Confessions of a Teenage Psychic (16 page)

You could say March blew in like a lion, but really it was more like Hurricane Megan.

The rumors about school uniforms died down a little after Valentine’s Day, especially since the weather turned cold again and all the kids had to go back to wearing their winter clothes. But Megan wouldn’t let it drop. She kept up a running dialogue with anyone who cared to listen— and a few people who didn’t care to listen, like me— about how Rosslyn High would be the laughingstock of the city if kids were forced to wear uniforms in public school. Megan single-handedly kept the kids stirred up, despite my constant warnings for her to stay out of it.

This rumor is a tough one to squelch, though, since the story keeps changing all the time. Sometimes there are exaggerations, sometimes there’s a grain of truth to it, but most kids just don’t know what to believe.

“Mrs. York?” Megan asks the teacher in first period, interrupting the lesson. “Is it true we’ll have to wear uniforms next year?”

Mrs. York sighs. “Megan, I really don’t know where you heard that, but to my knowledge it’s not true.”

Megan barely allows Mrs. York to finish before waving her arm in the air. “But Principal MacGregor said— ”

“Yes, I know what he said about dressing appropriately, but students have heeded his warning and I think things have calmed down again,” Mrs. York says, holding up a hand.

“Yeah, but only because it’s cold right now,” Kensi whines. “When it gets warm again and we want to wear— ”

“Yeah, shorts and stuff,” Megan chimes in.

“I believe you students have blown Mr. MacGregor’s comments way out of proportion.” Mrs. York now has her hands on her hips, exasperation in her voice.

Deana Pruitt raises her hand. “I overheard my dad say something about a stricter dress code.”

“Perhaps the superintendent is just planning to enforce the dress code we already have,” Mrs. York replies.

“Does that mean only khaki pants and navy blue shirts like I heard someone say?” Janae asks.

“I heard guys would have to wear ties everyday!” Kevin shouts.

There’s a lot of murmuring, everyone repeating what they heard like it’s a child’s game of Gossip. Apparently there are very real threats to our fashion individuality, if you believe the rumors.

Mrs. York’s patience is wearing thin. “Class, please, can we get back to work?”

No one is listening to the teacher now. Students are whispering among themselves and the angrier they get, the louder they talk. I hear snippets of conversations punctuated with “no way” and “they can’t tell us what to wear” and “my dad will freak” or “uniforms are too expensive.” Most of the students have always attended public school and have no idea what it means to wear a uniform. I’m one of those kids, but Megan— straight from Willowby Prep— and a few of the students who attended parochial schools are up in arms.

“Class!” Mrs. York taps her foot until the class settles down. “I think we need to table this discussion and get back to our lesson. We were discussing Shakespeare’s
Midsummer Night’s Dream
. Does anyone see any similarities in the play-within-a-play about Pyramus and Thisbe, to
Romeo and
Juliet
?”

“What I think is important is that Thisbe got to choose her own clothes that supposedly got torn by the lion,” Emma says.

Naturally that gets a laugh from the class.

“Anybody have a comment that does
not
pertain to wardrobe?” Mrs. York scouts out a likely victim. “Caryn?”

Nothing like being put on the spot, but since the teacher called on me, I go ahead and make my point.

“I don’t know about Thisbe, but if Bottom and all those bogus actors had worn outfits that offended the duke, they’d have been thrown out of Athens.”

Okay, I’ll admit it’s a cryptic remark, but I can’t help myself. All the mini-movies running in my head are screaming at me that this problem is going to escalate to a very bad end. If I can believe my gut instincts, everyone needs to back off and quit aggravating the teachers, and more importantly, the principal. Kids are letting what we’re wearing to school take on a life of its own.

Quince opens his mouth with a loud, exaggerated yawn, followed by an overhead arm stretch. “Is anybody else as tired of all this dress code talk as I am?”

Megan claps her book closed. “Yeah, well, most of you have no idea how boring it is to wear the same thing to school day after day. I did it for years and I don’t want to do it again.”

There’s a chorus of “me neither” and “so did I” from a few students, but Mrs. York is glaring at the class, so it quickly dies down.

