Foretold (28 page)

I lift the scarf off the ball, polishing it so I’ll be able to read the unfortunate future of the next person who steps inside.

I don’t know how many people I see tonight. A woman with the cheap blond dye job and the pink lipstick smudge on her cigarette who wanted to know if her boyfriend was cheating—he was. An old man who had gambled away his life savings asked if he was ever going to win big at the races—of course he would. Two bad breakups on the horizon for the drunken girls showing too much cleavage, an unwanted visitor for the quiet brunette in the red sweater, and a few promises of impending bad news. There were more, but I forget most of them five minutes after they leave the trailer.

That’s the way it is when you see twenty or thirty people every day for two weeks straight, until you pack up and head for the next town.

It’s always the same. Only the fast-food joints change.

The carnival is winding down. It gets quiet, the whir of the rides and the rhythm of the screams from the midway fading into a loop of eighties heavy metal songs. My line started thinning around eleven. But if Van Halen isn’t blaring from the speakers, it’s midnight by now.

Enough tears for one night.

As I make my way back to the trailer I share with my mom, I see the familiar orange glow of a cigarette in the darkness. I know exactly who it belongs to. I also know he’s waiting for me.

Big John steps out of the shadows and into the lights of the midway. The rides aren’t running anymore, but the neon bulbs of the Scrambler are still flashing. I look down at him because he’s half my height. Big John is a dwarf, but his nickname isn’t a joke. This is a fence-to-fence operation, which means he owns everything here—the rides we work, the trailers we sleep in, and the food we eat. He owns us too, and he’s an evil bastard. He calls himself Big John to remind everyone that he owns us and his stature doesn’t affect his ability to hurt us.

I should know.

“You little bitch,” he hisses between gritted teeth. “You think I don’t know you were chasing my customers away again?”

He grabs my wrist, twisting it until I fall to my knees. What Big John lacks in height, he makes up for in strength. The pain shoots up my arm, but I barely feel it. All I can think about is the way my skin crawls from the feel of his skin against mine. And how many times he’s touched me before.

The first time was four years ago, but it feels like it’s been going on forever. Like nothing existed before that day and nothing could exist after it.

I can’t exist after it
.

He steps closer, his pockmarked face inches from mine. “Need me to teach you a lesson? ’Cause it would be my pleasure.” He presses against me, and there’s nothing but the smell of stale cigarettes and sweat. Nothing but a thousand more nights like this in my future. Unless I want him to leave
my mom and me in one of these crap towns, with nothing but the clothes on our backs.

I wouldn’t care, but this is the only life my mother knows.

I remember the month she spent as a checker at the grocery store when I was in kindergarten, trying to decide what I wanted to be when I grew up. She told me it was the longest month of her life. She missed the dizzying lights and outdated music of the midway, the bells on her skirt that made her feel like she was something special, and the rush of predicting futures that would never come true.

“You listening to me, Ilana?” Big John’s pinched red face stares back at me, anger coming off him in waves.

I don’t respond. Anything I say will make him angrier, and my own rage already threatens to eat me alive.

Finally, he releases me and I can breathe again. Big John flicks his cigarette at me as he walks away. “Remember what I said.”

As if I can ever forget.

My mother believes that “what doesn’t kill you makes you stronger.” But she’s wrong.

When evil unthinkable things happen, they don’t make you stronger. They keep killing you over and over again. And you don’t forget. You relive them, trapped in a continual loop that never ends. She swears you can make it stop by forgiving and moving forward. I’m moving forward, but I’ll never forgive.

The light is on inside our trailer, which means my mom already cashed out for the night. When I open the door that never stops squeaking no matter how many times we grease it, she’s unbraiding her hair in front of the mirror. My mom is beautiful, my polar opposite in every way. She’s fragile and delicate looking, the kind of woman men automatically allow
to walk through doors first. I’m not beautiful or delicate, or even ugly.

I’m nothing.

My mother turns to face me, and I know Big John has already been here. I can see the disappointment in her eyes. She gives me a moment to offer an explanation, even though I never give her one. She senses tonight is no different and plunges in. “Ilana, why do you keep doing this? Big John is going to kick us out if you keep this up.”

