Confessions of a Teenage Psychic

Copyright © 2009 by Pamela Woods-Jackson

First published in 2010

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“The heat works just fine,” a male voice says.

My heart jumps into my throat and I flip around, thinking we have an intruder. My gaze darts all around the store looking for anyone, anything to explain what I thought I heard. I shiver again, realizing I’m alone.

“And so do the lights,” the voice adds.

A chill runs down my spine. I feel like I’ve stepped into the kind of horror movie where the stupid heroine just stands there pleading with the ax murderer not to hurt her instead of getting the heck out of there.

“Who’s there?” I do a 360-degree turn and still see no one.

I feel the hairs on the back of my neck rise. Silence. I try the light switch again, but the lights just keep flickering and finally go off completely. I open my mouth to scream for my mother but, just like in all good horror flicks, no sound comes out. I’m frozen to the spot in fear.

Just when I’m sure I’m going to be the lead story on the six o’clock news, I see Uncle Omar across the room, leaning on the bookshelves, his arms crossed in front of him.

“Ohmigod, I’m seeing ghosts again!” I shriek. I blink hard trying to get rid of the apparition.

“Well, I’m not really a ghost, I’m a spirit, but materializing sucks energy out of the air,” he says with a grin.

I stare in disbelief. “I… I… uh… ”

“Don’t worry, I won’t slime you,” he says, laughing.

I could almost laugh with him if I weren’t so freaked out. Just when I’d chalked up my last sighting of him to stress, or exhaustion, or hormones, or whatever, here he is again. Now all my rationalizations go out the window as I look into the seemingly solid face of my mother’s dead brother.

“Caryn has a strong voice; I like her.”

~Barbara Shoup, author of
Everything You Want

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.

Confessions of a Teenage Psychic

COPYRIGHT 2009 by Pamela Woods-Jackson

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author or The Wild Rose Press except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

Contact Information: [email protected]

Cover Art by
Tina Lynn

The Wild Rose Press

PO Box 706

Adams Basin, NY 14410-0706

Visit us at www.thewildrosepress.com

Publishing History:

First Climbing Rose Edition, 2010

Print ISBN 1-60154-770-6

Published in the United States of America

April Foolery

I take one last look in my locker, hoping I’ve got everything. My biology book is shoved in sideways, blocking my algebra book, my sketchbook is buried under some math homework I never turned in, and my color-coded class notebooks are now in a pile on the bottom, next to a wrinkled Texas A&M sweatshirt. It’s easier to just keep most of my stuff in my book bag because I don’t feel like digging through the clutter most of the time. I sigh, slam the door shut and hurry to class.

“Hi, Caryn!” Emma looks really tired, like she didn’t get much sleep last night. “I wanted to ask you… ”

“About your algebra test?”

“Yeah, right. Well, I was wondering if, well, if you thought I’d… ” She sighs.

I guess she’s decided not to ask me if she’s actually going to pass it, and instead just looks at me sheepishly and says, “Wish me luck, okay?”

“Sure, good luck,” I say, knowing all too well she’s going to need it.

Sometimes I wonder,
Why me?
Most days are okay I guess, but, see, I’m fifteen years old and everyone thinks I’m weird because I know stuff. I don’t mean smart kinds of stuff, I mean things I have no way of actually knowing, but pick up on anyway. Sometimes it’s a gut reaction, sometimes it’s just images, like a movie-of-the week on fast-forward in my brain, but once in a while I just know something and it comes spilling out of my mouth before I can stop it.

“See you in class, Caryn.” Emma waves and heads down the hall.

“Yeah, I’m on my way.” I stop to readjust my overloaded book bag on my shoulder before following her.

Emma Cartwright is also a sophomore here at Rosslyn High School in Indianapolis. She’s popular because she’s a pretty redhead with a fun sense of humor and great fashion sense. And all the teachers like her too. She’s not at the top of the class like Ashleigh Ko, but she’s a solid B student who works hard. Usually. Unfortunately, she’s going to flunk that algebra test big time because she spent all last night texting her boyfriend Kevin Marshall.

How do I know that? It’s not because she told me. I just know. See, that’s what I mean.

“Caryn!”

I turn to see Megan Benedict waving at me and practically running down the hall.

“Finally! Didn’t you hear me calling you?” Megan says. She puts her book bag down, balances it between her knees, pulls the ponytail holder off her wrist and ties back her shoulder-length blonde hair. Megan is also new this year at Rosslyn High. She’s a transfer from some private school in that ritzy suburb of Belford, but Megan is cool, not at all stuck up like you might think. She once told me she hated that private school, but she really likes it here at Rosslyn with all the different kinds of kids. She sort of eased my way when I first got here, just by being willing to hang out with me when all the other kids thought I was too weird.

“Hey, Megan, what’s up?”

“I wanted to know if you were free tonight,” Megan says once she’s caught her breath.

“Aren’t you spending the weekend at your dad’s house?”

Megan opens her mouth to answer, stops for a second, and then gets a puzzled look on her face. “Did I already tell you that?”

