The Problem With Crazy (12 page)

“S
HOT, SHOT
, shot, shot!” the group of people sitting around me on the moonlit beach chanted. It was late, after midnight sometime. I’d stopped counting when I’d had my fifth shot. Then the numbers on my phone got a little harder to read.

“Drink up, Kate.” Stacey nudged me as the chanting continued. It was some stupid drinking game, and I’d lost—again.

I threw my head back and let the contents of the tiny glass in front of me slide its way down my throat. The liquid was sweet and sticky, Midori and red something-or-other. I shook my head till I was dizzy, trying to clear any remaining slivers of it out of my mouth. The first shooter had been nice. This one just made me feel like I needed to clean my teeth.

“Okay, okay, I got one. Never have I ever had sex on the beach before.” Stacey announced, looking around the circle to see if anyone took a shot. We were seated in a circle of ten people from our hotel, an even mix of guys and girls our age. Waves were crashing in the background and a slight breeze ran over my shoulders, making me wish I’d worn more than just the tiny slip dress I’d been lazing in by the pool all day.

“We can fix that right now, babe,” a guy with sun-kissed blond hair joked from the other end of the circle. He was surfer-boy hot, the sort of guy Stacey was into. He smiled at her and ran a tanned hand through his hair, showcasing his lean arm complete with toned muscles, no doubt honed through hours of surfing. I swear I heard her breath catch.

“Drink up, bitches.” a guy whose hair shone in the moonlight crowed, as he raised his glass into the air. A few of the others raised theirs and knocked them back as instructed. I kept my eyes firmly on the sand. Bottles were passed around the circle and drinks were refilled.

Stacey angled her body so she could talk in my ear. “You okay?” Concern clouded her eyes. She’d been amazing this whole trip, making sure I was okay, that I was comfortable. She hadn’t pushed me to discuss the dad issue. Not even once.

“I think I might go to bed,” I whispered.

“Hey! No secrets. Group game,” shiny-hair yelled. The liquid in his glass spilled over onto my ankle. Gross.

“We’re going to head.” Stacey stood up, stretching her legs and dusting sand off them. I reached up and grabbed on the hem of her dress, pulling her back down.

“Stace is staying. I’m going.” I struggled to my feet, swaying what I’d consider to be an acceptable amount, for one who had been sitting and drinking for an hour.

“Let me walk you,” Stace said. I shook my head, and grabbed my flip-flops and purse.

“What if something happens?”

I looked around, at the bright lights of town, the thousands of people drinking, dancing, eating and laughing. Scattered through them all were spots of blue, policemen monitoring the activity. It didn’t feel dangerous. In fact, here, away from my home, I felt safe.

And besides, Stacey deserved a chance to get to know surfer boy. She’d been glued to my side since we’d arrived in town; surely, on our last night, she should have a little fun.

“Never have I ever … kissed a guy before.” Shiny-hair cackled with laughter at his own joke. A few girls threw sand, or pieces of rubbish in his direction. Stacey rolled her eyes, and raised her glass.

“There are police and people everywhere. I’ll message you when I get to the hotel.” I crouched down, grabbing her shoulder to steady myself. “And besides, don’t you have some unfinished business here?” I whispered. Stacey’s gaze flicked from hot surfer boy back to me.

“If you’re sure.” She gave a half-smile, and I waved goodbye.

I took two steps before I felt dizzy. A wave of nausea washed over me, crashing just like the tide a few metres away, as I tried to focus.

Look at your feet, Kate. Look at your feet
.

Deep breaths.

When I walked this time, I was able to place one leg in front of the other, my feet sinking into the cool, soft sand, until I reached the boardwalk and put on my shoes.

The boulevard was a mix of sky-high buildings, scents of street-fried food and bright lights selling wares, varying from alcohol promotion to the flashing legs of a dancing girl on a sign above one particular club.

