The Awakening (10 page)

"Sorry, Celia."

"No, it's not you," she says, hiding her eyes behind her hair. "It's just that I have too much to think about academically, extracurricularly—and now with our ghost hunting—that I don't have time for boys. Especially someone as annoying as Clay."

"Clay's a cutie. Was he who you were drawing?"

"Jesus, Kendall. Drop it, would you?"

I laugh heartily to break the tension. "The lady doth protest too much, methinks."

Celia rolls her eyes back at me. "Don't go get all
Hamlet
on my ass, okay?"

I can't help but hip-check her as she's stashing her books in her locker. "Whatever you say, Nichols."

"I say we quit worrying about my love life—or lack thereof—and concentrate on setting up our ghost-hunting team."

"All right, already," I state with a knowing smile. I really like Celia and I don't want to do anything that would put me on her bad side. She's fun and smart and crazy. And she's the only person who's given me the time of day (other than that one visit with Loreen) since I moved to Radisson. Everything happens for a reason, right?

Which is all good 'cause I've left two voice-mail messages on Marjorie's cell and she still hasn't returned my e-mail. See, I typed out this long message to her about what's been going on here since I moved. Like, everything. I'm trying to reason that she's just busy with school and life in Chicago, and she's not ignoring me and my e-mail confession about being psychic. Since Marjorie's mom's a big flake, Marjorie might think I'm headed down the same path.

Good thing I've got Celia now to be a friend and accept me for who I am.

In the caf, she and I buzz through the serving line, snagging salad, American chop suey—which isn't Chinese at all, just elbow macaroni, ground beef, and tomato sauce—and ice-cold Diet Cokes. Celia leads us to a table over near the window where we can begin strategizing our ghost huntressing. Where to start?

I dive into my plate of food like I've never eaten before while Celia decorates the table with printouts from websites galore on how to assemble an investigative team and all the equipment we'll need. "Most of these websites," she begins, "say you should have about eight people for a proper ghost-hunting team."

"Why eight?" I ask with my mouth full. My mom would be so ashamed of me. We won't even
go there
about what she would think of me becoming a ghost huntress.

Celia makes a note and then says, "Because you need people collecting the different kinds of scientific data and evidence."

I wipe my mouth with the paper napkin. "I thought
I
was doing the psychic stuff."

"You are," Celia says. "All good ghost-hunting teams need a 'sensitive' to speak to the spirits."

I look up and glare at her. "What's with the air quotes around the word
sensitive
? Don't do that to me."

"Do what?"

I mock her air quotes. "That. It makes me feel like a freak."

"I'm sorry, you're right. We'll call you the team's psychic investigator, how's that?"

I put the napkin back in my lap. "That's more like it." Before scooping up another mouthful, I ask, "Who else do we need?" How in the world will we—the outcast and the newbie—find people to help us out? Maybe I can get Loreen to suggest someone who might be interested.

Celia motions to one of the printouts that has a picture of a folding table with a lot of monitors, computer equipment, and other items. "See this? It's called base camp. Wherever we investigate, we'll need to set up one of these to keep up with what's going on at all times."

I crane my neck to get a good look. "Oh, okay, I get it. It's a place where you can monitor the cameras and stuff."

"Right." Celia sips her soda. "I think it's only natural that I head up all of the electronics and computer equipment—"

"—since it's all yours anyway," I say with a laugh.

"—and that we find someone with a real talent for photography." Celia pulls out last year's Radisson High School yearbook,
The Reveler,
and starts flipping through the pages. She points to a large picture of the football team in a gargantuan pile at the goal line. "Check out the cutline."

Spinning the book around, I read, "'Picture by Taylor Tillson.'" I push the annual back to Celia. "What's a Taylor Tillson?"

Celia peers over her shoulder and nods her head toward a girl with long dishwater-blond hair sitting with one other girl in the back of the caf. Oh wow, it's the Pretty Girl from my homeroom class who waved at me.

However, I scrunch up my nose. "She looks like she's popular."

"She used to be. She's sort of pulled back socially from her regular clique for some reason since we've been back," Celia explains. "But the point is she's a photographer for the yearbook."

