Better Late Than Never

Chapter 3

ON MONDAY AFTER lunch, Amanda hung out alone in the restroom, brushing her hair and applying layer after layer of lip-gloss until her lips were unbearably sticky. Then she used a tissue to wipe off the gunk before starting all over again. She was killing time, something she did every day at school after lunch. She would have preferred to hang out in the cafeteria, but all students were made to leave when the bell rang, to allow the kids who had the next lunch period to find seats. So she had to spend the eight minutes before the next class in the restroom.

It wasn't only because she was reluctant to go to her next class. She wanted to time her departure from the restroom so that she would enter room 209 just as the bell was ringing. She didn't want to be late--that would mean demerits and eventually staying after school for detention. But if she arrived before the bell, she'd be available for conversation with her classmates, and that was an intolerable thought.

In other classes, she enjoyed the prebell socializing that went on. But she had no desire to communicate with any of her gifted classmates. Actually, that wasn't strictly true--she wouldn't have minded talking to Ken Preston, but he always ducked in at the last minute, too. He was probably just as humiliated to be there as she was.

Today, her timing was slightly off. When she entered the classroom, she looked at the clock and noted with dismay that there was still maybe half a minute before the bell--just enough time for Tracey Devon to turn to her and try to start a conversation.

"I just thought you'd like to know--the girls are feeling a lot better now."

Amanda looked at her blankly. "Huh?"

"The Devon Seven. My sisters." Tracey grinned. "Maybe I should say our sisters. Remember, I told you last week that they had the measles."

"Oh yeah, right," Amanda said while thinking, Please, bell, ring now.

"They've got only a couple of spots each, "Tracey went on.

"That's nice," Amanda mumbled, refusing to meet Tracey's eyes. Finally, the bell rang, and no one could talk.

Amanda would never admit it to Tracey--or anyone else, for that matter--but she was actually sort of interested in the well-being of the septuplets. When she'd lived inside Tracey's body, she had almost enjoyed the time she spent with the cute little girls. But that was then and this was now, and as far as Amanda was concerned, all connections were severed when she got back to being her own self again.

Would Tracey never give up? she wondered. Just because Amanda had inhabited her body for a while, Tracey seemed to think that she and Amanda should have some sort of special bond. Ever since the girl had recovered her body, she'd been acting like they were friends--as if!

True, Tracey wasn't anywhere near as nerdy as she used to be before Amanda so kindly made her over. But she certainly wasn't in Amanda's league, and with her own status on the line, Amanda couldn't afford to be seen as friendly with Tracey Devon.

It was the same with Jenna Kelley When she had been Tracey, Amanda had been forced to befriend Jenna. And okay, maybe she did find the rebellious girl a teeny-weeny bit interesting. But Jenna wasn't any higher on the popularity chain than Tracey-- neither of them was even remotely cool--and Amanda was in no position to be charitable.

Madame had risen from her desk and was calling for attention. The petite, dark-haired woman gazed over the class like a shepherd overseeing a flock-- kindly but watchful.

"On Friday I asked you to try to recall the moment when you first became aware of your gift," she said. "Would anyone like to volunteer to go first?"

Why did she bother to ask that? Amanda wondered. That was one way in which this class was no different from any other class--nobody ever volunteered.

Madame sighed. "You will all have to report sooner or later."

But everyone preferred not starting, and Madame gave up. "Charles, you can go first. When did you first realize you had a gift?"

All eyes turned apprehensively to the boy in the wheelchair. When Charles was asked to do something he didn't want to do, he could get upset. And when Charles was upset, he could create a tornado in the classroom. Not only would he make a mess, but there was always the possibility that he would send a freshly sharpened pencil into someone's eye. It hadn't happened yet, but everyone knew it could.

But Madame had been working with Charles on controlling his temper, and it seemed to have had some effect. Charles didn't look happy, but at least the clock didn't drop off the wall, the light bulbs didn't explode, and he actually attempted to answer the question.

"I'm not exactly sure. I think I could always make things move. My mother says that when I was a baby and I was hungry, I could make the bottle come to me in my crib."

"But when's the first time you remember using your gift?" Madame asked.

Charles went into a long, rambling tale, something about ruining his older brother's baseball game by sending every ball he hit directly into the pitcher's mitt. Bored, Amanda wondered for the zillionth time why Madame made them talk so much about their stupid gifts. What was the point?

