by Barrie Summy
There’s silence while we both consider this. Then, at the exact same second, we both squeal, “Ewww.”
My face all scrunched up, I say, “So I might’ve taken the flowers my dad sent to The Ruler for their first date or first kiss or something? And she doesn’t even know she got flowers? She still thinks they’re for me? Grooooss.”
“It’s a distinct possibility. Why don’t you ask your dad?”
“Believe me, I will. I talk to him every day. It’s almost like he’s not out of town, we hear from him so much.”
Junie waves her hand in the air, letting my perfect polish job dry. “Got any nail jewels? I feel like going all out.”
“Wow.” I slap her shoulder. “What’s with you?”
Her face reddens. Which happens easily because she’s hugely freckled.
Anyway, I better stop teasing her. I’ve been trying forever to get Junie more interested in makeup and clothes and how she looks. You know, to catch up with me socially. And if I tease her too much, she might regress.
From my nightstand, I pull out an envelope loaded with nail jewels and decals.
“Do you think my lips are on the thinnish side?” I jut my face toward Junie’s.
She looks surprised. “Say what?”
While I’m telling her about Candy, I get off the bed and root around in my desk for a ruler. “Let’s measure our lips.”
Junie sighs, but untangles her legs and follows me into the bathroom.
I get up close and personal with the mirror above the sink. I press the ruler against my top lip, then my bottom lip. “One-quarter inch and one-half inch. I’m guessing that’s below average width.”
Junie takes the ruler and measures hers. She gasps. “One-eighth inch and three-eighths inch. If your lips are too thin, what does that say about mine? And you’ve already got better eyebrows.”
The eyebrow thing is true, so I don’t comment. “Wear lip liner and draw your lips bigger,” I suggest. “That’s my plan.”
Junie sighs. “Once you start with makeup, it never ends.”
Also true, so I don’t comment again.
We trundle back to my room, where Junie chooses a few nail decorations. She ignores the butterflies and flowers and goes straight for the geometric shapes.
I glue a black spiral onto her index finger. “About the stalker …”
“What do we really know about The Ruler? Why would anyone want to stalk her?” Junie sounds so TV cop show. “We know she taught middle school somewhere else, probably in Phoenix, before coming to our school last year. We know she’s married to your dad. We know she’s obsessed with robotics.” With her free hand, she counts off the points. “That’s not much. I say we Google her.”
“I like your thinking!” I finish off her nails and we head downstairs to our midget office. The Ruler took Sam to Little League practice, and then they’re going shopping for new cleats. Phew. That would’ve been way odd—Googling her while she was in another room.
I boot up the Dell, tap in Google’s address and type in “Paula Paulson.”
There’s an entry for The Ruler with our school website and the robotics club.
Right under it is an entry for a Polly Paulson.
Which I click on.
Polly Paulson.
A psychic.
“She’s done readings for lots of different people,” Junie says, skimming the screen.
“I wonder how many bad readings she’s done,” I say. “You know, where she told people stuff they didn’t want to hear. Like you’re going to have a horrible life or you’ll never get the guy you love.”
Junie clicks all over the site. “There’s no photo of her. I’m curious to see if she looks anything like The Ruler.”
Like it’s the Fourth of July in my mind, I’m sparking on the bad readings idea. “What if she went into a trance and said stuff to the police like, ‘I see this guy in my mind. There he is breaking into the bank. Yup. He’s drilling into the safe. And now I see him hiding the money.’”
Another spark flashes in my brain. “Then the police catch the guy and lock him up. And he has a cell mate with a lot of insider info who tells him, ‘You were nailed by a psychic named Polly Paulson.’” Spark. “So now he’s out of prison and stalking The Ruler.” Spark. “Why? Because he’s mixed up. He thinks she’s the psychic who fingered him.” Spark. “And maybe he has big big plans for revenge.”
“Sherry, slow down.”
But there’s no slowing me down. “Maybe our bad guy has bad hearing. From too many prison fights where he got smacked in the ears.” Spark. “Which means instead of ‘Polly Paulson,’ he hears ‘Paula Paulson.’” I am so on a roll. “The Ruler could be the victim of mistaken-identity stalking!”
