The Awakening (13 page)

I
NEED TO TALK TO
M
ARJORIE.
It's been too long since we hugged goodbye in front of my building while the movers hauled away all of my earthly belongings. On the drive to Georgia, Marjorie texted me a couple of times—telling me she was hanging with Gretchen Lind, a tall blonde in our class who never did like me for some reason—but that she missed me. And since I haven't heard back from Marjorie from that long e-mail I sent, I don't know if the distance is too much for our lifelong friendship.

I pull my legs up underneath me on the bed and stack the pillows in front of me for a makeshift desk for my laptop. Powering it up, I see that Yahoo Instant Messenger shows Marjorie as offline. However, I know she sometimes switches to invisible so Brian Coey, this guy a grade behind us in school, won't stalk her online.

Clicking on
marjorie_w00t
, I type:

Kendall-doll:
Hey, chica-ma-lika!

When I hit Return, the message appears in a chat box that shows she is indeed online, merely hiding out.

A wave of sadness overcomes me as I await her reply. Usually, Marjorie pounces on me before I can even fully boot up the computer. What's taking her so long now? Maybe she's not sitting at her computer at the moment.

Kendall-doll:
Marj? You there?

My eyes close and I breathe deeply, projecting my thoughts all the way up across the flyover states to land in Marjorie's house. Loreen told me this afternoon about something called remote viewing, where I can actually see into places even though I'm not physically there. I picture Marjorie's townhouse. Her room is on the second floor, and her computer sits in a nook of her desk and bookshelf area. I see her. She's sitting there in her sweats, a pair of fuzzy socks, and a scowl on her face as she looks at the words on her screen.

Kendall-doll:
I know you're online! It's been an eon since we've talked!!!!!!!

Melancholy nearly dances in the air around me, swirling to encompass me as I stare at the blinking screen. My friend is just sitting there. Ignoring me. Hoping I'll go away. I bite back the palpable heartache that has nothing to do with my newly discovered gifts. This pain isn't empathic. It's mine. Because at that moment, I know, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that my e-mail wigged her out. Down-to-earth, sensible, AP honors student Marjorie with the pothead brother and alfalfa-sprouts mom—she doesn't know how to talk to me.

Bravely, I type out:

Kendall-doll:
It's my e-mail, isn't it?

Kendall-doll:
Don't wig on me, Marj.

In the bottom left-hand corner, the icon shows me she's typing something. My hopes soar that my best friend is still just that. Deep down in my intuition though, that claircognizant part of me that Loreen and I discussed, I know things will never be the same with Marjorie.

marjorie_w00t:
hey

Kendall-doll:
Hey. What's up?

marjorie_w00t:
nothing.

Great. She's writing in lowercase, which blares out "annoyance."

Kendall-doll:
Why haven't u e-mailed me?

marjorie_w00t:
been busy.

Kendall-doll:
Doing what?

marjorie_w00t:
school. homework. stuff.

Kendall-doll:
u hate me.

marjorie_w00t:
I don't hate u kendall. I just don't no what 2 say 2 u.

Kendall-doll:
Never had that problem b4

marjorie_w00t:
u never claimed 2 b psychic b4

marjorie_w00t:
how's GA?

Kendall-doll:
I'm getting used 2 it. It's diff.

marjorie_w00t:
apparently.

Kendall-doll:
Y does this have 2 b so hard?

marjorie_w00t:
u tell me

Kendall-doll:
ur hanging out w/Gretchen Lind rn't u

marjorie_w00t:
yeah. she's cool. her dad just got her a bmw convertible.

Kendall-doll:
Nice.

It's anything but nice. This conversation is work. Not just for my typing abilities, but for my brain. My best friend since first grade and I aren't compatible anymore. I'm planning ghost hunts with my new friends here in the South, and she's riding around in a designer car with one of the school's most popular girls.

Kendall-doll:
U've moved on.

marjorie_w00t:
what did u expect me 2 do, kendall? Not find new friends? Cry 'bout how u moved away?

marjorie_w00t:
u left. plain and simple.

Kendall-doll:
I didn't have a choice!!!!

marjorie_w00t:
Doesn't matter. U're gone. And I mean WAAAAAAAY GONE!!!