The teacher was always telling them that if they discussed their gifts, they would come to understand them, and if they understood them, they could learn to control them. Maybe some of the other kids needed to talk, but Amanda knew perfectly well how to control her "gift"--which she didn't consider a gift at all, but something more like a bad habit. All she had to do was avoid caring about anyone other than herself and she'd never run the risk of snatching anyone's body. Instead of feeling sorry for people, she made fun of them.

Once in a while, she'd be struck with a pang of guilt when she mocked a classmate. But whenever that happened, all she had to do was recall the awfulness of waking up as Tracey Devon and the mean comments spilled out pretty easily.

Charles had finally finished his story, and Madame called on Sarah Miller next. Given Sarah's very special gift and the fact that she never demonstrated it, Amanda was actually curious to hear what she had to say. With her pretty heart-shaped face and short black curly hair, Sarah looked so sweet that it was hard to believe she had the most dangerous gift of all.

She was such a good student that she'd actually prepared notes for her report, and she consulted them now before she spoke.

"I was six years old, and my parents were fighting a lot. They weren't violent or anything like that-- they just argued--but they were loud. One night they went on and on and on, and I kept thinking, Stop, stop, stop . . . And they did."

Madame raised her eyebrows. "Couldn't that have been a coincidence?"

Sarah looked sheepish. "Maybe … except just having them be quiet wasn't enough for me. When I realized what I could do, I made them hug each other. Then I sent my mother to the kitchen to make popcorn, and I made my father turn on the TV, and I had us all curl up together on the couch to watch The Wizard of Oz."

Charles spoke up. "Wow! You are so lucky. I can only make things move. You can make people do what you want them to do."

Amanda didn't think that Sarah looked as if she felt lucky. Madame must have been thinking the same thing, because she looked at Sarah with an expression that was unusually sympathetic.

"Were you happy about this?" Madame asked quietly.

"At first . . . and then I got scared. Because when I realized what I could do . . ." She shivered and looked pleadingly at the teacher. "Do I have to keep on talking about this?"

"No, that will be enough," Madame said. "For now. Emily, when did you first realize you could see the future?"

Emily didn't look like she particularly wanted to talk either. She took off her glasses, cleaned them with a cloth, and put them back on. Then she started twisting a lock of her long, straight brown hair as she mumbled something.

"Speak up, Emily," the teacher said.

The girl's voice was only slightly louder. "I talked about this in class before."

"Tell us again," Madame said. Her voice was kind but firm. Amanda couldn't believe she was going to force poor Emily to tell that dreary story again. Even she had to admit that it was pretty depressing. Did Madame really think this would make Emily feel better about her gift?

Emily did as she was told. "I was really little, only five. It was in the morning, and my father was just about to leave for work. I remember that he wore a suit and carried a briefcase. I had a vision that he was going to be hit by a car just in front of our house, and I didn't tell him. And he was struck by a speeding car and was killed."

Amanda could see the tears forming behind Emily's thick glasses. Despite herself, she felt sorry for the girl, and she became nervous. She had to do or say something right away or she might find herself inside that spacy girl's body.

"You shouldn't feel bad," she declared quickly. "I mean, it's not like it was your fault."

"I feel guilty that I didn't tell him about the vision," Emily said.

Amanda waved a hand in the air as if to brush that notion aside. "Get over it. Like you said yourself, it was the first time you had a vision.You couldn't have known you were seeing the future."

Emily whispered something.

"Speak up, Emily," Madame said again.

"What if. . . what if it wasn't the first time?"

Madame looked interested. "What do you mean?"

"I keep thinking . . . maybe I had visions before that. Like I remember one day, my mother said she was going to bake a cake, and in my mind I saw a burned cake, and she forgot to take it out of the oven, and it did burn. And another time, I could see the people who would be living in the house next door even before it was sold . . ." Her voice was trembling now. "What if I had told my father what I could see in his future? I could have saved his life!"

Jenna spoke. "Emily, you were five years old! You didn't understand what was going on inside your head."

"You can't feel guilty about it," Tracey declared. "Even if you'd told your father that he was about to be hit by a car, what makes you think he would have believed you? Who listens to little kids making predictions?"

"They're right, Emily," Madame said. "You're not responsible for your father's death."

"I just wish I knew what he thinks," Emily said. Suddenly, she drew in her breath sharply, leaned forward, and tapped the shoulder of the boy sitting in front of her.

"Ken, you talk to dead people, don't you? Could you maybe try to find my father and ask him if he's mad at me? And tell him I'm sorry I didn't warn him?"

Ken's brow was furrowed as he turned around and faced her. "I don't talk to dead people, Emily. Dead people talk to me!"

"You don't talk back? I mean, haven't you ever had a conversation with one of them?"

