The Guidance Page 3

  There's really no point in giving Courtney the time of day, let alone the satisfaction of knowing that she continues to hurt my feelings. A lot of kids at school stop me in the hall or talk to me at lunch and share their own ghostly encounters. But not Courtney Langdon. She's your stereotypical high school bitch: cheerleader, blond, skinny, head of the RHS ruling class. I know good and well that she's been making nonstop nasty-ass comments behind my back, so I do my best to take a deep breath and hold my head high.

  "I don't know why she hates me so much," I mutter.

  Celia snorts. "Hello. You're psychic and you don't know? First off, you're stealing her thunder. She's supposed to be the most popular girl in school, but suddenly you are."

  "I'm not—"

  "And, dude, you're dating her ex-boyfriend."

  True. That was more than likely the cause of the friction. Jason and Courtney had dated about a year ago, until he called it off. Or came to his senses, as Taylor likes to say. However, my psychic senses tell me there's more to Courtney's hatred than merely a cute boy. (And what a cute boy he is!)

  Speaking of said cute boy, Jason slides up to me in all of his blond, blue-eyed gorgeousness and takes my tray from me. "Celia's right, Courtney. Get over yourself and leave Kendall alone."

  Not missing a beat, Courtney bats her eyelashes. "I don't know what y'all are talking about," she says in a Southern simper.

  "I heard you," Jason says in an authoritative voice. "Just piss off, okay?"

  She stamps her Steve Madden-booted feet. "I won't have you talk to me like that, Jason Tillson. You don't own me anymore!"

  "Thank God for small miracles," Celia mumbles to me.

  Courtney signals to her posse that they're leaving now. "Don't be fooled, Jason. She's just using you."

  His eyebrows lift in a mischievous manner. "How so?"

  "Just to get popular."

  There's that word again.

  "Whatever, Courtney. Come on, Kendall. Let's go eat," Jason says with the brightest smile on his face. Those Dasani-bottle-blue eyes of his literally make my knees weak. I can't believe a guy this fine is with me. It's worth it to put up with the Courtneys of the world if I get to spend time with Jason.

  "She's a fake, you know," Courtney tosses over her shoulder. "She's just playing at being a psychic to get attention. It's all a ruse."

  Taylor joins the fray all of a sudden, and, boy, is she ticked off. "Leave my friend alone. She's the most genuine person I know. I can't say the same for you."

  Courtney dismisses Taylor with a flip of her hand, which only makes Taylor's resentment boil more.

  "She's not worth it, Tay," Jason says to her.

  To complete the circle of friends, Becca Asiaf walks up in her black sweater, camouflage pants, and combat boots and plants herself directly in Courtney's path. "Shouldn't you be on your way to the bathroom instead of bothering my friend? You don't want to accidentally digest any of your lunch, now, do you?"

  It's a well-known fact at RHS that Courtney chooses to splurge and purge on most days, although it's the great unsaid. I love that Becca metaphorically punched her in the face with that one.

  But Courtney steels her gray gaze at me so hard that I can feel the energy of her disdain bouncing around like radio waves. "All y'all can kiss my perfect little ass."

  With that she turns around and dashes out of the caf, Farah and Megan in her wake. Only Stephanie shrugs an apology before running off to catch up with her friends. There's something in her eyes that reads like a light sadness. If she reached out to me, maybe I could help her.

  We sit down in silence to eat. I'm trying not to tremble over the verbal assault. Quite frankly, I'd rather have a ghost try to take over my body than deal with another scene like that. Thank heavens the school day's almost over and I can avoid her, for the most part.

  Jason holds my hand under the table and leans close. "I think you're awesome, Kendall Moorehead."

  "Me too," Taylor pipes up.

  "Ditto" from Becca.

  "Yeah," Celia says with a mouthful of mashed potatoes. "Besides, you have a much better ass than hers, hands down."

  And with that, I almost pass out from laughing so hard.

  ***

  Physiology Class.

  The good thing is I love the teacher, Ms. Pritchard, who's young and hip and really makes the subject interesting. I mean, I want to be a city planner, like my dad, so the human body and how it works is the farthest thing from my academic interest, but Ms. Pritchard is a great teacher and makes the class actually enjoyable.

