Confessions of a Teenage Psychic (21 page)

“Ah,” says my mother. “So you’re concerned about Megan, but you’re really upset about seeing the boy you like with another girl.”

That was pretty much it. Mom has a way of getting right to the bottom line.

“Mom, the phone,” I say between sniffles. “It’s for me.”

She passes me a tissue and gives my shoulder a squeeze, just as the phone rings in the living room. Mom hands me the receiver and I hear Annabeth’s voice on the other end.

“Hey, girl, what’s Megan up to now?”

I breathe a sigh of relief and start explaining all the events of the evening to her. It’s so cool to have a friend like Annabeth. I can talk to her about anything— Megan, Quince, Kensi— and she listens and doesn’t judge. With Annabeth I can just be myself, making me feel like that normal teenager I so want to be.

And I would be normal, if only I could get rid of these stupid psychic insights…
and
the talking spirits.

There’s this huge conspiracy of silence at school after the weekend. No one mentions Megan’s poster party, almost like it never happened. At lunch time I confront Megan while we wait to get our food.

“Megan, where did you stash all those banners?”

“SHHH!” She looks around to see who might be listening.

Nobody is, since the kids in line in front of us are more intent on deciding between mystery meatloaf and grilled cheese sandwiches.

Megan lowers her voice. “We’re waiting to see if the principal makes it official about uniforms next year. And I stashed all those posters at my dad’s house in a closet in a guest room. I told the maid to stay out of there because I was storing some school art projects.”

Oh, brother
. “Megan, how do you think hanging posters or making banners is going to change the principal’s mind?”

“Don’t be stupid, Caryn, I’m not dumb enough to think that’s the
only
thing that would make a difference.”

“Then what?” I realize the cafeteria lady is glaring at me because it’s my turn to order and I’m holding up the lunch line. “Grilled cheese,” I tell her with a smile she doesn’t return.

By the time I get my lunch card punched, Megan is already sitting at the table and deep in conversation with Emma. I’ve been having some weird vibes about Emma all morning, and as I join them it all comes into focus. “So, Emma. Running for student council?”

Emma’s eyes widen and her mouth drops open, but she quickly regains her composure. “I most certainly am not. I told you last winter I’m not into politics.”

“But Mr. MacGregor thinks otherwise, doesn’t he?” I say, pointing a grilled-cheese triangle at her.

Emma fidgets in her seat, takes a big gulp of her bottled water, adjusts her headband, and finally says, “Well, okay, he did call me into his office this morning and say something like that. But I told him no!”

“Uh-huh,” I say, biting into the sandwich.

“Caryn, cut it out, I’m not kidding. I told him I’m not running and that’s all there is to it!”

We’ll see
.

Emma is frowning at me so I take another bite of my sandwich, wishing I could remember that normal teenagers don’t go around predicting stuff and then saying “I told you so” all the time. If I want to have any friends at all, I need to quit antagonizing them.

If I can just hold on till June.

I’m staring into my locker at the end of the day trying to remember if I have homework and if I do what books I need or where I’ve stashed them. Just as I’m about to give up and slam the door shut, I feel a tap on my shoulder and turn around to see Kensi towering over me. I briefly wonder how tall she really is without those spike heels, but I can see from the look on her face that this isn’t a social call.

“Hi, Caryn,” she says in a saccharine tone.

“Hi.” I bite my lip trying not to tell her exactly what I think of her cheating ways. Kids around us are staring, probably wondering why Miss Popular Cheerleader is talking to the hippie girl.

Kensi folds her arms and smiles at me. “Quince tells me you’ve been such a good friend to him. We’re both so fond of you, being new and all.”

I hate that snarky
we
she uses, like she and Quince are joined at the hip or something. Mostly I’m just wondering why she’s talking to me at all, especially in the main hall where everyone can see.

I return her phony smile with one of my own. “Kensi, I’ve been in this school for months.”

“Well, of course you have,” she says, patting me on the shoulder like I’m in kindergarten or something. “And you’ve tried hard to fit in, really you have. Hanging out with that other new girl, Megan, and buddying up with that freshman kid. What’s his name? Henry? Herbert?”

I shrug her hand off my shoulder. “I’m pretty sure you didn’t stop by to talk about Harris Rutherford.”