Bitch.
She's referring to my gut-spill e-mail about being psychic. I thought if anyone would understand, Marjorie would. We had that experience together on Archer Avenue with Resurrection Mary. Why can't she just be a good enough friend to accept me for what I am? I mean, even if she doesn't believe what's going on, she doesn't have to get so snarly about it.

Kendall-doll:
So u do think I'm a nutcase.

marjorie_w00t:
i don't no what else 2 think. that e-mail wuz ... out there.

Kendall-doll:
It was from the heart.

marjorie_w00t:
Gretchen said u've really lost it.

Kendall-doll:
YOU LET GRETCHEN READ THAT????

marjorie_w00t:
She's my BF!!

Kendall-doll:
I thought *I* was ur BF. A month ago I was.

marjorie_w00t:
things change. u moved on. i moved on. obviously all this is affecting u and u've made up all this shit about being psychic. I just can't hang w/crazy, kendall, and u no that.

I stare at the hateful words, remembering that old childhood rhyme about "Sticks and stones may break my bones, but words will never hurt me." Yeah, well, whoever wrote that was a friggin' idiot. Words hurt more than anything. Bruises and cuts from sticks and stones are medicated and covered with Band-Aids and then they heal. But Marjorie's typing is indelibly inscribed in my mind forever.

Tears gather in a pool at my lash line, but I refuse to blink and let them loose. Loreen told me I'm going to have challenges in my life when it comes to people, especially loved ones, accepting my abilities. It still doesn't make Marjorie's cutting remarks any softer.

Instead of fight, I choose flight.

Kendall-doll:
Mom's calling me 2 dinner. I hope u'll e-mail me soon and we can still talk. I miss u.

marjorie_w00t:
L8tr!

As if helping not to make a liar out of me, Mom calls up the stairs, "Kendall! Kaitlin! Dinner!"

I click off the IM window and shove the computer away.

Finally realizing that everything about my life is now different, I can do one of two things:

(1) Wallow in my own self-pity, hide in my room, and be miserable until I graduate from high school and go off to college.

(2) Embrace my new surroundings with both hands, live life to the fullest, and enjoy widening my circle of friends and acquaintances.

The answer is definitely #2. It
has
to be.

"Kendall," Kaitlin screams at me from the top of the stairs. "Mom says the spaghetti is getting cold and to get your stupid butt down here!"

I'm sure those weren't Mom's exact words. "I'm coming."

Reaching over to my bedside table, I take the framed picture of me and Marjorie at a Bears game last year and gaze at it. It's a slice of time in my life. But there are new memories ahead of me to make just as special. I carefully open the table drawer and place the picture inside.

Marjorie's moved on. So will I.

After dinner, I'm working on my @#$%ing calculus homework when I hear the doorbell ring. A few moments later, Dad shouts up, "Kendall, you've got company."

I bound down the stairs to see Celia standing there in jeans and a black "The Truth Is Out There" T-shirt, talking to my dad. She may be a tad dorkish, but she's got a heart of gold and would never tell me she "can't hang with crazy."

Two cats buzz by their feet in the doorway and run up the staircase past me.

"We have two pets now?" Dad calls out.

"I think Seamus chased them in here," Celia explains. "He's outside barking like a tree."

"Don't worry, Dad. That's Eleanor with Natalie. I told them they should both feel at home here."

As does Celia. Dad's ever the host, welcoming her to our humble abode—compared to the friggin' mansion she lives in. "I know your father, Rex Nichols," he says. "I'm working on the new Mega-Mart distribution-center development project with him."

"Yes, sir," Celia says. She adjusts a large Nike gym bag on her shoulder. "Dad says the distribution center is going to bring a lot of jobs and new people here to Radisson."

Dad nods in agreement. "The city has had this land for over a hundred and fifty years. It's finally time to do something productive with it. Something that's going to put Radisson on the map." My dad pushes his glasses higher on his nose and smiles brightly. "It's an impressive project and I'm glad I was brought in to work on it. We've lined up some builders who are bidding for the affordable-housing community that will be adjacent to the property."

