Authors: Ariella Moon
"I tell you, this place is a trip," the redhead said over his shoulder. "They have all sorts of things your daughter will like."
His friend, a Latino in his late twenties, shouldered in beside him and the two men crossed the threshold together.
The color drained from Jett's face.
The redhead noticed me and jerked his head in a hey-pretty-girl greeting.
I noticed the cross necklace around his friend's neck, the same gold as the guy's wedding band. I flashed on the outdoor art installation someone had created back home. The artist had erected a white wooden cross for every service person killed in Iraq. Volunteers kept adding crosses, and a large sign tracked the ongoing death toll. The memorial took up an entire hillside.
Jett was right. We didn't want to know.
Jett's eyes were closed, and a pained expression twisted his face. His fingertips pressed against the top of the crystal ball, the flame tattoos on his knuckles blood red against his suddenly bone-white skin.
"Jett?"
His brow twitched. In my peripheral vision, the two Marines stopped to examine a collection of pewter dragons and wizards. The redhead picked up one of the small statues and rotated it to get a closer look.
The air pressure became heavy, as if a storm was about to hit. The register area darkened. Before I could freak out, the rest of the store whirled like a brightly lit merry-go-round. The wind chime above Jett's head clanged like a warning bell at a train crossing. The clamor hit some kind of a force field at the edge of the darkness and rippled back.
I covered my ears to muffle the noise. "Jett!"
"Can't — stop — it."
"What?" I started to say, and then I spied the flames raging inside the crystal ball. Something moved within them, like a movie running within a circle of fire. Hands still clasped over my ears, I leaned in for a closer look. Heat seared my face.
It took me a second to recognize the redhead. His brush of orange hair was hidden beneath a camouflage helmet. He had lost his naïve expression and easy smile. He clutched an assault weapon with one hand and signaled to his friend with the other. Their backs were against a sun-bleached wall. Nearby, a body bled in the street.
"Jett!" I clawed at his hand, trying to break his connection to the crystal ball.
It worked. Light flooded the register area, and the store stopped whirling. Oblivious, the two recruits had moved on to a lavender-draped display of glittery fairy dust and beribboned children's wands.
Jett's fingertips were sunburn-red and painful-looking. He fanned the air while struggling to draw in a breath. My chest constricted. I snatched a small paper bag from under the register and offered it to Jett. He shook his head. The color had leached from his face. He blinked a few times, his eyelashes long and black against his pale skin.
I hyperventilated into the bag. S
nap.
W
hoosh. Snap. Whoosh.
It inflated and deflated. My anxiety ebbed. Calmed, I lowered the bag. "You win."
He flashed a pained half-smile. "Victory is hollow." His wild-eyed expression reminded me of some of the teens on the psyche ward. A pang of discomfort shot through me.
I searched my brain for a scientific explanation for what had transpired. I wondered if Professor Mackenzie would know. If only he weren't on an extended sabbatical from Columbia. I doubted he would believe me or be likely to answer a letter from a fifteen-year-old he had never met.
"Liquid sage," Jett gasped. When I stared blankly, he said, "Aromatherapy shelf."
"Oh." I scurried to the wall and located the tester. Liquid Sage.
Purification and Protection.
My hand hovered in front of the blue bottle.
There must be a million germs on it.
"Find it?" His words sounded thin and ragged.
I cringed.
Oooh.
"Got it!" I grabbed the bottle ran like it was a snake about to bite.
Don't think about it. Don't think about it. Don't think about it.
"Here." I popped the top off the tester and spritzed Jett's fingers. A sharp, woodsy tang filled the air.
Jett's shoulders slumped. "Thanks."
"You're welcome. Enough?"
He nodded. I set the bottle on the workspace and replaced the top. I scanned the register area for a bottle of hand sanitizer.
Darn.
"How did you learn to tweak the space-time continuum?"
"I don't know. It just started happening."
I swallowed hard. "Do you do this often, these fire fortunes?"
Jett shook his head and stared down at his hands.
"I'll tell your mom you aren't delusional."
Jett scrunched up his face. "Thanks, but she wouldn't listen. She's too self-absorbed."
