Wanted (8 page)

Anger seeps into my face and neck when I picture Jack laughing at me, forming his fingers into crosses like he was defending himself against the devil. I whip the blankets off of me and stand. What a douche. I walk over and crack the window for some air. But when I look at things from his perspective, would I have believed Jack if he told me that some random guy at McDonald's said we were possessed by evil spirits? Not likely.

I consider calling Josie, my go-to girl for advice, but a glance at the time lets me know that Senior Picnic is already under way. Another once-in-a-lifetime moment ripped from me. Yeah, what I did was stupid, but I paid for it by getting arrested. The school didn't have to punish me double. I wonder if all the things stressing me out—school obligations, Dad's disappointment, my heavy work schedule, and my upcoming court case—have finally pushed me over the edge.

Could all that pressure have forced me to inflate the events of last night? I know for certain that I didn't imagine Milo's words, but I'm not positive about his intentions, or his sanity for that matter. Maybe he's just a troubled guy who forgot to take his meds and what I witnessed was some sort of bipolar episode. As far as his glowing eyes, I've seen all sorts of novelty contact lenses at the online Halloween shop.

I'm going to try and forget all about last night and instead, concentrate on my future. As long as I walk through the doors at NYU in August, any lunatic can say anything they want to me and I won't care. I close my eyes and send a plea to my mother:
If you see me about to ruin my life, please send a warning. Make it one I can't miss—like a giant bird landing on my head or an asteroid falling at my feet—because I'm not the best decision maker. Love you, Mom!

Talk about an understatement. Some of the decisions I've made lately are not even on the same continent as “not the best.” A sudden breeze makes the sheet of yellow paper pinned to my corkboard flutter wildly. I groan when I remember what it is—questions that Dr. Hanson wants me to journal about before our session today.
Fine, Mom,
I tell her with a wry smile.
But next time, save the sign for something really important.

As I slide my feet into my slippers, I make a plan. I'll write up a few answers, shower, drop off the slugs, and then walk to Dr. Hanson's office. If last night's craziness was due to some sort of anxiety overload, hopefully everything will return to normal once the slugs are back where they belong. Luckily, Dad doesn't leave for work until 4:00 on Saturdays, so I have plenty of time to get in and out before he even leaves the house.

As I unpin the paper, I realize then that I need to be extremely careful not to mention anything to Dr. Hanson about last night. If he even gets a hint that I thought I heard voices of dead people, he'll put me on heavy drugs and commit me to a psych ward for further testing. No thanks. Saint Joseph's Center for Mental Health does not award Bachelor of Arts degrees in film studies or drama production.

I grab my journal from my nightstand drawer and head toward the window bench. I pick up the purple fuzzy pillow, the one Mom bought for me before she got sick. I hug it to my chest and stare down onto Lake Shore Drive from my bedroom on the 51st floor of the John Hancock Center building. The sun is nearly overhead, so there are no shadows over Oak Street Beach. Looking down at the pretty scene below should lift my spirits, but instead I feel trapped, like I'm under an overturned cup. I take a deep breath and read Dr. Hanson's assignment.

My heart sinks. Great. Just what I
don't
want to do—be reminded of the terrible things that will happen to me if I get in any more trouble this year. I crack my knuckles, heave a big sigh, and let all the negativity flow onto the paper.

As I reread my list, each option feels like I'm being stabbed in the heart. I'm not sure if the jail part is true or if the judge was just trying to scare me, but either way, it worked. I realize for the millionth time just how stupid and impulsive it was to retaliate against Talia. Of course, if I hadn't done anything, I'd have zero shreds of self-respect left, so I don't completely regret what I did. Like my lawyer did for the judge, I review the facts of the case.

Fact # 1: I agreed to go to Starbucks after school with Pierce Donovan, a hot guy with freckles and a ton of charm, who tried to slide his grubby paw between my legs twenty minutes later, so I called him a dick and left.

