After Obsession Part 8

She talks before I have a chance, letting go of her ribs and running both hands through her hair really quickly. "That's not what matters. What matters is ... do you remember what happened at that seance?"

I swallow. I don't answer. Our feet move us forward through people weighed down with backpacks and book bags and secrets.

Court keeps going. "Do you remember what happened to you?"

"Yeah," I say, flat and hard. How can I not remember the pencil catching on fire? The way my hair was suddenly wet and how I'd screamed and screamed because it felt like someone was ripping my arms off, and how I'd freaked everyone out. "Why? What's this about?"

"It's just ... There are certain things, Aimee, things that you can't do anything about, you know? Certain things are totally beyond you."

I adjust my bag, which is slipping. Everything smells stale, like old-lady houses and nursing homes, or clothes that haven't been washed in a while. "And you believe that?"

She smiles, a slow half smile that is far from happy. We're at the place in the hall where she goes left and I go right. Some people wave and say hi. We all jostle forward into the middle of the intersection.

I head to the wall and open my locker, shoving my Spanish book onto the top shelf.

"Aim ..." Court's voice tugs at me.

I shut the locker.

"I just want to make sure you know what you're risking. Going out with Blake made you seem more normal."

"What? So everyone will think I'm a freak again if we stay broken up?" I angry-whisper at her. And for a second I almost think that I made the wrong decision when I broke up with Blake, but it isn't just because of what happened today. He's been getting progressively jerkier and I've been getting less and less happy with him. You shouldn't make do when you're dating, should you? You shouldn't date just because dating makes you seem less crazy.

Courtney shakes her head. "No. That's not what I'm afraid of."

"What, then?"

She swallows. "I'm worried something bad will happen to you, like at the seance, and with Chuck. I'm worried that he'll notice you again."

My heart stops beating, but my mouth still works and I whisper, "Who?"

"The River Man."

Everything stills. s.h.i.+vers seem to creep around my hair. "He could be a figment of my imagination."

"Aimee. We both know that's not true." Her face is a crashed-apart painting. Her eyes and mouth are rigid-scared because she knows how bad things can be. "I think he's doing something, right now, to the town, making people mean."

"So you're saying Blake isn't a jerk because he's a jerk. He's being a jerk because of the River Man."

"Yes," she whispers. "Yes."

About a week after that seventh-grade seance, Court and I tried this Ouija board thing. It's supposed to connect you to the spirit world. We wanted to find out why Chuck died. The Ouija board has this little pointer that you place your fingertips on. Then it spells out words by moving to letters of the alphabet.

"Why did Chuck die?" Court had asked the board, because we'd agreed that I was not the person to communicate with the spirits anymore.

The pointer spelled out, "Because I wanted him to."

I took my fingers off the pointer and hugged my arms around myself, terrified.

Court battled on. "One more question, Aimee. Okay?"

"I don't want to do this," I'd said, my voice edging into hysteria. "I don't want to."

"Aim. One more," Court said, and like an idiot I put my fingers back on the pointer thing. Then she asked, all strong and calm, "Who are you?"

And it answered: "The River Man."

Hayley finds me outside the door to bio. Her hair is all crazy because she has PE first period. She grabs my hands. "You're limping."

I shrug.

"You broke up with Blake this morning." She makes it a statement.

"Yeah ..." I start and stop because Alan's super-big self is suddenly there. Something flutters in my stomach. His eyes meet my eyes. He takes in the dirt on my jeans and his mouth starts to form a question, but then he clamps it shut again. Instead, he just nods and ducks his head, fast-walking into bio like he's embarra.s.sed to see me or something.

"Did he hit you?" Hayley says.

I have to do a double take. "What?"

She gets insistent. "Did Blake hit you? You're walking funny. Your jeans are dirty. And people are, well, talking. Did he hit you?"

"He dragged me out of the car," I whisper, because I can't hold it inside anymore.

