The Guidance

chapter Five

"This was on my locker," I say at lunch on Friday as I slam the crinkled photocopy on the table.

I startle Celia, who grabs the paper and smooths it out. "Ahhh, last year's Valentine's Day dance." Cuddled together in the picture is Jason, in a nice suit, and Courtney, in a blood-red formal holding a bouquet of pink roses.

"She put that on your locker?" Taylor asks.

I breathe out noisily. "For everyone to see. Like she's got a claim on him just because they once dated. How juvenile is this? I'm tired of her shit."

"You and me both," Celia mutters. "Someone needs to put her in her place. You're never going to get her to leave you alone. Either punch her or do something else. This has to end."

I contemplate how it would feel to connect my knuckles with Courtney's right cheekbone, but that's so not me. The only person I've ever hit was Kaitlin, five years ago, when she pulled my Barbie's head off and split her face right in two. I hauled back and smacked her into the middle of next week. Course, when she went running to Mom, I got the worst tongue-lashing of my life, followed by a couple of wallops to my hindquarters from Dad's bedroom slipper. Something tells me if I take a swing at Courtney Langdon, I'll end up spread-eagled against the wall in Principal Trumbell's office while he has batting practice on my rear. Deservedly so.

"What sort of revenge can I take?" I ask instead.

"Copy a bunch of pictures of you and Jason making out and plaster them all over her car," Celia says with a smirk. "Oh, I know—speaking of her car, we could Oreo it."

I shake my head. "Do what?"

Celia sits up. "You get a few packs of Oreos, twist them apart, and stick the icing side to the car. It's a bitch and a half to get them off, and if you go through the car wash, it just looks like total crap. It takes three or four washings to get it clean."

"You sound like an expert in this field," Taylor notes.

I giggle at the thought, but it wouldn't be very Christianlike of me. "Revenge doesn't belong to us."

"True," Celia says sadly.

I crumple up the picture again and chuck it over toward the nearest garbage can. "Something has to break though, before I do."

"I suggest an offre depaix with Courtney," Taylor says calmly. She's painting her nails with a frosty OPI color that makes it look like she has diamond dust on the tips of her fingers.

"A what?" Celia asks. "I knew taking German was a mistake."

"A peace offering," I say, even though my language curriculum of choice is Spanish. "You're saying that I need to make nice with the campus wench?"

Taylor purses her lips and then blows on her fingernails. "It seems like you need to be the adult here and take the high road."

Celia crams a fish stick into her mouth and mutters, "Kendall hasn't done anything. What high road does she need to take?"

Patting my hand carefully—not wanting to mess up her fresh paint job—Taylor says, "Kendall, I just hate seeing you so upset all of the time."

"I'm not upset all the time."

Celia snorts.

"What?"

"Dear, we're so worried about you," Taylor says.

"Don't be. Courtney will find something else to interest her soon enough," I say with confidence. Truth be told, I am in a complete and total funk, but that has nothing to do with Courtney. I have problems that don't revolve around her and her one-woman mission to ruin my junior year. The sand in my hourglass is running out. In a week and a day, I'll be lying on the shrink's couch, discussing my feelings and my childhood and my relationship with my parents and heaven knows what else in an attempt to "cure" me of my psychic abilities. Not. Looking. Forward.

Courtney is merely the cherry on top of the nervous sundae. (God, what a horrible analogy.)

The Oreoing of the car is starting to sound pretty good. Just kidding.

"Look," Taylor starts. "I'm an expert at hiding my true feelings. I mean, my father left us, moved to Alaska, and is dating a flight attendant for Icelandic Air. And my mother, well ... there's a lot going on with her that I don't necessarily want to discuss or let be known to the general public. Y'all already know she's considering a boob job for this Delta pilot she's been seeing."

"What is it with your parents and airline personnel?" Celia asks, trying to lighten the conversation. "Is it that expensive to fly?"

Taylor flattens her lips. "It's not my business. I have to go on with my life. The parents have become the children, and the children have taken the high road. See, Kendall. The high road."

