Confessions of a Teenage Psychic (24 page)

“I… I… uh… ”

“She’s a psychic!” announces Megan, smiling directly into the camera.

AAARRRGGGHHH!!!

Candid Camera

I stand there speechless, staring at Megan and feeling like the wicked witch must have felt when the house dropped on her. Instead of a house, though, it’s my world that just came crashing down on me.

Please, Universe, tell me she didn’t just say that on live TV.

Why couldn’t she have just said “she’s psychic,” like it was a big joke someone could laugh off? No, she had to say “She’s
a
psychic,” which conjures up visions of a crystal-ball-gazing gypsy.

The reporter looks as stunned as I feel, but he’s a pro and recovers quickly, sticking the mike back in my face. “Is that true? Do you have psychic abilities?”

Now, honestly. What am I supposed to say to that? If I say no, it’s a lie and my conscience (to say nothing of Uncle Omar) will haunt me forever. If I say yes, I’m dooming myself to social isolation. I look around for a way out of this predicament, an escape route, anything to keep from having to answer that question. I blink once, then twice, and wouldn’t you know it? I see Uncle Omar in the flesh— or, well you know— leaning against the school’s marquis, his arms crossed, and a smirk on his face.

“Don’t even think about denying it,” he says, grinning at me.

Michael Simons repeats his question. “Are you psychic, Miss… ?”

Megan leans over and shouts into his microphone. “Her name is Caryn Alderson!”

I’m still sputtering, fumbling for words, shooting dirty looks at Megan, and trying to pretend I don’t see Uncle Omar, when I hear some kids from the crowd shouting, “Hey, look at the cheerleaders!”

Relieved to have the focus anywhere but on me, I turn with everyone else to see what Kensi and the other cheerleaders are up to. They’ve formed one of those human pyramids with Kensi at the top. She’s precariously balanced on two other girls’ shoulders and she’s holding a sign over her head that reads “Rosslyn High School Students
Will Not
Wear Uniforms!!!”

Once she’s sure the cameras are all on her, she throws down the sign shouting “Fashion freedom for all!” and—
removes her shirt!

That’s right, in front of cameras, students, administrators, and various onlookers, Kensington Marlow takes off her shirt, revealing her black bra decorated with red ribbons—
school colors for a striptease?
— and the word “Uniform” written in bold black ink on her stomach, inside a red circle with a slash mark across it.

Of course the camera gets a close-up of her and just as the kids start cheering, she loses her footing and topples off the top of the pyramid. Now mind you, in addition to being without a shirt, Kensi is wearing very tight shorts that ride low on her hips, and as she falls, everyone in the Channel 2 viewing area gets an up-close look at her hot pink underwear. The other five girls manage not to fall down after her, but once Kensington hits the ground unhurt, she stands up smiling and waves at the camera, which once again gets a close-up of her bra and decorated bare midriff.

I can’t stand it anymore. I push my way through the crowds of people gawking at the cheerleaders and head for home. Unfortunately, when I get there I realize I’ve locked myself out of the apartment in my hurry to get to school, so I slowly walk to Mom’s store.

I’m feeling pretty miserable and extremely mad at myself for having ever left home, so when I see Uncle Omar on the sidewalk up ahead, it’s just one more irritation in a lousy day.

“Come to say ‘I told you so’?” Right now I don’t even care if anyone sees me talking to the signpost.

He laughs. “Not exactly, but I did tell you that certain events had to happen.”

“That’s ‘I told you so’ if I ever heard it,” I grumble. “My life is over.”

“Your
true
life is just beginning,” he says cheerfully. “Everything’s copasetic. Don’t worry.”

And he’s gone.
Copasetic?

“Easy for you to say,” I yell at the air, and a mother pushing a stroller crosses to the other side of the street to get away from me.

I slink into Sybil and Starshine’s, embarrassed and ashamed of myself, and see that Mom is on the phone. I sit on the stool behind the counter, dreading what I have to tell her.

“No, George, I haven’t seen any television today,” she’s saying. “We don’t have one here in the store, you know. Has something happened?”

Mom’s eyes get bigger and bigger as she listens to Mr. Desmond, and she casts a few wide-eyed glances in my direction.