I slide in and tug Celia by the arm, hoping to rescue her from Dad's work bragging. "We've got some homework to do, Dad."

"Sure thing, kiddo. Nice to meet you, Celia."

"You too, Mr. Moorehead."

As we scoot up the stairs, Celia says, "Your dad's kind of cute in a forty-plus-year-old-guy sort of way."

I stop in my tracks. "Eww ... you did not just say that."

"What?"

"You got all over me for thinking you should make a move on Clay Price, because he's not good enough. Yet you think my
dad's
cute?"

"God, don't start that again."

Rolling my eyes, I head off to my bedroom. "Did you bring over all the stuff?" I ask, completely ignoring the gross-out factor concerning my dad.

Celia plops her bag on my bed and unzips it, startling Eleanor, who is in full bathing mode. "It's all here. Where's your computer?"

I point across the room to my desk. "Over there."

She slides a DVD into the appropriate slot and quickly installs sound software onto my hard drive. Then she hooks up three small cameras, each monitor getting a different angle on my room.

"Make sure you get a shot of the door," I note while I stroke Natalie's head. She's curled up behind Eleanor, without a care in the world. "I think the floaty lady likes wandering out to the other bedrooms."

"You got it," Celia says. Her tongue pokes out of her mouth as she concentrates on setting everything up just right. "The cameras will capture any movement and activate the recording devices I'll leave out. Just go about your evening as you normally would."

"Right. Because every teenage girl likes to be videotaped while she's sleeping," I say with an evil grin.

Celia reaches for the bag and pulls out two small digital voice recorders. "Hopefully, we can catch some EVPs tonight."

"Why two recorders?" I ask, stroking Natalie's tail (which is not thumping, thankyouverymuch).

"I read an article online by this group called the New England Ghost Project, and their EVP specialist uses two recorders. One records real things in the room, like the white-noise machine and your snoring—"

"I do
not
snore!"

"—and the other will pick up any EVPs. It's sort of a double-verification thing. If the sound is picked up on both recorders, it's probably something environmental and not paranormal at all," she says with a shrug. "It works for them, so I thought I'd try."

"Should I leave the white-noise machine on?"

"You hear the voice through that, don't you?"

"I did that one time," I say.

"I read that things like a white-noise machine or even a ham radio can create sound waves that the spirits can manipulate to communicate with us. If spirits are manipulating the white noise, just like someone is able to rewind a tape player and listen, we can potentially hear the spirit as it plays through the white-noise machine," Celia explains. Man, she's so smart. She's going to make a hell of a scientist one of these days. She'll probably win the Nobel or something for inventing a sound machine that allows us to talk to the dead like a phone call. Although, didn't Thomas Edison invent something like that already, way back when? Oh, yeah, we learned about it in junior high school: the spirit communication device.

Not wanting Celia to think I've slacked off on our pre-ghost-hunting investigatory stage, I say, "I've been reading up on EVPs. A lot of the information is kind of skeptical about what EVPs are, because it's not really a back-and-forth conversation like you and I can have. There are a ton of websites with amazing snippets of voices, maybe even from other dimensions."

"Time's not constant," Celia notes. "It's more like the ebb and flow of the ocean."

Natalie takes a playful nip at my hand. "Right. So maybe these things I sense with my abilities are simply fingerprints or imprints left in time?"

Celia runs her hand through her messy hair. "That is a good theory, Kendall. Let's put it to the test tonight and see what we get. Then tomorrow, Taylor and I will spend the night and take some pictures and analyze the data."

I tug a piece of dryer lint off of my Old Navy flannel pajama pants and flick it onto the floor. Eleanor watches the progress and jumps off the bed to investigate. "Mom'll be relieved that I've made friends at school."

"Duh," Celia says. "Taylor's a great addition to the team, and she likes you a lot. You're a mystery to her and that excites her."

"She's great. But her brother needs to chill out. What's his major malfunction? Did you see the way he glared at me?" A tingle creeps up my back, just thinking about Jason and his magical, dreamy eyes that bore straight through me. "So, what do you know about him?"

"Jason Tillson?" She lifts her shoulders, not looking away from the computer. "Not much. He runs track, plays baseball, and used to date Courtney Langdon."