I put the spoon to my chocolate pudding down on the tray. "And just what is this alleged high road?"

Eyes lighting up, Taylor says, "I was thinking if you show Courtney what you can do, you know, not read her mind or anything, but really try to show where you're coming from, she might understand you more."

"Yeah, tell her to check out the pictures and sound files on our website," Celia says.

Your friend has a good idea ..., Emily says to me.

"I suppose I could do that."

Not suppose ... it's a good point, Kendall. ...

"Let her know how many case requests we have in our system. Cases from people in other towns who really trust us to come help out." Taylor sports a satisfied grin, like she knows that my spirit guide has just validated her suggestion.

I hold my hands up. "All right. I'll do it. Anything to bury the hatchet once and for all with this chick."

Celia wipes her hands on the paper napkin. "If that doesn't work, we can always have Becca's boyfriend, Dragon, beat the shit out of her."

I nearly snort Diet Coke out of my nose, and Taylor almost ruins her self-manicure.

"No need to resort to that yet," I say. "I'll see what I can do."

That's my girl ...





I've only been to one funeral: Grandma Ethel's. It was the saddest day of my life, looking at my formerly vibrant grandmother lying supine in a gold fiberglass box with satin sheets and pillows around her. She was so ... still ... and my heart was broken. Even then, I think I felt the presence of spirits, although I was unable to acknowledge it. I remember hearing whispers all around me but chalked them up to other funeral guests.

I hear these same whispers now as I stand in line with Celia, Taylor, and Becca to pay our respects to Delaney Lockhart, who has been delivered home safe after his whirlwind tour of America.

The funeral home is dimly lit and smells of mums, carnations, and roses. It's packed with Radissonians who've come to see Mrs. Lockhart and her daughters, Evelyn and Veronica. They're standing at the front of the room, next to the open casket draped with a blanket of dark red roses. I gasp when I realize I can see Mr. Lockhart's forehead peeking out of the coffin. I talk to the dead all the time, yet somehow seeing his body like that skeeves me out.

"You okay?" Celia asks.

I swallow hard and shrug. "It's just that the dead are usually more animated for me."

She smiles. "Well, this is how the rest of us see them."

We move forward and I can see Becca's almost as uneasy as I am. Her eyes dart about the room, never stopping too long on any one object. She won't look at Mr. Lockhart or the casket. Everything about her screams that she's just waiting for the right moment to bolt out the door, hop on her motorcycle, and blow town.

"Oh, look, it's the ghost hunters who helped us," Mrs. Lockhart sings out.

"Huntresses," Celia corrects.

Mrs. Lockhart waves her lace handkerchief at us and draws each of us into her bosom for a smothering hug. "If it weren't for y'all, my Delaney would have been lost forever."

Miss Evelyn hugs us all as well. "So nice of you girls to come."

Stephanie finishes speaking to the older woman ahead of us and turns to me. She's not a Courtney clone; rather, she's a supernice girl who's lost a very important person in her life. I sense she's lost more than merely her grandfather. Her father left her recently as well. Not passed, but her parents had divorced. Mr. Lockhart was the only male figure in her life and Stephanie misses him desperately.

Wanting to help, I stretch my arms out and hug her to me. It's a friendly exchange, and I feel her slump a little as she whimpers. "I'm so sorry about your grandfather," I say.

"Thanks," she says as she pulls back. "I'm gonna miss him tons. We used to go fishing together." She turns and motions toward him. "I put his lucky lure in the pocket of his suit. Something to remember me by."

"That's really sweet of you, Stephanie. I know wherever he is, he appreciates it."

I glance about the room, wondering exactly where Mr. Lockhart is now. Was he reconnected with his body once it arrived back in Radisson?

Celia nudges me. "My EMF detector is going crazy."

Horrified, I whisper loudly, "You brought an EMF meter to a funeral? Celia!"

"What? It's a great place to do research."

"I never."

As Taylor and Becca pay their respects, I move aside with Celia and say a quick prayer for Mr. Lockhart.

"I'm getting a reading in the sevens," Celia mutters.