“I don’t know, Sherry.” Junie frowns. “It seems pretty out-there.”
Sometimes, in detective work, you have to take giant leaps. Definitely difficult for Junie, who is logical and practical and lives life step-by-step. Not me, though. I’m a leaper. Practically part kangaroo.
I click on “Events with Polly.” “Junie, she’s at a psychic fair. In Chandler. Today.”
“We can go check it out.” She’s not leaping, but at least she’s hopping.
“Can your mom or dad drive us? The Ruler won’t be back for hours.”
“They’re working today.”
Junie’s parents are both workaholic engineers. Junie’s family is just her and her parents, and all three of them are major brainiacs.
“Call Amber,” I say. “She can drive us.”
Junie stops nodding.
Amber is Junie’s gorgeous, blond, stylish, boy-expert, seventeen-year-old cousin. She’s a senior in high school, works part-time at the makeup counter of the department store at the mall and is never without at least one boyfriend. Amber’s not always nice to us, but she does have her driver’s license and a car.
“Come on,” I wheedle. “You know you want to see what Polly Paulson looks like. I’m thinking accent, turban, crystal ball, wrinkled, with hairs growing from a mole on her chin.”
Her tongue between her teeth, Junie’s deciding on a description. “I’ll say thin, big earrings, lots of shiny bracelets.”
“Loser buys winner a Slurpee.” I fake sucking from a straw.
Junie flips open her cell and scrolls through her address book. “I’ll text her.”
I lean over Junie’s shoulder, watching the phone screen.
Junie: wut r ya doing?
Amber: workin. 10 min to go. Y?
Junie: There’s a psychic u should go c.
Amber: Y?
Junie: 2 find out abt ur love life.
Amber: Y?
Junie: cuz u just switched boyfriends.
Amber: dat true
Junie: Sherry & I want 2 go 2.
Amber: Y?
Junie: we have ?s.
Amber: so?
Junie: we told you abt the psychic, so u should take us 2.
Amber: Y?
Junie: we’ll give you gas $.
Amber: ok. Pick u up in 20.
chapter
nine
Junie, me, Amber and Amber’s überskinny friend, Dana, are in downtown Chandler, standing on a sidewalk and waiting in line to get into a park. It’s a large flat, grassy area, bordered by a low Western-style wooden fence.
“The psychic fair’s here?” Amber doesn’t actually say, “Pathetic excuse for a psychic fair that’s set up outside instead of in a swanky, mirrored, air-conditioned building,” but you can hear it in her voice.
Junie and I nod, then shuffle forward. Sometimes—make that, usually—it’s better not to call Amber on her attitude. The two older girls follow us.
Sitting in a plastic chair behind a card table, a woman with a rainbow turban and a matching shawl collects money.
“Love your turban,” I say. A blue raspberry Slurpee is clearly in my future.
“Five dollars for entry into the fair,” she says. “Readings are ten dollars, paya
ble to the psychic.”
After we pay, Turban Lady stamps the back of our hand with the date.
I was expecting a more mystical stamp, like a star or moon or crystal ball. Now I just feel like I’m at the school library.
“There’s food in the tent at the far corner of the park.” Turban Lady points over her shoulder with the stamp. “The exhibits are throughout the grounds.”
“Let’s check out the exhibits first,” I say.
Tables are set up helter-skelter. The gazillion different colors from various tablecloths and posters and flyers make me feel like I’m trapped in a kaleidoscope. Incense burns on several of the tables, so there’s this strange mixture of smells. It’s noisy, like at the start of class before the teacher walks in.
“Amber, we so have to see a psychic,” Dana says. “I just don’t know who to go to the spring dance with.” Dana has poufy brown hair. Which she flips back with a jerky hand movement, like she’s under a blinking strobe light.
“Who asked you?” Amber says.
“Ryan and Jesse.” Dana flips her hair. Flips it again.
“You don’t need a psychic for that.” Amber’s looking past Dana, scanning the area. “Go with Ryan. Obviously.”
