A Soul's Kiss (25 page)

Jessica

Wednesday morning

For some reason I can’t see my feet anymore. I can’t really look down even though I see the floor, the steps, the ugly tile of the school hallways. It’s like I’m flying with my legs stretched out behind me. People and walls sway with the same movement. I feel nauseated.

Ever since I heard my parents’ voices pleading for me to wake up my anxiety level has shot through the roof. Not that I can see the roof. The ceilings around here are apparently non-existent for me. Or else I am developing a kind of tunnel vision.

My hearing is fine though. The first warning bell shrieks and I listen to mobs of kids using their last free minute to gab with friends before scurrying to class. Amy melts into a pack of kids headed toward the gym. I follow.

She changes in the locker room and files out into the gymnasium with three dozen other girls to line up for roll. My nausea lightens as I take a seat on the bench by the fountain. I can see my feet again. My bare feet. My very pale and nearly transparent bare feet.

Amy’s spirit self is not behind her. I wonder if Amy can suck her up somehow. She stands straighter and looks as if she doesn’t have a care in the world.

“She’s dying.”

I jump. That is, if floating up an inch suddenly can be called a jump. Amy’s spirit self is seated next to me.

“We’re all dying,” I answer. It’s not what I want to say. It just comes out. Maybe my mouth knows something my head doesn’t. Like why I’m growing fainter.

“I’m not dying,” Amy’s spirit self whispers. “I’m getting better. I thought I should tell you. You know, in case you were worried.”

“I am worried,” I say.

“Don’t be. I heard what you said in the car. I’m . . . we’re working on things.”

“Suicide is not the answer.” My voice cracks. I begin to hiccup.

“Suicide was already the answer.
She’s
dying.”

“She?
Who?” I search my mind and think I have a clue. A portion of a phone call from Brittany to Hannah echoes in a corner of my head. I’d heard a few words when Hannah’s heart lurched with a sudden stab of alarm. A victim. Someone they pranked.

Amy’s spirit flashes away and I open my mouth to yell at the real Amy. I make horrible loud sounds as each hiccup makes me gasp. No one in the line looks my way, but a few of the girls have auras that I’ve not seen before, and they swell with each of my wheezes. I am fascinated with my new ability to see this phenomenon and wonder why Tyler’s was so much deeper in color.

Instantly I materialize in my first hour English class, right next to Rashanda. Well, materialize isn’t the right word. I’m undetectable. I tap her hand a bunch of times. Someone needs to help Amy and evidently it needs to be someone in physical form. My hiccupping has stopped. Thank goodness, because I thought those annoying convulsions were going to kill me.

Tyler looks back at us. Yes! The color around him is glowing. He puts his head down on his arm and I fly to his shoulder. Tyler could help Amy. He is so soothing and gentle and nice and kind. Why do I think these things about him?

I center my focus on his head and try to melt into him. I try for what seems like half the class period. The sounds of the classroom drum on and on in my ears: rustling papers, squirming, coughing, nails tapping. Kids just breathing loudly—it all is so normal and so irritating at the same time. All I want to do is get into Tyler’s head.

It doesn’t work.

His right hand still holds his pencil. I have an idea. If I can’t wake him up or get into his dreams in my weakened state, maybe I can at least control his hand. I touch his fingers and remember the warmth. I put my whole hand over his and guide the pencil, carefully and slowly, over the worksheet.

Depression. Suicide.

He’ll understand. I only need to steer him to Amy.

*  *  *

The whole morning skips by as if I’m dozing. Or going in and out of consciousness. I follow my schedule, sit in my assigned seat, and try to control my urge to berate the idiots in second hour and the dimwitted losers in third hour. Since no one can hear me, I’m tempted to go ahead and tell off a few people. Sometimes I have no patience. But I control myself and I don’t even take advantage of the situation to criticize Mr. Jeffries to his face. He’s the most obnoxious, full of bologna teacher I’ve ever had. He thinks the fate of the world is in his hands. His class just isn’t
that
important. But I stay quiet. No other choice.

What
is
important is Amy. Rashanda once told me that they were in the same math class. I assume that will be my best chance of finding Amy again in this monstrous school. I need to stay awake to do that. I’m feeling warm and snuggly; it’s very hard to keep my eyes open. The floating feeling is irresistibly numbing.

