See Me (11 page)

Now Jonathan and I were on our way back to San Felipe High. Unfortunately, my car had been left in the school parking lot when Brynne had driven my zombied body home earlier. Yep, it had been a long day. We drove in silence and something odd kept circling my brain.

Deciding to just get it off my chest, I swiveled in my seat to face him. “Why did you say you didn’t know who Danielle was when we first saw her at the cemetery?”

His head jerked a little as if I’d pulled him out of whatever he’d been thinking about. “She looked different.” His voice was low as he made a left turn, heading up the freeway onramp. “She’s always been the type of girl who won’t leave the house until every hair on her head is styled the way she wants it. Make-up, hairspray, preppy outfits, the whole nine yards. Seeing her disheveled like that, even smoking . . . it was so not her.”

Now I felt even worse for the sassy girl. “I’m sure she’ll go back to the way she was once she realizes you’re all right. Maybe we should tell her what’s going on.”

“No, she’s too fragile to handle this. She shouldn’t be at the cemetery by herself, either.” His jaw tensed and he made a right turn and got on the freeway. “That’s how it’s always been with us, though. My mom was too busy with her social clubs and my dad kept himself locked in his office.” His grip on the steering wheel tightened so much his knuckles turned white. “Not even my death could get that guy’s attention away from his
precious
comic strip.”

I blinked at the hurt in his tone, then thought about my own comic series. When I sit down to sketch, everything falls away except the world of my characters, and nothing else exists for me. Hours and weekends flew by in what seemed like minutes. I wondered if it was that same for Jacob Miller.

I’d been reading
Maisy’s Meow
for years. The series was so warm and funny that I would’ve thought the creator’s home life would’ve been that way, too.

Maisy was this hilarious high maintenance kitty, who had a new crisis every week. Her hubby always fixed the problems for her, making her meow happily by the end. That was the hubby’s goal in each and every strip: hearing Maisy’s meow. All of the hardback covers for the
Maisy’s Meow
anthologies were variations of Maisy donned in her best diamond collar, with her hubby in the background staring wistfully at the untouched scratching post she’d given him on their wedding day. Hilarious.

Uh, or so I’d always thought. . . .

My eyes bulged. Hadn’t Jonathan said something about his mom always being in a crisis? Hadn’t I mimicked
my
comic strip after my own world? Could the
Maisy’s Meow
comics be variations of Jacob Miller’s real life? That he was constantly trying to please an impossible-to-please wife?

It seemed like a definite possibility.

I closed my eyes, and took a deep breath. “Nobody knows this, but I’ve been writing my own comic series.”

“You have?” He glanced over at me, surprise clearly written all over his face. But he didn’t laugh or tell me I was crazy or lame, which was kind of what I’d always worried would happen when I told someone. “What’s it about?”

“Four superhero girls, and each has her own power,” I said, thinking of my characters: Beth, Natalie, Amanda, and Laura. Laura’s actually more of the antagonist than a friend (modeled after,
ahem
, Lindsay Sloan). Then a smile spread across my face. I couldn’t believe I was going to tell him this. “Amanda has the power to be invisible.”

“You’re making that up.”

I shook my head, laughing. “I have years of stories to prove it.”

“I’d love to read them.” His tone was sincere, and so was his expression when he glanced over at me. “What’s the series called?”

“I haven’t named it yet.” I stared at the green EXIT sign we passed as Jonathan drove down the freeway off ramp, and I wrung my hands together. “That’s part of the problem.”

“Why is it a problem?”

“Once I choose the name, then it’s set forever. It’s kind of overwhelming, probably like naming your child.” I swallowed, wondering if writer’s block on the title was from the fear of dropping that manila envelope in the post office box more than anything else. “But I have to give the series a title since the entry form for your dad’s comic strip contest requires it.”

Silence.

“Is that weird that I’m entering his contest?” I asked, thinking maybe it wasn’t a brilliant idea to mention his dad’s work. It was obviously a sensitive subject since it sounded like Jacob Miller’s work on
Maisy’s Meow
hadn’t left much time for his children. Or maybe. . . “You’re not, like, one of the contest judges or something?”

