The Reconciling [Part 1] Page 6

  “Um, I don’t know Phil, because the Book is a million years old?” she snaps.

  “But you believe he existed at one point? That he wrote the Book?”

  “Well sure, everyone believes that. Long ago people needed hope and so this royal guy Roi got creative, in all his infinite wisdom, and wrote these inspiring stories as a pick-me-up and the world kept spinning. But we have the stories, so what more does he need to do? He did it already. Plus, he would be ancient.”

  “Can you bring the card tomorrow?” Phil asks, calm and resolved.

  “Sure,” says Chrissi. “Phil?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Why do you believe me? Why don’t you think I’m crazy?”

  Phil chuckles, “I’ve read a lot stranger things in the Book.”

  “That you believe to be true as well?”

  “Yes,” he says confidently. “Chrissi.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Don’t leave without me.”

  Chrissi sighs, “OK Phil.”

  ***

  Laying in bed an hour later, staring at the turquoise gloves on her nightstand, Chrissi replays Phil’s words in her mind, the haunting dream with Kesil, and her Granny’s interpretation of it all. But it only pilots her to more questions.

  If it is him, why is Roi trying to get in touch with her?

  How could it be him? He couldn’t possibly still be living after all this time.

  Where does the hypothetical journey lead?

  How does she begin it, even if she did believe it?

  Does she want to go on the journey?

  Does Roi know how to fix her curse?

  Finally, her exhaustion overcomes her curious confusion and she drifts off to sleep.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Chrissi’s first two classes are slow and only feed her anxiety. She can feel the card folded in half, tucked in her back pocket, hidden under her shirt as she walks to her history class. She will not see Phil again until lunch next period. It would not be safe, they decided earlier this morning in homeroom, to take it out in the middle of class or the hallway. They planned to meet at lunch outside on the lawn. Until then, however, Chrissi’s nerves have distracted her from everything else.

  She finds a seat in the very back corner of Ms. Weston’s American History classroom. The teacher, in her mid-30s, sits at her desk grading yesterday’s quizzes. She is one of the youngest teachers at their school, and consequently one of the most loved. Her auburn hair falls in curls passed her shoulders and her hazel eyes can pierce the hearts of even the most difficult of students. Chrissi prepares herself for the look she will undoubtedly receive for sitting in the back. Her usual seat is in the center of the second row. She just cannot handle more questions and high expectations today. Not before lunch anyway.

  The shrill sound of the bell sends a stampede of students into the classroom. Once everyone takes their seats, Ms. Weston stands and the commotion ceases almost immediately.

  “Good morning third period! I hope you remembered your essays. Pass them in and for the remainder of our class we will continue watching our documentary from the History Channel on the Salem witch trials, she chimes. Groans move in a wave across the class as everyone digs out their essays and passes them to the front.

  Once all the essays are gathered, Ms. Weston starts the movies and turns out the lights, except for a little lamp she has on her desk. By this small light she continues grading papers.

  Not five minutes into the movie, Chrissi lays her head down and swiftly falls asleep.

  Chrissi awakes to find herself in an empty classroom. She walks out into the hallway but the whole school is silent. She glances at a clock, 11:20 a.m. The school should be bustling to fourth period or lunch. She walks down the hall expecting to see someone. With every empty classroom Chrissi grows more anxious. She breaks out in a run toward the front doors.

  “Hello?” she calls as she speeds through the hallways, “Phil? Where is everybody?” When she reaches the front doors she sees a crowd of her classmates huddled in a group. They all look scared and nervous. Taking one last look around her, Chrissi slowly opens the doors and walks down the steps to the sidewalk below where everyone stands.

  “There she is!” a girl from Chrissi’s fifth period art class exclaims, eyes wide and finger pointing right at Chrissi. Suddenly loud, incessant murmuring floats among the group like a wave. Chrissi takes a step back, still unsure of what is happening.

  A man facing the crowd with his back to Chrissi holds up both arms and everyone becomes silent, eyes focused only on him.

  “My friends the time has come to defend!” he bellows confidently. Chrissi takes a few steps to her left, keeping her gaze on the man and his following.

