The Guidance (13 page)

I nod proudly.

"Y'all are weird," Becca says with a smirk. "What's the bottom line, Nichols?"

"Courtney's a big phony."

Jason harrumphs. "You just figured this out now?"

"I knew it!" I did. There's no way she became psychic overnight.

Celia explains. "The calls during the lunch hour when she was putting on her little stage show were from Farah Lewis, Courtney's father's office, and Mina herself."

"Right. I assumed Mina's reading was a gag to get things started," I say. "Why the call from her father's office?"

Jason responds. "Her dad owns Radisson Mortgage Brokers, which is probably where Mrs. Flynn has all of her paperwork. That's how Courtney knew about her mortgage problems."

"That explains it," Becca chimes in. "And the stuff about your mom?"

Celia turns her computer around to show the home page of the Radisson chapter of the Daughters of the American Confederacy. In the front row is Jason and Taylor's mom, and she's sitting next to Georgia Moutzourogeorgos, Mina's mother. "Mina must have heard something that your mother shared in confidence. It all makes sense now." She pauses for a moment. "Actually, if we hadn't reacted on such an emotional level straightaway to all of this—Taylor particularly—we might have been able to use our own female intuition to put the puzzle pieces together and see that Courtney's a fake psychic. This is a desperate plea for help, I think."

"Bullshit," Becca spews. "It's a desperate plea for attention."

An idea hits me. "I think I have a way to show her up."

"How?" Celia asks.

"We plant some information," I say. "Then we'll call her on it. In public."

"Works for me," Jason says. "I'll sell tickets for it."

Celia gives me a thumbs-up. "The only way that could be more brilliant is if I had thought it up."

I turn to Becca. "You in?"

She shrugs. "I suppose so. I still say me and Dragon let the air out of her tires."

I crack up laughing and don't care who hushes me. "Maybe as a last resort."

While Jason is at track practice, he lets me borrow the Jeep (thank God it's an automatic!) to run errands for my mom and to take Becca home after school.

I pull into the driveway of the plain one-story brick house and shut off the ignition. Turning to the Goth girl next to me, I say, "I really appreciate that you stood up for me. And Taylor too."

Becca twirls her diamond stud nose ring. "Courtney's always been a selfish cow, even when we were little. You shouldn't take it personally."

"But I
am
taking it personally because, well ... it's directed at me!"

"You're just different and new to town and people have taken to you. She can't deal."

"Neither can I," I mumble.

"My dad always says
Illegitimi non carborundum
."

I lay my head on the steering wheel. "Oh God, not you too! How many languages do I have to take to keep up with you, Taylor, and Celia?"

Becca smiles. A beautiful vibrant one, I notice, with straight teeth. The teeth of a former beauty queen and a current Goth princess. "It means 'Don't let the bastards grind you down.' And in this case, Courtney Langdon would be said bastard."

I nod vigorously.

Becca slides out of the Jeep and reaches for her black satchel. "Hey, you wanna come in for a soda?"

I glance at my watch. "I've got to get the Jeep back to Jason after my errands, but maybe for a sec?"

I follow Becca through the carport and up three stairs into her kitchen. It's a modest design. Clean and white with Formica countertops; I can't tell if they're a modern-day nod to the past or if they're the real thing. A small table sits off in the right corner, next to a window overlooking a backyard grown tall with wildflowers, grass, and weeds. An in-ground swimming pool is covered with a royal blue tarp thatched with leaves that have fallen from the nearby pecan tree.

"Take a load off." She drops her stuff in front of the counter, where the telephone is mounted on the wall. "Let's see what we've got."

I take a seat in one of the ladder-back chairs and suddenly get this overwhelming sense of sadness rushing through me, like white-water rapids. My breathing falters and I want to cry rivers of tears for the loss I'm feeling around me. This chair belonged to someone dear. My heart
hurts
like someone is pounding me in the chest. Nothing in my life has felt like this. Well, maybe when I lost Grandma Ethel. What can this be?

Becca tosses a silver can my way. "All we've got is Fresca. Is that cool?"

"Yeah, sure," I manage to eke out.

"I gotta pee, BRB."

Laughing, I say, "I thought being classy was going to be your new thing."

"That wore off." Then she disappears through the den and down a hallway to the left.

