Read Seeker (The Seeker Series Book 1) Online
Authors: Amy Reece
“It’s fine, Ally. I don’t think anyone else really noticed it was you. It’s none of their business, anyway. You said this runs in your family. So does your grandmother have any powers? Like maybe knowing when people are coming over or something? Hmm?” He gave me a rather pointed look. He was apparently a pretty smart guy.
I finally was able to smile for real. “Yeah, she can touch stuff and tell things about the owner. She goes through my stuff all the time. Kinda sucks, not gonna lie.”
“So that explains the tea party. What about your mother?”
“She finds things. It definitely comes in handy. We never lose our car keys or the remote.” I couldn’t believe he was so understanding. “Doesn’t this freak you out at all?”
He appeared to think about it. “Not so much. I knew there was something special about you. You know, more than meets the eye? Plus, my grandmother is a curandera, so maybe I’m predisposed to believe in the paranormal.”
I had thought the same thing about him, that there was more to him than was readily apparent. “What is a curandera?”
“It’s a form of healer. She uses herbs and contacts the spirit world, stuff like that. I’ve seen some pretty freaky stuff that can’t be explained by science.”
I looked down at the pie and was surprised to see nothing but crumbs. “Please tell me I didn’t wolf down all that pie. Oh, my God, I’m so embarrassed.”
“I’m saying nothing. Besides, you needed it. I’m sure those visions cause some kind of hypoglycemia or something. That’s probably why you get dizzy and weak feeling. Well, on top of eating nothing but a few vegetables for lunch.” He placed a tip on the table. “Let’s get going. I’ve got to get to class and I bet you didn’t call to tell your grandmother you’d be late.”
“Shoot, you’re right.” I pulled my cell phone out of my back pocket and texted her an apology while we walked out to his car. When he dropped me off, as he walked me to my door—such a gentleman—he stepped very close to me and said, “I’m really glad you told me, Ally. I swear I’ll keep it to myself. I hope we can figure out a way to help that girl. No one should have to put up with that.”
I looked up into his beautiful ebony eyes. His eyelashes were so thick. How fair is that? And he smelled so good. “Thanks, Jack. I really appreciate that. And thanks for the pie. Sorry I ate it all.”
He laughed and opened the door for me.
“Once you eliminate the impossible, whatever remains, no matter how improbable, must be the truth.”
–Arthur Conan Doyle
Grams spent Friday evening and all day Saturday sequestered in her room. When we asked what she was doing, she would only say “research.” Mom and I were surprised, because she nearly always has a Friday date and often a Saturday one as well. The statistics for single women versus single men after age 55 are definitely in her favor. And my grandmother is hot. I know that sounds weird, but it’s true; she’s tall, slim, and dresses with style. Plus she’s a lot of fun. I want to stop thinking about the ramifications of that last statement immediately. Ewww. Anyway, I felt bad because I knew she was spending all that time researching my issues with these visions I was suddenly having. So late Saturday afternoon, I rapped on her door, balancing a tea tray with one hand. I figured she needed some sustenance since she hadn’t been out for a regular meal since she got home Friday after work.
I entered Grams’s bedroom to find her typing busily away on her laptop, her bed covered in papers. “Here’s some tea and a sandwich, Grams. You need to take a break. Where should I put this?”
“Oh, thank-you, sweetheart, that’s very thoughtful. Set it there on the dresser. I’ll get to it in a minute.” She continued clicking her keyboard.
“Grams,” I said in my sternest tone. “You need to take a short break. That email will still be there when you’ve eaten a bit.”
“Yes, ma’am,” she capitulated meekly and stood up to stretch. “I get so caught up.” She was wearing sweats and slippers, which told me, more than anything else, how serious she was about this research. She usually pays much more attention to her personal appearance.
The fragrance of bergamot filled the room as I poured us each a cup of Earl Grey and set a plate with a cheese sandwich and some sliced fruit in front of her. “How’s it going? Have you found out anything yet?”
As we sipped our tea, she began to tell me how she was attempting to find records of the women in our family dating back to the 15th century. “As I’ve told you before, the gift of the Seer runs in our family through the women. All the women have it to some extent, but it’s most often a very mild form of shall we say,
enhanced
intuition. My ability to touch an object and see something about its owner is really rather unusual in its strength. Your mother’s ability to find lost items is far more common.”
“But then, if it’s always mild why I am having these really vivid vision-type things? This is way more than enhanced intuition! Is it going to go away?” I asked hopefully.
