The Adventures of Jillian Spectre

Welcome to the Mystic Quarter

NIC TATANO

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HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd

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First published in Great Britain by HarperImpulse 2014

Copyright © Nic Tatano 2014

Cover Photographs © Shutterstock.com

Nic Tatano asserts the moral right

to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue record for this book is

available from the British Library

This novel is entirely a work of fiction.

The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are

the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to

actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is

entirely coincidental.

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and Pan-American Copyright Conventions.

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Ebook Edition © March 2014

ISBN: 9780007585281

Version 2014-08-18

Digital eFirst: Automatically produced by Atomik ePublisher from Easypress.

For Myra, my redheaded muse.

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Epilogue

Bonus Material

Chapter One

Coming Soon From Nic Tatano…

Also by Nic Tatano…

Nic Tatano

About HarperImpulse

About the Publisher

CHAPTER ONE

As after school activities go, seeing the future beats the hell out of soccer practice.

Yeah, that’s my gift, my blessing. Or, depending on your point of view, my curse. Because I can see everyone’s future.

Except my own.

Meanwhile, my gift just took a very strange, and frankly very frightening turn. More about that later.

I say later because I sense that since you discovered I have a window to the future, you’ll want to know about your own and couldn’t care less about my problem. But before we go any further and you start asking questions like, “Will the married man I’m dating really leave his wife?” (No, dumbass. You don’t need a psychic for that.) I should introduce myself. I’m Jillian Spectre, seventeen-year-old crystal ball chick of the neighborhood. Said neighborhood is a bit unusual in that just about everyone who lives here has some sort of otherworldly talent. It’s New York City’s paranormal section. Little Italy has its Italian food, Chinatown has Asian culture, Queens has its chop shops, and we’ve got the real version of the Sci-Fi channel. (Don’t correct me. I know they changed their logo to Syfy, but it looks like it should be pronounced “siffee” and I refuse to accept it.) Our block is your one-stop shop for mediums, mystic seers, telepaths, and, for you fans of Shirley MacLaine, past life regression hypnotists. Some legit, some not. The con artists who tried to open a ghostbusters shop down the street failed miserably and the place is now a pizza parlor.

Anyway, I’m sought after for my dead-on romantic readings of the future by every lovesick person in Manhattan, while my flaming red hair, sea foam green eyes and sparkling personality is Velcro to all the lovesick crash test dummies in my high school. I’m not the hottest girl on campus by any means, though this five foot five slender collection of freckles with a pug nose can turn a head when I get all gussied up. But for whatever reason I attract the shallow end of the male dating pool like a bug zapper draws in mosquitoes. I’m a teenage version of Miss Liberty; give me your tired, your poor, your geeky, your sophistication challenged…you know the type.

Back to my talent, which hit me like a ton of bricks when I turned fourteen. I come from a long line of mystic seers, and on that particular birthday my mother Zelda (yeah, I know, talk about a stereotypical name for someone who reads the future) presented me with my first crystal ball. The ensuing torrent of views from the future knocked me for a loop until she taught me how to focus and control things. At sixteen I was inducted into the family business, and now for two hours after school I endure a parade of sexually frustrated housewives, lonely single men, and generally unattractive people who don’t have enough personality to work at the Department of Motor Vehicles. (By the way, as an apprentice I can only read romance right now, so, unlike my mother, I don’t have clients who want to know about their careers.) I can see exactly five years into the future, so my talent is not all encompassing, but enough to satisfy those who need a romantic lifeline. As for the people with no shot at finding a significant other (or even a friend with benefits), I’ve developed a wonderful talent of giving them false hope, even though the crystal ball says, “Seriously, Jillian? Fuhgeddaboudit! Give this poor schlub his money back.”

Finally, back to the curse part of my talent. Can’t read my own future, but then again, neither can anyone with my talent. Sure wish I could, because after weeding out the parade of losers in high school, my heart is torn between two guys.

I can tell everyone else how things will turn out, and it pisses me off that I’m flying blind when it comes to my own love life.

But that's the least of my concerns right now.

Because tonight I looked at a woman's future, viewing her activities five years from today.

Right after I saw her die three years from today.

Do the math.

I saw the afterlife.

***

“So, will I get caught?”

The middle-aged homely New York politician (with ears that remind me of a taxi with its doors open) leans forward, his eyes filled with the hope that I’ll give him the “all clear” to continue cheating on his wife.

What the hell, the media is biased, I may as well put my own agenda out there.

I peer into the crystal ball and see the guy at a podium, a seriously pissed off wife next to him, giving a Tammy Wynette “stand by your man” Academy Award performance as he sadly delivers the standard mea culpa to the press about his “error in judgement” that landed him in bed with a stripper and his balls in a sling with his constituents.

“Well?”

“Shhhh,” I say, putting up one finger. “The image is clearing.”

This is going to be fun. The sonofabitch licks his lips; the thought that he can install a trapeze in his secret apartment makes his beady dark eyes gleam. I begin to nod and smile. I’m going to seriously screw with this guy.

I lean back and look up at him. “Your wife will never know. In fact, you’ll also have a second affair with a famous movie star.”

Now the guy’s lips are twitching in anticipation. I give him the name of one of Hollywood’s serious babes, a girl who is light years out of his league, and his smile grows from ear to ear.

Annnnnnnnd…Cue the big tip.

***

“Do I have a shot with Adrianna?”

Just like clockwork, our class supernerd Melvin Hendrick corners me at my locker between third and fourth period with a question about his crush of the day.

“Hello, Melvin,” I say, without any emotion.

“So, waddaya think? Me and Adrianna?”

The question is beyond ridiculous. Melvin is five feet tall and wide, dark eyes peering through Coke-bottle glasses, constantly in a state of flop sweat. Adrianna is the prom queen, five-ten, blonde, legs up to her neck. A girl who not only stops traffic but makes it back up.

“You and Adrianna?”

Melvin’s face fills with anticipation. “Yeah. So, do I have a shot?”

“Four words, Melvin. Out. Of. Your. League. Go find a girl who has things in common with you, maybe owns a pair of Vulcan ears. Stop shooting for supermodels.”

His smile fades. “Maybe so. Thanks, Jillian.”

I realize I’ve gone a bit far, so I dial down the sarcasm. “Trust me, Melvin, there’s a nice girl out there for you. (Hey, he’s a sci-fi fanboy; I might as well toss him some fiction.) See you tomorrow. Same bat time, same bat station.”

Melvin heads off to class while I shut the door to my locker, revealing one half of my personal romantic dilemma behind it.

“Hey, Sparks.”

My heart flutters as Ryan Harker looks down at me with those deep blue eyes that reach right into my soul and give it a hug. But my rush is short-lived, as I panic and immediately switch my focus to my upcoming Algebra Two test.

I have to. Ryan is a mindreader.

Well, not a full-fledged mindreader. He’s still an apprentice under his father, and his powers are developing, so his abilities are sporadic. Problem is, I never know when he can read my thoughts.

And if he can read them now, I want him to see math equations instead of my original daydream, which included deeds that would make my crystal ball seriously fog up.

“Hey, Ryan.”

“Math test got you worried, huh?”

Whew. Almost busted. “You know me. I always get nervous about tests.”

“Yeah, and you always get an A. I don’t know why you worry so much.”

Suddenly I’m channeling Melvin as I feel my armpits grow damp.

Here’s what it’s like inside my head when these impromptu meetings with Ryan occur:

Damn, I want to run my fingers through that thick black hair and jump on…. the hypotenuse of a right triangle is equal to…I think he’s gotten a little taller. Must be six feet now. God, those dimples when he smiles at me…the circumference of a circle is how many times the radius…oooh, those broad shoulders and slim hips. Nice jeans today…. A parallelogram has equal sides…

Look, I know what you’re thinking. If the guy obviously likes you, and you like him, then take down the firewall in your head.

But it’s not that simple. It would give Ryan an unfair advantage.

And I know what else you’re thinking. If Jillian can read the future of everyone else, why not read Ryan’s future?

Tried that already. There’s a big blank spot in the crystal ball.

Which, according to Mom, means I’m somehow involved. To what degree is anyone’s guess.

The bell rings, mercifully taking me out of my lust-for-Ryan-mathematical-formula loop.

“See you in the cafeteria,” he says. “Buy you lunch?”

“Sure thing,” I say, trying unsuccessfully to hold back a huge smile.

***

“Jillian. You look hot today.”

Since we’re into mathematical equations, it’s time you met the source of that comment who happens to be the other half of my romantic problem for which no answer key exists.

Meet Jake Revson, rogue telekinetic of the senior class. Possessor of classic dark brown bedroom eyes behind which lurk some semi-evil plan to move objects in a fashion that will amuse him. Mom hates him and the fact that I’m attracted to him. It’s not just the mop of always tousled medium brown hair or that wicked smile that tells you he’s up to something, it’s what’s behind those eyes that deserves more exploration. Deep down I sense he’s an incredibly decent person who simply puts up his bad boy persona in the torn black jeans to keep people at a distance. The distance part frustrates the hell out of me. But at least I don’t have to think about math formulas when I take in that slender five foot eight frame of his that is no doubt built for speed.