People milled about, in groups, as couples and individuals, clutching drinks desperately and phones even more so. They were flooding out of bars and clubs, lining up at McDonald’s and snaking in a line forever-long that led to the public toilets. Even though they were Portaloos, thousands of teenage not-yet-quite-old-enough-to-enter-the-club girls lined up to use them. Gross.

I walked past a group of guys, one of whom was wearing a Coal T-shirt. Had they been to the concert? The hairs on my arms stood on end, and I rubbed them down. Was it my imagination, or was he looking at me funny?

Stumbling over my own feet, I gave myself an internal slap on the wrist. Of course he wasn’t looking. I was being hyper-sensitive.

Was that a symptom? Maybe I should look it up.

I strolled through the street, heading back to our hotel. A girl blew a cloud of cigarette smoke in my face, and I coughed. A guy spilt some sticky, red liquid from a plastic cup around my ankles, splashing over my shoes. People laughed, yelled and smiled, a chaos of noise surrounding me.

I crossed the road parallel to the hub of activity, getting closer to the hotel and farther from the extremities of noise and light. It didn’t feel unsafe, though; there were still enough people around to make up at least two football teams.

I started counting the buildings to the hotel. Just three bars, one club, a shop selling all sorts of marijuana paraphernalia, two alleys, and one hotel. Now two bars, one club, a shop, two alleys, and one hotel. Then one bar…

I stopped, noticing a chalkboard erected on the sidewalk.

Fortunes told and futures predicted by the mysterious Gypsy Rose

I stared at the sign, studying the curlicue handwriting. A fortune-teller. Someone who could tell the future.

Would they know what would happen to me? What would happen to—my dad?

A group of three girls walked out of the alleyway, laughing loudly and talking so fast it was hard to make out individual words.

“That was so freaky. She was crazy.” One girl laughed, linking arms with another.

“Me? Three kids? No way am I ruining this body on babies,” the middle girl joked, throwing her arm around her sidekick. They made their way down the street, leaving me alone in front of the sign.

Just me, a sign, and an alley. And maybe some clues to my future.

The kind of clues I could ignore if I wanted to.

That last voice in my head was smaller, quieter.

I shoved my hand in my pocket and searched the corners for some cash. My interest in Gypsy Rose had gone from vague to decided in a heartbeat. Now I couldn’t see her quickly enough.

With two twenty-dollar notes balled in my fist, I started down the alley. It was full of shops, all with their shutters down, selling much more normal things. What an alleyway. Bikinis, shoes, handbags and … futures.

The last shopfront on the right was lit up, another chalkboard erected in an A-frame out the front. A counter stretched across the width of the shop’s perimeter, a tiny opening to the left and a huge, black curtain behind it, separating the rest of the world from what I presumed was the place where all the magic happened.

“Yes?”

The voice was younger than I’d expected it to be, and brisk. It came from behind the curtain.

I straightened up and took a few steps closer to the counter. It had a bright-blue laminate top, with a scratched yellow border framing it. I’d never seen a psychic before. I had no reason to expect anything. Yet, for some reason, I knew I certainly didn’t expect this.

“I was wondering if I could see-the-psychic.” In the rush to get the words out of my mouth they all tumbled together, like vegetables clattering into a bowl. I blinked against the harsh fluorescent lights and ran a hand across my brow. It was hot. Really hot. Sweat, from being in this alleyway where the fresh air no longer seemed to flow, covered me.

“What sort of a reading would you like?”

A woman stepped out from behind the curtain, the owner of the mysterious unidentified yet young-sounding voice. She had black hair, the kind of midnight black that almost gleams blue. It was pulled back in a long ponytail, little tendrils falling to either side.

She wore faded denim jeans and a lemon-coloured T-shirt. Tiny purple shoes covered in sequins adorned her suspiciously small feet. Lines grazed her face, creases around her eyes and her cheeks. Her eyes were intimidating hazel-grey whirlpools of mystery. Or maybe I was just drunk.