“Well, Ally, I wish I had better news for you, but from what I’ve discovered every once in a great while, maybe once every 3 or 4 generations, a very powerful Seer comes along who has a gift that is most powerful and unusual. Our gifts usually begin to develop around the time we begin to reach maturity—16 or 17—and settle into their final form by the time we reach our 18th birthday. I think we’re going to have to wait and see how your gift develops as you get a little older. It may settle down, or it may get even more powerful.”
“Oh, great. I just want to graduate high school without attracting too much attention. Is that too much to ask?” I whined. “Grams, you said that this ‘gift of the Seer’ is in all the women in our family? Is this one of those Irish legends you’ve told me about all my life? Does this happen in any other families?”
“Well,” she began, “the Moran family dates back to the 14th century in County Mayo in northwest Ireland. There are some indications that this gift was given to an ancestor by a druid priestess in gratitude for sheltering her from Oliver Cromwell’s soldiers during the English Civil War.”
“How does a priestess ‘give’ a power to someone?” I asked skeptically.
“Well, I don’t know, but I’m sure it involved sex. I’ve heard those druids were quite the lusty set.”
“Wow, Grams. Thanks for that mental image.”
“Oh, Ally, don’t be such a prude. You surely didn’t get that from me.”
Surely. “So, let’s recap,” I said. “I may or may not be a powerful Seer whose powers may or may not have come from an ancient druid booty call. I might continue to develop some really freaky vision power that is of no practical use to anyone—” but then I remembered the vision of Veronica getting hit by some guy and stopped.
“What is it, sweetie?” Grams put down her teacup and looked closely at my face. “What did you see that’s bothering you?” I hadn’t had a chance yet to tell her about yesterday’s vision; when I finished, she looked at me and said in a very serious tone, “A Seer’s powers, if they are true, are always for the purpose of helping someone. Power is never given or meant for mere profit or fame. I think you have a mission to help this young woman. She sounds like she’s gotten herself into a situation that she can’t find her way out of on her own. You’re being called to help her.”
Well, crap. That’s really inconvenient because I kind of despise Veronica and everything she stands for. Why can’t I be called to help somebody nice who deserves it? No, I have to be called to help someone who’s a total slut and who hasn’t had a nice word to say to me since elementary school. I hate my life. “Grams, how the heck am I supposed to help her? She got herself knocked up because she couldn’t figure out how to use a condom. She is such a bitch!”
“Aletheia Grace! I am ashamed of you.” Yep. That’s my full name—you always know you’re in trouble when you get both your full first
and
your middle name. Aletheia means truth in Greek. You are picking up on the irony of this, aren’t you? “Are you forgetting that your own mother is ‘someone who got herself knocked up because she couldn’t figure out how to use a condom’? There’s always a story that the rest of the world isn’t privy to. It’s not our job to judge her. I certainly wouldn’t want anyone judging me. Are you so sure you are above such judgment?” I’ve never seen her look so disappointed.
I have also never been more ashamed of myself. Where did all those horrible words come from? Being the mature person I am, I started crying messily, with big heaving sobs. “I’m sorry, Grams. I didn’t mean it. I don’t want to mean it. I don’t know why I hate her so much. I don’t want to be that kind of person!” I wailed.
She took me in her arms and held me close. “It’s all right, baby. Let it all out. I know you’re not that kind of person. We sometimes need a reminder to check our attitude. You’re going to be fine. We’ll figure this out.” After a bit more crying and generally feeling sorry for myself, Grams had had enough. “All right, stop crying. Go wash your face and then let’s figure out what our next steps are.” Her day job as a family counselor gave her an advantage when it came to dealing with my issues.
I did as she ordered and then returned to sit on her bed. “So, how am I supposed to help this girl? I don’t even talk to her anymore. She never even notices me except to give me dirty looks.”
“Well,” she began, “I think your first job is to try and talk with her. Have a nice conversation, get to know her again, get her to trust you.”
I sighed. “I can try, Grams, but I don’t think you understand how the modern high school social hierarchy works. I hate to tell you, but I’m pretty much a complete loser at school. I am definitely at the bottom of the food chain and Veronica is at the top. We have absolutely nothing in common and nothing to talk about. She’s a cheerleader, for heaven’s sake!”
