Confessions of a Teenage Psychic (8 page)

How the heck does he know my name? His intent stare sends a chill down my spine and I pull the caftan tighter around me.

“Okay,” I finally whisper, just wishing him gone. I draw a deep breath and look up at Quince. “Your mother has been sick but she’s going to be okay. I mean her diabetes.”

Quince stares at me in stunned silence, but after what seems like an eternity he stammers, “How… how did you know that she has diabetes? Who told you that?”

“I don’t know,” I mumble, embarrassed. How can I tell him it was his dead grandfather?

“Who?” Now he’s pounding the table, anger creeping into his voice.

“I… I’m sorry, I just… ” That’s when I notice Quince’s grandfather is gone. The smell of pipe tobacco has also vanished and suddenly I feel overheated instead of cold. I blush.

“That’s NOT funny!” Quince says, his face reddening. “Someone told you so you could look good doing this stupid fortunetelling thing. You’re either really mean or you’re some kind of freak!”

He stands up so fast that he knocks the chair over, and storms out of the tent.

I sit there in shock. What just happened? What possessed me to say something like that? “Possessed” is the operative word here. Was Quince’s Grandpa Adams ever really here? I have no idea, and no one to blame but myself.

I decide I’ve had enough of Madame Wilhelmina. I want to go out and try to enjoy the rest of the carnival as Caryn, in my regular, teenage clothes. I also want to apologize to Quince if I can find him— like that will do any good. Hopefully I’ll be able to salvage some of my reputation if I go back to being just a regular fifteen-year-old girl.

And normal fifteen-year-old girls don’t predict the future or talk to the dead.

Turkeys and True Confessions

It’s a hot summer day and I’m walking on a beautiful beach in Galveston, Texas. I kick the sand with my bare toes as I stroll along and check for seashells, enjoying the warmth of the bright sunshine on my face. I look over in the distance, cup my hand over my eyes to block the glare, and see Quince running toward me on the beach…

“Caryn, we have to go to the store!”

“Huh?”
There’s no store on the beach
.

“Caryn, did you hear me?”

I moan and pull the covers over my head. Just as I start drifting back to that romantic walk in the sand, something shakes the bed. I turn over onto my back and crack open one eye to see my mother standing over me.

“Caryn, are you awake? We’ve got to get to the store.”

“It’s too early to go shopping,” I mumble.

“No,
our
store,” Mom says, throwing the covers off me.

“It’s Sunday. Can’t I sleep in for once?” I groan, pulling the pillow over my head, hoping to get back to that Galveston beach.

“No. We need to do inventory while the shop is closed. We have to get ready for the Christmas shopping rush.” Mom hesitates and then asks, “There will be a Christmas shopping rush at our store, right?”

“Yes,” I tell her. “But it won’t start till after Thanksgiving, so let me sleep.”

“Well, then we need to get busy. Get up because Sybil will be here in half an hour to pick us up.” Mom opens the window blinds, letting in the early morning sunlight.

“Why didn’t you tell me this last night?” I grouse as I squint in the bright light. “And why is Sybil picking us up?”

“It’s cold outside, hon, and my car won’t start— again. So dress warmly.”

“I WAS warm!” How I wish I really was on that beach.

There’s been a light frost on this mid-November Sunday morning, and being from south Texas, all I own is a denim jacket and a gray hooded sweatshirt, neither of which is going to keep me very warm. It never gets really cold in Houston, and I arrived in Indiana two months ago with plenty of spring- and summer-wear but nothing in the way of winter clothing. Mom has promised to take me to the consignment store and buy me a winter coat, and I figure I’ll need some gloves and a hat as well, but today I’ll have to make do with what I’ve got.

The crisp autumn weather of October was a pleasure, but now serious winter is setting in and I’m just plain cold. Being rudely awakened on a Sunday morning hasn’t improved my mood either. I grudgingly get up and put on as many clothes as I can. Sybil picks us up and drives us the three blocks to the shop, car heater turned up full blast.

Mom opens the door to Sybil and Starshine’s New Age Bookstore but keeps the Closed sign turned to the outside. She flips on the lights, rubs her hands together, and goes to check the thermostat. I wrap my arms tightly around myself and hop up and down, trying to stay warm until the heat kicks on.

Sybil waltzes into the store wrapped in an oversized wool shawl, oblivious to the chill. She immediately heads to the back storeroom, calling out, “Anyone for espresso?”

