Spiritdell Book 1 (2 page)

I try to turn away, but with this all-seeing, eyeless vision, I can't.

The breathing
, I tell myself, focus on the breathing. Catch the air moving and ride it out.

Barely perceptible in its slowness, I find my breath and follow it, willing myself back through Slow World and back to reality. After an eternity of pain, my lungs are moving slowly, then normally, and I'm out.

Reality. I'm in the hallway at school. The viscous substance around us returns to air, and my ears begin ringing in the relative silence.

“I wish I could see my future,” Raye-Anne says, pulling her hand away. “My parents want me to go to college, but I don't know.”

My throat is dry and tight.

“Let's try tonight,” she says, unaware the reading's already happened.

“Sure,” I choke out.

“Tonight? I'll touch your little belly button again if you want.” She drops her hands and brushes me in a way that feels anything but accidental, triggering another coughing fit.

“Try some gum,” she says, and she kisses me quickly, thrusting the chewed gum into my mouth with her tongue before she turns and walks away.

* * *

I help Julie with the streamers for a few minutes before she dismisses me to unpack my cameras and tripods. “I know your heart's not into decorating whatsoever,” she says, and she's right.

“This place is already plenty festive,” I say of the Moroccan-themed basement. James and Julie's mother decorated it a few years ago. The whole bottom floor originally had a nautical theme, with ship's wheels, compasses and maps on the walls, though now only the wood paneling and bar remain.

Leaving Julie to the paper streamers, I start unpacking my babies—my cameras.

What I love about cameras is they tell the truth. Light hits the film, or the photosensitive plate, and—according to the laws of physics, chemistry, and reality—an image is made. You don't argue with the image.

I'm cleaning my camera lenses when James comes over, grabs my cheapo little instant camera and takes a photo down the front of his pants.

“I'll be sure to get some eight by tens of that one,” I say.

“Good, I'll autograph them,” he says, grinning. “So what's going on with Raye-Anne? You going to ... you-know?” He does a little dance to illustrate.

I tell James exactly what happened earlier at school, when Raye-Anne put her finger in my belly button. He's enjoying the details, up until the part about Raye-Anne doing drugs and being with the sketchy, violent dude. James wrinkles his face in disgust, as though I tried to make him eat dairy.

James is a good-looking guy, with his dark hair and light eyes, but the look of disgust he gets is not the most appealing. Actually, the expression makes me want to punch him, especially if he's being a militant vegan and calling things like cheese sandwiches
meat
.

“Don't make the face,” I say. “I shouldn't have told you about Raye-Anne. That information is privileged.”

He quickly holds his hands up. “Your imaginary wizard powers are safe with me.”

“I've tried to not use it, but I have no self-control.” 

“And you never, ever see anything good in the visions?” James asks.

“Imagine your tofu burgers,” I say. “How would you feel if you found out they came from some tofu-animal. With big, dewy eyes and a furry tail. That would turn you off soy, right?”

“You're sick,” he says as he punches me in the solar plexus.

I push aside a folding chair and wrestle him to the ground.

“Hey,” Julie yells. “Don't knock everything over with your display of affection.”

“She's just jealous,” James moans as I rub his face in the carpet.

Someone's legs whip up from out of nowhere and slam me backward into the ground. My head hits the carpet hard, and for an instant I see those honest-to-goodness stars that swirl around cartoon characters' heads.
Maybe a good wallop could knock this curse right out of me
, I think, which is odd, because I've never called it a curse before.

The lanterns and streamers swim above me as my eyes fill with water.

“You okay, man?” James asks. He's smiling and a bit of drool is coming out of his mouth, toward me. Intentional or not, the thread of spit gives me an intense wave of panic to get away, but I blink and hold steady, not flinching.

“You're surprisingly strong for a vegan,” I say to James. “Aw, gross, I can feel your body warmth seeping into me. Too intimate!”

“I got you good,” he says, still pinning me down, his heat still radiating into me through our clothes, which only makes me more sad that I'll probably never get this close to a girl.

“No fair,” I say, trying to not faint. “I was distracted by the overpowering aroma of hummus down here. Did you guys get any normal food?”

