Authors: L.L. Muir
Granddad’s laughter was loud and rude, as if it, too, had been saved in that shirt pocket for a chance at some air.
A few minutes later, after the man caught his breath, they settled into a comfortable silence and listened to the sound of the old engine.
“I spent many a year of me life in this trook. ‘Twas a grand idea, goin' for a ride.” Granddad rolled down the window. He struggled, and it took him a good minute, but it looked like he didn’t want help. When the old clouded glass was finally down, he leaned out to face the breeze, smiling into the sunlight that felt anything but warm to his driver.
“I'm taking a load of wood over to the school,” Jamison hollered, “for the Homecoming Bonfire.”
The old man pulled his head back in, looked into the truck bed and laughed. “That the wood from the auld pig shed?”
“Yeah.”
“Oh, that will make for a fair pungent fire, laddie, if'n the rain and snow from last season didn’t wash the away the stink.”
It didn’t take long to get to the school. Granddad grinned and waited patiently while the ominous wood was unloaded. Next, they rolled around town, talking about townspeople Jamison barely remembered, or pretended to remember. At last, the talk turned to Grandma and what the couple had planned to do when they’d retired.
“What seriously pissed her off was dying just before the retirement checks were to start. If someone could stay alive out of spite, she'd have done it.”
It seemed as if thoughts of Grandma drained his energy faster than anything else and Jamison turned back toward the Recovery Center. The big woman was standing there with her hands on her hips, as if she hadn’t taken a step while they’d been gone. She whistled and two men came outside, one pushing a wheelchair.
“Drive around the car park once, me boy, just to piss in her tea.”
Jamie did what he was told. His grandfather giggled the whole time.
“Thank ye for the adventure, Jamie lad.”
“You're welcome, Granddad.” Jamison grabbed the man’s arm before he could open the door. “I'm sorry we haven't had a chance to do it a hundred times.”
Granddad looked at him for a long minute, then his eyes got wet. “Sometimes, son, one good ride is worth a hundred others.”
All the way to the mall, Jamison fought to swallow the boulder in his throat. This was no day for emotion.
Step 5. Check, damn it.
***
Jamison had cash. No one would trace his purchase, and if the guy at the counter had been sober enough to remember any specific customer that afternoon, it would have been the blue-haired, nose-pierced, tattooed thirty-year-old-trying-to-look-eighteen who was standing in line behind him.
Besides, the store had been dim. Other than his blond hair, there was really nothing memorable about him, or his purchase, compared to the raunchy stuff everyone else was there to buy. Thankfully, Jamison looked a bit older than he was and the wasted employee hadn't asked for ID.
Step 6. Check.
The list was a great idea. Not only did it keep him from forgetting anything, it kept his head clear; there was no need to keep reviewing things he'd already worked out. He only needed to do everything as planned. An added benefit was that it kept him calm enough to choke down some food. The last thing he needed was for his stomach to growl at the wrong moment, or his strength to give out.
While pounding down a Big Carl and fries, he drove around town, looking for the right sucker to help him with step seven. It was just after four—plenty of time to walk if necessary—but he'd rather stick to the plan.
He was about to give up and head back to scour the mall parking lot for the second time, when he spotted her.
Miss Phillips from English class. Alone. Coming out of the old-fashioned music store.
Granddad's truck wasn't the sexiest vehicle, but it would have to do. Jamison pulled up behind her car and rolled down, by hand, a very unsexy window.
“Miss Phillips, I presume.”
She spun around and smiled. “Mr. Shaw, as I live and breathe. The Southern gentleman who is so humble he believes himself to be a coward.” She prowled over to the truck as seductively as any Southern belle, clutching her bag in both hands.
He realized she was pushing her boobs together on purpose. Interesting.
“It's not humility, Miss Phillips. It's honesty.”
“Uh huh.” She dropped the Southern belle act. “Can you believe that crap? Calling us Miss Phillips and Mr. Shaw? I think he does it so we'll think he's cool, like he thinks we're all just adults, sitting around shooting the breeze. As if.”
