Confessions of a Teenage Psychic (23 page)

“Other kids don’t know who they are right now any more than you do, dear. It’s easy to make fun of someone who’s a little different.”

I take a big swallow of my soda, scoop a huge serving of salsa onto a chip, and take my time nibbling while I think about this. I figure Sybil is going to support me no matter what, because she’s Mom’s friend and she cares about me. But when I look at Annabeth, I realize she’s being straight with me, as always. This is the first time it’s ever occurred to me that maybe I’m not just the freaky kid who has to hide in the background.

“Do you really think I’m normal? Really?”

“Duh,” Annabeth says, rolling her eyes. “That’s what I’ve been telling you for months.”

And it’s true. Annabeth not only accepted me but encouraged me from day one.

“So you don’t think I’m weird?” I ask for the umpteenth time.

“Caryn, get over yourself,” Annabeth says. “You take all this way too seriously.”

I smile, feeling almost giddy from this new revelation. Annabeth makes it sound so simple.
I’m a normal teenager— with a special talent!
So does that mean I don’t need to hide who I am? That I can just be myself?

Annabeth taps the spoon on the table again. “So, back to my question. What’s going to happen with Josh?”

“Depends on his birthday,” Sybil answers. Annabeth looks at
her
funny this time.

I tilt my head in Sybil’s direction. “Numerology.”

Annabeth’s eyes widen and she leans toward Sybil, but the waiter arrives with three steaming plates on a tray for our table and interrupts whatever she was about to say. The smell of spicy meat and cheese reminds me how hungry I am, and I dig in as soon he places our dishes in front of us.

“Be careful, plates are hot,” he warns in his thick Hispanic accent.

I giggle as I take a bite of enchilada and lean over the table like I’m just sharing gossip with a friend, but of course it’s not gossip but soon-to-happen stuff.

“Well… Josh thinks he’s got you back, just by being sorry— and he
is
sorry— and he won’t cheat on you again. But what he doesn’t know is there’s serious competition! You know that guy Miguel you were studying with last winter? And remember when I said you’d have a choice to make? Well… ”

Nobody at Rosslyn High is talking much about uniforms, or anything else for that matter. In fact, there’s an eerie silence around the place. School gets out in about ten days, so I’m sure all the kids are hoping this whole uniform thing will go away over the summer. In the meantime, there are all the usual end-of-school rituals to be gotten through, like elections, exams, prom.

I didn’t go to prom, of course, because it’s only for juniors and seniors, but the week after the dance, everyone was talking about how Quince and Kensi were not only there as a couple, but were crowned king and queen.

I’m trying not to think too much about them, since I can’t stand the thought of Quince with a girl so unworthy of him, but I guess I need to accept it and move on. I’m also still sure Kensi is headed for a fall, I just don’t know when or how. But I can’t say it doesn’t hurt when I see them together.

It’s Monday morning after prom, and Principal MacGregor uses the PA to announce the results of the election for next year’s student council officers. They are:

Kensington Marlow— President

Emma Cartwright— Vice President

Ashleigh Ko— Treasurer

Kevin Marshall— Recording Secretary

Harris Rutherford— Sophomore Class Representative

Megan Benedict— Junior Class Representative

Salissa Pringle— Senior Class Representative

No one is particularly surprised at the outcome except me. I’ve been so sure that Emma is going to be president, I seriously question how my sixth sense could be that far off. I also don’t understand how Kensi got more votes than Emma. In my opinion the girl just doesn’t have the brains for such an important office, but I guess I’m underestimating her popularity. And Principal MacGregor— well, since Emma is his hand-picked candidate, he sounds more than a little upset as he makes the announcement.

When I see Emma at lunch she looks relieved, so I ask her how she feels about being vice president.

“It’s great! It means I’ve got an office that’ll look good on my college resume, but it’s a no-brainer. I don’t have to do anything except be on call in case Kensi gets sick or something. And now I can attend that design camp this summer!”

I’m happy for her, but still a little uneasy. I just can’t figure out how I’ve been so wrong about the outcome of the election. All day I wrack my brain and can’t come up with a single reason why I’m so psychically off base.

