by Dalya Moon
Austin follows me into the house.
“Your grandmother must be a lovely woman, to have such a nice house and a nice grandson,” she says as I go around turning on lamps.
“Her name is Flora,” I say, and Austin nods knowingly, as though that explains the floral decor, and I guess, in a way, it does. We have roses on the wallpaper, peonies on the curtains, and daisies on the sofa. Flora likes floral.
The wall clock gongs with the single sound it makes on the half hour, and Austin jumps in alarm.
“I'm sorry,” I say. “I don't even hear those gongs. Pretty awful sound, though, really.”
She holds her hand over her heart and laughs. “I nearly jumped up into your arms, like some girl in a black and white movie, when a mouse runs across the floor.”
“We have no mice. Mibs would catch them if we did.”
At the mention of his name, the fluffy mound on the sofa flicks his tail. Austin goes straight to the brown tabby, petting him gently and whispering things I can't hear. Mibs rolls back, revealing his white tummy patch.
“It's a trap, don't touch his tummy,” I say.
“No kidding. Those claws are sharp.” She says something else, in a low voice. Mibs yawns and settles back into a ball, watching her with one eye and looking very much like a dragon on a pile of gold.
“The kitchen's through here,” I say, leading the way. The kitchen. Of course. That's the most natural place to go when a beautiful girl—an older woman who's not even in high school—is in your home. She follows me in and looks around. I see the kitchen through her eyes: old cupboards hanging crookedly from exhausted hinges, and outdated appliances, all showing years of wear and tear.
“I love it in here,” she says. “So cozy. A perfect kitchen.” With those words, everything brightens a little.
“So, the party was good. James and Julie's parents are pretty cool to let us hang out there.”
“I loved the mood. So chill. Did you try the hummus?”
“No,” I say, so thankful I didn't put the garlic-laced dip in my mouth.
“Good to know. Me neither.”
I offer her orange juice and she accepts, sipping slowly and looking shyly over the top of the cup. Usually I drink juice or milk right out of the carton, especially when Gran isn't around. I actually had a big drink just before I went to the party, and I have this compulsion to confess to her—to divulge that my saliva germs are now likely in her mouth. I do not say any of this.
She blushes and says, “What?”
Then I say, “What?” and we both repeat the word back and forth, on the verge of giggling.
She looks at the photos on the fridge—my school photos dating back to elementary school. “That's quite the cowlick you have.”
I instinctively pat down the top of my head, but she means in the photos. “It's much better now. I think my scalp stretched out when I grew three inches in one year.”
“I had braces.” She displays her teeth, which are not perfectly straight. “I didn't wear my retainer, though, and they went all woogly-boogly.”
“You have pretty teeth,” I say. She wipes at her cheek, and suddenly my cheek itches, so I rub it. Then she rubs her cheek, and the cycle begins again. This goes on for a minute, evolving into what would look like madness to a casual observer, with both of us laughing self-consciously, but neither of us wanting to be the first to stop.
Finally, she grabs both of my hands and leans in. I know this is my cue to kiss her. She may as well have turned on a neon sign over her head—like the Applause sign in studio audiences—but instead of kissing her, I savor the moment and pretend I don't know.
She lets go of my hands and pretends to itch her lower lip. I itch mine.
“Kiss me,” she says.
I reach out to the top of her head and run my hand down her long, pale hair. It flows through my fingers easily, all the way down to her waist, where I rest my hand. I run my other hand down the other side, the exact same way, as though I've done this gesture a million times.
She tilts her head up. If it weren't for my hands on her waist, I'm afraid I might float away. I can't feel my body at all.
Kiss me, she says with her sparkling eyes, so I do.
CHAPTER 5
I'm sad it's the morning, because I don't want the night to end. Austin hasn't said anything about leaving, and I don't dare ask, but I'm sure she has somewhere to be.
She gets up from my bed, throws open the curtains, then climbs back in next to me. She traces her finger along my stomach and around my belly button. I tense up and push her hand away.
