Then she noticed he was frowning. In his hand, he held a piece of paper.
‘What’s that?’
‘I’m not sure. I just found it on the floor of my locker.’
He showed it to her.
It was an announcement. Or maybe invitation was a better word.
SEANCE.
That was the word all in capital letters on the top. Underneath, it read:
Make contact with those who have passed on. Connect with your loved ones. Ask questions, get answers.
There was an address, a date — today’s date — and a time, eight p.m. On the bottom, someone had scrawled the words: Ken, are you one of us? Would you like to meet others who have your gift?
There was no signature, no name. Amanda looked at Ken. All the colour had drained from his face.
‘Where did this come from?’ she asked.
‘I don’t know.’
‘Someone must have slipped it through the locker slot,’ Amanda said. ‘Maybe it’s a joke from someone in our class.’
Ken shook his head. ‘I don’t think so.’
She had to agree with him. Their classmates didn’t pull pranks.
‘Does anyone else know about your gift?’ she asked.
‘No.’
‘You don’t have any idea who could have put that in your locker?’
‘No.’ He stuffed the note in his pocket. ‘I gotta go. See ya.’
And to her disappointment, he slammed the locker door closed and strode down the hall.
CHAPTER FOUR
WHAT KEN HAD SAID to Amanda wasn’t really true. He had a very good idea who could have left that note in his locker. Because there was someone outside of the gifted class who knew what he could do.
Outside the building, the note still in his hand, he paused by a rubbish bin. A friend who lived in his neighbourhood waved to him. ‘Hey, Preston, my brother’s picking me up. Want a ride home?’
‘No, thanks,’ Ken called back. ‘I’m not leaving yet. I’ve got a couple of things to do.’ He was about to toss the paper in the bin, but instead he stuck the crumpled note in his pocket and took off.
Actually, he felt like thinking and he needed to be alone for that. He headed around to the back of the canteen, where there was a bench under a tree, and sat down. Much as he didn’t enjoy reliving the past, he was going to have to let his mind wander back to those days after the accident.
He was allowed to go home three days after he regained consciousness. His parents came for him. Even though he had his crutches now, hospital regulations insisted he leave in a wheelchair. His parents followed as a nurse wheeled him out into the car park.
‘Happy to be going home, Ken?’ the nurse chirped cheerfully.
‘Yes,’ Ken replied. What a stupid question, he thought. Of course he was glad to be going back to his own bed, his mother’s cooking. and maybe an end to those disturbing conversations with his dead friend.
It was just so — so strange, having Jack in his head. It didn’t feel right. But what could he do? His best friend was dead. The least he could do was listen to him.
Grabbing his crutches, he got out of the wheelchair and hobbled into the car. As his parents got in, he noticed for the first time that they were very dressed up for a weekday afternoon. His mother wore heels and a black dress with a small strand of pearls at her neck. His father wore a dark suit with a white shirt and black tie.
‘Where are you going?’ he asked them.
His parents exchanged meaningful looks. ‘It’s where we’ve been,’ his mother told him gently. ‘Jack’s funeral was this morning.’
‘Oh.’
‘Later, we’re going to his home to pay a condolence call,’ she went on.
‘I guess I should go too,’ Ken said.
‘If you like, you can come with us,’ his mother said.
‘But we’ll understand if you don’t feel up to it,’ his father added.
He knew he should go. He’d known Jack’s family for a long time. But all he could think about right now was the way they’d probably look at him. He was alive and their son was dead. Maybe they would even hold him responsible for the collision.
He could get out of it — he knew that. All he had to do was say he felt tired, or that his ribs hurt. And that was what he planned to do. Someday, maybe in a week or two, he would stop by and see them. Apologize. It was the least he could do.
His father helped him out of the car while his mother adjusted his crutches. He winced as he limped into the house, keenly aware of the dull ache in his chest from the broken ribs. Slowly, he managed to get down the hall and into his bedroom. His mother fussed over him, adjusting his pillow, bringing magazines, asking if he was hungry.
‘I had your prescription filled, so tell me if you’re in pain,’ she said.
At the same time, another voice spoke.
Hey, Ken. Can you talk?
His heart sank. But what could he say? ‘Sure.’
He didn’t realize he’d spoken out loud until his mother came closer. ‘Here are the pills, and I’ll get you some water.’
‘I’m not in pain,’ Ken said.
His mother looked confused.
Ken? Are you there? I gotta ask you something.
‘Wait a second.’
Now his mother was concerned. ‘Ken, are you all right?’
‘I’m fine, I’m fine,’ Ken said quickly. ‘I–I think I’m going to sleep a while.’
His mother gave him one more worried look, and finally left the room.
Ken sat up and listened. Was Jack still there?
Yeah, I’m here.
That was when he realized he didn’t have to speak out loud to communicate with Jack. He only had to direct his thoughts.
I’ve got a favour to ask you.
What?
It’s about Lucy.
What about her?
I bought her this gift, from California. It’s a bracelet made out of seashells. I was going to give it to her the day I got back, but we had a fight.
What about?
Stupid stuff. I kept talking about the cute girls on the beach in California, and she got jealous.
What do you want me to do?
Could you give her the bracelet? It’s in the top drawer of my desk, in my bedroom. And. and tell her I’m sorry about the fight. She’ll understand. Will you do that for me?
Yeah, OK. Hey, Jack.
What?
What’s it like, where you are?
It’s OK. I can’t really describe it — you wouldn’t understand. I’ll check with you tomorrow and find out what Lucy said, OK?
Tomorrow? Ken thought in alarm. I have to do it by tomorrow?
But there was no response. Jack was gone. Ken sank back on his pillow and wished he could make some sense out of this. He’d always been a pretty down-to-earth guy. Sure, he enjoyed psycho-thriller movies as much as any of his friends did, but he’d never been really scared by them because he didn’t believe in that spooky stuff.
He still didn’t believe in it. So how could he explain hearing Jack’s voice? Was he just imagining these conversations? Had his brain been damaged in the accident? The doctor had said all the tests and scans were fine, but doctors could make mistakes.
Only he felt fine too except for the pain in his ribs and his ankle. His head didn’t hurt at all. And he couldn’t have been imagining Jack’s voice. It was just too real.