Flipping Fates Page 8

  Aaron rolls his head across his shoulders. “Fine. Okay. But don’t go back in.”

  “The purification would work better if I can burn the sage—”

  “You’re not going to burn anything in the RV!” I explode.

  Aaron turns back to me with an upraised hand, the stress on his face evident.

  “Grant,” he says, “you can do your thing, but you have to do it out here. Deal?”

  Grant nods sadly. “I’m just worried for all of your safety.”

  “Thank you for that, but we have a leg up on spiritual matters.” Aaron pats his shoulder. “We’re not exactly strangers to spiritual warfare ourselves, but we appreciate your concern.”

  “I’ll get your bag,” Nathan says and dashes away.

  Grant offers a kind smile and lowers himself into a cross-legged position at the RV door. Aaron backs away from him and stops at my side.

  I swallow hard and bite my tongue.

  I don’t want this creepy little goth-hipster here anymore. I didn’t have a good feeling about him when I first saw him, and now I’m convinced he’s up to something.

  “It won’t hurt anything.” Aaron squeezes my hand.

  I turn to him. “He wants to move the RV?”

  Aaron scowls.

  “Maybe he wants to go on vacation with it?” I snarl.

  Aaron chuckles. “Well, it smells like bad chicken and something dead. And I‘m pretty sure there’s a nest of mice in the vent system. So he’s welcome to it.”

  I huff.

  “Hey.” He turns me gently and kisses my forehead. “It’s all right. I’ll make sure he leaves. You head on back inside and get back to work.”

  I watch as Nathan returns with Grant’s backpack. The black-clad man digs through the bag for a moment before he pulls out a plastic baggie full of dried sage leaves. He withdraws a handful and wraps them tightly into a stub, which he sets fire to with a lighter.

  He waves the burning stub and begins to chant in Latin.

  Not that I know Latin. But it sounds Latin-esque.

  I glare at Aaron.

  He shrugs again. “You can’t say our lives aren’t interesting.”

  I groan and turn away from him, stomping to the front of the house and up the porch stairs.

  Inside, Laurel and Prisha are sitting in our makeshift command center in the living room, drinking bottled water. I’m relieved that Prisha is still here.

  “Hey.” I approach them.

  And stop.

  Perched on the chair between Laurel and Prisha, as though it were the most normal thing in the world, is a full skeleton. Its head is cocked to the side, bony jaw gaping open to show all its plastic teeth in a horrific grin, and its spindly fingers are wrapped around an empty cup.

  Seriously. When is this house going to stop creeping me out?

  “Laurel?”

  She smirks at me.

  “What is that?” I point at the skeleton.

  “This is Herb.” Laurel stands and gestures to her chair. “We found him in a closet in one of the bedrooms.”

  I glare at her. “You’re not serious.”

  Prisha giggles. “Completely serious. He fell out on top of us and scared us both to death.”

  “So you propped him up and gave him a drink?” I pull my sweaty hair off the nape of my neck. “And gave him a name?”

  “Why not?” Laurel laughs. “Sit down, Trisha.”

  “We just had a creepy ghost hunter wandering around in here, and now you’re naming skeletons and having tea parties with them?

  Laurel pulls me into her chair and hands me a bottle of water. “Drink.”

  I sigh, crack the bottle open, and take a swig. I glare at Herb the Skeleton from the corner of my eye. He says nothing and continues to stare at me with his empty eye sockets.

  Jerk.

  “You have to admit.” Laurel is still chuckling. “It’s kind of funny.”

  “No it’s not.”

  “It’s a little funny.”

  I snarl at her.

  “You’re just grouchy because you’re sweaty.” Laurel turns away for a moment and reappears with a gigantic salmon-colored floppy hat, which she positions carefully on Herb’s plastic skull.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Are you going to wear a hat that color?”

  “No!”

  “Well, then Herb should.”

  “What is wrong with you?”

  Prisha laughs out loud, and finally I have to join them. The absurdity is too much. Leave it to Laurel to find something horrifying and transform it into something hilarious.

  The scent of burning sage interrupts us, and the low-throated drone of Grant’s purification ritual draws my attention to the world outside the cracked-open window.

