Nic Tatano - The Adventures of Jillian Spectre

“It’s a gift, Jillian. Just like my talent is a gift. It’s a sin not to share it.” (It should be noted that Roxanne is Catholic and thus ruled by guilt.)

“Yeah, I know. But my intelligence is also a gift. I could be a doctor, a lawyer. Wouldn’t it be a sin to waste that?”

“Hell, you could do both.”

I rolled my eyes. “Yeah, Jillian Spectre, MD. I could find out if my patients are going to die before I treat them. Here’s your prescription, Mr. Jones. You won’t need a refill because you’ll be reaching room temperature soon . And by the way, you’re going to Hell. Here’s some SPF 1000 sunblock .”

She squeezes my shoulder. “Okay, enough with your own career. Listen…all this stuff about the afterlife makes me wonder…would you do me a favor?”

She then asks me to do something I’ve never done.

***

After a breakfast during which my mom seemed afraid to look at me, I’m still ticked off at the revelations of the weekend. My face is tightened, eyes narrowed into slits, and I’m glaring at anyone who crosses my field of vision as I head to Geometry class.

I feel an arm wrap around my shoulders and get a whiff of the familiar earthy perfume. “Still pissed off, short stuff?”

I look up at Roxanne, who’s smiling at me. “I’m entitled.”

“Well, if you’re tryin’ to give people my Sicilian death stare, it aint workin’, honey. With the red hair and the freckles you look like the Little Mermaid with PMS.”

The line makes me lighten up, but only a little bit. “Fine. I’ll get a black wig.”

“Still won’t work. You want me to beat someone up for you? Will that make you smile?”

“I just need some time to work through this.”

“You talkin’ to your mom?”

“Barely.”

“Well, you’re still the same Jillian and I still love ya, kiddo. Catch ya later.”

***

Did you know it takes a lot of energy to stay pissed off all day? I’m discovering that as I already feel exhausted and it’s only third period.

Still, I’m busy trying to bore a hole in my Geometry textbook with my Disney cartoon that-time-of-the-month death stare while squeezing the life out of my pen. Ms. Hansen’s lecture on problem solving and the squeaking of her blue dry erase marker on the white board are merely audio wallpaper, fading into the background of my thoughts.

I can’t keep this up forever.

Mom and I have to talk tonight. I don’t care if The Council wants everything confidential.

I have to know—

“Jillian, would you please name these triangles, since no one else seems to have done the weekend assignment.”

The teacher speaking my name jolts me back to reality, and I raise my head. “Uh, I’m sorry, Ms. Hansen. What was the question?”

My petite blonde fortysomething teacher looks at me quizzically, probably because I’m her best student and this is my favorite class and I never, ever zone out. She then points at the board, filled with two geometric figures. “These triangles. Name them.”

I causally lean back in my chair, fold my arms and shrug. “I dunno. How about…Joe and Harry?”

The class explodes in laughter, partly because it’s a terrific smartass answer and partly because Jillian Spectre, front row girl with perfect standardized test scores who always raises her hand and sits up straight, has never, ever cracked a joke in class.

Ms. Hansen raises one eyebrow and takes a step toward me. “See me after class, young lady.”

“Oooooooh,” comes the frightened chorus from the rest of the class.

I look closer at the board. “The triangles are obtuse and equilateral,” I say, trying for some damage control.

“Correct,” says the teacher, shaking her head as she turns back to the board.

***

I remain at my desk as I wait for the class to file out, then slowly stand up. Ms. Hansen is leaning against her desk, arms folded. “So what’s wrong, Jillian?” Her voice is soft, filled with genuine concern.

“I’m so sorry, Ms. Hansen. I don’t know what came over me.”

“That kind of comment I’d expect from the boys in the back row, not from a girl with sixteen hundred on her SATs.” She stands up, moves forward and puts her hands on my shoulders. “You wanna tell me what’s on your mind?”

I exhale, look to the side, then back at her. “It’s really personal.”

“Does it have to do with a boy?”

I roll my eyes. “If a boy were actually interested in me, it might be. No, Ms. Hansen, it’s a family matter.”

“You okay? Your mother okay?”

“We’re fine, and it’s nothing physical. It’s something to do with my past that I can’t discuss.”

“Do you want to talk with the school counselor?”

“No offense, but the school counselor is a moron.”

She laughs, knowing I’m right.

“And if I wanted to talk to a member of the faculty, it would be you. Again, I’m sorry, and it won’t happen again.”

“Okay, you can go,” she says, patting me on the shoulders as she smiles. “Joe and Harry. I gotta admit, it was pretty funny. Especially coming from you.”

***

Mom is on the phone as I walk into the kitchen, toss my backpack on the table and head for the fridge. I pull out a cold Doctor Brown’s creme soda and pop the top. I take a long sip and let the bubbles bathe my throat. I do not make eye contact.

“Thank you,” she says. “I know Jillian will appreciate it.”

Okay, now I make eye contact.

“Yes,” mom says. “This weekend. Saturday at ten. Goodbye.”

She hangs up the phone and turns to face me.

“Who was that, and what will I appreciate?” I ask.

“That was The Summit. They gave me permission.”

“Permission to…”

She cocks her head to the side as her eyes grow moist. “Tell you about your father.”

Her words stun me for a moment. I feel a bit lightheaded, grab a chair and sit down, taking another hit of sugar in the process. She pulls out the chair opposite me, sits down, takes my hands and locks eyes with me.

Now I’m scared. For the past two days, I’ve been dying to find out the truth. Now I’m not so sure I want to know.

But I have to know. “Okay, mom.”

She reaches for her purse that is sitting on another chair, opens it, grabs her wallet, opens that, and pulls out a photo. She slides it over to me. “This is your father.”

I eagerly pick up the photo and study it.

It’s a wedding picture.

My mom, twenty years younger, a thin and radiant bride (with red hair…I have to ask her about that). The groom, a slender man, maybe six feet, with deep set blue eyes, closely cropped dark hair and a strong chin. An inviting smile. He would qualify as handsome.

I look up at mom. “And his name would be?”

“Devlin.”

“You both look happy.”

Mom bites her lower lip and her eyes well up. “We were.” Her voice cracks with emotion. I take her hands and squeeze.

“So…after I was born…he just left?”

“It’s not what you think. There wasn’t another woman or anything like that. There certainly wasn’t another man. And you had nothing to do with it either. He was simply a guy who couldn’t handle fatherhood.” She pulls another photo from her wallet and hands it to me. It’s my father, holding me in his arms. I’m probably a year old.

Now it’s my turn for the tears to blossom. The words grow thick in my throat. “Okay. Soooo…”

“Shortly after you were born, right after that picture was taken…. his powers started to…develop.”

“So what were his powers?”

“I can’t tell you that part yet, but it will all be explained at The Summit this weekend.”