The Cassandra Curse

by Chantel Acevedo

  “Who’s that?” Nia asked.

  “A Fated One. She could save the world someday,” Clio said. “And she’s all yours.”

  A mission. A real mission! I thought of Tia Annie’s files, and all the good work she’d done. This was the first step for us. The first face in the file.

  “But wait. The flooded city. You said that’s a picture of the future, too,” I said. In the mirror, the rainbow-haired woman turned to face us. Her brow was wrinkled in concentration, then her face lit up with an idea, and she ran to a tablet and started typing. There was something about her face that seemed so familiar.

  “It is. It’s a possible future. Many years from today,” Clio said. “But this Fated One might help humanity prevent it.”

  “So the Fated One. She’s a kid right now? Like us?” Mela asked. She had headphones around her neck again. I’d have to ask her sometime about the kind of music she liked.

  Thalia bounced a bit, her loafers slapping the shiny floor. “We’re sharing her? One Fated One and four muses?”

  “She must be important,” Nia said.

  Clio hummed in agreement. “She’s definitely important,” she said. “Fate of the world and all that.”

  I got closer to the mirror. The woman was facing us again, and she was chewing her bottom lip. A funny feeling grew in my stomach. My hands tingled. I couldn’t shake the idea that I knew her. Those brown eyes seemed very familiar, and the curve of her nose, too. She started talking to someone in another room, moving her hands as she talked, as if she were doing . . .

  “A hula,” I whispered.

  “What now?” Clio asked. I looked up at her. From Clio’s face I could tell that she knew that I knew. The woman in the mirror wasn’t a stranger.

  “That’s Maya Rivero,” I said.

  “Well done,” Clio said. She touched the mirror again and the picture faded, leaving only its old, tinfoil-like surface behind. “She’s your Fated One.”

  I took a step back. “M-my Fated One?” I wasn’t ready for that. Maya Rivero? Why did it have to be her? There wasn’t a test she couldn’t ace, a teacher she couldn’t impress, or a weird outfit she could turn down. Why did she need us?

  “So who is this Maya Rivero?” Thalia asked.

  I faced the other muses. “She’s a girl in my grade. A genius. And a total dork.” Maya, of all people! Maya and her tutus, and her SAP club, and her giant brain. I had no idea how a girl like that could ever need help from someone like me.

  “She’s important to the future,” Clio said.

  Nia stood up straight, squaring her shoulders. I wondered if she’d learned that authoritative pose from her dad. “When do we start?”

  “But she’s in Miami,” Mela said. “I was sort of hoping that my first Fated One would be somewhere snowy.”

  “We’re going to Miami?” Thalia squealed.

  Clio shook her head. “For now, all I want you to do is some homework.” Absently, her hand went to her back pocket, where she’d put the bronze key. “There’s been a situation. The four of you have some legwork to do. Cassandra. Look her up.”

  The four of us groaned at once. Hating homework was universal.

  “You, Callie. Keep an eye on Maya in the meantime. Be a friend,” Clio said.

  “I am her friend,” I said, but it wasn’t really true. I didn’t talk with Maya much. Sometimes, I didn’t even notice if she was absent from school. Clio gave me a pointed look, and I glanced away.

  “Now if you don’t mind,” Clio said, and waved her hand at us in a shooing motion.

  None of us moved.

  “Go home,” Clio said, then she swept past us, her hand already removing the key from her pocket.

  “‘Cassandra. Look her up,’” Thalia repeated, copying Clio’s voice. “Ha! She might as well have said, ‘Look up Becky.’ Or ‘Look up Larry.’ It’s just a name.”

  “It must mean something,” Mela said.

  “Right,” Nia added. “Plus, we have a Fated One. This is awesome.”

  I didn’t say anything. Didn’t mention the key, or the fact that I’d come to headquarters unsure of this muse stuff. I’d be leaving with even more responsibility.

  “We’d better go,” I said, and the others agreed. We left the library, then went our separate ways to our entrance points. When I was sure the others couldn’t see me, I ran through the museum, not bothering to look up at the statues and other priceless things on display. Why would Clio assign anyone to me? Especially someone who might save the world someday. I’d made a mess of things with Raquel, hadn’t I? Plus, that someone happened to be the strangest and smartest girl at school. I wished she’d skipped a couple of grades when she had the chance. Maybe someone at the high school would have been tapped for this muse stuff instead of me.