“I don't know. At least his class hasn't been boring. Yet. But I've only been in it a couple of times.”
“Well I heard,” she leaned on his open window, “that Mr. Evans likes to date eighteen-year-olds. My friend heard that Mr. E calls lots of his old students after they graduate. To. Hang. Out! Can you imagine? He's like almost 60!”
Again, Jamison toyed with the thought of getting his hands on Mr. E’s cell phone. Maybe it was watching a man his age so into texting that made something seem...off about the guy. If he was texting young girls, that was sick, as in...sick.
Suddenly Jamison wished he could keep Mr. E from reading his essay from that morning.
Ew, and he so did
not
want to be calling him Mr. E!
Someone honked.
“I gotta move.” He started rolling away and Miss P backed up, no doubt preparing to pounce on him as soon as he was parked.
Sure enough, as soon as the pickup stopped moving, she was back at his window.
“Miss Phillips?”
“Yeah.”
“What the hell is your name?”
She laughed. “Rachel.”
“Well, Rachel. I need a big favor, and I thought you might have the time to help me.”
“Oh, anything. Really.”
And he believed her. Really.
Step 7. Check and then some.
***
Step eight was easy enough. After he pulled the pickup under the carport of the shed, he ducked inside the tack room and shut off the breaker for the yard lights. When night came, the lights wouldn’t come on automatically, as they usually did. No one would notice, though; they'd just think the night was unusually dark, or so he hoped. He and his mom had turned them off plenty of times for star-gazing, and it was always days later, after a couple of comments about how dark it was outside, that someone would remember to turn the yard lights on again.
***
It was early yet when Jamison arrived back at the school. All the student-officer-sweatered kids were delicately building up the wood for the bonfire. Even from the parking lot he could hear one young man giving orders, reminding the others that since he was an Eagle Scout and knew more about fires than they ever would, they'd better do just as he said or they'd be sitting around trying to get the damned thing lit all night. Another kid shouted he had lighter fluid and wouldn't let that happen and the struggle for dominance was on.
Jamison walked to the bleachers, out of earshot, and sat down to wait.
It was going to be a long night. He wished he could take a nap, there on the cold aluminum seats, but he didn't want to wake up frozen to death, or miss Skye. If she came and couldn't find him, she might take off and jack up all his plans.
It didn't matter if those idiots got the fire started or not, it only mattered that she showed. There was no other chance. It had to be tonight. Who knew how long it would be before he woke up with his memory wiped out again? Even now he feared waking up to the smell of real bacon cooking. Maybe bacon would scare the shit out of him for the rest of his life.
Pity,
that
, his granddad would say.
Pity, all of it.
Lucas, I’m going to the Homecoming Bonfire.” Sky reached for her keys.
“Is that wise?”
“I have no idea. I need to have Jamison’s trust. I assume that doing teenage activities with him will earn me that trust.”
“No reason for him not to trust you already. We eliminated his suspicions.”
“True. But he’s also surprised us. I’d rather be sure.”
“It is your call to make. You still have the odd awareness of him?”
“I do. I still don’t understand it.”
“Ours is not to question.” Lucas nodded sagely.
“I try not to.”
“Don’t give him reason to suspect you again...if possible. That is all the advice I have.” Lucas dropped his hands from his hips, a sure sign the conversation was over.
“I may be quite late.”
“Time is a mortal concern.” Lucas waved away her comment.
“Just staying in character.”
“Oh, all right, then.” Lucas lowered his brow and propped his fists on his hips. “Don’t let me catch you sneaking in here at four in the morning, young lady.”
“Yes, Uncle.”
She kissed him on the cheek and laughed her way out the door. That had been easy, but she supposed she hadn’t really expected much of an argument. As far as the general population knew, they were mild mannered eco-nuts, not polygamists. If a Somerled teen was out past dark it didn’t mean he or she would be cast out of their society.
Skye tried to control her imagination as she drove off. Her foot tended to lay a bit heavy on the gas pedal, even when she was in no hurry. Time, as Lucas had just reminded her, was a mortal concern, but when her tasks involved mortals, time was also a concern of hers.