I slide into the desk next to his. “You say that to all the girls.”

“Yeah, but with you it’s true.” His lean face develops a slight smile.

I’m not sure I believe him, but I hope he’s not lying. There is a bit of evidence to support the theory that he’s interested in me. Jake once rescued me from a guy who wouldn’t leave me alone by sending his textbooks flying into the boys’ bathroom and into the toilet. After that he rearranged the Christmas lights on the guy’s house to spell out a double entendre regarding the North Pole. He also unbuttoned my blouse a bit one time with his thoughts; when I discovered this unfortunate disrobing I looked up to find him smiling at me.

And of course I can’t read his future either. Damn blank spot.

“Jake, I’ll never believe you until you ask me out.”

“You free Friday night?”

“Yeah…”

“Too bad. I’ll be out of town.”

“You know, Jake, I read your future last night. I saw you married to an absolute bitch. She didn’t have red hair. So choose your next words carefully.”

***

Okay, back to my peek at the afterlife, because I know you’ve been drooling over that little tease I dropped and you’ve actually put aside your personal questions because you want to know what’s on the other side.

Fine, I’ll share what happened, because I’ve been holding it in all day and am about to tell my mother in the hopes she’ll be able to explain it.

I was doing a reading for a very nervous, thirty year old woman named Donna and things were going along as usual. I saw her meeting a man named Jefferson, dating for several months, falling in love. I’m telling her this and she’s all smiles. Then, and this puzzled me since I supposedly can only read romance, I saw him murder her. Perhaps it was because she was in love with the killer, I don’t know. Anyway I know she was dead because I saw him shoot her in the head, then her lifeless eyes as she hit the ground. The shock left me speechless for a few seconds, the color drained from my face. Donna’s face tightened as she noticed the change. “What’s wrong?” she asked, obviously concerned that I’d seen something really bad.

Before I could answer the image dissolved into something I could not explain. Donna walking barefoot in sunlight, surrounded by the brightest primary colors you can imagine, wearing a smile, just before the image disappeared as it always did at the five year marker.

What happened next was even more amazing. I told her to forget what I’d told her about finding love with a man named Jefferson, that he was a bad man, a dangerous man. Her face went pale, matching mine. Since she’s been a client for a while and I’ve always been right, she nodded, assuring me that she would avoid this man. I took her hands, begged her to promise me, and she did.

And just when I began to relax a bit, to breathe normally for the first time in two minutes, I saw it.

Donna’s life on a different path. The images started again, rushing forward at a speed I’d never experienced, going forward five years.

This time she was still alive.

I had not only seen the afterlife, but had apparently changed her future.

CHAPTER TWO

My mom, who now wants me to call her Zelda when we’re open for business, is right out of central casting when it comes to her mystic seer persona. She dresses in the Stevie Nicks 1980s fall collection, with wispy capes, translucent scarves, and willowy mid-calf dresses that (in her opinion) make her look as though she’s floating through a room. Since she’s carrying about fifty extra pounds on her five-two frame, the floating part doesn’t exactly work. But she’s got those dark gypsy eyes peering out through bangs that cover her eyebrows, long straight black hair down to what passes for a waist, and enough bling on her fingers and around her neck to set off the TSA alarm at LaGuardia ten feet from the metal detector. Or at least make Dennis Rodman jealous.

But it’s the faux accent she saves for customers that cracks me up. If a pastrami sandwich could talk, it would sound like mom. She tries to take her Noo Yawk fuhgeddaboudit twang and combine it with a stereotypical vampire, resulting in a husky, sleeps-in-a-smoky-bar concoction that doesn’t exactly blend. “Gooood evening, youse vant to look into da future, or vhat?” Luckily she’s usually spot-on in her predictions, so people put up with a voice that sounds like Marisa Tomei in My Cousin Vinny meets Dracula.

Right now, however, she’s not Zelda or a Brooklyn Transylvestite, but mom. And what I’m telling her is making the color drain from her face.

She bites her lower lip as she reaches out and takes my hands. “This is highly unusual, Jillian.”

“So what does it mean? Do I have some special power, or was this just some sort of crystal ball hiccup?”

She shakes her head. “I dunno. Hard to say.”

“Has this ever happened to you, or anyone you know?”

“Uh-uh. But…”

“But…what?”

“There is a very old legend. Of a seer who can see beyond this world.”

“Isn’t that basically a medium?”

She shakes her head. “Nah. They don’t see the afterlife, they contact spirits who have moved on. Big difference.”

“So what’s the legend?”

“It’s easier if…well…I think this is a matter for…The Council.”

I gulp and my pulse shoots through the roof. The Council. So cloaked in secrecy, so high up, so legendary that few in our neighborhood have ever been granted an audience. People refer to it as The Council in hushed tones, as though you could speak in italics. As far as I know, no one my age has ever appeared before The Council.

Except for my own mother.

***

“You okay, Sparks?”

Ryan’s soothing voice makes me turn around as I’m heading into homeroom. “You have to turn it off today,” I say, knowing he must be picking up my anxiety.

He furrows his brow and looks at me with genuine concern. “You’re extremely worried. Anything I can do to help?”

“Yeah, stop reading my thoughts today. I know you’re just trying to be helpful, but please, Ryan, I’m going through something that is very private.”

He nods, closes his eyes for a moment. It’s what he does when he disconnects, or whatever you want to call it, his mind reading ability. He opens his eyes and offers a soft smile. “Sorry, Sparks. I didn’t mean to intrude.”

“I’m sure you didn’t. But you can’t go around sneaking up on girls who might be thinking…you know…stuff.”

I get the sheepish grin that makes him look like a little boy who’s been caught with his hand in the cookie jar, the look that reminds me of when we first met in the second grade. He started calling me Sparks back then because he said when the sun hit me just right it looked like sparks were coming out of my hair. “Sure, I get it. I guess I should really leave my abilities at home. At least…when I’m around someone I care for.”

My heart hits a speed bump and takes my mind off The Council for the first time since the talk with mom. I’ve known the guy since I was seven…is he finally getting it after all these years? Can you please stop thinking of me as your oldest female friend and look at the total package which is dying for a date? “You shouldn’t need to read minds to know how a girl feels, Ryan.” (Well, so much for playing my cards close to the vest. But honestly, when it comes to romance, the guy needs a road map, so I might have to be his GPS.) I wonder how he’s taking my comment. Does he realize I’m talking about myself, or just girls in general? His casual nod tells me it’s the latter. Sonofabitch.

“Hey, girls are always saying boys are clueless when it comes to understanding women. I was trying to get ahead of the curve. You guys aren’t exactly easy to figure out.”

“Part of our charm.” I glance at the clock and know we have about one minute before class. “Better get rolling,” I say, as I head into my homeroom.

“Yeah. See you at lunch. Hope the thing that’s bothering you goes away.”

“Thanks.”

I’m heading into the room and think the conversation is over when I hear him again. “But what you were thinking was pretty spectacular.”

***

The drive to rural New Jersey (yeah, it exists in the western part of the state) is a pleasant one, a welcome change from the crammed together lifestyle that is New York City. I love living in the Big Apple, but it’s nice to get out of town and clear my head. And not worry about someone reading my mind. We’re going to a place known as The Summit, which is not spoken in italics like The Council. It’s basically the home office for the people who oversee those of us in the paranormal world.

I’m trying to pump mom for information about her visit years ago. She keeps telling me “it’s privileged” and can only be revealed with special permission, even though I’m her daughter.

“Can you at least tell me why you only came here once? Did they help you?” I ask.

She shakes her head while keeping her eyes on the road. “Jillian, please stop. We’ll be there in ten minutes and they’ll start as soon as we arrive.”

“They’ll start…what?”

She rolls her eyes. “I wish I could’ve read my own future. I woulda put you on a bus.”

I fold my arms in front of me. “Fine. I’ll be a good little seer. Change the subject.”

“I understand there’s a dance comin’ up at school.”

Now it’s my turn to roll the eyes. “Pick another subject.”

“Why? You’re not hangin’ out with that Jake, are you?”

Change the topic. “I’m getting an A in all my subjects. Aren’t you proud of your daughter?”

“You got an IQ of 160; I should hope you’d breeze through school.” (Great, she took the bait.) “So is that nice young man Ryan going to be escorting you to the dance, or what? Or is that…hooligan.”

“Hooligan? Really, mom, where do you get these terms? Was ne’er-do-well already taken?”

“He’s a hooligan, young lady. Who other than a hooligan re-arranges lawn gnomes in suggestive positions?”

The image of what Jake did to the McGuire’s front yard flashes through my mind and it’s all I can do to keep from laughing. I bite my lip as my own twisted sense of humor envisions the gnomes in a suggestive Travelocity commercial. “He’s got a different kind of wit, mom. And the McGuire’s son is a bully. He had it coming.”

