by G. F. Miller
Data set. Bluch.
“Do you think the headaches you had with Holly and Olivia and Vindhya are connected to the migraines you got with Greg and Kade?”
“No. They were totally different. Not even really painful. Just annoying.”
“But what if the glimpse shows the desired end state, and your headache is a warning that the trajectory doesn’t align with that end state? So, a little off, a little headache. Way off, big headache.”
“How does this help me?”
“Well, if I’m right, we can estimate how much of a trajectory correction you’ll need to make for each Cindy. Of course the longer something has been going on the wrong trajectory, the farther it will be from its intended destination. So the best thing would be to use the headaches to guide you as you go.”
“Sounds like we’re back to magical enslavement. I’ll be even more of a puppet than I was before.”
“Not if you can control the glimpses.”
“Which I can’t. And I’ve been trying.” I smash a throw pillow over my face to cover my frustration.
“Can’t yet.”
“Whatever.” The throw pillow makes a hard landing next to me.
“There’s more.”
“Okay.”
“I think you were on to something with the time correlation.”
“Yeah?”
“But the variable is relationship.”
“So, what I said.”
“Not really. Relationship is hugely complex. We could partially summarize it as time plus knowledge or understanding plus trust plus affection… The way you described Kelly, you were already friends before the glimpse. And with Sean, that friendship developed.”
I pull my knees up and hug them with a little whimper. Relationships are the linchpin? The one thing I suck at most? My own mother left town without saying goodbye, for crying out loud.
So, thanks for that, Universe.
I stand up and get a little distance from Noah and his data set. “You’re wrong. Kade’s wish turned out fine, and that took the least amount of time. And zero relationship. I never spoke to him, and you literally can’t stand him.”
“Yeah, but—” He scrolls around his massive spreadsheet. “It seems like the depth of relationship needed for success roughly correlates to the amount of change required from the Cindy. Kade didn’t need to become a Rhodes Scholar. He just needed a few percentage points on one paper.”
I flop into an armchair that Mom strategically placed at the perfect angle to facilitate conversations that never happen. For a minute or so I digest Noah’s latest assertion while massaging the spot between my eyebrows. Big change needs a deep relationship. And the farther off course I am on the destiny front, the more my head pounds. It doesn’t feel not true.
Finally I say, “So, for instance, you’d say that because Vindhya needed to become really popular to win homecoming queen, that was a big change. So we needed more of a relationship. And the headache…?”
Noah shakes his head. “Vindhya was already popular.”
I am so confused right now. “Are we talking about the same person? No one even knew who she was.”
Noah makes a noise like that was ignorant. “Charity, I love… that you want to help people. But you have a very narrow perception of whose opinion matters.”
Ouch. I cross my arms defensively. But I’m still listening.
He switches to a different spreadsheet and gestures to it like that will convince me. “The top twenty percent of JLHS students are invited to the honors program, including Vindhya. Of the STEM extracurriculars offered on campus, fifty percent of participants are honors kids, so the other fifty percent aren’t—so that’s… another… let’s say eight percent of the student body likely to know her. Vindhya is also in orchestra.”
I do a double take. This is brand-new information.
Noah’s still going. “There are eighty students there and another two hundred plus in band and choir. Assuming Vindhya was generally well liked in her circle of influence—which she was—she already had about thirty-five percent of potential votes. Considering that the other three candidates had to split all other ballots between them, Vindhya could have won the popular vote on her own.”
The only appropriate response is an openmouthed stare. Right? So I do that for a while. Then I muster enough living brain cells to say, “So you’re telling me she never needed me?”
“I’m telling you that whatever change she needed to make, it had nothing to do with popularity.”
I gulp air and hold it, squeezing my eyes closed, shutting out Noah and his maniacal data analysis. Since the day I met him, every piece of myself has toppled like dominoes. And this last one feels like it’s crushing me.
Everything about me is wrong. My own glimpses are lying to me.
My methods are broken. My motives are suspect.
