Cat-astrophic

All talking stopped when an unusual girl came into the high school cafeteria. Unusual, according to Nick, an all-American jock.

This was a typical small-town high school with all sorts of kids—the jocks, the cheerleaders, the student leaders (like his girlfriend, Emily, who was president of their Junior class), the band nerds, the computer geeks, and the cowboys, with a few oddballs thrown in. The girl dressed in a black leotard and neon-bright leggings would be in the oddball category. Laketon was a small rural town in western Michigan where they grew blueberries, apples, and cherries. A lot of the kids participated in the rodeo and 4-H. Kids wore blue jeans, flannel shirts, and cowboy boots here. But this girl, dressed in a black leotard, rushed into the middle of the cafeteria and twirled around on her toes, hair flying, pirouetting with the grace of a ballerina. It almost seemed as if she was auditioning for them. For what, he didn’t know.

Nick grimaced. Unfortunately he knew what pirouetting was because his mother dragged him to the Nutcracker ballet each Christmas until he was twelve—when he flat-out refused to go even with bribery. Nick may have known what a pirouette was, but he also knew a touchdown, a tackle, a sack, a punt, and other important things about football—no self-respecting male said “pirouetting” without getting laughed at or, worse, jumped and beaten up.

Still, the girl kept them spellbound as she continued to twirl. He looked over at his girlfriend, Emily. She had her chin in her palm and didn’t take her eyes off the girl’s performance. The girl’s stance changed as she bent at the waist while still moving in a circle. Her hair was in tiny braids, and as she twirled, they flew around her head like the blades of a helicopter. You could have heard a pin drop in the usually noisy cafeteria.

When the girl slowed and stopped, several people clapped, including Emily. Emily whispered, “She’s good.”

Nick looked over at Emily. That was one of the things he loved about her and made her a good class president: she was nice to everyone.

Nick also heard someone mutter, “What a freak.” The comment jarred him from thinking about Emily’s goodness.

Freak or not, the girl had held their attention with her grace and fluid movements.

The girl bowed ever so slightly, and then her eyes rested on his. Nick couldn’t look away. Her brown-eyed gaze held his, and an unspoken language passed between them. She whirled away and out the door. Her performance was only about five minutes but seemed longer.

Emily nudged him. “Did you see the way she looked at you?”

“No,” he lied.

“Yes! She looked like she knew you.”

He mumbled, “I don’t know her,” and he shrugged.

Time to change the subject.

“Do you think she’s a new student?” he asked, not because he was interested, but he didn’t want Emily commenting on the look that passed between them.

“Wait!” Emily slapped her hands lightly on the table. “I might know of her! She moved into our neighborhood! She didn’t look like that when I saw her by the mailbox. She wore jeans and an Oregon sweatshirt, but I think it’s her!”

Gary, Nick’s best friend, walked by wearing a Lions sweatshirt, and Nick’s attention turned to football and the Lions. Nick gave him a thumbs-up, and Gary gave him a low “tweet” whistle—his signature greeting.

The Lions’ first game of the season was tonight. Nick would be sitting side-by-side with his father—both of them wearing their Lion jerseys, pumping their fists and urging the team to win.

“I’ll ask Veronica about her,” Emily said.

“Whatever,” Nick said, forgetting all about the new girl. His eyes strayed to the clock. “Gotta go.” He took the last swallow of his protein drink, kissed Emily before tossing the carton in the trash, and headed for his first class.

“We need to talk.” The girl from the cafeteria stepped from around a recessed door in the hallway. She had changed into jeans, but he still recognized her, and she was every bit as exotic when he studied her up close—large, brown, almond-shaped eyes and a longish nose that gave her the look of someone from Egypt or the Middle East.

Nick tried to ease by her, but she stepped closer. “Do I even know you?” he asked.

“Look in my eyes. What do you see?”

He wanted to tell her she had the eyes of a crazy person, but something sparked a memory—a girl with a long skirt, dancing by a fire.

He inhaled sharply. Phlegm caught in his throat, causing him to sputter and choke. The vision was gone, and the bell conveniently sounded.

“We’ll talk later,” she said.

He didn’t want to talk to her, now or later. She made the hairs on his arms stand up.

He went to the drinking fountain and drank until the lump in his throat was gone and so was the new girl with the strange request.

Nick wiped his mouth on his sleeve and went to World History—his favorite class—and to his horror, that girl was seated in the back, watching him enter. He hesitated, seeing her reaction—a small smile—before taking his seat.

