Inescapable (The Premonition Series) (12 page)

“Red, whatever it is, yer not handling it. It’s handling y’all,” he says quietly.

“Then let it handle me, and not you, okay?” I reply.

“Woman, yer just plain stubborn.” he says with irritation.

“Guilty,” I agree.

“Meet me for lunch at the cafeteria, okay?” Russell asks in resignation.

“I’ll buy,” I agree.

I’m right about my Art History class; it is different from any class I’ve ever taken. The professor, Sam MacKinnon, is a very talented portrait artist in his own right. His descriptions of the masterpieces that we’ll be discussing this semester are nothing short of what a lover might say about his beloved. They are sensual and thought evoking descriptions, full of passion.

He’s kind of an old-school professor, even though he appears quite young. Instead of a power point presentation to illustrate the art works to be discussed, Mr. MacKinnon uses an old projector with slides to magnify the images on a screen in the front of the classroom. With the lights dim and the projector on, the faces of the students in the classroom are eerie alabaster busts; they reflect the ghostly light that bounces off the screen in front of them.

Any thoughts of being tired evaporate as the images on the screen flash before me in a rapid-fire procession. Mr. MacKinnon explains that we’ll be studying each image in depth: discussing the artist, the genre in which it was created, and the medium, as well as intimate details relating to each piece. I can’t wait to start, and I feel disappointment when the lights come up signifying the end of class. Gathering my books, I squint as my eyes adjust to the light. To say that I’m excited to be in this class is an understatement. Holding my books to me, I move along with the other students towards the door.

“Excuse me, young lady…uh, miss?” I hear a voice behind me say.

I turn to see my new professor hailing me back into the classroom. I walk back in slowly, unsure of why Mr. MacKinnon is singling me out. “Yes?” I ask.

“I’m sorry, I don’t know your name yet. I don’t take attendance on the first day,” he says politely, waiting for me to provide him with the information.

“Genevieve Claremont,” I state as if for some record in an interrogation.

He smiles kindly at me and says, “Genevieve, I’m not sure if you’re aware of this, but I’m not only a professor of art history and graphic art, I also do some of my own work that I show at the end of each semester.”

“Yes, I read your bio in the Mother’s Club directory. You have a show that is presented at the Sage Center, right?” I reply, blushing as I recall the intrusive publication.

“That’s correct. Good, then you may be aware that I often select subjects for my paintings from the student body at Crestwood?” Mr. MacKinnon asks.

“No, I wasn’t aware of that,” I reply slowly, rapidly drawing some conclusions.

“I would like you to sit for me for an oil painting I am planning. What do you say?” he asks, and when he smiles, his blue eyes all but twinkle. “You have an almost ethereal quality to you that, if I could capture it, could lend itself to a very interesting piece.”

“Umm, please don’t take this the wrong way, but if I sit for you…I wouldn’t have to umm…that is to say, I’d get to keep my clothes…err, what would a sitting entail?” I ask, feeling my cheeks flushing with color.

“Oh, right, well…we’d figure out a convenient time, then you would come to my studio on the second floor in this building, the fine arts building, where my assistant, Debra, and I would find a pose for you. We’d take some pictures, and then you would need to come back for a few sittings to make sure it turns out well,” he explains.

“Oh, that doesn’t sound bad. What should I wear?” I ask significantly.

“I don’t do nudes, Genevieve, good God, not at this school anyway,” he chuckles and beams like he has found a shiny new coin for his collection. “My assistant will be with us the entire time.”

“Can I let you know after class on Thursday? I’d like a little time to think about it. I’ve never done anything like that before,” I ask cautiously.

“I’d like to get started soon after that, if you agree that is,” he says confidently, like he knows I will eventually say yes. “I’ll wait to hear from you.”

My next class is not nearly as interesting as Art History had been. It’s the History of Western Civilization. Dr. Stuart, the professor, isn’t as colorful as Mr. MacKinnon had been. His presentation of the origins of our culture is dry and leaves me with the impression that I can learn most of what I need to know from the textbook.

