The Secret Society of the Pink Crystal Ball (7 page)

Samantha's mouth drops open. “Nuh-uh,” she says. She blinks at me. “Really?”

I nod at her and, I'll admit, I'm having kind of a hard time containing my excitement. I mean, hello, Spencer Ridgely just noticed me.
Spencer
.
Ridgely
.

“‘Like a hot librarian' were his exact words! Can you believe that?” I'm about to give her a play-by-play of the entire encounter, from him staring at my thighs to our eyes locking to the casual
see ya
over his shoulder, when I suddenly realize, that in all of my excitement, I've forgotten to be the rational one. So instead I let out a little fake cough, put my serious face back on, and try to act like it was no big deal. “I mean, yes, he did say that. But, as I was just saying to Lindsay, it's a coincidence. It doesn't mean anything.”

Lindsay is grinning from ear to ear, as if the whole thing with Megan and Chris Bollmer never even happened. Or maybe she's just really happy to have something else to think about.

“No way,” she argues. “That was no coincidence. That was magic. That crystal ball of yours is magic. For real.”

Samantha, Lindsay, and I are all sitting around the kitchen table, finishing our homework. They agreed to come over tonight to help me with my Italy essay because I still have absolutely no idea what to write about. Although, come to think of it, I didn't even ask them to help me.

We were in free period this afternoon—it was sixth period, after we had all calmed down from the Spencer Ridgely hysteria—and when I mentioned that my parents were going out tonight, Samantha said that she and Lindsay would be over at five. Which normally would have been great, but I kind of hemmed and hawed, and finally I told them that I didn't think it was such a good idea, because as much as I would love to hang out with them and watch a movie, I really
do
need to get started on this essay, and I have a feeling that it's going to take a while since I have no clue what I'm going to say. And that's when Lindsay suggested that she and Samantha could help. Which was really sweet and quite a relief, actually, because at this point, I need all the help I can get.

I hear shoes clacking on the hardwood floor—I can tell by the sound of them that they're not heels, but rather the ugly, practical, orthopedically correct black flats that my mother always wears—and then she appears in the kitchen. She's wearing a black knee-length sheath dress, and I think she's even got some makeup on—if “makeup” could be defined as a little bit of ChapStick and some under-eye concealer. And she's wearing perfume. Hanae Mori, to be exact. It's my mom's favorite (also her only), and she only wears it when she has somewhere really important to go. Unlike Samantha's mom, who wears perfume to the market or to play tennis or even just to sit around the house. Samantha's mom says that she doesn't feel like she's fully dressed unless she's wearing an
eau de toilette
—she actually says that,
eau de toilette
, and she says it with a perfect French accent. When she was modeling in Paris in her twenties, she taught herself to speak the language. And just for the record, Samantha's mom also does not feel fully dressed without mascara, eye shadow, lip liner, lipstick, heels, and, I've heard, a thong.

Samantha would kill me for saying this, but it's not hard to see where she gets some of her habits. Although, I guess the same could be said for all of us, for better or worse.

My mom takes her wallet out of her purse and places two twenties on the kitchen counter. “Girls, I'm leaving you cash for dinner, and there are takeout menus in the drawer. Tip the delivery guy fifteen percent, and when he rings the doorbell, make sure you ask him for identification. There are all kinds of crazy people who go around impersonating delivery men.”

Samantha, Lindsay, and I all roll our eyes at each other. We've been through this drill a million times with my mother.

“Got it, mom,” I groan. “We'll ask for ID. Promise.”

“You look nice, Dr. Channing,” Lindsay says, changing the subject. “Where are you off to?”

My mom blushes. “Oh, it's just a charity event for the hospital where I work. I'm getting an award. It's really nothing.”

“It's not
nothing
,” my dad counters as he walks into the kitchen. “She's getting the award for pediatric doctor of the year. It's the hospital equivalent of a Best Picture Oscar.” He's wearing the same black suit that he wore to Aunt Kiki's memorial service last week, but with a light blue tie instead of his gray funereal one. His thick brown hair is slicked back and, if I squint, I can kind of see how my mom thinks that he looks like Mel Gibson. But I have to squint really, really hard.

