Rachel Thompson

Saturday, July 27, 2013

Living with Your Past Selves by Bill Hiatt


Okay, so I was being a little over-dramatic. The car hit at about half a mile an hour, not enough to kill or maim in this case, but certainly enough to make an ominous sounding thud, knock me over (since I was a little off balance anyway), and send my shoulder bags flying in different directions. I had been so distracted by Stan that I hadn’t realized we were standing right in the middle of the street. The incident ended up being more embarrassing than anything else. The driver turned out to be one of the mothers dropping off her daughter. She seemed torn between fussing over me and getting hysterical; getting hysterical won pretty quickly, with the result that we drew an uncomfortably large crowd, including several girls who I wished had not seen me sprawled out in the middle of the street, and Ms. Simmons, the high school’s principal, who eased back on her usual sternness to fuss over me herself. Needless to say, that too was embarrassing.

There were, however, two good things that came out of the fiasco: Stan couldn’t keep questioning me, and Ms. Simmons sent me to the nurse’s office to be checked out—which meant I got to check out the nurse!

I’m not complaining, but really someone should have more common sense than to hire a smoking hot twenty-something nurse with long blond hair and the figure of a Playboy model for a high school. Usually students just try to get sent to the nurse’s office so that they can miss class, but at good old Santa BrĂ­gida High School, the guys had an additional reason for faking illness. You practically had to be dying, though, before most teachers would let you out of class. Clearly, they knew what was going on.

“Tal, your heart rate is a little fast.”

No kidding! (Yeah, I know, I should have been thinking about what to do with Stan, and the Gwrach y Rhibyn, and the myriad of other problems I had, but again I’ll point out that the combined wisdom from my previous lives couldn’t completely override my sixteen-year-old body.)

“Adrenaline, I guess, Nurse Florence. You know, from the accident.”

“Probably.” God, even her voice was sexy. “I don’t see anything else wrong with you.”

Funny, I don’t see anything wrong with you, either.

“But,” Nurse Florence added, “I should call your mother, just to let her know what happened.”

Well, that was certainly one way to derail the porno movie I had started scripting in my head.

Switching into Welsh, I said, “That won’t be necessary. There is no need to call my mother.”

As if I had not spoken, Nurse Florence smiled, and said, “Well, I guess there really isn’t a need to call your mother—but come back here if you notice anything wrong. I mean anything.”

You can count on that. “Yes, Nurse Florence.” It was good to know that my Celtic mojo was still working, even if it didn’t work on Stan for some odd reason.

I pulled on my backpack and left the office as slowly as I could. As I closed the door behind me, the bell rang. I must have missed first period. As they say, it is amazing how time flies when you’re having fun.

I’m sure someone out there is silently cussing me out for objectifying women. Guilty as charged, but at least I don’t act on every impulse I have. Indeed, I don’t act on most of them. Say what you will about my parents—and certainly I have said my share about them—they brought me up to respect women and to set moral boundaries, and I really do. At least my brain does—I can’t always vouch for the rest of my body, but my brain manages to stay in charge—and this despite the whisperings from some of my past lives, during which society had a quite different sexual morality. You know I’m not just putting you on. Given my unique abilities, think what I could do without moral restraint. Hell, give me a guitar and a chance for a little lunch time concert, and I could have the whole female population ready to jump into bed with me right on the spot. I could, but I don’t.

Damn morality! Damn free will!


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