Fact # 2: His apparently
not
-ex-girlfriend Talia found out that we hung out. So for the next four days she yelled “Slut!” really loud every time we passed in the hall and wrote a ton of lies about me online.

Fact # 3: I told her to shut the hell up and then wrote mean shit about her online too.

Fact # 4: No, I didn't consider going to the principal or the social worker.

Fact # 5: One of my guy friends told Pierce to “settle his bitch down,” but she didn't settle. On the fourth day after my date with her scumbag boyfriend, she rammed into me in the hall, making my entire Starbucks coffee spill down the front of my shirt.

Fact # 6: When I walked past her car, I thought of the perfect way to show her that she picked the wrong person to mess with. I keyed BITCH in twelve-inch letters across her trunk.

Fact # 7: I enjoyed all eight seconds of it.

Fact # 8: No, I didn't wipe her red car paint off of my key. Big mistake.

Fact # 9: Both of us spent hours in the office with school administration, were warned not to even look in each other's direction, and had privileges taken away—mine worse than hers.

Fact # 10: The douche and the bitch got back together and lived crappily ever after.

I fold up my list, deciding I'd better grab the slugs now too and stick both things into my purse before I forget. When I pick my pants up off the floor so I can grab the slugs, I hesitate. After I return these bullets to the safe, Dad will put them into one of his display cases and that'll be the end of the mind movies. As horrifying as some of the events were, I have to admit they were also pretty cool—especially from a director's standpoint. Shouldn't I experience just one more, observing from a purely cinematic standpoint?

I pause, as if waiting for someone to disagree with me.

When no one does, I take a deep breath. There's no time like the present to witness the past. Bracing myself for some horrific scene to follow, I slip my hand into the pocket, making contact with the slugs. My bedroom swirls into a blurry cocktail of whites and grays, followed by a graphic scene that bursts into full color before my eyes.

This time I'm sitting with Clyde on an old wooden porch swing. I have on a flouncy yellow skirt with a white cotton top complete with frilly ruffles and pearl buttons. Clyde has his shirtsleeves rolled up and his top buttons undone. We clink mason jars filled with a cloudy brown liquid and take a sip. I swallow the putrid concoction—kerosene trying to pass as homemade whiskey would be my guess—which burns as it slides down my throat. I shield my eyes from the sun blasting over the large maple in front of the house. The paint-peeled planks scald the soles of my bare feet, so I swipe off bits of dirt from my feet and curl them under me.

Clyde drapes his arm casually over the back of the swing, his hand resting behind my neck. He pushes off the ground with his toe and the swing starts to sway. “You're as pretty as a postcard in that fancy new outfit,” he says with a smile, his thumb making lazy circles on the nape of my neck. A pleasurable zing electrifies my entire body, neck to toes and back up again.

Clyde grins devilishly, a dimple appearing on his right cheek. “This dress is almost as nice as the birthday dress you got underneath it. Sure would like to see that one.” He winks and seductively lifts the hem of my skirt. “It's a sin to cover up gams as gorgeous as these.” He puts his hand on my knee, and ever so slowly, slides one finger up my inner thigh. At the same time, he leans in and kisses my neck. He expertly locates all the right places with his tongue. I close my eyes, writhing with pleasure until I can't take it anymore.

I tilt his chin up and plant a passionate kiss on his lips. He responds eagerly, gently sucking on my bottom lip before softly whispering, “Let's go inside, baby.” He rises to his feet and holds my hand, gently tugging me off the porch swing. “I want to give you a glimpse of what heaven feels like right here on Earth.” Clyde leads me through the squeaky screen door and into a dimly lit bedroom. Slits of sunlight filter into the room from around the edges of the shades. “I've been dreaming about this.” He kisses me, lifting me off my feet, and tenderly places me on the bed.

The daydream fades to black, ending the show. Based on the slick film of sweat in all of my restricted zones, I realize my brain was a lot more turned on by Clyde than I knew. I sigh, a tiny smile of satisfaction on my face. Now that's what I call a dream with benefits.