I buy a coffee after class and wait in the student union until lunch. I’m completely exhausted, and all I really want to do is skip lunch altogether and go back to my room to sleep, but I had promised to meet Russell for lunch. I run into Freddie outside Saga waiting in line to get into the cafeteria.

“Evie! How’s the knee?” Freddie asks, coming back to the end of the line to wait with me. “I saw that other girl slash you; it was wicked. I thought it was broken for sure. In fact, I lost twenty bucks on it,” he says morosely.

“Freddie, that’s awful! I can’t believe you lost twenty bucks betting on me!” I say in irritation.

“I know, next time take your phone so I can call you and hedge my bet,” Freddie smirks.

“That’s not what I meant, Alfred.” I say sullenly. “How can you bet on something like that? It’s not nice.”

“I know, but I was just kidding. I bet fifty bucks that it wasn’t broken, and I took the bet against Mason. It was so tight taking his bank. Here, this is your cut,” Freddie says, smiling and handing me a twenty-dollar bill.

“Oh, in that case, thanks!” I reply and take the twenty from Freddie. “Anything to skool Mason,” I go on because I’m still a little irked about the directory rating.

“I thought you’d feel that way,” Freddie says and smiles.

“I’m supposed to meet Russell here for lunch, can you eat with us?” I ask him. I really want to ask Freddie what he thinks about me posing for a portrait with Mr. MacKinnon.

“Sure,” Freddie says as we present our saga cards to the maitre d’ at the podium, just inside the cafeteria.

After getting our food, we sit in what is fast becoming our table in the back by the picture window. I watch for Russell as Freddie tells me about his classes. It doesn’t take long for Russell to find us, although he doesn’t seem very psyched to see Freddie sitting with me. Not because he doesn’t like Freddie—I know he does—but because now he can’t interrogate me about the previous night. I hadn’t planned it, but it couldn’t have worked out better for me if I had.
I love Freddie,
I think.

“Russell, hey, I’m glad you’re here. I was just about to tell Freddie about my Art History class. Well, not about my class, but about what happened after class,” I say, and then I explain to them both about the portrait that Mr. MacKinnon wants me to pose for. “So, what do you think?” I ask them.

Neither one of them speaks at first; they just sort of look at each other, like male telepathy or something. Then Russell asks, “What’s this professor’s name again?”

“Mr. MacKinnon, he’s an artist. He holds an exhibition at the Sage Center at the end of each semester,” I say.

“What will you be
wearing
when you pose?” asks Freddie, trying to hide his smirk.

My eyes narrow.
Yep, he’s definitely my long lost twin.

“Please, this is Crestwood, Freddie, and anyway, his assistant will be there the entire time,” I assure him.

“I don’t know, Red, it could be legit, but then again, he could just be targetin’ a beautiful freshman,” Russell sighs in exasperation. “Ya know its gettin’ irritatin’ havin’ to worry ‘bout professors on top of everythin’ else.”

“Well, maybe you shouldn’t worry about it then. I’m a big girl. I’ll make my own decisions. I just wanted to know what you thought,” I snap back at him.

His brown eyes narrow at me. “Fine, just make it for when I can go with ya so that Mr. Fine Arts doesn’t misplace his paintbrushes,” Russell says with heat in his tone, reacting no doubt to my tone.

“I don’t need a babysitter, Russell,” I reply, pushing my tray away tiredly.

“Evie, ya haven’t been here a week and already ya have been…” he trails off when he sees me look up at Freddie then back to him.

Freddie holds up his hand, saying, “Okay, I hate it when Mom and Dad fight, so I’ll go and babysit Evie with Mr. Paint-by-numbers. It’ll give you some time to figure out you’re not really mad at her,” Freddie says to Russell. “Friends don’t let friends get nekkid with professors.”

Both Russell and I turn and glare at Freddie until he says, “Wut?” and holds up both his hands defensively.

“I’ll let you know what I decide, Freddie,” I say, standing with my tray. “I’m really tired. I’m going to go take a nap.”

Russell must agree that a nap is in order because, thankfully, he doesn’t try to stop me. I stumble down the hill to my dorm and lock myself in my room. I dive head first into my bed and don’t resurface for the rest of the day.