I shrug and wait for her to go on.

“I’m not going till Saturday.”

“Oh, okay.”

Megan slaps her forehead when it finally dawns on her. “Geez, Caryn, I
hate
when you do that. Just let
me
tell
you
stuff, even if you already know it. It’s so unnerving.”

I could have sworn Megan told me about going up to Belford for the weekend, but sometimes I can’t tell the difference between what I
know
and what I really know and it gets me in trouble.

Especially with Megan. She can get into a huff quicker than anybody I ever met, but luckily she doesn’t hold a grudge. It’s a good thing too, because once she found out about my, uh, talent, she made it clear she doesn’t want to hear it. So I try really hard to think before I speak, but sometimes it just comes out anyway. Mom says it’s because I’m just a kid and I’ll learn to control it when I’m older. I hope so, because it can be really embarrassing to be a know-it-all teenager.

Megan turns on her heel and heads into Mrs. York’s classroom just as the tardy bell rings. Mrs. York is standing in her doorway and stops me as I walk in right behind Megan.

“Running a little late today, Caryn? You’re usually the first one here.”

I smile up at her and notice her cheeks are a little flushed. She’s an attractive woman about my mom’s age, tall and thin but putting on weight around the middle. “How are you feeling, Mrs. York?”

“Oh, much better, thank you.” She pauses and I get another one of those puzzled looks I’m so used to.

People always look at me funny when I blurt out stuff I shouldn’t know, which is way too often. There’s always this awkward silence, and then I get embarrassed because I know I did it again.

“How did you know I was sick?”

“Um… sorry I’m late,” I mumble as I hurry to my seat.

I really should put a filter on my mouth. When one of these things pops into my head it’s often out before I can slap a hand over my mouth or bite my tongue. It’s sort of like a disconnect between my brain and what’s socially acceptable. I have no logical way of knowing that Mrs. York is pregnant, because she doesn’t even know for sure yet. She’ll be thrilled when she finds out next month, because at age forty, she and Mr. York have all but given up hope of having children.

“How are we doing with
Pride and Prejudice
?” asks Mrs. York when everyone has settled down.

This is my favorite class. It’s an elective called Love of Lit, a one-semester course studying some of the most romantic literature ever written. Right now we’re about halfway through Jane Austen’s famous novel, but we’ve also read (or reread for some of us)
Romeo and Juliet
, a bunch of Shakespeare’s sonnets,
Midsummer Night’s Dream
(for contrast to the tragedy of
R&J
), and we’re going to read Elizabeth Barrett Browning’s sonnets before school is out.

Not everybody is in here because they want to be, though. Like Kensington Marlow, for one. She’s using the elective credit to make up for an English class she flunked. And Ashleigh Ko is here because the counselor couldn’t find any math electives that she hadn’t already aced. And Kevin Marshall hates literature, but got stuck in here because his athletic conditioning class conflicts with every other elective he wanted.

The class has turned out to be a diverse bunch of kids, though, sometimes making it more interesting than the literature we study. Mostly it’s sophomores like me and my friends Emma, Megan, and Ashleigh, and some juniors like Kevin, but there’s one very studious freshman, Harris Rutherford, who’s always sneaking romantic looks at me and creeping me out. And there are a couple of seniors coasting to graduation, like Deana Pruitt. She’s the daughter of the school superintendent, and a notorious bulimic.

Then there’s Janae Thomas, also a sophomore— tall, gorgeous, African-American with a wardrobe to die for. Everyone calls her “The Voice of Rosslyn High.” If you want to know anything that’s going on in this school, ask Janae. If you want something spread around school, tell Janae. This class provides her with a steady source of information and she keeps her eyes and ears open at all times.

“What’s up with Elizabeth Bennet anyway?” Megan asks the teacher. “Why doesn’t that woman just admit she’s in love with Mr. Darcy?”

As if delighted that someone is actually reading the book, Mrs. York smiles and says, “She’s not initially in love with him, Megan. At what point does Elizabeth realize her dislike of him has turned to love and admiration?”

“After she sees what a big house he lives in!” Naturally Kevin Marshall gets a big laugh from everyone with that remark.

Mrs. York gives him a stern look, surveying the classroom and her uninterested students. Deana has her head down on her desk, Kevin is sideways in his seat talking to a giggling Emma, Ashleigh’s doing her math homework, and Janae is staring out the window watching a couple of guys with spring fever cutting classes. I feel sorry for Mrs. York because it’s a beautiful day and hardly anyone is listening to her lesson.

Harris slowly raises his hand.

“Yes, Harris?” asks Mrs. York.

Poor Harris. He’s like this stereotype geek— short (but he’ll grow, trust me), dark hair that doesn’t look like he’s run a comb through it in days, no fashion sense, and please don’t get me started on those black, thick-rimmed glasses that make him look like Clark Kent. Still, the kid’s got spunk. He’s the only freshman in this class, and yet he always raises his hand and speaks out. He’s a straight-A student and usually ends up making the upperclassmen look bad. But things will improve for him in a lot of ways by next year, and I know that for a fact.