Once Upon a Kiss

by Robin Palmer

  The woman laughed. “Oh, I’m not Rhiannon. I’m Barb.”

  “Barb is Rhiannon’s publicist,” Rain explained.

  “Psychics have publicists?” I asked, confused.

  Which from the way her smile disappeared, probably wasn’t the right thing to say. “Only the ones who think big-picture,” Barb sniffed as she moved out of the way so we could enter.

  I was about four steps in when I stopped short. In addition to the wall-to-wall green shag carpet, there were smoked-glass mirrored walls and macramé plant hangers. It was like something out of the later seasons of The Brady Bunch, when Greg started looked all hippy-like and had the love beads in his bedroom. Whoa, I said to myself. I may have been stuck in the eighties, but Rhiannon’s house was stuck in the seventies.

  “I sense that you, too, are a fan of the art of macramé, am I right?” said a voice that sounded like the product of way too many packs of cigarettes a day.

  I turned to see a woman wearing a black crushed velvet dress with flowy sleeves and red suede lace-up boots lying on a purple velvet tufted couch. Her hair was long and blonde and feathered, and even from as far away as I was standing, I could tell that it had been fried to death over the years.

  “Actually, other than my grandmother’s house, I don’t know if I’ve actually seen macramé in person,” I replied.

  “Well, the spirit guides tell me that you are, and you just don’t know it yet,” she shot back.

  “Okay.” I shrugged.

  The woman hauled herself off the couch and made her way over, jangling as she did due to the many bangles that she wore on both arms. She thrust a hand out, and I took it. “I’m Rhiannon,” she announced, her fuchsia Lee Press-On Nails digging into my hand.

  “I’m Zoe,” I replied.

  “I already know that. What kind of psychic would I be if I didn’t?”

  “Not a very good one, I guess,” I replied.

  She dug her nails in harder and marched me back over to where she had been lying and pushed me into a very uncomfortable black leather chair while she stretched back out onto the chaise. “Sorry to cut the small talk, but I’m due to meet with a major reality-television star who shall remained unnamed, so we have to get this show on the road.” She took one hand and put it around my wrist as if taking my pulse while taking her other hand and putting it across her forehead and shutting her eyes. She looked like a character in a Charles Dickens novel who had just learned she was about to die because she had tuberculosis.

  “So . . . how does this work?” I asked after we sat there in silence for a bit, with Rain and Barb hovering over us. “Am I supposed to ask you questions or . . .”

  “Shhhh,” Barb hissed. “She’s getting in touch with them.”

  “In touch with who?”

  “The spirit guides,” Rain whispered.

  “Oh. Sorry.”

  We waited a while longer. To the point where I wondered if Rhiannon wasn’t just getting in a nap. “Sometimes the barometric pressure affects the frequency,” Barb explained.

  Before I could ask if it might be better if I came back another day—like, say, one with less humidity—Rhiannon took a deep breath. Her eyes popped open. “I’m ready!” she said breathlessly.

  Rain clapped her hands and gave a little squeal. “Ooh, goody!”

  We all looked at her.

  “Sorry,” she whispered.

  “You’re here today because you want to talk about love,” she announced.

  “Actually, no.”

  For a second she looked lost. “But that’s what everyone who comes to me wants to know about.”

  “Yeah, well, not me,” I replied.

  “Career, then?”

  “I’m in high school.”

  “How to hide your money from the IRS?” She shook her head. “Sorry. That was just that Silicon Valley guy.”

  “I’m here to find out about time travel.”

  She relaxed. “Time travel? Oh, that’s easy.” She grabbed my wrist again and closed her eyes. A moment later she opened them. “The spirit guides are saying you belong in 2043.”

  “Oh, I don’t want to go forward. I want to go back to the past.”

  She smiled. “Right on, sister.”

  Finally! Someone who understood that there was value to the past, even if you couldn’t post or tweet or text about it!

  “I was totally picking up on that seventies vibe when you walked in,” she continued. She closed her eyes again. “Oh yeah. I’m getting . . . Linda Ronstadt.”

  “Who?” I asked, confused.

