Jillian Spectre and the Dream Weaver. Nic Tatano
on the couch. I'm going to materialize in the back row during Jake's class so I can make a quick, unnoticed arrival and getaway.
What I don't expect is to arrive in the dark.
The only light in the room is provided by a projector which is filling the front wall with a PowerPoint presentation while the teacher strolls by the front row.
She comes as advertised.
Ms. Cruise is a tall, stunning, blue-eyed blonde, maybe five-nine with a short leather skirt showing off spectacular legs atop red four inch heels and a tight gathered burgundy top that leaves little to the imagination. Not exactly the costume de riguer for a college professor, as she looks more like a middle-aged party girl in search of a red plastic cup. If you looked up "cougar" in the dictionary, you'd see her photo. A quick look around the room shows the class is comprised mostly of guys, all of whom are riveted as she prances around the room. I spot Jake in the front row, the glow from the projection lighting up his face and the fact that he's practically drooling over his teacher as he leans forward on the desk.
Luckily in the last row it's pitch dark, so I'm unnoticed. Besides, no one's sitting back here anyway, as most of the class is crammed into the front half of the room.
Anyway, she's whipping through slides that are highlighting some of the more notable revolutionaries in history, many of whom are guests of the state. (Fuzzball's cute little term for "prisoners.")
"Political resistance has always been the instrument of change throughout history," she says. "It is necessary for societal growth. It's up to each of you to carry the torch and challenge authority. And you don't need a degree to do that, you can start now. Use your freedom of speech." She launches into this wild monologue which tells me she's a stereotypical radical professor whose main objective is not to teach but to influence her students with her own views.
Then, she says something that makes me sit bolt upright.
"It's a shame that the Spectre phone crashed, because it was on the way to changing society for the better."
My eyes narrow as she extols the virtues of my father, his failed invention, and how it would have allowed people to live in the present and not place any trust in blind faith. I look around the room and see heads nodding in agreement.
Including Jake's.
Which makes no sense. Jake knows how evil my father was. I mean, the guy tried to kill Roxanne, the supposed love of Jake's life. Jake hates him with a passion.
But right now he's smiling, agreeing with the lunatic stuff his teacher is spouting.
So what is this woman doing to him and every other student in this class? And how the hell is she doing it?
This is more than a guy being all gaga over a hot woman. This is something else.
Is she a minion of my father? Is it possible she's got some mind controlling powers? If she's got powers, Sebastien will know.
Finally, after this five minute manifesto about how to possibly recapture the false utopia promised by the Spectre phone, I've had enough.
"Excuse me, I'm just curious," I yell, stopping her in her tracks.
She shades her eyes with her palm as she moves away from the projector, squinting in vain to see who's interrupted her from the back of the room. I know there's no way she can see me in the dark. "Yes?"
"Well, you know, I pay forty grand in tuition in order to learn about political science, not to listen to your opinions. Would it be possible for you to stick to the curriculum and leave your personal views at home?"
A collective "whoa" floats through the room from the students. The teacher's face tightens, her eyes narrow into a glare. "Excuse me?"
"Hey, you said we should challenge authority. So I'm challenging yours by saying the Spectre phone was part of the biggest con job in the history of this country. I'm happy it crashed. It would have destroyed society."
"Who's back there? Lights!"
And just before a student in the front row reaches the light switch, I book on outta there.
I guess I should catch you up on how my powers work these days, since I spent most of the summer working on my newfound projection and healing abilities.
As far as my duties as a seer go, not much has changed. I can still only see five years into the future, still only read romance, still get occasional views of the afterlife. Luckily I'm still in contact with the angel Carrielle, though he hasn't needed me for any special projects since we put my father into a deep freeze. I simply meet him when I need inspiration or advice.
But when it comes to projecting myself to a different location (Ryan refers to my alter ego as Jillian 2.0) I've made significant progress with the help of Fuzzball. My alter ego trips fall into two categories. If I simply project and don't have to heal anyone, I return to my body and wake up immediately feeling perfectly normal. If I have to heal someone during an out of body experience, I need recovery time but I don't black out unless it's a life or death situation, which I have just learned. It's taken less time as I've gotten more experienced, but the rule of thumb is this: the more drastic the healing process, the longer the recovery time. However, I had never saved anyone as close to death as the detective's partner.
Sadly, for Ryan anyway, I cannot be awake in both my real body and the projection at the same time, denying him his fantasy of being with two Jillians at the same time. What is it about men and twins?
Now that school has started, my mystic seer duties are down to two nights a week. Fortunately Fuzzball has helped me replace that lost income by helping him on a few of his moonlighting jobs that all cops seem to have. We're quite the buddy cop duo, projecting ourselves to solve mysteries, which pays pretty well. I'm working for him Friday night, on an assignment that should be a hoot. Politician's wife thinks he's cheating (yeah, there's a real stretch) and she wants to find out if the guy's hot female "consultant" is taking care of more than focus groups.
But right now I've got a new client to take care of, and hopefully I'll be done quick since the Giants are on Monday Night Football and I never miss a game. He's a young guy, probably my age, which is surprising. As you can imagine, most of our clients are older, and most are women. Most college age men aren't exactly worried about romance as they are about sex. (There should be a freshman class to teach them the difference.)
Anyway, this guy has that lost puppy dog look which tells me he's got it bad for some girl. He tells me his name is Stan as he shakes my hand, then sits down opposite me. He's very average looking, five on a scale of one to ten, maybe five-foot-six with a scruffy blonde beard and curly hair to match. He might qualify as a six if he bought a razor.
"So, you have some concerns about romance," I say.
He nods. "There's someone I'm very interested in. And to be perfectly honest, I think she's probably way out of my league."
"Why do you say that?"
"She's really pretty, and I know a lot of guys are interested in her."
"Well, that's true of most attractive women. Doesn't mean you don't have a shot. You might be her type."
"I doubt it. But I'd like to save myself the pain of getting shot down if possible."
"I hear ya. Did you bring a photo?"
"Sorry, don't have one." He describes her, and I can tell he's right about the out-of-his-league thing since she sounds like a supermodel.
"Okay, Stan, here's how this works. I want you to ask a question about romance, and only about romance. Then focus on the question and nothing else. Got it?"
"Sounds simple enough."
"So what's your question?"
"Is it possible for me to have