Reunion (6 page)

That's how it was
supposed
to go. He wasn't supposed to
ask me out.
Asking me out was not part of the program. At least, it had never gone like that before.

I opened my mouth—not in astonishment this time, but to say,
Gee, no, Michael, I'm sorry, but I'm busy this Friday…and every Friday for the rest of my life, incidentally
—when a familiar voice beside me said, quickly, “Think before you say no, Susannah.”

I turned my head, and saw Jesse sitting in the armchair Michael had vacated.

“He needs your help, Susannah,” Jesse went on, swiftly, in his deep, low voice. “He is in very grave danger from the spirits of those he killed—however accidentally. And you are not going to be able
to protect him from a distance. If you alienate him now, he'll never let you close enough to help him later when he's really going to need you.”

I narrowed my eyes at Jesse. I couldn't say anything to him, of course, because Michael would hear me and think I was talking to myself, or worse. But what I really wanted to say was,
Look, this is taking everything a little too far, don't you think?

But I couldn't say that. Because, I realized, Jesse was right. The only way I was going to be able to keep an eye on the Angels was by keeping an eye on Michael.

I heaved a sigh, and said, “Yeah, okay. Friday's fine.”

I won't describe what Michael said after that. The whole thing was just too excruciatingly embarrassing for words. I tried to remind myself that this was probably what Bill Gates was like in high school, and look at him now. I bet all the girls who knew him back then are really kicking themselves now for having turned down his invitations to prom, or whatever.

But to tell you the truth, it didn't do much good. Even if he had a trillion dollars like Bill Gates, I still wouldn't let Michael Meducci put his tongue in my mouth.

Michael left eventually, and I made my way grumpily back up the stairs—well, after enduring an interrogation from my mother, who came out as soon as she heard the front door close and demanded to know who Michael's parents were, where he lived, where we'd be going on our date, and why wasn't I more excited? A boy had asked me out!

Returning at last to my room, I noticed that Gina was back. She was lying on the daybed, pretending to read a magazine and acting like she had no idea where I'd been. I walked over, snatched it away from her, and hit her over the head with it a few times.

“Okay, okay,” she said, throwing her arms up over her head and giggling. “So I know already. Did you say yes?”

“What was I supposed to say?” I demanded, flopping down onto my own bed. “He was practically crying.”

Even as I said it, I felt disloyal. Michael's eyes, behind the lenses of his glasses, had been very bright, it was true. But he had not actually been crying. I was pretty sure.

“Oh my God,” Gina said to the ceiling. “I can't believe you're going out with a geek.”

“Yeah,” I said, “well, you haven't exactly been
exercising much discrimination lately yourself,
G.
”

Gina rolled over onto her stomach and looked at me seriously. “Jake's not as bad as you think, Suze,” she said. “He's actually very sweet.”

I summed up the situation in one word:
“Ew.”

Gina, with a laugh, rolled onto her back again. “Well, so what?” she asked. “I'm on vacation. It's not like it could possibly go anywhere anyway.”

“Just promise me,” I said, “that you aren't going to…I don't know. Get full frontal with one of them, or anything.”

Gina just grinned some more. “What about you and the geek? You two going to be doing any lip-locking?”

I picked up one of the pillows from my bed and threw it at her. She sat up and caught it with a laugh. “What's the matter?” she wanted to know. “Isn't he The One?”

I leaned back against the rest of my pillows. Outside, I heard the familiar thump of Spike's four paws hitting the porch roof. “What one?” I asked.

“You know,” Gina said. “The One. The one the psychic talked about.”

I blinked at her. “What psychic? What are you talking about?”

Gina said, “Oh, come on. Madame Zara.
Remember? We went to her at that school fair in like the sixth grade. And she told you about being a mediator.”

“Oh.” I lay perfectly still. I was worried that if I moved or said anything much, I would reveal more than I wanted to. Gina knew…but only a little. Not enough to really understand.

At least, that's what I thought then.

“You don't remember what else she said?” Gina demanded. “About you, I mean? About how you were only going to have one love in your life, but that it was going to last until the end of time?”

I stared at the lace trim of the canopy that hung over my bed. I said, my throat gone mysteriously dry, “I don't remember that.”

“Well, I don't think you heard much of what she said after that bit about you being a mediator. You were in shock. Oh, look. Here comes that…cat.”