"Stop that!"

"Aren't you curious as to what it is?"

I spin to face her, but there's someone between us. He's wearing a blue suit, a white shirt, and a red-striped tie. His hair is powdery and his cheeks are sunken in and pale.

"May I help you, sir?" I ask quietly.

Celia freezes. "Who are you talking to?"

The man looks at me. "Lucky bastard. He's got a full house. I'm in the other parlor in there, and it's just my two ex-wives, my two ex-mothers-in-law, and my obnoxious son, who can't wait to see how much money I left him. This man's turnout tells me he was a great guy."

"Were you not a great guy?" I ask. Celia continues to wave her meter around, knowing that I've picked up on the spirit's energy. Thank God she's turned the meter's sound off and it's only flashing red instead of beeping for all of the Lockharts' guests to hear.

"I reckon I wasn't so great," the man says, scratching his chin. "Had a heart attack 'cause I didn't eat right and was overweight. My doctor tried to get me to take those there Zocor pills for my cholesterol, but I never liked taking medication."

"Why haven't you gone into the light?"

"I ain't seen it yet."

From behind me, I hear, "Maybe we can go together."

It's a good thing I don't frighten easily anymore. Right next to me is Delaney Lockhart, still in the golfing attire he wore on the day he died. He smiles at me. "Hey there, girlie."

"Hey, Mr. Lockhart."

Miss Evelyn pushes over to me. "Kendall, did you say you see Daddy?"

"Yes, ma'am." I hope she doesn't freak out on me.

She lifts a hand to her lips. "He's here right now?"

He chuckles. "I just wanted to check out the service before I skedaddled."

I repeat what he said to Miss Evelyn, and she laughs with tears in her eyes. "That sounds so much like Daddy. Please tell him how much I love him and that I'll take care of Mother."

Mr. Lockhart lifts a hand to Miss Evelyn's face and strokes her cheek. Too bad she can't feel it. "Tell her I know."

"I will," I manage to get out.

He turns to the man standing next to him. "Wha'd'ya say we get out of here?" He points over to the left corner of the room. "See it?"

I look over myself, but since it's not my time, the bright light is invisible to me. At least these guys recognize it. Before I know it, the two of them disappear into nothing, and my heart feels as if it will burst from the joy radiating in their wake.

"He's passed into the light," I whisper to Miss Evelyn.

She wraps an arm around me. "Thanks for everything, Kendall." She looks to Celia, who's finally put the damn meter away. "Let's just keep this between the three of us, okay?"

"Sure thing."

Then I hear the creepy laughing again. That soldier is here.

In my head, I try to contact him. Why don't you follow them into the light?

Ain't no light for me ...

I'm going to have to find out who this guy is and get him to move along. And fast.





Monday afternoon I'm armed with the peace offering Taylor suggested. After the brush with the men at the funeral home—and the laughing soldier—I realize life is too short to be miserable. Since Courtney makes me miserable, I've got to be the one to try to mend the fence.

Courtney uses the scalpel and pokes our poor pickled pig in the chest.

"Do you want me to do it?" I ask impatiently. We've been sitting here for ten minutes staring at this thing like it's going to jump up and crunk out for us. Everyone else in the lab is working quietly, getting along, and making progress.

She snaps at me. "I said I'd do it and I'm doing it!"

Something tells me that the girl who seems afraid of nothing doesn't have the courage to make the first cut. I can't help but snark off. "Today would be nice."

Ice-cold gray eyes slice over my face, raising the hairs on the back of my neck. The energy surrounding Courtney right now is black and damn near dismal. She's not a happy girl. A negative haze envelops her like a miasma of shifting darkness. For some reason, I get the sensation that Courtney's hatred for me, for Jason, for our ghost-hunting team, and, most of all, for the attention we're getting has opened her up to—for lack of a better phrase—the dark side. Not like I think Darth Vader and the Emperor are going to strike out from within her, but there's an evilness radiating from her. A door to her soul has been left wide open because of her unease, jealousy, and ill will toward me.