“Just hot tea for us, Sybil,” Mom answers. “Caryn, can you take an inventory of the books?” Mom hands me a clipboard with a printed list of all the books we sell. “Just write down next to each title how many copies we have of each, or make note if we’re sold out. Sybil and I will be in the storeroom counting boxes of candles.”

“It’s still cold in here.”

Mom ignores my whining as she heads to the back to join Sybil. I wonder how soon that tea will be ready so I can get warmed up.

“Caryn, dear, I appreciate your help,” Sybil calls in a cheery voice, “and don’t forget— Christmas shopping is a huge source of revenue!”

Don’t I know it. Mom has impressed upon me the fact that if the store doesn’t show a profit by the end of the first year, we’re closing up and moving back to Houston. Right now that doesn’t sound like a bad idea. I shiver, exhale, and realize I can see my breath. Amazing! That never happens in Texas. Still, the heat hasn’t come up in the store yet, so I go over to have another look at the thermostat. It’s set at sixty-five, but for some reason the actual temperature is hovering around fifty.

“Mom! You need to call the landlord. The heater isn’t working.” I fiddle with the On/Off switch. “And the lights are flickering too,” I call out, as I notice them dimming and brightening several times.

“The heat works just fine,” a male voice says. My heart jumps into my throat and I flip around, thinking we have an intruder. My gaze darts all around the store looking for anyone, anything to explain what I thought I heard. I shiver again, realizing I’m alone.

“And so do the lights,” the voice adds.

A chill runs down my spine. I feel like I’ve stepped into the kind of horror movie where the stupid heroine just stands there pleading with the ax murderer not to hurt her instead of getting the heck out of there.

“Who’s there?” I do a 360-degree turn and still see no one.

I feel the hairs on the back of my neck rise. Silence. I try the light switch again, but the lights just keep flickering and finally go off completely. I open my mouth to scream for my mother but, just like in all good horror flicks, no sound comes out. I’m frozen to the spot in fear.

Just when I’m sure I’m going to be the lead story on the six o’clock news, I see Uncle Omar across the room, leaning on the bookshelves, his arms crossed in front of him.

“Ohmigod, I’m seeing ghosts again!” I shriek. I blink hard trying to get rid of the apparition.

“Well, I’m not really a ghost, I’m a spirit, but materializing sucks energy out of the air,” he says with a grin.

I stare in disbelief. “I… I… uh… ”

“Don’t worry, I won’t slime you,” he says, laughing.

I could almost laugh with him if I weren’t so freaked out. Just when I’d chalked up my last sighting of him to stress, or exhaustion, or hormones, or whatever, here he is again. Now all my rationalizations go out the window as I look into the seemingly solid face of my mother’s dead brother.

And he
is
solid— I can’t see through him or anything. It’s almost like, if I’d dared to reach out, I’d touch skin. At that thought, I wrap my jacket tightly around myself and hold on for dear life.

“What do you want? Why are you haunting me?” The voice I’d intended to sound fierce comes out in a squeak.

“I want your attention.”

“You got it.” I’m shivering, but I don’t know if it’s from cold or fear.

“Don’t look so scared, Caryn. I’ve come to give you a message.” His voice sounds really kind, oddly enough, considering I’m talking to… whatever.

“From the Great Beyond?”

He shrugs. “Sure. What’d ya think? I’m bringing messages from Yahoo?”

Wouldn’t you know my dead uncle would have the Alderson offbeat sense of humor?

Uncle Omar unfolds his arms and takes a ghostly step toward me. “Seriously, Caryn, here’s the thing. You’ve got a gift and you need to start using it.”

I instinctively back up. “But I don’t want the gift!” I say. “I just wanna be normal.”

He stops and puts his hands on his hips, like any exasperated grownup might do. “So be normal. You just have to let go of your fears.”

Like it’s that easy. I’m still backing up, but now I’ve bumped into the cash register and realize I can’t go any farther. I try to compose myself and look him in the face, but I’m still quaking. “The only thing I’m scared of is talking to dead people!”

Uncle Omar winks at me. “Aw, come on. Am I that bad? I’m just here to help you.”

“I don’t want any help!” I close my eyes, hoping he’ll be gone when I open them. He’s not.

“Too bad, ‘cause you’re stuck with me. Orders, you know.” Uncle Omar grins and points up.