CHAPTER 8

The Speed Of Light

After my argument with Russell, I miss dinner because I sleep straight through it. I probably would’ve slept through until morning, but Buns and Brownie knock on my door when they get back from field hockey practice. They both come in and sit on my bed, watching me while I brush my teeth. When I finish, I tell them about Mr. MacKinnon’s request.

“He wants you to be a model for him?” Buns asks in envy. “Sweetie, you’re so lucky, he’s really talented. I went to his exhibit last year, and it was amazing. Plus, Sam is so yummy. I had Art History last year, and I never skipped his class.”

“So, you’re saying I should do it?” I ask her.

“Sweetie, if you don’t, I will,” Buns says, smiling.

“Buns and I are taking the Golden Goose to the Seven-Eleven to get snacks. We wanted to know if you want to come,” Brownie says, getting to the point.

“Snacks sound good. Explain to me the Golden Goose, and we’re in business,” I say, slipping on a pair of sandals.

“Oh, that’s my car, sweetie,” Buns says. “We dubbed it the Golden Goose. I would tell you why, but it really speaks for itself.”

“Okay, I’d love to come. I missed dinner. I just need to use the bathroom, and then I’ll meet you in the parking lot.”

Opening the back door to the parking lot, I come face to face with the Golden Goose. Buns parks it directly under the flood light by the back door so I am able to get a good look at her car. It’s a late model Grand Marquee in the most metallic shade of gold ever created. Buns hits the horn, and it wheezes out a honk that sounds suspiciously like a goose. I open the back door on the driver’s side, climb in, and as soon as I shut the door, Buns hits the accelerator. The car handles like a vehicle meant to be in water; it feels like a big land yacht.

“Buns, is this your parents’ car?” I ask her suspiciously.

“It was Elise’s car, but she gave it to me when she got a new one,” Buns says, looking at me in the rearview mirror. As she did so, the car casually drifts over the double yellow lines in the road before Brownie puts her hand on the wheel to gently pull us back to our lane. Buns seems not to notice the helping hand.

“Is Elise your mom?” I ask interestedly, watching to see who’d be driving the car when Buns answers the question.

“Elise and Charlie Bonds are my parents,” Buns says sweetly, but we don’t drift into the other lane this time.

“And before you ask, no they’re not pimps,” Brownie says good-naturedly. Brownie has kind of nailed the essence of this car; it does seem suspiciously like a pimpmobile. Buns smiles pleasantly as the car sways over the road with the consistency of a butterfly. “They own several ice cream stores in the Fort Wayne area. You should see the little uniforms that Buns wears to dish out ice cream. She works for her parents during the summers, and she looks like a candy striper in her outfit,” Brownie says.

“You said you were going to work with me this summer,” Buns says to Brownie teasingly. “I can’t wait to see you in the stripes. I might order an extra small for you and see how many tips you can rack up.” She laughs as the car sways over the road.

Buns makes a left turn and we’re in the parking lot of the 7-Eleven. She turns off her lights and the engine, and I try not to let any of the pop bottles escape from the floor while getting out. Pushing the store’s glass doors open, the girls go straight to the chip aisle while I diverge and go toward the refrigerated section.

Walking to the back, I study the selection of pre-made sandwiches behind the glass door; none of them looks appetizing, about as moist as sawdust. There are packages of crackers with turkey and cheese; it seems to be my best option, so I open the refrigerator, drawing one out of the vending line. Seeing bottled water in the next refrigerator, I select one of those, too.

A couple of boys from school walk in, and Buns calls out, “JT, Pete! How was your practice, sweetie?” They’re on the lacrosse team. I recognize JT by his uniform.

JT smoothes back his dark, wet hair as he walks to Buns’s side, saying, “It was hard because I kept getting distracted by the blond girls with the sticks. Reed hit me in the head twice with the ball. See, I have a little cut here by my eye.”

“Oh you poor thing—let me look at it,” Buns says sweetly, examining JT’s wound. Brownie rolls her eyes at me and goes to talk to Pete, who is getting a fountain drink.