Samantha clears her throat. “You know, since you're getting an award, I could fix your hair for you. We could put it up in a French twist—just a little sexy for evening, but still very professional. And we could put some color on your cheeks, and maybe a little bit of lip gloss?”

My mom smiles. “Thank you for offering, Samantha, but I'm afraid that I'll have to pass this time. We're already late as it is.”

Samantha has been trying to make over my mom since she first laid eyes on her, but every time she offers, my mom finds an excuse for why she can't do it. I've tried to tell Samantha that she shouldn't take it personally. But of course Samantha always pouts, just a little.

When my parents are finally gone (after reminding us three more times to ask the delivery guy for ID), Lindsay rifles though the takeout menus.

“I'm
starving
,” she announces. “What about pizza? Or there's that sandwich place that delivers. They have the best chicken parm hero. Yum.”

“Sorry,” Samantha says, plucking the menus out of her hand. “But I wasn't planning on gaining five pounds tonight. Do you have any idea how many calories are in a chicken parm hero? It's like a fat suit on a plate.”

Lindsay giggles. “Well excuse me, Jenny Craig. What did you have in mind? And don't say salad. I want real food.”

“Do you guys trust me?” Samantha demands, suddenly serious.

At this, Lindsay and I exchange worried glances. The last time Samantha asked us that question, we ended up hiding in a bush in front of Colin Broder's house, looking out for the police while Samantha wrapped toilet paper around a tree in his front yard. He was a senior, she was a freshman; he said he would meet her at the movies and he never showed up; she found out the next day that it had all been a joke, and that he had a girlfriend who went to a private school a few towns away. Moral of the story: Samantha does not do well with jokes. At least, not when they're at her expense.

“Um, no, not really,” I say. But she just rolls her eyes at me and picks up the phone.

“Who are you calling?” Lindsay asks, as Samantha begins to dial.

“Ahn's Market. It's in Chinatown.” Lindsay and I glance at each other again, and Samantha catches us. “Honestly, you two should be more appreciative, because I'm about to order dim sum that will change your lives forever.”

***

Samantha is right. This dim sum
is
life-changing. I don't even know what it is that I'm eating, I just know that I want to it eat every day for the rest of my life. Although that is unlikely, because in addition to being insanely good, it's also outrageously expensive. The forty dollars that my mom left us didn't even begin to cover it, so Samantha put it on her mom's house account and gave the cash to the delivery guy. (And yes, we asked him for ID. Although I can't really imagine that there are that many serial killers out there impersonating small Asian men in gray flannel pants and moth-eaten green wool cardigans.)

“Okay, Erin,” Lindsay says seriously, once we've devoured every last morsel of food. “It's time to get to work.”

“I
know
. I have got to figure out what I'm going to say in this essay. And by the way, I am totally open to suggestions. Just throw out any ideas you have…”

Samantha and Lindsay look at each other and both of them burst out laughing.

I'm confused. “What?”

“Did you really think that we were going to help you work on your Italy essay?” Samantha asks.

My eyes narrow. I should have known that this was too good to be true. Lindsay maybe…but Samantha? Helping me with an essay? I am such an idiot.

“Okay, fine. I knew it was weird. So why are you really here?”

“Where's the ball?” Lindsay asks.

“What ball? What are you—” And then I realize that she's talking about the Pink Crystal Ball. And just like that, I know that there is no way that I am going to be working on my Italy essay tonight.

• Absolute knowledge is not unlimited; let the planets be your guide to the number.
  
• There are 16 ways to die, but four of them you will never see.
  
• The future belongs to you alone. Other voices will be disappointed.
  
• One rotation is as far as you can see. Only uncertainty lies beyond.
  
• You will know all when no more is known; then it is time to choose another.
  

