Читать книгу The Adventures of Jillian Spectre - Nic Tatano - Страница 7

My mom, who now wants me to call her Zelda when we’re open for business, is right out of central casting when it comes to her mystic seer persona. She dresses in the Stevie Nicks 1980s fall collection, with wispy capes, translucent scarves, and willowy mid-calf dresses that (in her opinion) make her look as though she’s floating through a room. Since she’s carrying about fifty extra pounds on her five-two frame, the floating part doesn’t exactly work. But she’s got those dark gypsy eyes peering out through bangs that cover her eyebrows, long straight black hair down to what passes for a waist, and enough bling on her fingers and around her neck to set off the TSA alarm at LaGuardia ten feet from the metal detector. Or at least make Dennis Rodman jealous.

But it’s the faux accent she saves for customers that cracks me up. If a pastrami sandwich could talk, it would sound like mom. She tries to take her Noo Yawk fuhgeddaboudit twang and combine it with a stereotypical vampire, resulting in a husky, sleeps-in-a-smoky-bar concoction that doesn’t exactly blend. “Gooood evening, youse vant to look into da future, or vhat?” Luckily she’s usually spot-on in her predictions, so people put up with a voice that sounds like Marisa Tomei in My Cousin Vinny meets Dracula.

Right now, however, she’s not Zelda or a Brooklyn Transylvestite, but mom. And what I’m telling her is making the color drain from her face.

She bites her lower lip as she reaches out and takes my hands. “This is highly unusual, Jillian.”

“So what does it mean? Do I have some special power, or was this just some sort of crystal ball hiccup?”

She shakes her head. “I dunno. Hard to say.”

“Has this ever happened to you, or anyone you know?”

“Uh-uh. But…”

“But…what?”

“There is a very old legend. Of a seer who can see beyond this world.”

“Isn’t that basically a medium?”

She shakes her head. “Nah. They don’t see the afterlife, they contact spirits who have moved on. Big difference.”

“So what’s the legend?”

“It’s easier if…well…I think this is a matter for…The Council.”

I gulp and my pulse shoots through the roof. The Council. So cloaked in secrecy, so high up, so legendary that few in our neighborhood have ever been granted an audience. People refer to it as The Council in hushed tones, as though you could speak in italics. As far as I know, no one my age has ever appeared before The Council.

Except for my own mother.

***

“You okay, Sparks?”

Ryan’s soothing voice makes me turn around as I’m heading into homeroom. “You have to turn it off today,” I say, knowing he must be picking up my anxiety.

He furrows his brow and looks at me with genuine concern. “You’re extremely worried. Anything I can do to help?”

“Yeah, stop reading my thoughts today. I know you’re just trying to be helpful, but please, Ryan, I’m going through something that is very private.”

He nods, closes his eyes for a moment. It’s what he does when he disconnects, or whatever you want to call it, his mind reading ability. He opens his eyes and offers a soft smile. “Sorry, Sparks. I didn’t mean to intrude.”

“I’m sure you didn’t. But you can’t go around sneaking up on girls who might be thinking…you know…stuff.”

I get the sheepish grin that makes him look like a little boy who’s been caught with his hand in the cookie jar, the look that reminds me of when we first met in the second grade. He started calling me Sparks back then because he said when the sun hit me just right it looked like sparks were coming out of my hair. “Sure, I get it. I guess I should really leave my abilities at home. At least…when I’m around someone I care for.”

My heart hits a speed bump and takes my mind off The Council for the first time since the talk with mom. I’ve known the guy since I was seven…is he finally getting it after all these years? Can you please stop thinking of me as your oldest female friend and look at the total package which is dying for a date? “You shouldn’t need to read minds to know how a girl feels, Ryan.” (Well, so much for playing my cards close to the vest. But honestly, when it comes to romance, the guy needs a road map, so I might have to be his GPS.) I wonder how he’s taking my comment. Does he realize I’m talking about myself, or just girls in general? His casual nod tells me it’s the latter. Sonofabitch.

“Hey, girls are always saying boys are clueless when it comes to understanding women. I was trying to get ahead of the curve. You guys aren’t exactly easy to figure out.”

“Part of our charm.” I glance at the clock and know we have about one minute before class. “Better get rolling,” I say, as I head into my homeroom.

“Yeah. See you at lunch. Hope the thing that’s bothering you goes away.”

“Thanks.”

I’m heading into the room and think the conversation is over when I hear him again. “But what you were thinking was pretty spectacular.”

