The Adventures of Jillian Spectre

“He’s a hooligan, young lady. Who other than a hooligan re-arranges lawn gnomes in suggestive positions?”

The image of what Jake did to the McGuire’s front yard flashes through my mind and it’s all I can do to keep from laughing. I bite my lip as my own twisted sense of humor envisions the gnomes in a suggestive Travelocity commercial. “He’s got a different kind of wit, mom. And the McGuire’s son is a bully. He had it coming.”

“Here’s our exit,” she says, thankfully getting off the topic of Jake and sexually frustrated garden ornaments. She gets off the highway, makes a right turn and drives about a mile until we arrive at a large, ornate metal gate, which stands guard over a long driveway that disappears into the woods. Mom pulls up to the intercom and hits a button. I note a camera atop the gate, which is busy turning toward our car.

A soft voice floats through the intercom. “Yes?”

“Zelda Spectuh and my daughtuh Jillian.”

I see the lens in the camera twist and it’s obvious someone is getting a closer look. There’s a buzz and the gate swings open. Mom maneuvers the car past the gate and down the winding driveway that seems to go on forever.

And then I see it.

A massive stone castle that looks right out of the middle ages. “That’s The Summit?”

Mom smiles, and nods. “Impressive, huh?”

“I didn’t know there were castles in Jersey.”

“Yeah, but what’s inside ain’t no fairy tale.”

***

An hour later I feel like I’m on the witness stand being grilled by a bevy of prosecutors. I’m seated in a massive, elaborately carved oak chair that feels like a throne, complete with a ruby red velvet seat cushion, while four members of The Council, two men and two women, press me for more details about my experience and take notes on legal pads. It’s chilly and a bit damp inside; castles are apparently not equipped with central heating. The huge room has stone walls, high ceilings, and a few large windows which overlook a pond. I feel like I’ve told the story six times already, but they continue to pepper me with question after question, wanting the minutiae of the whole affair. Finally, I’ve had enough.

“Look, with all due respect,” I say, sitting up straight, “haven’t you gotten enough information—”

My mom whips her head around and shoots me the glare which I’ve learned means shut the hell up.

The tall, thin gray-haired man who introduced himself as Sebastien (no last name, like Madonna) narrows his dark eyes a bit and seems to shove me down with his stare. “Young lady, I dare say you do not understand the ramifications of your experience. Though our questions may seem redundant, I assure you there is a purpose behind each one.” He smoothes his snow white beard with one hand as he turns to the others. “She is a great deal like her father.”

“You mean, like my father was when he was my age?”

Sebastien looks at my mother. “I think it’s time we told her the truth.”

Now it’s my turn to give my mother the eyes, only mine are as wide as they can be. She bites her lower lip and her eyes well up as she looks at me for forgiveness.

And I can tell she’s been lying to me about my father my entire life.

“What?” I ask.

Her mouth opens but she says nothing.

“What, mom? You mean the truth about how he died?”

“Young lady,” says Sebastien. “Your father is not dead.”

CHAPTER THREE

While Ryan is my oldest male friend, Roxanne has been my best friend forever.

Literally.

We were born on the same day in the same hospital. Our moms met in the maternity ward, hit it off, and have been buddies every since. We’ve shared a crib, a crush, a crisis. A lotta birthday cakes. Unlike other girls who toss around the BFF tag to a different person every month, we know it will be till death do us part as far as our friendship is concerned.

What’s really funny is that she’s jealous of my talent and I’m jealous of hers.

Roxanne Falcone is a muse.

Yeah, I know, you thought those didn’t exist. That they were ethereal, mythological creatures who, according to legend, inspire the great creative minds of the world. Ah, grasshopper, you have much to learn before you may roam the earth.

For one, Roxanne isn’t remotely ethereal. She’s as Italian as her last name, turning heads with the shoulder length black hair, chocolate brown eyes, classic high cheekbones, mile long legs in lacquered on jeans, and a wicked New York accent. But when you need inspiration, she’s your girl, morphing into a paranormal sultry vixen as she drops that whiskey voice a few octaves to deliver the goods. One reason I’m jealous is that she gets “royalties” as a muse; the girl is constantly getting Broadway show tickets, movie passes, DVDs and albums as “thank yous” for her services. She’s always dressed in the latest outfits since one of her clients is a fashion designer and sends her racks of clothes that haven’t even hit the market yet. So she’s a trend setter before the trend even begins.