"That is a plus. You think she'd be interested?" I watch as Taylor laughs really hard at something the other girl says. I notice that Taylor's tan and thin and wears a little too much eye makeup. She'd probably rather hang out with the cheerleaders and football players than go creeping around God knows where late at night with Celia and me.

"Check this out." Celia spins the yearbook back to me. Sure enough, there's Taylor front and center of the French club, then in the pep club picture. She's also a member of 4-H and the honor society and the science club. Cool; in that picture, she's standing right in front of Celia. "She's totally a serial joiner around here. Any time a teacher needs a volunteer for anything, Taylor Tillson always has her hand in the air first. She's been, like, a social chair all the way back to kindergarten."

"What are her parents like?"

Celia eyeballs me. "What does that matter?"

"Trust me. It matters." I think of my own mother and how she'd be on her knees on the prayer bench at our new Episcopal church, praying for my soul, if she knew I was dancing with the dead ... or planning on it.

"Her mom is a housewife and her father used to be the president of First National Bank," Celia rattles off.

"Used to be?"

"Yeah, he moved away. Taylor hasn't really talked about it. Maybe that's why she's sort of pulled away from the RHS social scene."

Something clicks inside me and my inner thoughts focus on Taylor Tillson. I don't exactly know how I'm doing this, but it's happening. My interpretation of her is hazy, foggy even, like there's some sort of defense system in her brain that no one can bust through. Then again, I probably can't even really do this and that's why I'm getting no reading. Abruptly, my inner thoughts shift to a vivid image of ... Dasani-Blue-Eyed Boy. In this vision, he's sitting in a Jeep beeping the horn. Who is this guy? And why am I constantly dreaming—day- or otherwise—of him?

"Kendall! Earth to Kendall."

"Sorry," I say, snapping out of it. "I was trying to get a read on Taylor."

"Can you do that?"

"I don't know!" I say.

Celia moves her hair behind her ears. "Best way to get a read on her is to actually talk to her."

She's got a point. "So, do you know her well enough to ask if she wants to join our team?"

Celia shrugs. "Sure. Why not?"

"Let's go, then."

I bus our table and return the half-eaten food to the kitchen area. Celia sucks down her Diet Coke and tosses the can into the blue recycle bin. As we walk toward Taylor's table, Celia says, "So, if she signs on as our photographer, all we need to do is get someone to do the sound recordings and then we can get started."

"EVPs," I add. "Electronic voice phenomena, or the capturing of disembodied or spirit voices on magnetic tape as audio recordings."

"Ah, someone's been doing her homework."

"I've been watching
Ghost Hunters
marathons," I say proudly. "I thought you said we needed eight people, though?"

"I just said that a lot of the groups out there have eight people," she corrects. "Semantics, you know? It's whatever works for us."

"Well, don't forget, we'll need a skeptic," I add. "All those websites say you need someone a little cynical to keep us honest about our findings."

With a snort, Celia says, "Around here, that won't be too hard to find." She straightens. "Here goes nothing."

I take a deep breath and focus my mental energies on Taylor Tillson. I silently ask that she be open-minded and not start throwing her chop suey at us. It would take a lot of Tide with bleach alternative to get the tomato sauce out of my good Eddie Bauer button-down.

"Hey, Taylor!" Celia says in a high-pitched voice I don't recognize as hers.

"Hey there, Celia. How ya doing?" Taylor smiles genuinely at Celia and then cocks her head a little to check me out. "Oh, I know you! You're in my homeroom. How rude of me not to come introduce myself to the new girl in town! Sit, sit, sit."

The other girl at the table looks me up one side and down the other. Then she mumbles something about getting dessert and scoots off. I concentrate hard, hoping not to pick up on any of her thoughts, but the airwaves are relatively silent. I've got to quit being so paranoid.

I extend my hand across the table in a very grown-up way. "I'm Kendall Moorehead."

Taylor shakes my hand fervently and welcomes me to RHS. Oh God, I hope she doesn't break into song or something, a la
High School Musical
. "It's so great to have a new girl in school. Most all of us grew up together and we're sick to death of each other's company. Right, Celia?"

