The Secret Society of the Pink Crystal Ball (18 page)

There's a surprisingly large room in the back of the store that is decorated like a cozy lounge area. There's a couch covered in dark purple velvet with lots of plush, comfy accent pillows, a chocolate-colored wood table with a few chairs around it, and on the floor is a huge, shaggy area rug that makes your feet feel like they're stepping on cotton balls. Roni explains that the store often hosts psychics, tarot card readers, and palm readers, and sometimes they have speakers and book signings back here, as well.

She tells me to take a seat on the couch, and then she disappears into a tiny office. When she comes out, she's holding two envelopes, along with a small black lacquer box inlaid with mother-of-pearl. One of the envelopes has my name on it, and the other has my mother's name. Both of them are in Kiki's handwriting.

“What's all this?” I ask.

“Kate's ashes,” she says, pointing to the box. “Well, half of them, anyway. I kept the other half. They're for your mother. Kate wanted me to sit down with her and explain everything, but she was so agitated at the funeral, I knew she wouldn't listen. Then she called me a few times, but all she did was yell and threaten to sue me, and there was just no getting through to her.”

I sigh. “My mom can be kind of difficult that way.”

Roni smiles. “So I've heard. Anyway, I'm just going to give them to you, and you can give them to her. It's not what your aunt wanted, but I can't hold on to this negative energy anymore. It's really messing with my chi.”

“And what about this?” I ask, holding up the envelope with my name on it.

“It's for you,” she says. “Go ahead and read it.”

I carefully open the envelope and take out three pieces of lined sheet paper, all filled with Kiki's handwriting. I feel a lump form in the back of my throat before I even get past the
Dear Erin
part.

Dear Erin,

If you're reading this, well, then, I suppose I'm gone, and you've figured out how to use the Pink Crystal Ball that I left you. So congratulations. (About the second part, not about me being gone.) Let me first say that I'm so sorry that I didn't get a chance to see you and talk to you over the last year. I never had children, but I have no doubt that I loved you the way I would have loved a child of my own. Which is why staying away from you was one of the most difficult things I have ever done in my life. I hope that after you read this you will understand why it was necessary.

Erin, I was diagnosed with a rare form of cancer just over a year ago. I met with several of the area's top doctors, and all of them agreed that I had six months to a year to live. I tried several treatments recommended by the holistic medical community, but none of them were strong enough to stop the spread of the tumors. I could have undergone chemotherapy and radiation, but the side effects are so unpleasant and debilitating, and there was no guarantee that they would work, or even that they would prolong my life by any significant amount of time. So I declined traditional treatments, and decided that I would rather spend the time I had left living my life to the fullest and dying naturally.

Erin, the reason I didn't tell you is because I knew that your mother would never have accepted this. Her mind is too rational, too logical, too different from my own. As a doctor, she would have insisted that I explore every medical option available, and I did not want to spend my precious, precious days arguing with her about it. I considered telling you and asking you not to share the information of my illness with her, but I didn't feel that it was fair to put you in that position. Instead, I made the impossible choice to cut off contact.

Some of the best days of my life, Erin, were spent on my front porch with you, solving puzzles together. But there were so many other things that I wanted to teach you about life, which is why I chose you to receive the Pink Crystal Ball.

You see, I wanted to open your eyes to the world the way that I see it. Full of possibilities and opportunities, and twists and turns, and not all laid out for you in little boxes, the way your mother sees it. Don't get me wrong: I love your mom. She's my sister, and a piece of my heart has always and will always belong to her. But I feel like she's missed out on so much of life because she can never see beyond those little boxes. It would be such a terrible shame if the same thing happened to you.

But you are a logical mind too. I knew that if I left you an explanation and a clear set of instructions for how to use the ball, you would have laughed it off as your crazy aunt Kooky (yes, I know about your father's nickname for me) just being kooky again. So I wrote the clues for you, knowing that you would not be able to resist a good puzzle, and knowing that as you saw your wishes coming true, you might really start to believe.

