Confessions of a Teenage Psychic (2 page)

“Maybe— ” Harris clears his throat when his changing voice breaks. He looks around the room with a panic-stricken look on his face, but gathers his courage and tries again. “Wouldn’t it ruin the story if she fell in love with Darcy too early in the book? Maybe Jane Austen wants us to get to know Miss Bennet first.”

There are groans from Kevin and a few others, and Harris turns a bright red.

“Excellent observation, Harris,” Mrs. York answers with another stern look at the disgruntled kids. “Austen was a master storyteller. She builds suspense by having Elizabeth be surprised when she realizes she’s in love with a man she thought she loathed.”

“She’s pretty stubborn, so she wouldn’t even admit to herself that she’s attracted to Darcy, let alone tell anyone else. Not even her sister.” Janae is still staring out the window but can multi-task with the best of them.

“Very good, Janae, quite right. Any other comments?” Deana suddenly lifts her head and raises her hand. “Deana?”

“May I use the restroom?”

Without waiting for an answer Deana jumps up from her seat, grabs the hall pass from the hook next to the door, and rushes out of the room.

Mrs. York sighs.

“Hey, Mrs. York, sorry I’m late. Dentist appointment.”

It’s Quince Adams. He walks in just as Deana dashes out, and hands his late pass to the teacher.

“Have a seat, John,” Mrs. York tells him.

Quince takes the seat directly in front of me. He automatically glances at Kensi across the room, which makes me cringe.

Now maybe you’re wondering why I call him Quince when Mrs. York calls him John. Which is it? Well, get this— his name really is John Quincy Adams. His dad claims they’re descendants of the sixth president of the United States, so he insisted they name the kid after their famous ancestor. But no one calls him John, except maybe the teachers.

He’s sixteen, tall and muscular, blond hair, blue eyes, and has charm oozing from every pore. He’s a fairly good student, usually making As and Bs, but his real strength is sports. At the last pep rally, Coach Edgemont introduced him as “an all-around star athlete, a slam-dunk for an athletic scholarship to the college of his choice” and the student body went wild. Right now he’s just a junior, so he’s got some time before the talent scouts start coming around making offers.

Naturally all the girls want to date Quince, but he’s been going out with Kensington Marlow since last year.

Everyone calls her Kensi, and for reasons that escape me, she’s the most popular girl in school. Maybe it’s because she’s head cheerleader, or maybe it’s because of the sleazy way she dresses.

As it so happens, she’s sitting next to her best friend and fellow cheerleader, Salissa Pringle, a slender, attractive girl who always looks really serious. Salissa is Indian, so she’s got that dark exotic look all the guys go for. The two of them usually have their heads together, whispering about something. It’s enough to make us regular kids paranoid.

Quince casually smiles at me as he sits down, making my heart race wildly, but then he grins at Kensi. She tosses her hair and bats her eyes at him, but once she’s sure she’s got his undivided attention, she goes back to her conversation with Salissa.

I’m so miserable I could die.

“Okay, everyone, focus,” says Mrs. York, trying to regain the class’s attention after Quince’s grand entrance. “What makes the romantic clash between Elizabeth Bennet and Mr. Darcy so intense?”

“You don’t expect a woman in the nineteenth century to argue with a man,” I say.

That’s me trying to sound confident. I’ve already finished the book, but even so I don’t like speaking out in class because people look at me and I hate drawing attention to myself. It’s bad enough that this sixth sense I’ve got makes kids think I’m weird, or crazy, or both. See, all I really want is to be a normal, everyday teenager, just like all the other kids.

But being psychic is so
not
normal.

Mrs. York gives me a nod, so I relax a little and glance over at Quince, catching him staring at me. Is he staring because I said something smart, or is it because maybe he likes me? Just as I’m engaging in a bit of wishful thinking, there’s a knock on the classroom door, and I can tell Mrs. York is about to give up in frustration.

She steps into the hall to talk to Ms. Benedict. She’s Megan’s mom and a brand new freshman English teacher here at Rosslyn. I guess that’s why Megan transferred to this school. Or maybe it had something to do with her parents’ divorce a few years back. Anyway, I see Megan slump down in her chair.

