A Soul's Kiss (9 page)

Hannah

Friday

Like I’d care if the little freak died. I knew she wanted my boyfriend. That was why I picked her as a victim. If she thought I never noticed her stalking him at his locker, she was crazy. I’ve got four sisters. Four! You think I don’t know all about how girls think? Try living in a three bedroom trailer until you’re fourteen. You learn to think each other’s thoughts.

Of course, now it’s a little better. The oldest two moved out just before my dad won a quarter of a million dollars in the lottery. That’s right, it does happen to poor people. Now we rented a classy house in the right neighborhood and I switched schools. Flash a little money around and you can pick and choose your crowd, your friends, even your boyfriend. Unfortunately, you couldn’t change your relatives. Mine were not too happy that I was in a car accident. Not the best medical insurance for us. Dad had me out of there practically before they finished the exam. AMA. Against medical advice.

Thank goodness I’d been wearing a seatbelt. Part of my good girl act. And Michael thinks he’s the actor. If he only knew. You can take the girl out of the trailer park but you can’t take the blah, blah, blah and all that.

The money was running out. After a few years of early retirement from lawn care, my dad resumed getting his hands dirty. It was just a matter of months before things got so tight that we’d have to move back to Kings Manor Mobile Home Park. I was
not
going. I was getting out the way my sisters did: get a guy with money to knock you up.

That wasn’t my first choice, but it was my only choice. Michael was my lottery ticket.

Call me a snake, but I thought of myself as more of a spider, weaving her web around her victims—evil laugh here. My dark side. I hid it ninety-nine percent of the time. All right, make that seventy-five percent, but really, a girl can’t claw her way to the top of the social ladder without making a few enemies. I figured out how to shut them up, though. I invented the best payback system ever. Take that, Ashley and Jessica and Keith and Rashanda and Amy and anybody else who gets in my way, ticks me off, reminds me of where I used to live, or looks at me wrong.

Don’t anyone dare think I had no conscience. I did have a conscience. It was just conveniently lazy. It took a lot of work to be me. I was always thinking ahead, planning, preparing, scheming. It’s no chance thing that Brittany and Andrew were together. I hand-picked them both, set them up. And made Brittany my best friend.

Or more like my second in command. She thought it was her idea what we did to Amy Harper. Well, it sort of was, but I expanded it and then gave Brit all the credit. Or rather blame. We probably did go a little overboard on that one. It’s a learning process.

I learned a lot from the night we pranked Rashanda. I was testing Michael at the same time, too. I didn’t get to find out if he passed or not because Rashanda broke out and ran away. That chick was a little scary. I went through her purse afterwards. I couldn’t believe it—that little half-breed carried one of those pint-sized New Testaments. She had a twenty dollar bill folded and stuck between the pages. Not anymore she didn’t. I can’t actually say I felt guilty for taking it, but just so as not to jinx things I drove past her house and left the purse in a paper bag at the end of her driveway. Probably one of the nicest things I’d ever done for a victim, even though she creeped me out.

And Jessica. I hoped she’d die. I’d already put the story on Facebook: that me and Keith and Michael were helping out a poor little junior girl who got hurt at school. We were driving her home when some jerk flew out of nowhere and broadsided us. Heroes in the midst of tragedy. Maybe some votes for homecoming king and queen. Sympathy votes, I’d take ’em.

In a rare moment of conscience prickling, I texted Michael four times to see how he was. He finally responded and didn’t even ask about me. Sometimes he could be less than thoughtless. Jerk. Then I texted asking
what if the flower dies?
He didn’t even respond. Maybe his head injury was worse than I thought and he didn’t remember the code. Anyway, I hoped the flower wilted, faded, withered, and died. Yeah, it sucked to be Jessica. Hear me laugh.

Jessica

Friday evening

I must have blacked out. When I open my eyes, I’m staring at my knees. They are covered by a brand new, clean hospital gown reaching to mid-calf. I’m sitting on the edge, the very edge, of a hospital bed in the recovery room. A nurse is turned away with her back to me. She fiddles with the monitor and runs her hand along the tubes that braid their way toward my head. My other head.

I hop down and look at myself lying on the bed. So pale. Still not breathing on my own. I sigh and then wonder how I can sigh. My senses seem sharper. I can read the fine print on a label across the room. I hear the two-beat thuds of a keyboard beyond the door. How can I hear individual letters being typed sporadically? The sickly scent of antiseptic cuts through the faint whiffs I get of the nurse’s mouthwash, deodorant, and hand sanitizer. She turns and looks at me—well, through me, I guess.