I don't know much about Rebecca "Becca" Asiaf other than what I've learned from Celia and Taylor. Most of the info doesn't ring true with the DJ Goth girl I see every day at school. According to my friends, Becca was a regular in local beauty pageants—until last year. Now she sticks to herself when she's not around us, or she hangs with the tough kids like Brent Dragisich and his other crotch-rocket-riding buddies. Ghost hunting for her seems more like a pastime than the calling it is for Celia and me.

I pop the top on the Fresca and take a long sip. It's citrusy and cold, but the ache in my heart is still there. There's a lot of place memory or residual energy here. Not necessarily a spirit present, but a residue of someone's soul and how he or she affected others while here. However, I can feel one memory vividly, as if I lived it myself: It's an old woman with a gray bun at the back of her head. She's shelling peas at the table, right where I'm sitting. I stand up and move around the kitchen, still picking up the strong vibe. My left ear starts to ring like I've been underwater too long. I'm drawn to a closed door next to the television—which looks neither cable ready nor HD capable—and am aware of pure energy radiating from behind here. I know it's closed for a reason, yet I reach forward to twist the knob and then venture in to pinpoint the source of my emotions.

The door creaks open into a dark, musty formal living room with heavy gold drapes pulled closed to keep any light out. I fight the urge to sneeze at the dust gathered up; my tongue tickles the roof of my mouth to prevent it. I gasp as I look around the room. It's one trophy case after another, each shelf filled with crowns, banners, scepters, and awards—some that are nearly five feet tall. Also on the shelves are dust-covered pictures showing a much younger Becca wearing beautiful pageant dresses and posing, singing, or twirling a baton. As a child, she was really gorgeous, even model-like, with her flowing chestnut hair. Her face, skin as porcelain as a fine China doll's, shows happiness, poise, and grace. Class is obviously her "old" thing.

I walk over to one framed photo in particular: it's of the woman I saw in my mind. I pick it up in my hand, and memories—someone else's—rush through me. There's an older lady dressed in her Sunday best standing next to Becca, who's around age thirteen and wearing her Peanut Festival Queen crown. The woman's smile is so bright that her eyes are crinkled shut. Becca has never looked happier.

I have no words to amply describe the sorrow I feel near me. Misery fills my chest in an anvil of pain, heavy and burdensome. Doubts swirl overhead, and I don't know where they're stemming from. A baton lies abandoned in the corner of the room, as does a set of twirling knives and a tattered pair of ballet shoes.

What could have caused this immense grief that flows through this house like it's circulated by an HVAC unit? How did this amazingly gorgeous girl end up dyeing her hair black, piercing her lip and nose—and God knows what else—and turning into a social loner who hangs out with me, Ghost Girl?

Another wave of anguish splashes over me, causing me to grip the closest bookshelf for support.

"Oh, Becca..."

Then I hear, "What the hell do you think you're doing in here?"

"I'm ... I'm sorry, Becca."

She glowers at me and takes the photo out of my hands. She slams it back in place on the shelf, rattling some of the ribboned medals that hang loosely around one of the trophies.

Not knowing exactly how to cover up this bumble, I compliment her on all of the plaques and awards. "You should be wicked proud of all these. Why do you keep it all shut up in the dark?"

Becca's top teeth snag her bottom lip. Then she says, "It's really none of your business, Kendall. You shouldn't be in here."

"I said I'm sorry. I was just drawn in."

"How so?"

"There was this intense energy that called to me."

"It called to you, huh? Well, next time, don't answer."

"I didn't mean to offend—"

She hands me Jason's keys, which I left on the counter. "You know, I just remembered I have a lot of studying to do. I'm sure Jason needs his Jeep by now."

I've just been given the teenage equivalent of "Here's your hat, what's your hurry," I suppose. "Sure, I should get going." I nab the opened Fresca from the table and take it with me. "Thanks for the bevvie."

As I'm leaving, Becca stops me. "Look, Kendall. You're cool and we're friends. But there's no ghost investigating here, okay? This is my house and it's off-limits."

"Sure, Becca."

"As long as we're square."

"Whatever you say. See you tomorrow."

