Chapter 27

As I slide the pickup into an empty spot in the student side of the parking lot, I recall how agreeable Trey seemed when I told him about the shift. Yes, it did blow his mind at first but it didn’t take long for him to accept what I was telling him as the truth.

Maybe it was seeing it happen in front of his eyes.

Or maybe it’s just not as big a deal as I think it is.

I can turn my body into someone else’s, simply by touching them.

Hmmm…yeah. It’s still a big deal.

The voice of Fiona Geddes inside my head has calmed since my near freak-out at the cemetery, although it’s still there like a dull throbbing ache. I feel absolutely certain that helping Fiona is what I am meant to do with this ability and that certainty has given me a newfound freedom to shift.

I know, I know. I promised Beatrix I wouldn’t do it again but this is for a very good cause. She can’t possibly get upset with me for wanting to help someone else, can she? I suppose answering my cell phone or returning my aunt’s calls would tell me one way or another but I’d rather just get this done before I have to think about that.

Good cause, good cause…

I won’t make this a habit, Bea. I can promise you that. I will only do it when I know it’s important, when someone needs me and my unique skill. Because it really, truly is one-of-a-kind. There was too-poor Constance Meriwether who only wanted to help her fellow Puritans. She had the right instinct even if she was living in the wrong time. As for my mother, whatever she has, wherever she is, I doubt she’s doing anything productive with it.

I figured it out. I know how to control it. I won’t be committed to a mental institution or hanged as a witch.

First things first: shift into Julia. Mackenzie has a swim meet tonight so she’ll be there with Erin and Molly, cheering him on in his tiny little Speedo. Fiona, however, will not be in attendance since she – like me – is prohibited from school functions, like sports and parties, until her community service is completed.

It doesn’t take me long to shift into my ex-roommate and get back into the dorm. No key card? No problem. Not when you’re Julia Poole, everyone’s favorite California Girl. And then it’s just a hop, skip and a jump up to Fiona’s room.

I compose myself outside her door, brush down the skirt of my uniform and pull my socks up to the knees the way Julia likes to wear them.

When she answers my knock, I am startled by her appearance: her hair is pulled back into a tight, stubby ponytail and her face is bare of any trace of makeup. Gone is the Imperious MG I have come to expect from Fiona Geddes.

Her smile is halfhearted and wan; her body looks deflated and worn-down. “Hey, sweetie. Meet over so soon?”

I shake my head, as yet unable to form words. It feels like forever since I’ve seen my roommate and I’m having a hard time getting into her mindset.

Fiona turns from me and goes back to her bed. Unlike the rest of the school, she has a single and doesn’t have to share anything with anyone. Yesterday I might have said that’s her reward for being among the town’s most privileged families but now, it feels like a very lonely punishment.

“So…” Fiona says. “What’s up?”

“Fiona, um…” How to broach this subject with tact? “Is there, um, anything you want to talk about? Anything I can, uh, help you with?”

Fiona leans back against her pillows and crosses her legs in front of her. “I guess I could use some help with my stupid Shakespeare class.”

Bea’s class, I think and the diss makes me bristle. Errr…

“Not school stuff,” I clarify. “Anything else? Anything at home?”

She eyes me warily. “What do you mean?”

“You know…at home?” I try that emphasis and hope she catches my drift.

“What do you mean?” she asks again. Not angry, no, but cautious. She knows I know something but she doesn’t know what – or how.

I toss my blonde hair off my shoulders and shake it down my back. It feels soft and silky and light and I begin to imagine Mack’s hands in it, caressing it, wrapping it around his fingers, his nose nuzzling my neck and his lips against my skin, kissing me right behind the ear and that’s where I want to be right now, not here, not with Fiona, god, of all people, why her, and my feet want to turn me right around and run out the door and up to the field house and…

I have to do this. I have to get this down and out of my head! I am here to help Fiona. She’s my friend. Remember that, Julia, a friend who needs help and guidance and support.

I point to the sweater Fiona’s wearing, a Darby Prep gold and navy cardigan with gold-insignia buttons. “Would you take that off?”

“Why?”

“For me. Please?”

Slowly, she removes her sweater, slipping one arm out of each sleeve and then folding it carefully on her lap. Beneath the sweater she is wearing a short-sleeved version of our uniform blouse, with a button-down collar and cuffed sleeves. My eyes follow the paleness of her arm, the one that had been in a sling, down to a jagged shiny scar.

“Okay?”

“Okay.”

“You didn’t have an accident.”

“Sure I did. I told you how it happened.”

“No you didn’t, Fi. Now tell me the truth.”

She shakes her head. “That is the—”

“Stop it! Stop lying!”

Fiona pulls back, startled by the outburst. Julia is not a yeller.