As I shuffle toward the front of the store, the darkest sense of déjà vu trickles down my spine like icy fingers. A shiver of dread creeps over my skin, causing goose bumps to rise on my arms. I slow and then stop in the middle of the aisle, eyeing the fluorescent light over my head, watching its strobe-like flicker. A low hum vibrates from it while it sizzles with disjointed flashes of illumination.

When I look away from the light, everything around me had changed. The walls of the store are spattered like a Jackson Pollock painting with blood and brain matter. Bloody trails of speckled drops cover the beige-and-taupe, checkerboard-pattern vinyl tile. I gaze around in horror. Everything is upturned; the displays of chips and candy lie in towering piles on the floor, and the magazine racks roil with choking smoke. The coffee pots are blown to bits; only the brown and orange rims remain to testify as to what they had been. The glass doors of the refrigerators are shattered and dripping with the contents of several cartons of milk and juice.

Unable to comprehend what I am seeing, I am also wholly unprepared for the next assault on my senses. Breathing deeply, the putrid air permeating the store hits me. I have never smelled anything like it before in my life—even the cadaverous flesh of formaldehyde-soaked frogs are no comparison to the heinousness of this reek. I clamp my hand over my mouth and nose to cover them, trying to block out some of the rotten stench. My trembling fingers feel slick and sticky. Pulling my hand away, the stain of blood mars my pale skin and fingernails.

The eerie, pulsating light draws my eyes back up to the ceiling—to the flickering fluorescent glow. A cacophony builds around me, as if I am beneath an amp, and the reverb pounds me in low frequency waves that echo off my body. Clasping my hands to my ears, I attempt to block out the crushing waves assaulting my eardrums. The intense light grows whiter and brighter while it slowly reaches out to me. Then it bursts forth in a flash, knocking me to the ground with a deafening
wham!

My eyes flicker open, and I squint to see Buns crouching above me. “Sweetie…sweetie…can you hear me?” Buns asks while she pushes my hair back gently from my forehead. “Here she is! Here you are, sweetie. Are you okay?”

Why am I on the floor?
I wonder.

I try to sit up, but I am held down by JT’s hand on my shoulder. “There is no rush, Evie. Take your time; try to take some deep breaths,” JT says kindly as his hand remains on my shoulder. “You fainted. When did you eat last?” he asks me.

In confusion, I gaze into JT’s hazel eyes, trying to think. “I had some coffee before lunch, and then a bagel,” I stammer.

“You have to eat more than that, Evie,” he says with concern. “Your body can’t survive on coffee and bread.”

“My body can’t survive…” I begin to repeat him, but I trail off. In an instant, I recall what happened.
The 7-Eleven is the stage of my nightmare,
I think feebly, and hope I won’t get sick. My heart starts hammering in my chest, and I have the urge to jump up and run, but I can’t because JT is still holding me down. “Um, that’s why I was getting food,” I say, trying to locate the crackers I’d had in my hand before being rudely slapped around by the light above me. “I think I’m okay now. Can I get up?” I ask JT in a soft tone, glancing at his hand on my shoulder.

He squints at me suspiciously as he says, “I don’t know. You’re about as white as a ghost. How do you feel?” he asks.

Faking a winsome smile, I reply, “I feel like getting up.” Satisfied that I am better, JT helps me to my feet.

Covertly, I scan the store for signs of the blood and gore from my dream. Except for the morbid sense of déjà vu, everything else seems fine. My hands, gratefully, are as clean as they’d been when I entered the store. Pete picks up the food and bottled water I must’ve dropped. He hands them back to me kindly.

“Thanks,” I say, trying to act normal and hoping my tone isn’t too loud because my ears are still ringing.

The clerk behind the counter hasn’t moved at all from her position by the cash register. She eyes me skeptically while the piercings in her eyebrow draw down into a frown. I set my stuff on the counter as she chews her gum with relentless fervor. When I finish paying her, everyone congregates around me while I take a few sips of my water.