  The bad thing is Courtney Langdon takes physiology with me. (She does sit all the way across the room though!)

  "Good afternoon, y'all," Ms. Pritchard begins. "We're starting a new project today that we'll be working on for a few weeks. It will make up forty percent of your final grade for the semester. It's going to entail completely dissecting a fetal pig and cataloging all of the parts."

  Ewwww ...

  "All right!" one of the guys shouts from the back.

  "That's jank!" another says.

  "That'll play havoc on my manicure," Courtney quips.

  Yeah, it's going to be really gross, but I'll just concentrate on the same mental exercises I use for tuning in to my intuition and try not to see the baby pig as something that was once living and is now a science project. Even though I deal with the dead, they were people once and still are. What if the pig has a spirit that won't like what we're doing to it?

  Kendall, you're just being silly now, Emily whispers in my head.

  It's like having my mother with me twenty-four/seven sometimes! Emily, be quiet!

  Ms. Pritchard grabs a sheet of paper and continues. "You'll be working in pairs on the assignment. I'll just go down the class roster and match you up alphabetically."

  As she's calling out pairs of names, I quickly run through the ABC song and want to do a Homer Simpson "D'oh" when I realize that L and M are next-door neighbors. (Okay, that's how Mom always said it.) Oh no, say it's not so. Pleeeeeeease!

  "Langdon and Moorehead," the teacher says.

  Son of a ... well, a bitch. What else is there to say?

  Courtney glares icy gray eyes across the room at me. Like I planned this!

  I don't know whether to move my stuff over to Courtney's area or wait for her to join me. I'm sure it'll be a cold day in hell before she makes the first move, so I decide to be the bigger person.

  Plopping my backpack down at her lab table, I force a smile. As if anyone could be pleased to be matched up with her. "So, we're partners on this, huh?" I say, sitting on the stool.

  Without acknowledging my presence, she sings out, "Such a freeeeeak ... such a freeeeeak."

  "Look," I say, wanting to touch her arm but afraid of how she'll react. "We're going to have to work together, so you might as well call me by my name. It's not Boo. It's not Ghost Girl. And I don't remember seeing Freak on my birth certificate either. It's Kendall. Got it?"

  My leg quivers on the high stool a bit. I can put up a good front with difficult people when I have to. (Oddly enough, I don't have any problem dealing with aggressive spirits.) Loreen has been teaching me lately about auras that come from our chakras. According to yoga principles, the human body has seven centers of energies, or chakras. It's a whole metaphysical thing that I can't really explain right now. Since I'm new to reading auras and not completely trained yet, I'm mostly seeing white hazes around people. However, suffice it to say that Courtney is emanating an amazing red glow that signifies possible anger (duh), a high emotional state (double duh), or conflict in the air (ding, ding, ding ... we have a winner!).

  "I don't care what your name is." Her voice is laced with venom. "You're obviously delusional and you've got this whole town thinking you're something special. You're not, though. You're just some outsider who wormed her way into my boyfriend's life with this little scheme of yours. Why don't you go home and take your meds?"

  Courtney's words hit hard, stabbing me
in the chest with the sharpness of their delivery because they're so similar to ones uttered by my own mother. I pick up more from my enemy, though, as I sit here with her. The rest of the class adjusts seats to pair up with their new partners—no big deal. Courtney's threatened by all the positive attention I'm getting. Like it's taking something away from her?

  It's lessening her popularity, Emily tells me.

  Geez, conceited enough?

  I really don't want to start thinking of my abilities in any negative light. It's taken me a couple of months to accept and embrace what's going on with me. Not that I've fully embraced it or understand, but I'm doing my damnedest. Instead of playing into Courtney's hands, I close my eyes and take a few deep breaths to calm my nerves. I'm mentally in Chicago, standing on the edge of Lake Michigan, smelling the air and listening to the birds squawk as they circle overhead. This is a happy place for me. A place where no one—especially Courtney—can hurt me. I also think of the lessons I've learned from my parents about loving your enemy and treating people the way you want to be treated. Father Massimo Castellano at the Episcopal church has reiterated the same mantra to me in his own guidance of my gift.

  So, fine. I'll kill Courtney with kindness.

