by Liv Leighton
Unable to hold my tongue, I said, “So what gives? You expect me to believe this crock of crap?” So much for doing a nice thing tonight. I just couldn’t bring myself to like this guy.
To my complete surprise, Uncle Andre burst out laughing. A true laugh not a snarky, dismissive laugh as I’d expected. When he’d finally calmed down, he said, “No. No, I suppose I don’t believe that—how did you put it—crock of crap.”
“Then why do you do it?” I asked, not giving up my position so easily. “Why did you come to my house and treat everyone like they were servants?”
“That’s quite dramatic, don’t you think? I believe I was quite nice to you, dear,” he said.
“Quite nice? By putting me on the spot like that? You absolutely terrify everyone else in my house, you know.” I wasn’t sure I should be giving anyone else’s position away, but I thought he had a right to know where I stood, at least.
“I do?”
“Yes,” I said firmly. “If your angle is merely checking up on everyone, like you say, then you’ve got a funny way of showing it.” My arms were still folded across my chest. I became very aware of the fact that I was in a car with someone who was basically a complete stranger, hours away from my home. Perhaps I should be a bit nicer. “All I’m saying is, if you really cared about my family – your family – you wouldn’t treat them like complete peasants.”
Uncle Andre took a moment to consider before he spoke. “I didn’t realize I treated them that way. I am sorry. I’m just protective of my brother.”
“Well protective and completely overbearing are two different things,” I said, “I ought to know.”
“How do you mean?” he asked, turning his head to the side slightly. I unfolded my arms.
“Ever since, you know, the accident,” I forced myself to say, “they hover over. Never let me go anywhere unless it’s school or driving Nate around. Or with you, apparently,” I said, waving my arm in his direction, “It’s so frustrating; like they think I’m some baby bird doomed to fall out of the nest to my death or something.” I’d never heard myself say these words out loud.
Whenever my parents and I fought, I typically took the defensive, but I’d always been careful not to step on their feelings too much.
“I see. Have you discussed this with them?” Uncle Andre said, turning the music slightly.
“No,” I admitted. “How can I? I know they’re only doing it because they love me, and they’re worried about me.”
Uncle Andre nodded and pursed his lips; clearly formulating what he thought he ought to say next. But before he spoke, he lifted the center console from within and pulled out two KitKat bars. “Chocolate?” he offered one of them to me.
I stared at them suspiciously. “How did you know KitKat bars are my favorite?”
“Just because you do not remember who you are doesn’t mean that your family does” Andre said, smiling.
I forgot that we’d somehow been on good terms long before my accident. “Were we friends? You and I?” I asked, taking a chocolate bar from him, “Chocolate in the car? Are you sure?”
“Quite,” he said in response to the chocolate; or perhaps it’d been the question about us being friends. “We did enjoy each other’s company; perhaps my brother told you about my daughter.”
“I remind you of her. I’m very sorry.”
Andre nodded his head. “I guess I’ve not truly recovered from the loss.”
“What was she like?” I asked. But somehow two hours had flown by, and we were pulling up to the symphony hall; the valet approaching Andre’s driver-side window.
“Shall we, then?” and Uncle Andre allowed the valet to open the door for him and then my door was opened. As I rounded the car, Andre held his arm out to me and smiled.
“Treat my family better. They are not beneath you,” I cautioned.
Uncle Andre bowed and extended his arm once again, “I promise.”
I took his arm and, with that, what I’d expected to be a horrible evening had quickly become something I was rather looking forward to.
Seven
The remainder of the week passed without incident or, otherwise, odd events. I’d managed to get through pottery without making a disaster of myself.
Ever since our last conversation, Brien and I had been making slow, but noticeable progress in getting to know each other better. I’d started following him on Instagram and we’d been DM-ing ever since. I’d discovered that he wanted to be a photographer; as was evident by the stream of fantastic photos on his account, and that his dad was hell-bent on him playing for the NFL.
“Will you come to the homecoming game next week?” Brien asked during pottery class on Friday.
From the corner of my eye, Brock’s expression looked crestfallen. He’d since apologized profusely for trying to kiss me, and we’d agreed that we were both ready to move on from it and give us a shot at being friends first.
“When is it?” I asked.
