Brush With Death (4 page)

Y
uki was so
wrapped up in her own mind that she didn’t see me standing there.  Leaning
against the painted concrete wall, I watched as Yuki froze in fear and then
bolted past the supply room door like it was a yawning grave trying to suck her
in. 

She was getting worse. 

I first noticed Yuki’s weird behavior two weeks ago.  I had completed
all of my English assignments, so my teacher gave me permission to work on the
school newspaper during that period.  Walking to the media room brought me past
the supply closet and Yuki’s daily drama. 

I had no idea she’d been suffering so badly since her
kidnapping.  In hindsight, I was mad at myself for not recognizing the
symptoms.  Yuki was obviously suffering from post-traumatic stress.  I’m still
angry at her for abandoning our friendship, and treating Simon like garbage, but
now her personality change made more sense.  So what the heck do I do about it? 

After the second time I caught her freaking out in the
school hallway, I’d gone to the library.  The books and periodicals didn’t let
me down.  I almost wish they had.

I can still see the bold typed letters on the page of
Neuroscience
,
as if the sentences burned themselves into my brain with an exceptionally wordy
cattle-brand.  I’ve petitioned and marched against the barbaric practice of
branding livestock, but I felt, in the case of this metaphorical brain-brand,
that I deserved the constant reminder.

According to my research, PTSD symptoms are grouped into
three categories; re-experiencing symptoms, avoidance symptoms, and
hyperarousal symptoms.  Re-experiencing symptoms include flashbacks, bad
dreams, and frightening thoughts.  Avoidance symptoms can include staying away
from places, people, or items that are reminders of the traumatic experience,
feeling strong guilt, depression, or worry, feeling emotionally numb, losing
interest in activities that were enjoyable before the trauma, feeling like you
have no future, and having trouble remembering the event.  Hyperarousal
symptoms include feeling tense, being easily startled, having difficulty
sleeping, and having angry outbursts.

After my trip to the library, I watched my former best friend
more closely.  Since we weren’t talking to each other, I couldn’t ask Yuki how
she was doing.  I would just have to observe.  I decided to keep tailing Yuki
during fourth period to see if she continued freaking out. 

I secretly hoped that my suspicions were wrong and that Yuki
would show the old confidence I’d come to expect from her.  No such luck.  Yuki
exhibited all of the documented PTSD symptoms.  I felt like such a jerk. 

Yuki definitely had a problem.  And as much as I didn’t want
to come face-to-face with Calvin right now, I knew what I had to do.

It was time for an intervention.

G
arrett Hamlin
paced at the front of the classroom, his heavy combat boots and wallet chain
thumping and jingling with each lanky step.  His tight black jeans and winged-skull
t-shirt matched the eyeliner that rimmed sullen eyes.  I used to think Garrett
was totally hot, until I fell for Calvin. 

Garrett wasn’t hard to look at, but it turned out he was
kind of a tool.  According to the rumor mill, he had a paranoid streak and was
prone to jealous outbursts.  A few weeks ago, he accused his girlfriend of
cheating on him…in red sharpie, all over her locker. 
So glad I dodged that
bullet. 

He continued his restless pacing, black nailed fingers
flying to the ceiling as he punctuated his words.  Garrett wasn’t happy. 

Our final project for art class was to complete a piece of
art and present it to the class.  Part of the presentation included a question
and answer session.  Garrett’s sculpture wasn’t bad per se, if you’re into
modern art, but he wouldn’t tell anyone what it was.  Either it was a last
minute, night before creation that really didn’t represent anything, or he was too
paranoid to share with the class.  If he didn’t answer the question soon, he
was going to get an F. 
Dude should just make something up.

I sighed and looked around the room.  Most of the other
students were texting or whispering to their friends.  There were only a few
students left with presentations to give.  Everyone else just had to attend
class.  Unfortunately, I was one of the students who still had to give my
presentation…and I hadn’t even started work on my painting.

Every day after school, I planned on scoping out the perfect
spot to paint.  I had good intentions—even placed my easel and backpack filled
with paints and brushes on the bench beside my front door.  All that accomplished
was making my dad complain about how there was nowhere to put on his shoes.

Today, I swear, I’ll work on it today.  I do not want to
flail at the front of the class like Garrett was doing.  It was embarrassing.

My pocket vibrated once.  Curious, I slid my phone out and
read the text.  I’d probably end up with detention if caught texting in class,
but watching Garrett implode was depressing.  The message was from Cal. 

Love you.

Luv u 2.

I really did have the best boyfriend ever.  Too bad I was
the worst girlfriend.  Graduation was in two weeks and I still didn’t have a
present for Cal. 
Procrastinate much?
  I know it was turning into a
running theme for my life.  I just had no idea where to begin shopping. 
Something told me that Cal wouldn’t like a store bought gift anyway.  And
working as a ghost guide to the ever-after doesn’t pay so well, anyway. 

I slid the phone back into my pocket and scanned the room
again.  This time, I noticed the artwork displayed along the walls and on a row
of standing shelves.  A nature landscape painting caught my eye.