I can’t control my magic.
My family abandoned me.
My Cindies don’t need me.
My head swims and my lungs burn from lack of oxygen. I cover my face with my hands to muffle a moan.
“Breathe, Charity. Okay? Breathe.” His fingers brush my wrist.
I pop out of my chair. “You know what? Thank you for working on that, but… could you please go? I need… I just need… to think.”
He hangs his head, and his shoulders rise and fall a couple of times. Then he stands and walks past me. At the door, he pauses. “I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings. I—”
“Just go.”
27 Eating Your Feelings Is Underrated
I ride to school by myself on Monday and, after avoiding Noah all day, I hit the locker room way early for Poms. If he happens to be looking for me, which he probably isn’t, I’ll be safe in here.
Gwen beat me here, though. She’s perched on a corner bench, clearly hiding so she can stare at her phone in peace. A glance at my own phone tells me we have eleven minutes before warm-up. I ease myself silently onto a bench and study her profile. Every twenty or thirty seconds, she touches her screen.
I think about what Noah said about relationships—time plus trust plus blah, blah, blah… It’s sad, really—I should be friends with Gwen. We’ve had all the time in the world. I’ve been her teammate since freshman year. But the only things I know about her are that she’s boy crazy and phone addicted. I’ve never tried to go deeper. Not with Gwen. Not with anyone.
I desperately want to know that there is more to Gwen. I focus on her so hard my hands start buzzing, as I silently, urgently ask, What could you be?
The world suddenly tilts like a carnival ride, and I grip the bench to steady myself. The locker room shivers but doesn’t disappear. A new image overlays it, staticky and glitching:
A middle-aged Gwen sits staring at a laptop screen. She’s crying.
I’m so shocked that I lose focus, and the image vaporizes. I sit stunned for a second, still gripping the bench like my life depends on it. I did it! I flipped the switch! But… she’s going to be pathetic and alone and still screen addicted when she’s forty. That legitimately sucks. Maybe that’s why the Universe only shows me a select few destinies—because the ones I don’t see are hopeless.
IRL Gwen touches her phone screen placidly. And a determination to see something better for her wells up in me. I use it to call the glimpse back. It’s more opaque this time. More steady.
Middle-aged Gwen stares at her laptop screen and cries. She wipes under her eyes, blows her nose, and then adds the used tissue to a pile on her desk. She starts typing, and a satisfied smile spreads across her face.
I’m so confused right now. In frustration I try to search for clues to the glimpse’s meaning. To my surprise, I’m able to shift my focus around the perimeter of the scene.
Above future Gwen’s desk is a whole shelf of books that say, “Gweneth Strope,” on the spine. And there’s a little pink-gold trophy that says “Romance Writers Association—best debut of the year.”
I let the glimpse go and
pry my cramped fingers off the bench. My heart is pounding. I fumble out my phone and text Noah: Are you there? I have something important to tell you.
I watch the screen anxiously for almost a minute, but it remains still and silent, a dead thing in my hand.
I hear Coach’s muffled voice through the door, yelling, “Two minutes, ladies! Line it up.”
Gwen stashes her phone and starts for the gym. She notices me and says, “Hey, Charity. You coming?”
“In a minute.” My heart is still racing.
As soon as she’s gone, I try calling Memom. She needs to know it’s possible to control the glimpses. This is huge. It’s a game changer. The call rings and rings, and finally connects to an old-school voice message. The “Wedding March” plays too loudly, and Memom practically yells over it, “I’m busy planning a wedding! Leave a message! Who knows? Maybe you’ll get lucky, and I’ll figure out how to listen to it.”
My heart sinks. Having huge news and no one to share it with is horrible. When the message thing beeps, I say, “Hi, Memom. It’s Charity. Don’t say ‘get lucky.’ ”
Once again I’m on my own. With a sigh I put the phone away, pinch an imaginary pencil between my shoulder blades, and march to the gym just in time to avoid penalty sprints.