“Here’s our exit,” she says, thankfully getting off the topic of Jake and sexually frustrated garden ornaments. She gets off the highway, makes a right turn and drives about a mile until we arrive at a large, ornate metal gate, which stands guard over a long driveway that disappears into the woods. Mom pulls up to the intercom and hits a button. I note a camera atop the gate, which is busy turning toward our car.

A soft voice floats through the intercom. “Yes?”

“Zelda Spectuh and my daughtuh Jillian.”

I see the lens in the camera twist and it’s obvious someone is getting a closer look. There’s a buzz and the gate swings open. Mom maneuvers the car past the gate and down the winding driveway that seems to go on forever.

And then I see it.

A massive stone castle that looks right out of the middle ages. “That’s The Summit?”

Mom smiles, and nods. “Impressive, huh?”

“I didn’t know there were castles in Jersey.”

“Yeah, but what’s inside ain’t no fairy tale.”

***

An hour later I feel like I’m on the witness stand being grilled by a bevy of prosecutors. I’m seated in a massive, elaborately carved oak chair that feels like a throne, complete with a ruby red velvet seat cushion, while four members of The Council, two men and two women, press me for more details about my experience and take notes on legal pads. It’s chilly and a bit damp inside; castles are apparently not equipped with central heating. The huge room has stone walls, high ceilings, and a few large windows which overlook a pond. I feel like I’ve told the story six times already, but they continue to pepper me with question after question, wanting the minutiae of the whole affair. Finally, I’ve had enough.

“Look, with all due respect,” I say, sitting up straight, “haven’t you gotten enough information—”

My mom whips her head around and shoots me the glare which I’ve learned means shut the hell up.

The tall, thin gray-haired man who introduced himself as Sebastien (no last name, like Madonna) narrows his dark eyes a bit and seems to shove me down with his stare. “Young lady, I dare say you do not understand the ramifications of your experience. Though our questions may seem redundant, I assure you there is a purpose behind each one.” He smoothes his snow white beard with one hand as he turns to the others. “She is a great deal like her father.”

“You mean, like my father was when he was my age?”

Sebastien looks at my mother. “I think it’s time we told her the truth.”

Now it’s my turn to give my mother the eyes, only mine are as wide as they can be. She bites her lower lip and her eyes well up as she looks at me for forgiveness.

And I can tell she’s been lying to me about my father my entire life.

“What?” I ask.

Her mouth opens but she says nothing.

“What, mom? You mean the truth about how he died?”

“Young lady,” says Sebastien. “Your father is not dead.”

CHAPTER THREE

While Ryan is my oldest male friend, Roxanne has been my best friend forever.

Literally.

We were born on the same day in the same hospital. Our moms met in the maternity ward, hit it off, and have been buddies every since. We’ve shared a crib, a crush, a crisis. A lotta birthday cakes. Unlike other girls who toss around the BFF tag to a different person every month, we know it will be till death do us part as far as our friendship is concerned.

What’s really funny is that she’s jealous of my talent and I’m jealous of hers.

Roxanne Falcone is a muse.

Yeah, I know, you thought those didn’t exist. That they were ethereal, mythological creatures who, according to legend, inspire the great creative minds of the world. Ah, grasshopper, you have much to learn before you may roam the earth.

For one, Roxanne isn’t remotely ethereal. She’s as Italian as her last name, turning heads with the shoulder length black hair, chocolate brown eyes, classic high cheekbones, mile long legs in lacquered on jeans, and a wicked New York accent. But when you need inspiration, she’s your girl, morphing into a paranormal sultry vixen as she drops that whiskey voice a few octaves to deliver the goods. One reason I’m jealous is that she gets “royalties” as a muse; the girl is constantly getting Broadway show tickets, movie passes, DVDs and albums as “thank yous” for her services. She’s always dressed in the latest outfits since one of her clients is a fashion designer and sends her racks of clothes that haven’t even hit the market yet. So she’s a trend setter before the trend even begins.

Even though we’re exactly the same age I’ve always considered her a big sister; Roxanne’s the tough one who’s protected me, a girl with a hard edge; her street smarts coming in handy when needed. She can also kick your ass if you piss her off, as she’s six feet of solid muscle and towers over most of the boys in her stacked heels. Last year a scrawny senior decided he’d come up with a clever pickup line for a muse. Not realizing Roxanne could snap him like a twig, he yelled, “Hey legs, inspire me!” at her across the crowded cafeteria. (She hates being called “legs” more than anything, except for the mimes in Central Park.) Anyway, he later became the only boy in the history of the school to receive an atomic wedgie from a girl, which turned him into a soprano for a week. I can still see his feet dangling in the air as the waistband from his Jockeys reached his neck.

Her height advantage has always made me look up to her, and in more than the literal sense. I admire her more than anyone I know. She’s really a human Tootsie Roll pop; get past the hard exterior and inside you’ll find someone really sweet with a huge soft spot in her heart.

My BFF, the glamazon kick-ass muse.

But right now, after pouring out my soul to her on the front porch for a half hour on this Sunday afternoon, I need more than inspiration. I crave the emotional comfort food that is my best friend.

One long, sinewy arm wraps tightly around my shoulder and pulls me close while she brushes away my tears with her free hand. “Your mother was probably trying to protect you. She probably woulda told you eventually.”

“Yeah, right.” I lean my head on her shoulder and she begins to gently stroke my hair. “Telling me my father is actually alive when all these years I thought he was dead. And that he had some sort of unusual power that may have been passed down to me. Kinda important truths to leave out when you’re raising a daughter.”

“Yeah, it would piss me off too. But you’ve got a wonderful mom, Jillian. I know she had her reasons. Give her time to explain.”

“Whatever.”

Long pause. “So why didn’t you tell me about this afterlife thing?”

“It scared the hell out of me, Rox. I didn’t even tell mom till the next day. I don’t mind seeing the future when it comes to romance, but changing the future is something else. And seeing someone murdered? God, that was awful. It makes me wonder.”

“Wonder what?”

“If I’m cut out for this. I mean, I enjoy being a seer and a lot of times it helps people, but staring into a crystal ball for the rest of my life?”

“It’s a gift, Jillian. Just like my talent is a gift. It’s a sin not to share it.” (It should be noted that Roxanne is Catholic and thus ruled by guilt.)

“Yeah, I know. But my intelligence is also a gift. I could be a doctor, a lawyer. Wouldn’t it be a sin to waste that?”

“Hell, you could do both.”

I rolled my eyes. “Yeah, Jillian Spectre, MD. I could find out if my patients are going to die before I treat them. Here’s your prescription, Mr. Jones. You won’t need a refill because you’ll be reaching room temperature soon. And by the way, you’re going to Hell. Here’s some SPF 1000 sunblock.”

She squeezes my shoulder. “Okay, enough with your own career. Listen…all this stuff about the afterlife makes me wonder…would you do me a favor?”

She then asks me to do something I’ve never done.

***

After a breakfast during which my mom seemed afraid to look at me, I’m still ticked off at the revelations of the weekend. My face is tightened, eyes narrowed into slits, and I’m glaring at anyone who crosses my field of vision as I head to Geometry class.

I feel an arm wrap around my shoulders and get a whiff of the familiar earthy perfume. “Still pissed off, short stuff?”

I look up at Roxanne, who’s smiling at me. “I’m entitled.”

“Well, if you’re tryin’ to give people my Sicilian death stare, it aint workin’, honey. With the red hair and the freckles you look like the Little Mermaid with PMS.”

The line makes me lighten up, but only a little bit. “Fine. I’ll get a black wig.”

“Still won’t work. You want me to beat someone up for you? Will that make you smile?”

“I just need some time to work through this.”

“You talkin’ to your mom?”

“Barely.”

“Well, you’re still the same Jillian and I still love ya, kiddo. Catch ya later.”

***

Did you know it takes a lot of energy to stay pissed off all day? I’m discovering that as I already feel exhausted and it’s only third period.

Still, I’m busy trying to bore a hole in my Geometry textbook with my Disney cartoon that-time-of-the-month death stare while squeezing the life out of my pen. Ms. Hansen’s lecture on problem solving and the squeaking of her blue dry erase marker on the white board are merely audio wallpaper, fading into the background of my thoughts.

I can’t keep this up forever.

Mom and I have to talk tonight. I don’t care if The Council wants everything confidential.

I have to know—

“Jillian, would you please name these triangles, since no one else seems to have done the weekend assignment.”

The teacher speaking my name jolts me back to reality, and I raise my head. “Uh, I’m sorry, Ms. Hansen. What was the question?”

My petite blonde fortysomething teacher looks at me quizzically, probably because I’m her best student and this is my favorite class and I never, ever zone out. She then points at the board, filled with two geometric figures. “These triangles. Name them.”

I causally lean back in my chair, fold my arms and shrug. “I dunno. How about…Joe and Harry?”

The class explodes in laughter, partly because it’s a terrific smartass answer and partly because Jillian Spectre, front row girl with perfect standardized test scores who always raises her hand and sits up straight, has never, ever cracked a joke in class.

