4) Don’t rob banks.
I was rethinking my last rule. My parents were closing in on retirement age, but they were strapped. Dad still worked two jobs. Nineteen years ago they’d spent a fortune on assisted reproduction to have me—their little miracle—and still hadn’t caught up.
They’d given up everything just to bring me into the world.
I gazed at my phone. Maybe I could bend my rules in case of an emergency—like finding out why Tony had called! I’d only go to him for a second, sneak a peek, then project myself right back home.
I couldn’t go for much longer anyway. I’d discovered the hard way that each astral projection, levitation, and teleportation burned fat, leaving my body skeletal. I’d plump back up again once I’d scarfed down a few thousand calories, but I didn’t want to find out my limit on fat loss.
I set the phone away and laid my hands on the staff. Though it didn’t look like much, energy thrummed through it.
I didn’t look like much either, but my powers were unreal. Last week, I’d dreamed I was at one with the ether, just an atom among atoms, and I’d gone freaking intangible! I’d floated through my bed, through the floor, and down into the kitchen. Thank goodness my parents hadn’t been there.
Closing my eyes, I imagined myself near Tony. Like a shot, I projected to a room. His room? I came to rest horizontally—right above his bed.
His face was, like, six feet below mine! He was shirtless, lying with the comforter at his waist. No books were open. He was texting someone. Or trying to. He typed, erased, then typed again.
Then he tossed the phone away, and threw his arm over his face, like he felt hopeless. Could he possibly have been nervous about texting me?
Yeah, right, Tess.
He reached for his laptop, then clicked a key. His one-click pulled up . . .
My picture.
Tony liked me! Me, me, me!
Then I frowned. That picture had accompanied an article about the service organization I’d started, and I’d always thought the pic made me look hella fat. When that article ran, I’d cried in front of a mirror, calling myself Fatty MacFatterson. I’d just known that everyone else at school had called me that as well.
Had I been totally off base? Tony was looking at that image with his brows drawn—like he was in LOVE!
I could’ve stayed there sighing over his expression for days, but I needed to get back, would burn too many calories if I lingered. My parents already suspected I was bulimic. I knew this because I’d spied—spying is wrong—on them.
The first time I’d levitated, I’d been delighted to lose all my baby fat. Then I’d realized how important every pound was. Every single calorie counted. Something had to fuel my unreal powers. . . .
One of Tony’s hands started rubbing down his belly.
My eyes went wide. No. Way.
Spying is wrong, spying is wrong, SPYING IS WRONG!
His hand dipped lower and lower. The comforter shifted and revealed his navel. How could a navel be so cute? And sexy?
I was pretty sure I was in love with Tony forever.
Or in lust.
I was now DYING for my first kiss. Tomorrow I would march up to him at school and press my lips to his. My new life as a superhero and Tony’s girlfriend could finally get started.
His lips were the play button to start up a new chapter. Considering his reaction to my photo, we might even . . . have sex.
When his hand reached its destination, I nearly whimpered with embarrassment and excitement. But somehow I closed my eyes and forced myself to return home.
I opened my eyes, then frowned. Not home? My new surroundings were sort of gauzy and undefined. Everything around me looked blurry, like stuff sometimes did when I dreamed.
I glanced around. A hot guy was standing not ten feet from me, wearing broken-in jeans and no shirt. Well, hellooooo there. He had ripped muscles like no tomorrow and smooth dark skin—except for some wicked scars on his chest. He should have to carry a permit for cheekbones that fine!
I wanted to see his eyes, but they were squeezed shut.
“Howdy,” I said. When I was projecting like this, there was no time for shyness.
His gaze snapped to my face. “Who are you? How are you . . . here?”
“I might be dreaming. Or I might have astral-projected. Who can tell? Cool accent, by the way. Where are you from?”
In a stunned tone, he grated, “Africa.” Were those ripped muscles straining? “We are Kenyan.”
We? I dug through some of the mysterious ether to get closer, then glanced past him. He was hand in hand with a young woman, whose eyes remained closed as she murmured in a low tone. Of course he’d be taken. A little nightie showed off her gorgeous figure. When I gazed at her model-perfect face, I felt a rash starting on my elbow.
I scratched awkwardly. “Uh, I’m from Broken Bow.” As if they would’ve heard of that. “It’s the gateway to Beavers Bend,” I said, jabbering on. “Which probably isn’t an internationally recognized destination, unless one were a beaver, because then it’s, like, the place—”
“Do you not see the lights?” he demanded, raising his gaze to the sky.
I squinted. “Lights?” I could kind of make out something that resembled a laser light show crossed with aurora borealis. “I’m not really there.”
“You are a ghost as well?” His voice was getting weaker.
Ghost? “Do you mean intangible? I guess I can be a ghost. Well, not on purpose.”
“Can you help us? We are . . . we are being killed right now!”
My eyes went wide. “Wh-what are you talking about?”