I hope that in using the ball you got some things that you really wanted, and I also hope that you made a big fat mess of everything. Because if there's anything that I would want you to take away from this experience, it's that life is at its best, and most interesting, when it's messy. Always remember that, Erin. It will serve you well, I promise.

I love you more than you can ever know, and I'm truly sorry if I caused you any pain over the last year. I hope you can understand and forgive me, and know that wherever I am in the afterlife, no matter who or what I become, I will find you, and I will look out for you always.

Much love,

Aunt Kiki

The tears are streaming down my face when I put the letter down.

Roni sits down next to me and hands me a tissue. I notice that she's crying too. She puts her arm around me and pulls me close, and I don't try to pull away from her. Just knowing that she was my aunt's best friend, knowing that she hurts as much as I do, is strangely comforting, in a way. We sit together like that for a few minutes while we both get out all of our tears, and then, finally, Roni turns to look at me.

“She asked the ball if she would die in that field,” she tells me. “It was her final question.”

So that's what she was doing out there in the middle of a storm. I try to imagine Kiki holding the ball, asking it if she will get struck by lightning.

“But why?” I ask.

Roni shrugs. Enveloped by the couch, she looks small and frail, and suddenly, I realize that she must have been there too, just like Samantha and Lindsay were there with me when I asked most of my questions. I revise the picture in my head, imagining Roni crying as she sat next to Kiki, imagining the discussions they must have had about it. I can picture Roni arguing and pleading with her not to ask the ball to end her life, and I can picture Kiki, stubborn as ever, telling her that nothing she says is going to change her mind. Poor Roni. I try to think about how I would feel if I lost Samantha or Lindsay, and just the thought of it makes me shudder.

“She knew the end was coming, and she didn't want to be a burden to anyone. Not that she would have been. But she didn't want to suffer. And this was easier than swallowing a bottle of pills, or sticking her head in an oven.” She glances at me, a guilty look on her face. “Sorry. I didn't mean to be insensitive.”

“It's okay,” I tell her. “I can handle it.”

Just then, Samantha's head pops out from behind the curtain. “Um, sorry to interrupt, but it's getting kind of boring out here. I mean, there are only so many things that I can make fun of before the amusement starts to wear off.”

I smile at her, more appreciative than ever of my blunt, sarcastic best friend, and of her particular knack for knowing exactly when to interrupt a conversation. Because if I'm being totally honest, I'm not really sure that I
can
handle much more of this.

“That's okay,” I say. “We're finished anyway.”

As soon as I say it, Lindsay's head pops out too. “Finally,” she adds. I let out a laugh. I'm so lucky to have her too. Even with all of the drama and the healing crystals and the voodoo dolls, there's nobody else I would rather have as my best friend. Nobody.

Lindsay looks at Roni crying, and at the letter in my hand, and the box on the table. A flicker of concern appears in her eyes.

“Are you two okay?” she asks. I glance at Roni, unsure how to answer. But she smiles at me, and somehow, I can tell she's thinking that I have great friends.

“Yes,” she says, putting her hand on top of mine. “We're fine.”

Lindsay nods. “Good. That's good.” She hesitates, then finally asks what she's obviously been dying to know. “You didn't happen to discuss how you're going to get me out of being kicked out of school tomorrow, did you?”

I turn to Roni. “Are you sure I only get eight questions?” I ask. “I mean, isn't there a way to get just one more?”

She shakes her head. “Eight is the limit. But listen, you have to remember, the ball is just a tool. It doesn't control your destiny.
You
do.”

As soon as I hear the word “destiny,” the image of a man being eaten by a giant eagle flashes across my brain.

“Like Prometheus,” I say absentmindedly. What was it that Jesse said?
Prometheus represents the triumph of the human spirit over those who try to repress it
.

Suddenly, I have an idea.

“Samantha, you said the ball did exactly to you what happened to Trance, right?”

“Yeah. Why?”

“Well, then maybe it's going to do the same thing to Lindsay. Maybe Lindsay is going to get kicked out of school for stealing tests, just like Megan did.”

“But I didn't steal any tests,” Lindsay argues.