“Ticklish?” she asks.
“Long story.”
“I don't have to work until two,” she says, moving her hand back in before I swat it away.
“It's not so much a long story as it is embarrassing and incredibly hard to believe.” Holding one hand over my belly button, I look away from her beautiful eyes, up at the ceiling. “I mean, do you believe in psychic powers?”
She doesn't answer right away, and I hesitate to look at her. The ceiling has a swirly pattern in the stucco, and some plastic glow-in-the-dark stars from when I was younger. The stars are pale green and cheap-looking in the morning light.
“Try me,” she says.
It's only going to sound crazier the longer I delay, so I let it out. The whole poking confession. I have some sort of weird power, and when a girl puts her finger in my belly button, I can see into her future, which doesn't seem so bad, but I always find something unappealing.
“It's not great for dating,” I conclude.
“So you're picky,” she says with a laugh. “You're young, so what. Nobody's getting married at your age anyways.”
“You don't understand. It's, like, magic.” I turn to face her reaction.
She laughs into her hand. “Zan, you're not a wizard. You don't have to make up some outlandish excuse. We met and we had a rather unexpected but pleasant evening together.”
“I'll say.” My cheeks feel hot; I must be blushing.
She puts her cool hands on my cheeks and gives me the softest kiss on the mouth. She leans back, resting one elbow on the pillow, and says, “Let's take this one day at a time, okay?”
“That's my plan. I'm not going to look, ever again. No more poking.” I make an emphatic hand gesture to punctuate my new plan.
“You could get your belly button sewn up,” she says with a sly smile.
What's happening here? Is she playing along, or making fun of me?
She walks her hand, using two fingers as little legs, across the sheet toward my stomach.
I shift my body back, but she keeps advancing.
Now she's definitely mocking me. I'm such an idiot for opening up to her. She's probably going to tell her cousin, who'll tell everyone else.
Her hand sneaks closer.
“Don't,” I say, pulling the covers up. “I don't want to know the future.”
“Look at you, you're so serious,” she says. “Listen, I don't have anything to hide. I just met you and spent the night with you, so you already know I'm a big ol' tramp. There's nothing else, except for the severed heads I keep under my bed.”
“Severed heads aren't so bad,” I say, trying to match her lighthearted mood.
“My mother stopped buying me Barbie dolls because I decapitated them all. I swear, I've reformed.”
“I don't know if I feel safe alone with you!” I joke. “I'm rather attached to my head.”
“Of course, there is one thing ... unusual.” Her expression flattens and she looks away, out the window, as though there's something to see besides clouds.
“Do you want some breakfast?” I ask, even though I don't want to leave the bed.
She fluffs her pillow and curls up on her side. I've been trying so hard to be polite and keep my eyes above her neck, but they sneak down disobediently. I have a funny, smart girl in my bed, and she's in her underwear. I shouldn't have a single care in the world!
But, I don't
know her. Who is Austin? Maybe I should look into her—get her to poke me so I can see her future, her secrets. It may be best to break the spell now, before she smashes my heart to bits later.
“Breakfast, hmm?” She runs her hands along her sides, then puts her finger into her own belly button. Her eyes flutter. “I'm getting a vision of us eating cold cereal because that's all you have in the house.”
“No, I have bagels. Cinnamon raisin. Plus dill cream cheese. Best combination ever!”
She wrinkles her nose.
“Seriously, you have to try them together, cinnamon and dill. I have everything in the fridge.”
“Shouldn't put bagels in the fridge, they go stale. Don't you know? Oh, of course you don't, you're so young.” She gasps and sits up. “Oh God. How old are you? You have, like, almost no chest hair. Oh God.”
“I'm fourteen,” I say.
Her eyes get watery and her lip trembles, as though she might start to cry.
“Joking, I'm seventeen,” I say. “What, do I look fourteen?”
“This was kind of a bad idea,” she says, shaking her head. “I should go.”
“No, don't.” I grab her hand and try to pull her back in for a hug, but she's partly twisted to get up, and she falls backward with a giggle, landing on me.