  “Trisha?” Laurel grimaces.

  I look back at her as she pauses by the open window, staring outside.

  “Yeah?”

  “What is he doing?” Laurel scowls.

  “Who?”

  “Grant.”

  “Some kind of voodoo or something.” I grunt. “He insisted it was necessary because now there’s some kind of evil spirit in the RV.”

  “Really.”

  “Yup. His solution is to move it.”

  “The spirit?”

  “The RV.”

  Laurel snorts. “Where does he want to move it to? Colorado?”

  “Yeah, that’s my thought.” I accept the bottle of water from her and crack the top off. “The guy just gives me a weird feeling.”

  “He’s nice enough.” Laurel sits down on the last free chair.

  Prisha furrows her brow, craning her neck so she can stare out the window, and I take her arm.

  “Are you okay?”

  She blushes. “I just got scared. Let my imagination run away with me.”

  “I’m sorry,” I say. “As soon as he does whatever the heck he’s doing, he’s leaving.”

  Prisha turns her attention back to the black-clad man waving the burning sage around outside.

  “I called the trash company yesterday.” I look at Laurel. “They’ll be delivering a big dumpster today or tomorrow, so we can start tossing the stuff we know is trash right away. And then Keith should be here any moment to start going through the stuff we thought might make good donation—”

  “Trisha.” Prisha stops me.

  I glance at her.

  “What is he doing?”

  I turn my eyes back to Grant. He’s still waving the stub of burning herbs and shouting at the top of his lungs in Latin.

  “It’s some kind of ceremonial cleansing, he says.” I roll my eyes. “It’s Latin. Just ignore him.”

  “That is not Latin.” Prisha bites her lower lip.

  I frown. “What do you mean?”

  “It is not Latin. I do not know what he is speaking, but it is not Latin.”

  “It sounds Latin-y.”

  “Many things sound like Latin, but that’s because so many languages can claim it as a root.” Prisha shakes her head. “I am not fluent, but with my science courses, I know enough to know that what he is speaking is gibberish.”

  Laurel wraps her arms around herself. “Maybe it’s a special kind of Latin? Or a ghost hunter-y Latin?”

  “As far as I am aware, there is only one kind of Latin.” Prisha smiles with a bit of humor.

  “Well, whatever he’s doing, it looks like he’s done.” I point to how Grant seems to droop forward dramatically. Even from here I can see the motion of his slim shoulders as he pants. “So now he’s going to leave.”

  From here, I can see Aaron come up beside Grant and give him an arm to lean on. Grant and Nathan shake hands, and Aaron walks with Grant down to the end of the driveway and out of view of the window.

  True to his word.

  “See? He’s gone.” I lean back in the chair.

  The screen door on the porch bangs, and Cecily steps inside. She takes in the scene of us sitting at a table with a skeleton wearing a sa
lmon-colored floppy hat in stride, because that’s who Cecily is.

  I narrow my gaze at her. “How was it?”

  Cecily ponders for a moment. “It was a fascinating demonstration.”

  “How so?”

  “Well, I doubt he has studied Latin.”

  Prisha giggled. “I thought so.”

  “You speak Latin?” Laurel gazed at Cecily in awe.

  “Latin is a dead language. No one speaks it.” Cecily spoke in monotone. “But whatever Mr. Layton was speaking wasn’t Latin. I find the whole exercise to be incredibly curious.”

  “Well it’s over.” I finish my water and stand up. “And it’s done.” I glance at my watch. “I called in a to-go order at the barbecue joint down the road.” I smirk. “And I remembered your salad, Prisha.”

  “You are a wonder, my friend.”

  “Would anyone want to go pick it up? Or should I go poke Aaron with a stick?”

  “I am able to go.” Cecily raises a hand awkwardly.

  “Really?”

  “Indeed.” Cecily nods and then glances at Herb. “Unless our new associate wishes to do the honors.”

  I tilt my head. “Cecily, did you just make a joke?”

  Cecily doesn’t respond but flashes a smirk at me.

  Huh.

  Go figure.

