The Discovery (21 page)

"Thank you, Father." Like I haven't already been?

My priest moves on to give my mother the sacrament and I get an itch below my skin surface telling me that there's much, much more in store for this day. Has Father Mass become psychic through osmosis by hanging with Loreen and me?

He winks my way.

Does he know something I don't know?

"You have one new message."

Oh no, please not the haunted-sandwich man—who's been quiet of late. I hope I haven't conjured him up.

"First new message, received at eleven thirty-four."

I press
1
to listen. "Hello, Kendall. This is Paige Miller. I'm the assistant to Oliver Bates. He's doing a fellowship this summer in Europe to try to solve several cold-case homicides and missing-persons cases. He's putting together a team of his former retreat attendees who he feels possess special talents that could aid him. These students will travel with him and work on the cases. If you're interested and your parents would like to speak with Oliver or me, I can be reached at..."

My mouth hangs open as I sit on my bed—still in my church clothes—and listen to the message for the third time. I'm by myself in the house, as Mom and Dad took Kaitlin to her soccer team's spring picnic. Not even the cats are around to shout the news to.

Am I interested? Am I
interested?
Are you frickin' kidding me? No, I'm not interested at all in going to Europe with Oliver Bates. I'm not the least bit inclined to want to get near Italy in the hopes of finding Emily's parents, my grandparents John Thomas and Anna Wynn F aulkner.

Umm...

Yes! Yes! Yes!

I take a deep breath, scroll to my most recent missed call on my phone, and hit Send. This has to be big if she called me on a Sunday morning to give me the news.

"Paige Miller," the kind voice at the end of the phone says.

"Hi, Ms. Miller, this is Kendall Moorehead. You called me about Oliver's Europe trip?"

"Oh, yes, Kendall," she says. "Oliver speaks very highly of you and we'd like to include you in his tour this summer, along with others from your retreat."

I listen intently as she details the itinerary—which includes a stop in Italy,
booyah!
—and what would be expected of me. I will be given a minuscule amount of information on the cases, be shown pictures of the missing or deceased, and be allowed access to some of their personal items. From that, we would try to warm up the case enough to give police clues to go on. My excitement soars like a kite on a windy beach. Then my heart plummets to my feet when Paige details the costs. Hotel and other housing will be covered by Oliver, but I would need airfare and money for food and general spending, and that just ain't gonna happen.

There's no way I can ask my parents to foot the bill for this, especially since they paid for Oliver's retreat and the plane tickets to St. Louis to see Andi Caminiti. This trip would be a total dream come true, but I just don't think we can afford it. Besides, Kaitlin's going off to soccer camp in Florida and I'm sure the parentals would like to spend some money on a nice vacation for themselves for once.

"I'll tell my parents about it, Ms. Miller. When would I need to let you know?"

"As soon as possible," she says.

"Thanks." I hang up the phone and look at the notepad where I'd jotted down Paige Miller's phone number. I scribble the details and the bottom-line price. Seeing it in writing doesn't make it any more affordable.

I sulk away from the phone and throw myself across the bed. I'm all ready to set the table for a gigamonic pity party when Patrick rings the front doorbell. What? I know it's him without even looking. I bound down the stairs, the notepad still dangling from my hand, and let him in. He scoops me into his arms and swings me around and around.

"You got the call too," he says, excited.

"Yeah, I did. So?"

He puts me down. "So, we're going to Europe, babe!"

"With what? My looks?" I'm way too snarky for my own good.

"Your looks will take you a lot farther than Europe. They'll take you to the moon."

Great. Patrick got the call too. I mean,
awesome
that he got the call, but I so don't want him going to Europe without me. All those gorgeous French girls and Italian models. Oy on the vey. I glance down at the figure scrawled in my excited, shaky handwriting and feel my spirit slope further into depression.

He reaches for my hand and grips it in his. "I'm not going without you."

"That's so sweet, Patrick. There's no way, though, that I'm letting you give up a mondo opportunity like this because of me." I pause and then ask, "How are you going to afford it?"