Oh em gees.  I totally knew what Cal’s graduation gift was
going to be.

Cal would love it if I made something for him with my own
hands.  A painting of the outdoors he loved would be the perfect gift.  And I
already had to create a piece of art for class.  Two birds, one stone. 

My dad was also going to be happy.  He’d be getting his
bench back.

This idea rocked.

A
light breeze
carried the scent of stress, relief, and hormones across the parking lot.  Students
streamed out of the school building, yelling and cavorting in all directions,
but I kept my focus on the front door, waiting for Emma.

More students appeared, girls whistling as guys tore off
shirts in the summer heat.  Tires squealed and stereos blared, making my wolf
restless, but still I waited. 

Finally, Emma stepped out into the sun—a pale goddess amidst
a crowd of savages.  A low growl ground past my teeth like rocks as a sweaty kid
ran past Emma, hitting her shoulder and knocking her backpack to the ground, as
he rushed to catch up with his friends.  I clenched my jaw, resisting the urge
to run to her side…or tear out his throat. 

Instead, I continued to lean casually against Emma’s car. 
After a momentary pause to glare at her assailant and retrieve her bag, Emma
strode gracefully through the lingering crowds of students and speeding cars. 

It still surprised me that she wasn’t one of the Old Blood. 
Emma was human, but she moved with the sinuous grace of a wolf, or a snake. 

Emma hadn’t mentioned her ability to listen to snakes since
the talent first emerged, but I noticed how she went rigid and cocked her head
to one side whenever a snake was near.  She may prefer to keep her newfound
gift to herself, but I knew it continued to flummox her.  Our animals, my wolf
and her snake, were something we needed to discuss further.  I wanted to know
everything about her, and vice versa, but Emma had a way of distracting me from
things like talking.

Like she was doing now.

“Kiss me,” Emma said.  She dropped her bag on the pavement
and grabbed the front of my shirt. 

“Bad day?” I asked, cocking an eyebrow at her.  I wanted to
fulfill her demands, but it seemed polite to ask about her day. 

“The worst,” she said.  “No more talking.”

Emma reached up, fingertips trailing teasingly along my neck,
then plunging her hands into my hair as she pulled my lips onto hers.  Emma may
not be a werewolf, but she had her own teeth and claws—and knew how to use
them.

Her fingers released as our kiss deepened, nails following a
return track down my neck to follow my spine.  Hands resting on my hips, Emma
pulled away far enough so that our eyes met.  With a mischievous smile, she
nipped playfully at the scar on the edge of my lips then proceeded to drive me
crazy with another long kiss.  Fingernails dug into my back, arms pulling me
closer. 

When we finally parted, Emma trembled and I was panting like
the wolf that I am.  But I didn’t drool, much.

“Sorry you had a bad day,” I said, breathing in the scent of
Emma’s shampoo as I whispered into her hair.

“It’s getting better,” she said.

Yes, it certainly was.

G
etting rid of
Cal was harder than I expected.  He wasn’t exactly clingy, but we usually spent
time together after school, especially since things with Emma went nuclear.

But today I had other plans—secret graduation prezzie type
plans—that did not include Cal.  I was on a mission to find the perfect spot to
paint, for Cal’s gift and my final project for art class.  I hadn’t felt this
excited about anything in weeks.

I waited for Cal’s truck to round the corner then skipped up
the front steps.  I told Cal that I had to stay home and do homework, or I was
going to fail my classes and flunk out of senior year. 
Hasta la vista
graduation.
  It wasn’t a total complete lie.  I was working on homework,
and passing art class and graduating high school depended on completing this
project, but I wasn’t studying at home.  It was just a teensy little white lie
about where I would be spending the afternoon.  No big deal.

I unlocked the front door and walked through the dark house
to the kitchen.  My parents were both at work.  They’d be gone for at least
three more hours, probably longer.  I unzipped my backpack and started filling
it with supplies.  I may be on a mission, but even secret agents have to eat,
right?

I considered tossing in a few frozen veggie burritos, but
I’d have no way to cook them and they’d be gross cold.  If I had a car, I could
get one of those toaster ovens that plugs into the lighter and runs off the
battery.  That, of course, was a pipe dream.  Smelling, and now seeing, ghosts
is so not conducive to safe driving.  I’d had more than enough brushes with
death.

Nope, it was a bicycle, and a lifetime of mooching rides off
my friends, for me.  The burritos went back in the freezer and a bag of trail
mix and two bottles of water went into my backpack.  Grabbing the marker
hanging from a piece of ribbon attached to a magnet on the fridge, I left a
note for my parents on the dry erase board.

Working on school project, be home soon.

I retrieved the satchel holding my easel and paint and
snatched a hoodie from a peg above the hall bench.  When my dad came home, he’d
have a place to take off his shoes.  This plan was awesomesauce.

I went out the front door, locking it behind me, and waddled
down the driveway with my armload of supplies.  I cut across a strip of lawn
and set my supplies on the grass beside my bicycle.  My bike leaned against my
mom’s gardening shed.  I strapped the easel and a small folding stool to the
back.

