by Nicola Yoon
“You don’t seem like nothing’s wrong,” I say.
She sits down at her vanity and starts wiping foundation from her cheeks. “I’m fine,” she says, voice bright. She tosses the wipe into the trash and gets out another one. “Ben and I broke up.”
Wait.
“What happened?” I ask.
She shrugs. “I caught him kissing his ex.”
This is really happening.
“Where?” I ask, picturing Ben in the shadow of lifeguard tower twenty-seven.
“At the beach. Behind one of the lifeguard stations,” she says, with an eye roll and a scoff.
All at once, I feel the way I did earlier today. Light-headed and exhausted. Confused.
I sit on the edge of her bed.
“It’s really not a big deal, Evie,” she says.
“How can you say that?”
“Because it’s not. There are a lot of other guys out there.”
“But why even bother with guys at all?” I ask.
She stops wiping her face and turns to me. “Not everyone can be like you, Evie. I have actual human feelings.”
“What does that mean?”
She turns back to the mirror. “The only thing you ever feel is angry at Dad.”
I’ve wanted to tell her about Dad’s affair so many times in the past year. If she knew, she’d be just as angry as I am. But Mom asked me not to. Sometimes I think telling her would be the kind thing to do. Isn’t it always better to know the truth, to live without illusions?
I stand up and walk to the door.
Our eyes meet in the mirror. Her makeup is all gone now. Despite what she said about breaking up with Ben not being a big deal, she looks sad to me.
“I’m really sorry about Ben,” I tell her, and slip out the door.
The truth is, I’m probably more upset by their breakup than Danica is. I don’t understand what’s happening to me.
It’s one thing to hallucinate a vision of the future. It’s something entirely different for that vision to come true.
CHAPTER 6
Not a Witch
WHEN I WAS younger, eight or maybe nine, I used to think Mom was a witch. Somehow she always knew things she shouldn’t have. Like when I’d just picked my nose and eaten the booger. Or when I was reading under my blanket instead of sleeping.
I thought that one day, maybe when I turned ten, she’d sit me down and give me the talk:
“Evie,” she’d say, “I am a witch from a long line of witches. Your grandma was a witch, and her mother before her, and her mother before that.”
Then she’d put her hand on my face and say, “You too are a witch. A good witch.” Then she’d tell me all about my powers and what an awesome responsibility they were.
We didn’t have the witch talk on my tenth birthday. Instead, she and Dad talked to me about the sad, deep history of America and racism. They told me to pay attention to the world but also to live my life. To be joyous and fearless.
The witch talk didn’t come on my eleventh or twelfth or thirteenth birthday either. By my fourteenth birthday, I didn’t even think about witches or magic anymore.
But maybe I should’ve, because how else do I explain to myself what happened yesterday with Danica and Ben? Maybe Mom gave me witchy powers but forgot to tell me.
“What’s with you today?” Martin asks me from across the table in the cafeteria. Martin is one of my best friends. He’s white, with curly blond hair that grows faster than he can cut it. His favorite clothes are corduroy pants and cable-knit sweaters. This would be normal if he were a septuagenarian professor of English living in the cold English countryside. It’s less normal for an eighteen-year-old boy living in Los Angeles, where the average temperature almost never calls for tweed.
We’ve been friends since second grade. We were in library class together on our very first day and wanted to check out the same book. The librarian said we had to share by reading it out loud to each other. One book led to another.
“I think I might be losing it,” I say.
He rests his hand on his chin and considers me in his usual slow and careful way. “Tell me,” he says.
“It’s about Danica. She and Ben broke up.”
He straightens. Martin’s had a crush on Danica since the fourth grade, when he imprinted on her baby-goose style.
“When?” he asks.
“Last night.”
He does a tiny, happy fist pump with himself. “What happened?”
“He cheated on her with his ex.”
“Jesus, what an asshole,” he says.
I wait for him to pull himself together. It takes a few seconds.
“So you’re losing your mind because they broke up?” he asks.
“No. I mean, yes.”
“I’m confused.”
“I knew they were going to break up.”
“Of course. They had to. We’re destined to be,” he says, smiling.
“Okay, but let’s put destiny aside for a second,” I say. “What I mean is I knew when they were going to break up. And where. And why.” I take a very long breath. “I knew it all before they broke up.”
He slow-blinks at me, which is what he does when he’s contemplating something he doesn’t understand. “Are you saying you can predict the future now?”
“Of course not.” I take a sip of chocolate milk. “What I’m saying is I think maybe I can predict the future now.”
Another slow blink from him. “This is where you say ‘Once up on a time’ and don’t stop talking until you come to the end,” he says.
I tell him exactly what happened yesterday. How I’d just ridden home from giving my books away to the old woman at the Little Free Library and how Ben and Danica—oblivious to the world—were kissing on the stoop. He winces at that detail, but there’s nothing I can do about Danica’s propensity to kiss people who are not Martin.
