Deadly Little Voices (11 page)

…

9:00 p.m.

COFFEESHOPGIRL: I don’t know how to start, so I guess I’ll keep things simple…hi.

JACKFORJILL: It’s good to talk 2 u finally.

JACKFORJILL: It’s too hard @ the shop. I feel like Im getting u in trouble.

JACKFORJILL: Yr boss seems a little intense.

COFFEESHOPGIRL: Me too.

COFFEESHOPGIRL: Glad to talk to you, I mean.

COFFEESHOPGIRL: And, yes, my boss can be a PAIN!!!

JACKFORJILL: LOL. I think he hates me. Which is why I don’t think I’ll be hanging out at yr shop much anymore.

COFFEESHOPGIRL:

JACKFORJILL: Don’t worry.

JACKFORJILL: What are you doing, btw?

COFFEESHOPGIRL: I just got home.

JACKFORJILL: Not out with a bf, I hope.

COFFEESHOPGIRL: No!

COFFEESHOPGIRL: I had dinner at a friend’s house.

COFFEESHOPGIRL: No big deal.

JACKFORJILL: Phew!

JACKFORJILL: So, what are u doing now?

COFFEESHOPGIRL: Homework.

COFFEESHOPGIRL: And you?

JACKFORJILL: Same.

JACKFORJILL: I’m putting together a portfolio for an art show.

COFFEESHOPGIRL: You’re an artist?

JACKFORJILL: I’m obsessed with photography.

JACKFORJILL: That’s what I’d like 2 do 4 a career.

JACKFORJILL: I have a couple galleries interested in showing my stuff.

COFFEESHOPGIRL: That’s great!

JACKFORJILL: Does that mean you’ll come to one of my shows?

COFFEESHOPGIRL: Sure!

JACKFORJILL: What do u like 2 do?

COFFEESHOPGIRL: I used to ice skate. Not so much anymore.

JACKFORJILL: V cool. I tried it once and fell on my ass.

JACKFORJILL: You have 2 teach me some moves.

COFFEESHOPGIRL: That could be fun.

JACKFORJILL: Really?

JACKFORJILL: So, we can get 2gether sometime?

JACKFORJILL: How about next Sat night around 9?

JACKFORJILL: I could meet u after yr shift.

JACKFORJILL: We can just talk for a bit and then I can drive u home.

JACKFORJILL: Helloooooo…What do u think?

COFFEESHOPGIRL: How did you know I have to work?

JACKFORJILL: You always work on Saturdays, right?

COFFEESHOPGIRL: I guess.

JACKFORJILL: We could meet across the street from the shop…in front of the bakery.

Just dont tell yr boss. I dont want him 2 give you a hard time about it. He hates me, remember?

LOL.

COFFEESHOPGIRL: Maybe. I don’t know.

COFFEESHOPGIRL: About getting together, that is.

JACKFORJILL: Well, Im going away for a couple wks after that, and then I have 2 work on finals. But we could try 2 squeeze something in then if you prefer…maybe in 3 wks or so…if we can get both of our schedules straight.

COFFEESHOPGIRL: No, next Sat. should be fine. Sounds good.

JACKFORJILL: Correction: sounds GREAT!

I REMAIN AWAKE FOR THE REST of the night, my insides shaking and my mind unable to shut off. “There are two,” I whisper, rolling over and over in bed, trying to figure out what the phrase refers to.

Two days until something horrible will happen?

Two weeks until I lose it completely?

And what does it have to do with a skater? Or with taking pictures?

I smother my ears with my pillow, as if that’ll stop the tune inside my head—the one from my dream, the same one Aunt Alexia was humming.

Finally, my alarm clock goes off. While Mom’s in the shower, I ask Dad if he can get me an appointment with Dr. Tylyn sooner rather than later.

“Sooner as in, after school today?” he asks.

“Sooner as in, me going in late to school so that I can meet with her this morning.”

He takes a seat at the kitchen island, bracing himself for what comes next. “Did something happen?”

“Yes, but it’s complicated.”

He takes a moment to study me—from my tired eyes and pasty skin to the mismatched clothes I picked from a pile on my bedroom floor. “How complicated?”

“It’s just that I’m really confused,” I say, wishing he’d either pick up the phone and make the appointment or demand that I go ahead and tell him everything.

“Confused about what?” he asks.

“Please,” I say, feeling as though I’m wasting my time. “I’m trying to be responsible here by asking to meet with a qualified professional.”

“Who’s more qualified than your dad?” he asks, only half kidding.

I open my mouth, almost ready to tell him to forget it—that I’ll just keep my regularly scheduled appointment.

But then he reaches for the phone. “I’ll see what I can do.”

The door to Dr. Tylyn’s office is partly open. I peek inside, but no one’s in there. Only a doll, with sticks for arms and legs, is there, sitting on the doctor’s chair as if staring at the computer.

“It’s a voodoo doll,” a woman says, sneaking up behind me. There’s a cup of something steaming in her hand. “You must be Camelia Hammond.”

“Dr. Tylyn Oglesby?”

She’s younger than I expected—probably in her mid-thirties—with straight dark hair and short bangs.

“Dr. Tylyn,” she says. She extends her hand for a shake; her fingers are warm from her cup. “I’ve heard a lot about you.”

“Thanks for meeting me so last-minute.”

“Sure,” she says, leading me inside with a sip. “This is actually a pretty good time for me…before any of my classes start.” She gestures to a leather sofa. “Do you like vanilla?”

“In general?” I ask, wondering if we’re going to have a snack—if, like Ms. Beady, she offers her clients tea and cookies as a way of getting them to talk.

Dr. Tylyn flashes a stick of what I assume is vanilla-scented incense. “It’s subtle,” she says. “And it beats the musty smell from the hallway.”