Gina avoided, I noticed, supplying any descriptives for Spike, who climbed in through the open window, then stalked over to his food bowl and cried to be fed. Apparently, the memory of what had happened the last time she'd called the cat a name—the thing with the fingernail polish—was still fresh in Gina's mind. As fresh, apparently, as what that psychic had said all those years ago.

One love that would last until the end of time.

I realized, as I picked up Spike's bag of food, that my palms had broken out into a cold sweat.

“Wouldn't you die,” Gina asked, “if it turned out your one true love was Michael Meducci?”

“Totally,” I replied, automatically.

But it wasn't. If it was true—and I had no reason to doubt it, since Madame Zara had been right about the mediator thing, the only person in the world with the exception of Father Dominic, who had ever guessed—then I knew perfectly well who it was.

And it wasn't Michael Meducci.

Not that Michael didn't try.

The next morning he was waiting for me in the parking lot as Gina, Sleepy, Dopey, Doc, and I stumbled out of the Rambler and started making our way toward our various lines for assembly. Michael asked if he could carry my books. Telling myself that the RLS Angels could show up at any time and attempt to murder him again, I let him. Better to keep an eye on him, I thought, than to let him wander into God only knew what.

Still, it wasn't all that fun. Behind us, Dopey kept doing a very convincing imitation of someone throwing up.

And later, at lunch, which I traditionally spend
with Adam and CeeCee—though this particular day, since Gina was in our midst, we had been joined by her groupies, Sleepy, Dopey, and about a half dozen boys I didn't know, each of whom was vying desperately for Gina's attention—Michael asked if he could join us. Again, I had no choice but to say yes.

And then when, strolling toward the Rambler after school, it was suggested that we use the next four or five hours of daylight to its best advantage by doing our homework at the beach, Michael must have been nearby. How else could he have known to show up at Carmel Beach, beach chair in tow, an hour later?

“Oh, God,” Gina said from her beach towel. “Don't look now, but your one true love approach-eth.”

I looked. And stifled a groan. And rolled over to make room for him.

“Are you mental?” CeeCee demanded, which was an interesting question coming from her, considering the fact that she was seated in the shade of a beach umbrella—no big deal, and perfectly understandable, considering the number of times she'd been taken to the hospital with sun poisoning.

But she was also wearing a rain hat—the brim
of which she'd pulled well down—long pants, and a long-sleeved T. Gina, stretched out in the sun beside her like a Nubian princess, had lifted a casual brow and inquired, “Who are you supposed to be? Gilligan?”

“I mean it, Suze,” CeeCee said as Michael came nearer. “You better nip this one in the bud, and fast.”

“I can't,” I grumbled, shifting my textbooks over in the sand to make room for Michael and his beach chair.

“What do you mean, you
can't
?” CeeCee inquired. “You had no trouble telling Adam to get lost these past two months. Not,” she added, her gaze straying toward the waves where all the guys, including Adam, were surfing, “that I don't appreciate it.”

“It's a long story,” I said.

“I hope you aren't doing it because you feel sorry for him about that whole thing with his sister,” CeeCee said grumpily. “Not to mention those dead kids.”

“Shut up, will you,” I said. “He's coming.”

And then he was there, dropping his stuff all over the place, spilling cold soda on Gina's back, and taking an inordinately long time to figure out how his beach chair worked. I bore it as well as I
could, telling myself,
You are all that is keeping him from becoming a geek pancake.

But I gotta tell you, it was sort of hard to believe, out there in the sun, that anything bad—like vengeance-minded ghosts—even existed. Everything was just so…right.

At least until Adam, claiming he needed a break—but really, I noticed, taking the opportunity to plunge down into the sand next to us and show off his four or five chest hairs—threw down his board. Then Michael looked up from his calculus book—he was taking senior math and science classes—and said, “Mind if I borrow that?”

Adam, the easiest-going of men, shrugged and said, “Be my guest. Wave face is kinda flat, but you might be able to pick off some clean ones. Water's cold, though. Better take my suit.”

Then, as Gina, CeeCee, and I watched with mild interest, Adam unzipped his wetsuit, stepped out of it and, dressed only in swim trunks, handed the black rubber thing to Michael, who promptly removed his glasses and stripped off his shirt.

One of Gina's hands whipped out and seized my wrist. Her fingernails bit into my skin.

“Oh my God,” she breathed.