Ms. Hansen raises one eyebrow and takes a step toward me. “See me after class, young lady.”

“Oooooooh,” comes the frightened chorus from the rest of the class.

I look closer at the board. “The triangles are obtuse and equilateral,” I say, trying for some damage control.

“Correct,” says the teacher, shaking her head as she turns back to the board.

***

I remain at my desk as I wait for the class to file out, then slowly stand up. Ms. Hansen is leaning against her desk, arms folded. “So what’s wrong, Jillian?” Her voice is soft, filled with genuine concern.

“I’m so sorry, Ms. Hansen. I don’t know what came over me.”

“That kind of comment I’d expect from the boys in the back row, not from a girl with sixteen hundred on her SATs.” She stands up, moves forward and puts her hands on my shoulders. “You wanna tell me what’s on your mind?”

I exhale, look to the side, then back at her. “It’s really personal.”

“Does it have to do with a boy?”

I roll my eyes. “If a boy were actually interested in me, it might be. No, Ms. Hansen, it’s a family matter.”

“You okay? Your mother okay?”

“We’re fine, and it’s nothing physical. It’s something to do with my past that I can’t discuss.”

“Do you want to talk with the school counselor?”

“No offense, but the school counselor is a moron.”

She laughs, knowing I’m right.

“And if I wanted to talk to a member of the faculty, it would be you. Again, I’m sorry, and it won’t happen again.”

“Okay, you can go,” she says, patting me on the shoulders as she smiles. “Joe and Harry. I gotta admit, it was pretty funny. Especially coming from you.”

***

Mom is on the phone as I walk into the kitchen, toss my backpack on the table and head for the fridge. I pull out a cold Doctor Brown’s creme soda and pop the top. I take a long sip and let the bubbles bathe my throat. I do not make eye contact.

“Thank you,” she says. “I know Jillian will appreciate it.”

Okay, now I make eye contact.

“Yes,” mom says. “This weekend. Saturday at ten. Goodbye.”

She hangs up the phone and turns to face me.

“Who was that, and what will I appreciate?” I ask.

“That was The Summit. They gave me permission.”

“Permission to…”

She cocks her head to the side as her eyes grow moist. “Tell you about your father.”

Her words stun me for a moment. I feel a bit lightheaded, grab a chair and sit down, taking another hit of sugar in the process. She pulls out the chair opposite me, sits down, takes my hands and locks eyes with me.

Now I’m scared. For the past two days, I’ve been dying to find out the truth. Now I’m not so sure I want to know.

But I have to know. “Okay, mom.”

She reaches for her purse that is sitting on another chair, opens it, grabs her wallet, opens that, and pulls out a photo. She slides it over to me. “This is your father.”

I eagerly pick up the photo and study it.

It’s a wedding picture.

My mom, twenty years younger, a thin and radiant bride (with red hair…I have to ask her about that). The groom, a slender man, maybe six feet, with deep set blue eyes, closely cropped dark hair and a strong chin. An inviting smile. He would qualify as handsome.

I look up at mom. “And his name would be?”

“Devlin.”

“You both look happy.”

Mom bites her lower lip and her eyes well up. “We were.” Her voice cracks with emotion. I take her hands and squeeze.

“So…after I was born…he just left?”

“It’s not what you think. There wasn’t another woman or anything like that. There certainly wasn’t another man. And you had nothing to do with it either. He was simply a guy who couldn’t handle fatherhood.” She pulls another photo from her wallet and hands it to me. It’s my father, holding me in his arms. I’m probably a year old.

Now it’s my turn for the tears to blossom. The words grow thick in my throat. “Okay. Soooo…”

“Shortly after you were born, right after that picture was taken…. his powers started to…develop.”

“So what were his powers?”

“I can’t tell you that part yet, but it will all be explained at The Summit this weekend.”

I didn’t want to push things. “I guess I can wait.”

“His powers started to grow, at a rate no one at The Summit had ever seen. They wanted to study him. He wanted to flex his muscle, use his powers. He became obsessed, out of control. And his powers were such that if used in the wrong way they could be dangerous.” She reaches across the table, grabs my soda, and steals a sip. “Tribute,” she says, taking a page from Roxanne’s Italian mother, using the term for the percentage Mafia members pay to their bosses.

“Sure. You can have the rest.”

“He changed, Jillian. He knew he was becoming more powerful than anyone, even those on The Council. Eventually they forbid him to use his new powers and tried to use some of their own to rein him in. But he was too strong and he escaped. He left right after your first birthday and I haven’t seen him since.”

“Has he ever been in contact with you?”

She shakes her head. “No. But I’ve been in contact with him.”

Now I’m confused. “I don’t understand.”

“He left an address. It’s a mail drop in Connecticut. He told me to use it in case of emergency. Anyway, every year I’ve sent one of your school photos and a letter telling him how you’re doing. I have no idea if he receives these—”

“But they don’t come back, right?”

“No. And I do put a return address on them. But who knows if he still has the same address? It could end up in someone else’s box, could be thrown away. And if you’re wondering if he’s still alive, he is, because they monitor his activities at The Summit. They just can’t pinpoint his whereabouts.”

She looks down at the two photos on the table and I can tell the waterworks are about to burst. I get up, move around to her side of the table, crouch down and wrap my arms around her shoulders. “I hate to ask a stupid question…but, if he just vanished…are you two still married?”

“No. I waited several years hoping he’d come back. Eventually I petitioned the court and they granted me a divorce since he was basically a missing person.”

“I’m so sorry, mom. I had no idea.”

“He’s your father, Jillian. But he’s not your dad.”

“I get that. Mom.”

Her hands begin to shake, she starts to bawl. I pull her close. Her head rests on my shoulder, mine on hers as her sobbing grows deeper. I look at the two photos on the kitchen table.

And I know I have to find him.

CHAPTER FOUR

Despite the killer body and gorgeous face, Roxanne doesn’t go out on second dates a lot. In fact she’s never even had a steady boyfriend. She is to dating what one-hit-wonders are to the music industry. She’s a drive-by romantic, going through men like Kleenex. Some dates result in her going to confession, some not. We’ll leave it at that.

It’s not that she wouldn’t like to date a nice guy on a regular basis; but after one circuit around the dating pool at our school, she simply feels guys our age are too immature. (No argument here.) There there’s the deal with her father, the former linebacker of the New York Giants. Imagine a high school boy ringing the bell to pick up his date and having someone like that answer the door. Heaven help the poor soul who treats his daughter badly.

So it surprised me that the ‘favor’ she asked for on Sunday was such an unusual one.

She wants me to do a reading.

Over the years I’ve offered to do it for fun, but since romance is not on the front burner with her she’s always declined. I, of course, not being a playwright, author or composer, haven’t had the need for a muse. (Thought I might in the near future. More on that later.) So when it comes to our talents, we’ve kept them separate.

Her reason for wanting a reading, however, has nothing to do with romance.

She simply wants to make sure she’s not going to die in the next five years. I don’t blame her. I’d do one on myself if it were possible. She couldn’t care less about what I see as far as her romantic future is concerned, as she’s one of those people who wants to be surprised when Cupid’s arrow hits. She wants me to see if the images keep coming when they hit the five-year mark.

I’m already seated when Roxanne enters what she calls our ‘seer cave.’ It’s a ten by ten room, every inch of wall space covered with floor to ceiling deep burgundy curtains. A simple round antique oak table sits in the center along with two matching chairs. The soft lighting overhead is provided by a gorgeous old tiffany lamp my mother found at a garage sale years ago.

And, of course, my trusty crystal ball sits in the center of the table.

I have foregone my usual cape (burgundy, matching the curtains) and jewelry since Rox is the only person getting a reading on this Tuesday night.

“What, I don’t rate the outfit?” she says, giving my FDNY sweatshirt the once-over as she sits down opposite me. “No bling at all?”

“It has no effect on the reading, and it’s just us tonight.”

She looks at the crystal ball. She’s never watched me do a reading since seers can get confused when there’s another person in the room along with the subject. “So, how does this work? Is that thing gonna fog up and show me the future?”

“It does fog up, but only I’ll be able to see what lies ahead when it clears.”

She scoots her chair closer to the table. “Okay, let’s rock. See anything yet?”

“Doesn’t work that way. First, you have to ask me a question, and it has to pertain to romance. Then we both close our eyes for a minute and focus on the question. The ball will then reveal images to me and I will try to interpret them.”

“Interpret?”

“Well, there’s no audio so I have to go on what I see. For instance, if the image is of a couple holding hands and smiling as they walk, then stopping for a kiss, I would interpret that as being in love or a good relationship.”

“Well, you don’t have to interpret any images you see of me being groped in a car.”

“Only if the guy doing the groping is worth mentioning.”

“Nah, I like being surprised. But I like the surprise the guy gets even more.”

“Okay, if we’re done discussing possible images of you giving guys a shot in the family jewels, can we get started?”

“Sure. Why can’t I just ask if I’m gonna be dead in five years?”