Either way, she looked nothing like the sort of fortune-teller I’d imagined.

“A … a normal one?” I asked. Mainly because the alternative, turning to run, seemed like a foolish idea. What if she chased me? Or cursed me? Or … worse?

I had no idea what worse would be, mind you. But I knew I didn’t want it.

“I do crystal ball, tarot, tea leaves, or palm reading.” The woman sighed and tapped one of her tiny, delicately-shod feet. “Palm reading is the cheapest.” She shot out the words like being cheap was a crime.

“Which one works best?”

“They all tell you different things.” She swatted her hair back over her shoulder. “Personally, I prefer the tarot. I find it gives a more accurate reading.”

“Tarot, then,” I said. I didn’t want her to feel like I was wasting her time.

The woman turned and strutted behind the curtain, flicking it out behind her so it billowed in her wake. I stood there, riveted to the spot. Was I supposed to go, too? I didn’t suppose she’d read me out here in the alleyway, but she’d hardly invited me to come with.

I swallowed and took a few steps forward, then gingerly peeled back the curtain to look at the dark shadows behind it.

There was a room, a tiny, little box where Gypsy Rose obviously worked. It was dark, with light coming in dancing shadows from two candles jammed into a rusted candelabrum on a table in the corner. The scent of musk came floating up to assault my nostrils and I tried not to sneeze. The perfume and lack of air created a stifling, heady mix.

A small card table was set up in the middle, two chairs parked on either side of it, one containing Gypsy Rose’s small frame. To the left, a huge bookshelf, crammed full of thick books, thin books, old books with deeply creased spines, and new books with crisp binding, was on display. To my right was a small chest of drawers with a crystal ball on top. The bottom drawer was slightly ajar, and I could see it was stuffed full of papers and other junk, all folded and wadded up.

“Never you mind about that.” Gypsy Rose slammed the drawer shut with her foot. I sank into the empty seat, placed my hands on the table and looked her, as close to the eye as I could stand without actually meeting her gaze. I didn’t want her to yell at me again. But I also didn’t want to have to look at her, in case that got me in trouble, too.

“Now, let me see here.” The woman reached over to the top drawer of the table and pulled it open. She retrieved a pack of cards, larger than your normal playing cards, and laid them on the table in front of her.

“I’m going to start shuffling these cards, and you need to tell me when to stop,” Gypsy Rose instructed me. She moved the cards about in her hands, rifling through the deck.

“Stop,” I said, after a few seconds of finger-fidgeting nerves.

“Okay, now again.” She started her shuffling a second time, and I wondered if I’d gotten it wrong, made a mistake. I started to form the question, but snapped my mouth shut when she gave a small shake of her head in my direction.

“Stop,” I said again.

The tiniest of smiles inched its way up the corner of her face.

“Okay, let me lay out the cards.”

Gypsy Rose placed a series of cards on the table, one after the other. They were brightly-coloured, garish-looking things, full of shapes and objects, some of which I recognised and some of which I didn’t.

“Is there anything specific you want to know?”

The words stuck in my head.

Yes, when is my dad going to die?

Sure, will he remember me at all?

Okay, let’s start with am I going to have a mental illness and lose control of my words and movements?

“Oh you know, just general stuff.” I smiled, and bit my lip.

“Well, let’s look at love,” Gypsy Rose said, busy studying the cards in front of her. “All you young girls want to know about love.

“Your true love …” She scanned the cards, searching for something in their garish images. “He is someone you have already met.” Yes, and his name is probably Dave, and he’s left me. “Someone with … a familiar family situation.”

That was odd. I racked my brain, trying to think of any kind of tie between Dave and my family. Both his parents were alive and well. They didn’t have any diseases, and both of their parents were living still, too.

Maybe she meant parents I knew, and that’s why they were familiar.

Maybe.

“What about my family?” The words escaped without my realising.