Chapter Seven

I'M FLOATING AWAY. In clouds, perhaps? No ... in waves.

Peaceful, lapping water—or is it? Menacing salty fingers grab at me. The churning foam of the ocean pulls and tugs my limbs, drawing me into its depths. Sea foam green that looks so pretty as a wall color but terrifying as a grave marker.

Help me! Help! I call out.

Who can hear me? who can help me?

Oh no, not again. Not another disaster on the horizon of my life.

Can anyone save me? Can I save myself?

Through the mirrored haze of confusion, I see him. Hershey Eyes. No, he has a real name. Patrick. Patrick Lynn. His eyes are so deep and mysterious that they beckon and call to me even in my darkest hour.

He kisses me. Lips so cool. Attitude to match.

"I've got you, Kendall."

Words I've heard before, only not from him.

The strained buzz from the monitor signaling the end of life. A sound I've heard before. A sound that represented my heart.

Only now my heart cries out for...

"Ahhh!"

I bolt straight up in bed. Sweat covers me, imprinting my shape on the pink sheets of cabin 14 at the Rose Briar Inn.

"Kendall?" Jess asks softly from her side of the room. "Are you okay?"

Slowing my rapid breathing, I say, "Yeah. I guess." I tug the black elastic from my wrist and wrench my long hair up into a messy ponytail/bun thing to get it off my moist neck.

"Nightmare?"

"Something like that." Or the most heavenly dream ever of being kissed by Patrick Lynn. Must block that thought before 8:00 a.m. arrives and he can read me over my morning waffles.

"I have vivid dreams too," Jess admits. "I think it's a teenage thing. Rite of passage and all. Especially for kids like us. Our minds are so active when we sleep. We're working out a lot of shit in our subconscious, you know?"

I snicker. "Some rite of passage. Can't I just, like, have to toilet paper someone's house or clean a bathroom with a toothbrush like they do in fraternities and sororities?"

"Nah," she says. "Hazing like that got outlawed years ago. Teenagehood is sheer torture. We just have to deal with it. Sooner or later, we'll be out of it and be adults in the work force trying to pay our mortgage, take out the garbage, feed our kids and get them to Scouts and soccer. We'll worry and stress about bills and pray we won't get laid off from our jobs, all the time wishing we were teenagers again."

She's got a point.

"Go back to sleep, Jess. Sorry."

It's not long before my roommate's soft snore sounds in the room.

I stare at the clock; it reads 1:11 a.m., 4:11 a.m. back home. Sleep does not come quickly ... or last long.

Before I know it, Ms. Morning Person, Jessica Spencer, is bouncing off the walls like she's had about ten 5-Hour Energy drinks.

"Good mooooorning, Kendall," she sings out. "It's a beautiful day in the mountains with the sun shining and the trees waving to us."

I crack my eyes open. "Are you on some sort of mood-altering medication?"

"Fresh air, baby, fresh air. I've grown up with the smog of the LA area. You've got to give me this."

"Whatever," I say with a snicker. I swing my feet around and drag my East Coast ass out of bed. Jess is already showered, madeup, and dressed to go. I forgo a shower and drag the brush through my unruly, tangled curls. I throw on a woven tank top and my jeans after I brush my teeth and spray a little Secret on. I follow Jess out of the cabin and up to breakfast, wondering what exactly the day will bring.

"What am I smelling?" Harper Puckett asks when we all enter the large kitchen.

Chris is hard at work at the stove, oven mitts covering both her hands. "You kids sit at the table and help yourself to coffee, juice, or whatever."

Evan Christian, Ricky, and Carl all tromp in and join us at the table. I'm so not a coffee drinker, but following last night's lack of slumber, I'm going to need all of the caffeine I can get. I pour the thick black liquid into a mug and dump about five teaspoons of sugar in before topping it off with maybe half a cup of cream. Ahhh ... there, now that nasty, bitter coffee taste is covered up.

"Everyone sleep well?" Chris asks.

A couple of the guys let out grunts and I just sigh.

Chris smiles wide. "Oh, you Easties will adjust. And the mountain air will be amazing for you. Really clears your head"

For now, I'll settle for feeding my stomach.

We all sit at the long table and pass around Chris's culinary creation of sausage-egg-and-cheese bread pudding. It's soft and creamy and exactly what I need to get the day going. Maddie, Erin, and Harper are deep in a discussion about some girl at their high school who e-mailed them about some drama that's going on ... I can't keep up. Evan Christian and Carl are talking about who believes in the Loch Ness monster and/or Bigfoot. Are they serious? Ricky and Greg both seem half asleep, and Micah and Jess are discussing what's on each other's iPods. I shovel in the egg-and-sausage mixture and reach for seconds, wondering where Patrick is this morning.

No, no ... don't think about him.

Willowmeana and Talking Feathers, as reserved as both of them are, have their heads bent together and are chatting quietly. Everyone is already beginning to pair off, even before we've had our first meeting with the counselors. Is this why we came here? To hook up?

Of course, that leads me back to thoughts of Patrick. And memories of my dream.

That kiss felt so real.

Then again, he's real.