“No. Has to be romance. Love, not death. And be specific. You ready?”

“Sure.” She reaches across the table and takes my hands.

And then it hits me. “Oh my God!”

“What? I’m dead already?”

“No. I just realized what happened the other night. The woman with the afterlife reading took my hands before we started. She was nervous.”

“Okay….”

“I usually have my hands on the crystal ball. I wonder—”

“Maybe her touch gave you a stronger reading?”

“Possibly.”

“Did you tell The Council about that?”

“No, it didn’t occur to me until you took my hands.”

“Did you hold her hands during the reading?”

“No, I told her to relax and then I grabbed the ball as usual.”

“Okay, so do exactly what you did the other night.”

It makes sense, so I let go of her hands and take the ball. “Go ahead, ask your question. Look right into my eyes when you do.”

“Will I ever have had a good boyfriend by the time I’m twenty-five?”

I nod. “You don’t need a seer for that, but it’ll take us past the five-year mark. Now close your eyes and focus. Make sure you focus on the specific question and not why you’re really here.”

“Got it.”

She closes her eyes and I do the same. I’m focusing as hard as possible on Roxanne and her question, more than I usually do for clients. I see her face, her smile. I recap memories of our childhood that are already burned into my brain. I’m smiling now, remembering our wonderful times together. I focus on her romantic future. I imagine her in a wedding dress, ready to head down the aisle. She’s stunning, that black hair contrasting with the white dress, framed against the colorful stained glass windows of the cathedral.

I open my eyes. Hers are still closed. “Okay, now look at me.”

She does so and locks her eyes with mine. I shoot her a soulful look, hoping to relax her, then turn my attention to the ball, which is already fogged up. Hmmm. Usually it takes awhile.

The image clears, and what I see makes my eyes grow wide. I gasp. “Oh my…”

“What? I’m dead?”

I shake my head as the images suddenly fly by at increasing speed, too fast to process, like they did in the afterlife reading. Everything disappears at the five-year mark. Roxanne is still alive.

“What, Jillian? Talk to me!”

I exhale deeply. “You’re not gonna die. Geez, that was intense. It has to be something to do with touching you.”

She grabs my hands and squeezes them, leans forward with fear in her eyes. “What, dammit? What did you see? You had this expression, like something shocked you. Jillian, if I’m gonna die and you don’t tell me I swear I’ll come back as a friggin’ ghost and haunt you forever.”

“No, honest to God, Rox, the images went the full five years. You’re not going to die.”

“So what the hell did you see that made you get react like that?”

I tell her and she immediately starts shaking her head. “No friggin’ way,” she says.

***

“That’s gotta be it, your touch!” says Mom, sipping a beer as she walks around the living room. “It’s the key.”

“Do you have any idea why?”

She shakes her head. “Not a clue. Have you ever touched a client in that manner before?”

“Uh-uh. I mean, I shake hands when I meet them, but nothing like this. When the woman, Donna, took my hands she was definitely a little apprehensive. She looked right at me and I could see a little fear in her eyes. I figured she was worried that I’d tell her something bad. Roxanne was nervous too, worrying about possibly dying.”

“Hmmm. The emotion might also be a factor. A handshake is casual. But if you’re connected when the client is emotional, that must somehow trigger a different kind of reading. You say the images are flying by?”

“It starts out normal, then speeds up, like a DVD on fast forward. I couldn’t possibly keep up with it.”

Mom furrows her brow. “At what point did the images speed up?”

“Well, with Donna, it was right after I saw her murder. The afterlife image started at normal speed and then it did the same thing. With Roxanne, it was right after I saw…you know, what I told you.” I see the image in my mind again and it makes me cringe.

She slowly nods. “Both caused emotional responses in you. Donna’s reading scared you, Roxanne’s upset you. Had they not, I would guess you would have seen the images at your normal speed.” She pauses a moment, looks up at the ceiling as if searching for inspiration, then back at me. “I need to get in touch with The Council about this so they can explore it before we get there this weekend. Perhaps there’s some precedent they know about.”

“And in the meantime?”

“Try taking the hands of a few clients this week. See what happens.”

***

I’m bleary-eyed from lack of sleep and the image that played on an endless loop making my imagination run wild. My mind has created many upsetting scenarios, all of which include something physical. Roxanne slides her tray onto the table and takes a seat across from me. I’m about to make my case and open my mouth when she cuts me off before I can say a word. “Don’t even start with me.”

“Rox, really, you have to go—”

“No. I’m not having this argument again.”

“Honestly, it won’t bother me.”

She rolls her eyes. “What a steaming pile of horse shit, Jillian. Of course it will bother you and I know it’s been bothering you. It would bother me if the roles were reversed. Look, one date in high school doesn’t mean anything to me one way or the other, and I’m not hurting my best friend.” She looks around to make sure no one’s within earshot, then leans closer and drops her voice to a tone that tells me she’s digging in her heels. “I am not going on a date with Ryan. When he asks me out I’m politely turning him down. End of story.”

The image flashes through my mind again and makes me cringe ever so slightly though I try to maintain my game face. Ryan stopping by her locker, asking her out to the dance…

And then, of course, everything went into super fast forward so I have no idea what happened next.

Because, as Mom theorizes, I was upset at the thought of the guy I desperately want for myself going out with my best friend.

Well, make that one of the guys I desperately want. (Hey, cut me some slack, I’m a teenage girl. I can like more than one guy, okay? And no, I don’t wanna share.)

Still, what do I do? Maybe that’s the first date of a long relationship. Maybe Ryan and Roxanne are soul mates, and meant for each other, would have a happily ever after ending.

Or maybe I’ll grow a pair and ask him out one day.

But she deserves the chance to find out if he’s the one. “Look, he obviously likes you or—”

“Stop it. I’ve known him as long as you have. Sure, we like each other well enough…as friends…and he’s a great guy. But he’s not my type. He’s your type.”

“My type might also be Jake. What, I’m going to call dibs on all the guys at this school I might have a crush on and forbid you to consider any of them? That’s not exactly fair.”

“Jillian, he’s your best male friend. He might one day become your true love. You’ve had it bad for him the last year or so since you started looking at him differently. And you know boys mature later than we do. Give him some time to figure things out. Wouldn’t that be cool, to marry someone you love who’s also a great friend, someone with whom you have everything in common? I’m not going to come between that possibility. No, he’s yours. Besides, I aint datin’ no mindreader. One look inside this head and he’d leave skid marks running away. And like I said, he’s not my type.”

“Okay, so what is your type?” I already know, I just want her to admit it.

“Doesn’t exist at this school.”

“Now who’s shoveling the horse shit? I’ve seen you bite your knuckles when that Brian Kale walks by. You can’t tell me you don’t think he’s pretty hot.”

“Yeah, but he’s a crash test dummy. You ever talk to him? He’s TSTL.” (That’s too stupid to live for those who aren’t privy to teenage girl acronyms.)

“Rox, I know you like Ryan. You always have.”

“End. Of. Discussion.”

She gives me the Sicilian death stare usually reserved for losers who hit on her and I know it’s time to back off and drop the subject. I’ll be honest here; I’m relieved she’s not going out with him. Time to fess up. “Thank you,” I say softly, dropping my head and staring at the mystery elbow macaroni casserole that might actually contain the elbows of some poor creature.

She reaches across the table and lifts my chin so that I’m looking at her. “I could never hurt you, Jillian. Just like you could never hurt me. I’ve always got your back.”

She’s protected me from bullies, now the game has changed. Still the big sister keeping me from getting hurt. “You know, for a muse you inspire a lot more than creativity.”

She begins eating her lunch. “By the way, on the subject of hot guys…” Her eyebrows went up and so did her voice, into a sing-song third grade lilt. “I know someone who likes Jill-i-an…”

***

His name is Gavin, and he’s a new client. He greets me with a warm handshake and I gesture toward the seat opposite mine. He’s maybe thirty, tall and slender, expensive charcoal gray windowpane suit and a red paisley tie with a perfect dimple in the knot. Classic square jaw, jet black hair, deep blue eyes I could get lost in if I were ten years older or he were ten years younger. Champagne Rolex on his wrist, french-cuffed shirt with gold cufflinks. Tells me he manages a mutual fund. I’m wondering why the hell a guy who looks this good and is obviously loaded needs help with romance.

And then he tells me. “I’m thinking my fiancée is cheating on me.”

“I’m thinking your fiancée is an idiot,” I mutter.

Oops, he heard me. He furrows his brow. “Excuse me?”

I smile and laugh a bit. “Forgive my attempt at humor. But what you said surprised me. I mean, well, I would guess women would be beating a path to the door of a guy who looks like you and wears a watch that costs more than most cars.”

He offers a sheepish grin. “That, uh, used to be the case. But I’m ready to settle down. I need to be sure my fiancée is as well.”

“Any particular reason you think she’s cheating?”

“Well, lots of calls to our apartment lately that hang up when I answer. She’s working late a lot. And, she, uh, had a reputation as a party girl a few years ago.”