  “We can no longer endure the fear, stress, and anxiety of this threat. Nobody and no thing should hold such power! Let us act now!” The crowd erupts into applause and shouts of agreement.

  “Get her!”

  “Charge!”

  “End it all!”

  Chrissi realizes, for certain now, as hundreds of index fingers jut in her direction that the man is talking about her and this crowd is hanging on his every word.

  One woman, much too old to be in high school, picks up an old rake. When Chrissi focuses on it she realizes it is a pitch fork. She scans the rest of the crowd. It isn’t just her high school, it is the whole town! Almost every person is holding various gardening and lawn utensils that could very well be used as a weapon. Some bolder souls are equipped with hunting rifles. Chrissi gulps, feeling fear fully grip her.

  She looks back at the man speaking, who has turned toward her but doesn’t really look at her. He is wearing dark blue jeans and a tucked-in black fitted t-shirt. His feet don shiny ebony loafers. His dark brown hair is slicked back clearly revealing his facial features. His piercing and abnormally blue eyes don’t seem to fit with the rest of his appearance. His tan skin, real or fake she cannot tell, only seems to highlight his brawny and powerful build. Part of him reminds Chrissi of Kesil, except that this man seems to be a forgery, inhuman.

  The woman with the pitchfork takes a hesitant, slightly threatening step toward Chrissi and without really thinking, feeling her present danger, Chrissi bolts to the left down the block.

  In no matter of time at all, she hears the angry mob running behind her. She tries to run faster but her lungs burn and her legs are becoming heavier and heavier. She turns a corner toward her house six blocks away. It seems hopeless. Surely they will catch up with her before she reaches safety. Chrissi begins to slow down with the weight of her hopeless and impending doom when an arm bursts out of a nearby shrub and grabs her.

  Chrissi screams as she is pulled around and into the five-foot bush, but a hand quickly covers her mouth.

  “Shh!” Phil’s arrogant, stubborn, and favorite interjection resonates in Chrissi’s ear. She lets out a sigh of relief and relaxes onto the ground against the bush. “I think they went the other way. Let’s go!” Phil urges, pulling her up and around the back side of the houses on the street. They run, ducking behind fences and shrubbery the next six blocks without a word. Finally they reach Chrissi’s house and sneak into the shed in the backyard.

  “Surely they won’t find us here?” Chrissi says with wavering hope, knowing it is very false hope and quite naïve on her part.

  “Maybe,” Phil responds darkly.

  “Maybe?”

  “They probably know where you live. If not, they can easily find out. I’m sure it won’t be long. We need another plan, fast.”

  Chrissi sits down in an antique rocking chair her mom used to have in her nursery when she was a baby. Her nervous fingers trace the intricate flowers carved into the wooden arms.

  “Why is this happening?” she asks Phil in desperate confusion.

  “Chrissi,” Phil starts, disbelief crossing his face. “You know why. You know everybody in town knows you’re an al—”

  “The alien! She must be in here!” shouts from outside finis
h Phil’s explanation. He gives her a quick apologetic look before rushing to the door and double-checking the lock, then reinforcing the door with every heavy thing nearby. Banging and more yelling ensue as the shed begins to rock.

  “I’m sorry Chrissi!” Phil yells over the noise of the mob. “I’m so sorry!”

  “Why?” Chrissi yells. But he doesn’t hear her and the door cracks open from the outside force. Slowly but surely the aggressive and frightened town is making its way inside. Chrissi’s heart pounds with every bang on the door. Inch-by-inch the door and barricades move. Sunlight streams in through each crack the mob makes. Suddenly a motor sounds and cheers raise up, then the door flies forward and Chrissi screams as she jumps backward…

  “Chrissi!” Ms. Weston’s voice rings just before the end of period. Chrissi jolts awake, still afraid. As she looks around, startled, at her snickering peers she realizes it was all a dream. She looks up at Ms. Weston wearing an expression more of concern than disapproval. Everyone files out of the classroom. “Are you OK Chrissi?”

  “Yes ma’am!” Chrissi responds hastily grabbing her bag and textbook and bolting out of the room. Ms. Weston stands with her mouth agape, incredulous and worried. But Chrissi is gone before her teacher can say another word.

