The Adventures of Jillian Spectre. Nic Tatano

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