If she was late for the bonfire, would he leave? Would another girl distract him? Was he as easily distracted as many other boys in their school?
Oh,
here
comes
the
mental
demolition
derby
again
.
She tried to pay attention to the speedometer. Already she was well over the limit. She lifted her foot, but by the time the car reacted there were red and blue lights flashing in her rear view mirror.
Wonderful. She’d be even later, and the sun was also speeding—toward the horizon.
“Give me a warning,” she whispered into the mind of the deputy as he walked up to her window.
“Wow, Skye Somerled. Surprise, surprise.”
“Sheriff Cooke?” She smiled her coyest smile and added a blush just in case.
“How many warnings have I given you, honey?”
“Some.”
“Oh, now don’t try to lie. How many?”
As if she could lie!
“More than a few. Less than a hundred.”
If he asked if it was more than twenty, she was in trouble.
“How many tickets have I issued?”
“To me?” Her voice squeaked.
She didn’t have the ability to remove memories, but she could strongly suggest people remember, or not. Suggestions were her specialty, but at the moment, she couldn’t come up with a pleasant one.
“How many tickets have I issued, to you, for speeding?”
“None?”
“Wrong.”
“Wrong?” Was his memory faulty, or was hers?
“The answer is ‘one.’”
“Really? When?”
“Right now, sweetheart. You’re going to get your first ticket. Congratulations.” The man started writing on his little clip board. “And I’d bet it won’t be your last, but no one would cover that bet.”
Skye sat in shock while the sheriff took his time writing her up. He’d seen that license and registration so much since she’d started driving, he should have the numbers memorized, but that didn’t seem to make things easier. As she watched him in the mirror, it looked like he wasn’t doing anything but staring at his computer screen.
Probably playing a leisurely game of chess, making her wait the equivalent of all the tickets he never gave her, but should have. She was so going to miss the bonfire.
***
What seemed like an hour later she was headed off toward the high school, sending the sheriff a strong suggestion to head in the other direction for the rest of the evening.
She passed the west side. No flames yet.
She found a parking space and headed over. No breeze. Less danger. Good.
The dirt and grass of the field made for uneven footing and she was forced to watch where she walked. Only when she joined the crowd closing around the huge pile of wood was she able to look at the people.
A blond head. Too short. Another, but that one was female. So many hats!
She closed her eyes and tried to focus on Jamison. That link between them was growing stronger by the second. He was coming.
She turned to look at the parking lot behind her.
Nothing.
Then she faced the school.
There. Coming from the football field. Dressed in black. It was impossible to tell from the distance, but he seemed to have picked her out of the crowd.
Oh, yeah. White clothes. Duh.
She, the angel, and he, the devil.
Something deep inside shivered, but she ignored it.
A small contingent of the band struck up the school song, but Skye didn’t take her eyes off Jamison. Only a few seemed to know the song, but others hummed. She didn’t care.
Someone with a mega phone called the mighty Flat Spring Spartans forward and the football team, all carrying wood torches, came around the corner of the auditorium. They ran toward the crowd, passing quite near Jamison, but the serious lad in black couldn’t seem to take his gaze from her, either.
Something shivered again.
The team’s pounding feet showed Skye what a racing heart must feel like—a rumbling in her chest, powerful, insistent, uncontrollable. Surely it was just the team.
A great whooshing sound finally ripped her attention to her left where the pile of wood was engulfed in violent flames, accompanied by a strong smell of kerosene. The crowd cheered as the remainder of the team filed by, tossing their torches into the fire as they passed.
By the time she turned back toward Jamison, he was only a few yards away. He hadn’t slowed. A few more strides and he was against her, pushing her back a step with his momentum, reaching out for the sides of her face, pressing his lips against hers.
She hadn’t given him the suggestion to kiss her. Truly she hadn’t. And in front of the crowd? She wouldn’t have. But she was very glad he’d thought of it.
Skye returned the kiss with what little knowledge she’d learned from watching others, marveling that no one shouted, “Hey, the Somerled chick is kissing someone and he’s not her own kind!”