Like I am being sedated. Drugged.

Deadened.

*  *  *

I wake up floating above the school. I feel happy, euphoric. I can look up at the blue sky and down to the asphalt of the parking lot. My whole body tingles. I stretch and feel stabs of pain to my head and arm and hip. My throat hurts.

My mother’s quiet prayers resonate all around me.

A fog of thoughts dissolves. One remains. I need to wake up.

Four kids come out of the school below me and head for a car I recognize. I will myself closer and see a fifth person come out another door. Amy.

It’s not unusual for kids to take off during lunch hour. Hit Burger King or McDonald’s, or even skim the freebies at Meijer’s deli counter. What does strike me as unusual is that my best friend is taking off with Tyler and Michael and Hannah.

Amy’s car follows theirs out of the lot and I relax into her back seat, burrowing myself into a car blanket that smells like dog.

“What are you doing here?” Amy’s faded spirit nestles up next to me.

“I. Don’t. Know.” I can barely get the one syllable words past my lips. “Saving. Amy. You.”

“We’re doing better. I told you.”

“Killing? Self?” I don’t make sense. My throat burns. It is next to impossible to form my words. For a brief instant I consider pantomiming, something we did the second day of drama class. Wordless clues.

Worthless clues. I’m missing something.

*  *  *

I walk exactly on Amy’s footprints, well, the ones left by her spirit, maybe half a foot off the ground. I think I am following her through the doors into the mall, but I’m wrong. This is not the mall. We’re at the hospital. My hospital.

I listen as Amy asks the woman at the information desk for Ashley Burdick’s room. A familiar name. That was the girl whose porno picture went viral before Facebook banned her. That’s what I heard anyway. Last week? Two weeks ago? I’m a little vague on the details. I’ll have to ask Rashanda. Some prank pulled by . . . I think it was . . . somebody . . . I don’t know. I can’t make the haze clear from my mind.

“I’m helping her,” Amy says aloud. The real Amy, that is. We’re alone in the elevator. She isn’t talking to anyone in particular and certainly not to me.

Her spirit self answers her. An eerie conversation ensues. The argument is more of a justification. Amy rationalizes her withdrawal while her spirit self validates her efforts to change back into her true self. I think of several things to say, but my single syllable interruptions go unacknowledged.

We pass my room. The door is propped open and I get a snapshot image of those inside as I float by. I hear my mother’s voice in stereo. She’s talking to Rashanda and Tyler and Michael and Hannah. Asking why they’re out of school. Their answers fade as I tag along behind Amy, helpless to stop on my own. Like I’m a dog on a leash.

We reach Ashley’s room and that door, too, is propped open with a rubber door stop. She’s asleep. Amy tiptoes in and speaks softly to Ashley’s mom. I stare at the poor girl in the bed. There are straps holding her down and her wrists are bandaged. I’m shocked and I want to move closer and help somehow, but I cannot move from the hallway.

“Bullies did this,” Amy’s spirit self explains to me. She squints at me. “You have to tell. They did this to you, too. They’re not your friends. Don’t trust Michael. Or Hannah.” And without another word, she vanishes.

The real Amy hugs Ashley’s mom and begins to cry. She blubbers on and on about feeling guilty, about not speaking up, about wishing things were different. The woman asks her if she knows who was responsible. Amy nods through her sobs. She names Michael and Hannah and six others.

And she names the victims, too.

Rashanda is one.

And so am I.

Rashanda

Wednesday morning

A week ago I would have laughed my head off if someone told me I’d be planning a soul transplant with shy Tyler and two seniors I detest. Well, not really a soul transplant, more like a spirit corralling. Maybe tomorrow Jessica will be able to laugh with me about this.

That was my hope.

I was pretty quiet on our ride to the hospital except for twice, well, three times. I kind of made a snarly threat to Hannah. Forgivable, because without Jessica playing down Hannah’s negativism, Hannah was a first class mean girl. I was a little too harsh with Tyler, too, when he told us that Jessica had paid him a visit and made him write about suicide.

My third outburst was to deny that Jessica would ever even
think
about killing herself. No way. Absolutely no way. I stared at the back of Michael’s head and tried to control my anger. I held my tongue the rest of the way there.

