The Counseling (5 page)

"No, we're fourteen," Jess says.

"Hey, I'm in twelve," Maddie pipes up. "You must be my roomie?"

The girl steps forward. She seems quiet and shy and a bit reserved. Her long black hair is crimped to the middle of her back and a single braid weaves across her forehead and down the left side of her face. She's plump and pretty with large black eyes.

"I guess so," she says with a shrug. "I'm Willowmeana Martin."

"Maddie Puckett. These are my sisters, Erin and Harper. That's Kendall over there, and Jess."

Willowmeana smiles and nods. Quietly, she says, "Hey there ... nice to meet you."

I can see from her dark facial features that she's of Native American descent. Also, she's sporting a tattoo of a dream catcher on her upper arm. Oh, right—like my mom wouldn't totally shit if I got a tattoo that big! Well ... a tattoo at all.

"So, why are you here?" Jess asks unabashedly.

Willowmeana seems taken aback some. "You know. The standard stuff."

Jess keeps up her
Tonight Show
interview. "Like what? I read auras. Kendall's psychic. The Pucketts haven't fessed up either. Come on, Willowmeana, we're your friends."

I'm not sure if Jess's open Californianess will go over big with the Alabamians and Willowmeana. I can see that not all of the girls are as eager to talk about their abilities as Jess Spencer is.

"That's okay," I say, putting my hand on Willowmeana's arm. "You can tell us when you're ready."

"No, no, it's all right. I'm just ... well, this is the first time I've ever been away from home. The first time I've been out of Canada."

"Oooo, you're a foreigner?" Harper says with excitement.

Erin rolls her eyes. "Canada's, like, attached. Get over it."

"Whatever."

"We're all in unfamiliar territory," I say, not just to Willowmeana but to everyone. "That's why we're here. We all have something we need to deal with. And we're hoping that this retreat will give us answers."

Willowmeana bobs her head in agreement. "I live outside of Vancouver with my father, who's the shaman of our tribe. This was a gigantic deal for him to let me come here."

"Same with our mom," Maddie says. "She's wigged out that I'm seeing ghosts."

"And I'm hearing them," Erin adds.

"And I'm feeling all of their emotions," Harper says with a sigh.

"Lucky me," I say. "I'm cursed with all three."

Jess shakes her blond head. "You all got me beat. What about you, Willow? It's okay to call you Willow, right?"

"Sure. No worries." She darts her eyes around at all of us and then swallows hard. "As for me, I see the souls of deceased animals mostly. They talk to me and tell me all the things that man is doing wrong to the planet."

"Heavy," Jess says. "Maybe you're the cure for global warming."

"I don't know," Willowmeana says with a soft laugh.

I glance around at the gathered group. Not exactly a motley crew, but ... we're different, nonetheless. Or are we? Perhaps our generation is just more open to the world of spirits around us.

I smile at the girls around me. We're all challenged and here for a purpose. However, maybe I'm
not
the weirdest, after all.

T
HE AROMA OF GRILLED HOT DOGS,
sizzling burgers, and searing chicken permeates the night air as we make our way to the picnic area on the jutting cliff of the Rose Briar Inn.

"I could totally eat a horse," Maddie exclaims.

"Please don't," Willow quips, the first time she's loosened up in the two hours since we met her. "What? The horse is one of my totem animals."

"I don't think she meant it literally," I say to Willow.

In addition to smelling the various meats, I sense that there's corn, coleslaw, baked beans, grilled veggies; enough of a spread to feed a small town. Or maybe just a houseful of psychic kids.

Chris La'Coston is scurrying around, brandishing a long spatula in the air like she's the conductor of the Boston Pops during the Fourth of July concert. She directs her husband, Glenn, to set the tray of condiments and toppings of tomatoes, cheeses, lettuce, and pickles to the left of the hefty bowl of potato salad. Speedy is underfoot, barking and growling simultaneously for a nip of any scrap from the grill. Chris gently nudges him out of her way, to no avail; she finally gives in and drops a piece of chicken to the ground for the pooch. Speedy triumphantly snags the fowl and disappears into the hydrangea bush.

"Glenn, that dog of yours..." Chris says.

Glenn laughs heartily. "He just wants to belong."

Chris wipes her hand on her white apron, which reads "I'd Tell You the Recipe, But Then I'd Have to Kill You." I don't need to know the recipe that badly. The long picnic table is set with a red-and-white-checked paper tablecloth, chunky white candles inside clear hurricane lamps, and plastic dinnerware.

