smart, you can help me come up with an idea.”

“How's this? Put a mirror at the front of the class, then count how many girls look at themselves as they come in.”

“Guys too,” I say. “Don't forget Brendan. Except it's been done a million times. Though maybe I can do something on the narcissistic male.”

“Do a freak test, not a sleaze test. Dress up all emo, then get their reactions. See who reacts with hate, see who's surprised.”

“Why go emo? I can just be me. Parapsychology is an offshoot of psychology, right? Ladies and gentlemen, step right up! Watch Cassie Stewart aka Spassie Cassie ditch her body and infiltrate someone else's! Experience the thrill! Any volunteers?”

Leanne looks horrified.

Then I get a brainstorm. “It doesn't have to be an OBE. I could do card tricks. Okay, not card tricks. They're pretty explainable. But something paranormal. And statistical, like how many times the Magic 8 Ball gets the right answer. What do you think?”

“Ask again later.”

I Google
paranormal
and get 32,100,426 hits. “Wow. This stuff sure is popular. Telepathy, ESP, psychic healing, telekinesis, astral projection, out-of-body and near-death experiences, channeling, remote viewing, et cetera, et cetera—it's all here on the Internet.”

“You forgot the Easter Bunny,” Leanne says, snapping the locket shut. She sits up, then folds her legs in a half-lotus pose. “Seriously, what if you really are psychic? Can you imagine? You could ace your finals. Even better, you could know when someone's lying when you ask their opinion, like if you're worried you look fat in a skirt or something.”

“You're the only one I'd ask that,” I say.

“You could know what's going through Zack's head. You could find out what he really likes. You know, in a girlfriend. Then you become her. Trust me, this is my area of expertise. I know what I'm talking about.”

I have no doubt. Didn't she make herself over for Josh? “I
was
her,” I reply. “Literally. Remember Stephanie? Anyway, I already told you, I'm not psychic. I can't read minds.”

“I have a theory about that. You know how a radio station can pick up another station's signal? Like when I'm driving and we're listening to country and suddenly we get rap. You're like a car radio. The jolt to your head turned your brain into some kind of receiver.” She looks over at Oreo. “Think of it as leakage.”

“Great. You're saying I should wear diapers on my head?”

“I'm just trying to figure it out,” she says testily. “Do you want my help or not?”

“Sorry,” I murmur. “Better to be psychic than psycho, I suppose.”

“Exactly. You're experiencing the other person's mind, except you're blocking out their thoughts. All you need is a little fine tuning.”

I shut my laptop. “That makes no sense whatsoever.”

“Like jumping into someone's body makes sense?” She pushes her legs into a tighter knot. “You have to concentrate really hard. You have to
pull
in their thoughts. Too bad you never know when it's going to happen. You could totally cash in.”

“Actually, I have a theory too. I don't think it's so random.” I tell her how just before I zoned out, I wanted to be Vardina. How I wanted to be Stephanie. How I wanted to be
her
. “It's like making a wish, except I really have to feel it.”

She smiles. “I'm flattered. Sometimes I want to be you too.”

I smile back.

“Okay, so let's try it,” she says. “Let's see if you can pick up a signal.”

“What, now? You want me to jump into your body again?”

“Channel me,” she corrects. “Not jump into me. Except we need to get someone else, otherwise it'll be biased. We wouldn't know if my thoughts floated into your mind or if they were there already.”

“Seeing how we have no secrets from each other.”

“Cora Wood,” she says, ignoring my remark.

“What about her?”

“Haven't you ever wondered what it would be like to be a rock star?”

“Ha. I'm too busy trying to figure out my own life.”

“Aren't you at least curious about how she lives? What does she have for breakfast? Does she wear sweatpants around the house? Are all her parts really hers?”

It does have possibilities.

We
are
talking about Cora Wood.

Then again, that headache I got yesterday was my worst yet. I don't relish the thought of another one so soon.

Of course, there's always Tylenol…

“Okay,” I say, “but don't panic when I pass out. I'm going to look like I'm dead to the world.” It's purely a reminder, since she's already seen me in my quasi-corpse state. For that matter, so have I.

“It's just a trance,” she says, handing me the locket. “An alternate state of awareness.”

I tuck the locket into my pocket and plant myself on my bed. “I'm only doing this to prove you're wrong. I jump into people, not channel them. And it's totally physical.” Which could get interesting, as in Stephanie all over again but with a pulse. With any luck, Cora Wood is currently engaged in some serious lip-smacking with that new hunk boyfriend of hers, the one she was seen dancing with at Club Soda. Ha! Dancing? From what I could see on YouTube, full-frontal grinding.

I close my eyes and fold my hands across my chest. I inhale deeply, exhale fully. I picture her face in my mind. “Cora Wood,” I say, over and over like a mantra. “I want to be Cora Wood…”

“Don't forget to focus on what she's thinking,” Leanne says, her voice floating up from the floor.

Cora Wood, Cora Wood, Cora Wood…

I open my eyes.

“That was fast,” Leanne says. “How was it?”

“It didn't work.”

“Maybe you didn't wish hard enough. Try again.”

“Fine.” I scrunch up my face and concentrate.

This time I picture a screaming audience. I imagine myself in a silver minidress, singing my heart out, and for a moment I believe, I actually believe, it's really me onstage.

Not a trace of lilac anywhere.