Even though we’re exactly the same age I’ve always considered her a big sister; Roxanne’s the tough one who’s protected me, a girl with a hard edge; her street smarts coming in handy when needed. She can also kick your ass if you piss her off, as she’s six feet of solid muscle and towers over most of the boys in her stacked heels. Last year a scrawny senior decided he’d come up with a clever pickup line for a muse. Not realizing Roxanne could snap him like a twig, he yelled, “Hey legs, inspire me!” at her across the crowded cafeteria. (She hates being called “legs” more than anything, except for the mimes in Central Park.) Anyway, he later became the only boy in the history of the school to receive an atomic wedgie from a girl, which turned him into a soprano for a week. I can still see his feet dangling in the air as the waistband from his Jockeys reached his neck.

Her height advantage has always made me look up to her, and in more than the literal sense. I admire her more than anyone I know. She’s really a human Tootsie Roll pop; get past the hard exterior and inside you’ll find someone really sweet with a huge soft spot in her heart.

My BFF, the glamazon kick-ass muse.

But right now, after pouring out my soul to her on the front porch for a half hour on this Sunday afternoon, I need more than inspiration. I crave the emotional comfort food that is my best friend.

One long, sinewy arm wraps tightly around my shoulder and pulls me close while she brushes away my tears with her free hand. “Your mother was probably trying to protect you. She probably woulda told you eventually.”

“Yeah, right.” I lean my head on her shoulder and she begins to gently stroke my hair. “Telling me my father is actually alive when all these years I thought he was dead. And that he had some sort of unusual power that may have been passed down to me. Kinda important truths to leave out when you’re raising a daughter.”

“Yeah, it would piss me off too. But you’ve got a wonderful mom, Jillian. I know she had her reasons. Give her time to explain.”

“Whatever.”

Long pause. “So why didn’t you tell me about this afterlife thing?”

“It scared the hell out of me, Rox. I didn’t even tell mom till the next day. I don’t mind seeing the future when it comes to romance, but changing the future is something else. And seeing someone murdered? God, that was awful. It makes me wonder.”

“Wonder what?”

“If I’m cut out for this. I mean, I enjoy being a seer and a lot of times it helps people, but staring into a crystal ball for the rest of my life?”

“It’s a gift, Jillian. Just like my talent is a gift. It’s a sin not to share it.” (It should be noted that Roxanne is Catholic and thus ruled by guilt.)

“Yeah, I know. But my intelligence is also a gift. I could be a doctor, a lawyer. Wouldn’t it be a sin to waste that?”

“Hell, you could do both.”

I rolled my eyes. “Yeah, Jillian Spectre, MD. I could find out if my patients are going to die before I treat them. Here’s your prescription, Mr. Jones. You won’t need a refill because you’ll be reaching room temperature soon. And by the way, you’re going to Hell. Here’s some SPF 1000 sunblock.”

She squeezes my shoulder. “Okay, enough with your own career. Listen…all this stuff about the afterlife makes me wonder…would you do me a favor?”

She then asks me to do something I’ve never done.

***

After a breakfast during which my mom seemed afraid to look at me, I’m still ticked off at the revelations of the weekend. My face is tightened, eyes narrowed into slits, and I’m glaring at anyone who crosses my field of vision as I head to Geometry class.

I feel an arm wrap around my shoulders and get a whiff of the familiar earthy perfume. “Still pissed off, short stuff?”

I look up at Roxanne, who’s smiling at me. “I’m entitled.”

“Well, if you’re tryin’ to give people my Sicilian death stare, it aint workin’, honey. With the red hair and the freckles you look like the Little Mermaid with PMS.”

The line makes me lighten up, but only a little bit. “Fine. I’ll get a black wig.”

“Still won’t work. You want me to beat someone up for you? Will that make you smile?”

“I just need some time to work through this.”

“You talkin’ to your mom?”

“Barely.”