“I know. But I'm starting to think that Megan didn't either.” They both look at me quizzically. “Look, with every single thing that has happened, there's been a logical explanation. My boobs grew because of an allergic reaction to the dim sum. Jesse asked me on a date because we had a really good time at the museum. Aiden ditched Trance because Samantha had an extra backstage pass to meet the Flamingo Kids. And Spencer Ridgely said I was smexy because of that short skirt that I was wearing.”

“No,” Samantha says, shaking her head vehemently. “I wear short skirts all the time, and Spencer Ridgely has never said anything to me. I'm sorry, but that was just plain old magic.”

I have to smile. “You're never going to let that go, are you?”

“Nope. Not ever.”

I roll my eyes at her playfully. “Okay, whatever. My point is, everything that's happened can be explained somehow.”

Samantha nods, catching on to my idea. “Right. And so can this. We just need to figure out what the logical explanation is, and then we need to stop it from happening.”

“But how do we do that?” Lindsay asks. “We don't even know for sure what's going to happen.”

“I think I have an idea,” I say. “Lindsay, do you still have your voodoo doll of Megan Crowley?”

Lindsay nods. “Yeah, I keep it in my bag.” She narrows her eyes at me. “What are you going to do?”

“You're just going to have to trust me. I think I know how to fix this, but I'm going to have to do it by myself. If I tell you, it will never work.”

I climb the front steps of Megan Crowley's house as Samantha's BMW peels out of the driveway. I watch Lindsay's hair, blowing out behind her. They turn the corner and her hand sticks up in the air, palm open, in a gesture of good-bye—and good luck.

I reach into my backpack for a red pen and quickly draw small dots on the face of Lindsay's voodoo doll before shoving it back into my bag. I knock on the door, and heavy footsteps approach as I nervously shift my weight from side to side on the straw welcome mat.

“Can I help you?” Megan's father asks, looking down at me. He's a big, tall, scary-looking dad. The kind of dad who would answer the door with a shotgun to greet his daughter's boyfriend.

“Um, hi, I'm Erin Channing. I'm a friend of Megan's. I was wondering if I could talk to her?”

Her dad frowns. “Does this have anything to do with that cheating nonsense?” he asks gruffly. “Because she didn't do anything. I know Megan, and she is not a cheater.”

“No,” I lie. “I just wanted to see how she's doing, and to let her know that everyone misses her at school.”

His face softens a little, and he opens the door to let me in. “She's in her room. Top of the stairs, first door on the left.”

***

“Who is it?” Megan asks when I knock on the door.

“It's Erin Channing. I need to talk to you.”

“I don't have anything to say to you,” she shouts though the door.

Great
. I knock again.

“Megan, please open the door. I have some information that I think you'll want to know.”

There's a long pause, and then the door unlocks from the inside with a
click
. I push it open and walk into her room, which is typical-looking enough, except for the fact that there are posters of cats and dogs and kittens and puppies and bunnies and horses papering the walls, so that only a few patches of the purple paint color underneath are visible.
Okay
, I think.
I definitely was not expecting that
.

Megan is sitting on her bed, dressed in worn-looking sweatpants and a stretched-out T-shirt. Her hair is a mess and she's not wearing any makeup. Her eyes are bloodshot. Dotting her face are red splotchy hives, just like Samantha reported.

She eyes me as I look around at the animal posters.

“I want to be a vet,” she explains defensively. “But if this goes on my record, I'll never get into a good college, and then I'll never get to go to veterinary school.” She sniffles a little and wipes at her eyes, and I'm surprised that she's acting so vulnerable in front of me. I'm also surprised to learn that she wants to be a vet so badly. I guess I never considered that bullies have dreams too.

“By the way, I didn't steal those tests,” she announces. “I was set up. And I wouldn't be surprised if Fart Girl had something to do with it, so you can tell her that my parents are hiring a lawyer.”

“I'd appreciate it if you would call her Lindsay,” I say. “And I know you didn't steal the tests. But you weren't set up either. There
is
another explanation.”

Megan looks confused, hopeful, and suspicious all at the same time.

“Oh, yeah? And what's that?” she asks.

“Magic.”