I tell him how the vision was like watching a movie. The first scene was Ben asking Danica out. Next was them kissing in front of me on the stoop. The third was them at the bonfire, and the fourth was Danica alone in her room.
I stop talking to gauge his reaction so far.
He’s not looking at me as if he thinks I’ve finally lost my sanity, so I keep going. “But the craziest part is that when I got home, she told me they really did break up because she caught him kissing his ex on the beach.”
“Was she really upset?” he asks quietly.
“She was fine,” I say with a sigh. “But I need you to focus. I feel like you’re maybe missing my very enormous point.”
“Sorry, sorry,” he says. “So you saw the whole history of their relationship from beginning to end? Past and present and future?”
“I don’t understand why you’re not telling me that I’m losing it.” I lean forward and whisper, “I think I might be losing it.”
“I’m not ruling it out, but I like to keep an open mind.”
Martin’s open-mindedness is actually one of my favorite things about him. I still remember the first time I needed to tell him to check his (white) privilege. He wasn’t defensive. He just listened and learned.
If I told Cassidy (other best friend forever) about the vision, she would try to have me committed to a very expensive and upscale mental institution. Sophie (my other other best friend forever) would explain to me all the scientific reasons why what I’m saying is not possible. But for Martin, no idea is too outlandish to consider.
“Has it happened with anyone else?”
“No.”
“So you’re not seeing my romantic past and future right now?” he asks with an eyebrow waggle.
“Not possible, seeing as how you have neither,” I say, grinning at him.
He smiles at me and flips me off at the same time.
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br /> “How about we do an experiment,” he says after a while. “Maybe it only works on couples.”
“What are you saying? I should stare at people?”
“How else are we going to figure out what’s happening with you?”
“Fine,” I say.
I scan the room. Shelley and Sheldon are sitting two tables over. Their coupledom is legendary. At first it was because of their ridiculously similar names. But now it’s because of their longevity. They’ve been together for three years, since Shelley was a sophomore and Sheldon was a freshman. Every year, they get voted Couple Most Likely to Get Married.
I watch them for a good thirty seconds before looking back at Martin. “Nothing,” I say.
He points to Dwight and Joel sitting by the windows. “How about them?”
I creepy-stare at them before turning back to Martin. “Nope,” I say.
I try a few more times with other couples, but nothing happens. I look down at my mashed potatoes and carve little gravy rivulets with my fork. “I really am losing it,” I say without looking up.
“My mom would say you have a lot going on. Your parents got divorced, and you found out your dad cheated, and you moved away from the house you grew up in, and it’s second semester senior year. She’d say stress is a killer.”
Martin’s mom is a psychiatrist. She’d definitely say all that before launching into her speech about how weekly therapy sessions should be required for everyone, but most especially for middle and high school students.
“And your mom still won’t talk about anything?” he asks.
“She doesn’t think there’s anything to talk about. Danica too. I’m the only one who’s still stuck,” I say. I don’t expect to cry, but tears are suddenly burning behind my eyes.
Martin hands me a napkin before I can even look for one. I dab my eyes quickly, not wanting anyone to see.
My eyes drift back to Shelley and Sheldon. They’re sitting side by side now, still making moony faces at each other. Shelley leans into Sheldon, pressing her shoulder into his. He throws his arm around her and they kiss.
And I see.
CHAPTER 7
Shelley and Sheldon
A SUNNY MORNING in Mr. Armstrong’s US History classroom. He’s stalking the aisle, looking for cheaters. As soon as his back is turned, Sheldon hands Shelley a note. Shelley opens it and giggles. The note reads:
Would you like to go out with me?
☐ YES!
☐ YES!!
☐ YES!!!
☐ All of the above!
She takes out her pen and checks all the boxes, including All of the above!
* * *
—
Nighttime on a Ferris wheel high above Santa Monica pier. Shelley stares at Sheldon but looks away when she’s caught. Sheldon stares at Shelley but looks away when he’s caught. They do this for a while. The Ferris wheel seat is wide enough that their bodies aren’t touching, but you can tell they want to.
Finally, Shelley runs her hands over her bare arms and shivers a fake shiver.
Sheldon slides closer and wraps his arm around her shoulders. The ride attendant sees them making out and doesn’t kick them off until after they’ve been around six or seven times.
* * *
—
This moment right now: Shelley and Sheldon sharing a quick kiss in the cafeteria.
* * *
—
Shelley reading her college acceptance letter on her laptop. Sheldon is reading it over her shoulder. They’re both happy for her. But sad too.
* * *
—
Sheldon helping Shelley pack for college. He finds his “Would you like to go out with me?” note in her desk drawer. He slips it into her suitcase for her to find later.
* * *
—
Sheldon reading an email from Shelley. The subject line is “I’m sorry.”