Naturally I look up too, but all I see is an old light fixture that needs dusting.

I huff out a sigh. “But it’s completely unnerving every time I see someone who’s not really there!” I’m arguing with the spirit of my dead uncle like it’s the most common thing in the world.

This is nuts!
Cue the
Twilight Zone
music!

“You aren’t crazy,” he says, as if he can read my mind. “Look at it this way— some people sing or act or play piano. That’s their talent. Your talent is you see spirits, and you know things.”

As if it’s that simple. “Kids think I’m a freak,” I grumble. “Like Quince. He won’t even speak to me anymore.”

“He will, don’t worry. Just be yourself, and your friends will accept you.”

“But… ” I start to say, and then he’s gone.

Just like that I’m alone again. I blink, rub my eyes, and look around the store— everything is back to normal. The lights have stopped flickering and suddenly the room is perfectly warm.

“MOM! SYBIL!”

They both come running out of the storeroom. “What’s the matter?” my mother asks, her eyes wide.

“Mom! Didn’t you see him? He was standing right there!” I point to the bookshelf where moments before I’d been talking to a ghost.

“Who, Caryn?” She walks over to the door and checks to make sure it’s still locked. “No one’s here but the three of us.”

“Uncle Omar!” I insist. “He was here! Talking to me!”

My mother looks a lot less surprised than I would’ve liked. “Omar? Here? You spoke to him?” How can she be so calm?

“I had a conversation with a ghost, Mom! You’re acting like it’s nothing!”

“No, it’s not
nothing
, but I really don’t know what you want me to say.” Mom wraps me in her arms, making me feel safe again. “You’re shaking,” she whispers. “Come sit down.”

I allow myself to be led to a chair and collapse into it, relieved that the worst is over.

“Our little psychic medium,” coos Sybil. “Bethany, your little girl here is growing into her powers.”

I roll my eyes. “The next thing I know, you’ll be trying to send me off to Hogwarts!”

They just aren’t taking this seriously. I stand up, grab the clipboard, and stomp over to the bookshelves to start the inventory, shedding my sweatshirt as I go. Suddenly it’s very warm in the store.

A couple of hours later, Mom comes out of the storeroom and says, “I’ve had enough tea. Caryn, would you mind making a Peterson’s run? Sybil? Do you want anything from Peterson’s?”

Sybil calls back, “Well, I’ve got to watch my girlish figure, but bring me a sticky bun and a latte.”

I put my sweatshirt back on, pocketing the money Mom gives me, and slip out the front door headed around the block to Peterson’s. It’s now about noon and the sun has come out, warming the air considerably, but it still isn’t what I’d call balmy. People are out and about in Rosslyn Village— parents with babies in strollers, couples arm-in-arm, storekeepers sweeping walkways. Everyone is taking in the brisk fresh air or just enjoying the sunshine. I smile and breathe in the autumn crispness.

Everything is perfectly normal
.

But it isn’t normal. I shudder and try to forget my encounter with Uncle Omar as I walk quickly into Peterson’s Coffee Emporium.

It’s crowded inside, nearly every table filled, the perfect weather for hot coffee. I walk up to the counter and give the barista my order, then because I know she had a fight with her boyfriend this morning and she’s in a bad mood, I let my gaze wander around the store, trying to avoid the negative feelings the barista is dispensing with every order.

In a booth in the back a pretty teenage girl is having a heated discussion with the teenage boy who’s frowning at her. Barbie and Ken, I dub them. She’s a brunette with a sporty ponytail and designer jeans, a white long-sleeved turtleneck, and a pink sweater tied around her shoulders. He has perfectly groomed blond hair, chiseled features, and a golf sweater worn over a stiffly-starched collared shirt.

I try not to pry, but I know they are breaking up due to his wandering eye. I feel like I’m eavesdropping, even though I can’t hear a word they’re saying. I turn my back on them and pretend to look at the display rack of assorted coffees and teas for sale, still trying to tune out the barista’s bad mood and the argument in the corner.

“Hey Caryn!”

I turn to see Megan walking in with a young woman I don’t recognize. “Caryn, this is my sister Caroline.”

Caroline offers her hand. She’s about twenty-five and looks like an older version of Megan— petite, slender, strawberry-blonde hair, warm smile. “Nice to meet you, Caryn… ?”