“I’m just trying to be a friend to you,” Kensi says, lifting both hands in the air.

Does she think I’m stupid? Friends— with me?

Kensi gives me another fake smile. “I just wanted to tell you that even though Quince and I had a little disagreement last month, it’s over and we’re back together.”

Little disagreement
? She cheats on him— twice— and that’s a
little disagreement
? And why is she telling me this? Because she knows I like Quince? Is it that obvious?

I can feel my cheeks flushing as I say, “Quince is too nice a guy to be sucked in by you, Kensi.”

“Excuse me?” Her fake smile disappears and she puts her hands on her hips as her voice rises. “Hello? Me— cute, popular, fashionably dressed. You— consignment store clothes, no makeup, and that stupid braided hair. For heaven’s sake, Caryn, get a makeover or something.”

This is getting us nowhere, and unless I walk away I’m afraid I’m going to smack her. I guess she can’t resist one last dig, though, because as I turn on my heel she calls after me.

“Caryn, I’d love to help you get a date with Harris!”

I turn back to her and shout, “Enjoy your time with Quince because it won’t last!”

“Says you!” she says with a wave of her hand.

“Yeah, says me,” I say, walking back toward her. “You’re about to do something even stupider than you’ve done all year, and this time you’re not going to get away with it!”

She snorts. “What are you, some kind of psychic? You don’t know my business!” And with that, Kensi sails off down the hallway.

“As a matter of fact I am!” I call after her, but she’s long gone and now the few students left in the building are staring at me.

I must look pretty ridiculous yelling taunts at one of Rosslyn High’s social elite, so I duck my head and hurry out the front door of the building.

But I know I’m right. Kensi is headed for a fall and part of me can’t wait to see it.

Showdown at Rosslyn Corral

It’s May! Warmer weather, longer days, and the school year is in the home stretch. Kids all have spring fever, and it seems like the teachers do too, because no one can focus on schoolwork anymore. Even in my favorite class, Love of Lit, things have slowed to a crawl. Maybe that’s because Mrs. York is distracted, glowing the way pregnant women always are, and facing a group of mostly uninterested teenagers in an elective class is more of a challenge than she needs right now.

I walk into the room and smile at her as I take my seat. I’m always one of the first students to arrive, so the room is empty except for the two of us.

“Good morning, Caryn,” says Mrs. York.

“Good morning. You look nice today,” I say, taking out my assignment.

She blushes, smiles, and adjusts the oversize blouse she’s wearing. Technically we students aren’t supposed to know Mrs. York is expecting, but she’s just so happy that even the most clueless among us must know something is up.

Harris Rutherford walks quietly into the room and kind of waves at me as he heads to his seat in the back corner of the room. He pulls out his advanced algebra book and starts working, which is his way of avoiding conversation. Or maybe all that studying is why he’s so good in math. Maybe I should ask him for some help.

Kensi strolls into the room with Salissa at her side, both of them dressed in unbelievably short denim skirts, high-heeled sandals, and in Kensi’s case, a low-cut, clingy T-shirt.

“Hi, Caryn,” she says, giving me a condescending smile. “Early again? You’re just such a devoted student.”

I hate her.

She and Salissa glide into their seats by the window, put their heads together and start giggling and whispering with occasional glances in my direction.

How obvious can they be?
I know you’re talking about me
. I try to ignore them and pretend to study my homework.

There’s a lot of bustle out in the hallway, since all of the buses have arrived and the five-minute warning bell has sounded. Through the door come Ashleigh, Emma, and Janae. They all call out “hi” or “good morning” to no one in particular and hurry to their seats.

“Did you hear about Emma?” Janae asks me, as Emma rolls her eyes.

“Hear what?”

“Mr. MacGregor is insisting she run for student council president. Isn’t that crazy? Emma? Who would’ve known?”

Me, that’s who. But I try not to gloat as I turn to Emma. “Are you going to?”

“I don’t know. I had plans to attend this fashion design camp in July, but Mr. MacGregor called my mom and got her all excited telling her he wants me to go to some week-long teen forum thingy in Washington DC.” Emma’s shoulders slump.

I shrug. “Why can’t you do both?”