"I have money saved from not taking diving trips and from the job I had when I lived in Tampa," he says, trying to cheer me up. "Just talk to your parents. Or Loreen. Maybe you can do some extra hours at her store to get some of the money."

I stare at my hand where it joins Patrick's. "I don't know. Maybe."

Why can't I catch a break?

"Come on, babe. I've got to leave in a few hours. Let's go to a movie or get some ice cream to celebrate. We will be doing this together."

The thought of a sugar-free Moose Tracks milk shake lifts my spirits. I drop the notepad on the kitchen counter and grab my car keys, following Patrick out the back door.

When I return, after a bit of a tearful goodbye—or rather "see you next weekend"—hug and kiss to my boyfriend, I find Mom and Dad sitting at the kitchen table going through their monthly bills.

They're doing this to see if they can pay for Europe for me. It's written all over their faces. I glance down and see a bill from the hospital—from my surgery—and another from the lab that's doing the DNA testing for us. I've totally cost them enough money for one lifetime.

"There's cold chicken and deviled eggs in the fridge from the picnic, sweetie," Mom says nonchalantly.

"I'm not really hungry," I say. Couldn't have been the twenty-ounce milk shake I sucked down in five slurps. Nope, not at all.

Dad adjusts his eyeglasses and calls out to me. "Is there anything you want to discuss with us, Kendall?"

"Like what, Dad?"

"Oh, I don't know. Maybe an invitation to join Oliver Bates in Europe this summer?"

I kick at the kitchen island with my foot and don't meet my dad's gaze. "It's no big deal, Dad. You know ... whatever."

"Now, Kendall, don't act like Kaitlin," Mom snaps. "This is not 'whatever.'"

Turning to them, I say, "You guys have already spent enough on me. Look at all of these bills because of
me.
Maybe another summer ... another lifetime."

"Sweetie," Dad starts. "Your mom and I are looking over our finances to see if it's possible, okay?"

I raise a brow at them. "Seriously?"

"We can't promise anything," Mom says. "But we'll try."

I run to the table and hug them both. "Thanks, you guys."

A
FTER
P
ATRICK LEAVES,
I spend the rest of the afternoon working on the Civil War paper that's due tomorrow. Nothing like waiting until the last moment, huh? Good thing I can type extra-fast and can get the whole thing done in no time.

The Underground Railroad was a system of covert routes and safe houses used by black slaves in the United States to flee to free states or farther north to Canada. Many were aided by abolitionists who were compassionate about their cause. Started in the early nineteenth century, the Underground Railroad helped nearly one hundred thousand slaves escape; however, U.S. census figures account for only six thousand.

My fingers fly over the keyboard, logging dates, names, and historical facts and figures. I cover the Fugitive Slave Law of 1793; William Still, the father of the Underground Railroad, who helped as many as sixty slaves a month to their freedom; Harriet Tubman, who made thirteen trips to the South and back to aid people; terminology along the route; and the route itself. I scroll through the document, and I'm quite proud that I've been able to pull it all together in the eleventh hour like this.

Of course, I purposely leave out the part about there being a station in Radisson, Georgia, under Farnsworth House. There's the secret tunnel under the fireplace, but I really have no proof of what occurred there other than what I learned from Althea. Sure, archaeologists and historians could dig through that passageway and probably make great findings to add to Radisson's already rich history. But that's up to them, not me. My job was to help those spirits into the light—and now it's to write a paper that will wow Mr. Rorek and get me an A in his class.

I do feel the need to editorialize a bit at the end, based on my experience with Althea. I stress in my paper the horrors of slavery as a whole and how our nation can never return to such atrocities. I also praise those who had the courage to leave their families behind for the freedom they sought. The unsung heroes are those who aided the slaves, oftentimes hiding them in their homes or farms or businesses, sometimes sacrificing their own lives for what was right and just.

The lesson we learn from the War Between the States and the valiant effort of those who worked in the Underground Railroad is that we must never allow history to repeat itself. That you should treat others
as you want to be treated. As Thomas Jefferson wrote in our own Declaration of Independence: "We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal." Let that be the lesson of the Underground Railroad.

