02 Awaken-The Soulkeepers (12 page)

I’m spotted and dragged into the kitchen, my turban tossed aside. I can’t help but join in, bouncing and singing and laughing. Dad leads us into pogo dancing and then goes old
old
school in some contorted combination of the mashed potato and the twist. Pointing index fingers seem to be an important requirement. It is such a joy to see Dad happy! But seriously, I wish he could dance.

When the song ends, Bailey and I fall into each other laughing, and Dad takes a proper bow. I ask what’s going on, and Bailey presents their culinary clutter with a grand flare and a thick Russian accent, “Ve are mak-ink
chak-chak
!”

“What—What?” I ask, peering into the deep fryer.

Dad says, “Here, try one,” and offers a plate. There is stack of short stick-like treats that have been fried and bathed in warm honey. They are rich and dreamy and make my eyes roll around.

“We’re testing out treats for the Winter Carnival,” Bailey explains, shoving a
chak-chak
in her mouth and licking her fingers. “I know you’ve heard everybody talking about it—the big Russian
prazdnik
where we haul out the ol’
valenki
and
ushanka
and take
troika
rides through the snow?”

I raise my eyebrows in question and say, “Share with the class, please,” and Bailey says, “Boots, hats, sleigh rides,” and the light goes on.

“So any-vay,” she continues, playing the czarina tour guide, “the dance is the highlight, ah-v course, but the
prazdnik
—the festival—itself, is pretty ama-zink. It ah-vayz starts in December, and it’s ah-vayz Rrrussian-themed. Ve are steeped in Rrrussian culture all through Christmastime.” She helps Dad remove the last batch of goodies from the fryer. Things are hot and they have to be careful.

“I offered to cook something,” Dad says proudly. He settles the treats onto a fresh plate and beams at me. I have a vague sense of déjà vu. Dad used to love to cook. Before Mom died. Dad used to love music. Before Mom died. I’m ashamed to have forgotten that Dad used to be a normal guy, before our lives were turned upside down by her death and the nightmare with Psycho Steve. Seeing him so happy again, dancing and cooking and … well, it’s enough to make me tear up.

“Hey, none of that,” he says, pulling me into a hug. He strokes my wet head and shushes me. “It’s all good now. It’s time we were happy again, right?”

I sniffle and mumble, “At least you’ve outgrown The Kinks,” and Dad says, “Hey, there’s an idea!”

“You never told me
ser
papa could cook,” Bailey says, snagging another
chak-chak
. “Of course, I had to teach him how to make these. Just be thankful he wasn’t asked to make the borscht.” She flinches and we laugh.

Bailey gives Dad the final approval on his first round of Russian desserts, and then we traipse upstairs so I can continue my morning ritual before school. The kitchen goes quiet for a moment, and then we hear “All Day and All of the Night” by The Kinks, grooving from Dad’s iPod. I grin and feel my heart warming.

Bailey lounges on my bed while I sit at my desk and squint into the mirror, applying two coats of mascara. I’m almost finished when she rolls over and asks a question that snaps my eyes open. We stare in the mirror and I force a swallow.

“What?” I croak, trying to pretend I didn’t hear.

“C’mon, Soph, I know something was going on at the morgue. Sister ain’t no dummkopf.”

I say, “Uh, that’s German not Russian,” but she ignores me.

“Michael and Raph were pissed and you were so pale. Like you’d seen a ghost or
something.”

I drop my head and make like I’m searching for something in the drawer. Bailey gasps. “Oh my God! You
did
see a ghost! That’s it, isn’t it?” She marches over and swivels my chair around, forcing me to look at her. She reminds me about our little tête-à-tête in the library basement back in October, when Abigail Monroe and the McCarthy twins tried to hypnotize me so we could put a hex on Psycho Steve. Bailey is not beyond believing that I could’ve seen a ghost.

I scramble for an excuse but give up and wince. “Well …”

Bailey whoops and hollers and flings herself around the room. “I knew it! I mean, I can’t believe it but … I knew it! People are always seeing weird shit in hospitals.” She flops back onto the bed and demands that I spill the beans. Every last little legume.

So for the next thirty minutes, I tell Bailey about Colin Firth dying, which she finds hilarious—not him dying but being called Colin Firth. I remind her of the way she shivered when Colin walked through her and the coldness she’d felt. Then I explain that Colin thought I could help him.

