Behold ! Read online

  Behold!

  Book One of the Soul Reader Series

  A Novel By

  J. Don Wright

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Dedication

  ONE

  TWO

  THREE

  FOUR

  FIVE

  SIX

  SEVEN

  EIGHT

  NINE

  TEN

  ELEVEN

  TWELVE

  THIRTEEN

  FOURTEEN

  FIFTEEN

  SIXTEEN

  SEVENTEEN

  EIGHTEEN

  NINETEEN

  TWENTY

  TWENTY-ONE

  TWENTY-TWO

  TWENTY-THREE

  TWENTY-FOUR

  TWENTY-FIVE

  TWENTY-SIX

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  TWENTY-NINE

  THIRTY

  THIRTY-ONE

  THIRTY-TWO

  THIRTY-THREE

  THIRTY-FOUR

  THIRTY-FIVE

  THIRTY-SIX

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  About the Author

  For Virginia, who always believes.

  And for Betsey, who helped make it come true.

  ONE

  “SURE, I’M LOOKING FORWARD to my first day of high school, mom,” Priscilla said from her wheelchair by the garage door. “Just like I looked forward to the 37 corrective surgeries the doctors said would improve my mobility and dexterity.”

  Priscilla Benson maneuvered her motorized wheelchair by sipping and puffing into a tube positioned in front of her mouth. Her head was the only part of her body over which she had control.

  “Honey, I know you’re bitter, and you have every right to be,” Marrisa Benson responded. “But remember what the psychologist said, ‘You can make the best of your bad situation’...”

  “Or you can make a bad situation the worst,” Priscilla completed the sentence.

  She’d heard it enough times it no longer held any meaning for her. She couldn’t help but notice her mother’s aura, which was usually bright blue with some peach edges, now had definite muddy, dark blue swirls in it. She had learned, since she’d begun seeing people’s “colors” shortly after the accident, that muddy colors meant trouble or turmoil.

  The love and pity in Marrisa’s eyes was obvious, but so was the underlying steel. She would be damned if she would allow her once-vibrant daughter to become a morose, churlish stranger.

  “So, when I pick you up from school, are we still on for pizza?” she asked, trying to lighten the mood.

  “Mom, I love you, and I love that you want me to be happy, but I don’t want to go out anywhere in public. Criminy, I don’t even want to go to school, even if it is a Friday, and only for one day,” she finished with emphasis.

  “Criminy?” Marrisa mimicked questioningly. Pris watched as some of the muddiness in her aura diminished.

  “I’ve been reading about merry old England in the 17th century,” Pris replied.

  Marisa just shook her head and smiled. At least her daughter’s wicked sense of humor was intact, if a little jagged.

  “SO, READY TO JOIN THE freaks and geeks club?” asked a voice from behind her.

  Turning the chair around required her to sip or puff gently into the control tube for right or left movement. Pris had already practiced, and was prepared to launch into, a blistering repertoire of insults directed at anyone with full use of their body. Facing her was the grinning visage of a slightly-build, freckled, red-haired boy about 13-years-old; in a motorized wheelchair. His aura was bright, blazing red with a darker red border and golden halo. His was the most beautiful aura she had ever seen since she had awakened to the ability after coming out of the coma from the car wreck.

  “You...I...what...” Priscilla stuttered, causing the grinning boy’s smile to make a concerted effort to split his face in two.

  “Oh, great, you’re not just crippled, you’re a moron as well,” he quipped. “Oh, well, beggars can’t be chooser,” he observed with feigned resignation. “There’s an orientation for ADA students, all five of us, in 10 minutes in the counselor’s office. Come on, I’ll show you the way,” he offered, driving around her on the wide sidewalk and moving off without hesitation or backward glance.

  “I’m not a moron,” Pris shouted after the retreating figure, then concentrated on directing her chair to follow. “I may be slow, but I’m not that kind of slow,” she muttered under her breath.

