Reunion (10 page)

“Oh, yeah, Father D.,” I said sarcastically. “I told my mom I was coming out to Big Sur to deal with the ghosts of some dead teenagers. Please.”

He looked troubled. Being a priest, Father D. frowns on dishonesty, particularly when it involves parents, whom his ilk are always encouraging us to honor and obey. But I figure if God really wanted me heeding that particular rule, He wouldn't have made me a mediator. The two things just don't mix, you know?

“But evidently,” Father Dominic said, “you had no trouble telling Gina.”

“I didn't, actually. Tell her, I mean. She kind of just…knows. I mean, once she and I went to this psychic, and…” My voice trailed off. Talking about Madame Zara reminded me of what Gina had told me, about the whole one single love of a lifetime thing.
Was it true?
I wondered. Could it possibly be true? I shivered, but this time, it had nothing to do with the cold.

“I see,” Father Dominic said. “Interesting. You feel comfortable telling your friends about your extraordinary ability, but not your own mother.”

We had had this argument before—recently, in fact—so I just rolled my eyes at him. “Friend,” I
corrected him. “Not
friends.
Gina knows. Nobody else. And she doesn't know
all
of it. She doesn't, for instance, know about Jesse.”

Father Dominic glanced in the direction of the bonfire once again. Jesse appeared to be deeply engrossed in his conversation with Josh and the others. Their faces, orange in the firelight, were all turned in his direction, their gazes locked on him. It was strange that they had built that fire. They couldn't feel it, any more than they could get drunk from the beer they'd tried to steal, or drown in the water they'd been under. I wondered why they had gone to the trouble. It had probably taken a lot of kinetic power to light it.

All four of them glowed with the same subtle light Jesse gave off—not enough to see by on a dark night like this, but enough to tell they weren't quite…well,
human
was the wrong word, because of course they were human. Or had been, anyway.

I guess the word I'm looking for is
alive.

“Father D.,” I said, abruptly. “Do you believe in psychics? I mean, are they real? Like mediators?”

Father Dominic said, “I'm sure some of them are.”

“Well,” I went on in a rush before I could change my mind. “This psychic Gina and I went
to once, she knew I was a mediator. I didn't tell her, or anything. She just knew. And she said this weird thing. At least, Gina says she did. I don't remember it. But according to Gina, she said I would only have one true love.”

Father Dominic looked down at me. Was it my imagination, or did he look amused? “Were you planning on having a great many?”

“Well, not exactly,” I said, a little embarrassed. You would have been, too. I mean, come on. The guy was a priest. “But it's kind of weird. This psychic—Madame Zara—she said a bunch of stuff about how I'd just have this one love, but that it would last for, like, my whole life.” I swallowed. “Or maybe it was all eternity. I forget.”

“Oh,” Father Dominic said, not looking amused anymore. “Dear.”

“That's what I said. I mean…well, she probably didn't know what she was talking about. Because that sounds kind of bogus, right?” I asked hopefully.

But much to my disappointment, Father D. said, “No, Susannah. It does not sound bogus. Not to me.”

He said it in such a way…I don't know. Something about the way he said it made me ask, curiously, “Were you ever in love, Father D.?”

He started fumbling around in his coat pockets. “Um,” he said.

I knew what he was looking for so intently: a pack of cigarettes. I also knew he wasn't going to find any—he had quit smoking years ago, and kept only one pack for emergencies. And that, I happened to know, was back in his office at the school.

I also knew, from the fact that he'd started looking for them at all, that Father D. was stressed. He only felt an urge to smoke when things weren't quite going how he'd planned.

He had been in love. I could totally tell by the way he was avoiding meeting my gaze.

I wasn't really surprised. Father Dominic was old, and a priest, and everything, but he was still a hottie, in a senior citizen, Sean Connery kind of way.

“There was, I believe,” he said finally, when his search came up negative, “a young woman. At one time.”

Aha. I pictured Audrey Hepburn for some reason. You know, in that movie that's always on, the one where she played a nun. Maybe Father Dom and his one true love had met in priest and nun school! Maybe their love had been forbidden like in the movie!

“Did you know her before you took your, um, orders, or whatever they're called?” I asked, trying to sound casual. “Or after?”

“Before, of course!” He sounded shocked. “For heaven's sake, Susannah.”

“I was just wondering.” I kept my gaze on Jesse over by the campfire, so Father D. wouldn't be too embarrassed thinking I was staring at him, or anything. “I mean, we don't have to talk about it, if you don't want to.” Only I couldn't help it. “Was she—”

“I was your age,” Father Dominic said, as if he wanted to hurry up and get it over with. “In high school, like you. She was a little younger.”

I had trouble picturing Father Dominic in high school. I didn't even know what color his hair had been before it turned the snowy white it was now.

“It was…,” Father D. went on, a faraway look in his bright blue eyes. “It…well, it would never have worked.”

“I know,” I said. Because suddenly I did know. I don't know how I knew, but something in the way he said it never would have worked just told me, I guess. “She was a ghost, right?”

Father Dominic inhaled so sharply that for a second I thought he was having a heart attack or something.