“I don’t get,” she says. “Why would he think you could help him cross over? Just ’cause you could see him?”

I consider my answer for a moment. I want so much to tell someone what I’ve been going through. How I’ve been desperately waiting for someone to come and explain how things work. Michael and Raph have their opinions but it’s not the same as sharing with a girlfriend. I don’t have anyone. So on impulse, I decided it’s not fair and say, “Because I actually might be able to help him.”

I can’t believe I just told her!
I glance around for something catastrophic to happen. If any sacred codes were violated, there’s nothing to show for it.

Bailey stares wide-eyed and says, “Uh, this is me being confused. Explain, please.”

Against my better judgment, I tell Bailey of my potential to be a spirit walker. I don’t tell her that I had to die to get this info, but I say Mom visited me in a dream and explained everything. I describe the visions I’ve had, the strange sensations, and the anguish I feel for not being able to help Colin. I worry about him all alone in the spirit world.

I can’t reveal much else, certainly nothing about the Patronus family, or what Dante and his fake family are. I hate omitting that part because I know how much she liked Vaughn. She has a right to know he is a demon. But they’re gone now, and the less said about them, the better.

I pretend I’m not freaked by the whole thing myself and finish getting ready. I
comb out my wet hair while Bailey stammers expletives and follows me in and out of the bathroom. I dry my hair upside down while she pelts me with questions. Most of them I can’t answer. I don’t know who is supposed to come and train me, and why they haven’t yet. I don’t know why my Awakening hasn’t progressed beyond visions. I don’t know why I have this ability in the first place. And I don’t know why it probably isn’t going to happen, after all.

We’re digging through a pile of clothes on the floor when Bailey gasps with an epiphany. “That night at the haunted mansion! Wolfgang pushed you too far, and you went all Bourne Supremacy and threw that knife. You almost hit Dante!” I nod, and she sits back on her heels, stunned for the second time.

We haven’t spoken about Steve since the night we tried to put a hex on him, but I tell Bailey the details now. How I reacted when he came at me a second time. “I threw a paring knife at him. Sundance attacked Steve at the same time, so the knife didn’t actually hit him. It was the first time I’d ever thrown a knife, and I swear, Bailey, I wasn’t myself. In that moment, when I was pushed too far, I felt like someone else. Someone I think I’m supposed to be. Which is frustrating, to know I have some kick-ass fighting skills somewhere inside me but I just can’t get to them.” I feel myself choking up but force it down. This only makes my chest hurt, and I grimace and try to keep it together.

Bailey pats my hand and asks in a maternal voice, “So why do you suck at paintball?”

I wipe my eyes and laugh. “That’s a mighty fine question.” She’s joking but I mull it over. “Bailey, I must’ve done something wrong. Or maybe they decided I wasn’t good enough. Or maybe it was all a mistake. Or maybe—”

“Maybe schmaybe,” she says. “Listen, tchotchke, if they don’t want you, it’s their loss. Now—”

I start to cry, and Bailey wraps her arms around me. “C’mon, Soph, don’t cry. I can’t stand when people cry.” She rocks me for a while, and I feel pretty pathetic. Michael talks about how tough his Halo Masters are, how impressive and disciplined and demanding. As scary as they sound, I still want to be trained. I still want to be a spirit walker.

“Tears and mascara don’t play well together,” Bailey says, wiping my face. “Now, let’s take your mind off things with some tedious education. I don’t know about you, but I need my caffeine hit before our daily incarceration.” She offers me a smile, and I reluctantly accept it.

Once Bailey and I are stuffed into the appropriate amount of winter paraphernalia—boots, coats, scarves, and beanies—we clomp downstairs. Dad is still in
the kitchen, waxing nostalgic with “Real Wild Child” by Iggy Pop. I smile wistfully.
Times are indeed a’changin’ if I’m happy to hear Iggy’s
Blah Blah Blah
album again
.

After yelling adios to
ser
papa, we head out and make straight for the town square, which is hectic with people and snow machines pumping out fresh snow. Bailey tells me the snowmaking gods will continue for days because the carnival booths and decorations are constructed mostly out of snow and ice. We need more than our fair share from Mother Nature or Jack Frost or whomever.