Megan's eyes well up with tears and she turns her back to me. “Okay, Harry Potter. Did you come here on a broomstick? You're not funny,” she says, her voice breaking. “If you only came here to get back at me, then you can leave.”

“I'm not joking.” I take the voodoo doll out of my bag. “Look at this,” I say, holding it up.

Megan crosses her arms in front of her chest and turns around, and from the impatient look on her face I know that she's expecting to see a snake jump out of a can, or some other stupid practical joke. But I just hold the doll, and try to muster the most serious face possible. I need for her to believe what I'm about to say, because if she doesn't, then my entire plan is worthless. My heart is pounding so hard I can hear it in my ears.

“And what is that?” she asks, irritated.

“It's you.” She recoils the tiniest bit, and something in her expression changes, just slightly. “It's you,” I repeat. “See the hair? And the cheerleading outfit? And do you see these dots on its face? Lindsay put them there three days ago. And look at that, you have dots on your face that look just like them.”

Megan's eyes widen, and I can tell that I've got her attention now.

“I don't believe that. She can't make that happen.” But her voice sounds unsure, like she's trying to convince herself of it.

“Actually, she can do a lot of things. Have you ever heard of Ye Olde Metaphysical Shoppe? It's run by a woman who claims she's a witch. It's where Lindsay gets her supplies. It's where she learned everything.” Megan bolts up and grabs the phone by her nightstand.

“Okay, well, if she did this, then I'm going to tell. I'm calling the principal right now.”

“Really?” I ask, fighting with every ounce of concentration I have to appear mildly amused. “And what are you going to say? That Lindsay Altman put a spell on a voodoo doll that made math tests appear in your email? Do you think he'll believe you?”

Slowly, Megan puts the phone back down. “No,” she says. “Because it's ridiculous.”

“I know,” I say sympathetically. “I know it sounds that way. I thought the same thing, at first, too.” I lower my voice to just above a whisper. “But it's real. I've seen what she can do.”

Megan crosses her arms. “Oh, please.”

I shrug. “Make fun of it all you want, but just think about it. Do you think it's a coincidence that this happened right after you sent out that email to our entire class? She wanted you kicked out of school. She wanted revenge.” I pause for dramatic effect, and I watch Megan trying to process what I'm saying. I can see in her eyes that she's not sure whether to believe me or to kick me out, so I continue, hoping to capitalize on her confusion. “You're lucky, though, because she feels bad about it. She's such a good person, that after everything you've put her through, she still doesn't want you to suffer. Personally, I think she should just let you rot. But Lindsay said no. She asked me to come here to tell you that she's willing to make things right for you again.”

Megan looks skeptical. “She can get me back into school?”

“She can,” I say. “But only on three conditions. First, you're going to send out an email to the entire tenth grade, publicly apologizing for all of the mean things you've said and done to her over the last two years.”

“Wait a minute,” Megan argues. “She's not exactly innocent, you know. She did something pretty bad to me too. She
humiliated
me.”

I stare at her. “Megan, that was
seven
years ago. And yes, she humiliated you, but it was one day. You've been humiliating her for two years. I think you're even.”

She seems to thinks about this, as if the idea has never before crossed her mind. She sits back down on her bed.

“What else?” she asks.

“Okay, well, second, you're going to call Chris Bollmer, and you're going to apologize to him too. And third—and listen carefully now, because this is important—you're going to personally guarantee that no one ever calls Lindsay ‘fart girl' or even says the word ‘fart' in Lindsay's presence ever again.” I shrug, like it's no big deal. “If you can do that, then she'll make all of this go away.”

Megan studies me for a minute, thinking it over. She's still not sure, I can tell.

“How do I know you're telling me the truth?” she finally asks. “How do I know she can really make these things happen?”

“You don't,” I say, as I open the door to her bedroom and start to walk out. “That's the thing about magic. You either believe in it, or you don't. It's up to you.”

***

When I get home, my mom is still sitting at the kitchen table, surrounded by legal books, just as she was when I left. I pull out a chair across from her and sit down. My body goes limp as soon as my butt hits the cushion, and I realize how physically—and mentally—exhausted I am. It's been (to say the least) an emotionally draining twenty-four hours. And it's not over yet. Not even close.