“It still doesn't make any sense,” I finally say, after staring at the list for the hundredth time. “Nothing is going to change that.”

“Well, it has to mean something,” Lindsay answers. She and Samantha are sharing my desk chair, doing a Google search for “Pink Crystal Ball.”

“There must be a reason why your aunt gave it to you,” Samantha adds.

“You know,” Lindsay interjects, “this ball is a perfect example of ‘low' magic because you use it to bring about changes to the self instead of the world in general. It's also called practical magic. It's so funny, I was just reading about this the other day.”

Samantha snorts. “I'd say it's more like plastic magic in this case.”

The two of them laugh at Samantha's little pun, but I am not amused.

“Listen, I know you guys want to believe that this thing is magic, but it's not. It's just a gimmicky toy.”

“Oh really,” Lindsay says. “Then how do you explain what happened with Spencer Ridgely today?”

“I'm sorry,” I say, beginning to feel insulted, “but is it really so hard to believe that Spencer Ridgely would notice me without some sort of magical intervention?”

Samantha and Lindsay both turn around and give me identical, who-are-you-kidding looks. “Uh, yeah,” they both say at exactly the same time. Then they laugh.

I have to laugh myself.

“Come on, Erin,” Lindsay adds, “It's also
what
he said. It can't be a coincidence that he called you ‘smexy.'”

“Yes it can,” I argue. “‘Smexy' is a popular word. Lots of people are using it. He just as easily could have said that I was hot or smokin' and you wouldn't have thought anything of it.” But I'm grinning as I say it, and laugh again in spite of myself.

“He didn't, though,” Samantha reminds me, serious again. “He said you were
smexy
. And by the way, the word is not all that popular yet. I just happen to be on the cutting edge of the lexicon. You didn't know what it was, remember?”

“Okay, okay,” I grumble. “Fine. It was magic. You win.” Samantha flashes me a victory smile and turns back to the computer. “Even though it wasn't,” I add, under my breath.

“I heard that,” they both say—again at the same exact time.

A second later, Lindsay sits straight up in my desk chair. “Oh my God,” she whispers. “Did you read that?”

Samantha nods excitedly. “Erin, come here. You have to see this.”

I roll my eyes at them. “What? Let me guess, a magic Ouija board?”

“No, seriously, come here. Look what Lindsay found.” I get up and go to the desk, then lean over Lindsay's shoulder to read what's on the screen.

The origins of the Pink Crystal Ball toy are based in the Spiritualist community of the 1940s, which popularized the use of séances to communicate with the dead. Robert Clayton was the son of a renowned clairvoyant in Baltimore, whose weekly séances drew crowds from all over the eastern seaboard. Observing the popularity of his mother's services and how the children in the audience would often imitate his mother afterward, Robert came up with the idea to create a toy that could predict the future. After a few unsuccessful attempts (including a Magic Bowling Ball, a Magic Fortune Cookie, and the unfortunately named Magic Pig Ball), Clayton hit on the idea of creating a plastic version of a crystal ball, which he aptly named the Plastic Crystal Ball. His toy manufacturer, however, suggested that Clayton fill the ball with a pink liquid to better appeal to a female demographic, and the name of the toy was changed to the Pink Crystal Ball. The design turned out to be a monstrous hit, inspiring legions of would-be psychics for generations to come.

In 1952, the year the Pink Crystal Ball was first sold to the public, Clayton brought one home to show his clairvoyant mother, who by this time was on her death bed. Legend has it that his mother took the toy into her hands and immediately fell into a psychic trance from which she never awoke. Moments after Clayton removed the ball from her hands, his mother died. It is believed that while holding the toy in her last moments, Clayton's mother endowed it with truly mystical, fortune-telling properties.

The toy was thought to have been destroyed in a fire at Clayton's home in the late 1960s, but some claim that Clayton never had possession of it for more than a few months. Instead, many believe that the toy has been passed around the world, working its magic only for those who have been chosen to receive it.

