Wanted (7 page)

“I'll get napkins.” Dashing to the nearest condiment station, I grab a stack about four inches thick and race back, tossing them on top of the brown river tributaries. Jack and I blot up the liquid, throwing the drenched napkins onto my tray, which now has a Coke pond with French fries floating around like dead koi fish.

“Well, that was—” I hear a metallic clink. “Uh-oh.” I touch my pocket and feel the outline of only one slug. My heart falls out of my chest. “Shit!” I scoot to the edge of the bench and look down over the side.

“What's wrong?” Jack asks.

“One of the slugs fell out of my pocket!” A gold blur catches my eyes as the slug snakes lazily across the aisle. Skater leans over, stopping it with his foot.

I leap out of my seat as Skater grabs the slug, holding it out to me.

“Sorry about that. Thank you.” I open my palm, smiling.

As he places the slug into my palm with one hand, he latches onto my wrist with his other. I'm about to protest when the most intense, pleasurable calmness washes over me. It's the once-in-a-great-while feeling of total happiness, like when you wake up and hear the ocean, or the boy you like smiles at you from across the room.

In a flash, a low buzz surrounds us, blocking out all other sounds and images. When I look into his eyes, I gasp. His irises have turned completely white, with only the pupils visible. They glow dimly from within, as if made of candlelight, making me wonder if he's even human. But if he's not human, what is he—an angel? A demon?

“Do not be afraid,” he says in a soft, comforting voice as if reading my thoughts. “I have been sent to bring you a message. Powerful forces have taken up residence within you and your ally—forces that have proven deadly in the past. You two must toil together to appease these spirits with haste, thus ridding them from your body, or they will dwell within you for the rest of your days.”

I try to yank my arm out of his grasp, but he gently squeezes my wrist. Another wave of warmth and reassurance courses up my arm, as the intoxicating scent of lilacs fills my nostrils.

His pupils dilate and then contract as he gazes at me, hypnotically pulling me in. “An opportunity exists at the moment of death to purge these spirits from existence. Do not squander this gift like the ones who came before you. While many have been warned, few have taken heed.” He presses the slug in my hand and curls my fingers around it before releasing my wrist.

The scream of death accompanied by live footage of a machine gun fills my vision. Gold casings flip out from the side of the machine gun in an explosion of blasts. I stuff the slug into my pocket and the image stops. I don't take my eyes off Skater, half-expecting angels to swoop down and bring him back to heaven. When nothing happens, my mouth falls open in disbelief. “Did you—”

The tranquility of a moment ago is gone and I'm left standing in a noisy McDonald's, staring at a skateboarder. I whisper, “Wait. Was that for real?” I have to ask him straight out because I could swear he just told me that if Jack and I don't get rid of the spirits inside of us quickly, we'd share our bodies with them forever.

A cock and bull story. Don't believe it.

I'm not sure if I should scream, “Shut up!” or check myself in to the mental ward when Jack walks up, swirling the ice in his newly refilled cup. “What are you guys doing?” His voice is as jarring as the machine gun blasts of a moment ago.

Skater blinks and whips around, as if someone is about to attack him from behind. His dark brown eyes dart from mine to Jack's as he nervously licks his lips.

He looks freaked out, but I need clarification about all those crazy things he just said to me. “Why did you say that stuff? What did it all mean?” I reach out to touch his forearm, wanting another sweet hit of that warmth and reassurance I felt a moment ago.

Skater backs away, his hands out in front of him, as if he's afraid of me. “That… that wasn't me.” He grabs his skateboard and dashes out the emergency door. McDonald's's ear-piercing alarm goes off throughout the restaurant, shocking my body into action.

“Hey, wait!” I run after him. A person can't say the kinds of things he said to me, and then bolt without explanation.

“Where you going, Monroe?” Jack calls out.

Without looking back, I push open the door and race outside. Skater's already halfway across the parking lot, cruising fast on his skateboard toward the back alleyway. I chase after him, waving my arms, screaming, “Come back! I just want to talk!”

