Manifest (4 page)

There
are two hotels in Lincoln—one that only rich people can afford to stay in and one that normal people like me and my father can afford to stay in.

Tonight we’re eating at Solange. It’s the ritzy restaurant with food I can’t pronounce let alone eat on the menu. It’s located on the lobby floor of the Nokland Hotel—the one that rich people can afford.

I guess this is what’s meant by marrying up. In that case, Janet did well for herself. My father draws a comic strip that appears in lots of different newspapers, including the
New York Daily News.
That wasn’t glamorous to Janet, but to me, I thought it was like having my own personal celebrity. Janet always said my father needed to grow up.

So a month ago she married Gerald. He moved us out of the apartment we were renting down by the lake and into a four-bedroom, three-bath house that looked more like a bed-and-breakfast than a home. He told Janet she didn’t need to work, which I think Janet really liked. In New York she worked at Macy’s doing makeup at the Clinique counter. That’s all she said she could do since she never graduated from college. A fact I sometimes felt she was trying to blame on me. But I don’t even know how she’d
fix her mouth to say that was my fault. I didn’t ask to be born and I’m sure my father didn’t force her to have sex. Maybe she should have taken the advice she always gave me about unprotected sex.

Maybe those thoughts are rude or out of line. But they’re my thoughts so nobody can censor them.

Anyway, we’re at the restaurant and Gerald is walking with his shoulders back and his nose tilted high, like if he lowers it he might smell something he doesn’t like. Janet’s right behind him and I’m behind her. They sit and I follow. They pick up their menus and I stare straight ahead, out the window that stretches over the whole wall on the other side of the room.

It’s dark outside; we didn’t leave in fifteen minutes as Gerald had originally said. Instead we’d had to wait for Janet to change into “something more suitable for going out.” She really has changed since moving to this small town and hooking up with this big idiot. She’d had on jeans, a blouse and nice open-toed shoes. She looked fine to me. There was really no need for her to change. But Gerald is pleased that she did because the long cream-colored skirt and peach blouse she is wearing goes a lot better with his beige suit and burnt orange tie. It is all about “the look” with them now.

I still have on the jeans I’d worn to school and a T-shirt. Gerald had frowned at me and was about to say something when I saw Janet put a hand on his arm and shake her head. The movement said I was a lost cause.

She is probably right.

“Look, Krys, they have chicken on the menu,” Janet says all bright and smiley. She’s happy to be here, probably happy that all three of us are out looking like a real family.

I try not to be so sulky by sitting up in the chair and picking up the menu. But as I read, the gloom of my normal mood returns and I see the chicken she’s referring to is a
chicken tender meal in the lower corner of the menu titled “Kids’ Meals.”

So now I’m a “kid”? A fifteen-year-old, five-foot-four, with every bit of an A cup breasts, kid. I drop the menu as if it were burning my fingers. “I don’t like chicken fingers.”

“Well, I know how much you like fried chicken so I figured this would be the same.”

Janet rarely eats meat; that’s probably why she thinks fried chicken and processed chicken tenders are the same thing.

“Not,” I say solemnly.

“Then order something else,” Gerald says quickly. Sternly. I’m getting on his nerves, like I always do.

That’s just fine because he gets on my nerves, too. If Janet hadn’t married him maybe she’d get back with my dad. Speaking of which, I push my chair back and get ready to stand.

“Where are you going?” Janet asks before I can make my getaway.

“Bathroom,” I lie quickly.

“The proper way is to ask to be excused. You’re old enough that by now you should be using better manners.”

My eyes cut fast to Gerald. There are so many words rolling through my head that I’d like to say to him. But—unlike what he thinks—I do have manners. I’m not about to cuss out my mother’s new husband, not in a crowded restaurant at least.

“I need to be excused to go to the restroom. Do you want to risk not giving me permission, Gerald?” My lips squeeze tightly together after I speak. That’s the only way I can hold in the rest of what I want to say.

“Mr. Gerald,” he reminds me that this is what he’d like to be called.

I smile sweetly and as phony as Clay Aiken when he first denied being gay. “Mr. Gerald.”

“Go ahead. Your mother will order something for you. Something much healthier than fried chicken or chicken fingers or whatever the two of you were discussing.”

My eyes close to tiny slits. I know because my vision is sliced thin. I’m so mad I want to swing on him. Yes, I want to hit my stepfather. I’m sure there are millions of other teens in the world who can relate to that feeling. Unfortunately, none of them are standing here with me to offer moral support, so Janet stands, putting a hand on my arm.

“Are you okay, baby? Do you need me to go with you?”

“What?” I frown at her. “No. I don’t need an escort. I’m fine.”

“Would you like me to order for you?” Janet asks, although Gerald has already spoken.