And most of all—there are boys!

Okay, okay, I know that I'm still tending to my wounds after losing Jason Tillson, trying to get over the fact that he suddenly had to move to Where God Lost His Shoes, Alaska, with his father, but it doesn't hurt to look. Does it? My heart lurches in betrayal as I take in the eye candy around me. Jason will always be my first love, no matter what, and I'll admit, it's taking some time to get over him, but I have to keep living. I can't be one of those girls who hole up in their rooms pining for the one and only guys they're supposed to be with. Of course, it's not like Jason's dealing with the same missing-me thing, it seems. It looks like he's moved on without me. Or that's the impression he's given me. While I've had an e-mail almost every day from his twin sister, Taylor, I haven't heard jack squat from Jason. No texts. No calls. No IMs. No Facebooking. No Tweeting. Nothing.
Nada.
Zilch and zero. I suppose he's already fallen in love with some Alaskan girl who can catch a sockeye salmon with her bare hands or skin a live moose or something. You know, some chick who doesn't talk to people's dead relatives and pass them into the light—which always freaked him out.

Sigh.

I really need to get over myself.

That's why I'm here, after all. To. Get. Over. Myself.

We girls approach the party, where the boys are all spread out and chatting with one another while chugging down sodas.

Chris waves at us when she sees the pack arrive. "Come on over, girls. There's plenty to eat."

"And plenty to look at," Jess says. Then she glances at me. "What? I'm single. I'm allowed."

"Not me." Maddie holds up her left hand. On her fourth finger is a chunky blue-stoned class ring. "I'm going with William Burns back home."

"Yeah, and he's a babe," Erin adds.

"Whatever," Harper says.

Seems like one Puckett can't speak without the other two chiming in. It's really cute. They are totally connected, what with that triplet-sharing-a-womb thing they've got going. Much like how Jason and Taylor are connected.

One boy loops his legs from around the picnic table and steps forward. He's a big guy and I know in my mind that he's an offensive lineman for his school's football team.

"Hey, y'all, I'm Greg Swanner."

"Hey, Greg," we girls say in unison, like we rehearsed it or something.

"Where do you live?" Harper asks.

He clears his throat. "Elmore, Alabama."

Erin perks up. "We're from Alabama too. Isn't this a small world?"

"I reckon so," Greg says. Harper and Erin both sort of check him out, and he blushes slightly. "This here's Ricky Raney, from Fort Walton, Florida. He's my roommate."

"Hey," Ricky mutters. "Want a Coke?"

"Diet for me," I say, suddenly feeling tongue-tied. I'm getting a
deep
sense of pain from Ricky that I can't put my finger on. My back aches like I've slept on nails for a week straight. Crippling feeling, in fact. But how can that be when he's standing right in front of me? Maybe there's more to it ... but I should leave well enough alone for now. Sometimes being empathic really sucks because I can't turn it off. I shift my eyes to Harper, the empathic one of the Pucketts, and I can see she's picking up something from Ricky as well. I guess now's not the time to suss out the emotions of our fellow campers. That's for Oliver Bates and his staff to do.

I take the offered cold can and pop the top. A deep gulp of the aspartame-laced liquid does my body good.

"All right now, all of you kids," Chris says. "Let's get you eating. There's plenty of food here. Have seconds and thirds! Don't be shy."

Jess tosses her blond hair. "What, is she fattening us up for the Thanksgiving kill?"

I giggle, although I have no appetite. "Something like that."

Chris's husband, Glenn, mans the grill as we line up in an orderly fashion with our plates in hand. When it's my turn, I take a hot dog on a bun and a small piece of chicken on the side. I glop on mustard, ketchup, and mayo—yes, I eat mayonnaise on my hot dog,
thankyouverymuch
—and pile a small portion of beans and potato salad on my plate as well. When I get to the table, Evan Christian is horking down an ear of roasted corn so fast that kernels are flying everywhere. Kid seriously needs a bib. A kernel hangs from his bottom lip as he turns to talk to me.

"Kendall, did you meet my roommate?"

I try not to be hypnotized by the corn on Evan Christian's mouth and switch my gaze to the guy across the table, thinking this is who he's talking about. The guy is the perfect image of a brooding teen with his long black hair pulled away from his face into a loose ponytail. His dark complexion speaks of a heritage that's along the lines of Willowmeana's. I can tell by his lanky arms as he moves his food around on his plate that this guy is way over six feet tall. I half expect him to turn into a werewolf or something because of the fierceness that's emanating from his skin.