We rode the elevator with a couple of nurses who asked if we were friends of Ashley Burdick, because if we were, it was too soon to visit her. We shook our heads and Tyler stuttered out an explanation about Jessica and threw in Dr. Winston’s name, too. I noticed how uncomfortable he was to be standing next to Michael.

I knew who Ashley was and I knew that Michael and Hannah had pranked her in the most awful way. Their faces gave away nothing. Such actors. Both of them. My fingers closed into the same hard fists that Tyler was making.

The elevator doors opened and we waited for the nurses to exit first. I took the lead and headed to Jessica’s room. I hesitated at her open door.

“Mrs. Mitchell? May we come in?”

It was very hard to see Jessica lying there still so pale but without the breathing machine pumping her chest up and down. She looked like a corpse and I instantly imagined her funeral.

Her mother explained that the doctor had come and sedated Jessica in order to take her off the breathing machine. She asked if we wanted anything to eat, saying that her husband was off grabbing some fast food and then she focused on Michael, asking his name and how he knew her daughter. It was awkward.

Tyler gave me several questioning looks. I knew what he meant. I had the same questions. Dr. Winston had wanted Hannah here before the tube came out. Where was the doctor? How could we ask Mrs. Mitchell without sounding crazy? Why had they removed the tube so soon?

And what did this mean for Jessica’s recovery?

I had to give Hannah credit, though. She acted like she’d known Jessica for ages. Like they were best friends. She moved to the other side of the bed and stood as close to Jessica’s head as she could, hoping, no doubt, that Jessica would take the leap.

“So, is she still sedated?” I asked. Mrs. Mitchell turned toward me and gave me an unexpected hug. She blubbered her answer and I hugged her back feeling totally clumsy in my effort to comfort my friend’s mom. The answer was yes, the sedative was still in her system and she would not wake up—if she was going to wake up—until it cleared. The whole time we held the embrace I could see Hannah attempting to transfer Jessica’s spirit back. She put her forehead against Jessica’s and bumped a few times. She waved me off as a signal to get Mrs. Mitchell out of the room and I took the hint. I put my arm around her and whispered that I needed to talk to her in the hallway.

That’s when I saw Jessica. Faintly. Just down the hall. Floating in front of another doorway. I was excited and scared and puzzled all at the same time. I thought as fast as I could for some excuse to get Mrs. Mitchell away. I blurted out the craziest thing ever.

“Would it be all right if we had a little prayer circle around her? Just us teens?” I read the surprised look on her face at the same time as Mr. Mitchell came around the corner with lunch so I added, “You could take a break with Mr. Mitchell in the cafeteria. Okay?”

Thank goodness she trusted me. I felt doubly guilty for my lie and more than a little ashamed, but she was gracious and kind and hopeful. When she turned to her husband and caught him up to speed I held my breath and looked back over my shoulder at Jessica. I quickly said a real prayer to cover all the bases.

“We’ll be back in half an hour, dear. Will that be enough time?”

I smiled and nodded. As soon as they were gone I realized my dilemma. I waved at Tyler to come out. My predicament was that I couldn’t leave Hannah and Michael alone with Jessica. No telling what they might do. But I couldn’t have them leave yet or they might catch up to the Mitchells.

Tyler came out. “What? Why’d Mrs. Mitchell leave?”

“She’s gone to have lunch with Mr. Mitchell. I told her we were going to have a prayer group around Jessica.”

“Good idea, but—”

“I know, I know. Those two’ve probably never said a prayer in their lives.” I pointed down the hall. “See anything?”

He stepped forward without answering. He saw her.

I pulled his sleeve. “Wait.”

“I knew she wasn’t in Hannah. I couldn’t sense her in the car.” He took another step in her direction.

“But don’t you think we should keep them apart? You know, in case she, I don’t know, fades back into Hannah?”

Tyler’s eyes stayed on Jessica’s image though his head tilted toward me and he whispered, “I’ll go to her while you get them to take the stairs.”

I really thought it should be the other way around, but he was already moving away. I watched him walk slowly, carefully, towards her. Like he was approaching a wary animal. Like he was on a mission. Like he’d forgotten about me and Hannah and Michael.