Chapter
1
June
12, 2011 – The Oregon Coast
The lion paced
to the left, top lip curled back, revealing his pointed teeth; he snarled
at me for good measure.
Wary, I watched
as his tail whipped from side to side, and he shifted into a crouching
position, his eyes never once straying from mine. He was perched
above me on the rocky ledge where he spent hours lounging in the sun.
Planting
my fists on my hips, I stood taller, squaring my shoulders, and glared
up at Butch, a regal three-year-old lion I’d known since I first started
working for Luke Snider at the Plum Beach Wildlife Park, over two years
ago. Never had I experienced the wrath of this particular animal, and
I wasn’t enjoying being on the receiving end of the young cat’s
fury.
Fred,
one of the park’s volunteers, had gotten the absurd notion that lions
were just bigger versions of their housecat cousins, and based on the
faulty information, decided to enter the cage for a feel of their fur.
The
two females were eating and ignored the intruder. Butch, always curious
and fiercely territorial, wasn’t quite as welcoming. He’d cornered
Fred and was preparing to paw at him when I’d noticed his dilemma.
Counting on my positive relationship with Butch, I’d helped Fred escape
and was turning to leave.
Butch
had other ideas and decided to get frisky with me. Something I hadn’t
anticipated.
Now
I was stuck and angry. How dare Butch treat me like a prospective snack?
I
could hear Luke, off to my right, warning me to exit the cage — now, but I refused to surrender to my growling challenger.
This was one battle I didn’t intend to lose.
It
appeared Butch felt the same.
My
pride alone wasn’t holding me back; I wasn’t one hundred percent
convinced I could escape unharmed and wasn’t ready to risk it.
To
make matters worse, I’d become the animal park’s featured entertainment.
A
considerable, mid-afternoon crowd swarmed the lions’ enclosure eager
for some action. As if the town’s recent murders weren’t enough.
Granted, most of the park’s patrons were tourists with their cell
phones raised in hopes of capturing footage worth posting online later.
If
I had any say, it wouldn’t be me dangling from the jaws of my former
feline friend. Some vacation memory that would be for the kids watching.
Butch
roared, sending a wave of nerve-induced nausea crashing through my midsection.
His hindquarters quivered in preparation for the sure-to-come pounce.
If I was going to divert a catastrophe, and my funeral, I had to act
now.
Backing
away, I used my coma-acquired communication skills, and sent what I
hoped was a soothing mantra into the lion’s mind: You’re okay. It’s me, Chloe. Calm down. Relax. I have treats for
you. Relax. Good boy. That’s it. Relax.
Butch
cocked his head, responding to my calming thoughts. He looked, for a
brief moment, more like a dog with a mane than a menacing lion. I sensed
him relaxing, his rage receding, but before I could release the lung-tormenting
breath I’d been holding, a child screamed loud enough to crack glass,
inspiring several more children to add their piercing shrieks to his,
creating a chaotic chorus.
The
lion, startled by the commotion, roared a final warning and sprang,
arcing toward me; front paws, lined with stabbing claws, extended my
direction.
To
avoid direct impact, I dove to the ground, bundling myself into a ball,
making sure to cover any vital organs and the soft flesh of my neck.
With
my head tucked to my knees, I shielded the back of my head with my arms,
and waited.
And
waited …
Instead
of the lion’s victorious roar and sounds of my tearing flesh, loud
applause and cheers erupted around me. Encouraged, I raised my head,
peering out from the mass of unruly curls that had escaped their ponytail.
Cameras
flashed while camcorders and cell phones filmed the extraordinary ending
to a daring rescue, performed by the most delectable specimen of manhood
I’d ever had the pleasure of ogling. Appalled by my sinful assessment,
I was quick to blame it on shock; after all, I’d almost died — again.
Almost
dying was becoming a bad habit. A habit I needed to break before my
luck ran out.
Turning
my attention back to my savior, I watched my boss shake his hand. I
had no idea how he’d stopped the lion, now pacing in an isolation
cage attached to the enclosure. A line of well-wishers had accumulated
and were waiting to congratulate him. It was then I realized I’d somehow
been removed from the cage, without my permission or knowledge, and
people, now surrounded me.