“Please, students,
focus
. Act V… ”

The class settles down for the moment, but I know this is nowhere near over. Megan pulls out a sheet of paper and begins writing furiously.

She’s making up a petition!

From where I’m sitting I can’t see what she’s writing, but I know I’m right and it gives me uncomfortable goose bumps.

So it comes as no surprise the next day at lunch when Megan brings in a neatly typed petition with blank pages attached for hundreds of signatures, and begins asking kids in the cafeteria to sign it. Here’s what it says:

We, the undersigned students of Rosslyn High School, are opposed to any attempts to require us to wear school uniforms. We believe the current dress code is fine and should be enforced by teachers, administrators, and the school superintendent.

By signing this petition, we students declare that we will NOT cooperate with any forced changes in the current dress code.

It’s pretty bold for students to sign their names, saying they refuse to cooperate. Megan walks the petition around from table to table, easily convincing most students to put their signatures at the bottom. She even has to go to a second and then third page as she fills them up. Kids are willing to sign something that at this point is hypothetical, but the petition drive is gaining a lot of momentum and Megan is about to lock herself into a battle of wills with the principal.

I hate the images I’m getting, but they won’t get out of my head. Every time I see that petition, alarm bells clang inside my head with a robotic voice chanting
Danger, Danger
. Unfortunately, at this point I can’t see how it’s going to end. Maybe I don’t want to see.

Megan holds the paper out in front of me and tries to shove a pen in my hand. “Caryn, you haven’t signed my petition.”

I back up, putting some distance between me and that pen. “I don’t think it’s a good idea. None of it— the petition, challenging the administration— it’s just not going to work.”

Why do I bother? Megan isn’t listening to me. She’s too caught up in this new cause of hers to pay any attention.

“Traitor!” She stomps off to find another group of students to add their signatures.

“Annabeth, call me when you get this.”

I hang up the phone and flip on the TV in the living room. I haven’t seen Annabeth since January, although we’ve talked on the phone since then. I’m thinking she’s the one person who might be able to get through to Megan, seeing as how they’ve known each other since kindergarten.

There’s a rerun of
Friends
on one of the independent channels, so I settle in for some mindless comedy.

How come all those characters in that sitcom can get angry with each other and still maintain their friendships? It sure doesn’t work that way with the kids I know. Megan is mad at me for not signing her petition. I’m afraid she’ll get in big trouble if she doesn’t stop, and I’m mad at her for not listening to me. And Quince is still mad at me for accusing Kensi of cheating on him.

I sigh and curl up in a corner of the sofa. I hug a throw pillow and pull an afghan over me while I try to concentrate on the program. Rachel is breaking up with Ross after catching him cheating.

Quince is breaking up with Kensi after catching her cheating. Megan and Monica are in the kitchen cooking pasta while Phoebe and Joey and Annabeth are talking about what to wear to school…

The phone rings and I realize I must have dozed off.

“Hello?” I’m still half asleep, the television blaring in the background.

“I’m calling you back,” Annabeth says. “What’s up?”

I sit up and try to get the cobwebs out of my head. I reach for the remote and fumble for the mute button with the phone still in my ear.

“Caryn, you called ME. Are you there? What’s so important?” Annabeth sounds oddly impatient.

“Yeah. I’m about half here. It’s Megan.”

“Megan? You sounded all urgent about Megan?”

“Well, it’s what’s going on at school.”

She’s right. Now that I hear myself, it does sound lame.

Annabeth sighs. “Okay, so what’s she done now that’s got you all upset?”

I sit upright on the sofa, throw the blanket off and try to collect my thoughts. Annabeth knows Megan better than I do, so I’m hoping she has some insights into what might get Megan to back off her single-minded drive to save Rosslyn High School from the dress code demons.

“She’s got this petition drive going, trying to stir everyone up about refusing to wear school uniforms. It’s gotten, well… ”

“Wait, wait. What’s this about school uniforms, and what petition?”

“Sorry.” I realize I haven’t told Annabeth about the principal’s threats and the rumors at school. “Megan just won’t let this drop.”

Annabeth’s voice sounds thoughtful. “Yeah, that’s Megan, all right. But hey— school uniforms in a
public
school?”

