“I know what I said. And it does sound crazy. But even crazier things have been happening lately, and I … I think I believe him. I remember being at a party at that mansion,” I say. “Sometime like a hundred years ago. Back when they had horses and carriages.”
“Wow,” Rayne says. She shakes her head in a sort of grudging admiration. “For years I’ve heard you laugh at all of my ‘stupid hippie’ ideas. Who’s laughing now?”
It’s a relief to share even a little part of the burden I’ve been
carrying around for weeks. Even if I don’t tell her about Griffon and the Akhet, it’s almost like I’m not alone anymore.
“What time is it?” Rayne asks suddenly.
I check my cell. “About three forty-five. Why?”
“Great. She’s probably still there.” Rayne grabs my hand and heads for the bus stop. “Come on.”
“Who? Where are we going?” I yell as we run to catch the bus that’s just about to pull away from the curb.
“You’ll see,” Rayne says as we find places in the bus’s crowded aisle. “It’s a surprise.”
“I hate surprises.”
“You’ll like this one.”
“Doubtful.” I duck down to watch Market Street go by out the window. A few minutes after we turn onto Mission, Rayne presses the stop button.
“This is us,” she says, and pushes her way toward the back door.
We land in the middle of the Mission District. I look around at the deserted bars and cheap furniture stores. “And?” I ask.
“This way. It’s just down here.” Rayne heads off quickly, so I have no choice but to follow her. She stops in front of a pawn broker and rings the bell in a doorway to the right.
“Okay, now I’m totally confused,” I say.
“Shhh!” she says as the speaker on the wall crackles. “Hi, Whitney! It’s Rayne,” she shouts into the metal box.
I hear a muffled reply and the door buzzes open. Rayne holds the door for me, and then leads me up the steep staircase that’s just inside the hall. There’s soft music playing in the building that
sounds like chanting and bells. Hippie stuff. The smell of incense strikes me as we’re halfway up the stairs, and I sneeze.
“Bless you.” A small woman with curly blond hair and insanely high fuschia heels stands at the top of the stairs in front of what looks like a small apartment. Beside her sits a medium-size black dog.
“Thanks,” I say, sniffing slightly. This place is allergy central.
Rayne reaches over to hug her, and then pulls back to introduce me. “Whitney, this is Cole, a former skeptic who is now in total need of your services.”
“Services? What services?” I ask, still clueless about why we’re here.
Whitney gives a little nod in my direction and smiles. “Former skeptic,” she says. “That sounds like an interesting story. Come on into my office.” The dog follows quietly as she and Rayne disappear into the next room. Not wanting to be left alone in a strange apartment, I follow.
The small room is bare except for some floor pillows and a low table. A fountain in the corner adds the sound of falling water to the music, and the windows are covered with a sheer, gauzy material. The whole effect makes me want to take a nap. And pee.
“Please. Sit.” Whitney indicates one of the cushions.
As we settle onto the floor, I turn to Rayne. “Will you finally tell me what we’re doing here?”
“We’re going to find out what’s really going on,” Rayne says.
Whitney looks at me and then Rayne as she absently strokes the dog’s head. “So, Cole doesn’t even know why she’s here?”
Rayne shrugs. “It was a spur-of-the-moment decision. But the
minute I thought of you, I knew it was the right thing to do.” She turns to me. “Whitney’s a psychic. My mom’s been coming here for years. I thought she could help you out.”
I shake my head. I should have known this would be Rayne’s idea of a solution. “A psychic? Seriously?”
“You stand there in the middle of the sidewalk telling me you’re remembering things from past lives and
you’re
asking me if
I’m
serious?”
I suppose she has a point. I think I’m a little higher up on the unbelievability scale at the moment.
Whitney’s impeccable eyebrows shoot up, and she gives me a slightly more engaging smile. Apparently I’ve sparked a little bit of interest somewhere. “Hmm. Past lives? Intriguing. But you have to let down your barriers in order for me to assist you. That is, if you want to stay at all.”
I glance around the room, which looks a lot more like a spa than a psychic’s lair. I wouldn’t be surprised if she offers bikini waxes along with crystal ball readings. Either one sounds excruciating. “Aren’t you supposed to have scary animal heads all over the walls and heavy velvet curtains?”