***

The drive to rural New Jersey (yeah, it exists in the western part of the state) is a pleasant one, a welcome change from the crammed together lifestyle that is New York City. I love living in the Big Apple, but it’s nice to get out of town and clear my head. And not worry about someone reading my mind. We’re going to a place known as The Summit, which is not spoken in italics like The Council. It’s basically the home office for the people who oversee those of us in the paranormal world.

I’m trying to pump mom for information about her visit years ago. She keeps telling me “it’s privileged” and can only be revealed with special permission, even though I’m her daughter.

“Can you at least tell me why you only came here once? Did they help you?” I ask.

She shakes her head while keeping her eyes on the road. “Jillian, please stop. We’ll be there in ten minutes and they’ll start as soon as we arrive.”

“They’ll start…what?”

She rolls her eyes. “I wish I could’ve read my own future. I woulda put you on a bus.”

I fold my arms in front of me. “Fine. I’ll be a good little seer. Change the subject.”

“I understand there’s a dance comin’ up at school.”

Now it’s my turn to roll the eyes. “Pick another subject.”

“Why? You’re not hangin’ out with that Jake, are you?”

Change the topic. “I’m getting an A in all my subjects. Aren’t you proud of your daughter?”

“You got an IQ of 160; I should hope you’d breeze through school.” (Great, she took the bait.) “So is that nice young man Ryan going to be escorting you to the dance, or what? Or is that…hooligan.”

“Hooligan? Really, mom, where do you get these terms? Was ne’er-do-well already taken?”

“He’s a hooligan, young lady. Who other than a hooligan re-arranges lawn gnomes in suggestive positions?”

The image of what Jake did to the McGuire’s front yard flashes through my mind and it’s all I can do to keep from laughing. I bite my lip as my own twisted sense of humor envisions the gnomes in a suggestive Travelocity commercial. “He’s got a different kind of wit, mom. And the McGuire’s son is a bully. He had it coming.”

“Here’s our exit,” she says, thankfully getting off the topic of Jake and sexually frustrated garden ornaments. She gets off the highway, makes a right turn and drives about a mile until we arrive at a large, ornate metal gate, which stands guard over a long driveway that disappears into the woods. Mom pulls up to the intercom and hits a button. I note a camera atop the gate, which is busy turning toward our car.

A soft voice floats through the intercom. “Yes?”

“Zelda Spectuh and my daughtuh Jillian.”

I see the lens in the camera twist and it’s obvious someone is getting a closer look. There’s a buzz and the gate swings open. Mom maneuvers the car past the gate and down the winding driveway that seems to go on forever.

And then I see it.

A massive stone castle that looks right out of the middle ages. “That’s The Summit?”

Mom smiles, and nods. “Impressive, huh?”

“I didn’t know there were castles in Jersey.”

“Yeah, but what’s inside ain’t no fairy tale.”

***

An hour later I feel like I’m on the witness stand being grilled by a bevy of prosecutors. I’m seated in a massive, elaborately carved oak chair that feels like a throne, complete with a ruby red velvet seat cushion, while four members of The Council, two men and two women, press me for more details about my experience and take notes on legal pads. It’s chilly and a bit damp inside; castles are apparently not equipped with central heating. The huge room has stone walls, high ceilings, and a few large windows which overlook a pond. I feel like I’ve told the story six times already, but they continue to pepper me with question after question, wanting the minutiae of the whole affair. Finally, I’ve had enough.

“Look, with all due respect,” I say, sitting up straight, “haven’t you gotten enough information—”

My mom whips her head around and shoots me the glare which I’ve learned means shut the hell up.

The tall, thin gray-haired man who introduced himself as Sebastien (no last name, like Madonna) narrows his dark eyes a bit and seems to shove me down with his stare. “Young lady, I dare say you do not understand the ramifications of your experience. Though our questions may seem redundant, I assure you there is a purpose behind each one.” He smoothes his snow white beard with one hand as he turns to the others. “She is a great deal like her father.”

“You mean, like my father was when he was my age?”

Sebastien looks at my mother. “I think it’s time we told her the truth.”

Now it’s my turn to give my mother the eyes, only mine are as wide as they can be. She bites her lower lip and her eyes well up as she looks at me for forgiveness.

And I can tell she’s been lying to me about my father my entire life.

“What?” I ask.

Her mouth opens but she says nothing.

“What, mom? You mean the truth about how he died?”

“Young lady,” says Sebastien. “Your father is not dead.”