Lindsay and Samantha both turn around to watch me as I finish reading. Their eyes are wide, and I can tell that they believe every word of it.

“It's an urban legend,” I say with a shrug. “Like the one about those guys in Mexico who steal people's kidneys and then leave them sitting in a bathtub filled with ice. Look it up on Snopes,” I suggest. “I'm sure it's there.”

Samantha shakes her head. “It's not. I already checked.”

“Well, whatever. It's not real. First of all, there is no such thing as a clairvoyant. Those people in the '40s who held séances were all scam artists. It's a known fact.”

Lindsay gets up out of the desk chair. “Let me see the ball.”

“What? Why?”

“Just let me see it,” she insists.

“Okay.” I retrieve the cardboard box from the top shelf of my closet, then take the ball out and hand it to her. She turns it over, examining the inscription scratched into the base.

“RC 52,” she says, tapping her chin. “RC 52,” she repeats. She looks back at the screen to reread the paragraph.

“Oh my God,” she says suddenly. “RC 52! Of course! Robert Clayton, 1952! This is the one, you guys. This is
the
mystical Pink Crystal Ball!” She picks it up again and gently shakes it. “Are you Robert Clayton's ball?” she asks. She looks down at the window, then looks up at me, triumphantly. “‘Your future is obscured. You must ask again.'” She smiles like someone who just solved a Rubik's Cube for the first time.

“Why are you smiling?” I ask. “If it was really mystical, it should have said yes.”

Lindsay shakes her head, still smiling. “No. It doesn't work for me. And it didn't work for Samantha either. It's like the website said: it only works its magic for those who have been chosen to receive it. Don't you see? Your aunt chose you to receive it, so it only works for you. That's why she left you the ball. That's why it was so important to her!”

I think about this for a minute. I think about the scroll with all of those names, and my aunt's signature right there at the end. I think about that bizarre memorial service, and about Roni handing me the box, and instructing me not to open it until I was alone. I think about the ball, and the legend, and the “RC 52” inscribed into the paint.

“You're right,” I hear myself say to Lindsay.

“I am?” she says.

“She is?” Samantha asks, sounding even more shocked.

I nod. “Yes. You're right that my aunt must have believed that this ball was magical, and that's why she made such a big deal of leaving it to me. It makes total sense. I mean, she ate this kind of stuff up, you know? Of course she believed it.”

“But what about you? Do you believe it?” Samantha fixes me with a meaningful stare. I stare back at her as if she's lost her mind.

“Sam, it's a plastic toy. Somebody probably bought this at Toys‘R'Us and made up the legend as a joke. It's like a chain letter, only worse.” I pick the ball up and snort at it. “Come on. It's totally ridiculous.”

Lindsay is giving me a horrified look that I instantly recognize. Long-forgotten memories from grade school come flooding back to me.

March 2000. Lindsay and I are six years old.

Me:
“The tooth fairy isn't real, Lindsay. It's just your mom coming into your room at night and leaving you a dollar while you sleep.”

Lindsay:
Silence. Horrified look.

September 2004. Lindsay and I are ten.

Me:
“Mermaids aren't real, Lindsay. They're just something that bored sailors made up in order to pass the time when they were…you know, desperate.”

Lindsay:
Silence. Horrified look.

Thank God I wasn't the one who told her that Santa Claus wasn't real. Although, I'm sure whoever it was got the same exact look.

Lindsay crosses her arms in front of her chest. “Remember how you told me that Jesse Cooper said that you never were an out-of-the-box kind of thinker?”

“Yeah,” I say, my heart sinking at the very thought of it.

“What?” Samantha exclaims. “He did? How come I didn't hear about this?”

I scowl at Lindsay. “Because I told Lindsay not to mention it to you, because I knew you would use it against me for the rest of my life.”

Samantha laughs. “You're so right. I totally will.”

“Hello?” Lindsay says, interrupting us. “Remember me? The girl trying to make a point?”