“Well, I don’t know for sure, but Megan’s acting like it’s a done deal.”

“Ooooh, interesting.” Annabeth puts her hand over the receiver giggling, and I can tell it’s nothing I said. “But, Caryn, if
you
don’t know what’s going to happen, what do you need me for?”

“Oh, never mind. Maybe I should call you back, since you’ve got company.”

“What? How did you know that?” Annabeth sounds puzzled which is funny since she of all people should know how I know.

I close my eyes and concentrate and see a tall boy with dark eyes and curly hair. “Annabeth, who’s your new study partner?”

“Caryn, that’s so freaky how you do that,” Annabeth says, still in that giggly voice. “Okay, it’s a guy in my psychology class and we’re studying for a test.”

“So that’s what you call it!” I say, wishing Quince and I “studied” together. “Does this guy have a name?”

“Yes, he does, but I’m not telling you now. I gotta go. Anything else?” Annabeth puts her hand over the phone and I hear her muffled voice talking to the guy.

I shrug. “I thought maybe you could talk to Megan.”

“Well, okay I’ll try, but I’m not promising anything. It’s
Megan,
you know.” She doesn’t sound too interested.

“Well, whatever. And have fun with Miguel.” I hang up before she can say anything else.

“You can’t change the events already set in motion,” I hear a voice say to me.

I look around the room and think maybe the TV volume is on, but it’s still set to mute. In frustration I grab the remote and flip off the set.

Just your overactive imagination again
.

As I yawn, stretch, and head to my bedroom, I come face-to-face with Uncle Omar in the darkened hallway. Well, it should have been dark because all the lights are turned off, but there’s this glow around him and I can see him clear as day, grinning at me as usual. At least I’ve gotten to the place where I don’t jump or scream for my mom every time I see an apparition, but I have to admit it still unnerves me.

I put my hands on my hips. “I can’t change what?”

“Megan, the petition drive, all of it. It’s beyond your control.” Why does Uncle Omar always sound so calm?

“But I don’t want Megan to get in trouble.” I know I sound whiny, but the whole thing has just got me so confused.

Uncle Omar gets serious and says, “That’s not what you’re afraid of and you know it.”

I give that some thought and realize he’s making sense for once. But if it isn’t Megan getting in trouble, then I still can’t focus on what’s scaring me so much. I knock my knuckles against my head like that’s going to knock the answer loose. Instead it’s just giving me a headache.

“Just let things play out the way they’re supposed to,” he says with that ridiculous grin.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

But then he’s gone and the hallway is in darkness again. Without turning on the light I go into my room and collapse on the bed.

What can I do, what can I do, what can I do?

No matter how many times I say it, I don’t have any answers. I turn off the lamp next to my bed and decide to sleep on it till morning.

Unfortunately, I forget to set my alarm.

Late

“Caryn! Why aren’t you up yet?”

I open one eye and see my mother standing over my bed. I yawn, rub my eyes, and roll over to look at the bedside clock. Seven thirty! Usually I’m up by six thirty.

I have a morning routine. I shower, dress, and eat a bowl of cereal while brewing my mother’s coffee so she can leave for the store by eight-thirty. In a role-reversal kind of thing, I usually wake Mom up just before I leave the apartment to catch the 7:25 school bus. Now I’m going to miss most of my first period class because I overslept.

“I can’t believe I forgot to set my alarm. Can you drive me to school, Mom?”

“You know the car doesn’t have any gas. I’ll give you a note, but you’ll have to walk since you missed the bus.”

“Is it cold outside?”

“By whose standards?” Mom asks.

I can hear the wind blowing through the trees as their still-bare branches scrape my bedroom window, so I know I’ll need a jacket at least. Since it’s late March, none of the other kids are wearing their heavy winter coats to school, and not wanting to look uncool, I decide not to wear mine anymore either. Walking the six blocks to school without a coat isn’t going to be fun, but my social image is worth the sacrifice. I stumble out of bed and head toward the bathroom.

“Sorry about oversleeping, Mom,” I call over my shoulder as she heads to the kitchen to make her own coffee.