That’s what I want
.

She puts her hands on my shoulders gently. “You’re hurting people. You know that, don’t you?”

I laugh, and it sounds as bitter and vicious as I feel. “And you’re not? We lie to people for a living. You don’t think that hurts them?”

“Yes, we lie. But these poor souls come to us for hope—to hear their lives will get better. You promise them they won’t. We may not be able to predict the future, but we can influence it.”

I’ve heard this before, but it never stops sounding ridiculous. “You honestly believe that?”

She picks up a miniature crystal ball sitting on the corner of her vanity. “Do you know what they used to call these?” She turns the ball between her fingers. “The witch’s eye. People believed that only a powerful witch could see the future. We may not be able to alter the hands of fate, but the power of suggestion is very real. We affect people’s lives. And we can choose to make their lives better, even if it’s just for a few minutes.”

There is no way to make her understand. I’m not capable of making anyone else’s life better when I can’t even change my own.

“I can’t lie with a smile on my face. Maybe I’m not cut
out for this.” Now I am lying and she knows it. I’m a better grifter than my mother any day of the week.

My whole life is a lie.

Tony was pissed. He’d spent the last two hours with Heather, trying to convince her that he wasn’t going to change his mind about getting engaged, while she cried her eyes out. All because of some stupid fortune-teller at a cheap-ass carnival.

Tony knew it was crap. He wasn’t going to change his mind. He was crazy about Heather. He’d already bought a ring, one of those fancy ones from the jewelry store at the mall. Tony had saved for six months to buy it, and now it was burning a hole in his dresser drawer. After what happened tonight, he almost told Heather about the ring.

But that wasn’t the way he wanted to propose—with his girl freaked out because of some second-rate psychic.

Maybe he should’ve given it to her.…

Tony shoved his hands in his pockets, distracted. He was still thinking about it when he stepped off the curb. He never saw the car coming.

Jeanie unlocked the front door. The town house was quiet, a relief after the never-ending noise of the carnival. Loud music, even louder rides, and the voice of the fortune-teller she couldn’t forget.

Soon you will have an unwanted visitor
.

It sounded like something from a fortune cookie.

Jeanie knew it was ridiculous to obsess over a prediction made by a teenager at a run-down carnival. But she had always been pessimistic. It was hard to ignore bad news when someone actually handed it to you.

She just needed some sleep.

Jeanie didn’t bother to turn on the lights in the kitchen as she poured a glass of water. She was still standing in front of the sink when she noticed the broken glass in front of the sliding doors a few feet away.

And when the junkie who broke it pointed the black gun at her red sweater.

I wake to the sound of an angry fist banging on hollow wood. Someone’s at the trailer door.

“Antoinette? Ilana? Can you come on out here, please?”

I recognize the voice immediately. It’s Leeds, the carnival’s mender. His job is to pay off the local cops so they don’t hassle us for rigging the games and selling dead goldfish. A few times he negotiated a quick exit out of town, like after the arm fell off the octopus ride with a carload of people in it, or the time some fifteen-year-old girl’s father caught her behind the Porta-Johns with CR, both as naked as the Devil Baby.

If Leeds is knocking, it’s not good.

“Antoinette! You get your ass out here!” Big John shouts, rattling the door handle.

My stomach seizes and I jump out of bed searching for a sweatshirt. I want to cover up every inch of my skin before my mom opens the door.

“Just a second.” She gropes for her robe, still half asleep.

8:07.

Carnies don’t get up before noon. Add Leeds and 8:07 together and it equals crap too deep to wade through.

My mother opens the door, and I know I’m right. Leeds is wearing his cheap tweed jacket that makes him look like one of those accident lawyers who advertise on TV at two in the morning. Big John is standing next to him, swollen and red
faced in a white ribbed tank and suspenders. Anyone can tell he lost a fight with a bottle of Jim Beam, especially the cop hovering behind him.

“What’s the problem, gentlemen?” my mom asks.