“Fair enough. You brought a picture of her?”

He nods and reaches into his back pocket, then pulls out his wallet. “Sure.” He removes a small photo and hands it to me.

I can see why he’s worried. Blonde, stunning, holding a drink, obviously hammered past the legal limit, wearing a skirt up to her ass. “She’s really pretty,” I say, as I hand it back to him.

“Sometimes they’re too pretty, if you know what I mean.”

“I don’t, but let’s get started. I want you to take my hands for a moment, look at me, and ask a very specific question.”

“Okay.” I reach out and he takes my hands, then looks at me with those incredible eyes that make me gulp. “Is Jennifer Logan cheating on me?”

“Now close your eyes and focus on your question, and only your question.”

He closes his eyes. I do the same as I let go of his hands and take the crystal ball in mine. I focus on this Greek god sitting five feet away, then on his bimbo fiancee. I’ve got a pretty good idea what the future will reveal. A minute later I look at him. “Okay, open your eyes.”

He does, and I look at the ball.

Which is already fogged up.

Emotion. But it’s all his this time. I personally don’t feel anything one way or the other.

“Well?” he asks.

I put up one finger. “Patience. The image is clearing.”

It does and reveals an image of his fiancée actually working late. But she’s doing so with another man, and it’s obvious they’re attracted to each other. The clothes come off, the image begins to get a bit X-rated, my eyes grow wide as I can’t help but blush at a scene that belongs on late night Cinemax.

“You see something?” he asks.

I nod. “You were right. She’s with another man. Someone at her office. The name on the door reads…Dan Jellison.”

His hands ball into fists, the blue eyes narrow and fill with hate. “I’ll kill him,” he says.

And then I see him do it.

CHAPTER FIVE

“So after you saw this man kill his fiancée and her lover, what happened?”

This time it’s just one prosecutor at The Summit, and Sebastien is being a lot nicer this time. He’s politely asking questions instead of demanding answers. We’re in his office, along with my mom.

“Right after he said ‘I’ll kill him,’ he got up and stormed out. I followed him out to the street and tried to get him to come back but he ignored me. Got in his car and peeled off.”

“And then what did you do?”

“I pulled out my cell phone and called Fuzzball. The police got there just in time or they would have been dead.”

Sebastien makes some notes on the legal pad, which sits atop his massive oak desk, then turns to my mother. “Is she always emotional?”

“I’m not an emotional person!” I say, realizing I sounded like one. “Who wouldn’t get emotional after seeing real-life murders?”

He put up a hand toward me. “Please, Jillian. I’m asking your mother.”

“No,” she says. “Jillian’s usually very calm. Doesn’t get angry. She’s very easygoing. We get along remarkably well, especially considering half the teenagers out there don’t even speak to their parents.” She shoots me a look and smiles. I nod back, silently thanking her for not telling Sebastien about our argument last week about my father.

The ticking of an ancient grandfather clock is the only sound in the room for the moment. Sebastien leans back in his leather swivel rocker and looks up at the ceiling, as if searching for answers. I sit silently, looking around the dark paneled room at the very old oil paintings of people I don’t recognize, probably paranormal pioneers of some sort. Finally he breaks the silence. “Tell me what you were thinking during each reading when you felt emotion.”

“Well, with the murders, I was more scared than upset. I mean, watching murders that are real instead of the stuff you see in movies scared the hell out of me. I could feel my heart pounding. In the last case, I was even more frightened because the man sitting across from me was the murderer.”

“And yet you ran after him. Weren’t you afraid for your own safety?”

He has a point. If I was so scared, why did I run after him? “I guess…maybe subconsciously I knew his anger wasn’t directed at me. I was hoping to calm him down and maybe stop him from killing people.”

“And the situation with your friend Roxanne?”

Great, let’s bring up that memory again. “I was upset. It might have been easier to see Ryan with another girl than her. I know that doesn’t make sense, because she’s like a sister to me and I want the best for her. But somehow seeing him ask her out on a date really hit me the wrong way.”

He nods and makes more notes.

My mother leans forward in her chair. “Sebastien, is there any precedent for this?”

“For seers seeing the afterlife or having images race by as she described, no. As for emotion affecting one’s powers, you know the answer to that one.”

I whip my head toward her. “Mom?”

Mom looks away as Sebastien answers. “Emotion…in a few cases, has acted as somewhat of a magnifier…something that takes powers to the next level. We know of three cases in particular.” Sebastien’s eyes grow sad.

“I’m most afraid to ask,” I say, with a lump in my throat.

He nods. “Yes. Your father is one of the three.”

“And who—”

“The other two are dead.”

***

I guess I should tell you about Fuzzball, who, due to my unusual powers, is likely to become my partner in crime.

Or at least in stopping it.

Spencer Ball is New York City’s top detective, solving just about every case to which he’s assigned. At thirty-five years of age he’s a household name when it comes to the city’s high profile crimes. It doesn’t hurt that he has the classic looks of a model, his shirtless buffed physique having once been captured by a tabloid photographer while at the Jersey shore. Tall, with short dark hair and deep-set pale green eyes; combine that with a rugged angles-and-planes face that could easily serve as a marine recruitment poster.

It helps that he’s a master of astral projection. Basically he can send his spirit anywhere at any time, which gives him a huge advantage when it comes to spying on criminals. He’s a human fly on the wall, eavesdropping on the bad guys and often catching them in the act because he knows what’s coming and they have no idea he’s there. Fuzzball could obviously make a fortune as a corporate spy or a private detective checking up on cheating politicians, but feels that those with superpowers should act like superheroes. He once climbed the tree in our front yard to save my kitten.

As for his nickname, it has nothing to do with his appearance, as his ever-present three-day stubble isn’t remotely fuzzy. I’m told that back when dinosaurs roamed the earth (the sixties) police officers were referred to as “the fuzz.” Combine that with his last name, and you get a moniker that stuck to him like superglue in his rookie year on the beat. He doesn’t mind, and seems to get a kick out of it when people my age use it. One time our school bus pulled up to a red light next to his car, and we all yelled, “Hey, Fuzzball!” at him. He shot a crooked smile at us and did that “I’m watching you” thing cops do on TV when they use two fingers to point at their eyes and then the person they’re watching.

Anyway, back to my calling him the other night, and he was the only law enforcement person I could call. I mean, who else would believe me? Imagine this 911 recording:

“Nine-one-one, what is your emergency?”

“Hi, I’m a mystic seer and the guy I did a reading for is about to kill his slutty fiancée and the guy she’s sleeping with. I saw it clear as day in my crystal ball.”

“Uh- huh .”

Since Fuzzball lives across the street and has known me since I was a little girl, he knew it was serious when I called. He zapped his spirit into the office where the two lovers had been, ahem, working late and saw them both being pummeled by my client. He rolled on it, called for backup, and managed to get there in time. The two had been beaten within an inch of their lives. My client was charged with two counts of attempted murder, as both of them survived. Fortunately I’m not going to be involved since the guy couldn’t possibly say he found out about the affair from a mystic seer and hope that a jury would take him seriously.

Fuzzball stopped by our house the next day (the actual person, not the spirit) and I told him about my earlier experience as well, so he made me put his number on speed dial. (Can you imagine the buddy cop movie this would make? Crystal Blue might be a good title.)

I don’t want to see murders on a regular basis. Really, I don’t. But so far I’ve saved three lives, which is pretty cool. And that, my mother says, trumps any uneasiness I might experience.

***

Sebastien has set up what he considers to be a simple test. He first wants to study my afterlife experience, and hopes to recreate it.

I’m thinking, okay, how are you going to set up a reading with someone which will result in my seeing the great beyond? I’m also wondering what happens if I do get another glimpse and it happens to be the person on the elevator going down. (Then again, Hell might look like Newark, New Jersey and I wouldn’t know the difference.) I’m going on the assumption that what I saw the first time was indeed Heaven.

Anyway, here’s the deal. Sebastien will have me do a reading with a man who is terminally ill. He’s been dating a woman and wants to know if she will remain with him after he tells her he’s headed for a dirt nap. According to doctors, he cannot possibly live more than two years. So Sebastien’s test should, in theory, give me a look at whatever awaits this guy on the other side. If I see nothing, that might confirm our suspicion that my emotion is a necessary ingredient.

He assures me there will not be a murder involved as he leads me into a small room set up much like the one we have at home. Except the curtains are all black, which makes a sharp contrast to my burgundy cape. But the man is not what I expect. He’s maybe forty, and when you think of someone about to die you’re thinking about someone ancient. The man honestly doesn’t look that bad. He’s short, maybe my height, and thin. Bald, from chemotherapy. Face is a little drawn and a bit pale, but that’s about the only indicator that might tell you he’s sick. His light brown eyes are filled with sadness as he extends his hand and offers a slight smile. “Hi, Frank Donovan.”

“Jillian Spectre.”

“I wasn’t expecting someone so young.”

Neither was I, though I don’t say it.