I hurry back to Jason's Jeep and back out of the driveway. When I turn to look at the house, I see one of the large, gold drapes in the trophy room fall into place. Becca's hiding something from me. Question is: how do I find out what?

"The bait is on the hook," Becca tells me Wednesday morning.

Celia and I are standing outside the girls' bathroom waiting to set the trap for Courtney. The aforementioned bait is Mina Moutzourogeorgos, who, according to Becca, just entered a stall. I sort of feel bad about what we're doing, but then again, I'm not the one who started this feud. I'm also not the one calling people names or spilling food on them. We're just trying to get Courtney to come clean and stop acting like head bitch in charge.

"Good luck," Celia says to me and then we swing into the ladies'.

I muster up my best acting abilities—I was in a Christmas pageant at church when I was ten, but I only played one of the sheep at the manger, so I don't know if that counts—and then I do my best to start crying.

"Are we alone?"

"I think so," Celia says, really trying to find Mina. "Why?"

"I have a secret. No one can know. Especially Courtney."

"Cross my heart," she says.

"J-J-Jason broke up with me," I say dramatically.

"Why?" Celia chimes in, even though she's bent over, looking under the doors. She gives me an okay sign when she sees Mina's trademark red stilettos lift off the floor. "Y'all are perfect for each other."

"That's what I thought too." I try to project my voice to where Mina's hiding, make sure she hears every word. "But he told me it's Courtney he really loves and he's still all hung up on her. He broke it off with me because he says I'm not so special now that Courtney's psychic too. He wants her back." I add a little breakage in my voice at the end, for effect.

"Oh, Kendall, that's awful," Celia says and then rolls her eyes at me. "It'll be okay."

"No, it won't. How will I hold my head up? You can't tell anyone that I told you. Swear?"

"Sure, whatever." I knock her with my elbow. She's not doing a good enough acting job. "Oh, right. No, I won't tell anyone. I swear on my dog Seamus's life."

I lower my voice to a whisper. "Now you're just overdoing it."

We leave the bathroom and head around the corner to hide behind Mr. Lowry's door and see if Mina got the message. Sure enough, a moment later, Mina emerges from the bathroom with her cell phone to her ear, relaying my convo with Celia.

"Excellent," Celia says and drills her fingertips together. "Now we just have to wait and see what happens."

The lunchroom is all abuzz today. Gossip and rumors are flying this way and that. Man, you gotta love high school and how news gets around. People look at me with gloom in their faces. Yeah, they know. Mina's game of pass-it-on has been, well, passed on. I don't care so much about what random sophomores think; I want to see what Courtney's going to do with this info.

As usual, I grab a tray and slowly move through the lunch line. Mmm ... roast turkey, dressing, and cranberry sauce. It's only October, but I'm game for a Thanksgiving preview. I pay the cashier and then turn to catch Taylor's eye. She's so good at getting a table for us and spreading out so no one invades our turf.

The music today is a particularly Trance-y groove, with delayed synthesizers and an upbeat, positive, energetic composition. Becca's taught me a bunch about this stuff since I've been here. Songs carry their own energy, I've found, and I'm sure that it's Becca's talent with her DJ equipment that makes her such a great EVP specialist. I really hope I didn't offend her yesterday at her house. Sometimes I just can't control myself. I need to learn how to keep my psychic abilities in check. I don't have to respond to
every
spirit or sensation calling out to me.

"Awesome mix today, Becca."

She slips the headphones off one ear and smiles at me.

"I'm really sorry about yesterday."

Waving me off, she clicks another iPod to her mixing board. "I'm on a music high right now."

"I can tell."

"There's nothing like this. A new DJ I discovered, DJ Adian from South Africa. This shit's layered with three-oh-three bass pulses, Doppler effects, sequencer riffs, and stacks of percussion, and builds up to a climactic tension."

I'm relieved to see she's not harboring any ill will toward me. She's really into this; it's almost like talking to Celia. Not knowing what to say, I smile. "Cool. You should charge for this, you know? You're really good."

Becca lifts her hands in a who-knows gesture. "One day I want to go spin in Europe. We'll see what happens."

"You can do whatever you put your mind to, Becca." As I say this, I realize that she already knows she can do anything. Her racks of trophies, crowns, and awards are a testament to that. But I promised not to go there again.