He throws a quick glance over his shoulder but doesn't stop. I keep running and nearly get hit by a gray Dodge exiting the drive-through. Darting around the car, I resume my chase, but Skater turns the corner and is gone.

“Noooo!” I stop my pursuit, knowing I'll never catch him on foot. Interlocking my fingers on top of my head I wait a few seconds, but he doesn't reappear. I turn and trudge slowly toward the restaurant. Assuming Jack didn't put him up to this, could mean trouble.

Life and death trouble.

“Damn it!” I only needed two minutes to talk to him. Two minutes and I would have been able to tell if he was really some sort of legit messenger, or if he's a sicko who gets off on saying weird shit to people at McDonald's and then running away. I kick an empty can, sending it skittering across the pavement. What am I going to do now?

When I'm nearly back to the restaurant, I look up. A burly man with a full mustache stands at the door with a group of teenagers behind him—all of them staring at me. Judging by the yellow arches embroidered on the front pocket of his dress shirt, he's the manager. He's shut off the alarm, but apparently not his anger.

He props the door open with his foot, leaning his head out. “This door is for emergencies only,” he barks. “I can call the police on smartass kids, you know. If you don't leave right now, I'll do it too.”

He doesn't move to let me through, so I yank the door open, pulling it out of his grasp. “I didn't set off your alarm, that skateboarder did.” I indicate the direction Skater went, but of course, he's long gone. The manager doesn't even bother to look where I'm pointing. I step past him, but he continues to glower at me, keys jangling in his fingers.

Jack appears beside the manager. “It's true. That dude left so fast, he even forgot his book.” He holds it up as proof. It's a copy of George Orwell's
1984
.

A possible clue to his identity. “Can I see that a second?” I snatch it from his hand before he can answer. The onlookers have lost interest in the false alarm scandal and now file back to their seats. I flip open the inside cover, smiling when I see the words, Property of Lane Technical High School, stamped across the top. Underneath that, there's a list of about seven students' names, each one crossed off in succession. The bottom name reads Milo Ricci, 6th period.

You can run but you can't hide, Milo, I think as I stuff the book into my purse sideways.

“Time to leave,” the manager says, crossing his arms in front of his chest.

“Fine. Let's go, Monroe.” Jack swirls the ice in his drink and heads toward the front door.

Part of me, the rebel half, wants to turn and race back out the emergency door just to be a bitch, but I decide against it. That was the old me, the fun impulsive crazy girl. Probation Girl needs to be more mature, not so rebellious.

I follow Jack outside, anxious to share what Skater said. Before I can speak, Jack says, “Weird how that skateboarder flew out of there like that, huh?”

“What was even weirder was what he said. Either he's on drugs or he's possessed.”

Jack squints at me. “Why would you say that?”

I pause, trying to find the words to best describe what happened. “I wish you could have heard him. First, his voice got all soft and whispery and he told me that we have evil spirits within us.”

“We?” Jack interrupts. “As in both of us?”

“Yes, both of us. He even called us allies,” I confirm, waving a finger between us. “He said that we needed to get rid of the evil spirits right away or we'd share our bodies with them forever. Then his eyes glowed like headlights and the only thing I could see were his pupils.” Rubbing my forehead, I keep trying to digest what I witnessed. Surely Jack will believe me now.

“He whispered weird things and his eyes glowed like headlights?” Jack smirks, his eyes sparkling with amusement. “All in the time it took to refill my drink?” A car full of girls cruises past us toward the drive-through. Jack's head turns in perfect sync, watching them.

I throw my hands in the air, as much to make my point as to regain his full attention. “I know it sounds crazy, but it's true! Didn't you see
anything
?”

“Nope,” Jack says, craning his neck to watch the girls. Apparently Jack's interest in me disappeared when possible complications showed up. Just like how he fled the basement when the police arrived.

“Jack, this is serious. Milo—if the name in the book is right—went into this trance and he said all these things that sounded like warnings. What should we do?”

