Confessions of a Teenage Psychic (14 page)

“A cup of hot mint tea,” I tell the barista when it’s my turn. I smile at Quince and Kevin when they finally notice me. I pick up my tea from the counter, carefully holding it by the heat-guard handle, and rejoin my friends.

Quince and Kevin join us at our table, pulling up a couple of extra chairs and forcing the rest of us to scoot over. Megan turns directly to Quince and asks pointedly, “Where’s Kensi?”

Quince shrugs. “She said she had cheerleading practice.”

Oh, sure, the old after-school practice excuse. Megan and I exchange knowing glances. How can this guy be that obtuse?

He looks from one of us to the other. “What?”

“Oh, nothing. Hey, there’s Jeremy,” Megan says, waving to him across the room. “Emma, you and Kevin coming?” The look on Megan’s face emphatically tells them they’re moving to another table. Behind Quince’s back, Megan jerks her thumb at him, letting me know she expects me to tell him.

“Ashleigh, you don’t have to go.” I’m pleading, not just being polite.

“I’ve got a violin lesson.” Ashleigh gathers up her books in a huff, puts on her coat, and leaves the coffee shop.

I clear my throat and debate my options. Quince is looking as uncomfortable as I feel.

“Got a lot of homework tonight?”

“Yeah,” he responds. “You?”

“Tons, but I’m on my way to my mom’s store to help out till closing.”

“What kind of store is it?” he asks, blowing on his coffee, his gaze wandering around the shop.

“Metaphysical book store,” I mutter.

Quince looks at me in that way kids do when they think I’m into witchcraft or something.

“So you’re into that stuff, huh?” He looks like he’s trying to slide as far away from me as possible.

“Well, yeah, sort of.” I take a packet of sweetener, shake it and pour it into my tea.

We sit there in silence awhile, sipping our drinks and fidgeting. Finally Quince speaks up.

“Is that why you said what you said at the carnival last fall?” he asks, his gaze on the stir stick he’s tapping on the table.

I thought we’d moved past that. “Well, no, not really. I just heard your grandp… I mean— ”

No No NO!
You don’t tell people that stuff!

“Here we go again,” Quince groans. “You’re just way weird.” He gets up to go join Kevin and Emma.

I want to crawl under the table, but I figure that would draw even more attention to me, so I abandon my half-f mint tea, gather my belongings, and walk out of the coffee shop.

“Remember to be true to yourself,” a familiar voice says in my ear as I walk toward Mom’s store.

“You’re clueless, Uncle Omar. Most kids just don’t get someone like me.”

I hear laughing in my head.

Maybe I should feel self-conscious talking out loud to myself, but it’s so cold that people are moving pretty quickly and not paying attention, and anyway most of my face is covered with the hat and scarf. My voice is muffled and I guess everyone thinks I’m muttering about the cold. At least I hope so.

A couple of hours later I’ve almost forgotten about my conversation with Quince because I’m busy with customers in the store. On a cold day when it gets dark early, it seems lots of people want to snuggle up in front of a warm fire with a book, but first they have to buy the book. There are still a few customers dawdling in the store, but I really don’t think I’m going to sell anything else this near to closing time. I busy myself straightening the counter and watching the clock tick toward six o’clock.

So imagine my surprise when the door bell jingles and in walks Quince Adams! I hesitate, not knowing whether to approach him or not, but he solves that problem by walking right over to the cash register.

“Megan talked me into coming in here,” he says, a slight flush on his cheeks. “She said this store wasn’t any weirder than about half the shops in Rosslyn Village, and I should come see for myself.”

Thank you, Megan
.

“Can I show you around or anything?” I ask him, hoping I won’t say anything stupid if he says yes.

“Who are Starshine and Sybil?” he asks me, indicating the names on the door.

“My mom and her business partner.”

Quince frowns, looking back at the door. “So is your mom named Starshine or Sybil?”

“Neither. Bethany Alderson and Sybil Smythe. Starshine is like a stage name.”

“Oh.”

Quince seems unconvinced as he wanders off to look around the store. He walks over to the bookshelves and browses awhile, and then makes his way through the shelves of candles, tarots, icons, and the jewelry display case. I try to concentrate on dusting the sales counter (which isn’t dusty) and pretend that my big crush hasn’t just walked into the store. After a few minutes, he comes back and my heart begins to pound fast.