  I shrug and step into the dining room where I set my purse, pulling out my wallet and a handful of bills, which I hand to Cecily. “That should be enough.”

  “Excellent.” She points down the street. “I believe I know the location—”

  “First and Washington.”

  Cecily takes the bills, grabs her own bag, and starts out the front door. Stretching my arms out over my head, I follow her.

  From my vantage point on the front porch, I can see Aaron waving goodbye to Grant further down the street. A bit closer to the house, a familiar sedan pulls into an open spot, and Keith climbs out. He sees me and waves, and I wave back. He starts to cross the street before he notices Cecily walking the opposite direction to where she had parked.

  Gosh, I hope I ordered enough meat. Prisha’s the only vegetarian here. Keith is so skinny I can’t imagine he could eat more than Aaron, but it’s the skinny ones you have to watch out for.

  I start to shout a greeting at Keith when I see the expression on his face turn to horror—and he takes off running.

  “Cecily!” Aaron is shouting from somewhere.

  He’s running too.

  I whirl, scanning the street for the brown-haired nerd. I don’t see her. I leap off the porch, feeling my ankle twist, and run to the sidewalk and—there! Down the sidewalk, close to where her car is parked, Cecily is fighting with—the creepy old man?

  “Oh, you’re kidding.”

  I start running.

  Aaron closes behind me.

  Keith is in front of us.

  Apparently the old guy sees us coming because he stumbles backward and flings Cecily into the side of her car with more strength than he should have. Cecily flops on the sidewalk and doesn’t move, and the old man limp-hobbles to the car parked in front of Cecily and jumps inside.

  Keith runs directly to Cecily, and Aaron makes a beeline for the car just as it zooms away.

  I’m breathing hard as I run up to where Keith is kneeling, helping Cecily sit up.

  “Cecily?” I get down next to her.

  She groans and presses a hand to her head. Keith has her glasses.

  Her jeans are ripped at the knees, and there’s a large lump growing on her forehead. Her lip is bleeding.

  “Cecily, are you all right?” I take her arm.

  “That elderly gentleman accosted me.”

  Keith deflates in relief and sets his hand on her shoulder. “Are you hurt?”

  Cecily blinks and accepts her glasses from him, sliding them over her ears. “I am—not broken.” She glares at her bleeding, scraped knees and palms. “But this is inconvenient.”

  Aaron walks back to us, fuming. “What even was that?”

  “I saw him earlier,” I say. “Across the street. Just acting weird.”

  “He took my purse,” Cecily sighs. “It had the money for lunch in it.” She sags. “I am sorry, Patricia.”

  “Hey.” I set my hand on her leg gently. “Don’t worry. Everything will be fine.”

  “Can you stand?” Keith asks softly. “Let’s get you back to the house and clean you up.”

  Cecily nods and allows Keith to pull her to her feet. He walks with her back to the house, arm around her lower back.

  It’s really sweet.

  Aaron is still radiating anger.

  “Hey.” I poke his arm.

  He jumps and looks down at me. “Hey.”

  “Are you okay?”

  He shook his head. “Yeah. I just—hate that.”

  “Maybe he was hungry.”

  “He had a car, Trisha. He was dressed nice too. He didn’t look like the kind of guy who would knock a girl down and steal her purse.” Aaron shakes his head.

  I sigh and tuck my arm into his. “What a weird day, right?”

  “You can say that again.”

  “What a weird day, right?”

  He snorts a laugh and kisses the side of my head.

  I look up at him and smile at the fondness in his eyes. My gut churns. He loves me. I know he does. He’s told me. And I love him back. So—why hasn’t he asked me to marry him yet? Why is he waiting?

  Aaron looks over his shoulder. “We should get back. Let’s get Cecily cleaned up, and I’ll go get lunch.”

  I nod. “Good idea.”

  I swallow the insecurity rising in my chest, and we walk back to the ugly orange house together. There’s too much to get done today to be fretting over our relationship. Our relationship is fine. Nothing to worry about.

  I wonder how many times I have to tell myself I’m not worried before I actually believe it.

  Maybe I Need a Haircut

  My room is dark.

