Relic (6 page)

My dad smiled. “He is a bit old, dear.”

“Nonsense,” my mom said.

Dad sighed. “Let's talk about this in the morning, shall we?”

“No, let's not,” I said. “Let's never mention it, or anything about it, again. It was a bad dream. That's all. Kids have bad dreams all the time.”

“At least mention it in your next therapy session, son.”

I groaned. “Can't we just let it go?”

Dad shook his head. “It's important to talk about those things that seem out of character, Dean. You look like you might be a bit confused by all this, and talking can help.”

Me, confused? Not anymore, but there was no point mentioning that. For the briefest of seconds I considered telling my parents about the visions. I could tell them that the security guard was going to die. If I didn't act, then his death would be proof I was right. I know it sounds like an awful thing to think. It was only for a second.

Becky leaned around the door some more. “You do look confused. Do you even know where you are?”

“You're hilarious.”

“All right, all right,” my dad said. “I think it's time we all just went back to bed. Nightmares are a normal part of growing up, and Dean's witnessed some pretty traumatic things these last few months. He's got every right to have a few bad dreams.”

“Thank you,” I said.

He led my mom back into the hall. Becky lingered near my room, and when the door to my parents' room closed, she looked at me and shook her head. She sighed and for a moment looked genuinely concerned. “Maybe you actually do need help.”

I couldn't tell if she was teasing me or being serious, and honestly, I wasn't sure which one I thought would be worse. I marched across the room and slammed my door. “Shut up, Becky.”

I glanced at my bedside clock. 12:45. I figured my parents had been in my room for about five minutes, so sometime around 12:40 a.m. the security guard at the museum and some guy dressed in black were going to die. I wasn't stupid. I knew exactly what it meant.

There was going to be a burglary at the museum. One that would go very, very wrong.

 

I couldn't sleep. I just lay there, shaking and wondering if I should call Archer. Every few minutes, I'd pace across the room to the window and glance out, hoping to see his ice cream truck. Then, when it was obviously not there, I'd pace back to my bed and plop down. This continued for hours, until finally, after collapsing for the umpteenth time, I closed my eyes and fell asleep. Not that it lasted.

“Dean.”

“Deeeeaaaan.”

Something poked me in the cheek. “Dean!”

I snapped awake with a start as the memories of the previous night flooded back. “Wha…who…?” I blinked a couple times, then rubbed my eyes. Lisa and Colin were standing at the foot of my bed. Colin was rubbing his hands and licking his lips, and Lisa was chewing her thumbnail. They knew.

“Who told you?”

“So it is true,” Colin said. He pointed at Lisa. “I told you it was.”

“I didn't say it wasn't true,” Lisa said. “I just said your sister isn't exactly a reliable source.”

“Your sister?” I asked. “Jasmine?”

“Becky told her,” Colin said.

“Of course she did,” I groaned. Jasmine was Colin's sister and one of Becky's best friends. “Remind me to drop my sister's toothbrush in the toilet.”

“Eww.” Lisa grimaced. “You wouldn't really do that, would you?”

Colin waved his hands. “C'mon, man. If you've had another vision, let's hear it.” He rubbed his hands together. “I've been dying for another mission.”

“They're not missions,” Lisa muttered. “And we just finished one, how can you already want another one?” She lowered herself to the edge of my bed. “But we better hear it anyway. Who is it? Anyone we know?”

I drew a couple deep breaths. “Okay, so it's like this…”

When I finished telling them what happened, they spoke in the same breath. “A burglary?”

“That's what I figure.”

“We get to thwart a burglary!” Colin said excitedly. “This just gets better and better.” He rubbed his hands. “I've always wanted to thwart something.”

“I'm surprised you even know the word
thwart
,” Lisa said.

“Call him,” Colin said. I didn't need to ask who he meant.

I nodded and pulled out my phone and then dialed the numbers from the card. The phone rang four times before voice mail on the other end picked up:

“This is Archer.”
Beep
.

