Signs of You (12 page)

“What is that?” I ask.

“No idea,” Noah says, squinting. “Looks like medieval doodling.”

“Is it a symbol?”

“Googling,” Noah says, reaching for his phone. “But I've never seen one that looks anything like this. The main Jesuit seal has Greek letters and a cross. And I've been through all of Jay's dad's stuff. No symbols like this in there, either.”

I grab my laptop off my dresser and enter
Nos omnostria sumus
into Google Translate. It spits it back out at me and guesses that the language is Finnish, just like it did in Subway when it had no clue what the word meant. I move on to the symbol. I Google phrases like
Ignatian symbols
,
Jesuit symbols
, and
Catholic symbols
. And a lot of stuff comes up, but it's all generic: the basic sign for the Jesuit order and a description of it. I stare at the symbol for the Jesuit Society.

It's a sun with a cross and letters inside—the Greek letters iota, eta, and an
S
, which it says is probably a Latin approximation for the Greek letter sigma. Three nails hover underneath the letters and form a
V
shape. I look back at the manuscript. The squiggles don't look anything like the Jesuit seal.

I go back to web results and search again using Google Scholar. I open the f irst academic article that comes up. It lists super basic Catholic symbols like crosses, f laming hearts, and f ish, complete with lame commentary like, “Most world religions rely heavily on symbolism.”

Thank you, Professor Obvious
,
PhD.

“I don't think I've ever said what I'm about to say,” I say slowly, still pecking away at my laptop. “Nor did I ever think it would be uttered by any human ever. But . . . the Internet isn't helping.”

We stare at each other, blinking.

“I know what we need,” I say, arching an eyebrow at him.

“Librarians
,
” he answers, reading my mind. “I know, I know, my specialty.”

Again, I feel warmth, like water across the surface of a sponge. But there's more to it. Is a spirit present here now, trying to tell me something? But what? If anything, I hope it means we're at least on the right track.

“Know of any libraries open at 1
a.m.
on a Sunday night?” he asks, snapping me out of my reverie.

I enter
Cleveland Public Library
into the search box. The Internet helps with that, at least. “The main branch of the CPL opens at 8:30
a.m.
tomorrow. We can get Kate and Jay on the way. And it's not like any of our teachers will be shocked if the Back on Track foursome skip school.”

“Not in the least.” Noah takes a deep breath and stretches out on his back. I do the same. And I'm not sure how much longer we lie like that, staring up at my fake bedroom sky. But I know we fall asleep at some point, because the last thing I remember is looking up at my not-in-the-north North Star and thinking, just before I close my eyes:

Mom. I'm coming.

Chapter 13

Mini-Mart Meaning

At 7
a.m.
, I text Jay and Kate and let them know I've found Noah. That we need to skip school and that we'll pick them up in an hour. I add strict instructions that they are
not
to push Noah about where he's been or who he's talked to.
He
knows more than he's telling me, and
I
know that we can't afford to have him bail again. I can't live with the stress.

We get Jay f irst; he's ready and out of the house faster than he ever has been before. He opens the back passenger door and slides in. Then he reaches up front to give me the f ist-bump handshake.

“Where in the
hell
have you been, dude?” he says to Noah before he even completes the fadeaway.

So much for the promise Jay made me. I shoot him an angry look in the rearview mirror.

“Spent the night at Riley's,” Noah says with a smirk. I can tell he knows how that sounds. I can also tell he likes it.

“It's not like
that
,” I say. “He crashed at my place when he came home. We were trying to read the manuscript.”

“I meant where were you in the global
sense,” Jay grumbles. “Like, where did you go and where the hell is my dad's cross?”

“Jay,” I warn. “Come on . . .”

“I'm aware that you are going to hate me for saying this,” Noah says. “But I really can't tell you. I promised. But the cross is safe, okay? Trust me.”

I shoot Jay another look in the rearview mirror, which clearly and unmistakably says:
Don't screw this up.

Jay shakes his head, leaning back in his seat.

We get Kate next. She races out of the house, her long black hair still wet from the shower. She clutches her backpack in one hand and her makeup bag in the other.

“OMG-where-were-you?” she says to Noah, breathless as she gets in the backseat.

“Don't ask,” Jay says. “We're not allowed to know.”

“Are you
serious
?” Kate looks at me in the rearview. “I thought he could at least tell us—” She stops when I give her my best trust-me eyes.

“Let's all just chill,” I announce. “And get to the library. The CPL. We know what part of the manuscript we need to f igure out, and maybe they can help us there.”

“Did you remember to grab it?” Noah asks.

“It's in my bag. In the way-back,” I say.