* * *
—
Sheldon sitting alone on the Ferris wheel high above Santa Monica pier with no one beside him who needs warming up.
CHAPTER 8
Zoltar
THE VISION STOPS and I’m back in the cafeteria. Martin is staring at me with wide, urgent eyes. “It just happened again, didn’t it?” he asks.
I nod, and nod again. “They’re going to break up.”
He looks over at them and then back at me. “No way. Those guys are forever.”
“No,” I say. “They’re not.”
I tell him exactly what I saw: the note where he asks her out, their first date on the Ferris wheel, her getting her college acceptance letter, him helping her to pack for college and finally him alone on the Ferris wheel.
“I think it’s the kiss,” I whisper. “The only difference between the first time I stared at them and the second time is that they were kissing.”
Martin’s nodding like he’s already figured that out. “Okay, okay,” he says, “we need to try to understand what we’re dealing with.”
I’m glad he’s thinking logically, because I’m not. All I know is that what’s happening to me is not possible. Except it is possible, because it’s happening to me.
“We need to know if what you’re seeing is real.”
“We already know,” I say. “Danica and Ben, remember?”
“But she’s your sister, and you know him a little, right? You don’t know Shelley and Sheldon at all.”
“So what do you want me to do? Go over there and ask Shelley if she’s going to break Sheldon’s heart after she goes away to college next year?”
He snaps his fingers. “I have an idea,” he says as he slides out of his seat. “All couples love telling their origin stories.” He goes over to them and sits.
After a few seconds, Shelley lights up and then Sheldon does too.
It’s only five minutes before he comes back over to me. “Everything you said about their first meeting was right,” he says, amazed and disbelieving at the same time. “Tell me again exactly what happened yesterday. Don’t leave anything out.”
I tell him again.
He asks a lot of questions about the old woman and the Little Free Library:
“You didn’t see her at first and then suddenly she was just there?” and
“You found a book about…ballroom dancing?” and
“When you looked back she was just gone?”
Strung together like that, his questions make me feel like I should’ve known something was up. But why would I think something was up?
He stares out across the cafeteria, thinking. After a while he laughs and shakes his head. “I think you got Zoltared,” he says.
“What are you talking about?”
“Did you ever see the movie Big with Tom Hanks?” he asks.
“Was this movie made in the last twenty years?”
“It’s a classic,” he says. Martin is unapologetic about his ancient tastes. Along with old movies, he loves old songs, old books and clothing best left for old men. Today, for example, he’s wearing a ten-thousand-year-old tweed blazer with elbow patches.
“Just listen,” he says, “Big is about this twelve-year-old kid. He’s at an amusement park trying to impress a girl by getting on one of the big-kid rides. The problem is he’s too short for it and they won’t let him on. He gets upset and takes off. Eventually he finds one of those old fortune-teller machines.”
“Lemme guess, the fortune-teller is named Zoltar?”
“Look who’s so smart,” he says. “Anyway, the kid puts a coin in and makes a wish to be big. Zoltar does his thing and a ticket comes out saying the kid’s wish will be granted. The kid’s about to take off when he realizes the machine was unplugged the whole time, so how could it spit out a ticket?”
“Then what happens?” I ask.
“The next morning when he wakes up he’s all grown up.”
We both sit there quietly for a minute. I connect the east and west tributaries in my mashed potatoes. After a while, the four-minute-warning bell rings. We head for the door.
“Martin,” I say, “magic isn’t real.”
“I know,” he says.
“Do you?”
“Yes.”
“I feel like you don’t,” I say.
I take one last look back at Shelley and Sheldon. Instead of a happy couple, all I see is Sheldon alone on the Ferris wheel, high over Santa Monica.
“Do you still have the ballroom dancing book?” he asks.
I realize that I never actually took it out of my backpack. I pull it out and flip through the pages, running my fingers over the diagrams. Am I supposed to teach myself how to dance?
Martin takes the book from me and thumbs through the pages himself. He stops and turns to me. “I think I figured it out,” he says slowly. “But you have to keep an open mind.”
“My mind could not be more open,” I say.
He holds the book so I can see what he sees. There’s an If lost, please return to stamp on the last page. Underneath, there’s an address for a place called La Brea Dance.
“This is it,” he says, sounding very excited and very certain. “This is what you’re supposed to do next.”
CHAPTER 9
So Fatal a Contagion
ACCORDING TO THEIR website, La Brea Dance is a small dance studio specializing in group and private ballroom dance lessons “For Weddings! Parties! Or Just for the Love of Dance!” It’s owned by an older Black couple—Archibald and Maggie Johnson. On the site there’s a small black-and-white photo of them smiling into each other’s eyes.
It turns out I’ve ridden by it hundreds of times without noticing it was there. It’s only ten minutes from my apartment, on the route I take to school every morning.