The message was so abrupt that it caught me off guard. “Oh, um,” I stammered, “Archer. This is Dean. Dean Curse. We met yesterday…well, you probably remember. Of course you do…um, yeah. Anyway, we were just wondering if we could meet you at the park today.” I suddenly remembered the forced apology I had to give at the museum. “Erm, this afternoon if possible,” I added. “Maybe around one o'clock. Okay, hope to see—” The machine beeped, cutting me off. I turned to my friends. “How was that?”

“Awkward,” Colin said. “Really awkward.”

“It wasn't that bad,” Lisa said, “but why are we meeting him this afternoon? Group therapy is over way before that.”

I groaned. “I forgot about therapy.” I stretched my arms and pulled some clothes from my dresser. “My mom's making me apologize to that monk.”

“The one from the museum?” Colin asked.

“No, Colin,” I said, “the one from the grocery store. How many monks do you know?”

Lisa shook her head while Colin laughed. “Oh, yeah. Well, hurry up and get ready. We should get that over with as soon as possible. Are you going to say something to that security guard while we're there?”

“Just get dressed,” Lisa said, pulling Colin out of my room. “We'll talk about it on the way.”

I pulled on a t-shirt and jeans, ducked into the washroom to get cleaned up, and headed to the kitchen. I wasn't even five minutes behind my friends, but five minutes was plenty of time for my sister to try to make me look bad. I rounded the corner just in time to hear Becky say, “And then he screamed and asked my parents if he could sleep with them.”

“What?” Lisa's eyes were the size of dinner plates.

“He did what?” Colin choked out.

Becky smiled wide. She turned to me and brought her hands up to her chin, imitating a scared, frizzy-haired brat. “Widdle Deannie got scared and wanted to sweep with his widdle mommy.”

“You're such a brat,” I muttered.

Lisa was still staring at me. “You wanted to sleep in your parents' bed? Really?”

“No,” I sighed. “That's not what happened at all.” Lisa looked unconvinced so I added, emphatically, “I didn't.”

My mom strolled into the kitchen behind me and came to an abrupt stop when she saw Lisa and Colin gawking at me, and Becky sneering like the devil brat she was. “Do I even want to know?” she said. Before anyone could mutter a word, she shook her head. “Nope. I don't.” She turned to me. “You almost ready? I'll drop you three off at your group meeting a little early, and you can swing by the museum on your way home.”

My dad came in from outside a second later. He had a newspaper in one hand and a cup of coffee in the other. He folded the paper in half, took a careful sip of his coffee and said, “So you say you
didn't
try to hurt that monk yesterday?”

I sighed. “C'mon, Dad. I already told you I didn't. Ask anyone.”

My dad nodded. “Anyone?” He seemed almost amused as he dropped the paper to the table so we could all see the front page. The headline made me groan: “Local Hero Attacks Monk.” Underneath was a picture of me connecting a wicked elbow to the side of the young monk's head.

 

After a week of protests over the Abbotsford Museum's new Buddhist exhibit, tensions reached a boiling point when local hero Dean Curse got into a fistfight with one of the protestors: a Cambodian monk. Witnesses say it was unclear who started the scuffle, but there was no question who finished it.

“
I think the monk tackled Dean to the ground,” one bystander reported. “But that boy wasn't going down without a fight.”

This reporter managed to speak to one of Dean Curse's schoolmates, Eric Feldman, who said, “Dean's unstable. He killed an animal with a fork once and bragged about it. I'm not surprised at all that he beat up a monk.”

The curator of the museum, Mr. Jonathan Overton, said that the boys got into a little scuffle that was settled by their respective families. No property was damaged, and no one was injured.

 

Lisa looked at me pitifully. “Why the heck did they interview Eric?”

“I'm sure he volunteered,” I said, groaning.

“At least it's a great shot,” Colin said. “And to be fair to Eric, you do look like a crazy person.”

“Great,” I said. “Just great.”

Becky shouldered her way past me holding a pair of scissors, and in a flash, she chopped the article out and held it up with a smirk. “I think I might keep a collection of crazy things Dean does,” she said. “That way when the judge asks why we think he needs to be locked up, we'll have lots of proof.”

“Can we please just go?” I asked.