“Friday,” Brien said, jamming his thumb into the center of his clay. “I’ll be playing, but, maybe you can bring Maisy?”
I laughed. “Like Maisy wants anything to do with football.”
“Right.”
I shrugged. “I’ll see if I can’t drag her along though.” I dragged my fingers through the slurry and watched circles form around my mound of clay.
“That would be great. I’d really like it if you came,” Brien said.
I looked up and him and he smiled. Ugh, why does he have to look at me that way? Butterflies swarmed my stomach. All I could do was smile back at him. I pushed my thumb into the center of my clay, as we’d been instructed to, and continued to shape my bowl; the edges of the clay sprawling outward. “I guess we could make an appearance,” I said, elbowing him playfully.
He slowly reached a soggy, clay-covered hand out towards me.
“Watch it,” I said with a laugh. “Not the face.”
From across the table, I saw Olivia staring over at Brock longingly. His eyes were locked upon the lopsided bowl which grew wonkier with each turn of the wheel before him. I smiled at Brien who winked at me and returned his focus to the clay in front of him.
...
When I approached my parents about sleeping over at Maisy’s house—expecting to hear a ‘no’ or, at least, condition of some sort—they were unexpectedly accommodating. I had to wonder whether Uncle Andre had mentioned anything to them about what I’d said.
“Text us when you get there safely, sweetheart,” Mom said, kissing my cheek.
“Be safe, and call us if you need anything,” my father said, squeezing my arm.
That was easier than expected.
It was raining outside, and I’d packed accordingly, remembering the photograph that had been in the back pocket of my jeans.
I pulled up to a huge modern house matching the address Maisy gave me. I stared. This is her house? The monstrosity had to be over 5,000 square feet. It didn’t match Maisy at all. I slowly pulled into the circle drive, still unsure if I was at the correct address. I set the parking break and took in the huge wood, metal, and concrete home.
Maisy came out of the front door, carrying an incredibly large umbrella with her. She opened my driver’s side door. “Got everything?” she asked excitedly, holding the umbrella over the both of us.
“I…think so,” I said, gathering my things together. “This is your house?” I asked, astonished.
“My mom’s house,” she corrected, “but, yes, I live here. Pretty good for a single mom,” Maisy said, and with a wink, led us inside.
I stood in the entry way, taking the place in. “You said she was a graphic designer?”
“Well, she’s the CEO of a multi-platform advertising agency; among other things,” Maisy shrugged as if this were the most casual news in the world.
“Wow. Good for her,” I said, wide-eyed, as we wandered through the expansive wood hallways, past large glass windows.
“My room is upstairs,” she
said, leading us toward a wide staircase with cabled handrails. “Mom’s out for the night, but she’ll be back later.” I knew she was reassuring me about the photo I’d brought.
Maisy’s room was the most magnificent thing I’d ever seen. Where my bedroom walls were still a dull grey; the walls in Maisy’s bedroom were champagne colored; her floors, the same type of wood in the rest of the house but stained much darker. All her furniture was beautifully aged and vintage; that witchy, apothecary vibe evident in every piece.
“You can put everything over there,” she said, pointing to an egg-shaped chair in the corner of the room, suspended from the ceiling. “Like some wine?” she asked, reaching into a beautifully stained cabinet near her bed.
“Wine?” I said as I tossed my bag down.
“Oh, sorry,” she said shaking her head, “my mom doesn’t care as long as I’m staying home for the night and I don’t get sick. Don’t feel obligated to have any.” She carefully poured a red wine from a decanter into a crystal-looking glass.
“I’d love some,” I said, smiling, “my parents don’t care either; same rules as your mom, actually.” I took the glass of red wine she handed me.
“So…” I said, taking a sip, “what’s a Tarot reading?”
Thirty minutes later, Maisy and I were sprawled out on her floor, Tarot cards lying in formation between us. “And this card here,” she said, pointing to one by my elbow, “is the six of wands, which represents adventure and success.”
Maisy gathered up all the cards into a pile and handed them to me, “you shuffle them,” she nodded to the deck. “Then I’ll do a proper reading for you, hopefully,” she said as she sipped from her glass.
As I shuffled each of the cards, something in one of the cabinets behind her caught my eye, “What’s that?” I asked, pointing.
Maisy turned around, “The crystal ball?”