Hayley's mouth drops open. Then she grabs me, crus.h.i.+ng me to her chest. "Oh, baby ... I am so sorry. Oh, that a.s.shole. I never thought he'd be like that-not ever. Oh, Aimee."

"It's okay." I sniff. She smells like rain.

"No, it's not. It's not okay," she whispers as people move by us into cla.s.s. "It is never okay. You know we all have times where we freak out a little, get moody, whatever, but throwing you out of the car is not okay, Aimee."

"I know. That's not what I mean. It's just ... I'm okay."

She pushes me away to look into my eyes. "You're crying. You are not okay."

I have no answer.

"Girls. Cla.s.s." Mr. Swanson is totally ignoring my teary face, which is nice of him, I guess, or else that's just a symptom of what Courtney was talking about.

We walk into the cla.s.sroom. I'm still limping. Hayley goes to her seat by the window. I slide into my desk behind Alan. He turns to look at me. His eyes are huge and deep and questioning. I try to smile but can't quite do it.

"You okay?" he mouths.

I do this fast nod. His eyes narrow the tiniest bit. I can tell he doesn't believe me. Opening my bag, I grab some gum and put it in my mouth. Then I take out my notebook and a pen and write: Five minutes. I'll pretend to faint. You take me to nurse's office. Okay?

When Mr. Swanson turns to the wipe board I reach forward and slide the note over Alan's shoulder. He catches it.

There. Step one, done.

* 8 *

ALAN.

I read the note one more time, then fold it once, twice, and stick it between some middle pages of my biology book before I check out the clock. Five minutes. I try to focus on Swanson, but I'm really just staring blankly at him, thinking about Aimee.

There's something wrong with her. Her jeans are covered in dirt that looks ground in, and she limped when she came into cla.s.s. There'd been talk in first hour, talk about her and Blake. Someone said they'd seen him hit her. Someone else said that would never happen. I wondered. Granted, I barely know the guy, but he- I sense Aimee standing up behind me.

"Mr. Swanson," she says, "I don't feel-"

She's taken a step forward and is beside me when she crumples sideways. I catch her as I'm standing up. Dead silence. All eyes are on us as I hold her up, clamped against my chest, her cheek pressed hard against my medicine bag. The world s.h.i.+mmers and slams just like the last time I touched her. Images swarm into my mind, a river, being pulled deep into the water, a man's voice ... It's not quite as powerful as last time, but it freezes me for a second. Then I shake myself out of it.

"I'll take her to the nurse," I announce, then put an arm behind her knees and scoop her up. She's so light! I hold her high enough that her feet won't kick anyone in the face and head for the door.

"Across from the front office," Mr. Swanson calls as I push through the door. I guess he's telling me where the nurse's station is. I don't know.

The cla.s.sroom door closes and Aimee whispers, "Go left to the end of the hall and out the door."

I move fast, pa.s.sing closed doors with those little slits for windows. I can't tell if anyone sees us. No one confronts us, and I keep moving until I get to the blue steel door at the end of the hall. I push it open with my hip and step into the cool morning air.

"Okay, you can put me down," Aimee says.

I look down into her face and think about that. Her skin is so white and flawless, her eyes so green and bright and full of life. A little breeze ruffles her magnificent red hair. I don't really want to put her down.

"You were limping," I say. "Maybe I shouldn't make you walk."

She smiles up at me. What a smile! I mean, it sounds all mushy, I know, but d.a.m.n, that girl has a smile that makes you want to smile right back at her.

"I'm good. Really," she says, but she doesn't wiggle or try to get out of my arms.

"Me, too." Okay, I have to admit that I'm not usually so bold with girls. Looking into Aimee's eyes, though, I know there is depth here. There's already some kind of connection. "Where are we going?"

"You are so not going to carry me all the way," she argues, but still, she's not trying to get down. "You'll get hurt."

I lower her feet to the ground and let her go, then realize how warm she'd been against me. She crosses her arms over her chest and hunkers against the cool breeze.

"All right, but you start limping and I'm carrying you again."

"Are you always so gallant, so knight-in-s.h.i.+ning-armor?" she asks.