 

Group therapy was held in a dance studio, which, I have to admit, always worried me a bit. Our psychologist, Dr. Mickelsen, was a bit of a weirdo and I constantly wondered if he'd try to get us to dance about our feelings. Colin used to joke that a dance about an exploded teacher would be hilarious, but Lisa didn't really like those jokes so he only said stuff like that when we were alone. Most of the other therapy kids were already in the studio when we arrived, milling around, chatting near the circle of chairs.

“Hi, Dean.” I turned and found myself facing Rylee Davis. She was a year older, in the tenth grade. She had dark hair with blonde streaks, and really big green eyes.

“Oh, hi, Rylee.” I swallowed. “How's it going?”

She smiled. “Good.”

Colin stepped closer to me. “Hi, Rylee.”

She nodded to Colin and gave Lisa a little wave. Then she pointed at my leg. “You got your cast off.”

“Oh, um, yeah. Doctors said it was all healed up, so…”

Rylee leaned close. Close enough that I could smell her watermelon lip gloss. “I saw the paper,” she whispered.

I winced.

“Don't worry,” she said, “I know they exaggerate. It's good to see your leg's okay, though.” She smiled again and then turned and joined up with a couple other girls from the group.

“I can't believe Rylee Davis just came over and talked to you,” Colin said. “She approached
you
. And that's sweet for two reasons.”

I laughed nervously. “Oh, yeah?”

“For one,” he said, speaking just above a whisper, “Rylee's mega hot, so you'd be the luckiest guy in ninth grade. And for two…him.” He nodded across the circle and I followed his gaze to Eric Feldman, the biggest jerk in our grade. Eric glared daggers at us from across the circle and Colin gave him a mocking little wave.

“What does Eric have to do with it?” I asked.

“Are you kidding?” Colin said. “He's obsessed with her. I bet he has a giant
I LOVE RYLEE
tattoo on his back.” He smiled. “Making him jealous is icing on the cake.”

I hated Eric, and making him mad would be excellent—Rodney Palmer, Eric's best friend, on the other hand…I wasn't interested in making that psychopath angry. I shook my head. If Rylee liked me, it was as a friend. Besides, it's not like I could do the whole boyfriend thing
and
still manage to deal with my visions.

It
was
fun to think about, though.

I didn't realize I was smiling until Lisa stepped past me and whispered, “You're pathetic.” I dropped into the seat beside her and she added, “But I think she might like you too.”

“Yeah, right,” I said.

“Let's get started, shall we?” Dr. Mickelsen said. He had on a blue dress shirt and a tweed coat, which was odd since it was so hot and everyone else in the room was wearing shorts and t-shirts. He started the session the same way he always did: by going around the room asking everyone to share their feelings. You could say “pass” if you didn't want to share, which was something Colin, Lisa and I used pretty much every session. But this time, when he got to me, and I said, “Pass,” he didn't move on.

“Are you sure?” he asked.

I felt my eyebrows rise. “Um, yes. Very sure. Thank you.”

“Nothing you're interested in talking about?”

I took another look at the therapist and realized he had a newspaper under his clipboard. My face suddenly felt warm. I swallowed and repeated, “Pass, sir.”

“First he kills an animal with a fork,” Eric said from across the circle, “and now he's attacking peaceful monks at libraries.”

“It was at a museum, you dolt,” Colin said.

“Oh, well that makes it all better, then,” Eric added. He looked around the group and stopped when his gaze landed on Rylee. “It's okay to beat up monks, just so long as it's at museums.”

The rest of the students in the group shifted in their seats in anticipation of what was to come. There was a tiny part of me that wanted to punch Eric. I'd done it before—right in the middle of group therapy too—and I'd be lying if I said it hadn't felt awesome. But another, larger part of me didn't care one bit what the little dweeb had to say. There was going to be a museum robbery and at least two people could die. I was pretty sure Archer would help us deal with it, but it put things in perspective a bit. I had way bigger issues than Eric Feldman and Rodney Palmer.

Colin glanced at me, and gave me a look that asked, “Are you going to punch him again?” I shook my head and leaned back and then stared Dr. Mickelsen right in the face and said, for the third time, “Pass.”