My co-worker,
Rhonda, leaned in close. “Just had to find a way to get the hot guy’s
attention, didn’t you?” Her sneer drew my attention to her
makeup-caked face.
Rhonda
was my high school nemesis reincarnated. I refused to give her the satisfaction
of seeing me squirm. Like my former rival, her bark tended to be much
worse than her bite. As long as she was center stage, she was content.
Right now, I was the center of attention, guaranteeing her displeasure.
Ignoring
her question, I accepted a water bottle and several concerned pats on
the back before circling around behind the lions’ enclosure where
I could gather my wits. I was more shaken than I cared to admit. At
last alone, my scattered thoughts narrowed to Senior Prom 2004, another
prime example of how my coma-acquired-ability caused a major commotion
while leading to an overwhelming sense of discomfort.
Darlene Davenport,
the school’s self-proclaimed fashion authority, who could’ve been
Rhonda’s twin sister, had manipulated our vice principal into letting
her bring Queenie, a miniature poodle, to the prom, by insisting the
ball-of-fluff was a necessary accessory for her already-garish fuchsia
gown.
Peeking from a sequined
handbag, the dog looked cute enough — so cute that my normal fear
of dogs was absent for the evening, causing me to forget about Darlene’s
ongoing desire to dethrone me from my ever-tentative popular-girl status.
Like her successor,
Darlene Davenport was no fan of mine.
In fact, she was
one of three girls who made it their priority to gossip and grumble
about me anytime anyone would listen, which was too often for my liking.
Bob, my stepdad,
a police officer, the always-conservative and overprotective parent,
banned any article of clothing that might accentuate my figure. Form-fitting
or low-cut were not in my clothing vocabulary, or closet, leaving me
little to wear that was teenage-girl approved.
Sure, my clothes
were cute, practical, and probably cost more than the fashionista’s,
Darlene’s. However, Darlene and her few followers made their disapproval
known in a number of creative ways that I’d prefer to forget.
Still admired in
spite of my conservative attire and their unrestrained bad mouthing,
I was up for the coveted title of prom queen. My chief competitor was,
of course, none other than Ms. Diva Davenport.
Hoping to tame my
hair, I met up with Darlene primping in front of a mirror. Her precious
baby, Queenie, succumbed to my mental probing with ease. Queenie’s
doggy thoughts revealed that Darlene and her gal pals had bribed one
of the stage hands into hanging a bucket of Queenie’s poo poo over
a letter X, chalked on the exact spot where the elected queen would
make her royal appearance. The whole scene was reminiscent of a 1970’s
horror movie that left the prom queen in a telekinetic frenzy.
And if that wasn’t
enough to churn my stomach, Queenie’s vision featured me bowing to
receive the crown, followed by the bucket tipping. The squishy brown
downpour made me gag.
Should by chance
Darlene win, the bucket would remain upright and unused.
How convenient.
Let’s just say
that when all was said and done, I won the crown and Darlene was covered
in her beloved pooch’s poop.
“How did you know?”
she’d screeched through the stinking mess.
Making sure to smile
and pat Queenie’s head, I replied cheerfully, “Your dog told me.”
After all, Queenie had saved the queen.
The Monday following
prom, Darlene told anyone who would listen that I was a mind-reading
witch and explained how her parents were suing me for the irreparable
damage to her dress. In the end, she succeeded in making herself look
crazier; and I became, much to her chagrin, even more popular.
Rhonda
experienced the exact problem as Darlene. The more she tried to destroy
my reputation and make my life miserable, the less people liked her.
After two years, she still couldn’t figure out why everyone favored
me.
I
remembered the gorgeous stranger who Rhonda favored, and who’d saved
me. I felt sorry for him. Given the chance, Rhonda would pursue him
like he was the last man alive.
Damn!
With all the craziness, I’d failed to thank him for his lion taming
heroics. I assumed Luke would know how to reach him. The least he deserved
was a kind word.
With
the shock subsiding, it occurred to me it was my day off. I should have
stayed home. At least I’d have been safer there. With me, absolute
safety was never an option.
“Ms.
Carpenter, can I get a word with you?” an unfamiliar voice called
from behind.
Waving
him off, I exited through the side gate. Monday would be here soon enough.
I trusted it would be better than today.