“Interesting stuff,” he says, with a shrug.

“Um, thanks.” I hope he doesn’t notice I’m blushing. I try to think of something to say but my mind is blank. The guy just makes me forget about everything else when he’s near.

Quince is gazing over my head and I turn around to see what he’s looking at. It’s a large, framed photograph of a rainbow. My mom actually saw it in Houston after a thunderstorm and captured it on film. She’s not a bad photographer and the picture turned out pretty well, so she had it framed.

“You like rainbows?” I ask.

Quince nods. “I saw one after my grandfather’s funeral, and it hadn’t even been raining. He used to take me fishing when I was little, and a few times we actually saw rainbows over the lake.”

I smile. I can picture Quince as a cute little boy in a fishing boat with his grandfather, beaming as he pulls a big one out of the lake. His kindly grandfather must have sent him that rainbow at the funeral as a sort of comforting sign that he’s okay, a reminder of their time together. Quince probably thought it was just a coincidence.

“You’ve got to tell him the truth about his girlfriend,” says a disembodied voice in my ear.

This time it isn’t Uncle Omar, it’s Quince’s Grandpa Adams, pipe and all. It might be good timing for
him
to show up again, but for me it’s all wrong.

“No!” I say a little too loudly.

“What?” asks Quince.

I shake my head and smile at him. “Nothing,” I say, trying to act normal. It doesn’t work.

“You’re always doing that, Caryn,” he says, a slight curl to his lip. “Talking to yourself. It’s creepy.”

“Sorry,” I say, trying to smile.

A chill shivers down my neck as Quince’s grandfather hovers closer.

“He needs to know,” Grandpa Adams says insistently.

I try to brush him away but my hand only meets ice-cold air.

I know he isn’t going to leave me alone, so against my better judgment I speak up.

“Uh, Quince, there’s something I need to tell you and I’ve been arguing with myself about it.” I know that’s lame, but maybe Quince will think it explains why I was talking to myself— this time anyway.

“Yeah?” He regards me with narrowed eyes.

“Where’s Kensi?” I ask, my heart thudding in my chest.

“You asked me that earlier. Why do you keep bringing her up?” He shoves his hands in his pockets and frowns at me again.

I gulp hard and dive in. “Because… because she’s cheating on you.”

At first, Quince’s mouth drops open wide enough to let an elephant fly in, but soon his face reflects every bit of anger I know he’s entitled to feel. Unfortunately, that anger isn’t directed at Kensi where I think it belongs.

“Why would you say such mean things about her? You don’t even know her!” He says, leaning across the counter.

“Yeah, but— ” I can’t even think how to tell him what I saw.

“But what?”

“Quince, I swear I’m not making this up. I saw Kensi hanging all over some college guy at the mall in December and today I saw her holding hands with Connor Stevenson.”

“You’re lying because you’re jealous!” he practically shouts, jabbing a finger at me.

Okay, fair enough, I’m jealous, but it’s the truth.

Quiet discussion is out of the question because Quince’s loud voice is attracting attention. The few customers still in the store look up from their book browsing to see what the commotion is all about. I lower my voice.

“I’m telling you the truth about Kensi, and if you don’t end it with her, she’s going to break your heart and end up in some serious trouble.”

“Says who? YOU? You and your stupid predictions. You’re crazy, Caryn Alderson!”

And with that, Quince storms out of the store.

I stare after him and feel like kicking myself. Great. My one chance to talk to Quince like a normal fifteen-year-old girl and I blow it.

I shake my fist at the ceiling. “Gee thanks, Mr. Adams.” No response. NOW he’s silent?

Later, when I tell my mom what happened, she gives me a hug and says, “Caryn, you told him the truth, even if he didn’t want to hear it. You can’t be less than who you are.”

Mom has always been my biggest fan. She’s never contradicted me when I tell her stuff, even when I was a little kid and most moms would have written it off as an overactive imagination. Not my mom. She accepted everything I predicted as if it were already a fact.

“That’s what Uncle Omar said,” I say with a sigh.