“How ya doing, Jessica?” she whispers as she adjusts all the paraphernalia attached to me. “Keep on fighting, sweetie. You’re gonna pull through.”

Well, that’s encouraging. Her words warm me. In fact, I feel warm all over. My feet no longer beg for socks; some ugly green footies are serving my toes very well. Huh. I touch my abdomen. No pain. I check for blood. No blood. There’s a pocket, though, and something is sticking out. A paper. Maybe a lab report? Or discharge papers?

Or love note?

Silly me. I try to pull the paper out, but it’s part of the pocket, stuck or glued.

“Hang in there, Jessica,” the nurse says. I get distracted for an instant and suddenly there’s no pocket on the gown. Of course not. Now I’m not certain I ever saw a pocket or a piece of paper. Those super sharp sensations I experienced a moment before flee as I watch the nurse squirt something into my IV line. I move toward the door and scoot out behind her when she leaves.

I wander around a while trying to figure out where my family might be. I’m oddly calm, not fighting for life, or panicking. The hallways seem dreary and lifeless. The early evening light spoons dimpled shadows on the walls near the windowed waiting room. It’s empty. I take the stairs and search floor by floor. All the waiting rooms are vacant. By accident I find Keith’s room, but he’s sound asleep. I try twice but I can’t get into his head.

The last place I look is the main floor waiting room. It’s kind of noisy, but there’s a “grief room” in the corner. The door is shut and a sliding sign says “occupied.”  Hoping I’m invisible to whoever is inside I will myself through the door. Easy.

I’m shocked. Rashanda. With Tyler. Not who I was expecting to find hidden away in a grieving room.

In each other’s arms.

No way.

The tiny room has a love seat and two chairs. They are cuddled together on the love seat. Rashanda’s head is on Tyler’s shoulder, his arm around her, and his other hand holding one of hers. Cozy. I don’t know why I should feel the least little twinge of jealousy, but I do. They’re obviously very comfortable. So comfortable that they have dozed off. I get it. They haven’t slept much the last couple of days. This is traumatic for them. Still . . . this is . . . off.

I sit down in one of the chairs and stare at them. Tyler’s eyes twitch behind his lids. Dreaming. I wonder . . . what if . . .

I stretch out my hand and cover both of theirs. I feel heat and a sensation like anxiety, not terror exactly, but a fear that is quite alarming. I press harder against their hands and close my eyes. I see myself. I am beautiful. Rashanda tells me I’m beautiful whenever I complain about my weight, or a pimple, or a bad hair day, but I get the impression that right now I’m seeing myself through Tyler’s thoughts. I open my eyes and look at our hands. I’m touching a lot more of Tyler’s freckled skin than Rashanda’s soft knuckles. Interesting.

I let go and position myself closer to Tyler, bend forward, and move to within inches of his forehead. I got into Rashanda’s head this way, but with Michael, I’d kissed him and somehow melted into his dreams. The thought of kissing Tyler is not as hideous an idea as it would have been a week ago. I take a longer look at his face. His jaw is strong and square; he hasn’t shaved in a day or two and the stubble is more blonde than red, like his eyelashes. He is actually quite good-looking. The freckles, without a reddening blush going on, are just lazy marks scattered across a nose that is perfectly proportioned for his face. Why haven’t I noticed how cute he is before now?

Well, I’m not going to kiss him, but those lips look faultless even with that tiny freckle on the edge. The corners turn up in a hint of a sleepy smile. What could he be dreaming about? I have to know.

As gently as I can I press my forehead to his and find out.

It’s snowing. There’s a blizzard and school has been called off. Tyler has walked for miles to come see me. He’s at my front door. I see myself open the door. I’m beautiful.

“Hi, Jessica,” Tyler says. “Do you want to take a walk in the snow?”

“Sure,” I say, grinning the biggest, warmest smile ever. I come out the door, suddenly wearing a thick blue coat I’ve never seen before and furry brown boots. I can’t explain how odd it is to see and hear myself yet not be in control of my movements and words.