The girl’s long legs were stretched out. She must be a junior, but holy moly, she didn’t have the same body as most of the girls he knew. Nick took a closer look—her black jeans were tucked into tall boots with tiny heels, crossed at the ankle—certainly they weren’t the boots a cowgirl would wear to ride horses or work around the barn. Ridiculous boots for show. Nick smirked.

The usually noisy room was quiet today, everyone breathing in unison, waiting, wondering about the new student. Everyone knew each other at Laketon. A new person stood out. And a new person dressed in a black leotard and jeans in a sea of blue denim and flannel? Well, that was an anomaly.

After taking roll and welcoming Catherine—Nick learned that was her name—Coach Sullivan said, “We’re going to be doing a research project about World War II, and I’ll be assigning work partners. You’ll have about five weeks to work together. After I call all the names, please sit together.”

Everyone waited expectantly as the coach called names. Who would have to work with the new girl—Catherine?

With growing dread, Nick waited for his name to be called. As people paired off, odds were Nick would get stuck with Catherine.

Bryan Cranden poked Nick’s back. “I bet you get the strange chick, Reverend,” he whispered.

“Shut up, Bryan. Don’t call me that,” Nick replied.

Cranden had been a continual thorn in Nick’s side since the water incident when Nick teased Bryan about peeing his pants when the drinking fountain sprayed his crotch. And then there was Emily. Another bone of contention—Bryan wanted Emily but, lucky for Nick, she only wanted him.

“Bryan, do you have a question?” Coach asked, not looking up from his tablet.

“No, Coach.”

“Okay, then.” He nodded. “Nick and Catherine.”

Bryan snorted, and Nick heard several giggles.

“People!” Coach raised his voice.

Catherine remained motionless, and when Nick turned to look at her, she nodded to him. Did she know his name? Since she hadn’t moved, he stood and walked to her desk.

“Hi, I’m Nick.” He sat in the vacant desk next to her.

“I know.”

He crossed his arms. “How?” Two could play that game.

She sat looking at him, not responding to his question.

Finally he broke the silence, hoping this chick wasn’t a drama queen bent on causing problems. “You’re Catherine?”

“I only answer to Cat—or Chaton,” she said with a wink.

He studied her features then. She looked a bit like a cat with her black hair, topaz-brown eyes, and long fingernails. He tried not to stare, but she was so different from the other girls in school.

“So which is it? Cat or Chaton?”

“They mean the same. Chaton is ‘kitten’ in French.”

“I don’t know French.”

She quirked a brow at him. “Are you sure?”

“Yes, I’m sure.” Whatever. Oui. Je suis sûr. Oh, damn, where had that come from? He clamped his gaping mouth shut.

“I was once a cat,” she said.

Nick remained quiet. His thoughts skittering around like a mouse being pursued by a…Whoa! First he was thinking in French, and then she tells him something like that? How was he supposed to respond? He frowned, studied the top of his desk, and said nothing.

“I have eight more lives to go,” she added.

He moved his gaze to hers, assessing her statement. Was she teasing? She stared boldly back at him, blinking slowly. Her eyes in this light glowed yellow; just a minute ago they were greener. No, she wasn’t teasing. She was serious.

Neither of them spoke. Nick looked away and down at his notebook. What high school student, in her right mind, said she was a cat once and had eight more lives? The crazy ones?

Coach Sullivan continued after everyone had moved into their working pairs. “I’m going to give you fifteen minutes more to discuss what you might want to research.” The noise level steadily rose as the discussions and negotiations began.

“So…” Nick said, tapping his pencil on his World History notebook. “What do we want to do for our project? Do you want to read over my notes on what we’ve covered, you know, before you came?”

“Saumur. Let’s start there.”

He frowned. “We haven’t discussed Saumur.”

“No? Don’t you remember it?”

He flipped through his notes. “No, I don’t remember anything about Saumur.” He looked up and frowned before going back to perusing his notes. “It wasn’t one of the major battles.”

“Think, Nick.” She moved a finger with a long red nail up to her temple. “You were there.”

He drew away from her slightly. “I’ve never been to a place called Saumur.”

Nick’s mind scrambled around, searching for that town.

“You know, Saumur,” Cat said. “You said you would come for me.”

“What the heck are you talking about?” The queasy feeling in his stomach intensified.

“The last time I saw you.” She raised her brows over her heavily made-up eyes, studying him. “In Saumur.”

“N-n-no,” Nick stammered. “I don’t know you at all.”