“This is all so unbelievable,” Kate says. “Thank god I'm stocked up on candy.”

I realize as I speed off that I completely agree. It is all so unbelievable. Every single thing about what's going on between the four of us, and why. Because none of us has a freaking clue.

We've done this before.
Well, the skipping school part. Not the Cleveland library part. And we've already perfected the strategy. The best thing to do is to just not show up for f irst period. Parents don't get called until the beginning of second period while the school secretary waits to see if you are going to show up late. So that means just before the second period bell, I have to text my dad at work and tell him that I'm sick. And that I'm on my way home. So by the time the school calls, my dad can inform them that I'm sick today. Then I always wait about f ifteen minutes or so, text Dad at work again, and tell him I'm home safe and sound and tucked in bed. We all do it. It works every time.

“Somebody set the second period bell alarm on a phone,” I instruct. “So we don't forget to text home.” No one conf irms, but I see Kate whip out her cell in the back.

It takes about twenty minutes to get to the CPL. The silence hangs thick among us. Jay leans into the front seat and turns on the radio. He scans through station after station and hits a county song. Two dudes, twanging about horses.

“Ooh. Stay there, stay there,” Kate says. “Love this song.”

Jay and I exchange a smirk in the mirror, his crazy-beautiful brown eyes beaming in the light that pours through the sunroof. I feel that little rush I sometimes do when I look directly at him. I force my eyes back to the road. But then I realize something, too: that rush, it's f leeting, but I should pay attention. Like Noah said . . .

An idea hits me.

If Noah is right about what St. Ignatius f igured out—that good and evil spirits sometimes inhabit us, toy with our insides, give us urges to do one thing or the other—then maybe I should just follow every single urge and whim I have. If these spirits are trying to get me to do something, if they need my help, or if one will guide me to my mom again, then surely if I follow through with every idea that comes to me, one of them is
bound
to be what a spirit wants me to do. Eventually, some urge I follow will be the right one and might help me f igure this out. I should just throw caution to the wind:
think it, do it.

As if that were the person I am. It's almost funny. If there were a lighted marquee on my forehead it would read the most unlikely of announcements:
Hold onto your hats. I'm about to do every single thing that pops into my head.

“This is taking forever,” Noah complains. He's f idgeting in his seat, and his brow is furrowed. We need to keep him calm and happy. I glance over at him, try to read him. I wonder if he's thinking about life after death, about the chance to see Cam again. I remember when he said that Jay and I don't have a corner on the pain market, just because we're the only two in the group who have lost parents.

“Penny for your thoughts.” I try to keep my tone light as I turn on my blinker and move into the passing lane.

Noah forces a quick smile. “Beef sticks vs. beef jerky. Which is better?” he asks.

“
Beef jerky?
At a time like this?” Kate says from the back. Noah throws me a sideways grin.

That's when the screaming starts.

It's incomprehensible, and all at once. Kate is shrieking and climbing into the way-back. Jay scrambles after her. Noah just looks confused, staring at me, and saying over and over, “What the hell? What the hell?”

And that's when I notice my arms . . . they're covered in chills. Absolutely covered. I have goose bumps on top of goose bumps. And I know. The screaming is about something inside this car—or rather, who's inside
me.
A spirit. One must be here.

“OMG, OMG,” Kate stammers.

“Slow your roll, Riley. Slow your roll,” is all Jay can manage.

I look down at the speedometer. He's right; I'm speeding like crazy.

“The hell? Seriously. The hell?” Noah says. “Do you guys see—”

“Yes,” Kate squeaks. “In Riley. Right now. I saw just a glimpse. But it was someone. Someone else.”

And then I realize I'm still going too fast. And that the country music is still blasting out of the speakers. The song is about bird dogs and gigging frogs.

I know I should totally be freaking out like everyone else, but I'm not. Instead of thinking about spirits, or my mom, or even how the sound of my friends freaking out is starting to give me a dull thudding headache, I'm thinking about the line in the country song about gigging frogs
.
It's like I've disassociated from my body, from the car, from the whole situation just to survive it. I'm thinking about how I don't have a clue what it means—to
gig
a frog. Does it involve
throwing
frogs?
Juggling
frogs? Maybe
chasing
them? Or is it something more sinister, like hitting them with a mallet or something? And then I start trying to conjugate the verb “to gig.”
She will gig, she is gigging, she gigged? Or she gugged?

But then, unfortunately, my strange sense of calm fades, and I attempt to pay attention to what this spirit might want me to do. As much as I try to notice what it's trying to make me feel, what the chills might be pointing me to, I can't. I start to panic.

