one, Roxanne isn’t remotely ethereal. She’s as Italian as her last name, turning heads with the shoulder length black hair, chocolate brown eyes, classic high cheekbones, mile long legs in lacquered on jeans, and a wicked New York accent. But when you need inspiration, she’s your girl, morphing into a paranormal sultry vixen as she drops that whiskey voice a few octaves to deliver the goods. One reason I’m jealous is that she gets “royalties” as a muse; the girl is constantly getting Broadway show tickets, movie passes, DVDs and albums as “thank yous” for her services. She’s always dressed in the latest outfits since one of her clients is a fashion designer and sends her racks of clothes that haven’t even hit the market yet. So she’s a trend setter before the trend even begins.
Even though we’re exactly the same age I’ve always considered her a big sister; Roxanne’s the tough one who’s protected me, a girl with a hard edge; her street smarts coming in handy when needed. She can also kick your ass if you piss her off, as she’s six feet of solid muscle and towers over most of the boys in her stacked heels. Last year a scrawny senior decided he’d come up with a clever pickup line for a muse. Not realizing Roxanne could snap him like a twig, he yelled, “Hey legs, inspire me!” at her across the crowded cafeteria. (She hates being called “legs” more than anything, except for the mimes in Central Park.) Anyway, he later became the only boy in the history of the school to receive an atomic wedgie from a girl, which turned him into a soprano for a week. I can still see his feet dangling in the air as the waistband from his Jockeys reached his neck.
Her height advantage has always made me look up to her, and in more than the literal sense. I admire her more than anyone I know. She’s really a human Tootsie Roll pop; get past the hard exterior and inside you’ll find someone really sweet with a huge soft spot in her heart.
My BFF, the glamazon kick-ass muse.
But right now, after pouring out my soul to her on the front porch for a half hour on this Sunday afternoon, I need more than inspiration. I crave the emotional comfort food that is my best friend.
One long, sinewy arm wraps tightly around my shoulder and pulls me close while she brushes away my tears with her free hand. “Your mother was probably trying to protect you. She probably woulda told you eventually.”
“Yeah, right.” I lean my head on her shoulder and she begins to gently stroke my hair. “Telling me my father is actually alive when all these years I thought he was dead. And that he had some sort of unusual power that may have been passed down to me. Kinda important truths to leave out when you’re raising a daughter.”
“Yeah, it would piss me off too. But you’ve got a wonderful mom, Jillian. I know she had her reasons. Give her time to explain.”
“Whatever.”
Long pause. “So why didn’t you tell me about this afterlife thing?”
“It scared the hell out of me, Rox. I didn’t even tell mom till the next day. I don’t mind seeing the future when it comes to romance, but changing the future is something else. And seeing someone murdered? God, that was awful. It makes me wonder.”
“Wonder what?”
“If I’m cut out for this. I mean, I enjoy being a seer and a lot of times it helps people, but staring into a crystal ball for the rest of my life?”
“It’s a gift, Jillian. Just like my talent is a gift. It’s a sin not to share it.” (It should be noted that Roxanne is Catholic and thus ruled by guilt.)
“Yeah, I know. But my intelligence is also a gift. I could be a doctor, a lawyer. Wouldn’t it be a sin to waste that?”
“Hell, you could do both.”
I rolled my eyes. “Yeah, Jillian Spectre, MD. I could find out if my patients are going to die before I treat them. Here’s your prescription, Mr. Jones. You won’t need a refill because you’ll be reaching room temperature soon. And by the way, you’re going to Hell. Here’s some SPF 1000 sunblock.”
She squeezes my shoulder. “Okay, enough with your own career. Listen…all this stuff about the afterlife makes me wonder…would you do me a favor?”
She then asks me to do something I’ve never done.
***
After a breakfast during which my mom seemed afraid to look at me, I’m still ticked off at the revelations of the weekend. My face is tightened, eyes narrowed into slits, and I’m glaring at anyone who crosses my field of vision as I head to Geometry class.
I feel an arm wrap around my shoulders and get a whiff of the familiar earthy perfume. “Still pissed off, short stuff?”
I look up at Roxanne, who’s smiling at me. “I’m entitled.”
“Well, if you’re tryin’ to give people my Sicilian death stare, it aint workin’, honey. With the red hair and the freckles you look like the Little Mermaid with PMS.”
The line makes me lighten up, but only a little bit. “Fine. I’ll get a black wig.”
“Still won’t work. You want me to beat someone up for you? Will that make you smile?”
“I just need some time to work through this.”
“You talkin’ to your mom?”
“Barely.”
“Well, you’re still the same Jillian and I still love ya, kiddo. Catch ya later.”
***
Did you know it takes a lot of energy to stay pissed off all day? I’m discovering that as I already feel exhausted and it’s only third period.
Still, I’m busy trying to bore a hole in my Geometry textbook with my Disney cartoon that-time-of-the-month death stare while squeezing the life out of my pen. Ms. Hansen’s lecture on problem solving and the squeaking of her blue dry erase marker on the white board are merely audio wallpaper, fading into the background of my thoughts.
I can’t keep this up forever.
Mom and I have to talk tonight. I don’t care if The Council wants everything confidential.
I have to know—
“Jillian, would you please name these triangles, since no one else seems to have done the weekend assignment.”
The teacher speaking my name jolts me back to reality, and I raise my head. “Uh, I’m sorry, Ms. Hansen. What was the question?”
My petite blonde fortysomething teacher looks at me quizzically, probably because I’m her best student and this is my favorite class and I never, ever zone out. She then points at the board, filled with two geometric figures. “These triangles. Name them.”
I causally lean back in my chair, fold my arms and shrug. “I dunno. How about…Joe and Harry?”
The class explodes in laughter, partly because it’s a terrific smartass answer and partly because Jillian Spectre, front row girl with perfect standardized test scores who always raises her hand and sits up straight, has never, ever cracked a joke in class.
Ms.