“Well, you’re still the same Jillian and I still love ya, kiddo. Catch ya later.”

***

Did you know it takes a lot of energy to stay pissed off all day? I’m discovering that as I already feel exhausted and it’s only third period.

Still, I’m busy trying to bore a hole in my Geometry textbook with my Disney cartoon that-time-of-the-month death stare while squeezing the life out of my pen. Ms. Hansen’s lecture on problem solving and the squeaking of her blue dry erase marker on the white board are merely audio wallpaper, fading into the background of my thoughts.

I can’t keep this up forever.

Mom and I have to talk tonight. I don’t care if The Council wants everything confidential.

I have to know—

“Jillian, would you please name these triangles, since no one else seems to have done the weekend assignment.”

The teacher speaking my name jolts me back to reality, and I raise my head. “Uh, I’m sorry, Ms. Hansen. What was the question?”

My petite blonde fortysomething teacher looks at me quizzically, probably because I’m her best student and this is my favorite class and I never, ever zone out. She then points at the board, filled with two geometric figures. “These triangles. Name them.”

I causally lean back in my chair, fold my arms and shrug. “I dunno. How about…Joe and Harry?”

The class explodes in laughter, partly because it’s a terrific smartass answer and partly because Jillian Spectre, front row girl with perfect standardized test scores who always raises her hand and sits up straight, has never, ever cracked a joke in class.

Ms. Hansen raises one eyebrow and takes a step toward me. “See me after class, young lady.”

“Oooooooh,” comes the frightened chorus from the rest of the class.

I look closer at the board. “The triangles are obtuse and equilateral,” I say, trying for some damage control.

“Correct,” says the teacher, shaking her head as she turns back to the board.

***

I remain at my desk as I wait for the class to file out, then slowly stand up. Ms. Hansen is leaning against her desk, arms folded. “So what’s wrong, Jillian?” Her voice is soft, filled with genuine concern.

“I’m so sorry, Ms. Hansen. I don’t know what came over me.”

“That kind of comment I’d expect from the boys in the back row, not from a girl with sixteen hundred on her SATs.” She stands up, moves forward and puts her hands on my shoulders. “You wanna tell me what’s on your mind?”

I exhale, look to the side, then back at her. “It’s really personal.”

“Does it have to do with a boy?”

I roll my eyes. “If a boy were actually interested in me, it might be. No, Ms. Hansen, it’s a family matter.”

“You okay? Your mother okay?”

“We’re fine, and it’s nothing physical. It’s something to do with my past that I can’t discuss.”

“Do you want to talk with the school counselor?”

“No offense, but the school counselor is a moron.”

She laughs, knowing I’m right.

“And if I wanted to talk to a member of the faculty, it would be you. Again, I’m sorry, and it won’t happen again.”

“Okay, you can go,” she says, patting me on the shoulders as she smiles. “Joe and Harry. I gotta admit, it was pretty funny. Especially coming from you.”

***

Mom is on the phone as I walk into the kitchen, toss my backpack on the table and head for the fridge. I pull out a cold Doctor Brown’s creme soda and pop the top. I take a long sip and let the bubbles bathe my throat. I do not make eye contact.

“Thank you,” she says. “I know Jillian will appreciate it.”

Okay, now I make eye contact.

“Yes,” mom says. “This weekend. Saturday at ten. Goodbye.”

She hangs up the phone and turns to face me.

“Who was that, and what will I appreciate?” I ask.

“That was The Summit. They gave me permission.”

“Permission to…”

She cocks her head to the side as her eyes grow moist. “Tell you about your father.”

Her words stun me for a moment. I feel a bit lightheaded, grab a chair and sit down, taking another hit of sugar in the process. She pulls out the chair opposite me, sits down, takes my hands and locks eyes with me.

Now I’m scared. For the past two days, I’ve been dying to find out the truth. Now I’m not so sure I want to know.

But I have to know. “Okay, mom.”

She reaches for her purse that is sitting on another chair, opens it, grabs her wallet, opens that, and pulls out a photo. She slides it over to me. “This is your father.”

I eagerly pick up the photo and study it.

It’s a wedding picture.