“Uh-huh, I see. Well, yes, she’s here now and I guess I need to speak with her. Thanks for calling, George. You too.”

Mom hangs up the phone. For a minute, neither of us can say a word. Finally, I break the silence.

“How’s Mr. Desmond?” Okay, I’m stalling.

“Pretty surprised, actually.”

“So you heard about the stuff at school?” It’s like I’m out of my body again, floating up near that dusty light fixture and hearing myself say the dumbest things. “Stuff at school” barely scratches the surface.

Mom puts her hands on her hips. “Caryn, explain to me why you went to school today when you begged me to let you stay home.”

I feel all the humiliation coming back to me, and tears flood my eyes. “I’m so sorry, Mom. It’s just that when I turned on TV and saw all the news cameras at school— ”

“— you suddenly decided you wanted to be part of it after all?”

A big tear rolls down my cheek. “I just didn’t think.”

Mom softens a little, but I can tell she’s still not happy with me. “What’s this about you being interviewed on camera?”

I wipe my eyes with the back of my hand. “It was just awful. Does Mr. Desmond think you have a freak for a daughter?” Before Mom can respond to that I sniffle and add, “Pick up the phone.”

Of course the store’s phone rings and Mom reluctantly answers it.

“Sybil and Starshine’s New Age Bookstore.” Glancing over at me, she says, “Yes, she’s here.” She hands the phone to me. “Annabeth.”

I’m relieved it’s an ally. “Hi, Annabeth.”

“OHMIGOD! Caryn!” Annabeth’s voice is high-pitched and a little envious. “That is so crazy what happened at Rosslyn today! Megan planned all that?”

I sigh and hold the phone away from my ear. “I told you she was up to something.”

“No joke,” says Annabeth. “Are you okay?”

“Me? Why wouldn’t I be?”

“Because that interview with you and Megan is on all the teasers for the six o’clock news! That and Kensington Marlow’s striptease,” she adds with a snort.

Despite my misery, I find that pretty funny. “Who knew my prediction that Kensi was headed for a fall meant
literally
falling?”

Annabeth laughs. “Well, at least you were right about that. But then there are all the sound bites of you looking like a deer caught in the headlights.”

I groan, then take a deep breath. “The news cameras were all focused on the walkout until Megan opened her big mouth about me.”

“Yeah, the walkout’s the big story, but you’re in there too. Just be prepared, okay?”

That would’ve been pretty good advice if I’d known what to prepare myself for.

As soon as I hang up the phone from Annabeth, it rings again and I pick it up without thinking. “Sybil and Starshine’s New Age Bookstore, Caryn speaking.”

“Hello?” It’s a woman’s voice I don’t recognize. “Is this the Caryn Alderson who was interviewed by Channel 2 at Midday?”

“Uh, I guess so. Who’s this?”

“This is Serena Farrell with
The
Indianapolis Star
. Can I ask you a few questions?”

“NO!” I slam down the phone, my heart pounding.

A newspaper reporter? Seriously, this is all way out of control. I find myself hoping that there’s a major development over in the Middle East, or gas prices take another huge jump, or the president trips over a potted plant— anything to get the local news media’s attention off me. What I can’t figure out is why they’re interested in me at all. They should be focusing on the all-school walkout in protest of school uniforms. THAT was the story, not me.

I borrow Mom’s apartment key and walk home, feeling all the weight of the world on my shoulders. As I toss the keys on the table just inside the door, I see the blinking light on the answering machine and notice that there are fourteen messages. I hit play, ready to delete the usual nuisance calls, but nothing could have prepared me for what I heard next:

BEEP!
This is Mrs. Smith from school. I am not your personal secretary and I am tired of fielding calls from reporters, so I’m giving them your home phone number!

BEEP!
Hello, Caryn, this is Serena Farrell from
The Indianapolis Star
. I was hoping to get an interview with you. The school secretary suggested I try your mother’s bookstore if you aren’t home.

BEEP!
This is a message for Caryn Alderson. Michael Simons from Channel 2 News calling. I’d like to finish the interview I started with you earlier today.

BEEP!
Caryn Alderson, please call WXXZ radio station and ask for Bob Parker, or e-mail me through the website.

BEEP!
Sandra MacKenzie from
The Belford Daily News
calling for Caryn Alderson. Please call me back.