“No.” He pulled into the parking lot next to the car I indicated was mine, then he set Owen’s truck in park. He leaned back against the headrest, put his arm over his eyes, then sucked in a breath. “It’s just . . . the last time I talked to my dad, we had a huge fight about that contest.”

“I’m sorry.” I chewed on my lower lip. “What happened?”

He dropped his arm, then tilted his head my way. “I’d always tried to be the perfect son, hoping that would make him want to spend time with me. I got straight As in school. I excelled in sports. Acted exceptionally polite to all of their social crowd. Yada yada yada.”

“Wow. My mom would adore you.”

He let out a small breathy laugh. “We were supposed to go on a family trip to Maui for Thanksgiving this year. One week, just the family, and no work. I’d been looking forward to it for months. Finally, we’d all spend time together like we’d done when I was little before my dad’s career took off. But last week he told us he needed to cancel the vacation because of this contest.”

“Right,” I said, remembering the dates on the entry form. “The awards dinner is scheduled right before Thanksgiving.”

“Plus he needs to go through all of the entries for the judging,” he said, shaking his head. “There’s always something with him. The truth is he just doesn’t care about anything besides keeping my mom happy and his work. He probably wishes he never had children. So, I told him I was done being his son.” His voice quavered. “Then I said I was getting rid of the
Maisy’s Meow
book he’d given me when I was little. And I did.”

I could see the pain written across his face at his admission, and my chest ached for him.

He nudged the corners of his eyes with his knuckle, just like Danielle had done earlier this evening. They seemed like two of a kind. “That book he’d given me was the first copy of his first
Maisy’s Meow
, and he’d inscribed it to me. I knew what it meant to him so I gave it away.” His voice cracked. “Now it’s gone, forever.”

“You were hurt,” I said, curling into him and resting my cheek on his shoulder. “We all do stupid things when we’re upset. I’m sure he’s not holding a grudge or anything.”

He rested his chin on top of my head, while fingering a loose strand of hair along the side of my face. “I wonder if he misses that book more than he misses me,” he said.

“I doubt it,” I mumbled, but I didn’t know if that were true. I thought about my own dad and how he’d decided to travel the world for
his
work, leaving me behind in the process. At least now I knew that it wasn’t my pathetic grades that had driven him away. Apparently it didn’t matter if you had perfect grades or dismal grades. Some parents just don’t love their children.

End of story.

“I should let you go home.” He straightened, releasing my strand of hair, so I could scoot toward the door. “I’m going to give Owen his body back. There’s nothing else I can do tonight, anyway.”

“Do you think Owen’s even here?” I paused when Jonathan shrugged, then I glanced around the truck. “I can’t sense anything. If he’s not here, then call me and we can figure out where he might have gone.”

“It’s a plan,” he said.

“Once you’ve solved things with Owen, you’ll be at my house, right?” My voice sounded shaky, probably because I was scared out of my mind that Jonathan might get down again and reconsider going into his ashes. I shuddered. “You’re not going to do anything stupid, are you?”

He smirked. “If this comic strip interest doesn’t work out, you should consider a career in motivational speaking.”

“Very funny.” I grabbed my purse off the seat, pushed open the door, then turned back around. “I’ll see you later tonight at my house then. Or, I’ll
feel
you, anyway. Then we’ll work on solutions tomorrow.”

“All right,” he said, putting a hand on my shoulder, and giving me a weary smile. “Thanks, Amy.”

The feel of his hand against me awakened every nerve in my shoulder.

“You’re welcome.” I tore my eyes away from him, popped out of the truck, then slammed the door shut. I inhaled sharp, stinging breaths before hurrying to my car, unlocking it, and quickly climbing inside. Then I zoomed away without looking behind me.

Yeah, I’d totally rushed out of there. It was good that Owen was getting his body back, but it would’ve torn me apart to watch. Jonathan was going to vacate the only body he had and we didn’t know when or
if
he’d get another body. Which was ironic, since I could still feel his hand on my shoulder.

****

I glanced at the clock while I drove to my house. Almost ten o’clock at night. My cell phone buzzed in my purse. I picked it up and noticed five missed calls from my mother. Uh oh. She was so going to ground me for life.