  I found myself back in the garden. The fountain tinkled in the distance. It was nice being there when it was all so empty. There wasn’t a lot of breathing room in my small house. Even when I was alone in my room, Mami often busted in wanting to sweep the floor, or one of my brothers would leap from the closet, scaring me to pieces. This garden was different. It was peaceful. I followed the row of bushes, bopping the leaves as I went. I sat down in a shady spot and closed my eyes.

  I leaned back, and my head struck something hard and metallic. Turning around, I noticed that behind me were two large plaques. One read:

  IN MEMORY OF JIM.

  DIED 1879, AGED 15 YEARS.

  FAITHFUL DOG OF SIR HENRY COLE OF THIS MUSEUM.

  The other read:

  To TYCHO, A FAITHFUL DOG

  WHO DIED

  V-I-AN-MDCCCLXXXV

  Dog graves, gross, I thought, then reread them. Tycho. Tycho? Tia Annie’s book! So that’s where she got the funny title. I felt a little flip in my stomach. Up until now, in spite of the magical entrance points, and the stopping of time, I still couldn’t quite believe that Tia Annie, my tia Annie, had lived this same experience. But here it was, the evidence in the form of a dog’s grave. The plaque felt warm to the touch.

  “Oh, Tia Annie,” I whispered as if anyone could hear me. “What am I even doing?”

  There was silence, of course. I swallowed hard against the lump that had shown up in my throat just then. Got up, dusted my butt, and made my way back to the Great Bed, back to home and my never-as-peaceful-as-that-garden house.

  When I got back, the first thing I did was creep into my mom’s room. She was taking a nap, so I was careful not to wake her. In the dark, I felt the top of her nightstand, my fingers lightly touching her reading glasses, loose change, and then, ah! There it was! Mom’s copy of Tia Annie’s book, Tycho, which I now knew was named after a dead dog, of all things.

  I picked it up, and slid out of the room with the book held tightly against my chest. I turned on a lamp in the living room, and began paging through the poems. Tia Annie had dedicated it to me, and I couldn’t help but wonder if there was some message in the poems she had wanted me to understand, muse to future muse. I ran my finger along the table of contents. The poem titles were short, all one word: “Tales,” “Happy,” “Porcelain,” “Sister,” “Camden,” “Christmas,” “Miami,” “Tycho,” “Lost,” and on and on. I selected my first poem and read.

  TYCHO

  I pushed aside

  The small dog, its

  Bones white as

  Snow. Behind,

  a Path. Beyond,

  Secrets we

  Were meant

  To learn.

  Did my aunt go digging in that dog’s tomb? I wondered. I shivered. The plaque looked pretty well cemented in place. She must have meant it figuratively. But how? If Tycho was a metaphor for something, what was it? And who was “we” in the poem? Maybe the next one would reveal something more.

  LOST

  My inquisitive friend

  Sought out the searchlights,

  Drawn to light like an insect. She

  Grew radiant with fury, she

  Bid me goodbye. Then she />
  Was gone.

  My skin prickled. But what did that mean, “Sought out the searchlights”? A searchlight draws attention to something. Was Tia Annie’s “inquisitive friend” chasing attention? Was she chasing fame? My mind flickered briefly to Raquel. Fame, as it turned out, had chased her thanks to me.

  Frustrated, I read a few more poems. My language arts teacher, Ms. Salvo, always said that we shouldn’t confuse the speaker of a poem with the poet, that the poet isn’t necessarily telling us about something real. “Invention,” Ms. Salvo said, “is what a poet does. They are not to be trusted!” She would say the last bit with a wink, letting us know she was only kidding.

  But even if I didn’t assume Tia Annie was the speaker of the poems, I still didn’t know what to make of any of it. None of it made any sense to me.

  Muse of epic poetry, my butt.

  Chapter 10

  IT Happens Again

  A surprise awaited me at school on Monday. Hanging over the front gates was a huge banner with Raquel’s face on it and the words, “Miami Palms Middle School is Team Falcón!”