Even CeeCee, I noticed with a quick glance, was staring, completely transfixed, at Michael Meducci as he stepped into Adam's wetsuit and zipped it up.

“Would you,” he asked, dropping to one knee on the sand beside me, “hang onto these?”

He slipped his glasses into my hands. I had a chance to look into his eyes, and noticed for the first time that they were a very deep, very bright blue.

“Sure thing,” I heard myself murmur.

He smiled. Then he got back to his feet, picked up Adam's board and, with a polite nod to us girls, trudged out into the waves.

“Oh my God,” Gina said again.

Adam, who'd collapsed into the sand beside CeeCee, leaned up on an elbow and demanded, “What?”

When Michael had joined Sleepy, Dopey, and their other friends in the surf, Gina turned her face slowly toward mine. “Did you see that?” she asked.

I nodded dumbly.

“But that—that—” CeeCee stammered. “That defies all logic.”

Adam sat up. “What are you guys talking about?” he wanted to know.

But we could only shake our heads. Speech was impossible.

Because it turned out that Michael Meducci, underneath his pocket protector, was totally and completely buff.

“He must,” CeeCee ventured, “work out like three hours a day.”

“More like five,” Gina murmured.

“He could bench press
me
,” I said, and both CeeCee and Gina nodded in agreement.

“Are you guys,” Adam demanded, “talking about
Michael Meducci
?”

We ignored him. How could we not? For we had just seen a god—pasty-skinned, it was true, but perfect in every other way.

“All he needs,” Gina breathed, “is to come out from behind that computer once in a while and get a little color.”

“No,” I said. I couldn't bear the thought of that perfectly sculpted body marred by skin cancer. “He's fine the way he is.”

“Just a little color,” Gina said again. “I mean, SPF 15 and he'll still get a little brown. That's all he needs.”

“No,” I said again.

“Suze is right,” CeeCee said. “He's perfect the way he is.”

“Oh my God,” Adam said, flopping back disgustedly into the sand. “
Michael Meducci.
I can't believe you guys are talking that way about
Michael Meducci.
”

But how could we help it? He was perfection. Okay, so he wasn't the best surfer. That, we realized, while we watched him get tossed off Adam's board by a fairly small wave that Sleepy and Dopey rode with ease, would have been asking for too much.

But in every other way, he was one hundred percent genuine hottie.

At least until he was knocked over by a middling to large-size wave and did not resurface.

At first we were not alarmed. Surfing was not something I particularly wanted to try—while I love the beach, I have no affection at all for the ocean. In fact, quite the opposite: The water scares me because there's no telling what else is swimming around in all that murky darkness. But I had watched Sleepy and Dopey ride enough waves to know that surfers often disappear for long moments, only to come popping up yards away, usually flashing a big grin and an OK sign with their thumb and index finger.

But the wait for Michael to come popping up seemed longer than usual. We saw Adam's board
shoot out of a particularly large wave, and head, riderless, toward the shore. Still no sign of Michael.

This was when the lifeguard—the same big blond one who'd attempted to rescue Dopey; we had stationed ourselves close to his chair, as had become our custom—sat up straight, and suddenly lifted his binoculars to his face.

I, however, did not need binoculars to see what I saw next. And that was Michael finally breaking the surface after having been down nearly a minute. Only no sooner had he come up than he was pulled down again, and not by any undertow or riptide.

No, this I saw quite clearly: Michael was pulled down by a rope of seaweed that had somehow twined itself around his neck….

And then I saw there was no “somehow” about it. The seaweed was being held there by a pair of hands.

A pair of hands belonging to someone in the water beneath him.

Someone who had no need to surface for air. Because that someone was already dead.

Now, I'm not going to tell you that I did what I did next with any sort of conscious thought. If I'd been thinking at all, I'd have stayed exactly where
I was and hoped for the best. All I can say in defense of my actions is that, after years and years of dealing with the undead, I acted purely on instinct, without thinking anything through.

Which was why, as the lifeguard was charging through the surf toward Michael, his little orange flotation device in hand, I leaped up and followed.

Now, maybe I've seen the movie
Jaws
one too many times, but I have always made it a point never to wade farther than waist-deep into the ocean—any ocean. So when I found myself surging toward the spot where I'd last seen Michael, and felt the sand shelf I'd been running on give out beneath me, I tried to tell myself that the lurch my heart gave was one of adrenaline, not fear.