  The bad part about her blow chair, as she thought of it, was that she couldn’t yet talk and steer simultaneously. She often quipped in conversation about the limitation that it should be a law for anyone driving a car, especially under 30 years old. She had tried a chair which was guided by a plate positioned in her mouth so she used pressure from her tongue to direct it, but was dismayed at how soon her tongue tired. When her tongue had ultimately cramped as she tried to force the issue, she knew it wasn’t for her.

  “Thanks,” she called in between breaths to a tall boy who held the sliding door for her. She had seen the automatic door plate on the wall and was headed to hit it with the rubber fist attached to the front of her chair. Her tormenter had already entered the building and the door was starting to close. The boy smiled and nodded before moving off to join a waiting group of other tall, gangly, awkward teenagers.

  She hadn’t seen a violet aura like his before, and she sat in the doorway staring after him several seconds. The automatic door trying to close on the wheel of her chair brought her back from her musings, and she turned down the wide, locker-lined hallway. Hamilton was just turning the corner ahead, but Priscilla’s chair only had one speed; slow. She complained incessantly to her mother about needing a faster chair.

  “Mom, it takes forever to get from one class to the next, which makes me habitually late,” she said, sounding just like a Valley Girl. “Which in turn makes everyone look up when I rattle in and disrupt the classroom, and then my mood just spirals down from there.”

  “Sweetheart, I know how much better it would make your life,” Marrisa replied with a long-suffering expression. “And I know how important your mobility is to you, but we’ll just have to wait until the finances will allow it. I’ve spoken with the supervisor at a local medical supply company, and he understands, as his son is also wheelchair-bound.”

  She smiled ruefully, but the tears were visible at the corners of her eyes. “He says he’s working on getting you a demonstration model that’s two years old, as soon as the new model comes out. Apparently there’s a waiting list of people in your situation who are asking for it, and some of them are independent adults with no support system. I’m working every angle I can, okay?”

  “It’s all right, Mom, I’m sorry I complained. I know you’re doing everything you can, and I love you,” Pris replied softly.

  Marrisa moved to her daughter’s side, and hugged her fiercely. “We’ll get through this, baby; you and me against the world,” she whispered through clenched teeth. It was an old Anne Murray tune, but they had adopted it as their fight song.

  Priscilla rounded the corner of the wide school hallway as Hamilton rolled into an office on the right, midway down the hall. When she arrived and slowly turned in, she was greeted with a too-small room filled with a desk, chair, and four wheelchairs with occupants. Hamilton was awkwardly turning his chair around to back into an open space on the wall, and the only room left was in the doorway.

  “You must be Priscilla,” the pudgy, bespectacled, middle-aged counselor standing behind the desk smiled warmly, rounding the corner to extend her hand. Today was a day for several firsts, Pris thought distractedly. She had also never seen a peach aura, especially not one with a deep purple fri
nge.

  “Yes, I must be, otherwise I’d much rather be someone else,” Pris quipped, allowing her acerbic tongue to cover for her momentary lapse in attention. “Sorry, I don’t shake hands; I’m germaphobic. And besides, my hands don’t work,” she finished caustically.

  “Oh, I’m sorry,” the woman said quickly, jerking her hand back as if burned. “I haven’t received your file, so I wasn’t aware of your... status,” she finished lamely.

  “That’s all right,” Pris smiled insincerely. “The file is probably just like me; slow. Good ole’ one-speed Prissy, that’s me.” She only referred to herself as Prissy when she was angry, and blasted anyone else who tried to use the name.

  “Why don’t we introduce ourselves?” the matronly woman hurried on. “I’ll start. I’m Mrs. Delroy, and I’m the guidance counselor for all students with Access and Functional Needs. Troy, why don’t you go next?” she continued, indicating a pasty-skinned, heavy-set youth with the beginnings of a goatee, sitting in the corner in a standard wheelchair.

  “I’m Troy,” he confirmed. “I’m the only sophomore, but we’re all the same age. I’m kind of advanced for my age,” he informed them. “But I’m not a Brainiac or anything like that,” he hurriedly concluded.

  He turned to his right and a mousey-haired girl who looked like she might have been six or seven years old. She was tiny to the point of frail, and her arms and legs were stick-thin. She wore a shapeless, plain white smock over peach leggings, and sat in a joystick-controlled motorized chair.