"Are you nuts?" Ken exclaimed. "I don't want to encourage them--I want them to stop!"

Amanda listened to this exchange with interest. It was clear to her that Ken didn't like having a so-called gift any more than she did.

"But if you could just--"

"Emily!" Madame interrupted her. "This is inappropriate. As you well know, there are people out there who would want to exploit us if they knew about our gifts. We do not exploit one another. Ken, will you tell us about the first time a dead person spoke to you?"

Ken squirmed in his seat. "I really don't remember."

Charles stared at him in disbelief. "Oh, give me a break. You don't remember the first time you heard a dead person talking to you?"

Ken didn't look at him as he responded. "No. Um, I guess maybe they've been talking to me since I was born, so I never noticed."

Little Martin Cooper turned to Ken. "What does it feel like, hearing dead people? Is it like having ghosts inside your head?" His expression was fearful, as if he was afraid that the ghosts might suddenly pop out of Ken's head and start haunting him.

"It's not fun," Ken said shortly.

"Is a dead person talking to you right now, Ken?" Tracey asked.

He flinched. "Jeez, you make it sound like I'm a crazy person, hearing voices. No. Maybe. I don't know--I don't listen."

Amanda was skeptical, and she could tell that Madame didn't believe him either. Personally, she didn't care one way or another. She was too busy contemplating Ken from another angle. As a boyfriend.

Why not? He was cute, he was cool, and her friends would be impressed if she hooked up with him. Even Nina would have to show her some respect. Being with someone like Ken Preston would definitely put her back on top. And it wasn't as if she'd suffer in the process of creating a relationship with him. ..

"Amanda? When do you first recall experiencing your gift?"

Amanda began to tell her story about the beggar she saw when she was five. As she spoke, she kept glancing at Ken. Maybe he'd be impressed with the fact that she could feel so sorry for people. But he wasn't even paying attention.

She didn't tell the part about how she had been Tracey Devon--she couldn't bear the thought of Ken picturing the old Tracey in his mind and connecting the image with Amanda. Even the new-and-improved Tracey wasn't up to her standards.

Then Tracey's hand went up, and Amanda's stomach fell. Fortunately, it was almost time for the bell.

"We'll hear from you tomorrow, Tracey," Madame said. "And from Jenna and Martin."

"What about Carter?" Charles wanted to know.

Martin started laughing, and Madame shot him a warning look. Then she looked at the boy whom no one knew.

"Carter, will you give a report on your gift tomorrow?" she asked.

There was no response to her question, and like the others, Amanda wasn't surprised. They couldn't be sure he had a gift. For as long as he'd been at Meadowbrook, he hadn't spoken. No one even knew his real name. A teacher had found him wandering on Carter Street. Not only mute, but he appeared to be an amnesiac, too. He was a complete and total mystery, which meant that he was very weird, and Amanda knew that was why he'd been put in this class. With the other weirdos.

Who, in a million years, would ever believe that Amanda Beeson might have anything in common with someone like Carter Street? It was truly sickening. She had to get out of here. And it certainly wouldn't hurt to have a partner to help her plan how to make her-- their --exit.

Her seat was closer to the door than Ken's, so when the bell rang, she hurried out and then waited for him. As soon as he emerged, she began walking alongside him and spoke casually.

"I can totally relate, Ken."

"Huh?"

"With what you said in class today. I really do understand."

He looked at her in puzzlement. "Dead people talk to you, too?"

"No--I mean, I don't want my gift either."

"Yeah, well . . ." He looked away, and she understood. The busy, crowded hallway was no place for a discussion about something so personal.

"I was thinking, maybe we could talk about it sometime," she ventured.

There was a considerable lack of enthusiasm in his expression. "Isn't that what we do every day in class?"

"Sure, but I was thinking, just you and me …" Her voice trailed off as he frowned. She wasn't even sure if he'd heard her.

"I gotta go," he said abruptly. And he ducked into a boys' restroom.

She supposed he might have really needed to go to the bathroom. Because why wouldn't he want to get together with her? She was pretty, she was popular--most boys would be pleased to find her flirting with them. And Ken had actually kissed her once, at Sophie's pool party the previous spring. Of course, it hadn't meant anything. Some other boys at the party had probably dared him to do it--they were all acting pretty goofy that day--but still …

Maybe he really hadn't heard her. One of those dead people could have been trying to get his attention. But that was exactly why he should listen to her. If she could lose her gift, she might be able to help him get rid of his.

Those other "gifted" kids--they were freaks. She and Ken were cool. They belonged together--and out of that class.