Confessions of a Teenage Psychic (22 page)

“’How do I love you? Let me calculate the ways… ‘”

I love Caryn with the depth, strength, and height my arms can reach… I love her to the end of the school year, I love her to distraction…

I snap back to attention when the rest of the students applaud his efforts and Kensi preens as if they’re applauding her. Quince blushes and sits down.
Now
I feel like crying.

“Very nice, John. Any comments from the class?”

Emma raises her hand. “Anyone can write a love poem. It’s a lot harder to write a poem about the loss of love. Isn’t that what Shakespeare’s later sonnets are about?”

Emma is trying to change the subject, and I’m grateful, but talking about loss of love is not making me any less miserable. I lower my head, pick up my pencil, and pretend to be engrossed in my own sonnet writing.

Mrs. York nods. “Very insightful, Emma.”

The teacher glances at the clock, but then Deana’s hand flies up. Mrs. York doesn’t even question her by now.

“Yes, Deana, you may be excused,” she says with a sigh.

Deana runs out the door, grabbing the hall pass on her way.

The next interruption is from Principal MacGregor over the PA. Everyone looks at Megan, whose expression shouts, “I told you so.”

The tone of Principal MacGregor’s voice says his comments aren’t going to be the usual club meetings, social activities, and athletic practices. Even Mrs. York seems to be holding her breath as the classroom falls silent.

“Good morning, Rosslyn Wranglers. This is Principal MacGregor with some very important news from Superintendent Pruitt concerning your lack of compliance with our current dress code. Starting next school year, all Rosslyn High School students will be required to wear uniforms. Specific information can be found on the school’s website or in the PTA newsletter. Please tell your parents to read the instructions carefully, because no exceptions will be made. That’s all. Have a nice day.”

And with that seemingly simple announcement, the battle lines are drawn.

Not much schoolwork gets done for the rest of the day, and considering it was only first period when Mr. MacGregor dropped that bombshell, it makes for a very long day for everyone. Teachers can’t get any work done since all the kids want to talk about is school uniforms, and every teacher has to listen to the same arguments from students, class after class.

“It’s going to stifle our creativity” or “uniforms are too expensive” or “we’ll all look like robots” pretty much sums up the gripes kids have. I feel bad for the teachers who seem just as frustrated as the kids over the news.

Finally the last bell of the day rings and I make it a point to be one of the first students out of the building, trying to put as much distance between me and all that emotional upheaval as possible. I pick up on so much stuff from people around me anyway, but today it’s like my head is going to explode. For once, Sybil and Starshine’s seems like a refuge, not just a place to work.

I arrive much earlier than usual, much to Mom’s surprise. But she isn’t the only one surprised.

“Mom!” I stop so suddenly, the door almost hits me in the back of the head. “Why are you all dressed up?”

She’s wearing a new, pale-green pantsuit with a matching camisole underneath, and beige sling-back heels. Her curled hair is held back from her face by a jeweled comb, instead of tucked into a pencil bun, and she’s wearing eye makeup. Definitely not her usual work clothes.

“You say it like I’m usually a mess,” she says, brows lifted.

“Sorry,” I say, letting the door close as I step inside. “You look nice.”

Mom smiles and seems to fairly float around the store.

I stare at her for a minute and then it hits me. “You’ve got a date!”

Mom smiles condescendingly, or so it seems to me. “I know I can’t put one over on you, Caryn, but I really was going to tell you.”

I’m in shock. She hasn’t had a single date since we’ve lived in Indianapolis, and not too many the last year or so we were in Houston.

“That’s cool.” But I’m so far from cool about it. Who’s she dating? And why don’t I know about it? “Anybody I know?”

“Mr. Desmond!” says Sybil from across the store.

That’s when I remember the nice-looking gentleman Mom was helping here in the store a couple of months ago.

“He’s become a regular customer, and a good friend,” Mom says, a little smile on her face as she sorts through some invoices.

“Does Mr. Desmond have a first name— or a job?” I say, knowing I sound like the parent instead of the child. But really, someone needs to call attention to the fact that she’s blushing like a lovesick schoolgirl.

“George. And he’s a pharmacist, but he’s actually into herbal remedies as well as pharmaceuticals, so he’s been purchasing books on the subject.”