  “No! Wait!” she said putting up her hand. “Oh wow. . . . I’m getting . . . Can it be . . . ? Yes, yes it is. . . . I’m getting Stevie’s little sister.”

  “Who’s Stevie?” I asked.

  Her eyes snapped open. “Who’s Stevie?” she asked incredulously.

  “Uh-oh,” I heard Rain say quietly.

  “Stevie? As in Stevie Nicks? As in only the most talented songstress ever?” She pointed to a framed record album cover that had a man and woman on it dressed in really dorky clothes, like they belonged at one of those Renaissance fairs. It said Fleetwood Mac—Rumours on it. “‘Dreams’? ‘The Chain’? ‘Gold Dust Woman’?”

  “Don’t forget ‘Rhiannon,’” Rain piped up.

  I nodded. “Oh, her. I think my mom likes her.”

  “I knew there was a reason I felt an affinity with you when you walked in,” Rhiannon said. “And that’s because we’re sisters. Not just in the figurative sense, but in the cosmic sense.”

  “Soooo . . . you’re, like, the reincarnation of this Stevie woman?” I asked.

  “Not exactly, because Stevie is still alive and well and living in Malibu,” she replied. “But I do feel that we share the same stardust. And I think you might be of the same crop.”

  This chick was nuts. “That’s great,” I said. “But I don’t actually want to go back to the seventies. I want to go back to the eighties. To 1986, to be specific.”

  She wrinkled her nose. “Spandex and neon colors? Why would you want to do that?”

  I thought about my options. I could either cut my losses and get up and leave right then and there. Or I could take the risk and come clean and tell her my story. It was obvious that she was loony tunes, so how crazy could waking up thirty years into the future sound to her? I was already here, and, according to Rain, the hour was already setting me back a hundred and fifty bucks. (“Her normal rate is three fifty an hour, but because you’re a friend, she’s doing me a favor,” Rain said as we stopped at the bank machine.) So what was there to lose?

  I took a deep breath and told her everything, starting with Brad coming into Terri’s shop, and the Fun Dip stick, and waking up to find my hair had grown out, all the way up through realizing Montana was this millennium’s me. The way she kept nodding and saying “Uh-huh, uh-huh” made me relax, as if maybe what had happened to me wasn’t all that crazy.

  When I was done, she took hold of my wrist again and closed her eyes. After a few moments she opened them. “And this Montana—does she resemble Stevie in any way?”

  I sighed as I took my hand back. So much for this helping. “No. She doesn’t,” I replied.

  She shrugged. “Oh well. Can’t win them all!”

  What did this woman want? A land full of Stevie clones? This was a colossal waste of time. “So do you have any suggestions as to how I might be able to get back to 1986?”

  “I might, but let me ask you first: Why would you want to?”

  “Because that’s where I’m from. That’s where my life is.”

  “Yes, but from everything you’re telling me, it wasn’t all that great,” she replied. “I mean, you’re popular now. Isn’t that what everyone wants?”

  From the corner of my eye, I could see Rain nodding. I turned to her a
nd she stopped. “Sorry,” she said.

  I shrugged. “I don’t know,” I said honestly. “I mean, I’d be lying if I said that popularity sucked, but . . .”

  “But what?” Rhiannon asked.

  I felt my face turn red. “I miss Jonah.” It felt stupid to admit I missed someone who didn’t want anything to do with me.

  She nodded. “Of course you do. We always miss our twin flame when we’re not united.”

  “Twin flame?” I asked.

  She nodded. “Twin flame, soul mate . . .”

  I laughed. “Jonah’s not my soul mate. He’s my best friend. He’s the person who knows me better than anyone. He’s the one I’d want to be stuck on a desert island with. But soul mate?” I shook my head. “No way.”

  The way Rhiannon looked at me was making me uncomfortable. “And anyways, I already have a boyfriend,” I said nervously. “Brad.” And all I could say was that if that was what a soul mate felt like, we were all in big trouble.

  From the way Barb was tapping her watch and mouthing It’s time to go, I could tell it was time to wrap up. Rhiannon shrugged. “Okay. Well, I’m only here to share what the spirit guides tell me. Not force you in any sort of direction that doesn’t feel right for you. Especially if I want the repeat business and a good review on Yelp. So what is it you’d like to know?”

