Personal Demons (11 page)

Grandpa is nearly bouncing out of the pew the entire mass. To keep myself from bouncing along with him, I watch Grace kneeling with her rosary. She seemed to go the other way when Matt died, turning to God, like He’s going to fix anything . . . or change anything. She’s always been too trusting. Gullible, really.

Praying doesn’t work. I’ve tried.

I glance back at Grandpa, remembering the last time I actually got down on my knees and prayed. It was three years ago, after I’d woken late on a Saturday with what felt like lightning shooting through my brain. And what I saw behind my eyelids, when I screwed them shut against the pain, was my grandma lying facedown in her garden in a pool of blood. When I called, no one answered. I told Mom we needed to go over to check on her, but she put me off. I couldn’t tell her why we needed to go—it was crazy—so I went to my room and prayed.

When Grandpa got home from fishing that day, he’d found her in the garden where she’d fallen from the ladder, with the pruning sheers through her stomach.

That’s when I knew for sure there was no God.

At the end of what feels like an endless mass, Grandpa jumps out of his seat. “Ready for a ride?”

“I’ve been ready for this ride all year.”

“Let’s go!”

He makes his way out of the church, me following behind. When we get to the car he opens the driver’s door and hands me the keys.

“I’m driving? No way!”

He smiles. “You earned it.”

I jump into the driver’s seat, turn the ignition, and she purrs to life. The Rolling Stones’ “Sympathy for the Devil” is blasting from the radio. I crank it even louder. “This is amazing.” I smile so hard my cheeks hurt and wrap my hands around the steering wheel.

His blue eyes beam at me. “Let’s roll.”

I adjust the mirrors and the seat, then shift into first and slowly roll out of the parking lot. Once we’re out of the crowd and on the open road he says, “Give her a little gas. Let’s see what she can do.”

I hit the gas and fly through the gears, feeling the wind through my hair and the cool morning sun on my skin. “She runs perfect!” I yell over the noise of the engine, the radio, and the wind.

I glance at him and can’t miss the pride all over his face. “Ya did a great job.”

“Grandpa?”

“Yep.”

“If the devil had a car, what do you think it would be?”

The mischief in his voice is unmistakable. “A black Shelby Cobra GT500.”

My gut jumps a little. “What year?”

“1967.”

Close.

We pull into his driveway. “Leave her out,” he says. “We’ll take her for a ride later.”

“So what’s our next project? Another Mustang?”

“Probably. Thinkin’ about that ’67 Shelby. C’mere. I want to show ya something,” he says, opening the front door. I savor the sweet smell of pipe smoke as we weave our way between the worn sofa and the walnut coffee table in the small family room to the bedroom in the back. He grabs a wooden picture frame from the dresser and hands it to me. “Did your grandma ever show ya this?”

“No,” I say, taking it from his hand. I look at the picture. It’s a young couple; him with dark hair and sky-blue eyes, wearing dark jeans and a black T-shirt. His arms are wrapped around a girl in cutoffs and a red halter top, her sandy blond waves blowing in the breeze. And she’s sitting on the hood of a black ’67 Shelby Cobra GT500.

“That was the day I asked your grandma to marry me—summer after high school.”

“Wow. You were young.”

“Well, things were different back then, but I still believe when it’s right, ya just know it.”

I stare at the picture again—Grandpa’s arms around Grandma, holding on like his life depended on it. There’s a gleam in her
sapphire eyes, and a wicked little smile just curls the corners of her lips as she leans back into him. “She looks happy.”

A crooked smile blooms on his face. “We
were
happy. I was a hell-raiser back then. Your great-grandpa thought I was the devil. Tried to run me off with a shotgun.” He laughs. “Like that woulda worked if I was really the devil.”

“How did you change his mind?”

“Not sure I ever really did. But it didn’t take him long to figure out that I loved her. And I always tried to be good to her, so after a while I guess he decided there were worse things I could be than the devil.”

I take a last look at the picture and put it down on the dresser, tapping the Shelby with my index finger. “I have a . . . friend who drives a ’68.”

His expression turns serious and his brow creases with concern. “How good of a ‘friend’ is he?”

As hard as I try, I can’t stop the ridiculous grin that pulls at my mouth. “I’m not sure yet.”

He must read something in my face. “Frannie . . . ya know teenage guys’re only after one thing, right?”

“Grandpa!”

“It’s just the way of things. Don’t let no guy push ya into doin’ . . . ya know . . .”

“I can take care of myself.”

His face remains stern, but his eyes soften and a smile creeps into them. “I’m sure ya can. Have your parents met him?”

“Yeah,” I say, then hesitate. “He has them pretty freaked out.”

His eyes win out and a smile bursts across his face. “Well,
that’s what parents are for, I suppose.” His brow creases. “But I can’t see how anybody who drives a ’68 Shelby could be all bad.”

“Thanks, Grandpa.” I wrap him in a hug. “I love you.”

“I love ya too, Frannie.”

When Grandpa drops me off I skip into the house and close the front door. I look up and Grace is there, arms crossed, lips pressed into a hard line, staring at me with her intense blue eyes. “Come talk to me,” she says without breaking her gaze.

“What now?”

She grabs my arm and pulls me. “Just come upstairs.”

I let her drag me upstairs to my room, and she closes the door as I head toward the window.

“I know you don’t do your reading,” she starts in her no-nonsense tone, “but Peter 5:8 says, ‘Be self-controlled and alert. Your enemy the devil prowls around like a roaring lion looking for someone to devour.’ Satan influences the weak, Frannie.”