I tried to tell myself that, of course. But I didn't believe myself. When I realized I was going to have to start swimming, I completely freaked. I swam, all right—I know how to do that, at least. But the whole time I was thinking,
Oh my God, please don't let anything gross, like an eel, touch me on any part of my body. Please don't let a jellyfish sting me. Please don't let a shark swim up from underneath me and bite me in half.

But as it turned out, I had way worse things to worry about than eels, jellyfish, or sharks.

Behind me, I could dimly hear voices shouting. Gina and CeeCee and Adam, I figured, in the part of my brain that wasn't paralyzed with fear. Yelling at me to get out of the water. What did I think I was doing, anyway? The lifeguard had the situation well in hand.

But the lifeguard couldn't see—or fight—the hands that were pulling Michael down.

I saw the lifeguard—who had no idea, I'm sure, that some crazy girl had dived in after him—let the enormous wave approaching us gently lift his body and propel him that much closer to where Michael had disappeared. I tried his technique, only to end up sputtering, with a mouthful of saltwater. My eyes were stinging, and my teeth were starting to chatter. It was really, really cold in the water without a wetsuit.

And then, a few yards away from me, Michael suddenly resurfaced, gasping for breath and clawing at the rope of seaweed around his neck. The lifeguard, in two easy strokes, was beside him, shoving the orange flotation device at him, and telling him to relax, that everything was going to be all right.

But everything was not going to be all right. Even as the lifeguard was speaking, I saw a head bob up beside Michael. Though his wet hair was
plastered to his face, I still recognized Josh, the ringleader of the RLS Angels—a ghostly little group hell-bent on mischief making…and evidently worse.

I couldn't speak, of course—my lips, I was sure, were turning blue. But I could still punch. I pulled my arm back and let go of a good one, packed with all the panic I felt at finding myself with nothing but water beneath my feet.

Josh either didn't remember me from Jimmy's or the mall, or didn't recognize me with my hair all wet. In any case, he'd been paying no attention to me at all.

Until my fist connected solidly with his nasal cartilage, that is.

Bone crunched quite satisfyingly under my knuckles, and Josh let out a pain-filled shriek that only I could hear.

Or so I thought. I'd forgotten about the other Angels.

At least until I was abruptly pulled under the waves by two sets of hands that had wrapped around my ankles.

Let me just mention something here. While to the rest of humanity, ghosts have no actual matter—most of you walk right through them all the time and don't even know it; maybe you feel a
cold spot, or you get a strange chill, like Kelly and Debbie did at the convenience mart—to a mediator, they are most definitely made of flesh and bone. As illustrated by my slamming my fist into Josh's face.

But because they have no matter where humans are concerned, ghosts must resort to more creative methods of harming their intended victims than, say, wrapping their hands around their necks. It was for that reason that Josh was using seaweed instead. He could pick up the seaweed—with an effort, like the beer in the Quick Mart. And he could wrap
that
around Michael's neck. Mission accomplished.

I, on the other hand, being a mediator, was not subject to the laws governing human-ghost contact, and, accordingly, they quickly made use of their unexpected advantage.

Okay, I realized then that I had made a bad mistake. It is one thing to fight bad guys on land, where, I must admit, I am quite resourceful and—I feel I can say without bragging—quite agile.

But it is quite another thing altogether to try to fight something underwater. Particularly something that does not need to breathe as often as I do. Ghosts do breathe—some habits are hard to
break—but they don't need to, and sometimes, if they've been dead long enough, they realize it. The RLS Angels hadn't been dead very long, but they'd died underwater, so you might say they had a head start on their spectral peers.

Given those circumstances, I saw my situation progressing in one of two ways: either I was going to give up, let my lungs fill with water, and drown, or I was going to completely freak out, strike at anything that came near me, and make those ghosts sorry they'd ever chosen not to go into the light.

I don't suppose it will come as any big surprise to anyone—with the exception of me, maybe—that I chose the second option.

The hands that were wrapped around my ankles, I realized—though it took me a while; I was pretty disoriented—were connected to bodies, attached to which, presumably, were heads. There is nothing so unpleasant, I know from experience, as a foot to the face. And so I very promptly, and with all my strength, kicked in the direction that I supposed those faces might be, and was gratified to feel soft facial bones give way beneath my heels.