Taylor's correct. I have to make things right with this girl.

I reach over and carefully take the scalpel from her. She opens her mouth to snap at me, then stops. It must be the intensity in my eyes and the way I'm looking at her. Almost pitying.

"What is your problem?" she finally asks, the words punctuated with venom.

Be nice. "I'm worried about you, Courtney."

She laughs derisively. "You're worried about me?"

"Something's not right about you."

"Oh, and you're an expert on who I am, I suppose," she says. "You've been in this school, what ... two months? Get over it, Ghost Girl."

I wrinkle my face. "That's just it. My name's Kendall, Courtney."

"Whatever."

"No, it's not whatever. I'm a person. I haven't done anything to you. You have no reason to hate me."

She rocks back on her stool, stunned and speechless for once.

"You've got other things to worry about," I continue. "That C minus you got in trig might get you in trouble with the cheerleading squad. Instead of focusing all your energies on hating me, you should get your grades back up. You're a smart girl, you know?"

The last thing I expect from her is a snide smirk. "What, did your geek sidekick Celia hack into the school's computers so you could read up on me and use that?"

I roll my eyes. "No. Give me a break. I can read your thoughts. They're practically neon signs flashing above your head."

She drops her eyes down, not meeting my stare. I also pick up that her parents are fighting and her allowance has been cut. She's worried that she won't be able to keep up with the latest fashion trends if she doesn't have money to buy clothes and accessories. She has a rep to uphold. Seriously? This is what's worrying her? Man, I wish I had her problems.

Here comes the olive branch.

"Look, Courtney," I say as I twirl the scalpel in my fingers. "It's mentally and physically exhausting worrying about someone completely hating you for no reason. I can't go on like this. I have a proposition."

She sneers at me. "Sorry, you're not exactly my type."

"Yeah, right. Don't flatter yourself." Be nice. Be. Nice. "We are stuck doing this project together that's, like, a big part of our grade. Can we put aside whatever differences we have and work through this? At least for one hour a day?"

Courtney folds her arms across her chest and furrows her brow at me. I know she's concerned about grades too, so maybe this is the carrot I need to dangle.

"I'm not trying to usurp your popularity or status here at RHS," I assure her. "I just want to do my thing and let you do yours. Which means stop calling me names and doing stupid shit like spilling food on me in the caf."

"I do need to score well on this," she says, relenting, but her thoughts still mirror the evil mist of true abhorrence swirling around her.

Time to try another route. I tug a book out of my backpack and slide it across the table. Loreen, who's been worried about this feud as well, thought the book might come in handy for dealing with nonbelievers.

"What's this?" Courtney asks. She picks it up and reads, "So You Think You're Psychic: Now What?"

"It's a really great read that explains psychic awakenings and what people go through. It even tells you how to recognize the signs, so you'll know someone's not faking or anything."

Tossing the book to the table, Courtney asks, "What am I supposed to do with this?"

"Read it," I say. "It might help you understand what I'm going through. That I'm a teenager just like you." Okay, I don't, like, throw up everything I eat, like she does, but that's a problem to solve another time. "I'm in a new place, trying to make friends and fit in, and I've got this really extraordinary thing happening to me that allows me to help people in a way I never thought I could. We're all born with psychic ability. It's whether or not we decide to recognize it and make use of it. That's all I'm doing, Courtney. Not trying to run your clique or rule the school."

She reluctantly takes the book and tucks it in her bag. "Fine. Whatever."

At least she took it. That's got to be a step in the right direction.

I pass the scalpel back to her. "Wanna take a crack at this again?"

Courtney holds the instrument, mustering up her nerve.

"'Screw your courage to the sticking-place/And we'll not fail.'"

"Huh?"

"Sorry, Celia and I do it all the time. It's from Macbeth, act one."

"Like the play Macbeth? What the hell does that mean?" she asks with a slight lift in her voice.

"It means, do what you need to do to get the job done."

And with that, Courtney Langdon, head cheerleader, my nemesis, and school beeyotch, slices down the middle of the pig and then looks up at me ... and smiles.