Mom smiles at me, “Your father and I would like to talk to you some more later, so be home for dinner, OK?”
“Sure.”
Mom pats my shoulder, tries to brush away the stains on my shirt once more before moving off to join some of her church friends in the shade.
“What was that about?” Mya asks, swishing toward me in layers of blue. So far, she’s the only girl not wearing black.
“No idea.”
“They’re not mad at you anymore about the gay thing?”
“I honestly have no idea. They want me home for dinner to discuss things.”
“Sounds ominous.” She grins. “You been shifting again?” She points at my collar.
“Yeah, last thing I remember was being in your truck.”
“That was yesterday.”
“I know.”
“That’s hectic.”
“Yeah, so what did Nicholas want?” I jerk my head in the guy’s direction, eager to change the topic.
“To take me to the dance.” Her face curls up in disgust.
“I think other Mya might be dating him.”
“Kyle, you seriously need to figure this out. I do not want to be that girl.” Her tone is dead serious, commanding, scary. “Promise me.”
“Promise what?”
“That you won’t choose that reality.” Now she’s begging me.
“If things work out the way I plan then I’m not sure any of us will be who we think we are.”
“Wait, you have a plan?” Mya frowns.
“What plan?” Shira joins us and I run a hand through my hair.
“For tomorrow night.”
“The dance?” Shira’s frowning too.
“No… Well, yes, but it’s the time when the syzygy is at its most perfect. I think I might know how to stop all this shifting stuff.”
Mya folds her arms. “And how are you going to do that?”
The priest steps up to the podium and clears his throat, saving me from an awkward answer. Mya continues to glare at me through the opening prayer.
Too soon, Shira leads me up to the podium. There’s silence except for the buzz of insects and the rustle of skirts in the breeze. The entire town is staring at me, at the blood on my shirt as if it’s on my hands.
My shirt’s soaked with sweat, slick against my back, and my heart’s hammering against my rib cage. I reach for the podium to steady myself. A leaflet’s taped to the wood, the words standing out in big bold lettering:
Repent, Sinner.
Then the world gets sucked away again. Red dust and flames. My left arm goes numb and the hammering in my chest becomes catastrophic pain. Shira tries to hold me up. She’s screaming for help.
For the second time in two days, I think death’s knocking at the door, knocking me down into the recently turned earth of Danny’s grave. A vase of white roses goes with me.
* * *
Spilled contents of a food tray and rough hands hauling me to my feet. Orange pajamas again. This must be a dream, or a glimpse of some awful, other reality. My nose is bleeding, having made contact with the linoleum floor.
Nameless faces turn to stare at me.
“Freak,” someone mutters.
“Mop it up.” A man in uniform points at the mess. His face is so close to mine, our noses are almost touching. His breath stinks of cigarettes as he bares his teeth, snarling. My fist in his gut followed by a blow to his nose. The man crumples, and a hollow roar echoes from the sea of nameless people.
More uniforms stomp toward me and I’m beaten into submission. For a dream, the pain feels real enough. If only I knew what day it was then maybe this future could be avoided.
Chapter Twenty
Shira’s dead
The phone’s in my hand, blank screen, ready cursor blinking at me. Delivering Shira’s apology by text message seems inappropriate, a disservice to the dead. Better to tell Danny later in person.
Amy the psychologist knocks on my door. All smiles, she comes in uninvited.
“Hello, Kyle. How are you feeling today?” She hovers at the end of the bed, looking ready for the holiday in her floral sundress.
“Better.” It’s almost the truth. Seeing Daniel helped. Having a plan to save the world helps too. The plan just better damn well work.
“There’s someone who’d like to speak to you. Are you feeling up to a visitor?”
“Do I have a choice?”
Her smile falters for a second before she shakes her head and gestures for whoever’s hiding out in the hallway to come on in.
Sheriff Riggs.
“Afternoon, son.” He removes his hat. His hair is cut short, in a style favored by the navy. He looks grim as usual, furrows in his skin rendering his face a permanent frown.
“You here to arrest me?”
“Should I be arresting you?” His eyes bore into me, sharp as a crow’s.
“I was kidding.”
“I’m not.” The sheriff pulls up the chair, leaving Amy standing. I down the dregs in my water cup and sit up straighter.
