Stranger With My Face by Lois Duncan Page A

thought was me.
    “But it wasn’t,” I said. “I was home in bed the whole time.”
    “You weren’t using astral projection, were you?” Helen asked.
    “Using what?” I said in bewilderment.
    “You know—sending your mind out from your body? Luis’s father used to be able to do it.” She paused. “But if you had, you’d
     have known it. It’s something you have to work at.”
    “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I said. “What did Luis’s father do?”
    “I’m not sure exactly,” Helen said. “Luis didn’t talk much about it. He seemed to take it for granted. The medicine men could
     do it whenever they wanted, I think, and some of the others too. The way Luis described it, the person has to will himself
     out of his body. It takes tremendous concentration.”
    “I still don’t understand,” I said.
    “Well, think of it this way. It’s like the soul leaving the body when you die. It lifts and goes, right? Except that with
     astral projection you’re not dead. The soul or mind or whatever you want to call it—the identity part of you—is focused away,
     just for a short while, and then comes back.”
    “Where does it go?”
    “Wherever you want to be. Distance doesn’t make any difference. Luis told me that when his little brother was born, their
     father was away on a hunting trip. The baby wasn’t expected for another month. When his mother was in labor, she looked up
     and saw her husband standing at the end of the bed, smiling down at her.”
    “That’s wishful thinking,” I said. “She must have wanted him there so much she dreamed him up. There’s nothing so unusual
     about that.”
    “It wasn’t like that,” Helen insisted. “When Luis’s father came home two days later, he knew all about the baby—​exactly when it had been born and that it was a boy—​everything. He had been there!”
    “He couldn’t have been,” I said. “There has to be some other explanation.”
    “I know it’s hard to accept, but a lot of Christian beliefs are, too, if you haven’t been raised with them. The Virgin birth,
     for instance, and water turning into wine. I told my parents what Luis said. Dad’s the one who gave me that term, ‘astral
     projection.’ Luis didn’t call it that. Dad says there are people doing scientific studies on it, so it can’t be all that crazy.”
    “Maybe not,” I conceded. “Still, it has nothing to do with me. I wasn’t ‘projecting’ anywhere that night. I was wiped out.”
    “Okay, I believe you,” Helen said. She looked at the sun in the sky. “Do you think we should start back pretty soon now? I’d
     really like to see the village.”
    “It’s right on the way back,” I told her. “Most of the tourist shops are still open, and there’s even an art gallery. Mom
     has some of her work there—the paintings she hasn’t sent to New York.”
    We got to our feet, brushing off the sand as well as we could, and wheeled the bikes back to the Beach Road. Helen was right;
     it was later than I had thought it was. I’d lost track of time, and the sun had been sliding steadily down the sky as we had
     talked.
    On the outskirts of the village we passed the Rankin cottage. Jeff was out in the front yard, slapping blue paint on the shutters.
     He had a visored cap pulled down over his forehead to protect his face from the sun.
    I waved casually, and Helen called, “Hi!”
    Jeff turned toward us, surprised, and raised the paintbrush in greeting.
    “What are you doing here?”
    “Visiting Laurie,” Helen called back. “I came over on the ferry.”
    “Good thing you explained that. I was thinking you swam over!”
    “Yeah, right!” Helen said, laughing.
    “How do you know him?” I asked her as we pedaled on. “I’ve never seem him be so friendly.”
    “He sits in front of me in second period. Rankin—​Tuttle—you know, alphabetically. We joke around. Is that place over there a hotel?”
    “It’s the Brighton Inn,” I