Ancient Forces Collection (25 page)

“I’m sure they did,” he said with a slight smirk. “Anyway, if everything goes as planned, we’re talking every major city up and down the California coast. The sky’s the limit from there.”

Madame Theo slipped her arm out of his and turned to face him. A worried, almost tormented look crossed her face.

“What is it?” Fred asked, appearing crestfallen.

She bit her bottom lip for a second before answering. “That means we’ll be seen in Los Angeles too, right?”

“You bet,” he said, rubbing his hands together as if in anticipation of a juicy steak. “Hey, it’s only the largest market in the country.”

She looked away. During yesterday’s encounter, her new spirit manifestation never impressed upon her there would be such obstacles. Then again, direct contact with the spirit world was a whole new dimension for her. There was so much she didn’t understand. If only she knew how to proceed. During her next contact she’d make a point to gain clarity.

Fred took her by the arm and, with a gentle yet firm tug, turned her back toward him. “What aren’t you telling me?”

Madame Theo’s eyes blazed with energy. “I think . . . well, that a show in Los Angeles might be a problem.”

“Because?”

Her eyes narrowed. She lowered her voice a notch. “I can’t tell you, at least not yet.”

2

P
hilip bent over and plucked a pair of jeans and a T-shirt from his
almost dirty
pile on the floor, which meant he had worn the clothes at least once, maybe twice. With a quick sniff he figured they’d be good for another day.

He jerked the shirt over his head, jumped into the pants, and then rushed down the stairs, pausing for a split second to steal a look in the hallway mirror. He ran his fingers through his dark hair and noticed his bloodshot eyes looked battered. The nasty headache thumping between his temples didn’t help matters.

He darted into the kitchen and flung open the cabinets, hoping to grab something quick. It was Monday morning and he wanted to cruise by Madame Theo’s store to check things out. He knew the only way to squeeze that in before school was if he could escape before his dad cornered him. On the second shelf he spied an opened box of Pop-Tarts. Perfect.

“Oh, good, you’re up,” his dad said, coming into the kitchen from behind him.

Philip’s heart sank. He snatched the Pop-Tarts, turned, and careful to avoid eye contact, muttered, “Um, hi, Dad.”

“You’re not going to school like that, are you?” he asked, adjusting his tie around his neck.

Philip’s head pounded at the question. “Dad, since when did you become the clothes police?”

“Ah, watch it there, buddy boy,” his dad said with a slight edge in his voice. “I guess you know your shirt looks like a wrinkled prune.”

“It’s the new style,” Philip said with a little more sarcasm than he actually felt.

“When we were kids,” his dad said, taking a step forward, “I’ll have you know we had to wear a uniform to school. And our shoes had to be polished.”

“Dad, that was before the flood.”

“What’s eating you?”

“Nothing,” Philip said. He tossed the box of fruit-filled, rectangular, perfectly manufactured nutrition on the table. He spun around to face the refrigerator, yanked open the door, and strangled a bottle of milk. With a sharp twist, he wrenched off the lid, grabbed a glass from the counter, slopped the milk into the glass and, in his hurry, onto the counter.

“Oh, that’s just great, buddy boy,” his dad said, fastening his belt around his waist.

“Sorry — ”

“What am I, the maid?”

“Dad, I
said
I’m sorry. I’ll clean it up.”

His father walked to the coffeemaker, reached for the coffeepot, and started to pour a cup. He cleared his throat. “Tell me, Philip, what are your thoughts about college?”

Philip spoke with his mouth full. “Dad, don’t go there. I don’t have time to — ”

“We’re talking about your future, son,” he said, still pouring a cup of coffee. “Now listen. I spoke with the dean of students at the University of Berkeley and they — ”

Philip cut him off. “Can’t this wait?”

“I’m
not just saying this because you’re my son,” he said, ignoring the remark. “But a kid like you, with your grades, can write your own ticket. I realize in many ways you’re a lot like me. You’re tall. You’re handsome. You’ve got brains. And you especially want to keep your options open. I don’t blame you for that.”

Philip blew an impatient breath.

“Still, I know you’ll love Berkeley, son.” He took a sip of his coffee. “What I can’t figure is what you have against it.”

With each passing second, Philip felt hopelessly trapped in a conversation he didn’t want to have, certainly not now. Couldn’t his dad understand that maybe, just maybe, he wanted to go somewhere else? Somewhere where the teachers wouldn’t be asking, “So you must be the son of blah blah blah.” The jackhammers drilling between his temples didn’t help. He wolfed down the rest of his Pop-Tart, spied the clock on the microwave, then stood to leave.

His dad looked up over the edge of his coffee cup. “Where are you going, anyway?”

“School, remember?”

“This early? You don’t usually leave until — ”

“Dad, please, give me a break here. I’ve got stuff to do.”

“Let me guess . . . you’re giving Krissi a ride,” his dad said, placing the cup on the table in front of himself. “She can take the bus, son. This is important — ”

Philip almost snapped. “Dad, this has
nothing
to do with her.”

“Then why can’t you stay and talk for a few minutes? I thought you’d be interested to know what the dean said.”

Philip snatched a paper towel and wiped up the spilled milk. “We’ll talk later, I promise.” Philip ducked out of the kitchen before his dad could say another word.

Upstairs, he grabbed his books, his car keys, and then snatched the paper where he had jotted down the address and number last night. He stuffed the note into his front pocket before racing out of the house.