But before I had a chance to jump in and start CPR, Jesse got up from the fire and started coming toward us.

“Oh, look,” Father Dominic said with obvious relief. “Here comes Jesse.”

I had gotten over the annoyance I used to feel at Jesse when he'd appear suddenly, usually when I least expected—or wanted—him to. Now I was almost always glad to see him.

Except at that particular moment. At that particular moment, I wished Jesse was far, far away. Because I had a feeling I was never going to get Father D. to open up about this particular subject again.

“All right,” Jesse said, when he'd come close enough to speak to us. “I think they'll listen to you now, Father, without trying to bolt. They're quite frightened.”

“They sure didn't act very frightened when they were trying to kill me this afternoon,” I muttered.

Jesse looked down at me, a trace of amusement in his dark eyes—though what's so funny about me practically drowning, I don't know.

“I think,” he said, “if you listen to what they have to say, you'll understand why they behaved the way they did.”

“We'll see about that,” I said with a sniff.

I guess I was in kind of a bad mood because of Jesse interrupting my little heart-to-heart with Father Dominic. But that was no reason for him to come up behind me as I was walking toward the group around the fire and whisper, “Behave,” in my ear.

I flashed him a look of annoyance. “I always do,” I said.

You know what he did then? He laughed! And not in a very nice way, either. I couldn't believe it.

When I got close enough to the group to be able to make out the expressions on their faces, I didn't see anything to convince me they weren't still the same ghosts who'd tried to kill me—twice—in two days.

“Wait a minute,” Josh said when he recognized me. He climbed quickly to his feet, and pointed accusingly at me. “That's the bitch who—”

Jesse stepped quickly into the firelit circle. “Now,” he said, “I told you who these people were—”

“You said they were going to help us,” Felicia wailed from where she sat, the skirt of her evening dress poofing up all around her. “But that girl there kicked me in the face this afternoon!”

“Oh,” I said, “like you weren't trying to drown me at the time?”

Father Dominic stepped quickly between me and the ghosts and said, “My children, my children, do not be alarmed. We are here to help you, if we can.”

Josh Saunders, stunned, said, “You can see us?”

“I can,” Father Dominic said solemnly. “Susannah and I are, as I'm sure Jesse explained, mediators. We can see you, and we want to help you. Indeed, it is our responsibility to help you. Only, you must understand, it is also our responsibility to ensure that you don't harm anyone. That is why Susannah tried to stop you earlier today and, if I understand correctly, the day before.”

This caused Mark Pulsford to say a bad word. Felicia Bruce elbowed him and said, “Cut it out.
That guy's a priest.”

Mark said, belligerently, “He is not.”

“He is so,” Felicia said. “Can't you see the little white thingie around his neck?”

“I
am
a priest.” Father Dominic hastened to cut the argument short. “And I am telling you the truth. You can call me Father Dominic. And this is Susannah Simon. Now, we understand that the four of you feel a bit of resentment toward Mr. Meducci—”

“Resentment?” Josh, still standing, glared at Father Dominic. “
Resentment?
It's because of that jerk that we're all dead!”

Only he didn't say
jerk.

Father Dominic raised his white eyebrows, but Jesse said, calmly, “Why don't you tell the father what you told me, Josh, so that he and Susannah can begin to understand.”

Josh, his bowtie hanging loosely around his neck, and the first few buttons of his dress shirt undone, lifted a hand and ran his fingers frustratedly through his short blond hair. He had obviously been, in life, an extremely good-looking boy. Blessed with looks, intelligence, and wealth (his parents had to have money if they could afford to send him to Robert Louis Stevenson School, which was as expensive as it was exclusive), Josh
Saunders was having trouble adjusting to the only misfortune that had ever befallen him in his short, happy life:

His untimely death.

“Look,” he said. The sounds of the waves, and now the crackle of the little fire they'd made, were easily drowned out by his deep voice. Had he lived, Josh might have been anything, I thought to myself, from professional athlete to president. He exuded that kind of confidence.

“On Saturday night we went to a dance,” he said. “A
dance
, okay? And afterward, we thought we might go for a drive, and park—”

Carrie chimed in: “We always park at the Point on Saturday night.”

“The observation point,” Felicia explained.

“It's so pretty,” Carrie said.

“Really pretty,” Felicia said with a quick glance at Father Dominic.

I stared at them. Who were they kidding? We all knew what they were doing parked at the observation point.

And it wasn't looking at the view.

“Yeah,” Mark said. “Plus no cops ever come by and make us move. You know?”

Ah. Such honesty was refreshing.

“All right,” Josh said. He had shoved his hands
in his trouser pockets. Now he took them out, and held them, palms toward us. “So we went for this drive. Everything's going fine, right? Same as any other Saturday night. Only it wasn't the same. Because this last time, when we went around the corner—you know, that hairpin curve up there—something rammed us—”

“Yeah,” Carrie said. “No lights, no warning, nothing. Just
bam
.”

“We went right into the guardrail,” Josh said. “No big deal. We weren't going very fast. I thought,
Shit, I crushed the fender.
And I started to back up. But then he hit us again—”

“Oh, but surely—” Father Dominic began.