Next, I grabbed the sides of my long skirt and tied knots
into the fabric.  The last thing I needed was to catch my skirt in the wheel
spokes while riding.  Secret agents don’t going flying over their handlebars—it
attracts too much attention.

I reached into my skirt pocket and turned off my phone. 
Secret agents also don’t have loud annoying ringtones.  Plus, my phone would
probably go flying out my pocket the second I started pedaling, or turned a
corner.  I transferred it to my backpack instead.  I could check in with my
folks later if I was running late.

I checked the straps of my backpack and walked my bike down
to the street.  Looking both ways, I jumped on, my boots gripping the pedals
and the wind in my face.  For the first time in months, I felt like I was
moving forward.

I felt like I was free.

S
imon wasn’t
overly thrilled when I dropped him off before reaching the cabin.  He probably
had envisioned a romantic evening together, but I needed to talk to Cal,
alone. 

On the ride over, I explained about Yuki’s recent behavior
and how I suspected she had some deep-seated issues related to her abduction.  Simon
raised an eyebrow at my concern over Yuki, we hadn’t been acting like BFF’s
lately, but when I started describing her PTSD behavior he agreed that
something needed to be done.

Simon could understand the potential risks of leaving a
person dealing with post traumatic stress to their own devices.  He understood
in spades.

I had learned of Simon’s battle with depression, and drug
addiction, a few months ago.  After we reported the Wakefield meth lab to the
police, Simon and I had had our first heart to heart talk about his past.  I
knew he had gone through “a bad patch” after his werewolf girlfriend Meredith
was shot to death.  Having your girlfriend die in your arms?—definitely a PTSD
inducing experience.

Unfortunately, Simon had been far from the support of his
family when Meredith was shot.  Simon and Meredith had traveled to England to
attend college together and experience something new and different away from
the pack.  Instead, Meredith died and Simon was left to mourn her death in the
worst way possible.  He dealt with his grief, self-loathing, guilt, and growing
anger by turning to drugs.

After nearly killing himself with heroin, and burning every possible
bridge with his college mates, Simon finally returned to the states, and his
pack.  But he was forever changed.  There’s a darkness that can be seen behind
his eyes sometimes when he thinks no one is paying attention.  A pain that
never healed made all the more raw by a shame he can never escape. 

Simon became an addict and did things he’s not proud of. 
But he had been all alone.  He may be angry with Yuki and her exasperating recent
behavior, but now that he knew the cause he would stop at nothing to prevent
her from falling into the downward spiral that nearly swallowed him whole.  It
was time to cast aside petty arguments.

Of course, he was still disappointed that we wouldn’t be spending
our afternoon kissing.  Simon stood there pouting in my rearview mirror before
moving into the trees.  Poor guy, he has to go let his wolf run, and cool off. 

I smiled a wicked grin and followed the dirt track to the
cabin.  I’d make it up to Simon later over dinner.  He offered to meet at my
favorite vegetarian restaurant in town, so I knew he was eager for our date.  I
just hoped that Cal would have a plan for helping Yuki. 

My grin faded as I got out of my car.  Cal’s truck was
parked outside, but I didn’t know if he was alone.  I should have called ahead,
but I’d been distracted by my worry for Yuki, and kissing Simon.  If Yuki was
inside, my plan would fall apart like a bride stranded at the altar.

I shook my head.  I was graduating next week.  I was so not
thinking about weddings.  What the heck was wrong with me?  Maybe back in fourth
grade Yuki had been right; boy cooties really do melt your brain.

I lifted my chin and strode to the door.  I knocked, hard,
using the code we’d established for pack emergencies.  Yuki may be human, but
according to Cal, she was a member of his pack and she was in trouble.  Hopefully
he wouldn’t fault my logic.

We’d come up with the coded knocks in case someone was busy
kissing inside.  A regular knock could be ignored, but a pack knock was more
important than making out.

The door swung open exposing Cal’s flushed face.  I glanced
into the small room behind him, but he was alone.  Good.  For once, I was in
luck.

“Can I come in?” I asked.

“Sure, sorry, come on in,” Cal said. 

I walked over to the couch and sat, waiting for Cal.  He ran
a hand through shaggy hair as he shut the door.  With a heavy sigh, he turned
to face me.  Worry lines etched the skin around his eyes and his mouth, usually
so quick to smile, was set in a grim line.

“You used the pack 911 knock,” he said.  “What’s happened?”

“Come over and sit down,” I said.

“I’d rather stand,” he said. 

He paced the short length of the room, the hem of his jeans
collecting dust as his bare feet stirred up a small cloud of dirt and animal
hair.  You could tell werewolf boys lived here.

I stopped watching Cal’s feet and met his worried eyes with
my own.

“It’s Yuki,” I said.  “I think she’s in trouble.”

The color drained from Cal’s tanned face, like pouring too
much soy milk into coffee.

“On second thought,” he said.  “I’ll sit.”