“It's okay,” Noah whispers. “The spirit is trying to get you to do something, Riley. Or to feel something.
Think.
Clear your head. What is it?”

It's hard enough just to focus on driving without getting us all killed. “I don't know. I can't think. I can't—I can't— ” I'm stuttering.

“What are you talking about, Noah?” Kate says. “What do you mean a spirit is trying to get her to do something?”

“I'll explain later,” Noah says. He turns and faces me. “Just keep your eyes on the road. Don't wreck. There are Ignatian spirit tests. What—”

“Wait,” Jay interrupts. “I remember this. My dad talked about spirit tests . . .
discernment
.” He stops, putting it all together. “
Of course.
” Jay leans up in the front seat. “What were we talking about right before the spirit showed up? Maybe that's a clue about what it wants?”

“Can someone tell me what's going on?” Kate asks, her voice shaky.

“Spirits inhabit us,” Noah says. “They try to inf luence us to do one thing or another. I think because you guys wore the cross, that's what you're seeing: the spirits at work.”

“Jerky,” Jay says. “We were talking about eating jerky. Maybe that's it. Maybe it wants Riley to eat beef jerky?”

I want to tell him he's an idiot, but I'm so scared, my mouth isn't working right.

“It's worth a try,” Jay says. “Pull off. This exit has a gas station.”

That, I do. I spin the wheel way too quickly and careen into the exit lane. I speed down the exit ramp and take a right toward a Stop & Shop. We come to a screeching halt, empty out of the car, and go running into the minimart. Not because I want beef jerky. Because I want out of this car.

As we enter, the doors bing, and I try to get my thoughts together. I think about my plan:
think it, do it.
I should just do anything that comes into my mind. Maybe that's the best way to f igure out what this spirit wants. But I can't even get my thoughts straight and f igure out what I'm feeling or wanting because my friends are going completely nuts. On the other hand, at least I got out of the car. One mission: accomplished.

“Here, here, here,” Kate rips open a huge bag of jerky and shoves a piece in my mouth.

I spit it out. It's disgusting. It's not even food.

“No way,” Jay says. “That's Teriyaki f lavor, Kate.
No one
can be destined to eat Teriyaki f lavor.” He urgently points to the jerky shelf. “Get Original!”

This new f lavor is no better. It leaves a thick salt layer on my tongue and that, combined with the panic and the mini-mart lighting—I feel like I might go down. My friends are no help; panic has stripped them of all rational thought. Not that I can blame them. As they whirl around me, I realize they've snapped into some sort of heist-movie mode, like we're a bunch of bandits pulling off the snack robbery of the century—which Kate actually is. Her pilfering tendencies have kicked in and she's stuff ing all kinds of horrible meat sticks in her pockets and heading for the door. I grab her arm and make her pay the cashier. In a blur, we slam money down on the counter, and then we're running back to the Wagon like it's our trusty getaway van.

And then, the
truly
unexpected, Jay shoves a lit
cigarette
into my mouth.

“A cigarette?” I cough.

“I thought maybe that beef jerky could be a symbol for something else.” He sounds embarrassed, as if uttering the words make them sound as moronic as they are—which is the only thing I'm sure of right now.

“You can't be serious,” I croak.

But he's just staring at me, or staring at the spirit, I don't know which.

“OMG it's the END TIMES,” Kate moans. “Jay has a fake ID.”

“You
dawg
,” Noah says in dry voice.

Jay shrugs. “Cousin has a really fancy printer.”

I'm coughing—and coughing, and coughing. The cigarette is
horrible.
I throw it out the window.

“You guys,” I say between hacks. “I don't think I'm supposed to
smoke.
I don't think we're getting this. Shouldn't spirits try to get us to do more important stuff than . . .” My voice trails off. Kate and Jay are frowning at me now.

“Dammit,” Kate says. She def lates like a pool toy left out overnight. “I think it's gone. The spirit. I saw a f lash of it, and now nothing. Do you feel anything?”

I shake my head no.

“Why doesn't it just
tell
us what Riley is supposed to do?” Jay asks. “Then we can get Riley to do it.”

“That's not how discernment works,” Noah says. “That was Ignatius's whole thing. They give us
sensations
. That's their only way to reach us. It could give Riley an idea to say something, to give us a clue. But she has to f igure out what that is for herself.”

I'm still softly hacking and silently apologizing to my lungs. “Can someone hand me a Vitamin Water?”

As the cold, sweet, vitamin-B infused liquid slides down my throat, I start to pull myself together. Now I'm not thinking about jerky or cigarettes or symbolism. All I'm thinking is that I want to know what I'm supposed to do
.

I want to know how to help my mom.