“So that’s the difference between me and Thatcher,” she says.
We sit there for a while longer, listening to the water, the final crackles of the fire, the wind in the trees at the edge of the beach.
Finally, I ask her again: “Can you show me how to move things?”
“Sure,” she says, her voice quiet. “Here.” She reaches out and holds my shoulder with one hand, and it buzzes where she’s touching me. Then she picks up a stick in her other hand and holds its end in the flames. When it lights, she pulls it back, close to us.
“Fire is a good thing to practice with,” she says. “Try to use your energy on this, get the flame to go out.”
I stare at the flickering light, unsure of what to do.
“You’re not here in the same way that you used to exist,” says Reena, sensing my confusion. “You have to feel yourself blowing out the flame before you can actually do it—almost like you’re imagining it happening first.”
She bends over slightly, one hand still on my shoulder. Her pink lips round into an O shape, and she closes her eyes as she blows out a steady stream of air.
The fire on the stick goes out.
“Wow. Impressive.”
“That’s nothing.” She holds the stick in the burning embers again, letting it catch. Then she brings it close to us. “Now you.”
Closing my eyes, I remember birthday cake wishes—my fifth birthday in particular, when I had a Care Bears cake with trick candles that kept relighting as I tried to blow them out, which made Mama laugh and laugh. I remember Carson’s last séance attempt, where the room was so filled with candles that I declared it a fire hazard and threatened to leave unless she let me extinguish all but one that we could keep our eyes on—it took me ten minutes, circling the room huffing and puffing, to get them out. I remember a night with Nick when he tried to be romantic by lighting a kiwi-scented candle that smelled more like something that had gone bad in the fridge.
And then, I blow. It doesn’t quite feel like air is rushing from my mouth, more like there’s a wish—a desire—that’s transported through me. I open my eyes, and the fire that was on the stick is out, a thin trail of smoke coming from its tip.
“Ah!” I jump up and clap excitedly. “I did it!”
“Nice job,” says Reena. Her voice is faint, and when I glance down at her I realize that she looks exhausted. Like she’s just run a marathon or gotten over the flu or something. Her glow is waning and her eyes are dull; even her body seems slighter.
“Are you okay?” I ask.
“My energy is fading—we should go back to the Prison . . . uh, I mean the Prism. Can you create the portal? I’m tapped.”
“Oh, I haven’t done that yet.”
“You haven’t?”
I feel silly. “I mean, Thatcher always does it—he hasn’t shown me how or anything so . . .”
Reena frowns. “You should know how to do this. Lots of new ghosts don’t have the memories to be able to do this, but you do. Watch and learn.”
She closes her eyes and slowly traces a door as she talks. “I’m creating this portal by picturing where I want us to go, but not just with my eyes. I use each sense—sight, taste, touch, sound, and smell —to determine where it will lead.”
Reena pauses. “Like, remember when you were telling me all that stuff about Carson?”
I nod.
“You could use those thoughts to get to her. After you fill your mind with somewhere—or someone—you just outline the shape of the doorway with your hand, using the energy you’ve gathered through calling on your senses.”
“Okay, but I’m confused. When you go to Earth, doesn’t the portal decide where you end up?”
“No.” Reena pauses in front of the doorway she created, which is rippling with light. “Who told you that?”
“Thatcher.”
She twists her lips. “Maybe there are places he doesn’t want you to go.”
She stumbles a bit, and I grab her arm to steady her, another pulse of energy passing between us. She looks so tired that I’m afraid she might faint right here. But I need one more answer.
I frown. “Why did Thatcher tell me I don’t have control over where I go?”
“So he would have it,” says Reena, her voice barely audible.
Ten
REENA AND I STEP THROUGH the portals she’s created. When I enter mine, I enter my prism room—and I’m not alone.
Thatcher’s back is to me as he gazes out the window. It’s weird to see him, this guy I’ve just met, standing in such an intimate space—my bedroom, or at least a replica of it—and waiting for me. His muscles seem tense and rigid. The soft edges of his hair are grazing his neck, and I take in the width of his broad shoulders. When he’s still like this, and quiet, I can feel the power within him. The way he’s standing—so protective, so watchful—almost makes me feel guilty. Almost.
And then he turns. “Why did you leave your prism?”
His eyes are flat with anger.
“I went out with a friend,” I say, defensive.
“Out with a friend? This isn’t high school.” He crosses the room and stands next to me. “Didn’t I tell you to stay here?”
“You did not,” I say lightly, ignoring his imposing figure and flopping down casually on the bed. “You said to rest. I feel rested. I took a walk on the beach with Reena and I feel much—”
“You were with Reena?” he asks.
“Yes.”
Thatcher leans over the bed. “Did you let her into your prism?”
“Thatcher, stop it,” I say, my eyes widening. “You’re scaring me.”
“Did you?” he shouts, and the vibrations of his anger course through my skin.
“Yes,” I say, defiantly. “Yes, I let her in.”
He plows his hands through his hair. “You don’t realize what you’ve done. Now she can come in anytime she wants.”
“Just like you. Why do you hate her so much?”
“I don’t hate her, but she’s a complication. Spending time with her distracts you from your purpose.”
“I only want a friend here.”
“The Prism isn’t a place for friends.” I can tell by his tone that he’s repeating a rule, and I’m not sure it’s one he wants to follow.
“But Norris and Delia seem so nice,” I say. “And Reena is hilarious—she’s fun and open and interested in my life—”
I stop talking because I see that Thatcher is glowering at me.
“What did you tell them about your life?” he asks, looking around the room like he’s searching for something.
“I don’t know,” I say. “Reena asked about Carson, and we went to Folly Beach. Why?”
Thatcher doesn’t say anything for a minute; he just shakes his head. When he looks at me, his face is tight and controlled. “I thought I explained that your prism is sacred. I told you not to open the door.”
“But you’re here!” I shout at him, tired of his chastising. “You came in while I was gone and you didn’t even have the decency to wait outside. Is that what you mean by sacred?”
He bows his head, eyes to the floor. “You’re right,” he says. “I shouldn’t have entered without your permission. I thought we were . . .” His voice trails off again as he looks up at me. “Never mind. I’m sorry.”
But that’s not what I want from him—I don’t want him to apologize for feeling comfortable here.
“Thatcher, it’s okay,” I say. “I don’t mind if you come in; that’s my point. I want us to be friends, I just—”
Thatcher shakes his head. The depth of seriousness in his blue eyes silences me.
“I’m not your friend,” he says slowly. “I’m your Guide. Death isn’t a party, Callie.”