  Chrissi runs to her locker, checking her back pocket for the card, drops off her things, grabs her sack lunch and purse, and runs through the crowd, that only moments before chased her in anger with intent to kill. She bursts through the side doors and out to the meadow filled with half the student body sitting under trees and at picnic tables eating their lunches. Phil is already waiting with enthusiasm on the far side of the large grassy area, beneath a sapling tree.

  “Let’s see it!” he says excitedly as she reaches him.

  “I’m still not so sure this is a good idea,” she says looking around. Although her dream in class was not as real as her dream about the gravestone, it was enough to scare her just the same. She sits next to him on the soft grass.

  “Nobody can hear us all the way out here and they certainly can’t read it. It’s fine Chrissi,” he beams. “Let me see.”

  Reluctantly she pulls out the quad-folded cardstock and holds it out to Phil. He takes it quickly before she changes her mind and unfolds it like a mad man. He reads it multiple times then flips the card over and over taking mental notes of every square inch.

  “Do you have the envelope?” he pops his head up to look at Chrissi.

  “No, I told you it was blank.”

  “Yeah, but maybe you missed something,” he retorts as he goes back to reading and flipping.

  “Phil, it was blank. As in there was nothing on it! Just like the rest of that card,” Chrissi snaps at him as heat rises in her cheeks from frustration. Finally Phil looks up at her.

  “I’m sorry, I have my science face on again don’t I?” Chrissi shrugs and leans against the tree. Phil moves next to her and hands the card back. “Sorry.”

  “You already said that,” she says, still upset. She holds out the card and stares at it. Did she miss something?

  They sit in silence for a minute until Lesia spots Chrissi and walks toward them.

  “Great, just what I need,” Chrissi motions to Phil of the oncoming storm.

  “Just stay calm. Put the card away!” he remembers a second too late. They both bolt to their feet as Chrissi attempts to return the card to her back pocket

  “Ooh, what’s this?” Lesia mocks excitement and grabs the card from Chrissi. “Well that’s cryptic,” she concludes and throws it behind her.

  “No!” Phil and Chrissi shout as they both dive for it, bumping heads but coming up victorious, Phil holding the heavy paper.

  “It’s just paper with ‘Go’ on it. You can very easily make another one, sheesh.”

  “Not so Lesia,” Phil bites back through gritted teeth.

  “Whatever,” Lesia says flippantly looking around in boredom. “So! Why so secretive this afternoon?”

  “Go away Lesia,” Chrissi says tiredly, turning to return to her post against the tree.

  “No,” she responds matter-of-factly. Her eye finds Chrissi’s turquoise and brown gloves, matching her favorite brown boots. “Those are…cute,” she remarks pointing. “Why do you have to wear them again? Some disease?” she utters the last word in disgust, like its two syllables alone are contagious.

  “Yeah,” Chrissi says lowering her head. Phil understands a little more, he realizes. Chrissi walks around labeled “diseased”, “flawed” when what she really holds is a spectacular gift. Anger boils within him and blurs Phil’s thought process.

  “Lesia Walters! You have no idea what you’re talking about!” he yells, very loudly. Chrissi reaches out to try to pull him back as he moves forward, forcing Lesia to step back. Her eyes widen in surprise.

  “Awe, Phil finally stepping up for someone. Too bad it isn’t for yourself,” she says gaining the upper hand. She relaxes and looks at her perfectly manicured nails as if having nothing better to do.

  “No, it isn’t for me Lesia. It’s for EVERYBODY!” he shouts the last word and gestures across the meadow to students sitting at stone picnic tables and on the ground. Several groups close by pause and watch Phil intently. “Everyone you tear down, everyone you mock, frame, blame, and ruin!” Phil points his finger at Lesia in aggressive accusation as he continues moving toward her. Lesia tries to hold her ground but realizes he is not stopping and begins carefully stepping back again in wide-eyed surprise. Chrissi begins walking slowly behind Phil, intrigued and empowered but still slightly hesitant.

  “Phil?” Chrissi whispers. “Um, we’re staying calm remember?”

