either. My stomach reeled with nausea … so awful … sick … OMG!
With one hand on my head and the other on my stomach, I jumped off the bed and ran for the bathroom.
Afterwards, my stomach was emptier and my pain numbed to a dull ache. I was relieved to find a migraine prescription in the medicine cabinet. I also noticed rows of prescriptions for Mrs. Perfetti — for sleeping, pain, and depression. Not a surprise considering her erratic behavior.
Alyce’s migraine pills made me dizzy, exaggerating colors and shapes. As I returned to Alyce’s room, I caught my reflection in the mirror over a long, dark-wood dresser. High, hollowed cheekbones; deep, dark slanted eyes with long black lashes; and long, velvety raven hair. Full rosy lips parted into a startled “O” on a flushed face. For a startled moment, I forgot who and where I was, struck by a guilty sense of trespassing.
The night-black ceiling and dark-red walls crowded in on me; familiar sights taking on frightening shapes. But there was nothing to fear, I assured myself, not in this room I knew so well. Although Mrs. Perfetti clearly didn’t want me (Amber, that is) around, I always came over whenever Alyce asked. Like the time we’d redecorated her room, painting the walls and the ceiling in what Alyce called a “midnight and blood” theme. Mrs. Perfetti freaked out when she discovered that Alyce had ripped off the frothy pink ballet wallpaper and replaced it with collages of black-and-white macabre photographs: a colorless butterfly perched on a skull, a child digging in a sandbox with a syringe, and a large dog hiking his leg on a headstone engraved with two hands clasping for an eternity.
If kids at school saw Alyce’s room, they’d be positive she was on drugs or mental. They already avoided her because of how she dressed and her “don’t give a damn” attitude. But I knew the real Alyce. I’d watched her art develop from sidewalk drawings to experimental photography, and understood that her emotions ran so deep that ordinary art couldn’t satisfy her. I ached with frustration when others only saw her outer layer and put her down for being different.
Back to searching for info. I opened drawers, checked shelves and boxes in the closet, crawled under the bed. I found some wrappers from butterscotch candy (her fave) and a crumpled science test (grade: C-).
But no purple notebook.
I understood why Alyce had to hide her important things, although it outraged me that her mother searched her room when she was at school. So Alyce would leave boring stuff out and hide the important stuff. To fool her mother, she’d framed a large photo of her father and hung it on the wall by a large picture window. The word “hate” was not vile enough for Mrs. Perfetti’s feelings for her ex-husband, so she would never touch his picture — which made it the perfect cover for hiding a hole in the wall.
As I reached for the framed photo, I caught a flash of movement through the window. Was someone out there?
Startled, I stared at the gap in the burgundy red curtains but saw nothing. Rubbing my forehead, I wondered if the migraine medication was messing with my mind. Then something moved outside again. Pressing my face against the cool glass, I peered out and saw only the gnarled oak branches and darkness mingled with my own (well, Alyce’s) reflection.
Nothing was lurking out there; must be the wind or my confused imagination, I told myself. Smiling a little at how easily I’d been scared, I started to turn away … then stopped.
Yes! Down in the front yard! Something or someone …
My hands shook as I reached for a wall switch and snapped off the light. With the room dark, I could look outside but no one could see me. Not that I really thought anyone was lurking out there. That would just be paranoid. I’d probably seen a large dog run through the yard.
The damp window pane felt cold against my cheek as I peered down into the dark front yard. There was still no porch light on, and the nearest street light was a house away, giving only enough light to shine a faint golden ray across the yard and driveway. It was hard to see anything except shadowy bushes and trees.
Then a shadow moved.
The silhouette of a man crouched down below my window. As he lifted his head, his face was illuminated. I drew back in shock.
I knew that face — although it wasn’t his own.
His real name was Gabe Deverau.
A Dark Lifer.
* * *
GEM Rule:
But as soon as I saw Gabe, he vanished in a blink of my imagination — leaving nothing outside except inky darkness. And I wondered if I was hallucinating. Grammy said being in a different body confused things; maybe I was having some kind of post-traumatic reaction after my experience with Gabe. When I’d first discovered he was a Dark Lifer, I was terrified. But I softened toward him after he confided how he’d been betrayed by his fiancee, his heart broken so deeply it carried through many long decades after his death, his bitterness binding him to Earth. He’d done bad stuff and I should despise him … yet I couldn’t. He was tortured, charming, poetic, tragic, and intriguing.
My eyes blurred as I stared, waiting to see him again but seeing nothing.
Finally I turned from the window, conflicted by my duty to report Gabe and an irrational desire to protect him. As if a Dark Lifer needed my protection! His survival skills had already protected him for over a century.
Unsure what to do, I reached into Monkey Bag for my GEM.
The book flipped to an empty page. Black ink bubbled, swirling into letters and words that invited me to ask a question.
“Will you give me a straight answer this time?”
“How about a simple yes or no?”
I sighed, then waited till the black ink faded and the page was clear again.
“Was someone outside?” I asked the tiny book.
I was almost more shocked to get a straight answer from GEM than by the actual answer. Still, I swallowed hard before asking the next question.
“Was it … was it Gabe?”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” I demanded.
“But I’m not sure what I saw.”
More black ink scrawled across the page, repeating the
The fifth rule was in bold, as if the GEM insisted I make an official report. But I’d feel silly if the DDT (Dark Disposal Team) popped in for a false alarm. The flash of a face wasn’t any more substantial than smoke, and without proof, I refused to call an alarm.
As I reached this decision, the words on the GEM vanished and offered a new blank page. I ignored the topic of Dark Lifers and asked about Alyce’s purple notebook.