Emma’s brows lift but just as she opens her mouth to respond, Megan blasts into the room. Okay, maybe a little exaggeration, but Megan never does anything low-key, and today there’s something about her behavior that says “look out world.” She slams her books onto her desk and plops herself into her chair with a huge sigh.

Mrs. York looks up from her desk, startled. “Something wrong, Megan?”

“No!” she says, without even looking up.

Yeah, right
.
Brace yourself.

Most of the students have arrived now, including Quince who winks playfully at me but gives Kensi a love-struck smile, then sits down in front of me and gets ready for class. I stare wistfully at the back of his head as the tardy bell rings and Mrs. York steps from behind her desk.

“How are we doing with our love sonnets, class?” she asks, her cheeks flushing a little as if she’s love-struck herself. “Is anyone having trouble writing theirs?”

More than a few students are squirming in their seats when Megan pokes her hand in the air. “How can anyone have time to write stupid love poems when this school is in crisis mode?”

“Crisis?” Suddenly Janae is on high alert. “Megan! Spill!”

“You know— about the dress code, uniforms, whatever,” Megan says with a flap of her hand.

I groan inwardly.

“Oh, Megan, get over it,” snaps Janae. “That’s old news. You’re all wound up over nothing.”

“It’s not
nothing
.” Megan says, her voice rising. “Wait till morning announcements.”

I’m wondering how Megan knows about morning announcements when even I don’t have a sense of impending doom. Then it comes to me. The chain of information from Superintendent Pruitt to Principal MacGregor, Mr. MacGregor to the faculty (including Megan’s mom), and then Ms. Benedict to Megan. This can’t be anything good, coming all the way from the top.

“Megan, if you don’t mind, we’re starting a lesson now, and we’ll hear the announcements later in the class period,” Mrs. York says firmly.

Megan opens her mouth as if she’s about to argue, but she apparently thinks better of it and says nothing.

“Now, class, back to our sonnets. Does anyone have one they’d like to share?”

Of all people, Kensington waves her hand in the air. “Mrs. York, Quince has written a great one and I think he should read it.” She ends with a giggle and a flirtatious look in his direction.

Quince turns about three shades of red. I slump down in my seat wishing I was invisible, because both Megan and Emma are staring at me like I’m going to burst into tears or something. Well, I’m not going to cry, but it’s pretty humiliating when my friends know I’m crushing on a guy who’s crazy for another girl.

Quince is clearing his throat and fiddling with his notebook and I think I’m really going to have to hear his poetic praises of a girl I despise, when Harris raises his hand.

Mrs. York points to him. “Yes, Harris?”

“I have a question”— his voice cracks, so he swallows hard and tries again—”about sonnets.”

I think maybe he’s just trying to save Quince from embarrassment, but he really seems all intent on asking this question about poetry.

He flips open his book. “Aren’t they always supposed to end in a rhyming couplet? If they don’t it messes up the mathematical equation, but sometimes Elizabeth Barrett Browning’s sonnets don’t end right.”

Harris’s question temporarily distracts everyone, and I breathe a sigh of relief because I really don’t want to listen to Quince’s “Ode to a Cheating Girlfriend.” Quince seems to relax too, thinking he’s off the hook.

Kensi, who figured she was about to become the center of attention, now makes a display of boredom with Harris’s question, yawns, and resumes her not-so-quiet conversation with Salissa.

Mrs. York tries to get us kids back on task. “Well, class, that’s a very interesting question. And the answer is that Shakespeare’s sonnets are always twelve lines followed by the couplet, but Barrett Browning was writing in the Italian form.”

“I’d still like to hear Quince’s sonnet,” Salissa says from across the room. She gives Kensi two-thumbs-up like she’s being subtle or something.

“I don’t want to read it aloud,” Quince mumbles.

“Aw, come on, Quince, suck it up.”

Gee thanks, Kevin
. Emma shoots him a dirty look and he shrugs. Guys can be so clueless.

“Yes, John, I’d like to hear it,” Mrs. York agrees.

Reluctantly Quince stands up, paper in hand, clears his throat, and reads his sonnet aloud. He’s patterned it after that famous Barrett Browning sonnet, and it’s not too bad actually— if only it weren’t dedicated to Kensington Marlow.