My mom, twenty years younger, a thin and radiant bride (with red hair…I have to ask her about that). The groom, a slender man, maybe six feet, with deep set blue eyes, closely cropped dark hair and a strong chin. An inviting smile. He would qualify as handsome.

I look up at mom. “And his name would be?”

“Devlin.”

“You both look happy.”

Mom bites her lower lip and her eyes well up. “We were.” Her voice cracks with emotion. I take her hands and squeeze.

“So…after I was born…he just left?”

“It’s not what you think. There wasn’t another woman or anything like that. There certainly wasn’t another man. And you had nothing to do with it either. He was simply a guy who couldn’t handle fatherhood.” She pulls another photo from her wallet and hands it to me. It’s my father, holding me in his arms. I’m probably a year old.

Now it’s my turn for the tears to blossom. The words grow thick in my throat. “Okay. Soooo…”

“Shortly after you were born, right after that picture was taken…. his powers started to…develop.”

“So what were his powers?”

“I can’t tell you that part yet, but it will all be explained at The Summit this weekend.”

I didn’t want to push things. “I guess I can wait.”

“His powers started to grow, at a rate no one at The Summit had ever seen. They wanted to study him. He wanted to flex his muscle, use his powers. He became obsessed, out of control. And his powers were such that if used in the wrong way they could be dangerous.” She reaches across the table, grabs my soda, and steals a sip. “Tribute,” she says, taking a page from Roxanne’s Italian mother, using the term for the percentage Mafia members pay to their bosses.

“Sure. You can have the rest.”

“He changed, Jillian. He knew he was becoming more powerful than anyone, even those on The Council. Eventually they forbid him to use his new powers and tried to use some of their own to rein him in. But he was too strong and he escaped. He left right after your first birthday and I haven’t seen him since.”

“Has he ever been in contact with you?”

She shakes her head. “No. But I’ve been in contact with him.”

Now I’m confused. “I don’t understand.”

“He left an address. It’s a mail drop in Connecticut. He told me to use it in case of emergency. Anyway, every year I’ve sent one of your school photos and a letter telling him how you’re doing. I have no idea if he receives these—”

“But they don’t come back, right?”

“No. And I do put a return address on them. But who knows if he still has the same address? It could end up in someone else’s box, could be thrown away. And if you’re wondering if he’s still alive, he is, because they monitor his activities at The Summit. They just can’t pinpoint his whereabouts.”

She looks down at the two photos on the table and I can tell the waterworks are about to burst. I get up, move around to her side of the table, crouch down and wrap my arms around her shoulders. “I hate to ask a stupid question…but, if he just vanished…are you two still married?”

“No. I waited several years hoping he’d come back. Eventually I petitioned the court and they granted me a divorce since he was basically a missing person.”

“I’m so sorry, mom. I had no idea.”

“He’s your father, Jillian. But he’s not your dad.”

“I get that. Mom.”

Her hands begin to shake, she starts to bawl. I pull her close. Her head rests on my shoulder, mine on hers as her sobbing grows deeper. I look at the two photos on the kitchen table.

And I know I have to find him.

CHAPTER FOUR

Despite the killer body and gorgeous face, Roxanne doesn’t go out on second dates a lot. In fact she’s never even had a steady boyfriend. She is to dating what one-hit-wonders are to the music industry. She’s a drive-by romantic, going through men like Kleenex. Some dates result in her going to confession, some not. We’ll leave it at that.

It’s not that she wouldn’t like to date a nice guy on a regular basis; but after one circuit around the dating pool at our school, she simply feels guys our age are too immature. (No argument here.) There there’s the deal with her father, the former linebacker of the New York Giants. Imagine a high school boy ringing the bell to pick up his date and having someone like that answer the door. Heaven help the poor soul who treats his daughter badly.

So it surprised me that the ‘favor’ she asked for on Sunday was such an unusual one.

She wants me to do a reading.

Over the years I’ve offered to do it for fun, but since romance is not on the front burner with her she’s always declined. I, of course, not being a playwright, author or composer, haven’t had the need for a muse. (Thought I might in the near future. More on that later.) So when it comes to our talents, we’ve kept them separate.

Her reason for wanting a reading, however, has nothing to do with romance.