Pretty soon my head aches from all the mental exertion, so I decide not to think about school stuff anymore and focus on my own summer plans— visiting Dad in Houston. Unfortunately, I don’t get to dwell on my plans for too long, because Principal MacGregor sends a letter home to all parents about the required clothing for next year. And all hell breaks loose.

By Tuesday morning, Megan has rallied her anti-uniform troops. I hear rumors and whispers all over school about a protest or walkout or something like that, and my stomach— not to mention my sixth sense— lurches at the very thought.

“Caryn,
it
is happening after lunch tomorrow, so are you with us or not?” Megan asks me in the hallway, checking over her shoulder for teachers.

“What is
it?
” I ask, trying to look unconcerned.

Megan rolls her eyes. “If you’re joining us, just be ready after lunch,” is all she says as she walks off.

I see her standing in the middle of a group of kids— the ones who were at her house last month making all those protest signs— their heads together like they’re in a football huddle. That creepy feeling is all over me now.

I just can’t be a part of this— whatever it is— and I decide to make myself scarce tomorrow.

“Caryn, did you forget to set your alarm again?” asks Mom standing in the door of my room. “You’re going to miss the bus.”

I roll over and look at the bedside clock and smile to myself. My plan is working, sort of, and now all I have to do is convince my mother to let me stay home.

“I’m sick,” is the first lie that pops into my head.

Mom isn’t easily fooled, though. She feels my forehead, looks in my eyes and down my throat, and then shakes her head.

“Get up, faker. You’re definitely not sick.”

“My stomach hurts,” I say, sounding a little whiny, even to myself.

“For heaven’s sake, Caryn, are you five?” Mom sits on the edge of the bed. “What’s this all about?”

I sit up. “I can’t go to school today. Megan has some protest march or walkout or something planned, and I don’t even want to be there when it all happens.”

Mom arches a brow at me. “That’s pretty drastic, isn’t it? What does she hope to accomplish by all that?”

I grab my pillow and hug it tightly. “Force Mr. MacGregor’s hand about the uniforms, I guess. Please don’t make me go to school.”

Mom thinks for a minute, and to my relief agrees with me. “Okay, you can stay home for today, but it’s only because I’m relying on your good sense to stay out of whatever Megan’s plotting. I still have to go to work, though, so will you be all right at home?”

I nod and give Mom a big hug, deciding it’s in my best interest not to remind her I’m not a little kid anymore. I roll over, pull the covers up, and try to go back to sleep. Maybe when I wake up all this will be over and I can finally quit worrying about it.

I’m walking barefoot on a beautiful beach at sunrise, feeling the warmth of the summer air on my face. Off in the distance I see a man approaching me and run toward him, hoping it’s my father. Instead of Dad, it’s a reporter with a microphone that he sticks in my face. “Miss Alderson, what is your
psychic
opinion of all this
?”

Okay, I’m awake. That was truly a nightmare, only I realize it isn’t night. I try to shake it off as I look at the clock. Noon.

I’m starved, so I kick back the covers and head for the kitchen to pour myself a big bowl of cereal. I plop down on the sofa with my breakfast and pick up the TV remote and flip through channels, looking for something besides soap operas. I’m about to give up and turn off the television when I hear a voice say, “It’s time, Caryn. Listen to your instincts.”

I nearly drop my cereal. “NO!” I shout to the air.

I turn up the volume and flip through the channels again, this time landing on a local newscast that’s broadcasting a live remote.

“Again, this is Michael Simons, coming to you live from outside Rosslyn High School, where there’s a protest going on. It seems the students have all walked out of the building carrying posters and signs, and now are marching in protest against a new school uniform policy set to be implemented at the start of next school year.”

The camera pans around the front lawn of the school building and there are hundreds of kids out of classes— yelling, chanting, waving signs and banners, and some just mugging for the cameras. In addition to all the students outside, there are administrators, teachers, police, and the fire department. And naturally there are news reporters of all kinds swarming around, trying to be the first to get the story. It’s what they like to call a media circus, and it’s definitely what Megan must have had in mind all along. I suddenly feel guilty for not being there.

Without even thinking, I throw on some jeans, a clean T-shirt, and tennis shoes and race out the front door, locking it behind me. I run the entire six blocks to school and arrive, breathless, to find myself tangled in a group of onlookers trying to get a look at all the action.