“Sure.” I nod, taking a seat, watching as she lights the incense and sets it on a wooden holder.

“So,” she says, sitting down on the sofa two cushions over, “your father said there was something you needed to talk about?”

“Maybe we could back up a bit.” I shift uneasily in my seat, wondering if I should’ve just waited until my originally scheduled appointment.

“We can back up as far as you like.” She scooches away slightly, perhaps trying to give me psychological space.

“I mean, I know my dad might’ve made things sound urgent,” I say, “but I mostly just wanted to get the ball rolling.”

“Understood,” she says, taking another sip. “When I spoke with Ms. Beady, she said that you suffer from panic attacks.”

I nod, wondering if Ms. Beady also mentioned my interest in psychic powers. “Is that all that she said?”

“What is it that
you
want me to know?” She squints slightly, as if that will help her understand me better.

My lips tremble as I search for words, but I have no idea what to say, or even how to start. I look at the walls, hating myself for feeling so vulnerable.

“Camelia?” she asks, most likely sensing my unease.

Unlike Ms. Beady with her framed pedigrees, Dr. Tylyn has covered her walls with artistic prints: the phases of the moon, a tree with branches that stretch up toward the sky, and a starfish-shaped sun peeking out from the clouds.

“Have you ever worked with someone who claims to have psychic abilities?” I venture.

“It’s actually one of my specialties,” she says, seemingly unfazed by the question, “and one of my academic interests as well.” She points to her bookshelf, where she’s got a collection of books on topics such as ESP, telepathy, astral projection, and aura reading.

I take a deep breath, slightly reassured. “Have you ever worked with someone who hears voices?”

“I have.” She sets her mug down and leans forward again, waiting for me to elaborate.

But I can’t bear to say the words.

“Do
you
hear voices, Camelia?”

I manage a slight nod, feeling my pulse race.

“When you’re asleep? While you’re awake?”

“All the time,” I whisper; my voice quavers.

“And what do the voices say?”

“That I’m ugly and a loser. That I have no talent and would be better off dead.” I grab one of her couch cushions and hug it to my stomach.

Dr. Tylyn is far more practiced than Ms. Beady at maintaining a poker face; she doesn’t show any inkling of surprise. “So, the voices have only been insulting, then?”

“No. Sometimes they say things that don’t make any sense—cryptic phrases, I mean. I think they might be clues.”

“Clues about what?”

“I’m not sure,” I say, knowing how crazy I must sound.

“And you think the voices you’ve been hearing may have something to do with psychic abilities?”

“Is that possible?” I ask, wondering if she’s ever heard of psychometry.

“It is,” she says, looking toward her collection of books. “But it could also be a symptom of something else.”

“A symptom of a mental illness, you mean?”

“Some testing would need to be done to give us any concrete answers.”

“What kind of testing?” I ask, imagining flashing machines and wires hooked up to my head.

“Just some questions to start.” Her voice is as smooth as silk. “What do you say?”

“Let’s get started,” I say, scared to death of what I may learn. But even more scared of what could happen if I don’t try.

AT LUNCH, I tell Kimmie and Wes about what happened the previous night with my dream, and how Aunt Alexia was already in my room when I woke up.

“So, that’s definitely proof positive that it doesn’t even matter if you take a hiatus from pottery,” Wes says. “I mean, once again, if just dreaming about sculpting brings on all of this whacked-out stuff…”

“So why not dream about something else?” Kimmie asks.

“As if the answer were actually that easy,” I say.

“Or maybe we’re overthinking the dream,” she continues. “Maybe it was just a bad nightmare. I mean, we’ve
all
had them. Like, I once had this dream where I was being gobbled up by Goldfish crackers. I swear, I
still
have to look the other way when venturing down the cracker aisle of the grocery store.”

“And your next shock treatment appointment is
when
?” Wes asks, using a couple of pens as makeshift electrodes to zap the sides of his head.

“Except, that theory doesn’t exactly explain why I’ve been hearing voices,” I say, ignoring him. “It also doesn’t explain how Aunt Alexia’s been able to predict some of what I’ve been sensing.”

“Do you think you and your aunt might actually be having premonitions about the same thing?” Wes asks.

“I guess it’s possible,” I say, chewing down the thought with a dehydrated kale chip my mom packed in my lunch.

“Well, that could be reassuring, at least,” he says. “You could both be on the same supernatural team, working toward the same superhero goal.”

“It
is
reassuring,” I tell him. Or at least it should be. But in some way, the idea of sensing the same things that my aunt does—of being so completely connected to her—is also beyond terrifying.

“You know what would be hysterical?” Wes asks with a grin. “If your aunt was the only psychic one in this case, able to sense what’s been happening in your dreams, your hallucinations, and your day-to-day encounters.”

“Meaning that the hallucinations I’ve been having and the voices I’ve been experiencing haven’t been premonitions after all?” In other words, I’m just crazy. “How is that even remotely funny, never mind hysterical?”

“Okay, so maybe
hysterical
isn’t the right word,” he says, retreating slightly. “But you have to admit, none of that stuff has happened to you. You haven’t been on any creeptastic photo shoots lately, nor have you been harassed in the girls’ locker room.”

“And no one’s called you ugly, stupid, or worthless,” Kimmie adds.

“Not yet.”

“So, there’s still hope,” Wes says, still trying to be funny.

I take a deep breath, reminding myself that Wes and Kimmie just don’t get it. The voices, the visions, the instances of zoning out: they’re all part of a premonition.

They simply have to be.

“I’ve had premonitions before,” I remind them. “Why would now be any different? Plus, maybe this stuff won’t
ever
concern or happen to me, but maybe it’s happening to someone else—someone who needs my help.”