“He hits you, I know he does.”

“What? Who?”

“Your father.”

Fiona harrumphs. “And how would you know that?”

“I…I just do, okay? I know th-the signs.” I cross my arms over my chest, daring her to defy me.

“So suddenly you’re an expert on accidents?”

“Yes.”

“You’ve known me for, what, three years and now you think you have it all figured out?” Fiona narrows her gaze at me, accusing me in that look, as if this is my fault somehow.

I ignore her attempt to divert me. “He does, doesn’t he? Why did he do that to your arm?”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” Fiona says but she glances over my shoulder saying this; she can’t look directly at me because she knows I’m right.

“Did he grab you at dinner when you didn’t sit down fast enough? Or when you ate too fast or too slow? Or maybe you left your elbows on the table one too many times?”

Fiona’s eyes widen ever-so-slightly and then she looks down at her sweater in her lap. “If he does anything it’s only because I deserve it.”

“You – what? Deserve it?”

“I have poor manners and he’s trying to educate me so I don’t make a fool out of myself.” Her hands grip the sweater tighter and tighter, so tightly the bones of her knuckles nearly pierce the skin. “When he’s Senator, there will be lots of parties and special events and I can’t look like some hick from the sticks. I have to be polished and poised and—”

“Get real,” I tell her rudely. “He’s not gonna be senator.”

“Oh yes he is,” she says in a whisper as if someone in the room could hear her and tell her father. “He’s going to be very powerful someday.”

“Look, Fi, I could help you—”

“Help me by staying the hell out of my business.”

I ignore that. “I could go with you if you want. Talk to the police with you.”

“And tell them what?”

“That he…he hits you,” I say. “That’s assault, Fiona. That’s child abuse.”

The words hang in the air; I don’t think I’ve ever spoken them out loud like this. Certainly not in a serious way about someone I know and care about. Maybe it’s the sincerity Fiona responds to; maybe she can sense I really do want to help her.

She finally looks at me and smiles. “Let’s say you know…something about the truth.”

“Okay.” A start.

But her grin belies the sarcasm in her words. “Exactly where would I go? Who would I tell?”

“The police?”

And now she laughs. “Priceless, Jules. You’re priceless. My father owns the cops. How do you think I got community service for the crap in the dean’s office? If it’s my word against his, who do you think they’ll believe?”

I have no answer for this. She’s right and she knows she’s right and that makes me feel even sadder for her.

Fiona drops her head to her chest and stares blankly at the scar on her arm. Tears plop straight from her eyes onto her skin. She shakes her head as if trying to shake away the memory. “I don’t care that he hits me. I can get over that. It hurts when…” Her chest hiccups as she chokes back the rest of the sentence. “When he’s so…cruel.”

I feel her heartbreak as surely as if I were in the shift with her. “Fiona, please. Go to the police—”

“No.”

“What about O’Brien? He’ll help you.”

Fiona looks at me like I’ve lost my mind – and I’m quickly losing whatever ground I had gained with her. “Whatever. It’s fine. I’ll deal.”

“Stop it! Stop that!”

I know her cavalier attitude is a defense mechanism but still, it bugs the crap out of me! I want to slap her on the side of the head or grab her by the arm and drag her out of this dorm and I can feel my pulse quicken and my fingers twitch, nerves on end, wanting to wrap them around her neck or throw her to the floor and –

--oh my god! Her father! I can feel, hear, sense her father as a part of me, with me here, behind beside around inside, and I grit my teeth and put my hands behind my back, forcing him out, forcing him away, he won’t hurt her, not now, not anymore.

Fiona cringes from me in fear, tucking herself closer to the wall and holding her sweater in front of her face.

I have to get out of here, have to get out of the shift before I do anything else, before I harm Fiona myself.

“Beatrix!” I cry. “Ask Beatrix for help.” The words erupt from the back of my throat. Yes, that’s it. Bea will help Fiona. I will tell Beatrix what I know and she will make sure Fiona is protected. That’s it, that’s it…the thought calms me, but only temporarily. I can feel the anger and pain just beneath the surface, bubbling like a pot about to boil. I can turn down the heat only so much on my own.

“Beatrix? You mean, Ms. Bellflower?” Fiona asks.

I nod, afraid to say anything more, afraid I will boil again.

“Do you think…” Fiona considers this. “She’s nice, huh?”

“She is,” I manage to say. “She’ll help.”

“She’s new too. She doesn’t even know my father yet.” Her face brightens a shade. “Maybe…”

“Please say yes, Fi. Please say you’ll do it.”

“Jules, I—”

“Just say yes.”

She stares at me for a long moment. “Okay. Yes.”

I exhale as if I’d been holding my breath for an hour. “Thank you.” And now I must be going.