“Kyle, the sheriff would like to ask you a few questions. If that’s OK with you?” She seems almost afraid for me, chewing on her bottom lip, fingers fidgeting with the file in her hands.
“Can’t promise I’ll know the answers.”
The sheriff flips open a notepad and uncaps a pen. “Let’s start with how you got those bruises.”
“Why bother? You’ve got four versions all saying something different from mine.”
“Five, actually,” Sheriff Riggs says, straight-faced. “But I’d still appreciate hearing your side of it.”
He scribbles in his notepad as I give my rendition of events.
“You believe me?”
“Not up to me, I’m afraid. Now, about Mya Gonzales and her car.”
“Jesus Christ.” My sardonic chuckle turns into a cough that makes my eyes water with pain. “Yeah, I drove into her at Garry’s. Not on purpose. Then I drove away. End of story.”
Riggs nods and scribbles something else in his notepad.
“Now, about the fire?”
“Which one?” I ask with a smirk.
“Kyle, you might consider a little more diplomacy. The sheriff is trying to help you.” Amy rests her hand on my shin. Is that meant to be reassuring? I pull my leg away from her touch and glare at the sheriff.
“Which fire?”
“Have you recently been responsible for more than one?” Riggs raises a caterpillar eyebrow at me.
Nice, backing me into a corner like that. Either way, I’ll sound guilty. Maybe I am.
“I told you—I don’t remember what happened that night.” My fingers twist knots in the sheet.
“I know it’s painful, Kyle, but try to remember. Any detail, no matter how small, might help.” Amy’s making her own notes in the file. This feels like a test, and I’m flunking.
“I’ve already told you everything. I got drunk, things are blurry, then there was the fire.”
“And you’re the only one unharmed?” The sheriff obviously doesn’t have much to go on or else my wrists would already be in cuffs.
“Guess I got lucky.”
“Given your history, it’s hard to believe you had nothing to do with that fire.”
Amy’s shuffling through her file, probably checking up on the
history
Riggs is referring to.
“I had the matches, guess that makes it my fault.”
“Kyle, are you confessing to starting the fire that killed Shira Nez?” the sheriff asks in a tone usually reserved for eulogies.
Amy looks equally solemn.
“What happens if I do?”
“You’ll be arrested,” she answers.
“And charged with?”
The sheriff shifts uncomfortably in his chair. “You’re eighteen. You’ll be charged and tried as an adult.”
“Charged with what? Manslaughter, murder?”
“Did you do it, Kyle? Did you start the fire?” Sheriff Riggs asks.
God, if only I knew. The pillows envelope my shoulders; wish they’d make me disappear.
“You know anything about ghost sickness, Sheriff?”
Riggs harrumphs. “Of course. Why?”
“Maybe that’s what’s wrong with me. Maybe that’s why no amount of antibiotics are going to help me.” The more I think about the possibility of malevolent spirits come back to haunt me, the less ridiculous it seems. Shira wasn’t buried properly. Her mom should’ve known better. If a random planet can cause a rift in the multiverse then a restless spirit could be haunting me. Shira’s restless spirit. Or Danny’s…
“You subscribe to Native beliefs?” Amy asks, flicking too-long bangs from her eyes.
“I keep my options open.”
The sheriff’s gnawing on the end of his pen, regarding me with baleful eyes. “You shouldn’t mock a culture you don’t understand.”
I glare daggers at him. “No mockery intended, Sheriff.”
“Ghost sickness has been likened to somatic distress, which can be caused by trauma,” Amy says to Riggs as if they’re the only ones in the room. Why do adults do that?
Sighing, I close my eyes. It’s pointless trying to make them understand. “We’re all going to die anyway.”
Shuffling papers and the scratch of the pen in the notepad.
“The world’s going to end tomorrow night and none of this will matter.” I sneak a peek through slitted eyes. Amy and Riggs share an odd look, as if they know something I don’t.
“You believe we’re facing Armageddon?” Amy sounds every bit the shrink.
“Call it what you want. Won’t change the fact that the world’s going to end.”
“And what makes you think that?” Riggs asks, leaning back in the chair.