BEEP!
Tom Harrison from
Eyewitness News
. I’d like to interview Caryn Alderson about her so-called psychic abilities. Give me a call as soon as possible.

BEEP!
Caryn Alderson, why in the world did you bail on me today? It’s Megan. Call me back NOW!

BEEP!
Miss Alderson, this is Matthew Gains with the
Paranormal News Weekly.
We’d like to tell your story in our next edition. Please call me at your earliest convenience.

BEEP!
Hey, Caryn, Jeremy. Is it true about you being psychic? Weird!

BEEP!
Caryn, it’s Kevin Marshall. Wait till I tell Emma! Or does she already know?

BEEP!
Caryn, it’s Emma. I just got a call from Kevin and he told me about the walkout and you being on TV. Call me!

BEEP!
Caryn, girl, you’ve given me a month’s worth of gossip to spread around school. It’s Janae, by the way.

BEEP!
Hi Caryn, it’s Ashleigh. Well, the cat’s outta the bag now, girlfriend. Look out!

BEEP!
Uh, hi, Caryn? This is Harris Rutherford. You know, in your Love of Lit class? Um, I was wondering if, uh, well, could you give me some advice? I mean, you being psychic and all. I’d pay you. Call me back.

HUH? Harris wants to pay me for a psychic reading? And he sounds serious. He’s not laughing at me or anything, which is good, but it’s Harris and I know I can’t judge what the other kids are thinking based on him.

It’s just all so weird, though. Suddenly I picture myself sitting in the back room at Mom’s store, dressed like Madame Wilhelmina again, staring into a crystal ball and giving psychic readings. I shudder at that image, hope it’s just my overactive imagination, and collapse on the sofa. I’m overwhelmed and exhausted, so I close my eyes and drift off into a fitful sleep.

I’m on the Houston Astros’ baseball field. The stands are deserted, the players are nowhere in sight, but the scoreboard keeps flashing “Caryn the Teenage Psychic— Now at Bat.”

Just like it’s my own little field of dreams, Uncle Omar appears from nowhere, not dressed in his usual army fatigues but in an Astros uniform. He pitches me a ball which I catch with a mitt I got from somewhere in dreamland, and then he suddenly doubles over in laughter.

“What are you laughing about? This isn’t funny!”

“Sure it is! The joke’s on you, kid! Here you were thinking everything was about Megan, when it was really all about you!”

I sit up, wide awake. I rub my eyes and try to clear my head. And in that moment, it’s like a lightning bolt hits me. Not being psychic about my own life, I had no way of knowing I’d be more profoundly affected by this protest rally than Megan, since this whole time all I’d done was worry about
her
. The uneasy feeling I’d had for months was about me, not Megan. And now my secret is out and as much as I hate to admit it, it looks like Uncle Omar was right all along. He was pitching the facts to me and I just now caught his meaning.

In the middle of my breakthrough, Mom walks in the door. She puts her purse on the coffee table, looks through the mail— you know, the usual stuff she does when she gets home from work every day— and checks the answering machine. I watch with apprehension as she grows more and more amazed listening to the calls, and I seriously wish I’d deleted them.

“Have you listened to all these messages, Caryn?”

“Duh,” is my brilliant response.

“Well, then, what do you plan to do?”

“I plan to move to a deserted island and live there for the rest of my life.”

Mom points to the answering machine, like I’ve forgotten what’s on there, and then sighs. “Be reasonable, Caryn. This isn’t going to go away, and these reporters will keep hounding you if you don’t do something.”

I sit up. “Do what? Give an interview to a reporter? About being psychic of all things?”

She drops the mail and kicks off her shoes. “Caryn, I know it’s been a tough day, but you were outed on local television. Information like that is what the news media like to call a human interest story. They aren’t going to leave you alone.”

I sink back onto the sofa and bury my face in a throw pillow. “But I’m already an outcast at school. If I talk to a reporter about being psychic, it’s like committing social suicide!”

“You
are
psychic.” Mom sits down next to me and strokes my hair. “Instead of letting kids and the media make up stories about you, why not take control and tell the story of the real you?”

I sit up and blink tears out of my eyes. “Are you saying— give an interview?”

“Exactly.” Mom makes it sound so simple, but to me it’s anything but simple.