He makes the disgusted face again and releases me. “Julie made a cheese and salami tray.” He pronounces
salami
as though it's made from medical waste.

“Sounds awesome.” 

James wanders off to help with the decorating for all of thirty seconds before he moves on to setting up the music while peppering Julie with questions about which girls from school are coming to the party.

“Munch will be here,” Julie says, counting off guests on her fingers. “And Hopscotch, Sadmachine, and her cousin, Tumor Girl.”

“Are any of them hot?” James asks. “No, scratch that. Are any of them desperate?”

“We can dim the lanterns even more,” she says, ruffling his hair and giving him a kiss on the cheek. “If we turn them right off, you could let your personality shine.”

“I do not like what you're implying,” he says. “And I do not appreciate you saying it with mom's voice.”

As they banter away, I finish setting up my photo booth. This starry theme seemed like such a great idea last night when I was putting the foil on the stars, but now it looks stupid, like something off the set of a kids' show.

I put away all my cameras except for two—one digital and one film. I've been rolling my own film reels recently, and developing at home. Gran doesn't like the smell of the chemicals in the bathroom, but she's away now.

Gran
. I feel a pang of loneliness for her. I hope she's getting her money's worth out of the cruise ship's buffet—she's been getting a little too thin lately. I don't like the idea of big, cowboy-looking Rudy (her gentleman-friend) on top of her. I was willing to overlook Rudy's bad breath, but recently he's started cracking a few too many Viagra jokes. Too far, Rudy. Too far.

I set up my light stands with some sandbags, as close to the wall as I can get them. They'll probably get knocked over, considering the way things have been going for me lately. I've got the house to myself for weeks, and the only one who's going to be jumping on my bed with me is Mibs, the mildly neurotic, diabetic cat.

I do love Mibs, but I'd really like to have a girlfriend.

* * *

Julie has turned off the ceiling lights and the basement is lit only by candles, a string of white Christmas lights, and star-shaped, colored-glass lanterns. By night, with music and the scent of hummus, a guy can feel transported to a faraway land. That guy might even be moved to yearning by the romantic setting—so moved, in fact, that he might be reconsidering a brief dalliance with Raye-Anne Donovan, despite knowing better.

People have been arriving for the past hour, mostly congregating around the snack table. The kids in retro hats have commandeered the stereo. I scan the room for Raye-Anne, and I'm both disappointed and relieved she isn't here.

Woah. Who's that?

The prettiest girl I've ever seen has just come down the basement stairs, into our party. She's alone, clasping her hands, and alternating between glancing around the room and down at her shoes, which sparkle. She must have been headed to another party in the neighborhood, heard the music here, and came in James and Julie's door by accident. That's the only possible explanation.

She's wearing a dress, and her body language is hesitant, in a cute way. Her toes point slightly together, and as she reaches the bottom step, where she's blocked from view by the other party-goers, I realize she's not very big. I have this urge to pick her up—literally—and twirl her around until she squeals. Why am I standing here with my hand in a bowl of chips? I must talk to her before she discovers she's at a lame high school party and leaves.

I weave through the crowd toward her, and when she meets my gaze and smiles, I adjust my trajectory and hit the snack table instead, grabbing a handful of crackers and salami. I slink back to my photo booth, mentally flagellating myself.

I sneak a glance in her direction as Mystery Girl is engulfed in a crowd of new arrivals. And ... she's gone. Maybe she was never even there, just a product of my overly-hormonal imagination.

* * *

I've taken a number of photos so far, and I'm readjusting my lights when someone puts soft, little hands over my eyes and presses her boobs on my back. “Mom?” I say, like I always do.

“Ew,” she says as she lets go and jumps in front of me. It's Raye-Anne Donovan, and she's wearing something red and possibly
illegal
. I get a little pulse of terror.

But it's just Raye-Anne
, I tell myself, with her cute little rosebud mouth, and if I'm reading things right, she's into me. Maybe I can get past the vision I had of her and enjoy the year or so leading up to it. I don't know how the causality works—if I know something's going to happen, can I somehow prevent future events? 

“I hear your folks are out of town,” Raye-Anne says.