“Ryan?” Flip. “Why?” Flip.
Amber’s finished surveying. Her eyes back on Dana, she shoots her the do-I-really-have-to-explain-this look. Like Dana asked something way simple à la should you buy your jeans a size too small or so they fit? Holding up a finger topped with a long violet nail for each point in his favor, Amber says, “Ryan has a car. Ryan has cuter hair. Ryan has a cool part-time job at Electronics City. Ryan has an older brother with lots of friends.”
Arms hanging limp by her side, Dana says, “Well, I still want psychic advice about my dress.”
Amber and Dana ditch us. I’m sure we cramp their style. Not that you really need style here; it’s mostly old women wearing flowing, baggy dresses and dangly earrings.
Junie and I wander from table to table. We’re eye-balling name tags and pamphlets, on the lookout for Polly Paulson. She’s going to be tougher to find than I thought, because there are lots of people milling about and lots of booths. Luckily, we’re not in a huge rush. The Ruler’s not picking us up for a couple of hours. Amber and Dana are leaving earlier to hit an R-rated movie.
We come to a table with really cute figurines and jewelry and polished stones. I’m fingering an adorable amethyst necklace.
A guy with long hair and tattoos up and down his arms says, “That stone offers very powerful protection against the spirit world.”
I must have a blank look on my face because he continues, “If you spend any time at all contacting spirits, amethysts are necessary for your safety.”
Really? Sounds like a must-have item for me.
“Actually, we’re trying to find Polly Paulson,” Junie says.
“Yeah, Polly’s here. She’s cool. You friends of hers?”
I give my mysterious, could-be-yes-could-be-no smile. “Where’s she at?”
He waves toward the back of the park and turns to help another customer. We walk in that general direction, passing tables that offer readings by tarot cards or tea leaves or palms. And tables with gypsyish clothing. And a table where you can have your blood analyzed. And a table manned by someone with a long papiermâché wand with special healing powers.
Tucked away in the far corner, an Avon lady has a sign advertising free perfume samples with a tarot card reading. She doesn’t have any customers and is skimming a magazine while sipping on a Starbucks.
Junie points at the Avon lady. “Sherry, let’s do it.”
I’m shocked. I’m dismayed. I grasp the nearest table so that I don’t fall over in a dead faint. “Junie, you don’t even wear perfume.”
“Hey, I might start.”
As my grandma Baldwin would say, something strange is going on in the universe. “Maybe she’s Polly Paulson.”
Walking all purposeful, Junie approaches the Avon lady. “Excuse me. Are you Polly Paulson?”
She looks up from her magazine and laughs. “Polly? You’ve obviously never met her.”
This statement makes me nervous, like maybe Polly Paulson has vampire fangs or two heads or is half woman, half cyclops.
“She went for a bite to eat.” The Avon lady closes her magazine and picks up her cards.
“Here?” I say. “Is Polly eating here?”
The Avon lady fingers the tips of the cards. “Yes, in the food tent.” She looks up at us, especially at Junie. “You want a reading?”
“Come on, Junie,” I say, already taking a step away.
“Maybe later,” Junie says.
I’m off like a shot.
Junie’s behind me, wheezing like the out-of-shape girl she is.
I dash past a whiteboard easel with the menu written on it and through the opening into the food tent. Which is deceptively larger than it looks from the outside. There are only a few people here. Not surprising, given the food they’re serving: carrot juice, falafel, organic salad. Without even waiting for Junie, I march straight to the counter and say, breathlessly, to the wrinkled woman stacking tan napkins, “Do you know if Polly Paulson is here?”
Index finger holding the napkins in place, she surveys the room. “That’s her in the corner.” She points with her free hand and calls out, “Polly, some people here to see you.”
My eyes follow the direction she’s indicating, and I gasp.
I can totally see why Tattoo Guy thought Polly and me might be friends.
Polly is, like, our age.
She has long, überthick blond hair with sky blue streaks. She blinks; her eyelids are coated in the same blue. She looks like she’s my petite size of five feet two and exactly one hundred pounds.