“I don’t know,” I shrugged, “I’ve never seen one before. Except for in movies, I guess.”
She smiled and jumped up from her place on the floor. Pulling the crystal orb and its intricate stand from the cabinet, Maisy placed the ball between us. “We could always do a crystal ball reading?”
It seemed a little bit odd, but, what the hell. I shrugged. “Sure,” I said enthusiastically, “What do we do?”
“Well, first, the lights,” Maisy grabbed her phone and swiped a few times; the lights around us dimmed so that we were merely silhouettes in the darkness. I smiled. Must be nice to be rich.
“Now, we need to cast a protective circle around us.”
“Protective?” I said, warily. “What do we need to be protected from?”
“You know,” she said, though I couldn’t see her expression in the dark, “spirits. Here, take my hands.” And around the crystal ball, we clasped each other’s hands. “Now close your eyes and picture a white light surrounding us, protecting us.”
A little reluctantly, I closed my eyes and something between us started to hum. My eyes flew open and I tore my hands away from Maisy’s; noting as I did so, that she’d done the same thing.
“Is that supposed to happen?” I asked.
“You felt that too?” Maisy whispered, then, “it was probably just the garage door. Maybe my mom is home early.”
I stared at her. “Isn’t your room on the third floor?”
“Here, take my hands again,” she said, reaching out.
I continued to stare for a moment, noting how she dismissed my comment. I slowly took her hands, wondering if this was all just an act. The hum started up again.
As we clasped hands once again, and Maisy repeated her instructions of closing our eyes and picturing a white light, nothing seemed to happen. With a deep breath, Maisy continued.
“Okay, open your eyes,” she said, placing her hands on either side of the crystal ball between us. “Now, what is your intention?”
“What?” I asked.
“What do you want to know?”
“Oh,” I hadn’t given any thought to what I’d wanted out of all this; partially because it seemed to be a bunch of hocus pocus. “Should we go to the homecoming game next weekend?” I asked with a shrug.
Maisy nodded and placed her hands back on the crystal ball. As she did, the humming returned. “Maisy,” I whispered, “is this supposed to-,”
“Oh. My. God. Look at that,” she said, pointing to the ball, but I couldn’t see anything.
“What?” I said, the feeling of power traveling up my arms, like a slow-moving electricity. “What do you see?”
In the darkness, the crystal ball glowed. I tried to remove my hands, but they wouldn’t budge. “Maisy,” I said louder, “what the hell is going on?”
“This is so cool,” she smiled, looking up to me for a moment before back to the glowing orb. “Oh,” she said, looking surprised. “I see you.”
“You do?”
She nodded. “Yeah, you’re wearing…” Maisy started as she stared harder into the ball. “You’re wearing a fancy Victorian-looking dress – blue.”
I stared and looked around the room. Surely this was all BS. People can’t see the future. I raised one eyebrow and watched my friend.
“You’re following someone… following him down a cobbled street,” she said, squinting. “It’s hard to see… it’s dark and a little fuzzy.”
“Okay,” I said, feeling more than just a little let down at the theatrics. I sighed and played as if I was interested. It was what Maisy enjoyed after all. “What else?”
Maisy didn’t say anything for a moment and then jolted back slightly with wide eyes. “I don’t…” she started as she lifted her eyes from the crystal ball to me. “I don’t get it. It ended with a crown covered in blood.”
“A crown covered in blood,” I parroted back, staring blankly at her.
She nodded. Maisy stood quickly and flipped the lights on, grabbing her deck of tarot cards of the shelf. “Let’s see if I can get to the bottom of this.”
If she was playing at this, she was a damned good actress. I felt the needle-like grip of fear climb up my spine. I shivered.
She fanned the cards out and drew a couple, flipping them over. Her eyes grew wide and she frowned, looking up from them to me.
“What?”
She scanned my face while looking very concerned. “It’s showing love, deception, and…” she trailed off.
“And?”
She sighed, raking the cards up into her hands. “I hope this is wrong. I hope I didn’t finally get this right.”
“Why?”
“It’s showing love, deception, and death.”
Thank you for reading this episode! The next one, told from Maisy’s POV, is available on Amazon now - https://tinyurl.com/SLTV2 Click the link to keep reading!
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