"My family hides a dark secret. The lies are eating us alive. Time to come out of the broom closet."
On the anniversary of a tragic suicide, a diverse group of teenagers is drawn to the Simi Hills in Los Angeles. Others answer the call: Latino broth...
Memories of Shelby flood my mind. Me cheering her on during basketball tournaments. Swimming at the lake in summer. And the countless hours coaxing information from child ghosts so we could find living relatives or descendants.
Sunlight glints against the glass doors in front of the fireplace. I glimpse reflected movement.
Heart racing, I force myself to focus. Shelby's not here. Grow up. Leaning forward, I see my reflection and simultaneously register someone else.
Behind my right shoulder materializes the faint reflection of a blond teenage girl. I reach into the front pocket of my jeans and pull out a plastic bag filled with fennel seeds. My fingers take a pinch and I pop them into my mouth to ward off ghostly-induced nausea.
I turn to introduce myself. "I'm Amber McBride."
The blonde's hair is teased into a fluffy halo around her head. Long, wavy locks fall loosely around her shoulders. She's wearing a neon pink sweatshirt with the collar and arms cut out, with matching pink shorts and legwarmers. Blue eyes narrow as she glares at me. "Who's the act for? He's not here. Just you and me, bitch."
I freeze, pain stabbing my chest. That voice. It's the nasty ghost I heard through the intercom.
Other than Ken Salvia's twin this morning, my only spectral experience has been sweet ghost children who don't realize they're dead.
Sweat drips and I feel small under the ghost's glare.
The blonde snaps, "Hey, I'm talking to you! Hello, stupid slut. Horrific whore..." She waves, searching for my attention, her brows knitting together. "Hola, ditzy bitch. What's wrong, too much blood stuck in your vagina and not enough getting to your brain?"
The sound of a door opening from the hallway interrupts the ghost. Full pink lips curl into a snarl as her middle finger extends.
I step backwards as Jonah enters the living room.
The ghost shouts in a sing-song voice, "Oh my God! Say something!"
You don't want my help.
Jonah moves to my side and scowls at the blonde.
She dissolves, only to reappear inches from my face.
Tingling ripples through my body as muscles tense. My posture straightens and my chin lifts. "Who are you?"
The blonde frowns as her arm drops. She vanishes.
Jonah exhales. "You show up and crazy shit happens. Are you a witch?"
I release my clenched fists. "No! What makes you think I'm a witch?"
His brow furrows. "The Goddess Brigid is totally picky about who she uses when she wants to show herself. Just like her cousin Ma'Man Brigitte." When I don't answer, he adds, "C'mon, I know you saw Ma' Man Brigitte when she possessed me!"
My mind's racing. I'd written off Jonah's transformation into a buxom woman wearing a dress from the 1800's as a hallucination. If what he says is true, maybe I'm not crazy.
I nod. "You mentioned Brigid. My aunt has an altar to Saint Brigid. She's supposed to be our family's patron saint." Auntie's altar includes a watercolor of Saint Brigid. A nun's habit covers her hair. Green eyes always seemed to follow me when I'd walk by. Sometimes Auntie would leave a saucer of milk.
Jonah erupts in barking laughter. "What you transformed into is no saint!" His hands form an hourglass, then rise to his chest and round to mimic big boobs.
I don't believe him. "No way." Squeezing my eyes shut doesn't stop the memories of countless psychiatrist appointments, socialization groups and sensory therapy. Why would a goddess choose someone damaged like me?
Jonah places a hand on my arm. I wait for the sharp, stabbing pain, but find warmth. "My Mom's family is from Louisiana. Ma'Man Brigit is an important part of our vodou tradition." He gives my arm a gentle squeeze. "Sounds like your Aunt follows the Catholic Saint Brigid. Hasn't anyone taught you about the original Brigid?"
I shake my head and am overcome with sadness. Shelby has her family and they're driving from Seattle to her tribe's reservation for her vision quest. Tears seep as I remember her dad's words. "Our tribe's practices aren't to be shared with outsiders, as much as we love you, Amber."
Jonah's right. I'm completely alone.
He squeezes my forearm. "Hey, don't cry. You're here for a reason. There's a saying. When the student is ready, the teacher appears."
Jonah tries to pull me close for what I assume will be a hug, but I push away.
His eyes widen. "Hey, I'm gay. Definitely not hitting on you." He grins.
I struggle to find the right words. "I didn't mean...I'm just awkward. People make me nervous."
He steps backward, hands raised. "No judgement from me. Listen, the Simi Hills," he gestures toward the mountains looming out the bay windows, "attract all sorts of people. The ones who are good connect with the magic. But those who want evil..." his voice trails off in a whisper.
"Who's here looking for evil?"
Jonah's nose scrunches like he's stepped in dog doo. "Google Charles Manson when you get a chance. He got teenage girls to murder for him."
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AUTHOR NOTES:
Banner picture of Peppergate Ranch's living room courtesy of Universal Locations