"Well, I at least owe you lunch." I leaned against the counter. "So. Dragons and fire fortunes. Guess I won't need to unpack my vampire stake."
His eyes lit up with mock mischief. "Did you bring one?"
"Nah. Too hard to sneak past airport security."
"Still want to know your future?"
I glanced at the crystal ball. The only good future I could imagine was one where Sophia was unharmed and Mom and Dad stayed together and we lived happily ever after, or at least until I left for college. Which meant, statistically, there were more possible bad outcomes than possible good outcomes.
So for now… "No, thanks."
Chapter Eleven
They didn't call.
My parents had promised they would call Sunday morning. I waited. I didn't take a shower in case the phone rang and Aunt Terra and Uncle Esmun didn't hear it.
No word. Not one word. Maybe they had left a message on my cell. It would never occur to them I had forgotten it.
Their flight to Rio might have crashed or maybe their ship sank. Maybe they'd forgotten about me. If they had forgotten, was it because they were too busy having a good time, or a horrible time? Had they already decided to divorce and didn't want it to slip out over the phone? As if my Christmas wasn't already ruined.
I blinked back tears and fled to the bathroom.
Fine. I don't care if they divorce.
As long they are okay and I can still attend Athenian Academy and afford college.
Using the back of my wrist, I levered on the faucet, and cool water streamed out. I twirled the bar of soap between my hands, raising slick lavender-scented bubbles between my fingers.
My parents are fine. They're fine. They're fine. When I get my phone back, I'll find lots of messages. Miss-you-love-bug messages. Don't-worry-Ains messages. Hope-you-are-taking-your-meds-sweetie messages.
I rinsed, and then started over, scrubbing up to my elbows. Water splashed over the edge of the speckled counter and dripped onto my bare feet. I rinsed again. Then, just in case the phone rang, I forced myself to place the soap back in the ceramic dragon dish and dried off.
I can't control my parents. I can't control my OCD. I can't do anything about my French and Drama grades. But I can control one thing about the future — my other grades.
Slipping back into the small bedroom, I stuffed
The Scarlet Letter
into my backpack beside my chemistry textbook, almanac, and binder. I needed merit scholarships. They were divorce-proof.
I checked the alarm clock on the bedside table, and all hope drained out of me. The window of opportunity had passed for my parents to call. They were either on the second leg of their flight to Rio or already onboard the ship. I couldn't remember which, and their itinerary was on my laptop.
Cement and sand replaced the blood flowing in my veins. I eyed the bed.
Don't do it. You'll end up like before, huddled in the fetal position, unable to move. Then how will you convince anyone you are mentally stable?
I needed a cell phone. I needed to text Jazmin. I needed Aunt Terra and Uncle Esmun to not work today so we could shop for a cell phone.
Aunt Terra hunched over the faux Queen Anne dining table, her arm knee-deep in her handbag. "Okay if I tag along with you to Spiral Journeys?" I asked. "Maybe I could take Jett out to lunch. You know, thank him for helping me out yesterday."
Pay my debt. Talk to someone my age.
A delighted smile lit Aunt Terra's face. "We would love to have you join us. We weren't sure after yesterday—"
"Did you think a little dragon episode would scare me off?"
As if.
"Of course not. We just didn't want to push."
Uncle Esmun emerged from their bedroom and joined us. "Told you she and Jett would get along." He beamed. "Jett breaks for lunch at one, so you'll be just in time.
Since it appeared Jett hadn't told them about the wager, I didn't either. Why burst Uncle Esmun's bliss bubble? "I know you're super swamped, but sometime when you're free, could we stop somewhere and buy a cell phone? I accidentally left mine and my laptop at home."
"
Oh dear." Aunt Terra said.
"Mom gave me money for emergencies," I added, in case they thought I expected them to pay for the phone. "I just want a cheap disposable one so I can stay in touch with everyone."
Aunt Terra extricated her keys out of her handbag and jangled them. "Of course. We'll figure something out."
"Thanks." I hoped
something
entailed getting me to a store after work today.
"And I promise," Aunt Terra added, "we'll make time before you leave to do some fun things."
"Don't worry about entertaining me. I know this is the busiest time of the year for retailers. And my visit was totally last minute."