“Oh, God, not a cheerleader!” she mocked me. “Ally, I know you think I went to high school wearing flapper dresses and rouging my knees in the 1920s, but I actually graduated in 1973, for God’s sake. You kids have nothing on my generation for decadence and bad behavior. Think Woodstock. The stories I could tell.” Oh, dear heaven, please don’t. She started cleaning up our tea and sandwich things, stacking them on the tray. “Now, you need to find an opportunity to talk to this girl and get her to open up to you. You need to think beyond the ridiculous labels teenagers think are so all-important. A few years from now, what and who you were in high school won’t even begin to matter. Now get out of here so I can get back to my research.” She shoved the tray at me and pushed me out the door. Her comments made me think of what Jack had said earlier this week at lunch about not liking to label people. I don’t know. It sounds really good to talk about not labeling people and to look deeper into who they really are, but the reality of a 21st century public high school in America is pretty brutal, let me tell you.
Not
for the faint-at-heart.
***
While I was scrubbing the downstairs guest bathroom, I tried to plot how I would start a deep and meaningful conversation with Veronica tomorrow at school. I only have two classes, English and physics, with her so I needed to find a time where 1) she was alone—tough since she is popular and popular people tend to constantly hang out with other popular people—and 2) we would have at least a short amount of uninterrupted time. I finished the bathroom, for some reason whistling “Popular” from the musical
Wicked,
and moved on to the other two bathrooms in the house. By the time I finished I had a rather lame plan, but it was the only somewhat viable thing I could come up with.
Monday morning I headed toward the bus stop carrying my hot pink backpack as usual and an additional item: a gym bag with running shorts, a t-shirt, and my seldom-used running shoes. I planned to lie in wait for Veronica in the girl’s locker room after she finished with cheerleading practice, but I needed a good excuse to be there, hence the running gear. I would happen to be changing back into my street clothes at the same time as Veronica after a healthy run after school. Hey, it’s the best I could do. As plans go, it really wasn’t that bad, but it didn’t quite work out like I hoped.
I got done with school and reluctantly refused a ride home with Jack. He looked at me a bit strangely when I told him I was going to do some laps around the track after school. I guess I don’t give off the athletic aura. I took him aside and told him what I was really up to. He was skeptical but wished me luck as he headed off to his CNM classes. When I realized I was spending too long staring at his jean-clad rear end while he walked out to the student parking lot—what can I say?—I reluctantly gathered up my backpack and gym bag and made my way to the locker rooms.
I hadn’t been there since freshman year P.E. as New Mexico only requires one P.E. credit to graduate. Somebody really needs to investigate the correlation between so little physical education and high obesity rates in New Mexico. I wrinkled my nose as the humid, sweaty aroma of generations of female athletes enveloped me. There was a heavy note of chlorine as well, since my school has an indoor pool. Hmmm, maybe I should have brought my suit and done some laps instead of running? I really don’t like running. Oh, well, next time. I made sure I followed Veronica into the locker room, but at a bit of distance. I needed to choose a locker in the same row as her, but I didn’t want to look like a creepy stalker, which I kind of was, but for a good reason. I managed to slip into her row as she was pulling a sweatshirt over her yoga capris and bandeau bra top. Really? She might want to consider a more supportive garment for cheerleading practice. I mean, all that jumping around was going to give her sagging boobs when she was older. But then, so was childbearing. Or so I’ve heard. Gross. I’m never having kids. “Hey, Veronica, how’s it going?” I decided to hit the conversational ground running.
She turned to me in surprise and—I kid you not—she looked me up and down. “Uh, fine,” she said, turned back to her locker, closed it, attached the combination lock, and left without another glance. I never knew two little words could be infused with so much snottiness—and one of them wasn’t even a real word! I cannot express how close I was to saying, “forget this” and leaving. But then I remembered what Grams said to me and simply sighed and changed into my running clothes. I put everything into an empty locker, secured it with my hot pink Master Lock combination lock left over from my freshman year, and set out for the track that ran around the football practice field. The cheerleaders were already gathered in the center, but the actual football team was nowhere to be found. I wanted to be where I could see Veronica so I could catch her maybe when she took a break. If need be I would follow her back to the locker room and try to talk to her again there. I
was
starting to feel a bit stalker-ish. I pondered the mystery of the missing football team while I did a warm-up lap. I don’t know anything about high school athletics except for what I’ve picked up by osmosis, being trapped in a building with them for nine months every year. There were a few other joggers utilizing the track, including some older ladies “power walking”; you know, pumping their arms like crazy, wearing brightly-colored velour jogging suits. I tried to picture Grams doing this and had to chuckle. I’m nearly certain Grams could out-run me, not to mention these ladies. The cheerleaders went through a series of stretches and then they all hit the track for a few laps. My warm-up lap had about done me in, but these girls sailed around the track and headed back to the center of the field without even appearing out of breath. I admit to some grudging respect for their athleticism.