“Do?” Jack shrugs, a look of irritation on his face. “I'm not
doing
anything, except going home and trying to get some sleep. I have to be at the golf course at six.”

“But he was talking about Bonnie and Clyde! The mind dreams, the asthma attack, his message. It all adds up. We can't blow this off, don't you get it?”

A yellow taxi drives slowly through the lot and pulls into a slot a few spaces away. I want to run away, to forget this whole night, but I can't leave until Jack and I decide what to do.

He chuckles. “Whoa. Now you're the scary one
,
Monroe.” He holds his fingers up in the shape of a cross, as if to ward off evil spirits. “Like I said, I'm not into that paranormal stuff, but you can believe what you want. Anyway, one of those girls was at the party and I want to find out what happened.” He walks backward. “You take care now. And stay away from those ghosts!” He takes off running, but not before I hear him laugh.

“It's not a joke, Jack!” I shout, desperate now. “You'd better be careful!”

Jack doesn't even bother turning around.

As I step down off the curb toward my waiting taxi, I hear a girl—Bonnie Parker if my suspicions are correct—laughing hysterically inside my head.

I'm so mad I could rip my eyes out. Several tiny flashes of bright light hit me while the boy was at a diner, but none of them lasted long enough for me to jump into. They were only itty-bitty pops, like the spark that flashes after I pull the trigger on my granddaddy's flintlock rifle. Here's the thing: I saw the boy serve himself Coca-Cola, not moonshine this time, which means there's got to be something else that triggers my chance to take over instead of drunkenness. I need to think about this systematically, cuz that's what I do best.

The flashing lights was the strongest inside his head,
our
head, when we was escaping out the window. I know that much for sure. And I know he'd been drinking but I ain't for sure if he was drunk. But what I didn't think about then but I'm considering now, was that he was also prolly scared to death of getting collared by the laws. Even though I ain't a betting man, I'd wager that fear is what made him lose hisself for those precious few seconds. I need to remember if he was scared of anything at the diner too, that way I'll know for sure what makes us trade up.

I remember at one point a stranger started chatting with Twinkle, going as far as to hold her hand. If I was in charge, I woulda told that dumb cluck to get his hands off my flame. But that didn't seem to bother the boy—he just went and fetched himself another sody-pop—so jealousy ain't the trigger neither.

The stranger musta flimflammed Twinkle because when he hightails it out of there, she runs after him. Hoo boy! Gotta admire a gal like that. Ain't afraid of nothing, just like me. But instead of running to defend her, the dumb biff sat there sipping his sody-pop—just like one of them old ladies at the church social who sets in the shade waiting for her date with Jesus. That's when it hits me. Maybe he and them old biddies got more in common than I thought. The boy's afraid of fighting, I 'spect. I laugh, despite my own bleak situation. It's only fitting that his fear will be my salvation because I ain't never been afraid of nobody and no thing. While I didn't like dying, I certainly didn't fear it. My favorite Bible verse says it all—
Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil: for Thou art with me.

Now if only I could find a way to get the boy into a situation where he is looking down the barrel of a gun or in front of a hungry coyote, that oughta do it. The next time those flashing lights appear for longer than an instant, I'm taking over. I don't know how long it'll be before the boy gets afraid again, but I hope it's soon. I wish I could scare him from the inside, but it don't seem like the boy even knows I exist.

But when I get my chance, the whole world will know I'm back.

And I'm here to stay.

When I wake the next morning, the first thing I see makes all the madness of yesterday return like an avalanche. Propped up against my stained glass lamp is Bonnie Parker's poem, a sticky note tacked onto the plastic case. “Your first collector's item!” I ball up the note and throw it on top of the piles of books and study guides scattered alongside my bed.

Snippets from last night return full blast—me and Jack running from the police, Jack's asthma attack, Milo and I stuck in a hazy cocoon as serenity rushed out through him and into me, his words scaring the crap out of me:
Powerful forces have taken up residence within you and your ally—forces that have proven deadly in the past.