Untethered by Katie Hayoz Page B

mouth.
    Click. All the other sites refute the dangers. There is no risk. Anything that scares you comes from your own imagination.
    I’m not sure that makes me feel better.
    But, hell, I’ve done it. I know it’s not dangerous. Not really. I mean at times it’s scary and strange, but other times it’s magical. Most of the time.
    The next sites make voluntary astral projection sound easy. I just need specifics.
    Someone turns on the shower in the bathroom. I look at my watch. Wow! 7:30. I’ve been on the computer for over two hours! The sun’s come up, but it’s barely visible. Dark, black clouds smother it. The first raindrops splatter against the windows, a sporadic drumming.
    I stare at the screen in front of me, a rainbow-colored drawing of people flying in space. I exit the site and erase the history. Yet the image is still in my head.
    When I’ve left my body, it’s been uncontrolled. Erratic.
    But this. Astral projection. Knowing how to do it consciously would be like knowing the formula to give myself a superpower.
    I can’t ignore it.
     
    Sunday, I lie to Dad about having to do some research at the library for school. So he leaves me off while he and Sam go to play video games.
    I love the library: the hushed voices, the smell of books, even the way the wrinkled old ladies behind the desk look at you like you’re up to no good. And the Racine library is great. Its ceiling to floor windows look over the football field and, beyond that, Lake Michigan. Today the lake is choppy and grey. The sky is like what’s called Ivory Black on my watercolor palette at home.
    I set my books on a table near the windows and go to find the place in the stacks for the books on astral projection.
    And plow right into Kevin Phillips.
    “Oh ... uhh ... sorry,” I say, my voice a squeak. He’s got a bunch of books in his arms, but I look at his coffee eyes and breathe in the musky scent of him. I think of my dream and feel my face burn. I have an urge to run my tongue across his bottom lip.
    “Hi.” He hugs his books to his chest. “What are you doing here? Studying for the Chem test?”
    “No ... yes ... no, I . . ” I want to tell him that I think what his step-mom did is something I do, that I’m here to read about it. But I can’t choke it out.
    “Or is this how you spend all your Sundays?” He gives me a wide grin.
    “Just ... just today.”
    He nods and glances over my head (like everyone else, he’s a whole head taller than me). “You here with Cassie?”
    “Nope,” I say. His shoulders droop a bit.
    “I gotta go. Swim team tryouts today. Gotta go through the drill every year. I don’t wanna be late and piss off Coach.” He rolls his eyes. “He’s such an ape.”
    Ape. That’s what he called Randy Lang when he stood up for me in grade school — a stupid ape. I feel my body sway at the memory.
    I want to ask him to study with me sometime. Tell him I’ve got a system down pat for memorizing. I’d be a great partner. But I don’t get further than, “Uh ...”
    “See ya,” Kevin says and walks off.
    “Bye!” I call out after him and get shushed right away by a librarian.
    I walk down three aisles, which is where the books on astral projection are. Half the titles listed on the library’s computer must be checked out since they’re not there. But there’s enough left to keep me busy. I don’t even go back to my table; I just sit on the floor next to the shelf and page through books.
    I scan a story about a sleep-deprived woman who let her body sleep while her astral self checked up on the baby at night, skim through an outline of an experiment done to see if astral projection is real, and read through a detailed description of techniques to leave your body.
    I stay for a good long time.
    It’s only when I’m downstairs, by the main doors, that I wonder why Kevin was there. Didn’t he say something about a test? Crap. That’s right. I’d completely forgotten about Chemistry. The whole