I put my hands on my hips and say sternly, “Mom, don’t be stupid. He doesn’t care about herbal remedies.”

This guy’s been coming to the store for weeks to spend time with her, not buy books, and I’ve been so involved with my own problems I never even noticed. I feel a little guilty, but Mom looks so happy and excited (and pretty!), that her enthusiasm is almost enough to bring me out of my doldrums. Almost.

I force myself to relax a little. “Where are you going?”

“He’s picking me up at six and we’re going to a vegetarian restaurant downtown.”

“Well, tell him to have you home at a reasonable hour.”

Mom laughs. “Caryn, this is quite a role reversal.”

“I don’t care, Mom. I have to actually meet this guy face-to-face before I know he’s okay for you.”

Mom shakes her head. “Turn off the psychic radar, Caryn, and just trust my judgment.”

I roll my eyes, which makes me think of Megan doing the same thing. “Oh yeah, I have to tell you something about school.”

Mom frowns at my tone. “Did something happen?”

I shudder at the memory of the commotion at school and my psychic reactions to it. “Yeah, and it’s been crazy all day. You’ve got to get on Rosslyn High’s website because they’re posting the new required uniforms for next year. Mom, I just know it’s going to get ugly.”

Mom raises an eyebrow. “Uniforms? Isn’t that a little unorthodox?”

I nod. “Yeah, you’d think so. Public school and all.”

“And what do you mean by ‘ugly’?”

“This is what I’ve been afraid of for months, Mom. This is what Megan’s been plotting about, and it’s going to be awful.”

I go to her and bury my head on her shoulder like I used to do when I was little. But I’m not little now. I’m nearly as tall as she is, and I don’t want to mess up her nice clothes. I try to be mature about it even though inside I’m all tied up in knots, my sixth sense on overdrive.

Mom puts her hands on my shoulders and looks me directly in the eye. “Do you
know
know, or just think you know?”

“What I
know
is that something big is gonna happen, and I can’t stop it. That’s what Uncle Omar said.”

“Omar?” Mom’s mouth drops open as she releases me.

Sybil suddenly takes an interest in our conversation from across the store. “You mean Bethany’s dead brother?”

Mom looks at me for confirmation and I nod my head. “Caryn, have you been having conversations with him?”

I guess I’d forgotten to mention how often I chat up my dead uncle.

“Oh my!” says Sybil, seeming only slightly surprised by what most people would call startling news.

“So exactly what has Omar told you?” Mom shakes her head. “I can’t believe I just asked my teenage daughter what my deceased brother said to her.”

I could almost laugh at her expression, but all this uncertainty is zapping my sense of humor. “Uncle Omar keeps saying that whatever’s ‘going down’ as he puts it, it’ll happen. I can’t stop it,
and
it’s supposed to change my life.”

Mom taps a finger on the counter for a minute, a frown between her brows. “That’s a lot to take in.”

“Which part?” I ask with a shrug. “His prediction or the fact that I can talk to dead people?”

“I guess I need some time to process all this.” Mom still looks disbelieving, but then she smiles again. “There must be a reason Omar is communicating with you, so you have to pay attention to what he says.”

“But Mom, listen, here’s what I
know
know— Megan’s gonna get in trouble, and Quince is gonna get hurt by Kensi, not that I care about her, and something bad that I can’t figure out is gonna happen at school. I… I don’t know what to do.”

Tears begin to roll down my cheeks despite my best efforts to stop them. So much for acting mature. I didn’t realize how frustrated I was with all this— whatever it is— until just now as I tell Mom about it.

Mom puts her hands on my shoulders and gives me a little squeeze. “Messages-from-Beyond notwithstanding, you’re only fifteen years old, Caryn. You aren’t expected to fix everything. Let the adults handle it, even Megan.”

“What you do,” interjects Sybil coming out from behind the counter, “is forget all this nonsense for a while and let me take you out for a nice dinner. There’s a Tex-Mex restaurant up in Belford that’s supposed to be pretty good and I’ve got a craving for tacos.”

Mom seems relieved that I’ll be in good hands while she’s out on her date.

I smile at Sybil through my tears. “Do you think I could ask my friend Annabeth to come too? She lives up there.”

“The more the merrier, I always say,” Sybil says grinning.