“She’s a prodigy,” says Sebastien. “I’ll leave you two to the reading.” He turns and leaves, closing the door behind him. I gesture toward one of the chairs, we both sit.

“So, I understand you have a question about the woman you’re dating.”

His eyes grow misty. “I, uh—”

“Sebastien’s already filled me in on your…situation.”

He nods.

I reach across the table. “I want you to take my hands for a moment, look directly at me and tell me the question you have. It must be about romance, and you must think of nothing else.”

He takes my hands, holding them softly, and his sad eyes lock onto mine. “I want to know if Patrice will leave me when I tell her…I’m…terminal.”

“You brought a photo?”

“Yes.” He reaches in his pocket and pulls out a wallet-sized shot showing the two of them on the beach. She’s a cute, petite brunette with long tangled hair and big eyes. It’s clear they are in love from the way they’re looking at each other.

I take his hands again and try my best to comfort him with my gaze. “Now I’m going to let go. I want you to close your eyes for about a minute and focus on your question. Remember, focus only on your question.”

I let go of his hands and hold the crystal ball. He nods, closes his eyes and I do the same. I focus on his face, the photo. Is there emotion? Sort of. I mean, I feel bad that this poor guy’s going to die, he seems like a decent person. But I don’t really know him. I’m hoping what I see tells me his girlfriend is going to stick around. It’s as happy an ending as he can hope for.

A minute later I open my eyes.

The ball is already fogged up. Has to be the touch.

“Okay, open your eyes.”

He does so and looks at me, then the ball. “How long will it take—”

“Shhhhh.” The image clears. I see the two of them at dinner, him taking her hands. She begins to cry. But doesn’t leave. Now they’re in a jewelry store shopping for an engagement ring. The images are still at normal speed. I look up at him. “She’s definitely staying.”

His exhale is audible as he smiles and his eyes brighten.

I see her walking down the aisle, him waiting at the altar. “You’ll be getting married before…” I catch my words by the tail.

His smile gets bigger.

The image of their honeymoon on a cruise ship fills the ball. Then she’s pregnant. Then he’s holding a baby in a hospital.

Then it goes to black. Till death do us part, indeed.

“Well?”

“You’re going to have a daughter.”

He begins to cry, tears of joy. “Did you see…. you know….”

“No, Mr Donovan. I can only read matters of the heart.” I look at the ball, waiting, hoping for the afterlife movie to start playing.

But nothing happens.

Until he reaches across the table and takes my hands again.

CHAPTER SIX

Most high school kids have an out-of-body experience on Monday morning. No, I’m not talking about anything paranormal. Our minds are not in our bodies when the bell rings at the ungodly hour of eight o’clock in the morning. Some are fried from a weekend of partying. Others from too much homework.

I’m tired from lack of sleep the last two nights. Trying to figure out your place in the universe after viewing the afterlife will do that to a girl.

So right now I don’t need anything to do with what lies on the other side, guys trying to murder their trampy girlfriends or partnering with cops who solve crimes by projecting their souls. Right now I want to be an average American high school girl, thinking about hot guys and college and hairstyles and gossip.

Roxanne’s plastic green tray slides onto the table and she sits down opposite me as I take a bite of what we refer to in this cafeteria as ‘Belmont steaks.’ (As in, the protein we’re eating might have come from a creature ridden by a jockey at Belmont Park that wasn’t seen in the photo finish.) “I have noooooze,” she says, eyes wide with a secret I know she cannot keep and doesn’t want to.

“Whuh?” I ask, talking through the mystery protein.

“Remember last week I told you that somebody likes you?”

I take a sip of water to wash down the salty shoe leather and swallow. “Yeah, and you wouldn’t tell me who it was. You drop a hint like that and then drive me nuts all weekend.”

“I wanted to be absolutely sure. Didn’t want to get your hopes up unless I had confirmation. Now I have confirmation. I overheard him say he’s going to ask you to the dance.”

“And how would you suggest I turn down Melvin?”

“Funny. So, you wanna be surprised or do you want something a mystic seer can never get.” One eyebrow goes up. “A look at her own future.”

Now that is one intriguing carrot she’s dangling. What the hell, I need something to lighten up. “Will I like what you’re going to tell me?”

“I think so. I would. Though I will preface what I’m about to tell you by saying the young man in question is not Ryan or Jake.”

Hmmm. I go through my mental roster of unattached guys in the school. About fifty percent would be classified as breathing and male, twenty percent as possibles, thirty percent as out of my league or attached to the equivalent of a prom queen or slutty cheerleader. Roxanne is practically jumping up and down on her seat and I know she can’t wait to tell me. “Fine. At least if I don’t like him I’ll be prepared with an excuse to turn him down.” I raise one eyebrow. “So who is it?” I’ve got a no friggin’ way ready on the edge of my tongue.

She leans forward and lowers her voice into the sultry tone. “The Pocket Chippendale.”

I’m taken aback. It’s someone I’d never even considered. But I’m intrigued. “Really. Do tell.”

“He’s in my history class. Last week I heard him say he had his eye on a certain redhead. This morning I heard him tell a friend he was going to ask said redhead to the dance. I’m assuming he’s talking about you since the only other redhead in the entire school is Carla and she’s built like a Coke machine.”

“Yeah, but recently I heard her say that she lost forty pounds.”

“Pffft. That’s like throwin’ a deck chair off the Titanic. Anyway, since you’ve got the same look in your eyes as you do for my mother’s lasagna I’m guessing that you’re probably going to say yes.”

She’s right. Given a nanosecond to think about it and the fact I’ve been a romantic camel this semester, the thought of an evening with a guy who’s beyond cute is pretty appealing.

Oh, I guess I should tell you who Roxanne is talking about and his very appropriate nickname. Will Carlisle is a smart, polite senior who is the main reason the wrestling team outdraws the football games at this school. Hell, even the cheerleaders show up. The Chippendale half of the name comes from his chiseled physique which cries out for a bow tie and cuffs, but sadly those aren’t allowed at high school athletic meets. Every time he wins a match he rips off his shirt and throws it in the air like that gal in the Olympic soccer game years ago. The running line with the girls who go to the matches is that they’d like to perform a thorough search of his body for an ounce of fat. Throw in thick dark hair, piercing hazel eyes and dimples that run the length of his cheeks when he flashes his megawatt smile, and you could easily see him showing up at bachelorette parties dressed as a UPS man with the ultimate package.

The other part of his nickname, Pocket? Will is five feet two.

I quickly do the math. The four inch heels I’ve been dying to wear would take me up to five-nine. I take a mental inventory of my closet, shoving the heels aside and searching the back for a pair of flats.

“So,” says Roxanne, breaking my trance as she bites a carrot stick. “You like?”

I slowly nod. “Yeah. It’s not Ryan or Jake, but I like.”

Her smile widens. “I thought you might, and I’m glad. I think you’ll be good together. Hell, if you didn’t want him I’d take him. So, waddaya gonna wear?”

I shrug. “I dunno.”

“Sure you do. You’ve got that great emerald green halter dress with the peek-a-boo slit that shows off your boobs. You look spectacular in it.”

She’s right, it’s my best color and my nicest dress. As for the quick flash it offers of my chest, it should be noted that any male taking advantage of said flash will not be disappointed. However, while I have nice boobs, Roxanne has what boys call a rack. Big difference.

Still, there’s one problem with the outfit. “I do love that dress, but the matching shoes have four inch heels.”

“So?”

“Sooooo, I’ll be a head taller than him. He’ll be looking right into my chest.”

“Hence, the peek-a-boo slit.”

I shake my head and roll my eyes.

“What’s the difference?” she says. “Guys look at your chest when they talk to you anyway, so he may as well be at eye level. Look, I’m taller than just about all my dates and I still wear heels that make me six-four. Besides, those legs of yours should never been seen in flats.”

“Nice compliment coming from a girl they call—”

“Don’t! Say it!” She puts up one finger and glares at me.

“Fine. Anyway, thanks for the heads up. Speaking of the dance, has Ryan—”

“Yeah, and I told him I already had a date.”

“Do you?”

“No, but I’ll ask someone out today.”

God, I wish I could be like her. “By the way, you said if I didn’t want the Pocket Chippendale, you’d take him. Seriously?”

“Sure. Why not?”

“You’d be more than a foot taller in your heels.”

Both eyebrows go up, her eyes fill with lust as she gets this faraway look. “Yeah, but it does present some very interesting possibilities.”

“Slut. So, who you gonna ask out?”

“Don’t know yet.” Roxanne licks her lips as the tall, hunky junior who just transferred here strolls by and smiles at her. He places his tray on the next table so that he’s facing her.

“You’ve got that look. You’re going to confession this weekend, aren’t you?”

She gets up, picks up her tray and starts to head for his table. “Bless me, Father, for I am about to sin.”

***

“Are we going to Jersey again this Saturday?” I ask, as I load the stainless steel dishwasher that matches the other appliances in the kitchen.

“Probably not,” says mom. I can see her putting on her bling in the reflection as she gets ready for her seven o’clock client. “Why?”