That's why I ended it. You started breathing way too heavy for my liking.

I bolt to a sitting position and clutch the neckline of the NYU t-shirt I wore to bed. “You again! Stop popping in and out and talk to me already!” My eyes dart around my room, watching for her image to appear inside a cocoon of white light or floating in a sea of black mist.

No response. “This is stupid! If you want my attention, show yourself!” I demand, slightly louder this time. Still nothing. No voice, no halo of light, no ink cloud of gloom.

“Damn you!” I slap my hand down onto the bed. “If you're really Bonnie Parker, then prove it! Stop screwing around and let's have it out right here, right now!”

Fine! You want proof, you got it. My full name is Bonnie Elizabeth Parker and I was born on October 1st, 1910, in Rowena, Texas. My daddy's name was Charles and he died when I was four. My mama's name was Emma. I loved Clyde Chestnut Barrow more than anything in the whole wide world until we got gunned down in 1934. Satisfied, darlin'?

My heart skips a beat. No. Please no. Let it be that my overworked brain made all that stuff up to confuse me. I lunge for my laptop and quickly type “Bonnie Parker” in a Google window, clicking on the first website. I only have to read the intro to see Bonnie's full name, birthdate, and hometown. I shove the laptop away in a daze. It's true. Every word of it. I am sharing my body with a woman who died over eighty years ago. “How? How can this be?”

You know how. You meddled where you wasn't supposed to.

“So being infected by a dead gangster is my punishment for being nosy?”

I don't make the rules 'round here. Once you're dead, your opinion don't matter no more.

I get up and start pacing from window to dresser. My red-painted toes embed themselves in the thick gray carpet. Like drops of blood on decaying flesh, I think before I can stop myself. I nervously twirl my hair around a finger trying to think of what to ask next when I rush to my mirror. Black bob messy from sleeping, green eyes with eyeliner smudges around them. Same as always.

My heart races so fast that I can hear my loud exhalations. I take a deep breath, trying to calm down. “So let me get this straight. I made one little mistake and then
bam!
you wake from the grave and start talking to me?”

Oh honey, I ain't just talking to you. I'm IN you.

My stomach twists with disgust and I stumble, unsteady on my feet. I plop down onto the bed, my head reeling. “No. No way.”

Think what you want. Like I said, I don't make the rules. I just follow them.

I replay her words, trying to take this all in. “Okay, so let's say I believe you. I meddled where I wasn't supposed to and now you're my punishment. How do I get rid of you?”

Silence.

“Well? You going to tell me what to do so we can both get back to our lives?”

Who says I want to go back?

My head feels light, disoriented. I lie back on my bed, my ears shrieking with panic. I hug my pillow tightly, wondering if I could possibly be imagining all of this.

Nope, you're not woolgathering. I've been given a second chance.

Her response hits me like a bucket of water to the face. A realization comes over me that rocks my core. Did you just read my mind? I ask silently.

Yes, of course. You can read mine too. What do you think those things you call “mind movies” are? They're my memories, you dumb Dora.

“Fuck you,” I say aloud, refusing to mind-talk with her. It's just too creepy.

It ain't polite to swear. Drink all ya want, but talk like a lady.

“I'll talk how I want—fuck, fuck, fuck.”

Real grown up of you.

“Shut! Up!” I squeeze the sides of my head until it hurts, willing her to go away. I stop and stare at my hands. Can she control my body too? I clench my hands into fists and wiggle my toes. I let out a quick sigh of relief. At least not that.

I can hear and see just fine, but I haven't had any luck moving your body parts yet.

Yet? Alarms go off in my brain and my stomach lurches at the thought of Bonnie being able to control my body. I sit on the bed, holding my gut, waiting for the cramp to ease. “Are you saying you'll…” I stop, not wanting to say the rest aloud, but unable to prevent myself from thinking it. Will she eventually take me over completely?