Brownie puts her arm around my shoulder and asks, “How do you feel?” But before I can answer her, she adds, “I was really freaked, especially when you stopped mumbling and just went limp.”

“I was mumbling? What was I saying?” I ask in alarm.

“I don’t know,” Brownie replies,” I couldn’t hear you that well, but it wasn’t English. You know what it sounded like?” she asks, pointing at me excitedly. “It sounded like the time Bobby, my brother, and I put on an old Black Sabbath record and tried to play it backwards. Bobby thought that there were hidden messages on it, but we never really heard anything.”

Goosebumps rise on my arms as a shiver runs through me again. I smile to cover it up and say, “I take Latin. I was probably ordering a pizza.” Everyone laughs, to my relief.

The clerk butts in, asking, “Is that all?” We are still milling around the counter, which seems to be annoying her.

“Yes, thank you,” I say, moving away toward the door. I want nothing more than to escape the store and never come back.

As I step outside, I breathe in deep gulps of air to try to clear my head. JT and Pete walk over to the shiny, silver car parked next to the Golden Goose. Seeing it, I cringe, because unless JT has a car exactly like Reed’s, then it’s safe to assume that JT had borrowed Reed’s car to go to the store with Pete.

They both climb into the elegant import, before opening its windows. “Hey, Buns,” JT calls from the driver’s side, “Delt wars are starting soon. You ready?”

Buns’s smile is full of hubris when she retorts, “Sweetie, we’ve been plotting your demise all summer. You’ll never see us coming.”

“You’re that confident in your arsenal, are you?” he replies, grinning.

“Don’t worry about my arsenal, sweetie, just make sure you aren’t bringing a knife to a gunfight,” Buns teases.

Brownie rolls her eyes. “Or, you two could just get a room and fight it out there. Lez go, Buns.”

“What are the Delt wars?” I ask them, attempting to open my crackers with shaky hands. I’m trying really hard not to think about what had just happened to me.

Buns backs the car out of the parking spot, wheeling it around like a motorboat. “The Delt House picks a couple of sororities to go to war with each year. But it’s usually just our house, which is the Chi house, or the Kappa house. They take something from the sorority house so that we go to war with them to get it back. Last year, they stole one of our Greek Week trophies and were drinking beer out of it. They sent ransom photos,” Brownie explains.

“But this year, Brownie and I are operating an offensive. We thought that we could initiate a pre-emptive strike,” Buns explains, sounding sly. “We figured, why should we wait for them to draw first blood? That’s just plain stupid if you ask me. Then we’ll have to play on their terms—follow their clues—fall into their ambushes. Why not take their game to them?”

Brownie nods. “We’ve been trying to decide what to take from their house that will dis and dismiss and throw them into chaos mode,” Brownie says with relish.

I think about it for a second, and then I blurt out, “You should take one of their composites. You know, the ones they have with all of the members in the house pictured on it? Then you can rate them, on a ten-point scale, and take a picture of the results as ransom,” I blush, thinking about the Mother’s Club Directory again.

With a wicked grin, Brownie chimes in, “Hey, yeah, like they do with the freshman directory!”

I raise my hand in a
there you go
gesture.

“Evie, you’re an evil genius,” Buns beams, and the Golden Goose begins swaying over the yellow lines in the road. She winks at me over her shoulder and Brownie corrects the wheel without missing a beat.

“No, just a woman scorned,” I reply, taking a bite of my cracker sandwich I’ve compiled.

“We need you!” Brownie says, “You think on your feet, and you’re really athletic, and other than passing out in the convenience store, I’d say you’d make a great soldier in our war.”

Buns screeches into the dorm parking lot with her eyes on me in the rearview mirror, “We need stealth, and you move like a cat,” Buns says. “Brownie and I were discussing that play you made just before Tamera took you out. It was like watching a panther go up against an armadillo.”

“Did we say armadillo? I thought we said a panther and a porcupine,” Brownie interrupts.

“Sweetie, armadillo, porcupine, hedgehog—the point is Tamera knew she couldn’t match the speed and grace, and so she resorted to violence to take Evie out,” Buns reasons rationally, parking the car in the back of the lot.