Tyler holds out his arm for me to take as I walk down the porch steps. The house diminishes behind us as we walk to the end of my street and enter a snowy meadow. I remember this area. It’s just like it was five years ago before they built phase two of our subdivision. The snow is mounded up over two sawhorses that Rashanda and I had placed in the meadow long ago. We’d dragged them from my dad’s workspace in the garage and pretended to be horses jumping over them when we were eleven or twelve.

But why would they be in Tyler’s dream?

Maybe because I’m in Tyler’s mind. I squeeze his arm tighter and look sideways at him, taking control of my part of his dream.

“I would do anything for you, Jessica,” he says. Snowflakes catch in his eyelashes. We walk further into the meadow and a pheasant takes flight from a bush. We both jump. And laugh. The bird is a memory of mine, but what happens next is not.

He takes both of my hands and holds them. Silence that swells around us and I know he is going to kiss me. I see myself through his eyes and I want to be the person he sees. His version of Jessica Mitchell glows. She doesn’t simply smile with her lips, she smiles with her soul. My soul. I like it.

Tyler’s whole being moves into me and when our lips touch the world stops. I have no breath. I have no thought. I have no heartbeat. The drumming that smashes the silence does not come from my own unsteady center. It’s Tyler’s heart. When our lips break apart, I see us both, first the look in his eyes—adoration. And then my face as he wants it to be with the same puppy love reflected.

Sweet.

I break away and lean back into my chair, out of his head now.

Awesome. And confusing. I stare at him some more. His chin is tucked into Rashanda’s hair, his arm loosely circling her shoulder, their hands no longer clasped together. His eyes are still, his dream over.

I am definitely jealous.

“Rashanda,” I whisper. Her eyes open a quarter inch, then feather shut again. “Rashanda.” She opens them all the way, looks through me, then focuses on my eyes. Yes. “Don’t move,” I say, “or you’ll wake Tyler and I’ll probably disappear. Blink once for yes and twice for no. Understand?”

She blinks once and I ask her if I can slip into her head. She blinks a yes and then closes her eyes. I glance at Tyler then press my forehead to hers.

“Hi,” she says. It looks as if we are still in the grieving room, but alone. Funny how her mind’s eye is producing this.

“I had to talk to you,” I say. “You’re not going to believe what I can do.”

“Well, getting into my head like this is pretty amazing. Two voices in my head. Or am I talking out loud?"

“No, I don’t think so, and you’re not sleeping either. Not this time.” I watch her run her fingers through her hair, straightening as much as she can the spot where Tyler’s chin had rested. The whole series of gestures are only her imaginings.

“I just jumped into Tyler’s dream,” I tell her. I give it a second before hitting her with the really shocking part. “We kissed.”

I don’t have to interpret her expression, no need, I am in her head. The implications of what I told her buzz through her mind. I feel her surprise, hesitate with her in her disbelief, and wobble through her reactions. Thankfully no jealous thoughts whirl in that silly quadroon’s head.

As soon as I have that thought, I realize I have wounded her unknowingly. All the times I had made references to race she’d endured a humiliation I never imagined. I’d hurt my best friend over and over, but she’d always overlooked the betrayal. I feel so ashamed.

“It doesn’t matter,” she says. “It’s all right.”

And the shame, acknowledged and forgiven, shrivels. The window on her emotions slams shut just as I feel her hold back something else. An evil thought—hatred for Michael and Hannah. She asks, “So . . . the kiss?”

I open up my mind and let her see the dream.

“Whoa,” she sighs, “or rather, wow. He can really kiss.”

“It was a dream!” I insist.

“But you were there,” she says, knowing that I was a willing participant. “Jessica, that’s really cool and all, but what about your surgery? It’s over. They took you to recovery. Do you feel, like, you know, you’re out of the coma?”

“I’m hanging in there.” My mind flits through the memory of the nurse adjusting the tubes and wires and all.

“Oh,” Rashanda answers my thoughts, “you still can’t breathe on your own?” I feel her body jerk with that same alarming fear. It spews me out and I’m back in the chair facing my two friends.

“Rashanda,” I whisper. Their bodies are slumped apart. Tyler is now slouched to his left, his head slanting against the armrest. Rashanda mirrors him to her right, sagging against a decorative pillow. “Rashanda, open your eyes.”

Her eyes gape wide and she sits up slowly, careful not to disturb Tyler.

“I can still see and hear you,” she whispers back.

I glance at Tyler. He isn’t moving. It’s safe to talk.