  Probably because it’s dark outside too.

  It’s the dark of nighttime, the middle-of-the-night, you-should-be-sleeping, why-are-you-awake-you-idiot kind of darkness.

  I turn my head on my fluffy pillow and glare at the creepy doll that’s watching me from my dresser, the moonlight shining on its painted teeth, the shadows turning the doll’s porcelain expression into something leering and ominous.

  Whose bright idea was it to bring the evil doll home?

  Oh right. It was mine.

  Proving a point.

  Screwing the palms of my hands into my eyeballs, I sit up with a sigh that’s forceful enough to shake the frizzy bangs out of my face. I’m not scared of the doll. That would be silly. It’s creepy and horrifying, but it’s not the reason why I’m still wide awake at 2 a.m.

  I wrinkle my nose at its frozen face.

  So why am I awake?

  I swing my legs out from under my light sheet and stand up, stretching the sore muscles in my back and arms. After nearly a week of hard labor at the ugly orange house, the specific soreness in various spots around my body have faded into a sense of general discomfort, a painful reminder that I’m not 18 anymore and that lifting heavy boxes all day long is something I probably ought not to be doing.

  The floorboards squeak under my bare feet as I pad down the steps to the darkened kitchen.

  Tea. Tea is what I need. But I’ve got to be quiet about it.

  Gran is snoring away down the hall in her room. She can’t hear anything anyway, so I can be as loud as I want without worrying about waking her up. My parents are a different story, though. They’re both light sleepers now, and I hate that I know that. The fact that I’m more familiar with my parents’ sleeping habits than my own is just further verification that I need to not be here anymore.

  Why haven’t I moved out yet?

  Oh, because I’m a church secretary with no money? Because I’m a hopeless romantic that’s dreaming of the day my boyfriend proposes to me?

  I sna
tch the kettle off the stovetop and hold it under the sink faucet, filling it up with cool, clear water. The stove click-click-clicks before the igniter lights the burner, and I set the kettle on it with a huff.

  Mom’s wooden tea box looms under the cabinets, and I drag it forward to open the glass lid. Something herbal. Something soothing. I’m not a fan of chamomile, as it tends to turn my lips numb, but mom keeps a delightful rooibos on hand that’s gently flavored with almonds and cherry.

  I grab a bag of that and drop it into my favorite big-handled mug, and I wait for the water to boil.

  Outside the window over the sink, the night is pure and deep, only broken by the yard light on the other side of the driveway. As clear as the air looks, it could be cool, but Kansas weather is deceptive. Even if it looks cool and inviting outside, it doesn’t mean it is. According to the thermometer on the kitchen wall, it’s still 80 degrees outside.

  Several days of temps in the hundreds and no relief at night? Definitely a storm coming. That’s one constant in the plains. If it’s over 100 for three days in a row, there’s a better-than-likely chance that a bad storm is on the way.

  Something bright and green flashes in the corner of my eye.

  I pull back the curtain over the sink and peer into the yard.

  Again. A flash of neon green against the night.

  Fireflies.

  My heart twists. I’ve always loved fireflies, ever since I was a child. In the hot, muggy summers of my childhood, when the family was taking refuge in our lake cabin, I’d run around on the lawn with a Mason jar, catching as many of the glowing-green insects as I could. Aaron had been there too.

  That’s how we met. Chasing fireflies.

  It seems so long ago now, probably because it was. Like thirty years ago.

  We’d made a great team as kids. Even then, Aaron had a wingspan like an albatross. He’d flap those gangly arms and chase the cloud of sparkling green bugs toward me, and I’d snatch them out of the air with my jar. And we’d lay in the grass and watch them blink at us, as though they knew some secret code and together we could translate it.

  The kettle whistles.

  Winking back the unexpected moisture in my eyes, I grab the kettle, pour the boiling water into my teacup, and retreat to the den where my dad’s leather recliner is waiting for me. It’s the only piece of furniture in the house big enough for him to get comfortable in, so it’s automatically the place I go when he’s not in it. Even in the heat of summer, there’s no better place to be than in that old chair with a cup of tea and a fuzzy blanket.