She simply wants to make sure she’s not going to die in the next five years. I don’t blame her. I’d do one on myself if it were possible. She couldn’t care less about what I see as far as her romantic future is concerned, as she’s one of those people who wants to be surprised when Cupid’s arrow hits. She wants me to see if the images keep coming when they hit the five-year mark.

I’m already seated when Roxanne enters what she calls our ‘seer cave.’ It’s a ten by ten room, every inch of wall space covered with floor to ceiling deep burgundy curtains. A simple round antique oak table sits in the center along with two matching chairs. The soft lighting overhead is provided by a gorgeous old tiffany lamp my mother found at a garage sale years ago.

And, of course, my trusty crystal ball sits in the center of the table.

I have foregone my usual cape (burgundy, matching the curtains) and jewelry since Rox is the only person getting a reading on this Tuesday night.

“What, I don’t rate the outfit?” she says, giving my FDNY sweatshirt the once-over as she sits down opposite me. “No bling at all?”

“It has no effect on the reading, and it’s just us tonight.”

She looks at the crystal ball. She’s never watched me do a reading since seers can get confused when there’s another person in the room along with the subject. “So, how does this work? Is that thing gonna fog up and show me the future?”

“It does fog up, but only I’ll be able to see what lies ahead when it clears.”

She scoots her chair closer to the table. “Okay, let’s rock. See anything yet?”

“Doesn’t work that way. First, you have to ask me a question, and it has to pertain to romance. Then we both close our eyes for a minute and focus on the question. The ball will then reveal images to me and I will try to interpret them.”

“Interpret?”

“Well, there’s no audio so I have to go on what I see. For instance, if the image is of a couple holding hands and smiling as they walk, then stopping for a kiss, I would interpret that as being in love or a good relationship.”

“Well, you don’t have to interpret any images you see of me being groped in a car.”

“Only if the guy doing the groping is worth mentioning.”

“Nah, I like being surprised. But I like the surprise the guy gets even more.”

“Okay, if we’re done discussing possible images of you giving guys a shot in the family jewels, can we get started?”

“Sure. Why can’t I just ask if I’m gonna be dead in five years?”

“No. Has to be romance. Love, not death. And be specific. You ready?”

“Sure.” She reaches across the table and takes my hands.

And then it hits me. “Oh my God!”

“What? I’m dead already?”

“No. I just realized what happened the other night. The woman with the afterlife reading took my hands before we started. She was nervous.”

“Okay….”

“I usually have my hands on the crystal ball. I wonder—”

“Maybe her touch gave you a stronger reading?”

“Possibly.”

“Did you tell The Council about that?”

“No, it didn’t occur to me until you took my hands.”

“Did you hold her hands during the reading?”

“No, I told her to relax and then I grabbed the ball as usual.”

“Okay, so do exactly what you did the other night.”

It makes sense, so I let go of her hands and take the ball. “Go ahead, ask your question. Look right into my eyes when you do.”

“Will I ever have had a good boyfriend by the time I’m twenty-five?”

I nod. “You don’t need a seer for that, but it’ll take us past the five-year mark. Now close your eyes and focus. Make sure you focus on the specific question and not why you’re really here.”

“Got it.”

She closes her eyes and I do the same. I’m focusing as hard as possible on Roxanne and her question, more than I usually do for clients. I see her face, her smile. I recap memories of our childhood that are already burned into my brain. I’m smiling now, remembering our wonderful times together. I focus on her romantic future. I imagine her in a wedding dress, ready to head down the aisle. She’s stunning, that black hair contrasting with the white dress, framed against the colorful stained glass windows of the cathedral.

I open my eyes. Hers are still closed. “Okay, now look at me.”

She does so and locks her eyes with mine. I shoot her a soulful look, hoping to relax her, then turn my attention to the ball, which is already fogged up. Hmmm. Usually it takes awhile.

The image clears, and what I see makes my eyes grow wide. I gasp. “Oh my…”

“What? I’m dead?”

I shake my head as the images suddenly fly by at increasing speed, too fast to process, like they did in the afterlife reading. Everything disappears at the five-year mark. Roxanne is still alive.

“What, Jillian? Talk to me!”