"Carl Fuller," the kid next to Mr. Fierce says. Oh. That's who Evan Christian was referring to. Carl looks like he's about fifteen and he has a mouthful of metal.

"Hey there, Carl. Where are you from?" I ask, trying not to be distracted by the other kid.

"Outside Portland, Oregon. My mom and dad drove me down and then went to Los Angeles to do the whole Hollywood-tourist thing while I'm here."

"That's cool." I turn my attention back to the ponytailed guy. "And you are?"

Without glancing up, the guy says in a deep voice, "I'm Talking Feathers."

"I beg your pardon?"

Evan Christian seems confused and frowns. "I thought you said your name was Josiah Feingold."

Talking Feathers snaps to attention, drawing up to his full height in his seat. "That's the name my adopted parents gave me, but my birth name is Talking Feathers and I've taken it back."

"I'll just call you TF," Evan Christian says.

"I'll just call you EC," Talking Feathers says with a laugh.

"You're adopted?" I ask with my brows raised.

Talking Feathers looks my way. "Yeah, my mother died when I was born. She was part of the Cherokee Nation. I was adopted by a couple in Harbuck, Tennessee, but I've just started to really identify with my Native side."

"I was adopted too."

"I can see that," he says easily.

"Oh, yeah?"

"Don't ask me how. I just...
know.
"

Curious, I press. "What kind of awakening are you going through?"

He shrugs as if indifferent; however, he answers. "I started having visions of my birth mother talking to me, warning me of bad things to come, and I started telling people about them. No one wants to listen to a kid, though."

I put my fork down on the plate. "What kind of things were you seeing?"

He takes a honking bite of his burger and chews slowly. After he swallows, he says, "Disasters, mainly. There was this massive tornado last year that destroyed a trailer park. I told my friend Alec it was coming and that his family needed to get out, but they stayed. Not only did they lose their home, Alec's grandmother was trapped in rubble for hours and died of heart failure. Then there was this four-car pileup on the interstate that I saw before it happened. If they'da listened to me and closed off the exit like I told 'em, it wouldn't have happened. Of course, the sheriff was all pissed afterward and wanted to know what I had to do with it." Josiah slams his fist onto the table. "Do you know how frustrating it is to see all these horrible things that are going to happen and not be able to do anything about them?"

I let out a sigh. "As a matter of fact, I do."

"I doubt it," he snaps.

Flattening my lips together, I say, "I saw my
own
death. And then experienced it."

"Oh." He lifts his blue eyes. "Sorry. That's heavy."

"Yeah, tell me about it." I think I'll save the whole near-death experience story for another time. Food's getting cold, and reality doesn't go well with grilling outside with new friends.

Just then, a dapper-dressed Sean Combs wannabe plops down to the left of Jess and grins right at her. "You're cute," he says with a huge smile.

Her jaw drops. "Umm, you're forward, aren't you?"

"I calls them as I sees them." His laughter is infectious, and Jess smiles back. "Micah Davidson. I'm a junior from Cary, Illinois," he says.

I nearly bounce in place. "Hey, I'm originally from Chicago!"

Micah reaches his dark hand across the table and fist bumps me. "Tru' dat, homegirl."

The chatter between boys and girls continues as I pick at my food. My appetite isn't very strong right now. I haven't really eaten a whole bunch since my hospitalization a few weeks ago—mostly soup and sandwiches. Mom's worried that I've lost too much weight. Eight pounds isn't a lot, and besides, all the Southern cooking I'd been ingesting was starting to show. Thing is, I don't want to be rude to Chris and Glenn after all their culinary efforts on our behalf, so I start nibbling at the hot dog, cutting bites off with my knife and fork and popping them into my mouth as I listen to the chatter around me.

So, we've got six girls and six guys. That's not a bad mix. I wonder if they planned it that way. I hope they won't be, like, matching us up together or anything in some sort of spring break speed-dating thing. Don't remember the brochure or itinerary including that. Although the guys seem nice enough and friendly. I have to remember that each of them has something he needs help with, just like me. No matter how cute they may be, no one is anywhere in the vicinity of the neighborhood of Jason Tillson. Besides, it's not like I'm looking to replace Jason immediately. I mean, Talking Feathers is cute in an angst-filled way, and Micah's got that whole confident hip-hop look down, but I'm not going there. Not with TF. Not with Micah. Not with anyone. I'm here to straighten out my life, not screw it up more.