  "Look, I'm really good in science and you're a wicked smart girl, right? We can easily ace this assignment if we work together."

  She tosses her long blond hair over her shoulder then turns her attention to an apparent chip in her fingernail polish. "Whatever."

  I look at the handout Ms. Pritchard gave each team. "So, what do you want to do first ... I mean, once we get the fetal pig?"

  Courtney leans across the lab table and points her index finger at me. "Don't think that because I'm forced to work with you in this one class we're all of a sudden going to be all palsy-walsy and BFFs. You are the enemy."

  "Of what?"

  "Me. Everything I know. You're nothing but a sicko who wants attention. I'll be damned if you get any from me."

  I hear Emily laugh inside my head and I'm tempted to join in. Instead, I smile and say, "Whatever you say, Mean Girl."

  I think I won this round.

  Chapter Three

  When the last school bell rings, I borrow Celia's Segway—she's going to catch a ride home with Taylor after a science club meeting—and motor the few blocks to Divining Woman to see Loreen. She's been a godsend through this whole awakening thing, primarily because she went through it herself as a teenager. Now she's in her midthirties and is the owner of this cool metaphysical catchall-type bookstore on the Square in downtown Radisson.

  The over-the-door bell clinks as I make my way inside. Spicy cinnamonlike incense dances in the air, along with the smell of sage, juniper, and vanilla. Each scent has a special meaning and is used to help center the mind and relax the body and soul. I should know; Loreen—horrible saleswoman that she is—has practically given me one of everything in the store these past couple of months.

  The place seems empty though.

  "Loreen?"

  There are lit candles on the bookshelf. Surely she wouldn't go anywhere and leave those burning. I move to blow them out when I hear a rustling from the back of the store.

  "May I help you?" she calls out. Rounding the corner of a table full of various tarot cards stacked up high, Loreen sees me and her smile broadens. "Oh, Kendall! It's you, sweetie. I'm with a client."

  I muffle my laughter as I take her in. She's about Mom's height, with short, curly strawberry blond hair that just touches the neck of her novelty T-shirt, which reads "Ghosts Were People Too." "I'm sorry to interrupt. I can come back later."

  "Pish-posh," she says, swatting at me. "I'm just finishing up a tarot card reading. You can sit in."

  "I really sh—"

  "No worries." Loreen pulls me through the store and slides the makeshift curtain to the left, revealing a small, round table covered with red crushed-velvet material and a Rider-Waite tarot deck spread out in the Celtic cross formation. An impeccably dressed woman in a smart navy blue suit and pink blouse sits at the table with her fingers laced together. "Evelyn, you don't mind if my protégée Kendall joins us, now, do you?"

  "Why, of course not." The woman extends a slim hand forward, free of any rings or jewelry except a silver watch. "Evelyn Crawford. So nice to meet you, Kendall. Loreen thinks the world of you. As does my mother."

  "She does?" Do I know her mother? I shake her hand.

  Evelyn blinks at me. "Mother had you over to the house the other night, looking for Daddy."

  The realization hits me. "You're that Evelyn! Mrs. Lockhart's daughter. Geez, I'm so sorry about your father."

  The lovely woman forces a smile. "It was quite a shock. More so was the fact that the airline lost him. Terrible thing for a family to go through."

  "Any news?" I ask.

  She nods. "He's been sent to Memphis and they're driving him home. He should be back this weekend so we can have the memorial service." She takes my hand. "I'm so grateful for your help. If there's anything I can ever do for you, Kendall."

  "Wanna do my physiology project?" I say with a nervous giggle.

  We all laugh as I pull up a chair and sit next to Miss Evelyn.

  She pats her perfectly coifed dark brown hair. "You'll have to come check out my house sometime. I swear, we've got ghosts," Evelyn says. "Honestly, Loreen, is there a residence in Radisson that doesn't have any activity?"

  I think back on the soldier I'd thought was a street ghost. Mr. Lockhart had hinted to me that he was attached to his daughter's house. Perhaps he was right. Do I tell her I saw one of the spirits from her house? Hmm ... probably not on our first meeting.

  "It seems like it these days. Kendall and her team have done about twenty investigations in the past couple of months," Loreen says with pride. "They wouldn't be solving—and debunking—cases without Kendall's psychic abilities."