  “Well, I’d like to know . . . how to get back to 1986 . . . if that’s what I end up choosing to do. . . .” I said. I wished I could have sounded a little more sure of myself, but the truth was I was nervous. Maybe Rhiannon was right—maybe being here wasn’t all that bad. Maybe I should have looked at it like moving. Lots of kids moved when they were growing up. I had just moved years instead of states.

  She took hold of my wrist again and closed her eyes. Well, closed them until her phone beeped with a text, and she opened one eye to check it. Finally she opened them. “The spirit guides are telling me that you need to kiss this Brad guy again.” She nodded for a few moments. “Yes. Kiss him, and it will bring you back to 1986.”

  My stomach started to clench. “Did they give you any other suggestions?” I asked hopefully.

  She shook her head. “Nope.”

  “But what if it doesn’t bring me back to 1986?” I asked. “What if it brings me back to . . . 1786?”

  She closed her eyes a moment and then opened them. “They said they can’t guarantee what will happen, but it’s worth a shot.”

  Great.

  “Wait—they say they want to tell me one more thing.” She closed her eyes again and then opened them. “They said . . . you should twirl.”

  “Twirl what?” I asked, confused.

  “You know—twirl. Like Stevie.” With that, Rhiannon stood up and began to twirl around. First slow, and then faster, so that her sleeves made her look like some sort of earthbound butterfly. Finally she stopped and stumbled a bit.

  “And that will help me get back to where I came from,” I said doubtfully.

  She shrugged. “I don’t know, but I really have to get going,” she said as she stood up and gave me that okay, you can get going now too, thanks look.

  I stood up as well. “Thanks,” I said, starting to rustle in my bag for the money.

  “Barb will take care of my fee,” she said. “The spirit guides don’t like me to get involved with the money thing. They think it dilutes the gift.” She picked up her phone and began to walk away. “And remember—twirl.”

  I had never thought I was psychic before, but I was psychic enough to know that this was a complete waste of time.

  “You didn’t mention it was Flashback Friday!” my mother exclaimed as I walked into the kitchen the next morning wearing my new leggings, shirt, and belt. “Do you want me to take a picture of you? Or did you do a selfie?”

  “Yup. I did a selfie,” I replied, making a mental note to look up the word.

  In keeping with her multitasking personality, she was alternating between painting her nails, making an egg-white omelette, and doing squats while some rap music blared. Every few moments she’d stop and try out some sort of move that ended with her crossing her arms in front of her and smirking before making a notation in the little notebook she carried around all the time. “Where’d you find that? In the attic?”

  “It’s not Flashback Friday, and, no, I bought it yesterday,” I replied as I grabbed a muffin and sat down at the table.

  “You should have worn that yesterday for Throwback Thursday,” Ethan said as he made his way out the door after grabbing half my muffin in one fell swoop.

  When she looked at me she stopped her multitasking and joined me. “Honey, I know now isn’t the time because you have to get to school and I have a conference call with Rihanna’s people, but I have to tell you—I’m worried about you.”

  “How come?” I asked with my mouth full. What muffins had lost in taste over the years, they had gained in size. This one was the size of a small country.

  She pointed to the muffin and moved it to the side as I went to grab another piece. “Because of the muffin, honey. You know we don’t actually eat those.”

  “Let me guess—they’re just for appearances,” I said wryly. “Like the bread.”

  She grabbed my arm and gave me a serious look. I had noticed that the wrinkles that used to appear on her forehead when that happened were no longer there. According to the women on a TV show called The Real Housewives of Atlanta that I had come across last night while channel surfing (it’s hard to fall asleep after twirling) this had to do with something called Botox. “Are you depressed?”

  “No. I’m just hungry,” I said, grabbing the muffin back.

  She took in my new outfit. It looked awesome, if I did say so myself. “Zoe, in an attempt to honor your individuality, I let the poet blouse go yesterday. And obviously being popular gives you a lot of leeway in the fashion department, but don’t you think you might be pushing it a bit with what you’re wearing today?”