“Not like this,” she said.

Nick’s brows furrowed. “Not like what?”

“Not in this life. Not in this body.”

“What?” Nick’s breath seemed to stick in his throat, a cotton ball strangling him, making him cough and pound on his chest. “How?”

“I recognize your eyes.” Cat’s pupils seemed to dilate as she talked. “The eyes are the mirrors to the soul, Nick. I know your soul.”

He blinked rapidly. Sure, her eyes looked familiar, but nothing else. Another stirring in his gut. “Are you trying to say…” What was the word? “I’ve been re-in-car-nated?”

“That’s one name for it,” she said. “And yes, that’s what I’m saying.”

“I don’t believe in that stuff.”

“Nick?” Coach asked. “Are you and Catherine okay over there?”

“Still deciding,” Nick answered. He lowered his voice and continued, “Look, Cat, I don’t remember meeting you. Sorry.” Nick searched his mind where he might have known her. The homeless shelter? His church group volunteered there.

Again, the blink and stare from Cat.

Nick eased out of his chair. “Coach.” He raised a finger. “Can I speak to you?”

“Certainly, Nick.”

He leaned on Coach’s desk and lowered his voice. “That girl.” Nick’s voice shook. “Do I have to work with her?”

“She’s new, Nick,” Coach Sullivan said, expectation in his voice as if he anticipated this question. “I paired you two together because you take good notes and really enjoy history. I thought you could help her get caught up.”

His heart did a little tap dance in response. “She’s weird,” he mumbled.

“Nick…” Coach gave him the are you joking frown.

“She’s really freaking me out.”

Coach leaned forward as he studied Nick. “Why?”

“She told me some weird stuff.” His voice rose an octave as he talked. “I’ve never heard of Saumur.” Nick noticed several heads turned in their direction. “What the heck is Saumur?”

“Where have I heard that?” Coach Sullivan frowned and drummed his fingers. “Oh, I know, it’s a battle site.”

“So it’s a real place?” Nick asked, his stomach sinking. “Where?”

“France, I believe.” Coach switched on his tablet and typed the name in Search, scratched his head, and typed in something else. After several tries, he said, “Yes. Here it is.”

Nick leaned over and read: Saumur was the site of the famous Battle of the Loire where the students of Cadre Noir held off the elite Nazi soldiers at the end of WWII.

Then in small letters: Montreuil-Bellay. French internment camp. A forgotten camp. Only two short sentences. A memory of barbed wire flashed through Nick’s mind.

“It’s not one of the major battles or internment camps,” Coach said, “and you’ll have to do some digging for sources, but it might be an interesting project.”

Nick’s stomach sank farther. “You really think that would be good for our research?”

“Sure.” Coach flipped off his tablet. “It would be something different. She’s obviously done her research.”

Nick started to turn away, dejected. “Okay.” He sighed.

“Oh and, Nick”—Coach looked up—“the scout from Michigan is coming to one of our home games. We’ll need to work on your A game.”

“Wha…?”

Coach Sullivan nodded. He knew Nick’s father had played for Michigan, and Nick wanted to go there too.

“Uh, sure thing, Coach!” Nick turned and trudged back to his desk, imagining a poor grade because they were researching something obscure like Saumur. Cat watched him sit.

“Okay, we can start researching Saumur, and the battle, and the people who were imprisoned there,” Nick said.

“The Romas.” Cat yawned.

“Romans?” Had he heard her right? “No, this is WWII.”

“Romas,” she repeated slowly, emphasizing each syllable. “You call them Gypsies,” she said with a sneer. “I don’t need to do research. I know.”

“Well, I don’t know anything about Gypsies.” Nick leaned back and slapped his palms on the desktop.

She blinked at him. “Oh, but you do.”

He shook his head. “No, I don’t.”

“You do,” she insisted, staring at him with her tigerlike eyes, lazy but alert at the same time, unsettling. “You were at Saumur too. On the other side. I’ve been searching for you. Wondering when we would get together again.” She smiled. “Even though you left me to die.”

“Don’t talk so loud,” Nick whispered. “Someone might hear you.” Their conversation was beyond the bizarre and a bit frightening.

“So?” she said.

“This is crazy,” he whispered.

“I can’t believe we’re together again!” She sat up a little straighter and tapped her fingernails on the desk. Click. Click. Click. Then she gave him another Mona Lisa smile.

What the heck? He had never seen her until she whirled into the cafeteria this morning. He would have remembered a tall, mysterious girl, wouldn’t he?