I need to get him out of my head. I need to get my head in the game. Focus on why I'm here and what I'm doing.

"So who's rooming with the dude in the sunglasses?" Erin asks.

None of the guys respond.

"He's odd man out," Greg says. "Must be sleepin' on the porch."

Chris moves around the table to refill coffee and orange juice. "Now, now, be nice," she says. "His name is Patrick Lynn and the boy has had a traumatic experience and has to have his own room. Oliver usually only takes twelve kids, but he made an exception for him. He's here for help just like all of you, so have some sympathy."

Greg grimaces as he moves the remainder of his breakfast around. "Sorry. Didn't mean no harm."

Chris pats him on the head and then refills his juice glass.

Innnnnnnteresting...

A traumatic experience? Wonder what that's all about.

You don't need to know, Kendall.

Whoa. Hold the fort. Who just...

Emily?

No response.

Is Emily back? It has to be her. Or is it one of the spirits I've felt around this place, spinning and motioning to get my attention? Now they've resorted to bothering me in my head? I do my best to concentrate and block out this invader.

I don't want to deal with any spirits right now, I say inside my head.

Who said I'm a spirit?

My mouth falls open, and I glance about the room. Everyone's either chatting or eating, but that doesn't mean they can't be playing—literal—mind games with me.

Please leave me alone.

Then you do the same for me.

I will, but who is this?

Silence.

Good. Maybe whoever it is is leaving me alone now.

I gather my dishes and take them over to the sink, where Chris thanks me. Others do the same and then we all file downstairs into the massive finished-basement conference room. Wall-to-wall carpet covers the floor, and a humongous, businesslike mahogany table stands in the middle of the room. Gold-trimmed, kingly high-backed chairs covered in red leather circle the table, like we're knights in King Arthur's court. From the looks of this place, good old Oliver must make a pretty penny doing Ethereal Evidence.

Now Oliver himself steps into the room wearing designer jeans and a crisp blue button-down shirt. "Why doesn't everyone take a seat and we'll get started?"

The Pucketts take the left side of the table, so Jess and I follow them. Willow tosses a sidelong glance at Josiah "Talking Feathers" and then moves to sit next to him on the other side. When everyone is in place, the seat next to me is available.

Of course, Patrick Lynn saunters in at just that moment and takes the empty chair. I try not to check him out, but it's hard since he's so ... close. He smells like fresh Dial soap and a spicy deodorant. I really shouldn't be cataloging his smells. Not appropriate. Instead, I watch him in my peripheral vision. A black knit cap adorns his head, but his thick hair shows underneath. He's wearing a T-shirt that reads Got Ghosts?, and it's tucked into a pair of black jeans. The same gloves and sunglasses are in place. Honestly, who does he think he is? Some Hollywood star trying not to be recognized?

"Exactly," he says in a whisper.

I smack him hard on the arm. "Quit doing that."

Jess catches this play and eyeballs me. I roll mine back at her and brush off the interaction.

"So, too good to eat breakfast with the rest of us?" I tease.

Patrick fiddles with the strap on his left glove. "I ate in my room."

"Wow, must be nice. A cabin to yourself and room service."

His face turns to me. "How did you know I had my own room?"

"Deductive reasoning and the other guys being paired up. Chris told us they usually only accept twelve kids at a time, but you're an exception. Here I thought I was the exception because I signed up so late, but it looks like you're the special one here. Why is that, Patrick?" I cock my head to the side in a bit of a challenge.

Patrick presses his lips together. "If you must know, Oliver and my dad went to the Air Force Academy together, so he let me come this week, okay?"

Perplexed, I say, "Oliver Bates went to the Air Force Academy?"

"Yeah," Jess chimes in. "He was a mechanical engineer for the first part of his career. Then he was working on an airplane engine and got hit in the head with one of those mini crane things, and he's been psychic ever since. Don't you watch his show?"

"Ummm, not really," I mumble.

"It's on his website too. He's really amazing," Maddie adds.

A few months ago, I didn't know about anything paranormal or abnormal. I knew nothing about TV ghost-hunting shows; I'd never seen programs about psychic kids, college students who fight demons, or people who solve crimes with ethereal evidence. Now, I'm immersed in all of it. Up to my yin yang. And Patrick Lynn is going to make this week a living hell for me with his 'tude.

There must be peace. I offer him my hand. "Can we call a truce?"

His head tilts down to examine my hand, but he doesn't take it.

"What? Are you afraid of girl cooties?" I ask, unable to stop my giggles.

"No," he says tersely. "I just don't ... touch. Okay?"

Incredulously, I ask, "You don't what?"

"We've got a truce, Kendall. I just can't touch you ... or anyone, for that matter."

Questions cascade in my mind like falling dominoes, but there's no time to ask any of them. Oliver Bates calls us to order. I swallow the queries down like a lump of oatmeal. Patrick doesn't move, doesn't flinch, doesn't do anything. He just sits there messing with the strap of his glove.

Is that what he's here for? To get help with his ... lack of touch? Can Bates's counselors help him? Hell, can they help any of us? And where exactly are these people?

No sooner do I ask the question in my head than an adjoining door opens and in walk four adults.