I’ve already turned to leave and wave my hand back in her direction. “Fine. Whatever.”

I should have stayed home, in my room, by myself. This is too much, too soon. I don’t want to be out with them like we are a happy family. Because we aren’t. I’m definitely not. I hate living in Lincoln. I hate that my parents are divorced and with every passing day I hate Gerald.

While I’m walking checking off my mental list of things I hate about my life I’m reaching into my pocket for my phone. With one hand I hit the buttons that will dial my father’s house. I put the phone to my ear, waiting for him to answer, hoping he’ll pick up and that the answer to my next question will be yes.

Instead I hear, “You’ve reached Calvin Bentley. I’m not available to take your call right now, so leave your name, number and a brief message and I’ll get back to you. Peace.”

Peace?

Since when does Daddy say that? Doesn’t matter, there’s definitely no peace in my life.

“Hey, Daddy, it’s me, Krystal,” I speak into the phone
after it beeps for me to leave a message. I don’t know why I’m telling him who I am. He only has one daughter. “Um, can you call me back as soon as you get this message? It’s really important.” I say goodbye and flip the phone shut, then head toward the bathroom.

I figure I’d better make it look good. Knowing Gerald, he’d probably followed me out here. But just as I’m about to go in the bathroom door I hear voices to my right.

The restaurant is on an angle, at the end of a long hallway coming from the lobby of the hotel. The restrooms are along the right side at the end of the hall. There’s a
T
shape at the end so I can either go left or right. Left will lead me into the bathrooms, right will lead down a smaller hall and to the door marked Exit.

That’s where the voices are coming from.

Did you tell her everything?
This is a female voice, the one that first stopped me.

I figure it’s none of my business and I move to make the left turn when the next voice halts my steps.

No. Not yet. She needs time to get used to the idea first.

Ricky?

Now I know I haven’t been talking to this guy—no, this ghost—for long. One day to be precise. So I shouldn’t just know his voice even without seeing him. But I do. I think I even hear it in my sleep.

I’m walking toward that exit door even though my mind is screaming this is a bad idea.

What’s there to get used to? If she can hear you, she can help us.

Help us? Did this chick just say “us”?

Anger and curiosity brewing together isn’t such a good mix. So when the flat of my hand pushes the door open, the shocked look on their faces could only have mirrored the one on mine.

There they are, near the steps. Ricky in his jeans and
T-shirt and some girl—some girl ghost, as evidenced by her transparent appearance—with short curly hair and wearing way too much makeup.

They both stare at me as I stare at them, a standoff like they have on TV when the dead body is found and the wife’s standing over him with blood on her hands.

Krystal?
Ricky speaks first.

“Who is she?” I speak next.

Trina.

His girlfriend.

They both speak together.

I am
out of that hallway so fast a breeze probably formed behind me. I can still hear Ricky calling my name but I can’t see him.

Tears are stinging my eyes so seeing isn’t a high probability. Why I am about to cry I don’t know. Ricky’s not my boyfriend so I shouldn’t care if he has a girlfriend. My feelings shouldn’t be hurt. I shouldn’t feel betrayed. But I do. Again.

I make it back to the table and Janet is immediately up and at my side. I lift a hand, halting her steps. “I’m fine. Just tired. Can we hurry up and eat so I can go home?”

On the one side of me, still-sitting Gerald is frowning. On the other side, Janet’s expression goes from worried to saddened and I feel a pinch of guilt, knowing that it’s my fault.

Right about now I don’t even care.

I’m too busy wondering if I got played by a ghost.

Even the thought is stupid and I shiver as I think it. What’s wrong with me? Why do I even hear or see these spirits? This is so crazy I can’t believe it, let alone expect anybody else to believe it. So even though I know Janet wants to know what’s wrong with me, I can never tell her.
Not that I desperately want her and Daddy to get back together and definitely not that I think I’m losing my mind because I see dead people.

I manage to get through dinner without crying and/or throwing up. The more I think about the fact that I was actually jealous at seeing two ghosts together, the more I feel sick. Maybe I need to be medicated or, worse, sent to a mental institution.

Those thoughts run through my mind as I also worry over the fact that Daddy hasn’t returned my call. I haven’t talked to him in a couple of weeks. Where is he?

The air is humid and thick. It’s nighttime so it should be cooler. Just yesterday it was so chilly I almost put on a jacket. The weather here is so strange.

I climb the stairs and go to my room the moment we get back from dinner, but then I don’t want to stay in my room. I am afraid Ricky will come back.

So when Gerald and Janet are closed in their bedroom probably doing things that would make me want to gouge my eyes out, I sneak downstairs and out the back door to sit on the patio.