“My grandma, yeah. She's on a cruise,” I say. Raye-Anne nods, inviting me to say more—to invite her over, I guess, but I don't want to, so I let the silence stand between us. Seconds pass. I fail to make the gesture she's waiting for.

A reggae song comes on and Raye-Anne makes a big motion of noticing someone she recognizes over my shoulder, complete with a mimed, “Oh, hey,” on her tiny lips. I blink, and she's off, weaving into the growing crowd, under the blue and green star-shaped lanterns.

Someone else has entered my photo booth. The hair on my arms raises.

It's her. The beautiful girl who can't possibly belong here.

The beautiful girl has the longest, palest hair I've ever seen, almost silver.

Mystery Girl circles the stool in my photo booth. The fabric of her dress contains tiny moons and stars, just like the navy curtains of my photo booth setup. “The girl you were talking to,” she says, referring to Raye-Anne. “She's attractive.”

“Oh, her? She's a friend from school,” I say. The words tumble out of my mouth without much forethought. 

I have the sensation of falling—of the ground disappearing beneath my feet.

“I'm Zan,” I say, sticking out my hand. “Zan, like Sam, but with different consonants.”

“Short for Zaniel,” she says with certainty. I tell her she's actually correct, and she responds with, “Lucky guess. I'm a good guesser.”

“I'll say. Most people assume it's Xan with an X, for Xander or Alexander.” Actually, most people wrinkle their foreheads and wonder if my parents were crazy or hippies or cult members. My parents, rest their souls, were all of the above.

“I'm Austin. I'm at the opposite end of the alphabet.”

Julie turns on the blender for margaritas and I'm drowned out in the crushing of ice.

Austin perches on the photo booth stool and bats her eyelashes. “Are you going to steal my soul or what?” she asks, nodding at the camera I'm dumbly fondling with my other idiot hand.

In answer to her question, I push the button that synchronizes the external flashbulbs with the camera. Everything's white-hot, and the room is filled with the sound of every word being spoken at once. Then, black. Silence. Absence of light and words.

Through the blackness, Julie yells, “James! Breaker!”

James yells, “Zan! You blew the breaker.”

“You think?” I reply. Some people laugh. “Sorry,” I say to the dark shapes around me. Someone bumps into me from behind, and I stumble into some people, causing them to complain about food and drinks being spilled on them. The room is all elbows and knees and irritation. “Sorry, sorry,” I say. I'm all turned around, worrying about tiny Austin being knocked down in the dark. I need to protect her.

The basement's hot, the air moist and lacking in oxygen. There must be seventy people crammed down here, and it's not bright here at the best of times, let alone in the evening. Within seconds, blue squares float everywhere as people turn on their phones, faces lit in crisp, unearthly blue.

“I'll go flip the breaker switch, that'll fix it,” James calls out from a few feet away. “Everybody STAY CALM.” More laughter, and at that, people begin their conversations again in the thin blue light.

I pivot around, searching for Austin.

“So, tell me about yourself,” I say to her in the darkness.

“I work at The Bean,” she says, glints of light reflecting off her teeth. “Full time. I graduated last year, and I haven't gotten around to college just yet.”

“College?” That makes her at least two years older than me. 

The lights come on and everyone applauds. Someone resets the stereo, and the music comes on, mid-song. Julie's pouring margaritas now, so the blender's off for the moment.

I seize my opportunity and take two photos in rapid succession, while Austin is still distracted.

“Get my good side,” she says, pointing to her right cheek.

“If everyone has a good side, does that mean they have an evil side too?”

Without hesitation, she points to her left cheek. “Get my evil side too.”

“Nah, I'm sure you don't have an evil side.” I take a few more photos, just in case. What else can I say to keep her talking? Definitely nothing about school, as I don't want to draw more attention to the age gap. “Got any summer plans? Some of us are going to the lake tomorrow.”

“I don't plan that far ahead,” she says.

“You don't plan for tomorrow?”

“I like you,” she says. “Will you walk me home after the party? Unless your girlfriend minds.”

“Seriously, I don't have a girlfriend.”

“Then why's she over there mentally stripping off my skin to wear as a hat?”