“You know anything about a woman getting robbed last night?” Big John points a chubby finger at me. “ ’Cause I swear if you do, you’re gonna be the sorriest little—”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I snap.

“Then why the hell are the cops here?” His voice is hate and poison and the promise of something terrible.

“Let’s all calm down,” Leeds says. “Ilana, this officer needs to ask you a few questions.” Leeds is talking like a real lawyer instead of a cash-and-carry con man.

The cop pulls a notepad out of his shirt pocket. “You remember telling a lady she was going to have”—he flips through the pad—“an unexpected visitor last night?”

“I probably saw fifty people. I can’t remember what I said to half of them. What happened? Did she stay up all night waiting for her ex and now she wants her money back?”

It’s one of the classics. A third of the women who walk into the tent want to know if their ex is coming back.

“Nope,” the cop says without losing the grip he has on the toothpick between his teeth. “She spent the night in the hospital. Guy broke into her house. Robbed the place and beat her up pretty bad.”

My mother crosses her arms and switches to the offensive. “I don’t see how that involves my daughter. Are you accusing her of something, Officer? Because if you are—”

Leeds holds his hands up. “Calm down, Antoinette. No one’s accusing her of anything. The officer is just doing his job.”

“That’s right, ma’am.” The cop moves the toothpick from
one side of his mouth to the other without touching it. Maybe Big John should offer him a job.

I look the cop in the eye and hope he knows how to recognize the truth when he hears it. But it’s doubtful. Most people can’t or I’d be out of a job. “I’m sorry about what happened, but I don’t know anything. People give me five dollars and I give them a story. That’s all.”

The cop gives me the standard intimidating stare. I look him right in the eye and he nods. “All right then. You let me know if you hear anything.”

My mother’s silk robe flutters gently in the breeze. She looks like the real thing. Someone who can predict your future as easily as making toast. “We’ll be sure to do that.”

My mom shoves me back inside and watches as the officer disappears into the midway. She twists her long hair on top of her head and slips on a tank top and jeans. The gypsy is gone. “I’ll be back. I’m going to give Leeds a piece of my mind.”

She stalks across the dusty lot, and I can’t help but think of how she’d react if I told her about Big John—the things he’s done to me. But I can barely stand to think about them myself. I could never tell her. If I did, that’s what she would see every time she looked at me.

It’s what I see when I look in the mirror. I can’t face seeing it in her eyes too.

There’s another knock at the door and my stomach sinks. Is it Leeds coming back to give me a tongue lashing for causing trouble? I open the curtain covering the tiny window. An old man is standing on the folding steps of the trailer, holding a cap in his hands.

I recognize him from last night.

What did I tell him? Something bad, that’s for sure
.

But his eyes are bright and hopeful.

I crack the door hesitantly. “Can I help you?”

The old man looks surprised. He was probably expecting me to greet him in my gypsy garb. “You’ve already helped me, miss. Wanted to thank you.” He’s a townie, a local for sure, grinning at me with cigarette-stained teeth and tired eyes.

“For what?” Lately, my fortunes haven’t been worthy of thanks.

“You said I’d win big if I kept betting on the horses.” He pauses and grins wider. “And last night, I finally picked me a winner. Odds were ten to one. Payout was twenty grand.”

“You won twenty thousand dollars?”

He nods, excited. “Yep. Like I said, I just wanted to thank you.”

I try to think of a response, but my mind is on overload. The girl in the red sweater and now this? What are those odds?

A thought crystallizes with perfect clarity the way the future is supposed to materialize in my cheap glass ball:
My predictions are coming true
.

Is it possible?

The proof already knocked on my door twice this morning.

“Miss?” He’s watching me expectantly.

“You’re welcome.”

He puts his cap back on and disappears, leaving me standing in the doorway of the trailer. He passes Big John huffing through the dust, his beady eyes zeroing in on me. He’s looking for me.

It’s always me.

“You think you’re funny?” Big John points across the lot, his face red and tense. “People don’t come to see your hot
little ass. They come to hear something good’s about to happen in their sorry lives.” He’s only a few feet away, but I can already smell the sweat mixed with whiskey.