I So Don't Do Spooky (7 page)

Arms hanging limp by her side, Dana says, “Well, I still want psychic advice about my dress.”

Amber and Dana ditch us. I'm sure we cramp their style. Not that you really need style here; it's mostly old women wearing flowing, baggy dresses and dangly earrings.

Junie and I wander from table to table. We're eye-balling name tags and pamphlets, on the lookout for Polly Paulson. She's going to be tougher to find than I thought, because there are lots of people milling about and lots of booths. Luckily, we're not in a huge rush. The Ruler's not picking us up for a couple of hours. Amber and Dana are leaving earlier to hit an R-rated movie.

We come to a table with really cute figurines and jewelry and polished stones. I'm fingering an adorable amethyst necklace.

A guy with long hair and tattoos up and down his arms says, “That stone offers very powerful protection against the spirit world.”

I must have a blank look on my face because he continues, “If you spend any time at all contacting spirits, amethysts are necessary for your safety.”

Really? Sounds like a must-have item for me.

“Actually, we're trying to find Polly Paulson,” Junie says.

“Yeah, Polly's here. She's cool. You friends of hers?”

I give my mysterious, could-be-yes-could-be-no smile. “Where's she at?”

He waves toward the back of the park and turns to help another customer. We walk in that general direction, passing tables that offer readings by tarot cards or tea leaves or palms. And tables with gypsyish clothing. And a table where you can have your blood analyzed. And a table manned by someone with a long papiermâché wand with special healing powers.

Tucked away in the far corner, an Avon lady has a sign advertising free perfume samples with a tarot card reading. She doesn't have any customers and is skimming a magazine while sipping on a Starbucks.

Junie points at the Avon lady. “Sherry, let's do it.”

I'm shocked. I'm dismayed. I grasp the nearest
table so that I don't fall over in a dead faint. “Junie, you don't even wear perfume.”

“Hey, I might start.”

As my grandma Baldwin would say, something strange is going on in the universe. “Maybe she's Polly Paulson.”

Walking all purposeful, Junie approaches the Avon lady. “Excuse me. Are you Polly Paulson?”

She looks up from her magazine and laughs. “Polly? You've obviously never met her.”

This statement makes me nervous, like maybe Polly Paulson has vampire fangs or two heads or is half woman, half cyclops.

“She went for a bite to eat.” The Avon lady closes her magazine and picks up her cards.

“Here?” I say. “Is Polly eating here?”

The Avon lady fingers the tips of the cards. “Yes, in the food tent.” She looks up at us, especially at Junie. “You want a reading?”

“Come on, Junie,” I say, already taking a step away.

“Maybe later,” Junie says.

I'm off like a shot.

Junie's behind me, wheezing like the out-of-shape girl she is.

I dash past a whiteboard easel with the menu written on it and through the opening into the food tent. Which is deceptively larger than it looks from the outside. There are only a few people here. Not surprising, given
the food they're serving: carrot juice, falafel, organic salad. Without even waiting for Junie, I march straight to the counter and say, breathlessly, to the wrinkled woman stacking tan napkins, “Do you know if Polly Paulson is here?”

Index finger holding the napkins in place, she surveys the room. “That's her in the corner.” She points with her free hand and calls out, “Polly, some people here to see you.”

My eyes follow the direction she's indicating, and I gasp.

I can totally see why Tattoo Guy thought Polly and me might be friends.

Polly is, like, our age.

She has long, überthick blond hair with sky blue streaks. She blinks; her eyelids are coated in the same blue. She looks like she's my petite size of five feet two and exactly one hundred pounds.

Junie finally catches up and pants by my side.

Polly Paulson pokes the last bite of her falafel into her mouth and gives a friendly wave.

“That's her,” I say.

Junie's jaw drops.

“No Slurpees for us,” I say.

We pick our way through the tables to where Polly's sitting. Polly pulls down on the back of her Pretty Punk T-shirt. “You guys want a reading?” She has a great smile.

“I do,” Junie says quickly, like she's volunteering for extra credit at school.

Polly stands, swings a black backpack over her shoulder. “I'm done with my break. Let's go back to my area.”

“You're really Polly Paulson?” I ask, walking next to her.

