FORBIDDEN: THE SOULKEEPERS

Chapter Five

                                                      Chapter 5

                                               And Then Again, Maybe Not

   It’s Monday morning and I am staring in the mirror and searching for the scar on my eyebrow. I can’t find it.

   “Un-freakin’-believable!”

   Half an hour of this and I still can’t find it. It’s gone. Vanished. Poof. Just like that, both eyebrows are identical again. Stitching and swelling and tenderness no longer exist. I make a nervous, demented sort of laugh and race downstairs.

   “Look!” I startle Dad behind his desk, and he looks up annoyed. His new home office is small, dank, and a bit creepy but I don’t care to complain now. “It’s gone! My scar is completely gone!” I thrust my face into the lamplight, but Dad sighs and returns to his scriptures.

   “Uh-huh,” he mumbles. He has rebuffed all reminders of the incident and so he doesn’t react when I’ve lost my last souvenir from Psycho Steve. If it was a visual torment for Dad to see my bruised jaw and swollen eye, he hid it well. He hardly said a word except that I should’ve pressed charges.

   But I’m healing! Dad should be elated. Dad should pay attention. Dad should be a lot of things.

   I withdraw without a word but think, Here I am showing a Man of God a miracle and all he can say is “Uh-huh,” like I found a potato chip shaped like Mickey Mouse.

   Spite wants me to say, By the way, your welcoming sermon yesterday was subpar, but I can’t be that cruel. I’ve always loved Dad’s sermons, well, the ones before Mom died. Dad is a riveting speaker, spellbinding his audiences with hope and purpose. After Mom died, Dad’s light dimmed. It’s understandable, but after two years his sermons still lack enthusiasm and . . . oomph. And lately they’ve become lifeless and stale. I was hoping this move would spark that fire he’d always had. But it hasn’t, and he won’t explain why.

   Why does he shut me out? Why won’t he talk to me—about anything? Why is he getting worse, not better?

   I have an overwhelming urge to help him but I don’t know how.

                                                                * * *

   The courthouse bells chime reminding me it’s seven o’clock, time to get moving. Bailey said all seniors meet at the café before school. It’s called a senior privilege; no subordinates allowed.

   And so I set out on my first day of school in Haven Hurst. It takes exactly fifteen seconds to drive across the square and three seconds to park. It’s absurd to drive in such a small town and I wouldn’t if I knew where the school was.

   I never made it to the café on Saturday due to my public humiliation with Michael, the result of which is now up for debate. The miraculously missing scar changes the playing field. But what if Michael has already spread the word that I’m an abuse victim? Can I undo the humiliation by simply saying, What scar? It is a promising thought.

   The Naughty Nectar Café has a charming country motif with green-and-white- checkered tablecloths and curtains. It seems that Haven Hurst is one of those quintessential towns that attracts tourist who like to steep themselves in nostalgia for a spell. Never mind that it is also one of the richest towns in this part of the state, according to Bailey.

   So it’s no surprise that I find the sidewalk tables outside the café crowded with tourists stocking up on a hearty country breakfast before heading out on long scenic walks or rigorous bike trails or antiquing around the square. It’s impossible to see if Bailey and Rachel are inside. I rethink my decision as fear takes its familiar place in my stomach like a cat curling up on a warm windowsill. What if the seniors aren’t there? What if this is a joke for the newbie? What if it makes me late for class?