Uncanny Day (5 page)

Then I noticed that the chair under my hand had a name on it. I scooted the chair back and it made that awful screeching sound, carrying into an echo. The letters looked as if someone had branded the name “Uncle Bud” into the plastic. Like, this spot was reserved for Uncle Bud, and nobody else could sit here but him.

I pulled out the chair next to Uncle Bud. In black, burnt lettering was “Wilma Sheridan.” I'd never heard the name. I went to another table and inspected a chair. This time it read “Will Smith.”
Wait a minute
… I traced the letters with my finger. Sure enough, the name was there. My eyes wandered further to the chair beside Will's. This one read “Dean Mitchell.” That's when it started to make sense. These were all people Greg knew, or…well, something to that effect.

A part of me wanted to argue that he didn't know the famous actor personally; “Will Smith” just happened to be a common name. And it seemed interesting that Dean already had prime seating. Then the bigger picture hit me. This table wasn't a circle shape like the others; it was curved in that of a giant heart. It was a bit askew, but it was recognizable. Man, you'd think I would have picked up on this heart thing along the way. I tried to think back. Had I seen that shape inside Laura's mind?

Four other chairs gathered at the heart table. I bet one of them had Laura's name on it. Leaning to the side to view the next chair, I read the name “Linda Wilkins.” In the next seat blazed the name “Matt Hemmings.” The following chair's name was “Jenny Wilkins.” Only one chair left—this had to be it.

“Gotcha!” I said, and flipped it out. The name read “Stephen King.” A good choice, but not what I was expecting. There was no Laura Hartman. I whipped around to face the rest of the tables. None of them were heart shaped, although there were twenty-five chairs left to check out. Well, maybe Laura wasn't a love in Greg's life after all. Maybe they just hadn't gotten serious yet. Were they even dating?

I took a seat in Will Smith's chair. Laura's name had to be among those chairs somewhere. The wafting smell of steamed rice and glazed chicken entered my presence. Turning my head, I stood and noticed the Chinese food stand for the first time. The Quick Wok seemed to be grilling up something delicious. It was positioned in the middle of all the other food outlets that encompassed the entire room. Was it strange that I was hungry? Maybe Greg had food for thought. (Sorry, bad joke.)

I took three steps in the amazing smell's direction and froze as the letters in the word “Quick” parted like an elevator door and the whole establishment itself split in half. As it separated, from the darkness beyond it scooted in another small plastic chair, just the same as the others. The problem was that all the tables were full. Instantly, another chair made that scraping sound, backed itself up, and was sucked into the dark abyss behind the Grab-and-Go sub sandwich vendor. The new chair took the old chair's place.

“Whoa,” was the only thing I could say.

I didn't know who got replaced, but I could certainly find out who took the old spot. Doing a short jog to the new seat, I knelt down so the name was at eye level. Ron Sutting's name was sizzled into the back of chair, a few wisps of smoke still lifting from it. The worst part was that the delicious smell of sweet-and-sour chicken permeated from it, making me that much more hungry. I stood again. I was stuck at a standstill and had no idea what I was doing here. I'd come in to find out why Greg lies and only discovered that I was hungry for some Quick Wok.

Surveying the other vendors around me, I started to wonder what the burger joint and the ice cream shack were hiding behind them. A loud scooting sound was made again, and just as if the five round tables were gears, they all rotated, chairs shifting and repositioning into different spots. It was as if Greg was literally playing musical chairs with the people he knew, ordering them to his liking.

When they finally stopped configuring themselves, I walked back to the heart-shaped table once more. Circling it, I found that all the place settings were the same—nothing changed. I planted myself in Dean's chair. Did Greg really love Dean? I mean, Dean was a cool guy and all, but for another guy to, well, love him, after just having met him a day or so before, seemed a bit excessive. It was obvious that Greg wanted to be popular.

I buried my face in my hands, resting my elbows on the table. This was ridiculous. This stupid food court, stupid chairs being branded by names and smelling like delicious Chinese cuisine, and then everything shifting around—it was a waste of time being here. I slammed the table with a fist. It was time to leave.

“Stupid heart-shaped table. Who has a heart-shaped table anyway?” I said out loud. Nobody answered. I closed my eyes.

That was it, the heart-shaped table! I fell to the ground on my knees and then to my side. The tiled floor was hard, but it seemed clean enough. I supposed this food court didn't even serve food, so why would it be dirty? On my back, I squirmed under the table. The poor overhead lighting and crossing shadows from the chairs made it hard to see, but there it was, written underneath. Just like in the backs of the chairs, a blackened name was seared into the underside of the table.

“Good, Greg, very good,” I said, but not because of his cleverness of hiding the name under the table. The name read “Stephanie Daniels.”

Chapter Eleven

REVERTING TO MY MIND, I blinked a few times as a chill swept over my skin and I realized I was standing in front of Greg again.

“Hello?” Greg waved his hand at me. “Hey, it's Nolan, right?” He was still trying to place a name with my face.

“Yeah, Nolan Day.”

Greg blinked at me. I wanted to make a sizzling noise because my name, no doubt, had just been branded into a chair. Then a thought occurred to me. I wanted to test something.

“Hey, do you like Will Smith movies?” Greg gave me a scrunched-up face. I let the question sink in and then followed with, “You know, the actor?” I raised my eyebrows at him.

“Yeah, he's only my favorite actor. I love that guy's movies.”

I smiled.

Turning around, I called out to Kate. She was maybe halfway to Stephanie now, so I jogged to catch up.

“Whoa, that was fast. What did you find out?” she asked. I was a bit out of breath.

“Greg likes Stephanie,” I said plainly.

“He does? Wait, I thought he was going to the Fall Ball with Laura.”

