Confessions of a Teenage Psychic Read online

  “I’ve got Mrs. Renfrow fifth period. Is that your class?”

  “Yeah. Mrs. Renfrow is pretty boring, but at least it’s easier than math,” Emma says with a moan.

  Megan nods in agreement. “I can’t do math either.”

  “If you two would just study a little,” says Ashleigh, shaking her head. “It’s not all that hard.”

  “So you take honors geometry, right? And play violin?” That just pops into my head and out of my mouth before I can stop and think. I press my lips together— too late— and brace myself for her reaction.

  Ashleigh looks a little surprised. “Yeah, I’m an Asian cliche— good at math and first chair in the orchestra. Who told you?”

  “Lucky guess,” I say. “You seem smart.”

  Be cool, Caryn, you just met these girls.

  “She IS smart,” Emma says. “She’s the— ”

  “Valedictorian,” I finish, but then want to clap my hands over my mouth.

  “Well, not yet, but she will be.” Emma gives me a puzzled look.

  Quickly changing the subject I ask, “Are we waiting for anyone else?”

  “No, this is it. Sometimes other kids just show up there, but it’s usually pretty crowded, so we’d better go if we want a decent table,” Megan says as she pushes the Walk button on the street signal.

  The light finally changes and we all cross the busy street, heading toward Rosslyn Village. That’s what the locals call it, although I don’t know if the name is really official. Actually it’s just an odd assortment of little shops, trendy restaurants, and nightclubs for the over-twenty-one crowd. And of course plenty of places where kids like to hang out too, like the coffee shop and a fast-food restaurant.

  Peterson’s Coffee Emporium is an easy one-block walk from school, situated on a corner (and taking up most of the city block) next door to a pizza place and across the street from a consignment clothing store. I don’t know why I didn’t notice Peterson’s before, because Mom and I have eaten in that pizza place. Megan, Emma, Ashleigh, and I walk in and I follow them straight to the counter to place our orders. They all seem to be buying frozen lattes, and wanting to fit in I do the same, despite the fact that I’d rather have an herbal iced tea.

  I look around while I wait and a sudden flash in my head tells me that this hasn’t always been a coffee shop. I see a pool table and bar that used to be here. But it’s definitely a coffee shop now, decorated with cozy tables-for-two scattered around the room, but also lots of large leather-upholstered booths lining the walls. There’s an old Tiffany chandelier hanging from the ceiling in the middle of the room where the pool table probably was, and the eclectic posters on the walls are supposed to look like they came from a garage sale.

  “Over here!” Megan leads us all to a large circular booth in the corner.

  We slide in, one after another, and I start sipping my latte. Slowly, because too much caffeine gives me a head rush, and if there’s one thing I don’t need it’s to be even more wired.

  “Is anyone going to the homecoming game Friday night?” Emma asks.

  “I am!” Megan answers, and then adds for my benefit, “It’s not that I care about football really, but I want to go to the dance afterward, and you can’t go to the dance unless you go to the game.”

  Weird rule. I take another sip of the latte and then push it aside. “A homecoming dance after a football game? How does that work?”

  “It’s like a mixer,” Megan explains. “No one really dresses up. Everyone just goes to the game and then to the dance in the school cafeteria. Wanna go with?” she suddenly asks me.

  I’m a little surprised, being the new kid and all, but before I can answer, Emma jumps up and hurries to the door as two good-looking guys walk in. And I mean these two boys are HOT! Emma kisses the dark-haired one on the cheek, links her arm in his, and leads him to our table. The other boy goes to the counter and places an order.

  “Scoot over.” Emma nudges everyone to make room for the newcomers. “This is Kevin Marshall,” she says to me. Her boyfriend I assume, and I don’t need to be psychic to figure that out.

  “And you are… ?” he asks me.

  “Caryn Alderson, new to town, new to Rosslyn High.” I start to offer my hand to shake, but there isn’t enough room at the table to even stretch it out, so in embarrassment I pretend I just meant to grab my latte.

  “Mind if I sit down?” asks the other boy, balancing three iced teas. He hands one of them to Kevin and takes a sip from one of the other two.

  Did I say he was hot? That doesn’t begin to describe him. He’s tall, probably over six feet, and very muscular in an athletic sort of way. He keeps running his fingers through his surfer-blond hair, and he’s dressed prep-style— golf shirt, belted khaki shorts, loafers. You know, the clean-cut all-American type.

  He can’t be that thirsty. I glance around the room to see who else might be joining us.

  “Everyone shove over again,” Emma orders. “Caryn, this is John, but no one calls him that.”

  He awkwardly tries to juggle the iced teas in order to shake hands with me, but grins at me endearingly when he realizes he can’t do it. I can feel my heart start to flutter.

  “Everyone calls me Quince,” he says in a clear, deep voice.

  He has an easy-going charm, the kind that makes girls fall instantly in love, and I am already sure I’m going to be one of them. Sometimes guys like that are players— they like to play with girls’ hearts for a while and then dump them when they get bored. But my instincts tell me Quince isn’t like that. This guy seems genuine and I like him immediately.

  “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.