"Just bossy," I answer, and I'm still smiling because she is.

"Come on," she says. "Behind the field house."

We dash across a short stretch of lawn and into the parking lot. I follow her lead, staying low between the parked vehicles. She's limping, but managing to move pretty fast anyway. We get to the side of the field house and scooch along the wall like SWAT cops until we slide around to the back, where she collapses to the ground, her back against the cinderblock wall.

"You were limping," I accuse.

"Yeah, but you couldn't catch me."

All I can do is laugh.

"What's in the bag?" she asks, nodding toward my chest.

I touch the leather. "It's a medicine bag. It's kind of like a good-luck charm."

"What's in it? I mean, you don't have to tell me. I'm sorry. I guess I'm just nosy. It smelled-" She stops, like she's embarra.s.sed to finish.

"Probably smelled like sweat," I finish.

"Well, it smelled like you, but there was more. Kind of ... earthy."

I finger the bag, watching Aimee, but thinking back to Lake Thunderbird. Her eyes, so clear and green, promise me I can trust her.

"A rock," I say, and my throat is surprisingly dry. I've never told anyone, not even Mom, what's in the bag. "A white rock about as big as a robin's egg. Some hair. And some dirt."

Her eyes ask a question, but her mouth doesn't. She nods.

I change the subject. "First off, Courtney wasn't good this morning. She told her mom to f.u.c.k off and ran out of the house. She doesn't like me."

"That's not normal. She's not acting like Courtney, you know." Aimee's tone is very serious. "She would never say that to her mom ... this thing with her dad has really changed her."

"Tell me," I urge. A bruise has formed on my spine from the picture hitting me and it hurts as I sit with my back against the wall.

"They were pretty close," Aimee says. "You could tell he really loved her, like she was everything to him, and she loved him soooo much. Sometimes she'd even skip out on going to the movies or hanging out with us to go for a walk or play Monopoly with her dad. She was a total daddy's girl."

I'm listening, but I'm also thinking about my own father. I'm a little jealous. At least Courtney had her dad for fifteen years.

"She hasn't accepted that he's not going to come home," Aimee says.

I nod.

"There's more, though. Now she's ..." Aimee stops. I'd looked away. I was looking at the gra.s.s between my shoes, actually, just taking in what she was saying. Now I look up at her face again and I can see the confusion. Her voice is a whisper. It's very, very sad. She's really struggling with something big, struggling to say what she wants. I figure she's wondering if I'll think she's weird.

"Do you know what a vision quest is?" I ask.

She smiles a little and admits she doesn't, so I make myself man up and tell her about my vision quest and Onawa.

"Oh." Her bright green eyes are clouded now, confused. I know that look. Usually that comes right before the girl says, "I have to go home and wash the dog, Alan. See ya." But Aimee doesn't say anything.

"Onawa showed me things. She showed me the spirit world. It was all dark, with ghosts moving in it. The ghosts were just kind of swirling around, like bubbles in boiling water. I don't know. That sounds dumb, but that's what I thought. Then she ..." I pause and look away for a minute.

"What?" Aimee asks. "You can tell me. If you want to."

"She told me someday I would be called Spirit Warrior. She doesn't usually actually speak to me. She just shows me things, or, I don't know, puts out a vibe? That sounds lame, but it's kind of right. She gives me a feeling that sort of means something. That's the only time she's actually spoken. She said, 'Someday they will call you Spirit Warrior.' I've never admitted that to anyone. Why would I have a name like that?"

The clouds are gone from Aimee's eyes and she is looking at me, steady and clear again. "Spirit Warrior."

"Yeah. I-I can't believe I just told you that ... Anyway, I would have thought it was all just a dream, or just the peyote and hunger, you know. I'm not stupid. I know you can hallucinate just from being hungry enough. Add the drugs in there and, yeah, you could see anything, especially if ..." I pause, but those big green eyes won't let me stop. "You know, if it's something you really, really want."

"I understand," she says, and I think she really does.