  I feel a blush coming on. "Well, that's not altogether true. Each member of our team brings something to the table." I want to give credit where credit is due.

  "That's just fantastic," Evelyn says.

  Loreen quirks her mouth to one side and I can tell she's got an idea.

  "What?" I ask, my eyes wide.

  "Why don't you try doing a psychic reading for Evelyn?" Loreen looks to her customer. "You wouldn't mind, would you?"

  Evelyn shifts in her seat to face me. "Just the opposite. I'd love to see Kendall in action."

  I bite my bottom lip as I think this through. I've only been practicing this on Celia—like she has anything to hide from me—and have never done it for a stranger.

  "Emily's not with me right now," I admit.

  "Who's Emily?" Evelyn asks.

  I pop my knuckles to relieve the stress from dealing with Courtney earlier. This is exactly the type of mental focus and relaxation I need. "Umm ... Emily's sort of my spirit guide. I don't know much about her other than she died young—maybe twenty—and she wears what looks like a hospital gown all the time. Turns out, I've known her all my life. She used to be my imaginary friend until I was told to stop talking about things like that. Now Emily gives me clues to what other spirits are doing or thinking. Like I said, though, she's not with me right now, so I don't know how much I'll get right, Miss Evelyn."

  Loreen pats my hand. "That's okay, sweetie. Try it on your own. You don't always have to rely on Emily."

  She's right. I have to keep developing my own intuition, and I can't always depend on Emily as my CliffsNotes to the paranormal realm.

  I clear my throat and sit up straight. "Okay, well, first I'll need something personal of yours."

  Evelyn reaches down, gets a very large Louis Vuitton bag, puts it on the table, and withdraws a matching tan and gold wallet. "Will this work?"

  "Sure." I think so.

  Miss Evelyn hands over the wallet, and I turn it over and over in my palms, feeling the soft leather and listening to the change rattle within. I breathe deeply and try to see the contents. Many quarters, a lot of penni
es, and a stack of five, no, six Benjamins. Wow. I didn't know anyone walked around Radisson with six hundred dollars burning a hole in her pocket. Must be nice.

  Must. Focus.

  Then Loreen screws up her face.

  "What?"

  "That's nice that you're seeing what's in the wallet," she says. "But you need something with some metal in it to help you pick up on Evelyn's energy—like jewelry or keys."

  "Oh! You're right. What was I thinking?"

  "Here, dear," the woman says. "Try this."

  She hands over a heavy knob of various keys that jingle and swing from a double-C Chanel chain.

  "That's more like it," Loreen says. "Keep going."

  I start my breathing and concentration again. Immediately, I pick up on the vibrations of energy from Evelyn Crawford. In my mind's eye, I see it all so clearly. "I'm traveling down a long path, lined with tall cedars on either side. A large white house sits at the end of the drive. There are—one, two, three—four large columns on the outside, and the shutters are painted black."

  I hear a sharp intake of breath. Evelyn's, I assume. "That's my house. On Crow Lane."

  "Oh, right, near Mrs. Lockhart's."

  The woman nods. "Mother and Daddy live in the carriage house on the south end of the property. Well, I suppose it's just Mother now," she says with a sniff.

  Loreen pats Miss Evelyn's hand and signals for me to continue.

  I mentally wipe away the fog and cobwebs of the image to try to describe further what I'm seeing. "There's a woman on the porch in an old-timey dress."

  "How old-timey?" Loreen asks. "Be more specific about the style, Kendall."

  "Right," I say. "She looks like an extra from Gone With the Wind, with, like, an apron and petticoats and a parasol. She's a babe, too," I tack on with a laugh. "She's got this chestnut brown hair that's piled on her head in all of these crazy curls and twists and stuff. Man, that must have taken hours!"

  "Kendall...," Loreen fusses.

  I peek with my left eye. "Well, it's true."

  Suddenly, it's like I'm leafing through a family-history book. Information flies at me. Words scroll by, telling their story. Conversations dotted with laughter and arguments, colored with tears. There is much passion in the house surrounding this beautiful antebellum-times woman. I'm absorbing it as quickly as possible, hoping to remember every tiny detail in order to share. After a moment, I force the sequence to stop so I can relay what I've seen.