“I’ve, uh, got a date Friday night. Didn’t know if I could sleep late Saturday or if I needed to get home early.”

She completely misses the implications of what I asked as a big smile grows. “A date, huh? Ryan taking you out?” Her voice goes up into a happy lilt.

I finish putting the glasses on the top rack, close the dishwasher door and turn it on, then turn to face her. “Unfortunately not, mom.”

She stops adding bracelets and her eyes narrow into a glare. “It’s not that Jake character, is it?” (It should be noted that the previously happy lilt in her voice has morphed into that of Linda Blair in The Exorcist.)

“No, someone you don’t know.”

“Name, age, arrest record.”

Good God. “I’m having the CIA black ops team put together a dossier for you. They should be here any moment. His code name is Falcon.”

“I have a right to know who my daughter might be…cavorting with.”

“Well, I won’t be…cavorting…with a hooligan, if that’s what you’re worried about. In fact I doubt I’ll be doing any cavorting at all.”

She folds her arms and stands up straight. “Watch it, missy. I’m still your mother.”

I exhale and roll my eyes. “Fine. His name is Will Carlisle, he’s a senior, very smart, captain of the wrestling team. Father’s a cop, so he doesn’t get in trouble.”

“Long as he doesn’t get girls in trouble.”

“Give me some credit, mom. I have no desire to push around a cereal covered toddler in Wal-Mart when I’m eighteen.”

“So…a wrestluh?”

“It’s not his career choice, mom. He wants to be a lawyuh in the fyoo-chuh.”

She shoots me a sarcastic grimace at my attempt to mimic her accent. “My daughter, the smartass. But a lawyer is good,” she says, enunciating the word. She gives an approving nod, the demonic voice apparently having been exorcized. “Well, I guess he sounds okay. You like him as much as Ryan?”

“I don’t like anyone as much as Ryan. But Will is nice and I haven’t been on a date in forever and I wanna get dressed up in something besides a cape. Besides, if I wait for Ryan to ask me out I’ll end up like the cat lady down the street.”

“Does this…Will…have any powers?”

“Nope, just a guy. Can’t read the future, can’t unhook my bra with his mind, can’t see the afterlife.”

“Speaking of which…how are you doing with what you saw this weekend?”

“I’m having trouble sleeping. Have you heard anything from The Summit yet?”

“No, but Sebastien told me they would definitely have some news by the end of the week.”

***

I’m pinning my strawberry tangles up on one side, giving me an asymmetrical look. Roxanne’s idea, and I must say I like what I see in the gold-framed mirror that sits atop my incredibly cluttered vanity. The style is very unique. Sorta slutty, but good. Might even keep it for school.

My train of thought is broken as Mom’s voice comes floating gently up the stairs.

“JILLIAN! YOUSE GONNA STAY UP THERE ALL NIGHT FUTZIN’ WIT YOUR HAIR, OR WHAT? YOUR DATE’S HERE!”

I toss my comb on the vanity, proclaim myself as hot as humanly possible (which is probably luke warm to the average cute guy), and head down the stairs.

Mom is waiting on the landing, looking up at me with a puzzled look on her face. I can tell she’s already made up her mind about the Pocket Chippendale. Mom wants tall, sweet Ryan. Well, join the club and take a number.

I get halfway down the stairs and see my date standing next to the front door wearing a huge smile. “You look amazing,” he says.

“Thank you, kind sir,” I say, admiring his outfit; a perfectly tailored blue blazer that shows off his incredible shoulders, khaki slacks, pale blue shirt and yellow tie. “You clean up pretty good yourself.”

He moves toward the bottom of the stairs and takes my hand when I reach the landing. I stand next to him and mom’s face drops as she takes in the couple heading off on a Friday night date.

To say I’m towering over him is putting it mildly. The top of his head comes up to my shoulder. That little slit in my dress is right at eye level and he steals a glance. And smiles.

Then he looks up at me, obviously used to this situation.

***

A nice dinner, decent conversation, and a few dances later, I’m at the punchbowl getting a refill while my date takes a bathroom break. Ms. Henshaw, the old crone assistant principal, is channeling the Wicked Witch of the West with her wrinkled gaze as she makes sure some hooligan doesn’t spike the citrus punch which would result in serious cavorting. The music is not ear-splittingly loud, and thankfully not rap, a welcome change from the usual teenage gatherings that reach the decibel level of a jumbo jet with music lyrics that make little sense. So you can actually talk to people. Crepe paper streamers in the school colors, blue and orange, crisscross the ceiling while an old fashioned disco ball in the center sends a stream of reflections around the softly lit facility. It’s nice to be out with a guy; I’m having an okay time, but no fireworks.

“Hey, Sparks.”

I turn and find Ryan behind me, hands in pockets, smiling. Damn, he looks good in a suit. Math formulas, quick! “Hey, yourself.”

“I was hoping to get you alone.”

Okay, now I’m really confused. What the hell is this? Alone for what, a makeout session under the bleachers? Has seeing me with another guy made the jealousy light bulb turn on? “Well, you got me all to yourself for a few minutes. By the way, who’s your date?”

“Don’t have one. Just came with some friends.”

You gotta be kidding me. What a waste. All I can think of is he’d rather be here without a date than ask me out. “Oh. I just assumed—”

“Listen, about Will. I happened to stand next to him earlier and I picked up some stuff he was thinking about.” He lightly touches my forearm, sending Roman candles through my body and stealing my breath for an instant. “He’s got something in mind that’s more than a goodnight kiss.”

Great. I want him as a boyfriend and he wants to be big brother. “Geez, Ryan, a girl doesn’t need a mindreader to figure that out. He’s a teenage boy. Of course he wants more than a kiss. You all do.”

I catch a glimpse of Roxanne on the dance floor and suddenly I’m channeling her spunk. I move closer, near enough to smell his Polo cologne, tilt my head down so that I’m looking up at him through my lashes like the bad little girl I desperately want to be, and give him my best soulful look while doing all I can to drop my voice to something sultry. “You know, Ryan, you wouldn’t have to worry about other guys I’m dating if you’d ask me out.”

There, I said it. Did he get the message? C’mon, take the hint. Wait for it…

“I just thought you should know, that’s all.”

Annndddd…cue the palm slap to the forehead.

“Thanks, Ryan, I appreciate it.”

Ryan’s cell rings and he excuses himself just as Roxanne reaches the punch bowl. She notices he’s there and Will is not. “So…What’s the story here? You trading up?”

I shake my head. “The latest episode of the young and the clueless. If I were the type of girl trying to make Ryan jealous by showing up with another guy, and I’m not, it wouldn’t work. Long story.”

“So how are you and your eye candy getting along?”

“Eh, okay. I mean, he’s really cute and all but I don’t feel…it.”

“It?”

“It. You know, sparks, fireworks, electricity.”

She hits me with her faux Jewish mother accent, which is pretty spot-on. “You want I should fix you up with an electrical workuh? I know I nice boy in the union looking for a shiksa.”

“Bite me. Will’s fine, but—”

“Hey, we’re seventeen. We’re not looking for Mr Right yet. You don’t have to marry the guy. Have some fun. Ravish the little thing. Take the initiative. How often is a girl who weighs a buck fifteen gonna be able to play amazon?”

“True enough.” I look around the room and don’t see Roxanne’s date. “By the way, speaking of fun, where’s your escort?”

“I gave him his exit visa.”

“What happened?”

“TSTL.”

I decided to give it back to her. “Yeah, but you’re not looking for Mr Right yet. Have some fun. Ravish him.”

“Honey, I aint goin’ to confession for a crash test dummy.”

***

The conversation is a little forced as Will walks me home. Probably because I’m busy thinking of Ryan.

We reach my front door, its thousand watt porch light probably confusing pilots trying to land at JFK. This electronic middle finger at Al Gore is mom’s little reminder that even though she’s in her bedroom upstairs and the living room is free, she knows there might be some cavorting going on involving her daughter and a guy who escaped from Munchkinland. And she could, at any moment, decide she needs to bake an apple pie in the middle of the night and come bounding down the stairs.

“I had a good time tonight,” he says, turning to face me.

“Yeah, me too.” (Fingers crossed behind my back.)

“I want to thank you.”

“Hey, you’re the one who took me out for dinner and dancing. I’m the one who should be appreciative. So thank you, Will.”

“I didn’t mean that. I mean, you know, thank you for not…” His words trail off and he looks to the side.

“For not what?”

Now he stares at the ground, one shoe playing with a pebble, the super confident captain of the wrestling team having disappeared. “I mean, every time I’m on a date the subject comes up. So thanks for not mentioning it.”

Oh, the height thing. Rox told me not to say anything, and I haven’t, even though a slow dance left his face in a rather uncomfortable position for me. But still I play dumb. I reach out with one finger and tilt his chin up. “Will, I had a nice time and I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“You know. It’s the elephant that’s always in the room when I’m on a date.”

Finally frustration gets the best of me. I’m tired of this wheel-of-boys game and landing on lose a turn

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