It’s like I’m on autopilot. I’m searching for Megan, even though I’m not sure why I’m even here or what I’ll say when I find her, but something compelled me to come. However, in this crowd, finding her seems almost impossible.

“Look over by the Channel 2 news crew,” someone whispers in my ear.

For once, I’m grateful for the assist. “Thanks, Uncle Omar.”

I head off toward the satellite truck emblazoned with a giant red “2” and find Megan at the center of the firestorm. She’s jumping up and down, waving her banner, and the Channel 2 reporter is holding a mike in front of her face. I wonder how the news media even got wind of this, but I guess it isn’t that hard to leave an anonymous message on a reporter’s voice mail. I push past some upper-classmen trying to grab the spotlight for themselves and stand close enough to Megan to hear her give the reporter the story he came for.

“And what is your name?”

“Megan Benedict. My dad’s Daniel Benedict, CEO of Truitt Wellness Corporation.”

I kind of feel sorry for her dad being called out on live TV, but Megan looks very proud of herself for adding that important piece of info.

The reporter nods and smiles, appreciating the scoop he just got. “Are you the organizer of today’s protest march?”

“Yes, I am. We’re all out here today to demonstrate against school uniforms in a PUBLIC school!”

Megan lets out a whoop, and of course all the kids around her begin shouting too, waving their signs in the air like it’s a pep rally or something. Just as the crowd noise subsides, Megan is jerked aside by Ms. Benedict with Principal MacGregor at her side. The reporter gives a throat-slashing signal to his cameraman, who lowers his camera.

I make my way toward where they’ve dragged Megan, although I have no idea what I’m going to say to her when I get there, but she doesn’t see me anyway. Turns out her mother and the principal have plenty to say.

“Megan Benedict, what are you thinking?” Ms. Benedict has a very grim look on her flushed face.

“I’m
thinking
that none of us want to wear school uniforms!” Megan says, waving her banner.

“Young lady, you are in a great deal of trouble,” says Mr. MacGregor. “It appears that every student in the school is out of class right now!”

“Don’t be silly, not EVERY student,” Megan says. “I happen to know for a fact that Deana Pruitt’s in the second floor girls’ bathroom throwing up her lunch.”

Ms. Benedict nods knowingly to Mr. MacGregor, lowering her voice. “The superintendent’s daughter is a notorious bulimic. She’s in there every day after lunch.”

Mr. MacGregor looks almost as shocked at this news as he is about the walkout, which just shows how out of touch he is with his student body.

“Megan is right, though,” continues Ms. Benedict. “Not all students are participating, Mr. MacGregor. Ashleigh Ko, Harris Rutherford, and several other gifted math students are at the Economics exhibit downtown. Emma Cartwright is doing an internship for her clothing design class, and the boys’ baseball team is on a bus headed for an out-of-town game with Coach Edgemont.”

“See?” Megan says, tapping her foot. “Not everybody!”

The principal gives her a severe look, silencing her for once. Megan notices me and waves excitedly.

Mr. MacGregor sees me at about the same time and exclaims, “Caryn Alderson! I thought your mother called you in sick today! So you were involved in this as well? Frankly, Caryn, I thought you had better sense.”

“Um, well, I… ” I swallow hard.

Suddenly I wonder what made me even come here when I had determined to stay out of it. It’s like something— or
someone
— was propelling me here.

Then before I can stop myself, like an idiot I blurt out, “You should answer your cell phone, Mr. MacGregor. It’s the superintendent and he’s not happy.”

Mr. MacGregor looks at me like I’m nuts, turns back to Megan, and then stops as his cell phone rings. He doesn’t seem too surprised until he flips it open and looks at the caller ID. “Yes, Superintendent Pruitt?” he says, with a raised-eyebrow look at me. “We certainly are trying to get the situation under control, sir.” The principal steps away from the crowd to finish his conversation.

“Caryn Alderson, is it?” asks someone behind me. “How did you know the phone was going to ring, or who it was going to be?”

I turn around and find myself face-to-face with Michael Simons, who not only has his cameraman at his side but his microphone stuck in my face.