“Nada,” I say, sitting up.

“Maybe you have to be in the same room,” Leanne says.

“Okay, call her. Tell her we'll be over in ten minutes for milk and cookies.”

“Dead end,” she says dismally. Then her face brightens. “Maybe you have to know the person. How can you wish you're someone you don't know? Let's go to the mall. Someone's always at the mall.”

“Leeny, I'm not going to the mall. I have tons of homework.”

We hear my mother's car pulling into the garage. Leanne breaks into a grin.

“Ew,” I say. “Forget it.”

“Why not? You came from her. Didn't you ever wonder what it's like to
be
her?”

“Uh, no. I was premature. I couldn't wait to get out. Now you want me to go back?”

“Do it in the name of science,” she says, all excited. “Besides, what safer place is there than your own mother?”

So true. For example, my mother never leaves home without her pepper spray. She even takes it to the corner when she gets the mail. “Okay, but you owe me,” I tell Leanne. “I'm doing this for you, not the Nobel Prize.”

I lie back down and concentrate. I think about not having to go to school, about being an adult and doing whatever I want, when I want. But when I picture my mother's face, I think about how annoying she is. I can't wish I were her if I think she's annoying, so I try to focus on how we're the same, like the way she presses out toothpaste from the top of the tube instead of the bottom, and how she likes mayonnaise on her fries instead of ketchup (even though she only eats egg-free mayonnaise and her fries are baked). And then I start wishing. If I could be her, just for a while, maybe it'll help me figure out who
I
am.

Nothing.

“Maybe you're forgetting something,” Leanne says when I open my eyes. “What about the other times? What happened just before you smelled lilac?”

“Wait. There
is
something. Before I jumped into Vardina's body, she was staring at me like she wanted to say something. It was the same with Stephanie. She was looking at me funny, like she was gloating.”

“So?”

“What about you?”

“Why would I be gloating?”

“What were you thinking just before you went to the bathroom?”

“Um, that I have to pee?”

“Besides that,” I say, losing patience.

“I was thinking about how you let your mother control you.”

“Leeny…”

“Well, you asked.”

“The point is, you were thinking about
me
. I wanted to be you at the same time you were thinking about me, and presto, I was in.”

She looks doubtful. “The have-to-be-in-the-same-room theory makes more sense.”

“Leeny,
nothing
about this makes sense. I'm not doing it with my mother in the room, so you can just forget it. She'd see me pass out and call 9-1-1. It's my way or no way. Go down to the kitchen and talk to her. I'll count to fifty before I do my thing. Get me on her mind. That's the ticket in.”

It's a ticket, all right. A ticket to Wonderland. Just call me Alice.

***

“…teenagers driving. That car they hit went right through the guardrail, then rolled all the way down into the canyon. That poor little girl. It's a miracle anyone survived at all. No, I just can't agree to it.”

It worked! I'm in! Except my mother isn't in the kitchen where I'd thought she'd be; she's in the laundry room folding my favorite T-shirt, the one with the yellow fringe. Why is she frowning? Must be because of her hands. When did they get so wrinkled? And why is she staring at my shirt like she's never seen fringes?

“I've been driving for six months, and I've never even had a parking ticket,” Leanne says from her perch on the stool near the dryer. “My instructor said I was the best driver's ed student in the whole class.”

“Maybe you're the exception,” my mother says. “Cassie is much too flighty. I can't trust her behind the wheel. And besides, there's her condition.”

“It's been two years since her last…you know. It's legal if she stays on her medication, right?”

“True…”

“And she's changed. She's not the person she used to be.”

Ha. Now there's an understatement.

“In what way?” my mother asks.

“She's very conscientious.”

Not at the moment, actually.

My mother's forehead crinkles. “I guess I can think about it.”

Wait. My mother might let me drive? Way to go, Leanne!

“You're so easy to talk to,” Leanne says. “Cassie is lucky. I wish I could talk to my mother like this. She's so temperamental. It's like she's bipolar or something. Can you get bipolar when you're old?”

“How old is she?” my mother asks.

“Almost fifty. Not that fifty is old,” Leanne quickly adds. “I didn't mean to imply anything. You look great for your age, Mrs. Stewart.”

She's forty-five, Leanne. Can we get back to my license?

“Sounds like the change,” my mother says. “It's nothing to worry about. Menopause is perfectly natural. It's like when you start getting periods, only in reverse.”

Okay, stop. This conversation is getting bizarre.

“So you're saying she's fine? She's like me when I was thirteen?”

Scary.

“Just try to be understanding, sweetheart. In the meantime, if you need someone to talk to, you can call me. Anytime.”

Hey. You're
my
mother.

“Thanks, Mrs. Stewart. I will.”

I feel something heavy in my mother's chest, like she swallowed a whole bagel and it got stuck halfway down. “I just wish my own daughter would talk to me,” she says in a wistful voice. “She's so secretive. I never know what's going on in that head of hers.”

“She's complicated,” Leanne says vaguely.

“Honestly, sometimes I don't know where she gets her ideas. Just look at this shirt! What's with the fringe? And what about this skirt? Does it really need all those zippers?”

It's the style, Mom. Tell her, Leanne. Apparently she listens to
you
.

“I'll talk to her,” Leanne says. “She values my taste.”

Right. I like looking like a tablecloth.