Once outside, he jumped into his convertible and closed the door with a
wham!
If he hurried, he’d still have time to cruise by Madame Theo’s Palace.

Maybe she could help him make sense of his life.

Maybe the cards would reveal where he should go to college.

Maybe they’d give him a reason to keep living with a hyper-controlling dad whose hyper-expectations of his brainy son were stifling.

Maybe.

Philip hesitated, putting the car in reverse as a new series of thoughts engaged his mind. He didn’t know the first thing about tarot cards, telling the future, or Madame Theo, aside from what he saw last night.
Is this crazy or what?
he thought.
What if she’s
just another quack?
There was only one way to know for sure: he’d check her out for himself. Maybe good news awaited him in the cards.

If not . . . well, he refused to think of the alternative.

Scott Williams worked his way through the lunch line, loading his plate with Monday’s mystery meat, Tater Tots, creamed corn, a carton of milk, and a sickly cup of Jell-O ‘d Crème, which was basically a square of red Jell-O with Cool Whip and a fancy name. He handed the cashier his student lunch card and then headed into the main dining area.

“Hey, Scott,” Krissi said, batting her perfect, killer eyelashes.“Becka’s got our seats saved . . . over there.” She nodded toward the back wall.

“Cool. Be right there,” Scott said, scoping out the room.

When Scott and his sister, Becka, first started attending Crescent Bay High, after years of being away on the mission field in South America, he definitely had to learn about the seating dynamics in the cafeteria. Everybody had their place. True, the pecking order wasn’t written down anywhere official. But anybody with half a brain couldn’t miss it.

Many of the freshmen sat closest to the ice-cream bar.

The nerd types next to them.

The upperclass jocks hassled anyone who dared to approach their table by the windows. The coolest jock, of course, sat at the end. While the cheerleaders were an exception (they could approach the jocks without being tackled), cheerleaders usually filled a table of their own.

The corner opposite from the jocks was home to the drug-gies and fringe kids, and those who wore black everything. The honor students and those in chess club or on the student council took the center two tables. And, while the most popular kids sat wherever they wanted, they usually picked a table by the far wall.

He started to walk in that direction.

The seniors, he noticed, always parked their trays on the table nearest to the faculty lounge as if to imply they would be next in charge if the faculty decided not to show up one day. Scott sat down next to his sister.

“So, Becka,” Krissi said. She placed her tray on the table and then removed the items, one by one, organizing them into positions as if setting the table for the queen of Sheba. “Did you see Philip today?”

“Yeah, for something like a half second,” Becka said. “He looked pretty, um . . .” She paused, as if to think of a kind word.

Scott butt in. “Just say it. He looked like he had a close encounter with a herd of cattle.”

“Really?” Krissi flipped her auburn hair over her shoulder.

“Yeah,” Becka said, nodding. “I can’t say for sure, but I’d say he seemed really stressed too.”

Scott poked at his dessert. “His eyes were all puffy and red like this gross Jell-O.”

Krissi appeared to be considering that. “I bet his dad’s been riding him about college again,” she said, placing her napkin on her lap.

“Could be,” Becka said. “I don’t know. I kind of think there’s something else bugging him. So what about you guys? Is everything cool between you two?”

Krissi blushed. “Of course. We’re doing great. I mean, sometimes . . . well, when we talk about the future, he, like, gets this faraway look in his eyes.”

Scott tossed a Tater Tot in the air and scarfed it down. He swallowed. “Speaking of your man,” Scott said a little too loudly, “there he is.”

Krissi and Becka turned around as Philip approached their table. His hair looked as if it had been caught in a tornado. Shirt wrinkled. Eyes bloodshot. He plopped down next to Krissi without saying a word.

“Hey, there,” Krissi said. “I missed you. You okay?”

“I’m fine.” Philip started to shovel lunch into his mouth.

“Could have fooled me,” Scott said with a cheesy grin.

Philip glared at him. “Who asked you?”

“Excu-u-use me for living,” Scott said, raising both hands as if surrendering to the police.

Nobody spoke for a long minute. Becka swallowed a bite of lunch and said, “So, Philip, what’s the latest on your college scholarship — ”

He cut her off. “I really don’t feel like talking about it.”

Krissi and Becka exchanged a concerned look. Krissi turned to him, her eyes softened. “Are you sure you’re okay?”

Philip didn’t answer.

“I mean,” Krissi said, putting her arm around the back of his chair, “you seem so tense — ”

He brushed away her arm. “What’s this? Pick on Philip day?”

Krissi pulled her arm back and dropped her hands to her lap. “Nobody’s picking on you, babe.”

Scott wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “I know. You’re worried about the big debate tomorrow, right?” Scott, although two years younger than Philip, was on the debate team with him.

Philip’s eyes reddened. “Wrong-o, Scott.”

“Then what’s up?” Becka said softly.

Without warning, Philip jumped to his feet. “Can’t you guys take a hint? I don’t feel like talking. And if you
must
know, I’m tired of everybody sticking their nose in my business.”

A low whistle escaped Scott’s lips. “Speaking of being tired, dude, maybe you should get some sleep, you know?”

Philip pointed a finger at Scott. “Don’t start with me. You know, you’re just like my dad . . . always telling me what to do with my life.”

“Hey, it was a joke,” Scott said, shocked by his friend’s overreaction. “I didn’t mean to start World War three.”

“Come on, guys, just give me some space,” Philip said, then hustled out of the room.