I parked in the driveway in front of the third garage door. The inside parking space of mine in the garage had been made into a workout room for my stepdad. Seems they didn’t care that my car got to weather the outside elements while theirs were tucked safely inside.

Lifting my purse over my shoulder, I got out of the car, then strode up the walkway. I opened the front door and was greeted by a pair of crossed arms.

“Hi, Mom,” I said, as if it were the most natural thing in the world that I’d arrive home at this late hour to find her here waiting for me. Although that did seem to be an entirely new scowl she’d mastered. Scary. “I’m going to, uh, head up to my room and go to bed. Night.”

“Where have you been?” She used her slow, deliberate voice, which meant I was in an entirely new degree of trouble.

“Out with a friend.” I widened my eyes to indicate she shouldn’t have a problem with that. Unfortunately, her scowl deepened. “We were studying . . . math problems.”

Not a total lie. One person minus one body equals zhost.

“Do you really expect me to believe that?” She pointed toward the living room. “March in there right now, young lady. We are going to deal with this problem once and for all.”

“Can’t we talk about this later?” I asked, meaning let’s talk about this
never
. Judging by her blazing eyes, it was safe assume the answer was no. I dragged my legs into the living room, dropped back into the loveseat, and hoped I wouldn’t get grounded on top of everything else.

“It’s past ten o’clock.” She pointed to her watch as if it were evidence, then she sat on the sofa perpendicular to me. “On a school night, Amy. What were you thinking?”

That curfews shouldn’t apply when trying to save someone’s life? Instead of actually saying this, I shrugged. “We just lost track of the time.”

“But you didn’t leave a note, and you weren’t answering your cell phone.” She scooted to the edge of the sofa cushion, leaning forward with her elbows on her knees. Probably thought she looked more intimidating that way, and she would kind of be right about that. “Where were you all this time?” she demanded.

“At the cemetery,” I said, deciding to be honest. I slumped my shoulders as a wave of exhaustion washed over me. Today was finally starting to take its toll. “A friend of mine died.”

Her brows drew together. “I thought you said you were studying.”

My mouth dropped open. I’d just confessed the truth to her and
that
was the part she was focusing on? It totally figured. I stood, shaking my head. “Forget it. I’m going to bed.”

“Amy . . .” She jumped to her feet, then blocked me from leaving the room. “I’m just trying to find out what’s going on with you. If your friend really passed away, then I’m sorry. That still doesn’t explain why you didn’t call me.”

“I was upset, okay?” I scoffed. Boy she just lived to hammer down on every little thing I did wrong. I’d bet if I did get perfect grades like Jonathan, and got involved with school activities like she was always bugging me to, that I
still
wouldn’t be good enough for her. “I’ll be sure to pause my grief to call you next time. Can I go now?”

“Not yet.” She moved around me then picked up a white booklet from the coffee table, and handed it to me. She folded her arms across her chest. “I’d like to hear what you have to say about that.”

I glanced down at the piece of white binder paper in my hand. It had a big, red “F” at the top of the page next to the header, “How Hester Prynne Got Screwed.” Mr. Coleman strikes again. My brows came together. “Have you been going through my things? You have no right to do that.”

She sighed, gesturing toward the kitchen. “I found it on the kitchen floor where you’d dropped your backpack.”

Visions of Jonathan tossing my backpack carelessly toward the counter on his way to curb his insatiable hunger went through my head. The backpack had fallen to the floor and burst open, spilling the contents everywhere. Thanks a lot, Jonathan. I could kill him for getting me busted.

If he weren’t already dead, that is.

“Well?” My mom stared at me,
through
me, as if she had no idea who I was. I totally didn’t need that on top of everything else I’d been dealing with today. “I told you that your grades needed to come up,” she said, waving her finger over the red “F” on the paper. “Now I find this. What am I supposed to think, Amy? Do you just not care?”

“My teacher’s a toad,” I said, pointing out the obvious. I mean, she had personal evidence of this since she had the non-joy of meeting him at the parent/teacher conference we’d had last month about my sucky progress report. “It’s like he thinks his job is to make my life miserable.”