Already, I can see the makings of familiar onion-shaped Russian rooftops and small domes coming to life. The gazebo is being modified with sculpted pillars and a round tentlike roof. The giant Christmas tree has not been fully decorated, but the scaffolding around it looks promising. An ice rink is in the works across the courthouse’s frosty lawn.

We veer toward our friends huddled around a makeshift refreshment stand. They are resplendent in their early Russian attire of
valenkis
and
ushankas
. I realize I’ll have to conform to the Slavic influence or risk feeling like an outcast all over again.

Bailey waves and calls, “Comrades! I bring you the reluctant neophyte: Little tchotchke Sophia!” She presents me as though I haven’t been living here for the past few months. But with all this Russian persuasion, I do feel like the lost Anastasia where everything seems vaguely familiar.

Everybody turns and looks, holding their steaming Styrofoam cups. Milvi, Michael’s cousin, is there, and Bailey swipes her cup, raising it in a toast. “Death to the bourgeoisie!” she hollers, and then gestures toward the neophyte tchotchke. Determined not to be the outsider, again, I take the cup and add my own barefaced lie,
“Viva la Revolución!”
Everybody toasts and cheers wildly like the socialist hypocrites I know them to be. Half of them are vicious capitalists tracking their fake stock accounts in my foreign government class.

Milvi seconds the motion with
“Elagu revolutsioon!”
I assume she is speaking Estonian because Michael said the family originated from Estonia, which is just north of Russia.

“
Da
, comrade!” Bailey drinks from Milvi’s cup and then scrunches her face. It’s hot herbal tea, not coffee. Bailey has an aversion to anything healthy. She spots a fresh plate of gingerbread to sample so we do. I decide that hot tea goes well with Russian honey bread.

“So why is everybody
stalin
around here?” Bailey asks, laughing at her own joke. She means why is everyone out here and not in the café. Rachel explains that the Klondike Klub, the professional dogsledders, has commandeered our usual stomping
grounds because they can’t get into Mr. James’s barn, where they usually hold their meeting this time of year. I ask why and we all look at Casey, since it’s his family’s barn. Duffy elaborates instead.

“Well, it
could
have something to do with last night.” He grins and the guys start laughing and doing that guy thing where they playfully smack one another around but it actually really hurts. The Homo sapiens have just reinvented the wheel. “Anyway, someone
might
have confiscated one or
possibly
two of the snow makers and
could
have aimed them at the James barn. They
may
have made enough snow to cover the barn if anyone wanted to … say … snowboard off the roof?” Everybody laughs and Duffy shrugs. “Now, I’m not saying I know for
sure
or anything but, ya know, it’s
possible
.”

Bailey rolls her eyes and mumbles,
“Durachit,”
which I’m guessing translates to something along the lines of “idiot.” The jig is up, and the guys can’t hold back. They start bragging about their supreme talents in the art of barn snowboarding. I smile, thinking about Michael lifting me up and over the frozen waterfall. Being from California, I’ve surfed on occasion, but I’ve never been in snow until now; I finally get what all the snowboarding fuss is about; it is freaking awesome.

Just when I’m feeling all warm and fuzzy about it, my second heartbeat springs alive, as if my memories have conjured Michael out of thin air. I look around and spot him walking through the snowy park with his parents.

Okay, so maybe it wasn’t my memories
.

I watch them strolling and greeting people. Bailey notices where my attention has gone and tells me that Michael’s parents are very involved in the Winter Carnival. Dimitri is something of a Russian history buff, and Katarina ensures that all Russian food recipes are authentic.

Michael looks over when his parents become preoccupied with the mayor. I smile but he just stares, first at me, then at Bailey, then back at me. I can’t read his expression and this worries me.
He can’t possibly know that I revealed my secret to Bailey, right?
The moment Bailey turns away, Michael winks at me, and I feel a hot rush of excitement flash through me. I’ll never get used to the way he makes me feel, even if he hasn’t apologized for taking things too far at the waterfall. I’m beginning to wonder if he ever intends to.

“Would you get a load of him?” Bailey says, and I turn around. Over by a snow machine is that strange guy, the one who looks like he rolled around Waikiki one too many times.

“Accessory man,” I say. “He’s got everything but the surfboard.”

“Wrong accessories,” she mumbles. “But he is kinda cute. For an old guy. He’s
got to be at least thirty, right?”