Our house faces some trees and just past the trees is a small beach, then endless water. In the distance I hear the waves. Closing my eyes, I try to concentrate on the soothing sounds and for a minute or so it works.

Then there’s moaning, like someone’s in pain. It’s my plan to ignore the moan because for some reason I think it’s not really happening.

Denial at its best.

Unfortunately, it persists and my eyes creep open. Silent prayers are going up to the heavens that I’m still alone out here. Opening my eyes all the way, I sigh. Prayer works.

Or maybe not.

The sound is getting louder, turning into maybe a cry. I sit up in the chair and decide I’m just going to the end of our yard to see what’s going on. My wobbly legs take me a little farther until I’m standing on the beach.

The water looks dark, like a shiny piece of black material. There’s no moon out and no stars. A few minutes ago—back on the patio—I was hot. Now I fold my arms over my chest and fight against chattering teeth.

The cry echoes in the air from behind me. I turn quickly, see the tall woman in the long white gown and fall flat on my butt.

Help me,
she says, reaching her hands out to me. My gaze follows the length of her arms to the tight bodice of her gown, up her neck and to her face—to her half face. The other half is completely rotted. The scream that ripples through me should have been loud and eardrum shattering but just then a huge wave comes rolling in. From the corner of my eye I see it building and know that when it comes crashing down it will take me with it. So I roll in the sand, get to my knees then struggle to stand. Breaking into a run, I refuse to look back. Heading straight for the house, I go upstairs to my room where I close and lock my door.

My chest’s heaving as I sit on the floor trying to catch my breath. I wonder if a lock and a fear as big as the continent would keep that woman and any other ghosts away.

Oh, God, I hope so.

Sleep hadn’t come easy but it finally came and I didn’t dream, thank goodness. I don’t think I could have handled another traumatic experience like a nightmare.

It’s Sunday and I know Janet isn’t going to church. She hasn’t been since we left New York, which also means I haven’t been either. Grandma Bentley would have a heart attack if she knew that.

Hey, maybe that’s what I needed—Jesus or an exorcism.

You need to get up out of this bed. It’s almost noon.

I jump at the sound of his voice, immediately pulling the covers up to my chest.

“Get out!” I yell, not loud enough for anybody to come running to my room full of questions. But at just the right tone so he can tell I’m serious.

Calm down. You’re all uptight first thing on a Sunday morning.

“Uptight!” I say, sitting up in my bed, forgetting all about the sheets until I see his gaze drop down.

I don’t have big breasts but they’re still there and they’re just barely covered by a thin tank top. I pull the sheet up again and tuck it under my armpits. “Listen, I don’t know what type of game you’re playing but I’m not in the mood. In fact, I think you and your
girlfriend
need to find somebody else to help you.”

He laughs but I don’t see what’s so funny.

“Just get out of my room. Out of my life.” I sigh heavily then fall back onto my pillows. “Isn’t my life bad enough without dead people waltzing into it?”

Why do you think your life is so bad? From where I’m standing, you’ve got it all. A great house near the water, almost near the Richies. You have your mother and your stepdad living with you, taking you out to dinner and all that wholesome family stuff. What could you possibly have to complain about?

I turn my head toward the sound of his voice. He’s standing to the right of my bed, in front of the nightstand with my clock radio and lamp.

“You have no idea what my life is really like. All this,” I say, waving my arm toward everything in the room, “is like a stage, set up for the performance of a lifetime. But happily ever after isn’t in my future. I’m definitely no Cinderella.”

You got that right. Cinderella would have been up by now scrubbing those floors.

He’s laughing harder now and I can’t help but crack a smile. That dimple in his cheek is just too cute.

Still,
he says, trying to stop laughing,
it can’t be that bad.

“It is.”

Tell me about it.

I shake my head. “That’s not why you’re here.”

No, but maybe we can make a trade. You help me. I help you.

“How can a spirit help me with my life?”

I won’t know until you tell me what’s so wrong with your life.

He has a point there so I sit up again, resting my back against the headboard. I could probably tell him what is going on in my life that has me so pissed off and depressed at the same time. Who is he going to tell if he’s dead?

“Nobody else can see you, can they?” I ask as we stop walking through the park. We’re far away from the swings and monkey bars where there are a few little kids with their parents playing. Down two slopes and off the path that the speed walkers or runners take, I sit on the ground and stare out across the jutting rocks and slow trickle of water.

Unless they have the same power that you do, no.

I sigh heavily because I don’t even know what power I have. Nor do I want it.

How long have you been doing this?

“Doing what?”

This. The whole ghost whisperer thing.

I hate the way that sounds. Like that show that comes on television with the woman who can talk to ghosts and helps them with some unresolved problem. That’s fiction, entertainment. This is my life.

I just shrug instead of answering him.

Don’t like it much, huh?