“Megan, your mother would like to speak to you,” Mrs. York says.

Megan lets out a huge sigh of disgust, gets up from her chair and goes to the door, closing it behind her.

“I wonder what that’s all about,” Janae whispers to me.

“Megan’s still way involved with this uniform policy thing.” I was sure everyone already knew that, but if Janae doesn’t know then it must be a pretty well-kept secret.

“WHAT? I thought she dropped that!”

“You know Megan. She never lets anything drop.”

“Really? Tell me what you know!” Janae leans in closer so she doesn’t miss a thing.

When will I ever learn to keep my big mouth shut? Here it is April, I’ve been in this school since September, and it’s like I haven’t learned a thing. Who knew the principal’s new dress code rules would cause all this trouble? Okay, I did, but did Megan listen to me? She’s as stubborn and opinionated as Elizabeth Bennet. It’s like she’s been on this collision course since school started and there’s no stopping her.

When I think back to last September and my first day here…

New Kid, New School Year

“Class, may I have your attention? I’d like to introduce our new student Caryn Alderson. She just moved here from Houston, Texas,” announces the art teacher, Miss Emerson. She looks frazzled, her apron covered in paint, and there’s a smudge of blue chalk on her face.

I feel like an idiot, being presented to the class like I’m in elementary school. What next? Will they greet me in unison?

“Hi, Caryn!” all the students say at once.

Great. My sixth sense always kicks in at the most embarrassing moments.

“Caryn,” says Miss Emerson after the class settles back to work. “As I told you when we met yesterday, we’re already working on our first project of the year. So to get you up to speed quickly, I’ll partner you with someone.” Miss Emerson looks around the room for a likely victim. “Megan? Megan Benedict, may I have a word with you?”

Megan is absorbed in a pencil drawing on the other side of the room and clearly doesn’t want to be disturbed. She groans and rolls her eyes as she gets up from her stool and walks across to the front of the room where I’m still standing next to Miss Emerson. Megan stops in front of me, arms clasped across her chest, glaring at me like I’m her worst nightmare. Right now all I want to do is run— back to my mother, back to Houston, anywhere but here.

“Megan, will you help Caryn get started on this project? You can explain it to her, show her where the supplies are, things like that. Do you mind?”

“No,” Megan says, but her body language speaks volumes. She turns and walks toward the supply closet, leaving me to trail behind her like some unwanted puppy.

I guess most kids would be able to tell Megan wasn’t happy about Miss Emerson sticking her with the new kid. I’m sensing there’s more to her attitude, but I can’t home in on it right now. I’m too busy being embarrassed.

“You don’t have to, you know,” I say to the back of her head. “Show me around and stuff, I mean. I know my way around art rooms.”

Megan turns and looks me up and down, making me feel even more insecure. I’m trying not to stare, but I have to admit I’m looking right back. She’s what we call a “prep” back in Houston. Her light blonde hair is pulled back into a ponytail, her clothes are Old Navy casual— khaki knee-length cargo shorts, layered blue and white short-sleeved ribbed T-shirts that fit snugly on her slim figure, and sandals that look expensive, like Birkenstocks. I feel self-conscious in my peasant skirt, faded Houston Astros T-shirt, Walmart sandals, and my long brown hair braided down my back (the better to hide the green stripe I dyed into it last spring).

She shrugs. “Miss Emerson has a weird filing system, so I’d better explain it to you. Where have you been, anyway?”

“Been?” Now it’s my turn to be confused.

“Duh. It’s September,” she says and rolls her eyes again. “Way after Labor Day even. School started over three weeks ago, so where have you been?”

“Oh, yeah, my late enrollment. My mom and I just moved here.”

“Hm,” Megan says, as she carefully pulls pencils, drawing paper, and rulers from the cabinet. “Come on, I’ll tell you what we’re doing.”

I follow her to the table in the back of the room where she’s left her drawing in mid-stroke. “That’s really good, what you’re working on,” I say, glancing over at her sketches. This girl’s got talent. It’s a fairly detailed drawing of an old building that looks like the pictures I’ve seen of downtown Indianapolis. I get an instant gut reaction to Megan’s artwork and realize how important it is to her. No wonder she didn’t want to get stuck showing me around— it’s taking her away from what she really wants to be doing.