I reach into my backpack and take out the box and the envelope with my mom's name on it.

“Hi, honey,” my mom says distractedly. But then she looks up and sees my face, and she frowns. “Is everything okay? You don't look like yourself.”

“Mom, there's something I need to give you.” I put the box and the letter on the table, and when she recognizes Kiki's handwriting on the envelope, she gasps.

“What's this?”

I let out a long sigh. “I ran into a friend of Aunt Kiki's today. It's a long story, but she asked me to give you these. It's Kiki's ashes. Well, half of her ashes. She kept the other half.” I swallow hard, trying not to think about how upset she's going to be when she reads her letter. I didn't open it, but I assume that it explains everything, the same as mine did. “And I think you'll want to read the letter. There was one for me too.”

A tear falls from my mom's eyes before they even have a chance to redden. It's as if I'm witnessing some sort of miraculous event dreamed up in a sci-fi movie: Uber-Rational Cybernetic Organism Experiences Emotion. I know she gets emotional and irrational (emphasis on the latter), but for some reason that lone teardrop makes me happy. My mom's love for Kiki is so deep that she has no control over it. I sit and watch her as she opens the envelope and begins to read. She smiles a few times, and even laughs once, and I wonder what Kiki could have written that was so funny.

When she puts the letter down, the tears are coming like rain, splashing onto the legal books on the table beneath her. She looks up at me and smiles through them, and puts her hand on top of mine.

“Thank you, honey,” she manages. “Thank you for doing what I couldn't.” She takes a shaky breath and lets it out slowly, wiping the tears away with the back of her hand. “I'm just so glad to know that I didn't do anything. You have no idea how that's been haunting me, thinking that she died angry with me…” She pats my hand two times. “This means so much to me. Thank you.”

“So no more digging through pictures in the guest room at two in the morning?”

She looks down sheepishly. “You heard that?”

I nod, eyeing the mess on the table. “Yeah. And as a sleep-deprived American teenager, I respectfully request, Counselor, that you refrain from engaging in such activities going forward.”

She laughs and pushes aside the books and yellow pads with her forearm. “I guess I won't be needing these anymore.”

“Thank God. I liked you much better as a pediatrician.”

“You know something? I liked me much better as a pediatrician too.” She looks at her watch, realizing how late it is. “Have you eaten yet? Do you want me to make you something?”

“No, that's okay. I'm not that hungry. And besides, I still have a ton of homework to do.”

***

Upstairs in my room, I check my email. There's an alert that a new sender has been trying to contact me, BlackCrow16.

I click to allow the message, then open it.

Dear tenth grade class,

I'm writing to tell you two things. First of all, I would like to make it known that I did not steal any tests. I strongly believe that, in the next few days, my name will be cleared and I will be invited back to school. Second, I would like to sincerely apologize to my classmate, Lindsay Altman, for the mean and crude jokes that I have made at her expense over the last two years. I realize now that my actions were wrong, and I am truly sorry for any hurt that I have caused her. Lindsay is a very nice person, and she does not deserve the treatment that she received from me.

I hope to see you all again soon.

Sincerely,

Megan Crowley

So she bought it after all. Or maybe she didn't. Maybe she just figured that she didn't have anything to lose by trying. Either way, it worked. One down, one to go.

I click on “write message,” and begin composing an email to Chris Bollmer. When I'm finished, I fill in the subject line:

I know things too.

I hold my breath as I hit the send button, then let it out, exhausted.

Two down. Only one more thing to do.

I pick up my phone and dial Jesse on his cell, my stomach doing different kinds of flips from the ones it usually does when Jesse is involved. It goes straight to voicemail.

“This is Jesse. Wait for it…”

I wait for it, but when the beep comes, I have no idea what to say. What could I possibly say? I hang up.

I pull the covers up over my head, not even bothering to get undressed. It's dark and warm and comfy, and I already know that tomorrow, it's going to be very hard for me to get up. If I even sleep at all…