I go to the phone and dial Annabeth’s number. Maybe between the two of them they can help me forget about Rosslyn High, and school uniforms, and impending disaster— at least for one evening.

“Caryn, I’ve SO got to talk to you,” says Annabeth as she slides into the booth at the Mexican restaurant. “Pass the chips and salsa. I’m starved.”

Sybil is studying the menu and tells the waiter to bring two diet sodas and an iced coffee, then carefully puts a chip overflowing with salsa into her mouth.

Everything in this restaurant seems so normal. Families with kids eating dinner, couples chatting over margaritas, three single women munching chips and studying the menu, you know— normal. And the smell of food coming from the kitchen is heavenly and makes me feel right at home, like we’re back in Houston at my favorite family-owned Mexican place. This is definitely the distraction I need to get my mind off non-normal stuff, like talking to dead uncles and premonitions of chaos at school.

“You won’t believe who called me last night!” giggles Annabeth conspiratorially.

I grab a chip from the basket and don’t even bother looking at her before I answer, “Ken.”

Annabeth pauses in the middle of dunking a chip in salsa. “Ken? Who’s Ken?”

I shrug. “Well, I can’t remember his real name, but the first day I met you at Peterson’s, you were with some guy and I thought you two looked like Barbie and Ken.”

“Oh,” she says, laughing. “It’s Josh Kennedy, that’s his name, and you’re right— he called me last night!”

“And… ?” I ask, even though it’s obvious from the way she’s almost bouncing on the seat that she’s got good news.

“And— he wants us to get back together! Can you believe it?” Annabeth beams at me, her eyes sparkling.

I dunk another chip, wondering about that break-up scene at Peterson’s. “What about that other girl he was seeing?”

“Oh
her
!” Annabeth waves a hand. “Well, she dumped him a couple of months ago, and then I started hearing rumors at school— ”

“Don’t you two go to different schools?”

“It’s a small town.” Annabeth looks exasperated, and then goes on, “— rumors that he wanted to get back with me, and then last night— ”

“Once a man cheats he’ll do it again,” warns Sybil as she pours another packet of sugar into her iced coffee. “And I should know about that, dear, especially at my age.”

Annabeth frowns at us both. “Well, that’s what I wanted to ask you, Caryn. Is he being honest with me or am I just a rebound from the rebound?”

I shake my head with a snort. “I don’t get boys. They never do what you expect them to do.” I think about Quince and how he hurt me when he went back to HIS cheating Significant Other.

Annabeth grabs my hand and gives it a shake. “Caryn, focus. Do you see this working out for me or not?”

I stall for time as I stuff another chip in my mouth. I know what kind of answer she’s looking for. She wants my
psychic
opinion, but I just want to push those feelings away for once and have a peaceful meal.

I take my time swallowing my food. “I don’t know, Annabeth. Most friends would just tell you to be careful if you give Josh another chance.”

“You’re not ‘most friends.’ You’re psychic,” she says, in a voice that seems very loud to me.

“SHHH!” I look around to make sure no one heard her. “Being— you know— makes me feel like I’m from another planet or something. I just want to be normal.”

She points a finger at me. “This
is
normal, for you.”

“Quite true,” Sybil says. “You’ve been this way all your life, Caryn. You wouldn’t know how to be any other way.”

Annabeth taps a spoon on the table. “Listen, you know how Megan is such a good artist?”

I nod. “What’s that got to do with it?”

“Well, she’s got a gift, you know? She can draw just about anything and that’s normal for her. It doesn’t make her any less of a regular kid, does it?”

“No, but Megan’s talents don’t make people look at her funny all the time.”

“But Caryn, hon,” Sybil interjects. “Your friend here is right. That’s just who you are.”

“Besides, I think you’re way paranoid about what kids think.” Annabeth sits back in the booth and crosses her arms, tilting her head at me.

Are they serious? I’ve spent my entire (admittedly short) life trying (and usually failing) to avoid any public display of my abilities because of the reactions I get from both kids and adults. I know I haven’t imagined that people think I’m weird or crazy or both when I blurt out something I shouldn’t know. Is Uncle Omar right? Does being psychic make me strange, or is it just one part of the whole me?

“Then why do kids act like I’m crazy when I— know stuff?” I ask Sybil.