Mom raises an eyebrow and then hugs me even tighter. “He’s right. Be yourself. If this boy Quince doesn’t accept you for who you are, then he isn’t the boy for you.”

Easy for her to say.

Sunny Valentine

Winter in Indianapolis is cold— at least it is to me. This is my first experience with real winter, so I come to school bundled up like an Eskimo most days, even when the other kids think it’s warm outside. In Houston, a day in February with a temperature of sixty-five degrees is considered winter, but here, everyone thinks it turned summer.

That’s what is happening today— Valentine’s Day. It’s a mild day with a record-setting temperature pushing the seventy degree mark. I’m wearing my usual jeans and hoodie sweatshirt, but most of the kids came to school dressed like they’re headed to the beach. Emma is wearing a thin cotton skirt with a belted sleeveless white-eyelet blouse and high-heeled sandals. Very fashionable for June actually, but it isn’t June. Ashleigh, usually the sensible one, has on jean shorts and a ribbed scoop-neck top. Megan looks pretty conservative in tight-fitting jeans, T-shirt, and flip-flops, but I’m sure her mother had something to say about her wardrobe.

Other girls around school are wearing outrageously short skirts, short shorts, or sundresses, all of which make me shiver with cold just to look at them. Even the guys have gotten into the spirit of the unexpectedly warm weather by wearing cutoffs and tank tops.

And don’t get me started on Kensington Marlow’s outfit. She prances into Mrs. York’s class wearing, well, not much really. It’s a jean skirt that barely skims the top of her thighs, a cotton shirt that bares her midriff and displays her cleavage, and four-inch sandals that most girls wouldn’t be able to wobble around in. Needless to say, jaws drop as she parades into the classroom first period and slides into her seat.

Mrs. York is cool, though, and she doesn’t say anything to Kensi about her daring outfit.

“Let’s open our books to Act V of
Romeo and Juliet
,” she says, looking ready-for-summer herself in khaki linen trousers and a white blouse.

“Isn’t it kind of a cliche to be reading
R&J
on Valentine’s Day?” Janae asks.

“But that’s the point of this class, Janae,” says Mrs. York. “We’re studying the great love stories of literature, and as tragic love stories go,
Romeo and Juliet
is the best there is.”

“They kill themselves,” Quince says with a snort. “What’s so romantic about that?”

Mrs. York gives that some thought. “It’s not their tragic end so much as their deep love that makes it such a moving story. Why do you suppose people are still reading and performing this play over four hundred years after it was written?”

No one answers. I look around the room and see students struggling with the concept, but then Harris raises his hand. You can almost hear the silent groans.

“Yes, Harris?” Mrs. York has been pacing up and down in front of the classroom, but she stops patiently to listen to Harris’s question.

“Is it because Romeo and Juliet are kids like us, and we can relate to them?”

I see him glance at me seeking approval and I deliberately look the other way. No sense encouraging him.

“Partly, but there are other reasons,” Mrs. York says.

Emma raises her hand. “I think it’s because their deaths accomplished something their love couldn’t. It united their families.”

“Good point, Emma,” Mrs. York says with a smile. “Any other comments?”

“Like Romeo and Juliet have a lock on true love,” Kensi mutters, and casts a seductive look at Quince making him blush.

UGH! Is he really buying that?

“Would you like to elaborate, Kensington?”

“Well,” she says in a louder voice. “Teachers act like Romeo and Juliet are the only teenagers to ever fall in love.”

Mrs. York looks at her indulgently. “Maybe not the
only
ones, but they’re certainly the most famous.”

Quince beams at Kensi like she said something brilliant, and I want to scream. He seems smart enough to know when someone is playing him, yet he falls for her games every time. I wish I’d kept my mouth shut about her since it hasn’t changed anything at all.

After lots of groveling on my part, he and I are almost back on speaking terms after my ill-advised blurt last month. But Quince barely even acknowledges my existence when Kensi is around. And he still doesn’t believe she’s been unfaithful to him.

Here it is February 14, and the love of my life is making goo-goo eyes at a half-dressed girl who has another guy (or two!) on the side. And to make it even worse, I did something this morning before school that I already regret and now want to take back.

I wish Kensi wasn’t here
.

“Mrs. York,” says a woman’s voice on the PA. “Could you please send Kensington Marlow to the office?”