  “I’m Alice,” she barely whispered in a little-girl voice. “Troy’s right,” she said, defiantly raising her head as if some inner voice had called her to attention. “I’m also thirteen. I have a version of Syndrome X; my body is growing much more slowly than my brain. I sometimes get headaches because my brain is too big for my skull. The doctor’s hope my skull grows quickly, or I could develop aneurisms,” she concluded.

  Pris noted Alice’s aura was an orangish-brown, with traces of grey streaked through it. Just one more new set of colors I don’t understand, from someone who apparently likes to over-share, she thought.

  Most of the kids she’d seen were run-of-the-mill blues and greens with the occasional orange or yellow. The teachers she had already met were either dark red, dark blue or purple auras; except for Mr. Jones the PE coach and assistant principal. His was mostly black, with a disposition to match.

  “Tara,” the next girl said bluntly, before cutting her eyes toward Hamilton. She was unremarkable physically, and sat in a regular manual chair. Her caramel-colored skin and high cheekbones didn’t betray her lineage, and the only clue was the corn-rows pleated in her dark brown hair. Interestingly, her aura was similar in color to her skin-tone.

  “I’m Hamilton,” Ham informed them. “I like Fusion Jazz, slow strolls on the beach, and walking my dog 50 miles. You can call me Ham, because I am, a bit.” Pris noticed he smiled nearly all the time, and his aura sparkled through the spectrum of scarlet hues.

  “You walk your dog 50 miles?” Alice asked dubiously.

  “No, my dog’s name is 50 miles,” Ham replied.

  “Good one, Ham I Am,” Troy chortled.

  Even Mrs. Delroy laughed at that, but Tara, who had remained deadpan during all the exchanges, showed no reaction. Her golden-brown aura didn’t ripple or pulse, it simply lay around her like a shroud. Pris could tell there was definite trouble in the young teen’s life.

  “Priscilla?” Mrs. Delroy said, turning toward her.

  “I’m new to wheelchairs and the whole ADA routine, I’m easily frustrated, and my chair is slow,” she began. “I don’t like fake people who pretend to care about helping me, and I can tell who is and who isn’t. So that everyone knows, because most everyone already does; my dad and I...” her voice caught, and her pallor flamed scarlet. A brief look of rage crossed her otherwise slack countenance, and she took a deep breath. “My dad and I were in a car wreck 18 months ago, and I spent 11 months in the hospital undergoing 37 unsuccessful operations. My father died.”

  The counselor broke the awkward silence after 15 seconds. “Very well,” she said. “Let’s get you all started on your class assignments and escorts.”

  She was handing out forms on clipboards as she spoke, but hesitated when she got to Hamilton. Reaching up with his one functional hand, he took the clipboard and tucked it neatly against his ribs, trapping it against the side of his chair. Fishing a pen from his shirt pocket, he made a show of studying the forms.

  “Priscilla,” Mrs. Delroy said, turning to face her. “I have a volunteer who will be here momentarily, and she’s been assigned to escort you around the first few days until you get used to the campus. Her name is Tiffany, and she’s a graduating senior.”

  Turning back toward the center of the room, she added, “All of you will have escorts available if you wish, except Troy, who has volunteered to escort any of you who would like for him to do so.”

  “I’d like to go with Troy,” Alice said immediately.

  Mrs. Delroy looked questioningly at Troy, and he smiled and nodded. “I’d be happy to show Alice around.”

  “Ham, Tara, would you like escorts?” the counselor inquired.

  “I’d rather go with Priscilla, if it’s all the same with you; and her of course,” he added hastily.

  All eyes turned to Pris. How could he possibly know this is exactly what sets me off? she thought. Beaming her most condescending smile, Pris said, “How could I possibly turn down such a gracious invitation from Ham I Am, especially when he wants to take care of me because he thinks I’m a moron.”

  “Oh, dear,” Mrs. Delroy flustered, “we don’t use terms like moron here, Priscilla. We prefer mentally challenged.”

