Confessions of a Teenage Psychic Read online

  “Hey, Mom, let’s order from Jerry’s Pizzeria!” I shout as cheerfully as I can.

  It’s Saturday and the weather is perfect for an outdoor carnival in October. It’s crowded with lots of kids from school, as well as their parents and younger siblings.

  All sorts of booths are set up. The games of chance are all rigged of course, but no one cares because the profits are going to benefit the school. Megan is conducting the cakewalk with great success, especially since all the cakes have been donated by a well-known bakery in town. There’s a dunking booth where students are lined up for an opportunity to plunge Principal MacGregor into a water tank. Kensi Marlow has a big handmade sign outside of a tent that reads, “Two kisses for a buck!” Naturally there’s a long line of cute boys ready to pay a dollar for the kisses. What they’re really getting is chocolate, but they don’t know that until after they pay their money and go into the tent where she swears them to silence.

  Coach Edgemont and his football players are hustling people with the football toss and an opportunity to win a big stuffed bear. Needless to say, it’s set up to be harder than it looks, and even Peyton Manning himself might miss. And there are the usual carnival activities of face painting, apple bobbing, pumpkin carving, and lots of junk food sold for inflated prices.

  Then there’s my tent, “Madame Wilhelmina, Fortuneteller Extraordinaire.” I feel ridiculous enough in the oversized caftan the PTA has provided for me, but I drew the line at wearing a turban. I opt for letting my hair hang loose around my shoulders, accentuating the green stripe that has yet to fade after all these months.

  Yeah, it’s every bit as bad as I imagined. I’m seated in a folding chair next to a card table covered with a gypsy-style fringed cloth, with a white plastic folding chair opposite me for my clients. For props I have a crystal ball and some worn-out tarot cards, but I can’t decide if it would look better if I pretend to use them or just let them lay on the table for effect.

  Don’t take this so seriously. It’s for a good cause.

  People are paying five dollars each for my predictions, a higher price than any of the other booths, so I feel obligated to play my part well. My first customer, Emma Cartwright, waltzes in as butterflies dance in my stomach.

  “Hi, Caryn. Oh, I mean Madame Wilhelmina,” she says with a giggle. She takes the seat across from me and stretches her right palm on the table in front of me. “What’s my fortune?”

  “Madame Wilhelmina doesn’t read palms,” I say in a deep voice. “She only gazes into the future.”

  At that I pretend to look into the crystal ball. What can I tell her that won’t give too much away about my real abilities?

  “What do you see?” She peers into the crystal ball like there’s really something in there.

  “Um,” I hesitate.

  Okay, Caryn, just go for it. “You’re going to attend a dance with a young man, a football player.” There. That’s not so hard.

  Emma looks up at me, beaming. “Wow! Kevin’s going to ask me to the Christmas dance?”

  “This is what Madame Wilhelmina sees,” I reply, trying to stay in character. And yes, he’s going to ask you. I smile to myself because in my mind I can see her in a slow-dance with Kevin, swaying in time to the lyrics, “Chestnuts roasting on an open fire… ”

  Emma happily dances out of the tent and in comes my next customer, Harris Rutherford. How ridiculous could I look in front of a freshman? I begin to relax, realizing I can pull this gig off and maybe even have some fun with it.

  “I want to know if Angie Morrison’s ever gonna go out with me.”

  I feel bad for him, but nope. She’s a very popular freshman who thinks dorky Harris is far beneath her. Still, I kinda like the kid and don’t want to hurt his feelings.

  “Madame Wilhelmina sees great success for your future in the academic realm, but recommends you postpone romance while you concentrate on making straight As.”

  I can tell he’s disappointed, but he finally grins, shrugs, shakes hands with me and gets up to leave.

  I have a long line of customers for the rest of the afternoon, as word spreads that I’m the best Madame Wilhelmina the carnival has ever had. My uneasiness disappears as I confidently make predictions that I know are true but could easily be passed off as lucky guesses, like my mom said. Late in the day I look up in surprise as Megan walks in.

  “All the cakes are sold out,” she explains. “So I wanted to see what all the fuss is about. Everyone says you’re really good. So what’s my prediction?”

  I pull back, think for a minute, hesitate. She’s tapping her foot impatiently, waiting for me to read her outstretched palm. I ignore her hand and pretend to look at the tarot cards laid out in front of me. What can I tell her that’s true but not too outlandish?

  Oh, of course! “You are going to get new shoes,” I say in my fortuneteller voice. “Soon.”

  “That’s it?” she asks incredulously. “Shoes?”

  “Madame Wilhelmina sees new shoes in your immediate future.” I bow my head in fake modesty.

  Megan throws up her hands just as Quince walks in.

  “Don’t waste your money,” she tells him as she walks out.

  He looks puzzled as Megan flies past him, but then grins and plops himself down in the chair opposite me. “You aren’t going to throw a soda on me, are you?” he says.

  I’m relieved to see that he’s forgiven me for my social gaffe last month, and I determine to give him a good reading to try to make up for it.

  “Madame Wilhelmina is above pranks!” I say, back in character.

  I’m not sure my psychic abilities will stay on track as I stare into Quince’s sparkling blue eyes, but I guess it doesn’t matter anyway. No one at the carnival is taking me seriously. Quince looks at me intently and I feel sure he’s going to ask me about his love life, a question I don’t want to answer because I still don’t get what he sees in Kensi.

  “Tell me about my future,” he says with a grin. Well, at least he didn’t ask about her.

  I pretend to gaze into the crystal ball, trying to decide whether to tell him about school or athletics— anything but his relationship with Kensi. As usual, whenever Quince is in the vicinity, my pulse starts to race. I try to look calm, even if I don’t feel it.

  I look up from the crystal ball, smile at Quince, and open my mouth to speak. To my shock, there’s a kindly looking gentleman standing behind him, even though I didn’t hear anyone else come in. My mouth drops open. Quince just sits there expectantly while I stare at the man over his shoulder.

  “Well? What great things do you see for me?” Quince is getting impatient and begins drumming his fingers on the table and I realize he doesn’t see anyone else in the tent.

  The man is in his 60s with thinning grey hair, thick glasses, and is wearing an old-fashioned yellow cardigan sweater. I blink, thinking my eyes are playing tricks on me, look back into the crystal ball and lift my eyes again, but the old man is still here. I can even smell the smoke from the pipe he takes out of his mouth before he speaks to me.

  “Tell him his mother’s going to be okay, that the doctors will get her diabetes under control.” His voice sounds kind and full of concern.

  I look from the man back to Quince, who obviously doesn’t see or hear a thing.

  “Hello-o-o? Still waiting,” Quince says.

  “You… you will be a great… athlete,” I stammer.

  “Duh. Tell me something I don’t know.” Quince fakes a big yawn.

  “Go ahead, tell him,” urges the gentleman.

  I bend my head over the crystal ball and mutter under my breath, “I can’t. He’ll think I’m nuts.”

  “What did you say?” Quince asks.

  “I said I can’t see anything else,” I answer in my regular voice.

  “That’s lame. I thought you were supposed to be good at this.”

  “Caryn, I’m Quince’s Grandpa Adams. I know him and I know he needs to hear this,” my unusual visitor i
nsists.

  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.

  Chapter 5

  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 d
ared 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.”