“Yes, sorry,” Samantha says, still laughing to herself. “Please, continue making your point about how Jesse Cooper told Erin that she's not an out-of-the-box kind of thinker.” I glare at Samantha, and she puts her hands up like she's totally innocent.

“He was right,” Lindsay continues.

“What?” I exclaim. “Now you're turning on me too? Come on, Lindsay. Just try to look at this from a rational point of view. A plastic crystal ball that can actually tell the future? It's…
absurd
.”

“No, it's not.” She arches an eyebrow. “What's absurd is your inability to consider anything that doesn't come with its own geometric proof.”

“What are you talking about? What does that even mean?”

Lindsay throws her arms up in frustration. “It means that the world is not all protons and—what do you call 'em—ions.”

As soon as she says it, I purse my lips together, trying to stifle a laugh.

“What?” she asks, annoyed by my amusement.

“It's protons and neutrons. And also electrons. They're the basic particles of an atom, which is what all matter is comprised of. So technically, the world
is
all protons and neutrons. And electrons, of course.”

The left side of Samantha's lip curls up in exasperation. “Listen to yourself.”

“That's my point,” Lindsay explains.

“Your point is that I'm a geek?” I ask, uttering the unspoken word. (Though I prefer Spencer Ridgely's “hot librarian.”)

“No,” Lindsay says. “My point is that the world is
not
just comprised of matter. Sometimes you have to believe in things that don't have a scientific explanation.”

“Yeah,” Samantha adds. “But you are kind of a geek.”

No
, I think to myself.
No, you don't have to believe that
. But I don't dare say it. I can tell that Lindsay is on the verge of getting upset (for real), and there's no reason to antagonize her. So when she picks up the ball and holds it out to me, I don't argue.

“Here,” she says. “Ask it a question.”

“Okay, fine. Will I get picked for the Italy trip?”

Samantha scoffs, “Wow. For someone who doesn't believe, that's a pretty intense question.”

I roll my eyes and look down at the ball. “‘The beyond eludes me at this time.'” I give Lindsay a smug look. “See? It doesn't know anything.”

“Not necessarily,” she counters. “Maybe it just doesn't know that. Come on, ask it something else. Something specific, so we'll know if it's the ball making it come true.”

I sigh. “Okay. Okay, I have a good one.” I shake the ball. “Will Mr. Lower say that the English paper I wrote was well researched and insightful? Because it was,” I add, glancing at Lindsay. She waves her hand to tell me to hurry it along. I look at the window again, and the pink liquid inside seems to part down the middle as the white, plastic triangle appears. “‘Yes, it is written in the stars,'” I read.

Lindsay beams. “Perfect,” she declares.

“Perfect?” Samantha yells. “Are you kidding me? You have this thing…this, this…crystal ball, that potentially could make happen anything that you want to happen, and you ask it about an
English paper?
For real? That's like getting a wish from a genie and asking it for world peace. I mean, Jesus, Erin. Use your imagination. Ask it if Bill Gates is going to name you as the sole beneficiary of his estate. Ask it if Zac Efron is going to show up at school tomorrow and announce that he must have you as his child bride. Come
on
. Ask it something good. The Italy trip was a start, at least…”

The look on Samantha's face is so serious and agitated that Lindsay and I both start to laugh again.

“Seriously, it's a good thing that I'm the chosen one and not you, or every hot guy on the planet would be showing up at school tomorrow,” I tell Samantha.

“Damn straight,” she says. “Now come on. Ask it something better than whether your teacher liked your paper.”

“Okay,” I say, thinking. I'm so bad at this kind of stuff. I feel like it's my birthday and I have to hurry up and think of a wish before the candles run out of wax. “Okay. I've got it.” I shake the ball. “Will I get into Harvard and discover a cure for cancer and win the Nobel Prize and marry a smexy scientist who looks amazing in a lab coat?”

Samantha smiles approvingly. “Much better. What does it say?”