Destiny
The Soul-Shifting Adventures of a James Dean Rebel Girl

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Chapter Two
In the Dark

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I made it home after a half an hour walk. It was raining and hailing the whole time. I had a black eye because I didn't walk in the rain with my glasses on my face – I could see better without them since I didn't have my own personal set of windshield wipers. My clothes were soaked and clinging to me like a wet suit. When I get home, I'm either going to take a hot shower or strip naked and crawl into bed. Probably with a book. The Catcher in the Rye sounded good.

"You're actually home on time," my dad said as I shut the door.

"Yeah." My voice is dull.

"I thought you'd be at Jamie's," he added, voice smug.

Score one for the Dad Unit. In the war between me and everyone else, it was currently zero points to the Kate Squad, and a gazillion scored up for the Dad Unit, the School Squad, and the other psychopaths I have to deal with.

My dad didn't like Jamie, didn't like me going to his apartment all the time. When my mother went to writing conferences, he forbade me to go. I'd sneak out, and he never knew. I learned the art of sneaking from Lori O'Neil. Even when my mom was here, he'd be a jerk about Jamie. I knew why – he didn't trust me. He claimed it was because he didn't trust Jamie, not me, but what's the difference? That's not to say I'm crazy and think Jamie and I are the same person. But Jamie has been my friend for thirteen years, and he's never done anything bad to me at all until today. We hardly ever even fight. So the only reason my dad would have to mistrust Jamie is if he thought that my friend could get around all my defenses, like my common sense (no sex without condoms, being on the pill, STDs are bad, pregnancy is bad, run away from sex, oh my God help I saw a penis!) which meant that he didn't trust me. Didn't trust my judgment or whatever. Which not only made him a jerk and a wimp, but a liar.

Lying is no bueno in the Book of Kate.

Parents never really trust their kids. They just tell you that so you'll trust them with your secrets – things like having sex, under-aged drinking, teen drug use. Stuff like that. As if we didn't know how to handle that kind of thing on our own. Now, sure, there are kids that don't, but your parents don't know those kids – they know you. They ought to trust you. And they don't. So why should we trust them?

Thinking about the fact that I couldn't really trust my dad with anything except the obvious (not killing me, molesting me, beating on me, kicking me out, and of course that he'd feed and clothe me and such) and thinking about Jamie and why I was home – where I did not want to be – instead of watching American Teen and the Breakfast Club at Jamie's apartment made me grind my teeth. My mouth tasted like blood.

"Leave me alone! God! I'm not stupid, you know," as if I couldn't possibly be smart enough to read between the lines to find the subtext behind his speech. Smug jerk. I knew what he was hoping, what he was trying inexpertly to fish for – confirmation that Jamie and I were fighting. Then we wouldn't be around each other and I wouldn't be at his apartment as often. Parents like my dad think they're so slick.

"What?" He said.

But I dripped on into my room, ignoring him. I don't talk when I'm angry, depressed, and/or wet. I'm a teenage girl, a melting pot of out of control hormones on a super-huge Bunsen burner. I'm usually incapable of maintaining my composure when both my eyes and my clothes are crying. Jeez. You try it sometime. And the problem with losing your composure in front of adults is that then they jump down your throat because you're "overreacting," which we totally don't need right then. Yes, let's have everyone talk about how our emotional needs are too... needy.

Whatever. I'm being emo because I'm tired. Usually I ignore my self-pity thoughts.

I stripped and hung all my wet clothes across my little white bookcases, so they wouldn't grow mold. I was careful not to get the books wet. Tossed my bags – 2 messenger bags full of papers, notebooks, flyers, etc., a college-style backpack bigger than my torso and heavier than three babies, and a little red lunch box in danger of being labeled a biological hazard – into their proper corner, popped my fave mix CD – Revolution Riot #3 – into my boom box, and threw my naked self into bed.

