Somewhere Over the Freaking Rainbow - By L.L. Muir Page 0,52

up.

Optimum Suggestor, at it again?

He raised an eyebrow at her as she passed his desk.

She gave him a wink...a wink that ricocheted around in his chest like a sonar ping in a submarine.

Ho. Ly. Crap.

He had planned to have the whole ‘Host’ thing worked out before morning, but the second his feet hit the porch, it was all he could do to make it to his bed before crashing and burning. Then he’d slept as if he hadn’t slept for a couple of days, which he hadn’t.

So, on the way to school, he’d gone over the facts. She was as good as a ghost, surface tension or whatever aside, he hadn’t technically kissed her, or held her hand, or hugged her. Basically, he’d been giving a lot of PDA to a sheet, not the She-Casper underneath. It wasn’t as if she’d really felt it, he’d told himself.

So technically, there wasn’t any relationship to worry about. The sheet would be blown to bits one day, after his granddad’s prayers were answered. Or so he suspected. Then she’d pop up in a different town, the only thing unchanged about her would be her clothes and the crowd she would live with. If he passed her on the street, he’d never know it. She might even come back as an old woman.

Like the chick from Shangri La, Lo-Tsen, suddenly her true age.

Ew. Better not to think about that.

No, he was fine. He hadn’t been making out with a murderer, at least. That was good. And his granddad was safe with her. His mom was safe living next door to them. Everything was better.

Until she’d showed up that morning, looking as Skye as ever. No wrinkles, no age spots. No new face. Just the Skye-face that he spent all his free time waiting to get a glimpse of.

And then she’d winked.

He knew her well enough to suspect she’d “suggested” herself out of a tardy; she knew him well enough to know what he was accusing her of, without needing to read his mind. It was a soft spot. He loved having someone close enough to “know” him, to communicate with without talking, like his grandparents used to do.

Too bad it couldn’t and wouldn’t last.

The bell rang, and none too soon. Every time he picked a passage and started reading, it was about the woman, Lo-Tsen. And he could only picture Skye, trapped in a perfect prison, wanting to get out.

Did she ever think of getting out?

Was there an out?

As he gathered his crap from the desk and shoved it in his backpack, he pictured himself asking her, then imagined her answering like the Conrad character from the novel: Who would ever want to leave paradise?

Jamison looked for white in the hallway and found her near the main door. She grabbed his sleeve and pulled him outside, over onto the dying autumn grass.

She looked around and curious kids turned away.

“You’ll wear yourself out, with all that suggesting,” he teased.

She smiled, but briefly.

“I need your help.”

“Sorry?”

“I need you to skip the rest of your classes today. I’ll fix your attendance. Will you do it?”

“Yeah. What is it?”

For all he knew, her only problem in life was his granddad, and the occasional kidnapper next door.

“I need to visit another Somerled farm.”

Well, that didn’t sound fun at all. What if there were Lucas-types there who wouldn’t take kindly to him knowing exactly what they were?

“What has this got to do with Granddad?”

“Nothing, actually. I can’t explain now, but I need to get to one, and soon, before word spreads, or...or...I don’t know. I just need to get to one. Will you help me find one?”

“Skye, honey. It wouldn’t be hard. I’m sure we can find one online.”

“We don’t do online.”

“I know you don’t. But there are all kinds of conspiracy theorists out there who would keep tabs on them, I mean you, I mean—”

“You mean, us.”

“Yeah. I guess so.” It made him uncomfortable, lumping her in with a bunch of nameless, faceless...containers. “There’s a computer in the library we can use.”

Five minutes later they had the addresses of every known Somerled community, and some people who were suspected of being Somerleds incognito.

“Mennonites, probably.” Skye tapped the screen where the report read “black clothing.” “They call us Mennonites in White, and they’re called Somerleds in Black. People are foolish.”

“Well, where do you want to go first?”

“To check on Kenneth. Then let’s hit this one.” She circled an address on the short list they’d printed out. It was two hours