  “No! No calm anymore! No more sitting back and taking it! Nobody deserves the way you treat them Lesia! Even your posse is de-humanized by you! You’re awful to everyone and nobody likes you! The people you call ‘friends’ only hang around you because they’re afraid not to!” he spits allowing all his pent-up anger loose in shouts heard across the field. His chest heaves with heavy breaths and he witnesses the smallest amount of tears well up in Lesia’s eyes as she looks back at her friends sitting at a picnic table, their backs to her, pretending nothing out of the ordinary is happening. “And furthermore Les—”

  “I think we should all just take a step back and quietly discuss this obvious misunderstanding,” Kesil says with more authority than he can ever muster at home in the midst of marital conflict. He walks up between Phil and Lesia. Chrissi doesn’t notice him at first; it is as if he appears from thin air. He is so quiet.

  Lesia, fighting back her tears, of anger or humiliation Chrissi is unsure, switches quickly into swoon mode. Chrissi rolls her eyes and crosses her arms, moving to Phil’s side.

  “Just when you get a glimpse of her humanity,” she whispers to Phil, though loud enough for Lesia to hear. Lesia ignores it and moves closer to Kesil—her knight in shining armor. Phil takes a deep breath, readying himself. He is still so angry, he finally has the chance to bring it all to an end and this jerk ruins it.

  “This. Is. None. Of. Your. Concern. Kesil,” he says seething, placing venom in his name.

  “No offense man, but you have made this all our business,” Kesil says. Phil looks around tearing himself from the bubble of anger and hatred he created. The majority of the meadow, half the school, stares back at him, jaws dropped. Phil’s face flushes in embarrassment and he looks back at Kesil, who wears not a look of victory, pity, or annoyance but understanding and, quite possibly, empathy. Lesia pretends to stifle a laugh and leans into Kesil, who awkwardly moves away.

  “Thank you for coming to my defense,” she coos, giving Kesil a look she thinks conveys immense gratefulness and adoration but Kesil sees as psychotic stalker. He grins uncomfortably and steps away again as she continues to move closer grasping for his arm.

  “Uh, yeah, sure.”

  “OK! Well ‘bye!” Chrissi says bluntly, pulling Phil away with her, and picking up the lunch sack he dropped at the beginning
of his fit.

  “Wait!” Lesia reaches out and grabs the now crumpled letter from Phil’s hand. They grapple for a second before Lesia takes hold of it. “I still want to know what this is.”

  “Too bad!” Chrissi says trying to grab it back to no avail. Lesia is too quick.

  “Look Kesil, this is important to them. What do you make of it?” she says handing the card to him. Kesil takes it cautiously not really wanting to invade anyone’s privacy, but the one, bold word is hard to overlook. A puzzled expression crosses his face.

  “Go? Go where?”

  “We don’t—”

  “A journey,” Phil interrupts Chrissi. He has lost it, she decides. “It’s a journey from Roi, for Chrissi,” he says with newfound confidence. Lesia laughs uncontrollably, purposefully making a spectacle, though most of their peers have gone back to their lunches in their own worlds.

  “Roi doesn’t ask people to go on journeys anymore. He doesn’t even talk,” Kesil says seriously to Phil.

  “What does he mean ‘anymore’?” Chrissi asks Phil, perplexed.

  “I don’t know,” Phil says skeptically.

  “Oh my gosh egghead! Didn’t you listen in Ms. Weston’s world history class last year?” Lesia answers before Kesil can explain.

  “Of course,” Phil says insecurely.

  “Ha! Obviously not! Ms. Weston said that long, long ago King Roi used to invite people to come see him. To go on a journey,” she clarifies.

  “Where did you get this?” Kesil asks Phil determinedly. His uncle told him about the journeys and how rare they became over the years. He also told Kesil how dangerous they are, that if, by extreme rarity, he ever received an invitation like this he should come to his uncle at once. Kesil has feared it ever since. His uncle is a serious, and intimidating, man. He is not really Kesil’s uncle and has always scared him. Although Kesil respects him, because his parents do, he would rather stick to seeing him the one time a year he visits, even if it does send both his parents into a petty performance frenzy.