Where did I hear that?

Trey. Trey told me that. Groucho Marx. I’m like Groucho Marx, he said. Thinking about him – Trey, not Groucho – immediately focuses me, grounding me in my own reality.

“I have to go, Fi.”

She nods. “Mackenzie’s probably waiting for you, huh?”

“Uh, yeah.”

“You’re so lucky.”

Lucky. Who’s lucky? Anyone who isn’t Fiona Geddes.

I give Fiona a quick hug before I leave. “See you tomorrow, sweetie.”

“Hey?” she says. “Keep this between you and me, okay?”

“Of course. I’ll pretend we never even talked.”

She grins. “Even better. Thanks.”

And then I’m gone, out the door and down the hall. I have to get to Beatrix before she sends the cops out after me. There’s just so long I can go without returning her calls.

I find a shadowed spot between Chalmers and the quad, a good place to shift.

Will it work easily this time? Or will I get stuck again like I did with Fiona? I was only in the shift as Julia for an hour, maybe less, but I worry that eventually, my body will rebel and not bounce back like I need it to.

Maybe you’re right, Bea, maybe you’re right.

Is now that time? My palms begin to sweat despite the chilly damp air.

Okay, okay, Callie, you can do this. Just summon that fireball and do it.

But I don’t feel fire. All I feel is soggy. Clammy. Moist. Sweat trickles down the sides of my face.

Come on, come on, come on!

And then…

…it happens. I nearly cheer out loud. Thank god. I take a moment just to be on the safe side and then finally emerge into a pool of light. My hands go to my hair: nothing long, nothing blonde. And my legs: neither skinny nor tan.

I am Callie again.

I run to MacAllister and pound on the front door. Beatrix opens it and the momentary relief her eyes express is almost instantly replaced by anger.

“Calliope,” she says simply but it’s enough to freeze my bones.

“Beatrix, I can explain—”

“No phone call, no note. All day, all night. Who do you think you are?” I can read in her eyes who she thinks I am: my mother.

“I’m sorry, Bea. I’m really, really, really sorry.”

She shakes her head, mid-apology, apparently so furious she can’t form words. “The headmaster…punishment…suspension…” is all she can get out.

“But, Bea, it’s for a good reason—”

She holds her hand up. “No, it’s not. It never is.”

“You don’t—”

“I don’t understand? I do, Callie. I definitely do.” She points her finger in my face, an inch from my eyes. “You don’t understand. Do you realize the danger in what you’re doing?”

“More of this crap? Seriously?”

“This isn’t crap, Callie.” And then she launches into the whole History of Evangeline and Her Illness.

Oh god, we’re not getting anywhere with this. I had planned to tell her how I thought she actually was right about some things about the shift but I’ve changed my mind. She’s not going to listen to me. She’s not going to care about what I did – what I can do – what the purpose of the shift is.

It was a mistake coming back here. I should have stayed with Trey. I pivot on my heel and head back out of the dorm and away from her.

“Callie!” she calls me. “Calliope!” I can hear her footsteps on the path behind me and I quicken my pace to put distance between us.

I turn the corner and aim myself in the direction of the student parking lot. I’ll just get into Trey’s truck and I’ll go back to town and fuck all of this.

Bea’s hand on my elbow jerks me to a stop. “Where the hell do you think you’re going?”

“Out,” I say like a petulant child but I don’t care.

She grabs my arm and begins dragging me back to MacAllister. I pull back, trying to shake her off. “Bea, stop it. You look ridiculous.”

But she doesn’t care either. She uses two hands this time, and I can feel her fingers digging into my skin where they make actual contact.

No touchy!

We are struggling like this, aunt against niece, teacher against student, when I hear a voice.

“Beatrix, is that you?”

It’s Mrs. Gibson. She emerges from the shadows with an armload of books.

“Hello, Mary,” my aunt says, her voice hoarse. She forces a smile but her hands remain gripped around my arm. “What are you doing out here at this time of night?”

“Just returning some books I collected from the fieldhouse.”

“The field house?”

The librarian rolls her eyes. “You’d be surprised at the myriad places books are left. Bathrooms, locker rooms, dining halls, you name it.” She shifts slightly and the top three books on her stack fall to the ground. “Would you…”

My aunt finally lets go of my arm in order to retrieve the precious books.

“Thank you, Bea.” But as she dips her knees to allow Beatrix to place the books back on top, two more slip off. These two I pick up and am rewarded with a grateful smile. “Oh Callie, thank you.” She sighs. “Would you mind helping me back to my office?” She glances over at Bea. “If you’re not busy, I mean.”

My aunt answers for me. “She’d be happy to help you.”

“Bea—” I protest.

“In fact, I’ll come with you.” Oh sure, she doesn’t want to let me out of her sight. I’ll be lucky to shower without her eyes on me.

