Free Wanted by Kym Brunner

item!” I ball up the note and throw it on top of the piles of books and study guides scattered alongside my bed.
    Snippets from last night return full blast—me and Jack running from the police, Jack’s asthma attack, Milo and I stuck in a hazy cocoon as serenity rushed out through him and into me, his words scaring the crap out of me:
Powerful forces have taken up residence within you and your ally—forces that have proven deadly in the past.
    Anger seeps into my face and neck when I picture Jack laughing at me, forming his fingers into crosses like he was defending himself against the devil. I whip the blankets off of me and stand. What a douche. I walk over and crack the window for some air. But when I look at things from his perspective, would I have believed Jack if he told me that some random guy at McDonald’s said we were possessed by evil spirits? Not likely.
    I consider calling Josie, my go-to girl for advice, but a glance at the time lets me know that Senior Picnic is already under way. Another once-in-a-lifetime moment ripped from me. Yeah, what I did was stupid, but I paid for it by getting arrested. The school didn’t have to punish me double. I wonder if all the things stressing me out—school obligations, Dad’s disappointment, my heavy work schedule, and my upcoming court case—have finally pushed me over the edge.
    Could all that pressure have forced me to inflate the events of last night? I know for certain that I didn’t imagine Milo’s words, but I’m not positive about his intentions, or his sanity for that matter. Maybe he’s just a troubled guy who forgot to take his meds and what I witnessed was some sort of bipolar episode. As far as his glowing eyes, I’ve seen all sorts of novelty contact lenses at the online Halloween shop.
    I’m going to try and forget all about last night and instead, concentrate on my future. As long as I walk through the doors at NYU in August, any lunatic can say anything they want to me and I won’t care. I close my eyes and send a plea to my mother:
If you see me about to ruin my life, please send a warning. Make it one I can’t miss—like a giant bird landing on my head or an asteroid falling at my feet—because I’m not the best decision maker. Love you, Mom!
    Talk about an understatement. Some of the decisions I’ve made lately are not even on the same continent as “not the best.” A sudden breeze makes the sheet of yellow paper pinned to my corkboard flutter wildly. I groan when I remember what it is—questions that Dr. Hanson wants me to journal about before our session today.
Fine, Mom,
I tell her with a wry smile.
But next time, save the sign for something really important.
    As I slide my feet into my slippers, I make a plan. I’ll write up a few answers, shower, drop off the slugs, and then walk to Dr. Hanson’s office. If last night’s craziness was due to some sort of anxiety overload, hopefully everything will return to normal once the slugs are back where they belong. Luckily, Dad doesn’t leave for work until 4:00 on Saturdays, so I have plenty of time to get in and out before he even leaves the house.
    As I unpin the paper, I realize then that I need to be extremely careful not to mention anything to Dr. Hanson about last night. If he even gets a hint that I thought I heard voices of dead people, he’ll put me on heavy drugs and commit me to a psych ward for further testing. No thanks. Saint Joseph’s Center for Mental Health does not award Bachelor of Arts degrees in film studies or drama production.
    I grab my journal from my nightstand drawer and head toward the window bench. I pick up the purple fuzzy pillow, the one Mom bought for me before she got sick. I hug it to my chest and stare down onto Lake Shore Drive from my bedroom on the 51st floor of the John Hancock Center building. The sun is nearly overhead, so there are no shadows over