Confessions of a Teenage Psychic (4 page)

“Hi,” I say, looking him directly in the eyes. He has the most beautiful blue eyes I’ve ever seen.

“So where did you come from?” he asks me, squeezing into the booth.

I’m so busy staring I almost forget to answer him. He grins at me expectantly.

“Uh, Houston,” I finally reply. “My mom owns a bookstore.” I can’t stop looking at him. He’s just so darned cute.

“Cool. You coming to the game Friday?” My heart skips another beat.

“Quince here is the star quarterback, number seventeen, and Rosslyn is favored to beat Newton Tech by a whole lot.” Kevin laughs as he playfully elbows Quince. “I’m his favorite receiver.”

Usually I’m just a baseball fan, but suddenly football seems very interesting. Just as I’m about to open my mouth and say I’ll be at the game with Megan, the door opens and in walks a girl who looks like she’s just stepped off the cover of a fashion magazine. She’s tall, slender, wearing an impossibly short skirt and extremely high heels, and has cascading brunette hair which she keeps tossing over her shoulder. All eyes turn to watch her as she makes her grand entrance and I get a sick feeling in the pit of my stomach when I see the smitten look on Quince’s face and realize this is who he’s waiting for.

Quince slides purposefully out of the booth and walks over to greet her with a hug. He casually takes her hand and leads her back to our table, but there’s no way we can squeeze in one more person.

“Kensi, this is Caryn,” Quince says, never taking his eyes off her. “Caryn’s new at school,” he says, beaming at her and squeezing her hand.

She pushes her hair back with her sunglasses, nods in my direction like a queen barely acknowledging a subject, gives my outfit the once over, and says, “Nice to meet you.”

Yeah, right
.

She turns to Quince and coos, “I don’t think there’s room at this table, hon. Let’s get our own.” Quince happily follows her across the room to a table for two, leaving the rest of us to watch them go.

“They’re like the signature couple of the junior class,” Emma sighs.

“They’re such a cliche,” snaps Ashleigh. “Varsity cheerleader dating the quarterback. Gimme a break!”

“Well, I think they’re cute,” Emma shoots back as she grins up at Kevin. “Almost as cute as us.”

“So they’ve been going out since last spring?” I ask half-heartedly. In my misery I forget no one told me that yet.

“Wow, you catch on fast,” responds Megan. “Yeah, they started going out after one of Quince’s baseball games last May. Right after he hit that grand slam.”

Ashleigh must take my frown for confusion, because she jumps in to clarify. “Oh, yeah, Quince is the star of both the football and baseball teams.”

Megan takes a big, loud slurp of her latte and adds, “So what I hear is, Kensi supposedly kept the cheerleaders yelling for an eternity after he crossed home plate, until Quince personally went over and thanked her. But I didn’t go to Rosslyn last year, so I’m just telling you.”

“I guess Quince not only won the game that day but Kensi’s heart,” Emma sighs again.

My eyes follow Quince and Kensington to their darkened corner of the shop. I don’t know if it’s curiosity or the green-eyed monster that makes me stare, but when I realize I’m being rude, I try glancing around the room like I’m just taking in the ambience or something. Curiosity gets the better of me, though, and my gaze eventually drifts back to the two of them. Kensi is leaning on the table practically in Quince’s face, batting her eyelashes and flipping her hair. Now, honestly, what guy wouldn’t think that kind of behavior was enticing?

As I watch them, my heart sinks. How can I compete with HER? I’ve never had a boyfriend, but this feeling in the pit of my stomach tells me it must be a very painful experience. How can I be reacting like this to a guy I just met?

I come out of my reverie when I hear bells ringing and wonder if it’s the Universe sending me a wakeup call. Fortunately it’s just someone’s cell phone.

“Hi, Mom,” says Megan after she pulls her phone out of her handbag. “Okay, I’ll be right out.” She flips the phone closed. “I’ve gotta go.”

“I’ll go out with you,” I tell her. “I’m supposed to go over to my mom’s store and help out after school.”

Emma, Ashleigh, and Kevin all have to get up to let us out, but then they sit right back down again, obviously not ready to leave.

“Nice meeting you,” I say to all of them as I follow Megan out the door.

“Nice to meet you too, Caryn,” Emma calls after me. “Don’t forget about Friday night!”

