Chapter 5
Chapter Five
JJ (Josh)
There is no other explanation…
And there is no one I can tell.
Locking the door of the gallery, I kick myself for not insisting on walking her back to the residence hall at Cornell. It may only be a few blocks, but the sun is setting. Still, if I come on too strong, she’s going to get freaked out.
I sure as hell would.
Hart answers on the first ring, “JJ, if this is bad news, I don’t want to hear it right now.”
“I’ve missed your anal-retentiveness.” My tone is glib as he almost growls. “Just saw your missed call.”
“We’re playing at eight.” My heart sinks hearing it.
For the third year, I find myself in the strange position of both predicament and privilege as one of the House of Eights members. Our small secret society is a whisper, nothing more than Rockefeller Amherst folklore.
It needs to remain that way.
“I’ll be there.”
“Good. It’s a tie breaker.”
These secret little code phrases seemed juvenile when I was initiated, but I’ve come to appreciate that we don’t say what we mean most of the time.
He’s acknowledged my check in, and that it’s not optional.
Our next meeting is on Saturday at the headquarters located in the basement of the Great Hall at Rock Am.
He barks orders at someone in the background before asking me, “Tell me again why Laird can’t follow a basic request?”
“No ridges, or lumps, or valleys, or bumps… he’s got a smoooth damn brain,” I sing into the phone, letting my mind travel back to Biz… Bizzy.
Elizabeth.
Hart’s going to eat her alive.
We’ll deal with that when the time comes.
In the meantime, I need to figure out what this means. Not just for the House of Eights, but for her too.
Does she know?
I have her number. How much trouble would I be in if I hired her to work here? It would give me a reason to spend time with her. To find out what she might know… or remember.
Before I can stop myself, I fire off the text.
There isn’t a chance she ended up finding me on her first day in Ithaca by coincidence.
No… that was fate.
Our… no, my Elizabeth is back.
Maybe Hart was right. There is no controlling a pattern that plays out over and over again. There was no way to prevent the inevitable. Because if it’s her, everything we thought we knew was wrong.
A flash of memories assaults me, making my heart ache. If we fail, I know what happens…
We can’t fail this time.
She’s at my door, looking hopeful.
Her immediate response to my text last night was surprising, but her accepting my invitation to stop by my house is concerning.
What if I wanted to harm her?
I hold the screen door open, catching a whiff of her flowery perfume, her thick dark ponytail grazing my arm. Deep inside me, a warning flag rises. This isn’t good… this attraction to Biz.
On the other hand… I’m not Eric or Hart.
I can protect her.
“Mornin’. Should we discuss your lack of self-preservation, or would you like a cup of coffee first?”
The Victorian house I rent along with two fussy housemates on the edge of Ithaca, perched on a hillside, is just as eclectic inside as it is outside.
On the lawn sits a sculpture of a parrot made from metal scraps welded together.
All the grass has been replaced by white rocks, and flags from Rock Am, the state of Texas, and Brazil hang from the top of the porch.
Inside, the walls are dotted with art I’ve collected from around the world.
Aboriginal pieces, abstract art from Amsterdam depicting various sexual positions, landscape watercolors by a one-armed man from Mexico.
Then there’s the mismatched furniture and lamps.
That’s all on top of wild jungle wallpaper, rugs made by my Meems (grandma), and the constant din of talk radio playing in the background.
She spins slowly, taking it all in. “I think If I’m killed, they may check here first…”
I lead her to the porch and the tiled swing, where she sits next to me, blowing on her coffee.
Through an open window comes a loud chant: “Go, cocksucker, go. Go, cocksucker, go.”
She jumps slightly, looking in the window. “What was that?”
Mimicking her, my African Grey Parrot, Hobey, says, “What was that? What was that?”
I tell her about finding Hobey on spring break in Brazil three years ago and the adventure of getting him home. She laughs until tears stream down her face as I explain how he adopted one of my wooden spoons as his favorite possession.
I have to stop myself from firing questions at her… Do you still love grape Jolly Ranchers? Can you still draw blindfolded? Is your favorite song still U2’s With or Without You? I settle on just asking, “Getting settled in at Jameson Hall?”
Because you belong at Rockefeller Amherst.
She shrugs. “I’ve met some of the people on my floor, but no one seemed interested in making friends.”
“Their loss.”
She’s pretty… in a girl-next-door, sweet way. Dark wavy hair, freckles across her cheeks and nose, light hazel eyes, perfect Cupid’s bow-shaped lips. Yeah… I’m locked in…
“...Cocksucker, go. Go, cocksucker.” Hobey keeps squawking. I usually tune him out. His noise usually blends into the other ruckus, but Biz covers her mouth to smother a laugh.