I was shivering. I hadn't realized until just now. I cocoon into my sheets. I have six sheets, all solid colors (red, white, black, green, blue, and maroon) with words sewn onto them. Song lyrics, poems. Did it the summer I turned eleven. Some Al Stewart, Greenday, Bob Dylan (center of the black sheet in gold was Mr. Tambourine Man), Blackmore's Night (and this one song of theirs I like a lot called Diamonds and Rust that was actually originally done by Joan Baez, supposedly about Bob Dylan but nobody can prove it), Taylor Swift, and Easyco – a local band that helped me once with an art project.

If you stitch it small enough, you'd be amazed how many songs you can fit on one queen-sized bed sheet.

I pulled the sheets tight to my body and try to warm up. I couldn't stop shivering. I kept thinking of Jamie and the pouring rain, pounding hail, and the hard, cutting blades of wind howling outside. Why did he leave me at the bus stop like that? Why didn't he walk me home? Was he all right?

Okay, yeah, I know what you're thinking. Total Bella Swan moment. If you haven't read or seen Twilight, Bella finds out this guy named Edward can read people's minds, but he can't read hers. Most people would say, "Dude, you're out of your freaking mind." But not Bella. Her reaction, "Is there something wrong with me?" Reminds me of the Goose Girl, seriously. Who cries to a stove pipe about their problems instead of just kicking the other chick's ass? Anyway, yeah, I pulled a Bella. Jamie acts like a total dick and ditches me, and my first thought – besides "holy crow I'm getting rained on" - is whether or not he's okay.

Sad, I know. But he's just... that was just weird. He's never done that before. If I didn't know better, I'd say he was on drugs or something. I mean, you hear about drug-addicted kids going nuts and turning into total psychos. So....

Nah. Jamie would never do that. I'd kick his ass into next month.

The phone rang. Right next to my head.

I think I jumped. I know I screamed. The phone's not really supposed to be in my room, so it scared me. I grabbed the stupid think and clicked TALK.

"Hello?"

"Hi, Kates," Jamie said. The knot in my stomach that had been pressing against my spine since the bus stop finally succumbed to my stomach acids and dissolved. Jamie went on, "Sorry about earlier."

The potential freak out I'd been nursing for the last thirty minutes or so ate up all of my gut wrenching fear and barfed up all of my seething anger. The first coherent words out of my mouth were, "What the hell is your problem?"

"I'm sorry, Kate."

He was. I could hear apologetical-ness in his telephone voice like ocean waves in a sea shell. But dang it, he'd scared me!

"Well," I said, trying to maintain my righteous wrath, "what was up? Why'd you ditch me?"

"I thought I saw someone I know."

Intriguing. He knows people I don't? Well... hmmm. Actually, yeah, probably. He has a job and stuff. I don't. Why don't I think about things like that? Was I some sort of clichéd blond girl that I didn't think of that before? Jeez. But who in the world could he have seen that made him act like that? Because the look on his face... my spine had turned to ice. The shiver-shakes, fed by the icy rain, had begun when I saw Jamie's expression.

"Who?" I ask. He says, "Don't worry about it."

"But, Jamie-"

"Get some sleep."

I glance at my alarm clock. It's not even that dark out, but the clouds and the rain have me all confused and I have to check the hour. Digital time blinks at me. It was hard to focus on the clock face. Blood red blinking light... irritating.

"It's not even five thirty," I say.

"Are you tired?"

Yes. My eyelashes were like super glue.

"No."

"Well, I'm picking you up at ten thirty, so you better be rested and ready to pull an all-nighter. Okay?"

"Are you gonna sing my name in the street?"

"What d'ya think this is," he asks in his Frank Sinatra "Witchcraft" voice. "West Side Story? Nah. I'm gonna throw rocks at your window, Sound of Music style."

He's crazy, and I tell him so. We're both laughing like every thing's okay when we get off the phone, but I know my best friend. I know he's worried. Who did he see? Why won't he tell me? He's worried about something. I'm worried about him. I've got a scary, Alfred Hitchcock horror-film music feeling in my chest and behind my eyes. Why did we bring up West Side Story?

It's February. Spring should be on its way to us desert dwellers, but... but winter is suddenly breathing down my neck. I shivered.

Jamie's in some kind of trouble. I know it.