“Don’t worry, I’ll be there,” I call back.

Emma smiles at me before turning her attention back to Kevin. Having her repeat Megan’s invitation makes me feel more welcome, like maybe I’ll fit in here after all.

“Where’s your mom’s store?” Megan asks as we walk outside in the late afternoon heat. She scans up and down the street looking for her mother’s car. “Do you need a ride?”

“It’s only about a block and half that way,” I answer, pointing north. “You should stop by sometime. It’s called Sybil and Starshine’s New Age Bookstore
.
” Maybe I shouldn’t tell her that— about its being a New Age bookstore. It’s got to sound weird to someone like Megan who seems so, well, normal.

“Sybil and Starshine?” she repeats. “Is that your mom’s name?”

“Okay, her name is Bethany Alderson, but they thought Starshine sounded more like the owner of a New Age store.”

I can tell Megan is having mixed feelings about that information. Not that I can read her mind, but anyone could figure that out from her lifted eyebrows and forced smile. Just then a soccer-mom-style SUV pulls up alongside the sidewalk.

“Mom, this is Caryn Alderson,” Megan says, as she opens the door and throws in her backpack. “She’s new to school. Her mom owns some kind of New Age-y store here in the Village.”

“Nice to meet you, Caryn,” says Megan’s mom with a smile. “I’ll try to stop by soon and meet your mother. Megan, we’ve got to go. Honey has been alone way too long.” Megan hops into the passenger side of her mom’s car.

“What kind of dog is Honey?” I ask, picturing the cutest little yellow dog. Again the puzzled look from Megan. When will I remember that mental images don’t necessarily mean anyone has actually mentioned something in the conversation?

“Mixed breed— we got her from a shelter back in July,” Megan answers.

Ms. Benedict smiles at me as she presses the turn signal and pulls out into traffic. Megan sticks her head out the window, waves and shouts, “See you tomorrow!”

“That went well,” I say wryly to myself, hoping I haven’t completely blown it. I really want this school to work out. Now if I could just learn to think before blurting stuff out.

Mom’s store is in an old red-brick building that’s been renovated recently and now houses four different shops. Ours is the second to the last, right next to a bed and bath shop on one side and between a florist and a sandwich shop on the other. Fifty years ago, this building was a dry goods store (whatever that is), but the landlord assured Mom and Sybil that everything inside is completely modern— new electrical wiring, heating and air conditioning, and fresh insulation. To me, the shop still has an old-timey feel with large picture windows, a beveled-glass door, and antique doorknobs, like something you’d see on
Leave It to Beaver
. I stand on the sidewalk and admire the newly painted sign on the front window:

Sybil and Starshine’s New Age Bookstore

All welcome! Books, Crystals, Tarots, Candles

Open 10-6 Monday through Saturday

I walk in, setting the bells above the old-fashioned wooden door to tinkling. I spot Sybil behind the counter, but before I can ask where Mom is, she tilts her head toward the book section where my mother stands patiently waiting on a customer.

“Mrs. Solomon,” Sybil informs me quietly. “She’s looking for just the right spiritual guidance to assist her and her husband with their financial difficulties.”

I nod, hop up on a stool behind the counter, and pull my math book out of my book bag. While fumbling for a pencil, I can hear my mother talking to the customer.

“Mrs. Solomon, I believe this book might be of help.”

“Oh, that looks like just the thing,” Mrs. Solomon says as she looks at the back cover and thumbs through the book. “My husband and I… ”

“In addition to the book, perhaps you would like to consult with Sybil, who’s skilled in numerology,” Mom suggests.

“Well, maybe.” Mrs. Soloman clasps the book to her chest, seeming uncomfortable with that idea.

Sybil walks over to the woman and introduces herself. Mrs. Soloman frowns slightly, but shakes Sybil’s hand.

“I think I could assist you, dear, if I just knew your birthday and that of your husband,” Sybil offers.

Mrs. Soloman still looks uncertain. Sybil always knows when someone needs a little encouragement, so to keep the customer interested, she adds, “And the stars tell me your difficulties will be over in about three months.”