“Yup.”

“And you're psychic?”

“Yeah. It basically runs in my family.”

“And you're how old?”

“Thirteen. You?”

“Same.” A thirteen-year-old psychic with a punk-rock T-shirt and blue hair streaks? Sounds sketchy to me. “Have you ever done any psychic work for the police?”

“No. Why?”

“Just curious.”

Polly gives me a funny look.

I may be forced to rethink the whole The-Ruler-is-a-victim-of-mistaken-identity-stalking theory.

“Can I go first?” Junie asks.

What has come over scientifically minded Junie?

“Works for me.” Polly flashes her great smile again.

We pass the Avon lady.

“Hi, Mom,” Polly says to her. “I'll watch your table if you want to go to lunch now.”

Junie, Miss Never-Fazed-by-a-Pop-Quiz, gapes openmouthed
for the second time in five minutes. My jaw's on the ground too.

Polly points to a folding metal chair. “Have a seat,” she says to Junie.

Junie pulls a ten-dollar bill from her purse.

“Thanks,” Polly says. Then she drags a matching chair from behind the table and plunks herself down so that they're sitting across from each other, their knees practically touching. Polly looks at Junie, totally making eye contact.

Junie breaks the gaze and glances at me. “Do you mind if this is private?”

Is the earth suddenly flat? Will there be two moons in the sky tonight? Will I start speaking French in my sleep? Junie, my best friend, actually wants to have a
secret
psychic reading. Without me.

“Uh, okay,” I say.

I wander over to an exhibit of clothing and purses. I pick up a clutch and play with the clasp.
Open, close. Open, close
. I'm not really noticing anything, still kind of flabbergasted at Junie's behavior. I keep an eye on the two of them, their heads close together. After about five minutes, they sit straight, like they're wrapping things up. I walk back and stand behind Junie.

“Definitely watch for some developments in your love life. Real soon,” Polly says.

Developments in Junie's love life? What love life?
Junie's not even into boys. Which she'll happily tell you. She doesn't have time, what with keeping up her perfect grades and applying to astronaut summer camp and being prez of the Latin club. I, on the other hand, am so into boys. Due to the fact that I'm socially advanced. Developments in Junie's love life? Ha! Unless Junie does have her eye on Eric, Polly's a big, bogus fake.

Junie beams at Polly. “Thank you,” she says.

That's one of the things I love about my best friend; she's genuinely nice. With all the love-life mumbo jumbo, Junie must know Polly's a phony-baloney, but she still thanks her.

When Junie vacates the chair, I slide in and say, “You can stay.” I smile sweetly.

“Oh, okay.” Junie hangs beside me.

I hold out my money to Polly, who tucks it away in a pink pencil box, then takes my hands.

There's an instant connection. Not like electrical tingling or anything like that. More like we're pulling on Silly Putty, stretching it out so we're joined in a loose, rubbery way.

Polly's silent, just staring at me, making a connection with our eyes too. Then she's gazing off across the room.

“It's all shimmery,” Polly says.

I'm tapping my foot. All shimmery? What kind of lame psychic gibberish is that?

“Oh, I see.” Polly squinches up her eyes. “It's a pool. A swimming pool.”

I tap a little slower.

“It's a guy with kind of messy hair. He's talking to a girl.” She pauses. “Not you.”

I quit tapping altogether.

“The girl's talking, talking, talking to him. I can't hear any words, though. Standing too close to him. Glitter everywhere. You know what? He's not interested in her.” Polly pins me with her eyes. “He likes you. A lot.”

Is she seeing Josh and Candy? No, no, no. I set my foot to tapping again. Because in Phoenix, everyone has a pool. Because every girl I know, except Junie, is crushing on a guy. Because it's nothing for two girls to want the same dude. Because we all love glitter.

“More water.” Polly's grip tightens on my hands. “Not a pool, though.” She's silent for a second. “It's an aquarium. You have fish?”

“Yeah. Bala sharks.” My foot hangs midair, uncertain as to whether it should tap or not.

“Are they sick? Or maybe they're gonna get sick. Something. You need to take good care of them.”

You can bet your booty on that; I am no negligent fish owner.

