Laughing. Playing.
My vision started to crackle, and I shifted in my seat and gripped the steering wheel tighter. I couldn’t have a vision while I was driving. I’d cause an accident. Sweat covered my back and my shirt stuck to my skin. But the vision came anyway. It was transparent, playing like a video over my normal sight.
A ball. A toddler. The ball rolling into the road—a teenager racing down the road, not paying attention.
“No! It’s a baby!”
A child’s life was in danger. There was no question—I gave in.
Once I stopped fighting the vision, it guided me. It was like I was a remote-controlled toy, and someone used the remote to drive me to the kids playing in the yard. I saw the red ball and the blond-headed little boy.
Reaching the house, I steered my truck so it blocked the road. I saw the old Trans-Am barreling toward me on one side of my truck and the little boy, running in that wobbly way little kids do, on the other side. The driver of the Trans-Am slammed on his brakes just in time to keep from hitting my truck. At the same time, the little boy picked up his ball and held it over his head with a loud giggle. He threw it, and it bounced back into the yard. He ran after it. As soon as the toddler was safely in his yard again, the vision cleared and my hearing returned to normal. The clenching pain in my stomach eased, but adrenaline still zinged through my veins like electricity shooting across my nerve endings.
The idiot in the Trans-Am got out of his car and stalked to my window. “What the hell are you doing?”
I rolled down the window, reached through the opening, and poked him in the chest. “Listen, idiot, you should be thanking me. Stop speeding through these streets; there are little kids playing. Now move your dumb-ass car.” I rolled my window up and tapped my finger on the steering wheel, waiting for him to move.
He stared at me with a stupid expression before turning and slowly walking to his car.
Once he was gone, I drove to the bakery where I worked part time. I had a closing shift that night, so I didn’t get home until after eight. I grabbed a frozen dinner and threw it in the microwave.
“Milayna?” my mom called.
I rolled my eyes. I didn’t want to talk, but I knew she’d expect an answer. “Yeah.”
She walked around the corner into the kitchen and leaned her hip against the counter. “How are you doing?”
The microwave beeped. “Fine. I’m just really hungry, and I have a ton of homework. I’m going to take this to my room.” I grabbed my dinner from the microwave and threw it on a plate. She stood silent and watched me. “See you later.” I carried my things to my room and locked myself inside. Maybe if I locked myself in, everything would go away.
***
Seven weeks until my birthday.
Tuesday, I skipped school and went to my grandmother’s. I needed to talk to her. I needed to stretch out on her purple couch and let my problems and worries float away. My grams and I had a lot of talks on the purple couch. Maybe that was why I always felt pulled to it when life turned upside down.
“Hi, Milayna,” one of my grandmother’s friends called when I walked through the foyer and into the great room. She was short and plump, with her hair dyed jet-black, which she insisted was her natural color. She smiled wide and waved. Her teeth were stained with bright red lipstick.
“Hi, Mrs. Richardson.” I waved back.
Telling everyone hi as I passed, I made my way to Grams’ apartment. She opened the door before I could knock.
“Come in, child.” She motioned me inside and rolled her chair into the living room. The overhead lights gleamed down on the white hair that curled against her round face.
“Hi.” I bent down and kissed her on the check. The familiar scent of her perfume tickled my nose, and I forgot I was mad. She was just my funny, old grandmother again. Not a freakin’ angel.
“No school today?”
“Not for me.” I shrugged a shoulder and plopped down on the couch.
“Ah. Well, I knew you’d be back sooner or later.” She fiddled with the knitting she had on her lap. “A scarf.” She held it up. “Do you like it?”
“Yeah. It’s pretty, Grams. Everything you knit is pretty. I like the pink and black.”
“Well, that’s good. It’s for you,” she said with a laugh. “So, I guess you’re not here to talk about my knitting.”
“No.” I picked at the hem of my shirt.
“Well, get on with it then.” She tossed the yarn in a basket next to the sofa where I sat. I loved that my grandma was a fun, eccentric person—the kind that would have a purple sofa in a bright yellow room.
I frowned. “I don’t want it.”
“Well, dearie, there’s nothing you can do about that.”
“I didn’t ask to be born this way.” My voice grew louder. “I want to give it away.”
Grams shook her head while I was talking. When I finished, she shrugged and said, “You can’t just give it away, Milayna.”