Frizzy haired and overweight, sixteen year old Elizabeth Summers hears ghosts. She also reads people's auras often seeing when something bad is headed their way. Unfortunately, she can't choose which ghosts visit her psychic hotline or when her para...
Dylan has a stormy look of suspicion on his face, addressing me in a surprisingly harsh tone. One he hasn't used with me before. "Elizabeth, are you using me to get back at Donna?" His accusation comes out of the blue, making me feel like I've been sucker punched. My insecurities start flooding back, but I have one thing going for me. Over the years I've learned to become as resilient as fermenting dough. I can absorb a powerful emotional punch, then quickly rise back up.
"What? No, I'm not a manipulative person! Honestly Dylan, I can't understand why you're upset." There must be something troubling him on deeper level. I'm not sure what it could be. Maybe the truck knocked his brain out of whack.
Between the near traffic accident and the squabbling we're causing quite a scene. I wouldn't be surprised if a flashing police car rolls up on us. Dylan stares at me intensely, passionately raising his voice. "Come on, don't play coy with me, Elizabeth! What was Donna talking about?"
Perplexed, I look at him in exasperation. "Dylan, you can be so frustrating when you're not rational! No wonder you're a loner." I feel he's throwing up a defensive wall. One that's quickly becoming an unscalable barrier. Energy surrounds him like a deep, dark, moat as he pulls up the drawbridge to his heart. His eyes are hooded as he prepares to withdraw into himself and brood. Luckily, living with Julia has made me an expert on dealing with irrational people. After a moment, I surmise he's not angry with me. He's just in a lot of pain.
"Dylan, I was going to tell you about the premonition I had regarding Donna, but there was never really a right moment. Tell me when we've had time to hash out the details of other people's lives while we're chasing down ghosts, hunting for murderers, and avoiding runaway garbage trucks?"
His face softens as he absorbs what I'm saying. He's immediately contrite. "Lizzy, I'm sorry, but I don't want you keeping secrets from me. That's what my sister did and now she's dead." He mumbles the last part softly, his eyes downcast.
I can't help thinking that allwomen keep secrets. That's how we survive. Looking at him, I hold up my hands in a gesture of apology. "Ok, I'm sorry I kept you out of the loop. You want to know my biggest secret? I honestly care about you, Dylan. The other thing is this. I promise I'm not going to take off and disappear one day. I don't care what happens to Donna. She pushes my buttons and makes my life a living hell. If she'd been flattened by that truck I wouldn't have been sad or cried. Does that make me a bad person?" I raise my voice to match his intensity.
This is too much for Dylan, he starts laughing at my emotional rant. "I don't believe you wouldn't be moved to tears by the sight of a Donna pancake." A teasing smile breaks out on his face.
Picturing Donna, sizzling on the road, her mascaraed eyes peering out of syrupy makeup makes me laugh, but I quickly suppress my mirth. I guess Dylan's been hurt and abandoned by women his whole life. Starting with his mother's death, then followed by his sister's abrupt departure. I can relate to his fear of abandonment. I felt my mother wasn't there for me the last few years of her life either.
I give him a hug, ecstatic when he reciprocates and gently wraps his strong arms around me. Now that the storm has passed and we're both calm, I decide to share my suspicions about his step uncle with him. "Listen Dylan, there's something I've been meaning to to tell you about Jerry."
As we're walking past the museum, I impulsively grab his hand. We both stop in front of the gallery door. "Why don't we go in there and talk. I heard the NY Museum of Art's loaned our Gallery some cool modern sculptures." Maybe some aesthetic beauty will soothe his inner child while I share my suspicions about Jerry with him.
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