"There," I say, happy to be done. If I don't get a good grade on this, Mr. Rorek's been drinking way too much coffee and it's damaged his brain cells.

I hit the Print button, and my BlackBerry rings. I dive for it, thinking it's Patrick telling me he got home safely. It's Rebecca, though.

"Hey, Becca."

"Hey, I wanted to check on you and see how you are after the investigation."

"I'm actually okay," I tell her. "Not nearly as exhausted as I usually am after a spirit crossing. Then again, Loreen and Patrick were there to help."

"Good. I was worried about you."

"No worries. Have you looked over any of the footage?"

"Yeah. A lot of mists I can't explain, some black shadows crossing the screen, and a whole hell of a lot of EVPs that are just a little too creepy to listen to so fresh off the investigation."

"That's okay. We'll get to them in due time. I know it's hard for you and Cel to follow along when so much is going on, like it did last night."

I know she's smiling into the phone. "I trust y'all will tell us if we're in danger or anything."

"You know I will!" There's an underlying sense of giddiness from my friend that she's not revealing to me—something about a journey ... a competition. It's not totally clear, so I push her for information. "So, a trip and a contest?"

Becca laughs. "You're good, Kendall. Yeah, I've actually been bouncing off the walls today. It's been hard to concentrate with such amazing news."

She's going to tell me
she's
going to Europe too.

"I got picked to go to Paris this summer for the DanceFest Parade, which is this huge four-day street party where DJs from all over the world get to spin their music. There are vendors and tattoo artists and palm readers and food and—oh my God, you name it. And they want me!"

I cram down my jealousy and sing her praises. "Of course they want you. You're the best damn DJ around. No one spins like you, Becca!"

"I'm beside myself," she says with a happy sigh.

"How did you get invited?"

"Some guy on the committee saw my Facebook page and clicked on some of my mixes. He said they're trying to get younger DJs involved. There's a scholarship for the under-twenty DJs who go and spin. Can you imagine if I can win actual college money?"

"How are you paying for it?"

"Dad's letting me use some of the savings my grandmother left me. Other than that, I'm going to backpack and stay at youth hostels and just ... live."

"That is fantastic, Becca! I'm super-juiced for you." And I am. It's not a lie. I just wish I could go with Oliver Bates's crew or with Becca.

"You have to come, Kendall."

I snort. "Yeah, right. And do what?"

"Set up a booth. Do tarot readings, fortunes, anything. You'll make a ton of money."

"I don't think so."

Becca makes fun of me. "Just consider it. We could have an amazing summer. Oh, Dragon's here. Gotta go!"

"Love ya; mean it," I say and then click off the phone.

Great, my second offer to go to Europe in one day and I just don't see it happening. Even my psychic senses are laughing at the idea. It would be amazing to work with Oliver again, or to make some euros reading cards on the Seine. I rub at my nose, which is blazing with itchiness. Maybe Patrick's right: if I worked at Loreen's store every day after school, I could raise some serious dough. I crawl under my bed and retrieve the Aldo box that holds my best sparkly summer sandals. Underneath the tissue is my savings envelope, which has exactly ... twenty, forty, sixty, eighty, eighty-five, eighty-six, eighty-seven dollars. That won't even get me a cab to the airport.

I scrub at my nose again.
Why
is it itching like all get-out? Grandma Ethel always said when your nose itched you were going to have company.

Right. Who else is coming to tell me he or she is going to Europe?

Sunday evening, I pick at the spaghetti on my plate, pushing the noodles and sauce from side to side. The modest amount I ate is sitting in my stomach like a boulder. I'm trying not to pout, really I am, but a heaping serving of disappointment is the topping to my pasta.

"I just don't see how we can afford it, sweetie," Dad had said at the start of dinner. Now, he watches me with a long face. I know he feels like shit having to squash something this major for me. I understand, though, that times are tough, there's college to save for, and, again, they've spent a lot of money on me recently.

To ease the tension, Dad switches on CNN to watch the disaster reports, government crises, and political scandals du jour.