“Thanks,” Megan says, finally smiling. “I love architecture, especially historic buildings.”

Now how did I know that? Ugh, here I go again.

“Have you been downtown yet? There’s so much to look at.” Suddenly the sullen Megan disappears and a different girl emerges, one who lights up just talking about her art.

I smile back. “No, I haven’t done much sightseeing yet, but I’d like to.” Megan picks up her pencil and goes back to work, so I wait a minute. And then another minute. “So what’s the assignment?”

“Oh, sorry,” she says, realizing I’m still standing here. “We’re supposed to draw a famous building or house or whatever— sketch it in pencil— then construct a miniature of it using all natural materials. No plastic or anything like that.”

It sounds easy enough. I like art, but I don’t know if I’m crazy about architecture. Still, Megan’s enthusiasm is contagious. Miss Emerson told me when I agreed to enroll in the art program that we’d do all kinds of projects, so I let myself be talked into joining this class in the hopes of doing some actual watercolor painting. Since it’s a longer class just after lunch, I have lots of time to either prove myself or screw up. And all I want right now is to somehow fit in, even if I don’t like the project. Screwing up isn’t an option.

“So what are you going to draw?” Megan is talking and sketching at the same time, although she’s not paying much attention to the conversation.

The only famous building I can think of is the Alamo in San Antonio. Okay, I know I’m from Houston, but every self-respecting Texas kid has either been to the Alamo or at least studied it in school. One summer a few years ago, right around the Fourth of July (which is my birthday, by the way), Dad and Michael surprised me with a trip to San Antonio. We did all the usual stuff— walked around the River Walk, ate Mexican food till we were about to explode, and of course visited The Alamo. It’s now a museum with lots of stuff from that famous siege in 1836, but what I remembered most was that this really old, historical fort was completely surrounded by modern skyscrapers, creating a weird mix of old and new.

“Did you hear me?” Megan asks. “Hello?”

“Oh, sorry, my mind wandered.”

“What are you going to draw?”

“I think I might do The Alamo. You know, in Texas.”

“Weird.” Megan screws up her face as she does some sophisticated pencil shading on her building.

Just what I need— to be thought of as weird by the first kid I meet in this new school. “Well, I really don’t know much about Indiana,” I reply with a shrug. “So I should probably go with someplace I’ve actually been.”

I realize I’m giving Megan more information than she wants, since she’s already become re-absorbed in her own project. I sit down next to her with a piece of drawing paper and a freshly sharpened pencil and try to sketch The Alamo. Instead, my mind wanders back to that trip to San Antonio with my dad. I really miss him.

Guy McNamara and my mom were never a couple. They met at a wild college party one night while he was an undergrad and she was going for her masters, so I was the result of some experimenting Dad said he was doing at the time. Mom gave me her last name, but Dad has always been important in my life, and luckily my parents are good friends as well as co-parents.

One spring in elementary school Dad encouraged me to try out for little league softball and I somehow made the team. The coach tried me in every possible position but nothing worked. I struck out every other time I got up to bat— which was less and less as the season progressed— and eventually I ended up so far in the outfield that I spent my time catching butterflies instead of fly balls. Dad never missed a single one of my games, though, giving me lots of encouragement.

After that disastrous season ended and I vowed never to step foot on a softball field again, Dad tried to boost my spirits by taking me to an actual Major League Baseball game. Soon he and I became huge baseball fans and spent many nights watching the Astros play on TV or even taking in high school games around town. Michael Ferguson, Dad’s partner, is a high school teacher, so he kept us clued in as to schedules and stuff.

I sigh. Dad’s still in Houston and I know I won’t get to see him again till next summer.

I glance at the wall clock and realize there are just a few minutes left in the class and I haven’t accomplished a thing. My paper is still blank. Megan looks over at it, frowns, and starts gathering her supplies to put away.

“Come on, there are drawers in the cabinet for each of us, so I’ll show you which one you can use.”

I pick up my things and follow her back to the cabinet. I’ll bet Megan thinks I should have been placed in the beginner art class, since I don’t have anything to show for myself after wasting an entire class period. After seeing Megan’s artwork, I think maybe I should be too.