  I guess word had gotten out about her audition.

  I found her in homeroom with a new haircut, wearing bright red lipstick, and surrounded by all the popular kids in school, including Violet, Max, and Alain. Seeing her with them made me feel like I had been picked last for a team in PE.

  “Raquel?” I asked, hovering at the edge of the group.

  She perked up, found me, and shouted, “Make way for my bestie!” Students moved aside as if they’d been ordered to do so, and I guess they had.

  “Your hair,” I said. The sides were shaved, the short part dyed pink. The top was still dark and curly, but the curls were glossy, perfect ringlets.

  “I know,” she whispered. “It’s all so crazy. My publicist said—”

  “Publicist?”

  Raquel said, “I know,” again, her eyes wide. She lowered her voice. “Nobody is supposed to know this, so shh. I thought I was there to audition, but it was, like, a formality. I’m on the show! My first-round performance airs in two weeks! And guess what? Jordan Miguel is a judge this year!”

  “Raquel!” I squealed, and hugged her hard. I was happy for her, but part of me was worried. My best friend was going to be on television! She would have fans, probably. She’d have to go to California. My brain buzzed with a million thoughts, and underneath it all was a question—would she still want to be best friends with me?

  “I wish Principal Jackson hadn’t put up that banner. We’re supposed to be discreet.” She shrugged, then craned her neck to look behind me. “Hey, where’s your project?”

  I looked around. Everyone in homeroom had a science project with them. I watched as the triplets came in, balancing their coffee cups on their project boards. How did I miss all those huge boards? Worse—how did I forget to do my science fair project?

  “Oh my God, Raqui. I forgot. I forgot. Ms. Rinse is going to be so mad!”

  The situation was hopeless, and Raquel knew it. She gave me a gloomy look and pushed her own science fair project away from her with her foot. Too late. I’d already seen it in its perfect, glittery glory. I was dead, dead, dead.

  Then I had an idea. I gripped the charm on my bracelet and whispered, “Nia? You there?” She was the Muse of science, right? If anyone could help me, it would be her.

  Nothing happened.

  It had been a stupid and desperate idea. I looked up and Violet was watching me, her lips twisted in a smirk.

  “What are you doing?” Raquel asked me in a tone that suggested I’d nearly cratered her popularity with one gesture. What was that even about? Since when did Raquel care what the cool kids thought?

  “Jeez. Nothing,” I said, then added in a whisper of my own, “Violet Prado? Really? You’re hanging out with her now?” but Raquel only shrugged. I decided to change the subject. “Hey, what’s that?” I asked her, pointing to a jeweled box on her desk. It was round and covered with red stones packed closely together.

  “Oh, it—it—was a gift I got in California. Um. It’s nothing,” she said, and started to put it away.

  “It’s pretty,” I said. “Is it a secret or something?”

  Raquel took a deep breath. “Sorry,” she said. “It was a gift from Jordan Miguel. A ‘welcome to the show’ gift. I didn’t want to tell you because—” She paused. “Because you might get jealous. Because Jordan Miguel, right? Your celebrity boyfriend?”

  I punched her in the arm—not too hard, of course. “You’re ridiculous. I’m happy for you, see?” I grinned like a maniac. “Happy. Now what’s inside?” I asked, my hands reaching out to touch.

  Without answering, Raquel swept the box away in one smooth motion and dropped it into her open backpack. I was about to punch her again, harder this time, when Ms. Rinse walked in. Our teacher was wearing her usual—a polka-dot dress. She greeted us all with high fives. But when she saw me without a board, she pulled her hand out of reach. “Callie Martinez-Silva,” she said, “I’m shocked at your brazen empty-handedness.”

  “I had a concussion!”

  “You’ve had this assignment since September,” Ms. Rinse said. “Do you really have nothing at all?”

  I shook my head. I’d started the project at the beginning of the year. It was on growing a backyard garden. I’d planted arugula and basil, tomatoes and chili peppers. They were getting sort of tall and lush, too. But with the concussion and the muse stuff, I’d forgotten all about abstracts and bibliographies and poster boards.