Celia chuckles slightly as Taylor runs through a quick twenty-question session on the who, what, where, when, and why of Kendall Moorehead.

"I loooooove Chicago," she says with an almost shimmer in her blue eyes. I'd been told that sometimes Southerners can be fake nice to you, but the vibes I'm getting from Taylor seem to be a hundred percent genuine. Maybe I misjudged the Pretty Girl.

"My mom is a part-time buyer for Nordstrom's at Perime ter Mall outside of Atlanta, and she took me with her one time on a trip to Chicago. So many amazing stores to lose yourself in for days on end. You must really miss it there."

"I do. It's the only home I've ever known," I say, a bit sadder than I anticipated. "It'll always be my hometown. Now I'm just trying to adjust to living here."

Taylor reaches over and pats my arm with her French-manicured hand. "We'll do everything to make you feel welcome here, right, Celia?"

"I already am," she snaps. I get the impression that Celia either doesn't like Taylor Tillson or envies her. Can't tell which yet, but there's something under the surface.

"So, Taylor," I start. No use pussyfooting around. Might as well dive into the deep end. "There's something Celia and I wanted to talk to you about. Well, ask you, more like."

She tosses her blond mane over her shoulder and licks her lips, already shiny with gloss. "Sure! Shoot!"

"This is serious, Taylor," Celia says softly. "Like, top secret."

Taylor leans in, eyes afire with curiosity. "Oh, goody! I love secrets."

I swallow down my trepidation and strike out. "See, Taylor, Celia and I are starting uh, uh, a club, so to speak, and we need a photographer for it."

Taylor's finely sculpted brow lifts up and she smiles amazingly white teeth at us. "Ooo, I'm the yearbook photographer. I also work on the school's website and have this amazing Facebook page you'll have to check out. Lots of emo-type pics of myself that I took in the mirror at home. And two of my football pictures from last year were used in the
Atlanta Journal-Constitution.
"

Wow, she's as exuberant as Celia when you get her going. Will I be able to handle both of their strong energies?

"What kind of club is this?" Taylor asks. Her wide smile literally glistens, and the shade of pink on her lips makes her teeth appear even whiter. "I'm totally into adding another club to my curriculum vitae."

With a deep breath, I try again to see into Taylor's thoughts. She seems not to have any prejudices hidden under the surface, from what I can tell, other than she hates her grandmother's cooking, misses her dad, and thinks Courtney Langdon needs to eat a tray of brownies and not throw them up. I try not to giggle as I continue. I get the sense of a genuinely warm and friendly person. Taylor's a bit of a daredevil, even though she may not know it yet.

Celia taps me on the shoulder. "Tell her, Kendall."

Okay. Here goes.

"Celia and I've decided to start ghost hunting."

I watch as Taylor sits there for a moment, staring ahead as if she's been frozen in time. Then she blinks hard with her overly mascaraed, long black lashes. "Oh, wow. Fascinating. You've just got to tell me exactly what this would entail? Would there be papers or extra-credit work here at school involved?"

Celia and I look at each other. I say, "No, this is totally an after-school type of thing. You know, like at night and on the weekends."

"It'll all be very scientific," Celia explains. "We'll have equipment for sound and for measuring energies."

Celia and I give her more details about the ghost in my house, how people in my father's office think city hall is haunted, and how Radisson's storied history makes it the perfect place to hold investigations. Celia gives some detail about how Taylor would take pictures and videos and be an integral part of the team so that I can try to communicate with the spirits.

She zeros in on something I said. "What do you mean, 'try to communicate with the spirits'?"

Do I really want to lay all of my cards on the table? Do I want to be that girl who blurts out to everyone she meets that she's a psychic? Psycho, more like. Yet Taylor's eyes appear to be kind and understanding with an outline of pain that I can't put my finger on just yet.

I fight my apprehension and lower my voice. "I'm sort of going through this, umm, well, don't tell anyone, but it's like a psychic awakening."

Taylor's eyes widen. "Meaning?"

"Meaning I can see and talk to spirits."

I wait for Taylor to call the principal and have me thrown out of school. Fine. I guess I can finish up by being home-schooled. These days colleges accept all kinds of students.

But Taylor surprises both of us.