* * *
I have all of Poms practice to think about the glimpse switch. By the time Coach dismisses us, I feel like I’m going to burst if I don’t talk to someone. On my way to my car, I pull out my phone to call Sean, even though I know he’s at the ballet. But there’s a message from Noah: Sorry, I had a line at the AM. What do you have to tell me?!?!
That’s the thing about Noah—if something’s important to me, then it’s important to him. Even if I’ve been avoiding him all day and the last thing I said to him was basically “Leave me alone.”
So I drive to Arctic Marble. When I walk in, the little bell above the door jingles. Noah looks over and gives me a smile like he’s been waiting for me—like every time that bell jingles, he hopes it’ll be me.
It makes it so hard to convince myself that none of it’s real.
I wait in line behind a man holding a little girl wearing a ladybug costume. And when it’s my turn, I step up to the counter.
I thought I was protecting myself by avoiding him all day. But now—with only three feet of countertop between us and locked in place by his eyes—I feel like I’m waking up after being half-comatose for the past twenty-four hours. The closer I get to him, the closer I want to be. If the crappy counter wasn’t in the way, I’d…
I’d do something impulsive that would make our impending breakup even harder. Something like wrap myself around him and tell him Holly can’t have him after all. I pat the counter with bitter gratitude.
Noah studies me. “You’re here.”
I manage a throwback snark. “Actually, I’m down at the Tastee Freez.”
“What’s up? I missed… seeing you.”
I lean in—only to make sure that no one else hears me, not at all because I’m pulling a Morgan—and whisper, “I found the switch.”
He throws both hands in the air and cheers like I just kicked a winning field goal. The ladybug girl startles and stares. With a wink, I nudge her interest to a giant ice-cream-cake poster on the wall.
Quieter, Noah says, “So?”
“So I glimpsed Gwen. And I could turn it off and on and everything. She’s going to be a writer.”
“How’s your head?”
“Fine.”
“She must be on course.” So cocky.
“Yeah, yeah, you’re very smart.”
“I want to hear all about it.” The doorbell jingles, and a whole boys’ basketball team piles in. Noah deflates a little, but changes gears seamlessly. “Can I interest you in a mixer?”
“Sure.” The basketball team is so loud behind me that I practically shout it.
He sweeps his arm broadly over the selection of mix-ins. “And what does the lady desire?”
“Hmm. Surprise me.”
“Bold move.”
“Tell me about it. I’m still on insulin from the last time I was here.”
I get jostled from behind. The basketball players are getting restless.
“Right, then.” He rubs his hands together. “You look like a peppermint patty girl to me.” He ladles some candy onto the marble mixing counter. “A little sweet. A little bite. Super refreshing. Kinda mysterious. I mean, seriously, what’s that white stuff made out of?”
I can’t help but smile. Honestly, after yesterday I didn’t know how that would ever happen again. But that’s the Noah magic.
He adds some vanilla ice cream and cuts it together. Then he scoops it into a paper cup, adding a pink spoon and a mint leaf with his signature dorky flourish. Melts me every time.
He slides the cup toward me. “My lady.”
“Thanks. How much?”
“I’ve got you.” He takes a five out of the tip jar and puts it in the drawer.
“Thanks… again.” My lips try to form a moony smile, but I force my face into something I hope conveys only politeness. Keep. It. Professional.
There’s a flash of something like sadness in Noah’s eyes before he turns his attention to the next person in line. But then he greets them so cheerfully, I must have imagined it.
Since Noah is obviously going to be busy for a long, long time, I slip out the door with my mixer. When I get in the car, I realize I have a voicemail from my mom—she called while I was at school. I tap “play.”
“Hi, sweetie. Listen, Representative Hannon has invited me to speak at an ocean-life-awareness dinner she’s throwing. So I need to extend my trip a few days. Miss you so much. Love you.”
I delete the message and decide to eat the mixer instead of dinner. It’s delicious.