“And maybe a big turban and a sputtering neon sign in the window?” Whitney adds. She waves her hand. “Strictly tourist trade.”
“Don’t judge,” Rayne says. “The least you can do is give it a try.” She nods to Whitney. “Put it on Mom’s bill. She won’t mind.”
“So, what are we going to do?” I ask. “Auras? Tarot cards? Tea leaves?”
Whitney’s expression doesn’t change. “May I see your hand?”
“Palm reading!” I say. “Perfect.” I hold my hand out to her just
as Rayne punches me in the arm. The two of them are so serious it makes me want to laugh.
Whitney places her hand under mine, but immediately I can feel her stiffen. I watch as her eyes fly open wide and she gasps, pulling her hand away. “Rayne,” she says, “do you mind if I do Cole’s reading in private?”
Rayne looks at the two of us, but shrugs it off. “No, that’s cool.”
“There’s some tea in the kitchen. Why don’t you start a pot for all of us?”
“Fine. Put me to work and don’t share,” she says, but she’s smiling as she closes the door behind her.
Whitney turns the full intensity of her blue eyes on me. “How long have you known?”
I decide to let her take the lead. “Known what?”
She places her folded hands on the table. “If you’re going to mess with me, you might as well go. I can sense that you’re aware of what you are, although you seem undeveloped. You’re someone who can remember who they’ve been through the millennia. Someone who has the potential to transcend ordinary human limitations. You’re young, but still undeniably Akhet.”
I flinch when she says the word out loud. It seems to hang in the air like an accusation.
“What did you just say? What did you just call me?”
“Akhet,” she says, her gaze direct.
It feels like all of the air has been sucked out of the room. “So it’s true? Griffon wasn’t lying?”
“Who?”
“I met a guy, and he’s been … helping me.” At least, he
was
.
“But I didn’t believe him. I mean, it sounds crazy—past lives, reincarnation, secret societies.”
Whitney searches my eyes intently. “So this boy is Sekhem?” She seems to calm some, and her face grows concerned.
I nod.
“Are you … Akhet too?” I didn’t sense the same vibrations when she touched me, but she could just be really good at hiding it.
“No,” she says. “But I’ve met several Akhet in my lifetime. Befriended a few. It’s a very special calling, and an important responsibility.”
There’s that word again. Responsibility. I feel a pang of apprehension. “I didn’t ask for this. I’m not sure that I even want it.”
“It would be nice if you could just hand it all back and say ‘no thanks.’ But it doesn’t work that way. You don’t get to choose. You just need to accept what is and try to fulfill your destiny.”
Destiny. Responsibility. First I’m destined to be a cellist, now I’m destined to be Akhet. “And how do I do that? How do I even know what it is?”
She smiles. “You have time to find your place in the world. You’re still young in this life.” Whitney pauses and takes my hand back in hers. She’s silent, but her body isn’t quiet—it feels like some unseen movement is racing through her still form. “I can sense some of what you’re going through. When I touch you, I feel the confusion of many lives churning together.”
“Can you tell anything about the lives? Who I was? What I was doing?” The memory of the Pacific Coast Club is still fresh, and I wonder how it all ties into Veronique.
If
it ties into Veronique.
“No. Nothing specific. That’s something you’re going to have to figure out for yourself as time goes on.” She shakes her head as if to clear it. “I also feel abilities growing. Great abilities. I can’t tell exactly what, but I feel an empathic spirit.”
For a few minutes, neither of us says a word. For all I know, Whitney’s thinking about what she’s going to have for dinner, but my mind is racing. Images from the Pacific Coast Club rush through my brain, and I think back to what Griffon said in the park. If I had believed him sooner, would it have made a difference? Would it have stopped him from disappearing on me?
“Is there something special about the Akhet you came here to find?” Whitney asks softly.
It’s so strange to hear these words coming from someone else, someone who has no connection to Griffon or Janine, who has no way of knowing that she’s confirming their story. It makes it seem possible. Real, even.
I raise my eyes to hers, feeling fear and relief flood through my body in equal measure. “No. I think I’ve already found it.”