“Because…” My eyes won’t open. There’s a black fog smothering me. I try clawing my way out of it, but the more I fight it, the thicker it becomes. Screams tear out of my throat, but the fog clogs my mouth, silencing my pleas for help. Is this it? Is this the end, the way we’ll all succumb to Obscura’s rift in the space-time continuum? Is this really all my fault?
Incessant buzzing, like a swarm of bees inside my head and a stabbing pain in my chest. It feels like a corkscrew winding through my ribs, severing cartilage and muscle. I can’t breathe.
Unfamiliar faces swim in the darkness as the convulsions twist and contort my spine. There are strange hands on my chest, a perturbing violation as my head is forced back and determined fingers shove what feels like a steel rod down my throat. Air floods my lungs.
Amy’s voice in the distance, her words inarticulate mumbles. Her presence is somehow comforting. A hand, soft and small, grips mine. I’m not alone.
The fog closes like heavy drapes, sending me floating in the black that sucks at my limbs, trying to draw me down into the abyss, but for that umbilical cord—Amy’s fingers gripping my wrist.
Chapter Twenty-One
Danny’s dead
My stripes as town freak have officially been earned. Scarred and gross, and apparently incapable of keeping it together long enough to say a few stupid words at my lover’s memorial. I’m in the shade with a tea towel wrapped around one hand and a glass of cold lemonade in the other. Slow deep breaths. Tendrils of black fog clear from my mind and the pain in my chest subsides. Death came closer this time; He’s set his sights on me.
“How are you feeling?” Mom’s fussing as she pries away the towel to inspect the damage. “This will need stitches.”
More hospitals. Seems there’s no escaping them. There’s also no point arguing with my mom, who’s bustled off to find my dad. The crowd gives me a wide berth, stealing surreptitious glances that they think I don’t notice.
“You OK?” Shira asks, slinking up beside me.
“What happened?”
“You just passed out. Landed on the vase.” She’s hugging herself despite the oppressive heat of the day. “Fainting is another symptom of ghost sickness.”
There’s no further convincing required. Powers from another realm are making sport of me.
“Hey Scarface, trust you to make a boring memorial more exciting.” Mya sashays over to us. Shira gives Mya a dark look, the kind of withering scowl that rarely distorts Shira’s pixie face.
“Just the heat and dehydration,” I say. There are too many ears at close range, hovering around the refreshment table, eavesdropping on this exchange.
“I’ll bet.” Mya grins. “We still on for the dance tomorrow night, gimp hand and all?”
“How about showing some respect for the dead?” Shira’s arms unfold, hands moving to her hips.
Mya’s grin is almost a sneer. “Sorry, but I don’t think Daniel would mind if I borrow Kyle for the night, since he’s dead and all.”
“You’re going to the dance with
her
?” Shira’s facial expression is caught somewhere between outrage and hurt.
No matter what I say, I’m sure to piss off one of them.
“After everything, you choose to go with this slut?” Shira’s bottom lip trembles. I can’t do anything right, not that any of it will matter come tomorrow night.
“Hey, Miss Death and Feathers, at least I’m not the one banging my dead friend’s boyfriend.” Mya at least has the good sense to hiss the last part so that nosy townsfolk hanging around the deviled eggs can’t hear.
Shira’s face turns chestnut and she glares at me.
“I can’t believe you, Kyle. First Daniel and now me.” She catches her breath and swipes treacherous tears from her cheeks.
“I’m sorry.” A wimpy attempt to avoid becoming collateral damage in a catfight between the two of them. I’ve never been so grateful to see my mom. She waves me over to where she’s waiting with Dad.
“I’ve got to go. See you later.” I ditch the lemonade and bolt toward my parents. Blood spreads a stain on the towel pressed against my hand.
“What was that about?” My dad nods toward the girls now deliberately ignoring each other, their eyes focused like laser beams on me.
“Girls.” Said with a shrug.
“They’re complicated, son.” Dad opens the door for my mom, closes it behind her, playing the perfect gentleman.
“One of the many reasons I prefer boys.”
Dad’s lips twitch before tweaking up into a strained smile. “Life’s complicated,” he says quietly as I hop into the backseat, feeling like a little kid. Mom and Dad share a look, and Dad squeezes her hand. At least my coming out of the closet seems to have got them talking to each other again. Perhaps dinner tonight won’t be the arduous undertaking I imagine.