With a head jerk, Polly's staring off. Way off. Like at a park two states over. “I see a woman.” She's talking in a low, sleepy voice with lots of pauses. It's
like she's choosing her words super carefully, the way you choose your eye shadow to match your outfit. “Slender … stands very straight … beige outfit.” She stops.

My heart stops too. My arms go all chilly and goose bumpy. It's The Ruler!

Polly blinks chameleon-slow, showing lots of blue eyelid. “She's outside. … There's a knife … a sharp knife … glinting in the sun.”

My foot may never tap again.

Polly shakes her head, like she's trying to get rid of a scary thought. “Whoever this woman is, she needs to seriously watch out.” Polly drops my hands.

And my arms immediately stiffen up and lose their wobbliness.

Polly's eyes focus. “Who is she?”

“The Ruler,” Junie whispers. “Sherry's stepmom.”

And at that very second, my cell phone rings. Well, more like makes waterfall + loon sounds.

It's The Ruler.

“H
ello,” I squeak. I clear my throat. “Hello.”

“Sherry!” The Ruler says fast and high. “Is Amber still there?”

“Amber?” I'm confused.

“See if she can bring you and Junie home.”

“See if Amber can bring me and Junie home?” I repeat like a just-woke-up, clueless person.

“Why?” Junie says to me.

“Why?” I parrot into the phone.

“It's my car.” Now The Ruler's voice is shaky. “The tires, Sherry. Someone slashed my tires.”

“Someone slashed your tires?” I'm squeaking again.

Junie's eyes are round as hubcaps.

Polly's eyes are fixed on me.

“With a knife?” I say. “Did they slash them with a knife?”

“That would be my guess.” The Ruler takes a rattly breath. “Right now I'm waiting at home for the police to show up.”

Junie's on her cell, texting Amber. She gives me a thumbs-up.

“It works for Amber,” I tell The Ruler.

“Good, good,” she says.

“Why don't you have a cup of that chamomile tea stuff. That's the calming one, right?” I say. “And call Dad.”

Of course, now is the time my dad picks to be out of town. Right when freaky-deaky things are happening. Like stalkers going after The Ruler. Like psychic readings coming true. Like car tires getting slashed.

I slowly press the End button. “Polly, who slashed the tires?”

“I don't know. I'm sorry.” She really does look sorry. “I told you exactly what I was seeing. You know everything I know.”

Junie pokes me in the side. “We better meet up with Amber.”

Suddenly, I feel in a hurry to get home. I wanna check out the tire situation and The Ruler. “Where
is
Amber?” I stand and push in my chair.

Her eyebrows up in a question, Junie looks at Polly. “At a ghost hunter's booth. Where's that?”

“The other side of the park. In a tent. Kitty-corner to here.” Polly stands. She hands me her business card. “Sherry, you need to be careful.”

“Whaddya mean?”

“I didn't see anything specific. Just this general dark cloud of danger around you.” Polly moves her chair. “You're not psychic. But you've got something, Sherry. You know it, right?”

I shrug. “Yeah.”

“Call me if you need me.” Polly touches my shoulder.

“Come on.” Junie grabs my hand and we take off through the exhibits, dodging people and tables. We jog past the food tent to one with a handwritten sign: THE GHOST HUNTER.

Inside the tent, Amber, Dana and a guy are huddled over a table. Their backs are to us.

The guy says, “It's a gaussmeter. Brand-new and very expensive. I use it to determine paranormal presences when I'm on a ghost call.”

“Amber,” Junie calls.

The three of them straighten and turn around.

Can you say “Cutie-Pie Ghost Hunter”? No wonder Amber's hanging out here. Mr. Ghost Hunter's the most adorable older guy in history. He's, like, twenty and very Hollywood, with blond-brown hair and piercing dark eyes. Granted, the whole ghost-hunter persona is bizarro, but you kind of forget about that when you're looking at him.

He glides over to us. “I'm Zane.”

He shakes our hands. Too odd. I mean, we're thirteen. Usually twenty-year-olds ignore us. “What can I do for you two?” His voice is like fondue chocolate.

“Uh, nothing.” Junie looks around him to Amber. His cuteness is not sidetracking her. “Amber, let's go. You gotta take us to Sherry's house.”