Junie finally catches up and pants by my side.
Polly Paulson pokes the last bite of her falafel into her mouth and gives a friendly wave.
“That’s her,” I say.
Junie’s jaw drops.
“No Slurpees for us,” I say.
We pick our way through the tables to where Polly’s sitting. Polly pulls down on the back of her Pretty Punk T-shirt. “You guys want a reading?” She has a great smile.
“I do,” Junie says quickly, like she’s volunteering for extra credit at school.
Polly stands, swings a black backpack over her shoulder. “I’m done with my break. Let’s go back to my area.”
“You’re really Polly Paulson?” I ask, walking next to her.
“Yup.”
“And you’re psychic?”
“Yeah. It basically runs in my family.”
“And you’re how old?”
“Thirteen. You?”
“Same.” A thirteen-year-old psychic with a punk-rock T-shirt and blue hair streaks? Sounds sketchy to me. “Have you ever done any psychic work for the police?”
“No. Why?”
“Just curious.”
Polly gives me a funny look.
I may be forced to rethink the whole The-Ruler-is-a-victim-of-mistaken-identity-stalking theory.
“Can I go first?” Junie asks.
What has come over scientifically minded Junie?
“Works for me.” Polly flashes her great smile again.
We pass the Avon lady.
“Hi, Mom,” Polly says to her. “I’ll watch your table if you want to go to lunch now.”
Junie, Miss Never-Fazed-by-a-Pop-Quiz, gapes openmouthed for the second time in five minutes. My jaw’s on the ground too.
Polly points to a folding metal chair. “Have a seat,” she says to Junie.
Junie pulls a ten-dollar bill from her purse.
“Thanks,” Polly says. Then she drags a matching chair from behind the table and plunks herself down so that they’re sitting across from each other, their knees practically touching. Polly looks at Junie, totally making eye contact.
Junie breaks the gaze and glances at me. “Do you mind if this is private?”
Is the earth suddenly flat? Will there be two moons in the sky tonight? Will I start speaking French in my sleep? Junie, my best friend, actually wants to have a secret psychic reading. Without me.
“Uh, okay,” I say.
I wander over to an exhibit of clothing and purses. I pick up a clutch and play with the clasp. Open, close. Open, close. I’m not really noticing anything, still kind of flabbergasted at Junie’s behavior. I keep an eye on the two of them, their heads close together. After about five minutes, they sit straight, like they’re wrapping things up. I walk back and stand behind Junie.
“Definitely watch for some developments in your love life. Real soon,” Polly says.
Developments in Junie’s love life? What love life? Junie’s not even into boys. Which she’ll happily tell you. She doesn’t have time, what with keeping up her perfect grades and applying to astronaut summer camp and being prez of the Latin club. I, on the other hand, am so into boys. Due to the fact that I’m socially advanced. Developments in Junie’s love life? Ha! Unless Junie does have her eye on Eric, Polly’s a big, bogus fake.
Junie beams at Polly. “Thank you,” she says.
That’s one of the things I love about my best friend; she’s genuinely nice. With all the love-life mumbo jumbo, Junie must know Polly’s a phony-baloney, but she still thanks her.
When Junie vacates the chair, I slide in and say, “You can stay.” I smile sweetly.
“Oh, okay.” Junie hangs beside me.
I hold out my money to Polly, who tucks it away in a pink pencil box, then takes my hands.
There’s an instant connection. Not like electrical tingling or anything like that. More like we’re pulling on Silly Putty, stretching it out so we’re joined in a loose, rubbery way.
Polly’s silent, just staring at me, making a connection with our eyes too. Then she’s gazing off across the room.
“It’s all shimmery,” Polly says.
I’m tapping my foot. All shimmery? What kind of lame psychic gibberish is that?
“Oh, I see.” Polly squinches up her eyes. “It’s a pool. A swimming pool.”
I tap a little slower.
“It’s a guy with kind of messy hair. He’s talking to a girl.” She pauses. “Not you.”
I quit tapping altogether.