I snap my head up from my math book at that remark and signal my mother across the room. Luckily Mrs. Soloman has her back to me and doesn’t see me waving my arms in the air like I’m trying to hail a cab. When I catch Mom’s eye, I point to Sybil, shake my head and hold up six fingers. She winks at me and pokes Sybil, who sees me frantically waving six fingers in the air. Sybil nods and calmly turns back to the customer.

“Or definitely within six months, dear,” Sybil amends soothingly.

I smile to myself and get back to my homework.

Fifteen minutes later, Mom’s customer pays for her book, as well as some candles, and walks out the door with a smile on her face.

“Another satisfied customer,” Mom says cheerfully. “And thanks for your help, Caryn.”

“We make a great team,” I say as I high-five her. “All three of us.”

“If they only knew who the real psychic was!” Sybil laughs.

Sybil Smythe is in her sixties, short, round, and has bleached blonde hair (this week). She wears way too much makeup and bling, her long flowing skirts only exaggerate her abundant size, and she drinks a lot of espresso, giving her a kind of nervous energy. Despite her eccentric appearance, her heart is the size of Texas, which is where she met my mom.

After earning a master’s degree in business and with a baby in tow (me), Mom was working in an old-fashioned corner bookstore where the owners appreciated her business sense but didn’t want to pay her much for it. My dad helped out whenever he could, sometimes financially and sometimes just taking over childcare duties, but he was a struggling actor/student, and pretty cash-poor himself. Mom has what she always calls “intuitive good sense.” She’s not really psychic like me, but I definitely inherited some of my abilities from her. Anyway, Mom spent downtime at the bookstore reading about astrology, numerology, spirituality, tarot cards— you know, all the stuff that makes up New Age thought— and really getting into it. So when Sybil happened into the store one day and Mom waited on her, it was like their friendship was meant to be.

Sybil managed a loyal clientele doing numerology readings in a shop not far from the corner bookstore, but luckily she didn’t have to live on the pittance she earned. She had a string of loving ex-boyfriends and ex-husbands who were always willing to help her out financially. One of those ex-boyfriends had been a wealthy Texas oilman who left her a big chunk of cash in his will.

Sybil with the money, and my mom with the business savvy, eventually decided to open a metaphysical bookstore in Houston, in a neighborhood similar to Rosslyn Village. Things went along pretty well for a while, despite how different Mom and Sybil are. They weren’t getting rich, but they were keeping the business afloat and drawing in customers.

But after a while, crime started to increase in the area around their store, and a couple of times Mom was pretty scared going home late at night. They didn’t ever get robbed or anything, but when a man was shot in front of the convenience store across the street, Mom and Sybil began searching around for someplace to relocate. After doing some serious online research, they decided on Indianapolis. So here we are. Their store just opened Labor Day weekend, and already they’re attracting new customers. Word of mouth is pretty good advertising— especially since the real thing costs too much money.

Sybil still does the occasional numerology reading in the back room, but mostly she says she’s retired from all that. She’d rather spend her free time (and her dead boyfriend’s money) flying off to visit friends or vacationing in exotic locations.

Oh yeah, and that little hint I gave Sybil? I can’t explain it. Stuff just comes to me, sometimes in mental pictures and sometimes just thoughts that randomly pop into my head. I’m almost always right.
Almost?
Fair enough. No one is perfect. Am I ever wrong? Not usually about other people, but when it comes to my own life, I have to live it as it happens, day by day, just like everybody else. No hints, no advance warnings. Kind of annoying really, since I can use all the insight I can get.

“How was your first day at school?” Mom asks.

“Okay,” I say. “I may have made a new friend.”

“Who’s that?”

“Her name is Megan, and she introduced me to some other kids too. She seems nice.”

“So why do I detect hesitation?” Mom raises an eyebrow.

I wince a little. “She kept looking at me funny when I’d say strange things. Why do I do that, Mom? Why can’t I learn to keep quiet?”

“You have to be who you are, Caryn. Who you’ve always been.”

“You always say that. But I won’t have any friends if they find out what I can do.” I sigh.

“Just be yourself, honey, and they’ll learn to love you.”

Mom gives me a hug. I always feel so safe in her arms.

At The Hop on Friday

I join Megan at the school’s football stadium for the homecoming game against Newton Technical High School. It’s a pretty warm evening, and there’s still plenty of daylight for a seven o’clock kickoff, so I tell Mom I can just walk to the school from our apartment.