  Scanning the room for Maya, I wondered what I was supposed to do now that I knew she was my Fated One. It’s not like Clio gave us any directions. Maya walked in right as the bell rang, without a science project board. Did she forget her project, too? Maybe Maya did need help. She sat down at her desk and drummed her fingers nervously.

  I was about to ask her about her missing project when Ms. Rinse said, “Anagrams, children!”

  Every day, Ms. Rinse would put a science vocabulary word on the board. As she took attendance, we were supposed to come up with anagrams for the word. Maya always got the most. Today, the word was “photosynthesis.”

  As usual, I could only come up with three-letter words.

  Maya’s desk was next to mine. She rested her head on a closed fist as she worked, and I got a long look at her. Yes, I could see the way she would grow up into the woman we’d seen in the mirror. I glanced at her paper. She’d written down “hypnosis,” “honey,” and “isotopes” within the first minute, and she was already scratching out a new word. I didn’t even know what an isotope was.

  “What are you staring at?” Maya asked without looking at me.

  “Oh,” I said, startled. “Nothing. Sorry.”

  Maya glanced at me, chewing her bottom lip just like the grown-up version of her had done. She didn’t say anything else.

  “Okay, anagrams away,” Ms. Rinse said. “It’s Science Project Day!” she announced. She pressed a button on her desk, and rock music filled the room. She put her arms in the air and danced a little, then shut the music off. Ms. Rinse was a strange one, that’s for sure. She cleared her throat. “The top science project will be selected for the county science fair. The winner goes on to the Young Scientist Competition in Washington, D.C. I am hopeful that the winner is here among you,” she said, wiggling her eyebrows.

  Maya’s hand shot up. Ms. Rinse nodded. “Can I go get my project from the SAP meeting room?” she asked. Ms. Rinse winked at her, and Maya took off.

  Ah, I thought. Of course she didn’t forget an assignment.

  I watched as, one by one, my classmates presented their projects. Ms. Rinse had given us a simple prompt—think of a problem that science paired with inspiration can solve. The best I’d come up with was a garden, and two other kids did, too. Letty, Lisa, and Leo each had brought in a different kind of battery made from household materials. Raquel’s project was on solar energy, and Violet presented on mangrove trees and soil erosion. M
ax measured the effects of temperature on a hockey puck’s speed, and Alain Riche did an experiment on the effectiveness of different sunscreens.

  But every project paled next to what Maya Rivero came up with. She walked in from the SAP meeting room at last, pushing a cart with a glass tank full of water. Inside was an elaborate machine of some sort. Beside the tank was a pail. Maya herself was in her glory—she had put on a hat with an orca’s face on it. She’d pulled an aqua-blue tulle tutu over her uniform skirt, and was wearing tights with what appeared to be clownfish all over them. Her T-shirt, also pulled over her uniform, read SAP in bubble letters.

  “The earth is warming up and the seas are rising,” she began softly.

  “Speak up,” Ms. Rinse said from the back of the classroom.

  “THE EARTH IS WARMING UP AND THE SEAS ARE RISING,” Maya shouted, pronouncing “seas” like “THees.” Everyone laughed. She continued. “MIAMI IS A VULNERABLE CITY. OUR CHILDREN MIGHT NOT HAVE A MIAMI TO CALL HOME.”

  “Not quite so loud,” Ms. Rinse said.

  Maya took a deep, shaky breath. “I’ve designed a model pump. On a much larger scale, these could be installed in low-lying areas, underneath homes and roads, to pump out the seawater.”

  Inside the tank were two layers. The top layer was a piece of Astroturf, bright green and shiny, mimicking land. Underneath was water, and a bottom layer that was rocky and sandy. A plastic tube had been pushed through the rocks and sand, out over the top, and into the pail outside the tank. Beneath the tank was a motor of some sort. Maya pushed a button on it. The machine inside the tank began to shake. Bubbles frothed in the water, as if it were boiling. The cart wobbled. “Hold on, hold on,” Maya was saying to the pump. It shook even more violently, and a crack formed in the glass. Now Maya was shaking, too. She couldn’t seem to turn it off. Water splashed out of the sides of the tank, soaking Violet, who was in the front row.

  Violet wiped water off her face and started saying something under her breath about nerds, something Maya heard, because she froze in place and her chin trembled.