The crowd at the game is noisy, but I sit a little apart on the bleachers and zip my jacket up tighter. The baseball field faces the Bay, and the wind whips across the water like it’s the middle of winter. Griffon’s up to bat again, and despite the fact that I’m still mad at him for his disappearing act, I can’t help but feel a charge of excitement as I watch him take a few practice swings. I’m not huge into sports, but I could easily learn to be a fan of the tight gray pants they’re all wearing. Griffon looks at home in his uniform, and holds the bat like it’s an extension of his arm. There’s an ease to the way he plays, like he’s born to it, and I wonder if this is the first lifetime he’s ever played baseball. I’m pretty sure I know what the answer will be.
Despite the cold wind, the sun is shining, and as I wait for Griffon to take his place at the plate, I’m increasingly glad I decided
to come after all. When he finally called me last night and asked me to come to his game, I tried to say no, I really did. He can’t just kiss me and then disappear for a week and expect things to be okay. I want to be the strong person who doesn’t cave the second she hears his voice. I want to be the person who doesn’t come running whenever he whistles. Those are all the people I want to be, but I’m failing miserably. Who I am is the person who came all the way out here to sit at a freezing, windblown ballfield because of one phone call.
“Come on, Hall!” “Kill it!” People all around me are shouting his name, and I feel almost proudly possessive watching him play. I look at the other girls scattered on the bleachers and wonder if he knows any of them. If he’s ever asked any of them to come to one of his games.
Griffon taps the bat on home plate and then holds it over his shoulder, his eyes riveted on the pitcher. The first pitch goes by him and he doesn’t even flinch, just waves the bat in the air waiting for the next one. The ball barely leaves the pitcher’s hand before I hear the crack of the bat and the screams of the crowd. Griffon speeds down the baseline as the ball soars through the air, and I can hear excited shouts of “it’s going!” all around me. One guy in the outfield races back toward the little fence, and just as it looks like the ball has dropped into home run territory, he knocks it down with his glove.
“He dropped it!” the man behind me screams so loud I can almost hear the veins bulging out of his neck. Never stopping or taking his eyes off the coach, Griffon speeds around the bases, finally sliding into third in a big cloud of dust at the same time the
baseman leans out to catch the ball. Griffon jumps up grinning, and brushes the dirt off his pants as the umpire swings his arms wide and calls him safe.
It takes two more batters before the ball becomes airborne again, and Griffon easily makes it from third to home, stepping hard on the plate as he crosses, giving his team the lead that lasts for the rest of the game. They’re like little boys as they try to compose themselves for the ritual lining up and shaking of hands with the losing team, breaking into high-fives and chest bumps as soon as it’s over. Of all the guys on the team, Griffon is the one who draws your attention, and I know from the way the rest of the team gathers around him that I’m not the only one who thinks so.
The team is barely off the field when Griffon pulls himself away from the group to walk toward me. His curls are sticking out from under his baseball cap, and I can see a line of sweat coursing under his jaw. There are other people still standing near the field, and I wonder if he’s going to kiss me out in public like this. If that’s still where we are.
I don’t have long to wonder. Griffon drops his bag in the dust as he reaches the bleachers, then leans down and kisses me hard, the excitement of the game still shimmering around him. His usual scent is even stronger, and I can feel my heart beating right into my core as his hand brushes mine.
He pulls away, his cheeks red from exertion and a smile playing on his lips. “I’m so glad you came out here,” he says.
I look at him in his gray pants and dark blue uniform shirt. It’s going to be hard to stay mad at him. “I almost didn’t.”
A slight look of panic crosses his face. “Really? Why?”
“Oh, I don’t know. Maybe because you say these amazing things, kiss me, and then disappear for a week.”
“Listen, I’m sorry about that,” he says. His eyes lock onto mine. “I couldn’t help it. There was something I had to take care of. An emergency.”
I search his face, wanting to believe him. It would be so much better to have a crisis—okay, maybe not a
bad
crisis, but still—than to think he just doesn’t care enough to call me. “What kind of an emergency?”
Griffon breaks his gaze and looks down. “I can’t talk about it right now. There’s some stuff I’m involved in, and I couldn’t have anyone know where I was. Or be able to trace me.”
“What kind of stuff? You’re in high school.”