“How’d you guess?”

Why don’t you like it? Man, if I could have a cool superpower I’d love it. You know the things I could have done if I was powerful?

“What? Like stay alive?”

He chuckles but then looks at me more seriously.
You know, you could make a person feel just as crappy as you without even trying.

I shrug again.

Like I said, your life can’t be that bad. Probably just some spoiled brat complaining while the rest of us sit back and want what you have.

My neck almost snaps I turn my head in his direction so fast. He’s sitting right beside me, his knees drawn up in front of him, his arms wrapped around them. “I told you, you know nothing about my life. If you did, you’d know the last thing anybody could call me is spoiled.”

Then let’s try ungrateful.

I move to stand up. “No. Let’s try I’m outta here. Help yourself with your afterlife problems, dead boy.”

But before I can stalk away after my perfect exit line I’m falling to the ground, my hands coming up flat to keep my face from meeting the grass. I roll over quickly, wondering if he’d touched me. No, he couldn’t have touched me. Not for real, I don’t think.

Ricky’s still laughing, something I figure must have been one of his favorite pastimes. He hasn’t moved from his position.

“You’re an idiot,” I say, scrambling up once more.

And you’re clumsy. You didn’t see that big rock right there?

I’m on my knees now and as he points I follow his arm. Sure enough, there’s a rock, similar to the ones in the creek, halfway buried beneath the grass. So, no, he hadn’t pushed
me, but he’d gotten a good enough laugh at me falling on my face.

The reasons why not to like Ricky were quickly adding up. 1) He’s not a real boy, just a spirit. 2) He has a girlfriend. Her name is Trina. 3) He thinks he knows everything. 4) He has a sick sense of humor.

Come on back over here and sit down. If somebody comes up the path you’re going to look like some psycho talking to yourself.

He probably has a point. I am sitting sideways so it would be easy for someone coming by to see and/or hear me talking to the air.

I huff and reluctantly do as he says. “I must be psycho for sitting here talking to you,” I can’t resist saying.

Man, this is so jacked. Of all the ghost whisperers in the world, I end up with you.

“Feel free to go, Ricky. I was doing just fine before you showed up!”

No, you weren’t. You’re running around looking like somebody just stole your bike day in and day out. You treat your mother like crap and don’t give her husband much more respect. And you stay in that room like it’s some sort of hideout.

Well, tell me how you really feel. I feel like saying this to him, but I’m not ready to admit that his assessment of me and my life is dangerously close to the truth, as usual.

“Who cares what you think,” I say and look the other way. I don’t care what he thinks. He’s not that important to me to care.

Hey, you don’t have to care what I think. But you’re too cute to be holed up in that house all the time. And you’re too young for all this drama.

Could he read my mind…and did he just say I was cute? Okay, my head is slowly turning back in his direction and I squint my eyes when I look at him. “Don’t try to flirt with
me. You have a girlfriend, remember.” Thinking of the other ghost makes my head hurt.

And there is that smile again. He doesn’t chuckle this time but his dark skin seems to highlight his superwhite teeth. He lifts a hand and rubs his fingers over his chin. The sun catches on his watch and there is a silver glare that almost has me closing my eyes.
I’ll admit, if circumstances were different I might definitely try to holla at you. But your foul attitude would probably turn me off.

Did I have a foul attitude?

“Whatever.”

Were you like this where you used to live or did you just get this new personality when you came to Lincoln?

“How’d you know I just moved here?” He’d only started stalking me in the past week or so.

Because I’ve lived here all my life and I don’t remember you.

“Maybe I stayed off your radar. I don’t normally hang with gang members.”

See that’s the New York in you talking. This is Lincoln, small town, small population. So if a group of guys start hanging out together we’re more like a clique or a crew, which sound better to me than a “gang.”

“Wait, you’re talking about the guys that sit near the doors in the cafeteria. The ones who all wear the same black-and-red hat?”

Yeah.
He nods.
That’s them.

“They like to get into trouble,” I say, relaying the rumors I’ve heard.

Yeah, they can be a pretty rebellious bunch.

“Then why hang out with them?”

He looks at me funny, then quirks one thick eyebrow upward. I can’t help but smile.

It’s a long story. But mostly it was because of my brother.

“Your brother Antoine?”

We call him Twan. And, yeah, he’s still runnin’ with the crew.

Ricky doesn’t look too pleased with that idea. “Even after your death he’s still with them? That’s stupid.”

You don’t know them. It’s not that easy to walk away once you’re in. Besides, where else would he go if he does get out?

“Is that why they killed you, because you wanted to get out?” It sounds too serious to me. Killing somebody because they didn’t want to hang with you anymore?

They didn’t kill me,
he says solemnly.

“So who did?”

That’s what I want you to find out.