  “Well, I’m neither a moron nor in need of an escort, so if we’re through, may I go?” Tara asked caustically, flipping her clipboard onto the desk before wheeling herself away from the wall.

  Mrs. Delroy jumped sideways out of her way, but Pris simply sat staring at her for several seconds. Then, slowly and deliberately, she sucked on the control tube to back her chair into the hall. The chair lurched as it traversed the low threshold, and Mrs. Delroy lunged toward her involuntarily, concerned the chair might overturn.

  Tara gave her wheels a vicious yank, pulling her hands in as her chair rolled neatly through the narrow space allowed by the doorframe. Snagging the left wheel in her gloved hand, she executed a sharp left turn before dropping her right hand onto the right wheel and speeding off down the hall.

  A breathtakingly beautiful young woman walked up at that moment, and Pris looked at her askance. She’s as beautiful inside as she is out, she thought. The woman’s indigo aura had a bright pink halo, and her smile was just as radiant.

  “Hi,” the newcomer said, not offering her hand. “You’re Priscilla, and I’m Tiffany. Please don’t think me flighty because of my name,” she requested. “My mother is a huge Audrey Hepburn fan.”

  “Thank you, Tiffany, for the introduction. My mother is an Elvis fan, so there you go,” she countered. “Do you have a preference as to what you like being called, other than gorgeous?”

  Tiffany blushed prettily, and stammered, “I don’t know that I’ve ever had a young lady call me gorgeous before, but I prefer Tiff.”

  “I was just saying out loud what Ham I Am and Troy were thinking,” Pris replied with a saccharine smile. “In fact, any normal male between puberty and a hundred would be.”

  “Well, you’re very flattering, and ...bold, I guess is the right word,” Tiff replied.

  “Excellent,” Pris responded. “I’m Pris, and this is my protector, Ham I Am; he thinks I’m a moron. Shall we go?”

  TWO

  “FOR THE LAST TIME, I do not think you’re a moron,” Ham whispered harshly. “And, I’ve apologized for saying so for the last time as well.”

  Pris had introduced herself to yet another person in the lunchroom as they waited for Tiffany to bring their meal trays. They had survived t
he first three periods without incident.

  “I guess I’ll have to forgive you, being as how we have all the same classes, apparently,” Pris responded. “I promise not to mention it again.”

  At the table next to theirs, a noisy group of older girls were having a good time making fun of other, less-popular girls at the school. The topic of the welcome dance came up just as a short, thickly-built boy came over to their table.

  “Candace,” he began, addressing the obvious ruling queen at the table, “I was wondering, that is, I wanted to ask you, if, well, do you have a date for the dance next week?”

  “Bruce, Candy always has a date to any event at the school,” the girl to Candy’s right informed the interloper. Candy, for her part, waited until the other girls stopped laughing so her cutting remark could be heard by the maximum number of people in the crowded cafeteria.

  “Bruce, the gimp at the next table has a better shot at taking me to the dance than you,” she scolded.

  Her aura was clearly visible to Priscilla. All the girls had similar shades of fluctuating red, orange, and yellow, all muddied with black and gray swirls. Candace, on the other hand, had a bright, violet aura with streaks of silver running through it.

  A tempest of laughter erupted from the table, and one of the girls rose from the queen’s left, intent on further illustrating their disparaging opinion of the wayward suitor. As she stood from the round table, it appeared as if the loose flowing sleeve of her stylish fall blouse caught the corner of Candy’s lunch tray. The tray contained a serving of spaghetti, a plastic glass of red fruit punch, and an open container of applesauce. All three containers managed to empty their contents squarely into Candy’s lap, right onto her startlingly white Muslin sundress. Candace’s screech of humiliation and terror sounded like someone being attacked by a Great White shark.

  “Clarice, look what you’ve done,” the now soiled queen screamed. “You’ve ruined my two hundred dollar dress!”

  Her aura had taken on a particularly greasy stain of blackish-green, ruining her image as completely as the spilled lunch had ruined her clothing. Candace leapt from the table, strewing spaghetti in a spray across the floor behind her as she whirled and ran for the restroom in the hallway outside.