Josh, however, went on as if the priest hadn't spoken.

“And the second time he hit us,” Josh said, “we just kept on going.”

“As if the guardrail weren't even there,” Felicia put in.

“We went straight over.” Josh slipped his hands back into his pockets. “And woke up down here. Dead.”

There was silence after that. At least no one spoke. There was still the sound of the waves, of course, and the crackling of the fire. Spray from the sea, blown by the wind, was coating my hair
and forming little ice crystals in it. I moved closer to the fire, thankful for its warmth….

And realized, all in a rush, why the RLS Angels had gone to the trouble of building it. Because that's what they'd have done if they'd still been alive. They'd have built a fire for warmth. So what if they could no longer feel its heat? It didn't matter. That's what live people would have done.

And all they wanted was to be alive again.

“Troubling,” Father Dominic said. “Very troubling. But surely, my children, you can see that it was just an accident—”

“An accident?” Josh glared at Father D. “There was nothing
accidental
about it, Father. That guy—that Michael guy—came at us
on purpose.
”

“But that's ridiculous,” Father Dominic said. “Perfectly ridiculous. Why on earth would he do such a thing?”

“Simple,” Josh said with a shrug. “He's jealous.”

“Jealous?” Father Dominic looked appalled. “Perhaps you aren't aware of this, young man, but Michael Meducci, whom I have known since he was in the first grade, is a very gifted student. He is well liked by his fellow classmates. Why in heaven's name would he—No. No, I'm sorry. You're mistaken, my boy.”

I wasn't sure which universe Father Dom was living in—the one where Michael Meducci was well liked by his fellow classmates—but it sure wasn't this one. As far as I knew, no one at the Mission Academy liked Michael Meducci—or even knew him, outside of the chess club. But then, I had only been there a few months, so maybe I was wrong.

“He may be gifted,” Josh said, “but he's still a geek.”

Father Dominic blinked at him. “A geek?” he ventured.

“You heard me.” Josh shook his head. “Look, Father, face facts. Your boy Meducci is nothing.
Nothing. We”
—he pointed at himself, then gestured toward his friends—“on the other hand, were
it
. The most popular people in our school. Nothing happened at RLS unless it had our seal of approval. A party wasn't a party until
we
got there. A dance wasn't a dance unless Josh, Carrie, Mark, and Felicia—the RLS ‘Angels'—were there. Okay? Are you getting the picture now?”

Father Dominic looked confused. “Um,” he said. “Not quite.”

Josh rolled his eyes. “Is this guy for real?” he asked me and Jesse.

Jesse said, without smiling, “Very much so.”

“Okay,” Josh said. “Then let me put it to you this way. This Meducci guy? He may have the sparkling GPA. But so what? That's nothing. I've got a 4.0. I hold the school record in the high jump. I belong to the National Honor Society. I play forward on the basketball team. I've been president of the student council for three years in a row, and on a lark, this spring I tried out for—and got—the lead in the school drama society's production of
Romeo and Juliet.
Oh, and guess what? I was accepted to Harvard. Early decision.”

Josh paused to take a breath. Father Dominic opened his mouth to say something, but Josh barreled right along.

“How many Saturday nights,” Josh asked, “do you think Michael Meducci has sat alone in his room playing video games? Huh? Well, let me put it to you another way: Do you know how many
I'
ve spent caressing a joystick? None. Want to know why? Because there's never been a Saturday night when I didn't have something to do—a party to go to or a girl to take out. And not just any girl, either, but the hottest, most popular girls in school. Carrie here”—he gestured at Carrie Whitman, sitting in the sand in her ice-blue evening gown—“models part-time up in San Francisco. She's done commercials. She was
homecoming queen.”

“Two years in a row,” Carrie pointed out in her squeaky voice.

Josh nodded. “Two years in a row. Are you starting to get it now, Father? Is Michael Meducci dating a model? I don't think so. Is Michael Meducci's best friend like mine, Mark over there, captain of the football team? Does Michael Meducci have a full athletic scholarship to UCLA?”

Mark, obviously not the group genius, went, with feeling, “Go Bruins.”

“What about me?” Felicia demanded.

Josh said, “Yes, what about Mark's girlfriend, Felicia? Head cheerleader, captain of the dance team and, oh yeah, winner of a National Merit Scholarship because of her superior grades. So, keeping all that in mind, let's ask that question again, shall we? Why would a guy like Michael Meducci want people like us dead? Simple: He's jealous.”

The silence that swept in after this statement was almost as penetrating as the smell of brine permeating the air. No one said a word. The Angels looked too self-righteous to speak, and Father Dom seemed stunned by their revelations. Jesse's feelings on the subject were unclear; he
looked a little bored. I guess to a guy born over a hundred and fifty years ago, the words
National Merit Scholarship
don't mean much.

I pried my tongue from where it had been stuck to the roof of my mouth. I was very thirsty from my long hike down, and I certainly wasn't looking forward to the climb back up to Father Dom's car. But I felt compelled, despite my discomfort, to speak.

“Or,” I said, “it could be because of his sister.”