28 That Feeling When You Miss It By That Much
Holly and Kade enter the hotel ballroom arm in arm. He’s wearing a black tux, and she has on a hot red mid calf cocktail dress. A few people close to the door nudge each other and point. Then more and more people turn to see the couple. Holly looks nervous, but Kade works the crowd like a pro, greeting everyone with fist bumps, hand slaps, and celebrity smiles. Some of that confidence seems to rub off on Holly as she navigates the room on his arm. The girls—even the ones that are clearly with other guys—look like somebody took their candy.
I blink the glimpse away, massaging the spot between my eyebrows. The Holly headache is like a metronome cranked to max this morning. IRL Holly is watching early-morning football practice as usual. And I’m watching Holly from a distance.
When I conjured the glimpse, I thought I’d see something in Holly’s future. But the Universe is still showing me exactly the same moment that it did last time. It makes me think it was a turning point.… Something was supposed to happen at prom that I missed.
I’m here because—and I’ve given this a lot of thought—I still want to clean up my messes. Maybe none of the Cindies needed me in the first place. But then, what are the glimpses for? And why would I get the “red alert, incorrect trajectory” migraine? Noah would say we need more data. So that’s what I’m here to get.
I focus on Holly again. Her head is tilted to one side, and she looks a little glazed. There’s something better for you, I silently declare. You’re more than this. With sheer determination, I demand to see what Holly could be. I call the glimpse back to me. The world tilts and prom shimmers like a sheer curtain over the football stadium.
Holly and Kade enter the hotel ballroom arm in arm. What am I missing? I turn the image to pan the room. Weirdly, I see myself pretending to listen to Scarlett while surreptitiously watching the HEA moment unfold. I sweep past myself, looking for clues to where I went wrong. I get all the way back around to Holly and Kade as they move forward through the crowd.
Holly looks nervous, but Kade struts through the crowd.… I take a closer look at Holly’s face. Nerves. Stage fright. That’s all I see.
I look again at Ka
de. He’s saying things I can’t hear because of the music and the crowd noise. I’m not a great lip-reader, but these are pretty standard: Hey, man. What’s up? He listens for a moment, and then, I think, he says: Yeah, check it out.
Come on. Come on. What am I supposed to see? I shift to the faces of the people around Kade and Holly. They’re talking, laughing, looking self-conscious… standard prom stuff. Wait. Why are so many people looking down? I shift my angle. Kade’s tie is a little crooked. His jacket is unbuttoned. His tux pants are creased down the front. His shoes… his shoes are unexpected. He’s wearing white Chucks that are covered in hand-tinted comics. I freeze the glimpse and study the drawings more closely.
I blink the glimpse away with a sinking certainty that Holly was supposed to make Kade custom shoes for prom. And it’s Kade. He’s an influencer, a trendsetter.
She was meant to be an artist with her work on display that night. Everyone was supposed to see her talent. Instead I perfectly orchestrated everything so that they would never see her as anything but somebody’s girlfriend.
I flee to my car. I want to have yet another breakdown, but I can’t afford the damage that would do to my face. So I crank some electro house, lean back, close my eyes, and let the deafening repetition blast every thought out of my head.
The knocking on the window next to me is barely discernible over the electronic rhythm. I consider pretending I didn’t hear it. But instead I open one eye to see Carmen, Gwen, Scarlett, and three other Poms girls crowded around my car. I secure my game face, turn the music off, and roll down the window.
“Hey, Charity.” Scarlett peers into the car like she’s looking for something. “Are you okay? You looked kind of upset.”
“Yeah. No. I’m totally fine.”
“It’s Noah, isn’t it?”
“No. We’re fine.”
“Oh, because Jameela said she heard that you guys are breaking up. And Surya said Noah ate lunch with some guys yesterday.”
“Well, don’t believe everything you hear. Noah and I are doing super fantastic.” I gather my stuff and climb out of the car. “I was just doing a little light meditation before school.”