She looks at my belly button for a second, just as her finger goes straight into ...
No!
Too late. Her finger is in my belly button. It's happening.
* * *
The world slows, but my breathing is still normal speed. Her breathing is normal too, and I can see the pulse on her neck. We're both very still.
Something strange is happening. Or, rather, something strange is not happening. There's no vision, no Secret Town. I'm still in real-time, in my bed, next to a beautiful girl.
“I think my finger's in your tummy,” she whispers.
“It can't be.” I look down, but there it is, her index finger, resting gently in my navel. I should be having a vision right about now. The only time the vision doesn't work is when it's a dude, and Austin is definitely not a dude.
“That's weird,” I say as I take her hand, pull the finger out, then stick it back in again. She laughs nervously.
“What do you see?” she asks. “Am I going to be late for work today? Am I going to enjoy your bizarre raisin and dill bagels?”
“No, not that.”
“What is it?” she asks. “Something terrible? I swear, he was very old and the surgery was so expensive. It's what he would have wanted.”
“Who? I don't know what you're talking about. It's not working. Maybe it's because ... we, um.” Because why? Because last night I poked her in an entirely different way? Could the trick have disappeared from my body, along with my virginity?
Her voice sounding husky and serious, Austin says, “I blame the cold light of morning.” She waves her hand between us, drawing a zig-zag. “All of this just got a little weird. I'm glad you're seventeen, really, but I think the age gap is still a bit ... gappy.”
I continue to stare at my belly button, dumbfounded.
She rolls out of bed and puts on the dress she wore last night. I thought the dress was black with little stars, but it's actually navy blue, just like my photo booth backdrop.
“Any last words?” she asks, smoothing out the wrinkles of the skirt.
“I love you,” comes out of my mouth. I'm sure in about a minute, I'll realize I've said the stupidest thing imaginable, but right now, it doesn't exactly feel wrong. I do mean it.
“Before, what I said—I didn't kill anyone,” she says. “Not really. At the moment when my finger went in, I suddenly thought of our cocker spaniel. He was incontinent, which I didn't mind, but he was also in pain. I don't think it's fair to keep them alive if they're suffering. In more civilized countries, they do the same for humans. That's what you saw, in your vision, right? That's my terrible secret.” She turns away and walks out the door, still talking. “My parents thought it was the right decision, but I dream about him, that he's still alive somewhere.” She disappears down the hall.
“Are we talking about euthanasia?” I grab my jeans and jump into them awkwardly as I run after her.
I expect to find her in the kitchen, but she's already at the front door, surprisingly fast, and backing away with her shoes on. She says, “I'm sure you think I don't believe you about the visions, but I do.”
She fumbles with the door knob behind her, but the door's locked.
“It doesn't matter,” I say. “Don't go! I'm sorry about whatever I said. Don't go. Stay for breakfast.”
She pulls at her sleeves, which are striped, unlike the rest of the dress. “For the last few months, I've been seeing all sorts of things,” she says. “Auras. People who aren't there. I like you, Zan, but I don't think two crazy people together can work. It's too much crazy.”
“Auras?”
She turns to face the door and curses as she tries to figure out the deadbolt.
GONG! The clock in the living room gongs with the half-hour, and this time I must be hearing it with Austin's ears, because I jump up and clutch my hands together, my eyes closing instinctively.
When I open my eyes, the front door is closing. Austin's gone.
Instead of running out after her, my legs lock up and I stand, frozen, as the echoes of the clock's gong continue to reverberate through the room. My ears ringing, I sit down on Gran's floral-embroidered footstool. I'm alone. My psychic power's on the fritz. It's the first day of summer vacation. What else?
Oh, that. Yes, in retrospect, saying I love you probably was the wrong choice.
CHAPTER 6
Austin's run out the door and I'm alone.
And yet, the cat gnawing on my big toe reminds me I'm not actually alone. Mibs is here, and he wants his breakfast. His brown tabby-striped tail wraps around my leg.
