Echo (The Soul Seekers #2)(41)
I turn toward the window, eyeing the dream catcher that hangs over the sill. Remembering the night Vane lured me into that alleyway, the expert way that he kissed me. How he nearly succeeded in talking me into doing the very things Jennika lectures about. How it was only the visions of glowing people that spared me from that.
But I don’t share that either.
I shake free of the memory, listening patiently when she says, “I knew Dace was different the moment I saw you together.” She frowns. Presumably remembering the night she caught us in his car. We were just about to kiss when she interfered and made sure that we didn’t. “Daire, honey.” Her green eyes slant toward mine. “You know I’m just trying to save you from making the same mistakes I made.”
“Yes, I know.” I turn away, angrily shoving a pile of books into my bag. “And, just so you know, I just love it when you refer to me as a mistake. Seriously. Makes me feel all warm and fuzzy inside.”
She huffs under her breath. And though my back is turned, I know her well enough to know her eyes have slid closed as she silently counts to ten. “You know what I mean,” she says, as soon as she gets there.
I frown. About to reply with a nasty retort, when I see her looking so small and defenseless, something inside me loosens up and gives way.
It’s like I can actually feel how she felt when she found herself knocked up at sixteen by a boy who’d just died—only to lose her parents just a few years later.
Knocked sideways.
Kicked in the gut.
Left gasping and breathless—scrambling to build a new life.
I grab hold of the chair, fingers curling around the rail as I fight to steady myself. Overcome by the strength of this impression—of involuntarily diving into her experience.
It’s the same phenomenon Paloma told me about, urged me to hone. Claiming it will help me to know the truth of a person.
The first time I experienced it was when I ran into Dace and Chepi at the gas station. Without even trying, I’d instantly tuned in to the cloud of sadness and grief surrounding his mom—along with the stream of pure, unconditional love that flowed from Dace to me.
And now, without even trying, it’s happening again, only this time with Jennika.
After spending just a few moments beneath her steely veneer, I can no longer be angry with her. Can no longer take that same snarky tone. Like most people, she’s just doing the best she knows how.
“C’mon.” I lift my chin, making an exaggerated show of inhaling. “Smells like Paloma’s making her famous blue-corn pancakes and, trust me, you don’t want to miss them.”
*
As committed as I was to being nicer to Jennika, when she insists on driving me to school, I can’t help but shoot Paloma a pleading look, begging her to intervene in some way.
We need to talk. Need to continue my training. But now with Jennika’s surprise visit, I’ve no idea when we’ll be able to manage. By the time she left last night, it was too late and too cold for Paloma to teach me how to determine the firesong, so I was hoping we could do it today. But from the way things are going, that particular forecast seems doubtful.
Despite my pleading look, Paloma just tells me to have a good day—that she’ll see me when I return. And though there’s a hint of something deeper lying just beneath the words, before I can grasp it, Jennika’s tugging on my sleeve, dragging me outside to her rental car.
“You really should learn how to drive.” She climbs behind the wheel as I slide in beside her.
“I know,” I say, hoping she won’t offer to trade seats and teach me. We’ll just end up arguing at a time when I’m really trying not to.
“Not that there’s anywhere to actually drive to once you do get your license…”
She makes a frowny face. Letting me know, yet again, just how much she detests this place. Continuing to mutter under her breath, the same tired dialogue about how she can’t understand why I would choose to live in this dump over the super-cool place she just got in LA. Stopping only when she sighs, fluffs her hair, and trains her focus on the car stereo.
When she asks me to look inside the glove compartment for her Hole CD, I know she wants to start over and find common ground. Nineties music, the songs of her youth, is always the go-to when she’s looking for a reminder of less troubled times.
“You look cute in that top,” she says, her mood instantly brightening after a few beats of Courtney Love singing “Celebrity Skin.” “And those jeans are a perfect fit—I had a feeling they would be.” She shoots me an appraising look, as I shrug, mumble thanks, and stare out the window. Watching a mangy stray dog plow through the contents of an overturned trash can, while an even mangier cat looks on, waiting to spring into action at the first opportunity.
“Dace Whitefeather is going to be damn sorry he dumped you,” she says, in a misguided attempt to cheer me.
“I truly hope not.” I peer at her. Satisfied when I see the flash of shock that crosses her face.
Her brow merging in an attempt to make sense of my words—make sense of me. Trying to find some trace of her teachings, the values she fought to instill.
“It’s better if he doesn’t think anything about me.” I push the words past the sob clogging my throat—the one that’s been permanently lodged there since that awful night in his kitchen. “It’s better if he just moves on.”