I turn away from the window to face her. “What the hell are you talking about?”

She fixes me in a hard stare. “You know exactly
who
I’m talking about.”

I start and my gut twists.

“There’s something . . . dark about him,” she adds.

I glare at her. “You’ve lost it, Grace. Get out of my room.”

She moves to the door and turns back to look at me, her expression dour. “I’ll pray for you,” she says.

“Get out!” I bark.

She closes the door, and, when I flop back onto my bed, my head hits something hard. I sit up to find a Bible open to the First Letter of Peter. I throw it full force at the door, where it falls to the floor in a heap, then I sit with my face in my hands.

Grace is crazy.
Isn’t she?
Or am I? I’m not sure. It’s been a long time since I’ve felt emotions so big and out of control, and I don’t like it. I don’t know where all these insane emotions are coming from, but I have to figure out a way to make them stop.

I drag myself off the bed and start working my way through the comfort of my judo routine. I’ve been doing judo since I was nine. I didn’t know why I was drawn to it. I just knew it was something I needed to do. What I know now, looking back, is I truly
did
need it, ’cause I was self-destructing, quietly and privately, after Matt died. Judo was like kid anger management—the only thing that touched my rage. It’s a funny mix of letting everything out and holding everything in. The ultimate in control over mind and body. It taught me to stay centered within myself and keep everything else out—superficial. If you don’t let anything in, then nothing can hurt you. Never again am I going to hurt like I did when Matt left me. I couldn’t survive it.

When I’m finished, I sit on my bed, pull out Matt’s journal, and start to write. I tell him everything I dare admit to myself, starting with the fact that Luc is somehow getting through my defenses.

I stroll up the hall toward my locker with my fingertips perched in the small of Angelique’s back. She prattles incoherently about her weekend, seriously challenging my ability to feign interest. But then I glance up and see Frannie standing at her locker, staring at us, and I let the smile spread across my face. I turn and gaze blindly at Angelique, nodding at her inept platitudes.

When we reach my locker, Frannie’s gone, but I can feel her tucked inside the door to room 616, watching. And her black pepper and licorice are laced with a healthy dose of garlic—strong and bitter. I breathe it in as it overpowers Angelique’s ginger and savor the crackle of hot energy coursing through me.

“What did you do this weekend?” Angelique asks, pulling me from my reverie and trailing a finger down the collar of her low-cut shirt to her substantial cleavage.

I lean against my locker. “Not much. You?”

“It’s almost beach weather so we opened up the beach house. You should come down sometime . . .”

“Sounds good,” I purr with my wickedest smile.

The sudden, overwhelming burst of envy, rage, and hate emanating from room 616 is so thick in the air I can taste it, arousing all my senses. Arousing
me.
I bask in it and shudder.

Angelique eases in a little closer, pouts her full, red lips, and brushes her fingers down my arm, hesitating at the lower edge of my T-shirt sleeve, over the tail of the black serpent tattooed around my upper arm. “It’s not too far from here. Maybe we could drive down there some night . . . like, Friday maybe?”

I smile, almost unable to contain the thrill coursing through me. A thrill that has nothing to do with Angelique. This is perfect. Just what I was going for.

Yes, this is a much better game plan—the indirect approach. Because what I realized after I left Frannie’s Saturday, as I sat in the dark, obsessing and banging my head against the wall—all night—was that the direct approach was kicking my ass.

The thing is, to tag Frannie, I need undisputable claim to her soul. Undisputable claim means more than one sin, unless that one sin is beyond big—a mortal sin. Even the seven deadly sins usually aren’t enough just once. I need at least a tendency if not a trend. A pattern. And chipping away at it a little at a time isn’t working.

Two weeks.
How is this taking so long?

I almost had her in her room . . . I was
so
close. The ginger was pouring off her. It wouldn’t have even taken much of a push. But at this rate, Gabriel will beat me to the tag for sure.

Because the other side is that Gabriel also needs a trend, and as far as I can see, he’s got it. If they want her—and I’m quite sure they do—I don’t know why he hasn’t claimed her yet.

But he hasn’t, so there must be a reason. Which means I still have time.

Don’t panic.

This game plan—the indirect approach—
will
work. It has to.

I saunter into class, ready to bask in Frannie’s wild emotions, and slide into my seat. “How was your Sunday?”

She turns and smiles at me. “Fine.”

And I realize there’s nothing to bask in. The anise . . . the pepper . . . they’re gone. I try to pick up anything she’s giving off. But there’s nothing to pick up. I wipe the confusion from my face and ask, “Do anything good?”

“No.”

“You okay?”

“Yep,” she says, smiling wider.

Mr. Snyder walks over and tosses a pile of paper onto her desk. “Here’s your latest batch of letters, Frannie. Translations are stapled on the front, as usual. Do you need help with postage?”

She smiles up at him—never happier. “No, thanks, Mr. Snyder. Collections were good this month. It’s covered.”

“Mind if I take a look?” I lean in until I’m close enough she must feel me, my heat.

A shudder? Maybe? Or was that just wishful thinking? “Sorry, they’re personal letters,” she says without turning to look at me.

“No problem. I’ll read the write-up in the
Globe.
Pretty clever system, hooking up with a teacher over there.”

“It works. And Mr. Snyder does the translation by scanning the letters and running them through a translator. The translation isn’t perfect, but it’s good enough. He does the same thing with the ones that come back from Pakistan.”