“He is, but for some reason Laura knows he's lying about something.”

I let Kate chew on it for a second.

“I'm confused,” she said.

I just gave Kate a shrug because I honestly didn't know myself what was really going on, and my heart was beating about a million times a minute hanging on to another thought. I could tell Stephanie everything was fine. Even though Laura was going to the dance with Greg, he was really in love with her.

Looking past Kate, I set my sights on Stephanie, who had just made it to the outer sidewalk that bordered the school's campus. I had to tell her the truth, release the wrong I had placed in her crumbling mind. I was sure it was tearing everything inside apart.

I gripped Kate's hand to focus her attention on me.

“Hey, let me talk to Stephanie. I need to undo this.”

Kate was about to speak, obviously still trying to connect the dots.

I took off toward Stephanie. What would I say to her when we met up? Would she even believe me or listen to what I had to say? She had to, right? This was something that would change everything. I felt that burdened feeling begin to lighten; it felt good. Everything was going to be okay; everything was going to work out.

I could see Stephanie just ahead of me, but I stopped running and watched in complete horror as Stephanie stepped off the curb of the sidewalk and right into oncoming traffic.

Chapter Twelve

I WAS STILL IN the passenger seat of Dean's car. He had gone inside twenty minutes ago. Our car ride had been silent, safe, and I was afraid to remove myself from that state.

Back at school, at the scene of the accident that played out right in front of me, I had watched ambulances show up in record time and the paramedics move at superhuman speed in order to save Stephanie. Me, I froze. Dean's the one who found me, shook me out of it, and helped me into his car. There was nothing we could do. I didn't even remember seeing Kate afterward. I didn't remember much after seeing that image of Stephanie's frail, bloody body lying in the street.

The front door to the house opened and a man stepped onto the porch. I was sure Dean had told his dad everything. What did you call that sort of relationship with your parents? Oh, that's right—a real one.

Rick Mitchell was good guy and an even better foster dad. It was as if he'd been plucked right out of the 1950s and transported to now. His horn-rimmed glasses and the distinct part in his hair both spoke to his character and good-natured sensibility. He always wore an expression on his face that reassured me, as if to say, “Sure, you can live with us, just as long as you eat your green beans and drink your milk.”

I could almost see Dean's good traits in his dad, Rick's all-American attitude and small-town respect that he'd gained through hard work and honesty being a local sheriff's deputy. And even though he looked like Ned Flanders, he was no Barney Fife. When it came to doing justice or upholding the law, Rick was there.

Our town wasn't like the neighboring metropolis of Chicago, and when it came to crime in River City, it had probably only seen its bulk of gangsters in the movies. Heck, if you had a flat tire, it was enough to get Deputy Mitchell to stop, fix it for you, and then buy you a cup of coffee. I was almost positive he paid out more for coffee than he brought in with traffic violations.

And here he was now, standing there, ready to buy me a cup of coffee if he thought it would cheer me up. He took soft steps to the side of the car as I got out.

“Hey,” he said, meeting me halfway.

“Don't worry—I was going to come in. Just had a crazy day at school,” I interjected.

He nodded. This was the way the man operated—simple, quick, and respectful.

“Tracy is making spaghetti. It's ready whenever you are.”

Tracy Mitchell was Rick's wife. The pair couldn't have been a better match. She worked part-time at River City Savings and Loan Bank. The rest of her time, she used to volunteer at their church.

Yet what made the couple a perfect match was their willingness to search out and help those in need. They'd been doing foster care and charity work ever since they had taken their wedding vows—or at least, that's what Rick had told me. I was just one of the many foster kids they'd taken in over their twenty-some-odd years of marriage.

The Mitchells were good at it, too. No matter the length of time children lived in the household, they loved them unconditionally, from tiniest infant to the oldest teenager—or that's how Dean put it.

I'd asked him once if it had affected him in any way, having all these strangers in his house and his parents treating them as though they were their own. I remember him just smiling and saying, “I'm the lucky one. I have a chance to impact someone's life even if it's only for a weekend. We are that speck of hope in a world that has deemed them hopeless.”

I could honestly say I had no clue where I would've been without the Mitchell family.

Looking at Rick now, I watched him survey the sky above, hands on his hips, as if the only thing he had to do in life was wait on me.

“Well, we'd better get inside. We don't want Dean to eat it all,” he said.

“Let me drop my stuff off upstairs and I'll be down in a second.”

Rick smiled, tipping his imaginary hat. His job was done.

***

THE REFRESHING FEEL OF cool water over my face brought my anxiety down, just as Rick's presence had. I stood in the bathroom that adjoined my bedroom and wiped my face with a soft towel.

I slumped down on the edge of my bed and closed my eyes. What a crappy day. My mind tried to review everything. With so many events and way too many unresolved questions, I felt drained.

On top of everything else, I was worn out physically. My insomnia from the night before weakened me, and just the idea of trying to battle for sleep that night made my already aching stomach swirl with nausea.

Then I heard them, but not with my ears. They came from inside my head. The voices. A whispering chatter dug its way into my psyche. The words were nothing but empty mumblings, like a storm of thunderclouds brewing inside me. I had to gain control somehow, fight them or contain them, shut them out.

I felt my eyes squeeze and my teeth grit against one another. Out of the blackness of my mind, I tried scale the dark tides of walls from within. I cast the waters like a black tarp over some invisible object. The voices began to muffle and recede. Had I done it? Had I contained them? Astonishment shook through my body, and I opened my eyes.

I looked down at my hands. They were covered in black liquid, and in each palm stretched a silently screaming face of agony. I fell back on my bed and feverishly rubbed the oily liquid from my hands. I stopped in horror, recognizing the face on my right hand. It was Stephanie's.