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.”
While Ryan is my oldest male friend, Roxanne has been my best friend forever.
Literally.
We were born on the same day in the same hospital. Our moms met in the maternity ward, hit it off, and have been buddies every since. We’ve shared a crib, a crush, a crisis. A lotta birthday cakes. Unlike other girls who toss around the BFF tag to a different person every month, we know it will be till death do us part as far as our friendship is concerned.
What’s really funny is that she’s jealous of my talent and I’m jealous of hers.
Roxanne Falcone is a muse.
Yeah, I know, you thought those