“I love you. Do you love me?” I ask Mibs.
He looks up from my toe, a string of saliva hanging from his mouth. “Meow.”
“What did you think of Austin? She was nice, right? What did she say to you last night?”
“Meow?”
“Talking to a cat isn't like talking to yourself. It's not crazy.”
Mibs gives me the cat equivalent of a frown and pit-pats in the direction of the kitchen. A few seconds later, I hear utensils being knocked to the floor from the counter.
When I get in the kitchen, he feigns innocence. I get his insulin from the fridge and he waits expectantly. At first, my friends were horrified that we have to give Mibs a needle twice a day, but I assured them it's far easier than giving a cat a pill. The big guy doesn't even feel the tiny needle, and he actually looks forward to it, as he gets his treats at the same time. Treats are a great motivator for cats. Humans are more complex.
Why did Austin run away so quickly? And what's happening with my power?
I'm musing over the morning's mysteries while feeding Mibs his favorite canned food when the wall phone rings, and since I'm standing right next to it, I pick it up instead of letting it go to voice mail. The voice isn't one of Gran's friends, though, but James, asking if I'm ready to go to the lake. The lake. I forgot.
“Why are you calling the land line?” I ask. I didn't even know he had the number.
“Cause you're not picking up your cell, Sherlock. Hey, you disappeared on us last night. You left with Raye-Anne, huh?”
“No, Austin. Actually, she just left.”
James emits a noise like the squee sound his sister Julie makes over books.
“I'll tell you when I see you,” I say, and then I hold the phone away from my ear because he's yelling so loud. I don't think he got this excited when he slept with a girl for the first time. He's a good friend.
* * *
I grab some things for the lake and throw them in one of Gran's cloth shopping bags. Mibs climbs into the bag, all fifteen pounds of take-me-with-you. He twitches his tail when I tell him to find something more constructive to do. I
shake his little cat treat bag and he's out like a fat champagne cork.
He'll need an insulin shot tonight and then again tomorrow morning. Gran and I usually trade off taking care of him, but one of our neighbors is a vet assistant and she usually steps in on short notice. I did mention something to Krystal last week, I think, but I need to make sure she's able to take care of the big guy, or else I can't leave town.
I run across the street and ring the doorbell. I'm wondering how Mibs is going to like a long vehicle ride stuffed in my shopping bag when Krystal opens the door. The woman looks like an Indian movie star, and I find myself lost for words, caught by her green eyes.
After I explain the situation and apologize for the intrusion, she says, “Mibs is still alive?”
“Yeah, he's a tough little bugger.”
“He's a sweet boy,” she says.
“Don't worry if he dies while I'm away. Put him in a bag in the freezer, and whatever you do, don't tell Gran. She made me promise the same when she left for the cruise.” Gran and I did have that discussion, including both of us getting teary-eyed at the thought of something happening to Mibs. Since he first got sick a few years ago, and used up a few of his nine cat lives, we've been aware he's down to his last few, and we cope by using a little dark humor.
Krystal rubs her temple. She's wearing a pink thing—two pink things, actually—scrubs, I guess. “I've got some special extra-large turkey Ziplocs,” she says. “From the clinic, but I'd have to charge you cost. You know, if worse comes to worst.”
“Turkey Ziplocs?” I sense Krystal's talk of Ziplocs is more cool professionalism than dark humor, though I imagine in her workplace, where they deal with life and death constantly, both serve her well.
“They're fine for cats, but only twenty percent of dogs,” she muses. “Though in recent years, dogs have been getting smaller on average.”
“Dogs are shrinking?”
“Not the actual dogs,” she says, smiling, and she goes on to explain about the trends in dog breeds. While she's talking, I have a mini discussion inside my head. There's something different about Krystal today, but not her lovely features or her tiny gold earrings. No, what's different is how I feel. My crush on her is almost entirely gone. Krystal is no longer The World's Most Perfect Unattainable Woman. That title has been taken by Austin.