I dashed back to my room for my handbag and backpack, and followed them outside. The dragonfly thermometer mounted outside my sliding glass door read seventy degrees. Blue sky peeked through the white latticework roof sheltering the courtyard. I shook my head.
Is it truly December?
Once we were beyond the mesh gate, a cool breeze sluiced over my bare ankles and toes and deposited fine particles of sand onto my flip-flops. As I climbed into the dusty backseat of the ancient Datsun, I imagined Jazmin slogging through rain on her way to the cafeteria.
We headed out of town, across the desert flatlands. To tune out the Christmas songs on the car radio, I closed my eyes and pretended I was rocketing through the galactic void. When I was deep into my daydream of commanding the space shuttle, Aunt Terra shattered my reverie. Her painfully off-key rendition of "White Christmas" sounded so much like Mom's, a fresh meteor shower of homesickness crashed over me.
A picture jumped into my mind from Christmas three years ago. Mom and Dad had invited their friends and colleagues to a huge open house at the mansion. At one point, the party had migrated to the music room. Some guy from Dad's office had started playing Christmas carols on the grand piano. I'd loitered in the adjoining living room, mortified by Mom's tone-deaf singing. Dad hadn't minded. He had slipped his arm around her waist. She was enjoying herself. Nothing else mattered.
It seemed so long ago. I tried to mentally return to deep space and the silence of the cosmos, but failed.
I opened my eyes. We had reached the long, flat basin rimmed by distant brown mountains, some dusted with snow. The road bisected the desert. I wondered what lurked among the barrel cactuses, saguaros, and acres of sand. Just thinking about the creepy crawlies prickled my skin.
Aunt Terra twisted in the front passenger seat so she half-faced me. "Sundays are our Psychic Sampler day. Readings are fifteen minutes and free. Of course, love donations are accepted."
"White Christmas" ended on the radio, supplanted by "Jingle Bell Rock
."
I leaned forward in my seat. "They're free? Do you get a portion of the love donations?"
"No, of course not."
"Then how do you make any money on the deal?"
Aunt Terra blinked twice. Maybe I had overstepped some invisible economic boundary. "The Sampler brings people into the store. Increased foot traffic should lead to increased sales."
"Yes," I began.
"Watch it, sweetheart," Uncle Esmun warned Aunt Terra. "I sense there be a 'but' coming up." Uncle Esmun's eyes glittered when he glanced at me in the rearview mirror.
"But
the readers get a great opportunity to build their client base," I said. "After all, don't you publicize them on your website and email list?"
"Yes." Aunt Terra and Uncle Esmun shared a sideways glance. The car began its tortured ascent up a long, steep grade.
"They're getting lots of free publicity." I argued. "You should charge them a fee."
Aunt Terra said, "One of your Mom's Christmas letters mentioned you had interned at a fancy department store."
"Yes, Lohan's." I settled back in the seat. "I learned a lot about marketing."
"I can tell." Aunt Terra's gaze swept up to her husband. "Let's bring this up at the board meeting."
"We'll have a mutiny on our hands," Uncle Esmun predicted.
"Why?" I asked.
"Because most of our board members are readers."
"Oh." I fell silent and made a mental note to discover more about the board's role. Dad would handle such an obstacle by clearing house. I could imagine him doing his finger snap, followed by an emphatic point as he said, "Dissolve the board or override them."
We entered Yucca Valley and passed car dealerships and house-like storefronts with window signs advertising palm readers, psychics, and tarot readings. The ancient car chugged up to the front of Spiral Journeys and seemed relieved when Uncle Esmun parked and cut the motor. The three of us piled out. Once inside Spiral Journeys, I scanned the store, keeping my gaze low to avoid the mural. Two purple-draped card tables and a massage table crowded the sales floor.
I lowered my voice. "Are those your readers?"
"Yep. A new crop will take over in an hour." Uncle Esmun rocked on his heels. "That's Hazel." He indicated a short, stocky, white-haired woman at the premium table nearest the entrance.
Hazel warned the sixty-something gay guy at her table, "Dire happenings are on your horizon. You should book a full session with me." She handed him a business card. "I'm concerned for your well-being. Here's my number. My rates are listed on my website."