Manifest by Artist Arthur Page A

friction in my mind to fill a psych ward. Which, coincidentally, is where Janet and her husband are trying to send me.
    “I drew a sketch of our marks,” Jake starts, giving me and Sasha a piece of paper. “I figure that’s where it all starts, our connection, I mean. Because how many kids have the exact same birthmark on different parts of their body? That’s a big coincidence.”
    I look down at the paper and I must have frowned. I admit, my first thought was that this was one crappy drawing but I would never have said that aloud. Sasha’s remark says it is written all over my face.
    “Let me guess, you don’t like his drawing,” she drawls.
    My head pops up and I immediately look at Jake. “No. I didn’t say that.”
    “It’s okay. I’m not really good at drawing.” He reachesover to the desk and grabs a pad and a pencil. “Here, you do it. Look at mine and draw it.”
    How does he know I can draw?
    Oh, come on. He probably doesn’t know but since I’m the one looking at his work like it’s below grade level, it stands to reason he’s calling me out.
    Okay, whatever. I’ll just get it over with.
    He pulls up the sleeve to his T-shirt and I look at his mark. It’s familiar because, like he said, it’s identical to mine. And to Sasha’s.
    So I don’t need to keep looking at it but I do. He’s got arms like those men on TV, the ones who lift weights and stuff. I mean, he’s not buff or anything, but from the way his clothes just hang off him I assumed he was bony. I assumed wrong. My fingers wrap tightly around the pencil as I hold the pad steady with my other hand. Without even looking down I start to draw. My hand is kind of just moving, sliding over the paper as I stare at Jake’s arm. It’s not all that fancy, this mark that looks like an M, but it kind of swirls at the ends. As I’m looking at it now I think it’s glowing. Hmm, maybe that’s just my overactive imagination—a side effect to being able to see the dead. Maybe now I can see all sorts of strange stuff.
    Suddenly Jake hisses like a scared cat. “Jeez, it burns,” he hollers. My hand just keeps on moving across the paper. I’m not even really concentrating.
    “What burns?” Sasha asks.
    I keep drawing even though I’m looking at Jake’s face now instead of the mark. His cheeks are turning red, his eyes going wider. He shakes his head and that unruly dark hair flies away so I can see them better. My heart’s beating a little faster but I try not to notice. The room feels funny, like somebody turned the heat up even higher and a kernel of sweat starts rolling down my back.
    “It’s the Power,” a voice comes from the doorway.
    I don’t have to look past Jake to know that it is his grandfather. The sound is so familiar from my one visit to the nursing home. Old people talked with this crackly-like whisper. But it isn’t the voice that makes my hand stop drawing and my fingers clench the pencil even tighter.
    It was what he’d said.
    “What power?” I hear myself ask without a second thought.
    “Pop Pop, we’re working on a school project. Go back into the living room. Jeopardy is about to come on,” Jake says, getting up from his chair.
    “I don’t want to watch Jeopardy. I need to tell you about the Power. It’s time.”
    He is wearing a blue shirt with big white flowers—Jake’s grandfather, not Jake. It is a button-up shirt and above the top button some of his white hair sticks out. He wears glasses so I can’t really see the color of his eyes but his ears are big and he is balding in the center. I figured the wheelchair belonged to him but he is using a cane as he makes his way into Jake’s room.
    “No, Pop Pop. Not right now,” Jake tries to say but his grandfather waves his hand away and keeps right on moving until he finds the chair at the desk and lowers his body in a slow, precise way down onto the seat.
    I look over at Sasha to get her take on our visitor and she’s looking at me, twirling her