We go over what needs to be done at the gallery…
changing out displays every three days, except for the large back room that stays up for a month.
Occasionally, we handle exhibits or parties, serving refreshments and cleaning up.
“...Most of it is opening mail and prioritizing it, answering phones, upkeep cleaning… that sort of thing.”
Even with the piddly pay, she takes the job. I want to react, but I keep my cool.
My life has been anything but traditional.
My mother managed to wander off, leaving me with her mother, Meems, never to return.
By the time strange memories started surfacing when I turned eighteen, I had already become independent. Self-reliant.
More than willing to accept the slippage of my own memories in favor of better ones.
Filled with Biz.
None of it made sense, but when I was invited to attend Rockefeller Amherst, then recruited to the House of Eights, it felt like my destiny. Along with it came the clear sense that I couldn’t tell anyone what I know.
I began to tell Dr. Fraine in my second year, but before I could utter a word, panic stopped me. I am sure of only three things: I have a weak right hook, I inherited my mother’s ability to ignore Meems’ nonsense, and the memories are an important secret.
Rett knocks on the screen door, then whistles. “JJ?! I’m coming in. Hope you’re decent.”
I round the corner from the kitchen to see him using his foot to hold the door open while he adjusts the oversized pizza boxes and the bottles of beer rested on top of them.
He follows me to the mismatched furniture situated around the television. Leave it to Rett, one pizza is only sauce and veggies.
“Well, that revolting mess is yours.” I toss the box his way before digging into the greasy goodness of my meat lovers.
“Where are your ever so charming roommates?”
Talking with a mouthful of pizza I answer, “One Upper or Skinny Jeans?”
We spend the evening joking around about anything and everything, from Hobey picking up a squeal from a TV show, Rett landing another underwear modeling campaign, Meems sending me collages of men’s heads, to Hart’s inability to lighten up.
We avoid even a whisper of conversation about our upcoming meeting.
To speak of the Eights outside the walls of the sanctum is strictly forbidden.
Rett reclines back with a sigh, “JJ, I’ve got to-” He’s cut off by a racket from the front porch.
We crane our necks to the window to see my pug-faced, goblin housemate scraping the metal sculpture by the staircase across the wood slats, leaving it squarely in front of my door. He yells, “Put your crap inside. No one wants to trip over this garbage.”
It seems he forgets that it isn’t mine, but our landlord’s, the owner of D’Ornay Exhibits. Hobey starts his chant of “Go Cocksucker, go,” as Rett and I burst out laughing.
His muttered swearing follows him up the outer staircase to the second floor.
Day… made.
As Rett dumps our garbage, he calls from the kitchen, “Something weird happened to me.” That’s a common refrain from him. He can’t go anywhere without a story unfolding. It would be easy to chalk it up to his handsome face and chiseled abs, but he tends to charm the wrong people.
“Oh, yeah?” I shut the television off and throw my legs up on the wicker coffee table.
His face flushes as he re-enters the room, leaning against the pillar in the middle of the space. “I need to talk about this with someone… I probably should keep my mouth shut, but…”
Everett Wilson doesn’t get nervous. His usual level of nonchalance is legendary. Not once since I’ve known him has he been tongue-tied, but his struggle to get out what he’s trying to say makes me sit up straighter.
“I’m listening.”
He rubs his face before rolling his eyes. “You can’t tell anyone else.”
Dread rolls through me.
I’m already holding secrets that keep me up at night.
He paces while he begins, “I’ve been having vivid… dreams? Yeah, weird-ass dreams, since the summer before freshman year.”
I nod, encouraging him to continue, not trusting myself to speak. Is this an Eights thing?
“At first, I thought it was my schedule, the traveling for shoots, taking sleep meds… but,” he shakes his head, “it started to consume me. These dreams about… this girl…”
My pulse starts to race as he recounts a girl named Bizzy…Elizabeth. But unlike my dreams, he wakes up in terror after finding her bleeding from her mouth on a stone floor; one he recognized recently as the floor outside the Sanctum.
“But you don’t know this person, Elizabeth? Do you know her?”
He cracks his knuckles. “Not exactly. But I met someone recently who has the same name… though it’s not the same girl. It felt,” he holds his breath, letting it out slowly as he paces a few steps, “it still felt…uncomfortable? I can’t explain it.”
Hobey’s tapping of his wooden spoon on the side of his cage keeps time with the panicked beat of my heart. What in the actual flaming hell does this mean?
“You already know this has to be about the Eights. I’m not going to say a thing…to anyone.”
I almost share what I know, but until I figure out how Biz fits into the prophecy, I can’t. No matter how much I feel compelled to tell Rett everything.