  I shrugged. “If people decide I’m no longer cool because of what I wear, then oh well,” I said as I turned on my phone. I had turned it off when I started to write my speech because I couldn’t deal with all the various dings and dongs from Facebook and Twitter.

  She put her hand to my forehead. “Do you have a fever?”

  Before I could answer, a stream of beeps sounded. Twenty-two texts. How did I manage to get anything done if I was this popular? One was from Andrea, asking me to please not wear my brown Frye motorcycle boots because she wanted to wear hers to school, and it would look dumb if we were all “twinsie,” but if I really wanted to wear mine, that was fine, she’d just wear hers another day but to just let her know at my earliest convenience so that she’d have enough time to re-strategize. The other twenty-one were from Brad, ranging from things like Hey babe to Whassup to I’m bored to I just had a burrito. Most girls complained that their boyfriends didn’t pay enough attention to them. Mine, however, seemed to have nothing better to do than to report his every move to me.

  Can’t wait til 2nite ;) came through.

  “Uh-oh. A wink is not good,” I murmured. I knew that’s what it was from the emoticon dictionary app I had downloaded the night before. A wink was a gateway to all sorts of things. I needed to get out of this. “Mom?”

  “What, sweetheart?” she replied, in the middle of trying to untangle a very large gold chain with a pendant that said HOMEGIRL.

  “I was thinking maybe we could do something tonight. You know, as a family.”

  She looked up from the pendant, confused. “But you never want to spend time with us. You’re always saying we embarrass you.”

  She wasn’t wrong. I had said that a few times. Or maybe more than a few. But to my defense, they were embarrassing. But it was different now. I mean, I was in another century. With no instruction book. “Well, maybe I haven’t wanted to in the past, but I’ve been th
inking about it recently, and I feel bad about that,” I replied. “And now seems like the perfect time to change that. So how about game night or something?” What was I saying? I hated games.

  “Honey, you hate games,” she replied.

  “Yes, but I’m trying to be more open-minded,” I replied. “Maybe we could just go to dinner or something.”

  “Sweetie, you father and I have plans,” she said. “We’ll go for dinner on Sunday night.” Her face brightened. “Ooh—I know—we’ll go to that place in Koreatown that has karaoke!”

  Oh boy. I had seen some video on YouTube with a woman doing that karaoke thing. It was painful to watch her, and she didn’t look half as embarrassing as my parents did. I stood up and leaned down to kiss her cheek. “Maybe. Let’s talk about it later. I have to go. I have my speech this morning.”

  “What’d you decide to go with for the speech?” she asked. “May Makeovers or the Kardashians for Career Day?”

  “Something completely different,” I replied.

  I wasn’t a great public speaker. I hadn’t always hated it, but ever since the time I had done an oral book report on Judy Blume’s Forever in eighth grade and Andrea had used the Q&A section to ask me whether the pages I had dog-eared were the sex scenes and how many times I had read them, it had been hard for me to stand in front of groups. But I was willing to walk through my fear for my country. Or at least my classmates. Plus, I had practiced my speech until one a.m., and then a few times that morning in my room using the note cards I had made for myself, so I was feeling pretty good about it.

  That is, until I was in the auditorium and realized I had forgotten them on my dresser.

  “You did? Really? That’s too bad,” said Andrea in a tone that made it seem that not only was it not too bad but it was actually awesome. She reached into her purse and whipped out another copy of the speech she had written. “Omigod—how weird is this? I just happen to have another copy of my speech right in here! I must have forgotten to take it out before.” She thrust it toward me. “Why don’t you just use this one?”

  In that moment, I felt like I saw Andrea in a whole different light. As she looked at me—eager, hopeful, pleadingly—I no longer saw the bitchy girl who had tormented me for so many years. In her place was a girl who had so little sense of her own self, so little idea who she was, that she was content to just copy and live through me—a person who she thought had it all together and all figured out. (If she only knew . . .) I realized at that moment that unlike some situations where the second-in-command was planning and plotting and scheming about how she could take over and be the alpha dog, this wasn’t Andrea. She was happy to continue being the runner-up.