Mrs. Gibson looks at each of us and her mouth slightly opens as if she’s about to say something but then she closes it again and smiles, nodding. “Perfect.”

We follow her to her office and I try really hard not to notice any sort of scritch-scritch sounds I hear as we walk through the stacks.

No rats, no rats, no rats…

“Here we go,” Mrs. Gibson sings, holding the door open for us with her foot. “Just set them on the chair over there, thanks.”

Is it possible there are even more books in here than the last time I visited? Bea hands me hers and I search for an empty spot to put them down.

“Look at this!” I hear Bea exclaim. “It’s blooming, just like you said it would.”

Behind me, Beatrix is cooing over a plant with a single red and white flower on it; the tiniest little buds, still green and tightly wrapped, poke out from other branches.

Mary Gibson stands beside her, beaming. “When I get more blossoms, I’ll snip them off right there at the base and dry them.”

My aunt claps her hands soundlessly. “I can’t wait!”

Tea. Boring, boring tea. No wonder Beatrix and Mrs. Gibson are friends. Boring, boring friends.

The librarian fills a kettle with spring water from a gallon jug and sets it on her hot plate. “I’m going to make us some chamomile and lavender. It’s a nice soothing blend for a chilly night.”

“It’s not that cold,” I say. I really just want to get out of here – with Beatrix – and tell her what happened with Fiona. At this point, I don’t care that she’s pissed at me. I don’t care that we fought. She can hate me, ground me, withhold her love and affection…I only want to tell her about Fiona.

“Yes, it is,” my aunt contradicts me. She deliberately sits in a chair in front of Mrs. Gibson’s desk and makes herself comfortable. “Sit, Callie. We’re having tea.”

“Don’t you think it’s late, Bea? Shouldn’t we get back to the room?” I try to exclude the librarian from my gaze. I don’t entirely trust her after hearing her talk to Fiona about me and the hazing in the headmaster’s office. Why did she know about that? Why did she care?

“Mary makes award-winning tea from her herb garden,” Bea says with a smile. “Did you know that, Callie? It’s delicious.”

“I made a brand new blend I’m dying to have you try,” Mary Gibson says to my aunt with a glance over in my direction. “Calliope, you’ll love it.”

“Doubt it.” I shake my head. “Tea’s not my thing.”

Bea shoots me a warning look. I can tell I’ve gotten on her last good nerve. “You can try Mrs. Gibson’s tea, Callie. It won’t kill you.”

“No it most definitely won’t,” Mrs. Gibson pipes up.

I can feel my eyes roll. “Fine. I’ll try the tea.”

While we wait for the water to boil – “not a rolling boil!” says our librarian – my aunt and Mary Gibson chat about poetry and books left in boys’ rooms and Headmaster O’Brien and it shocks me to hear my aunt reveal she thinks he’s hot.

Hot? Headmaster O’Brien? I try to picture the two of them together but my brain won’t get past them in their uptight clothes. No way will it allow me to get them naked.

Mrs. Gibson places a steaming cup of tea in front of me; it remarkably does not smell like feet or ass, which comes as a pleasant shock. It’s definitely not the lily-scented blend I tasted before. This one could be, well, not bad.

“Oh, this looks marvelous,” Bea says, raising the cup under her chin and giving it a good long sniff. “Do I smell rose hips too?”

Mary Gibson holds her forefinger and thumb together. “A pinch.”

Bottoms up, I think as I sip a bit of the pinkish liquid. The slightly acrid taste of lavender is smoothed out by the mild chamomile and tangy rose hips. There’s something else in there too, something I can’t identify, sweet and almost chewy, like white chocolate with cranberries, that lingers on my tongue. It’s not coffee but it’s not bad. And Mrs. Gibson is right about it warming up my insides.

I look over at my aunt and Mary Gibson. Beatrix has settled back in her chair, legs crossed at the knees and she’s got a lazy grin on her face. Did Mrs. Gibson say something funny? Did I miss it?

I glance down into my cup and see that I’ve drunk nearly half of it already. When did that happen? It feels like such a long time ago that Mary poured my tea for me. Was it just a few minutes ago? My hands and legs and arms and feet feel like they’ve suddenly gone numb; the bones feel rubbery and floppy.

Floppy. That’s a funny word. Floppy. Floppy. Floppy.

I feel so lazy now, so warm and sleepy. My god, this day has been so long, so tiring. It’s as if someone has covered me with a fluffy down comforter and I’m ready to curl myself into a cozy ball.

This is certainly a mellowing tea. Mrs. Gibson could probably make a lot of money if she sold it as a sleep aid. I wonder if she’d mind if I close my eyes and take a little nap right…about…now.