Tiffany Tumbles: Book One of the Interim Fates (5 page)

I’m not even sure what’s legal, so I wouldn’t know, and when I say that, Crystal says her mom’s mostly afraid of drugs.

Drugs. No one’s offered me any, not that I’d take them because I know they mess up your mind. But my movie sources (and the TV ones too) tell me
someone
should’ve offered me drugs by now.

“How’re you, Tiff?” Crystal asks.

“Yeah, Tiff, how’s it going in U-gene?” Brittany asks.

“It’s Eu-
gene
,” I say, just like Mom does when someone mispronounces her town, “and it’s pretty good.”

The lie just comes right out.

“Good?” Both of my sisters sound surprised.

“Yeah,” I say. “Mom and I are getting along…” which is true “…and I’m not having any problems at school…” which is also true if you don’t count the invisibility thing “…and nothing really bad has happened so far…” again, if you forget that invisibility thing.

“Really? Seriously?” Brittany asks. “Everything is fine?”

I shrug, but they can’t see that. “I guess.”

“You like everyone?” Crystal asks.

“There’s just my mom,” I say. “I don’t have siblings or a stepdad or anything like that.”

“What about people at school?” Brittany asks with an intensity that I probably should pick up on, but I don’t feel like it. I don’t want to take care of them.

“People at school mostly leave me alone,” I say. Which is the problem, but how do I explain that?

“I wish they’d do that with me,” Brittany says.

“Is it like
Mean Girls
at your school?” Crystal asks.

“No, more like
Buffy
without the magic,” Brittany says, and they go on to discuss all the stuff that’s happening to them at their schools and don’t even notice that I’m not saying much.

Then that male voice comes back on (“It’s Mom’s secretary,” Crystal whispers as if the guy can’t hear her which he so totally can) and tells us that time is up and he’s sorry but he was told to follow strict rules. And we all shout at each other that we love each other and we can hardly wait for next week and we’re still shouting when we get cut off.

I hold the phone to my ear for the longest time, wishing that the call had never ended. The phone is quiet. It’s just silent on the other end, which is weird.

Finally Mom comes upstairs, but she stays in the doorway.

“You okay, Tiff?” she asks, and it seems like she can see right through me.

“Fine,” I say and put the phone down.

“You want to go shopping or something?” she asks.

I shake my head. She gives me that funny look for a minute longer, and then she backs out of the room.

I look down. My hand is still on the phone, like I can’t let go. I’ve been waiting all week for that call. I thought I’d feel better.

But now that the call’s over, I feel worse than I ever have.

FIVE

THE NEXT DAY
, I wake up mad. Raining fire mad.

Mom’s made pancakes, and I tell her I hate them. She’s listening to classical stuff on the radio, and I tell her it sucks. She wants to talk to me about my feelings, and I tell her I don’t have any.

Honestly, I think the problem is Megan.

How do I explain Megan? I mean, I say that she’s my therapist, but she’s not like Dr. Phil or the therapists on TV. First of all, she’s an empath, a real one. Second, she doesn’t even live in Eugene or Oregon or even in the Pacific Northwest. She lives in Los Angeles with her billionaire husband, who is also a mage who’s been around since the Dark Ages (whenever that was), and she just swans into places like this when she’s needed.

Only when I met her, I didn’t know what an empath was, and she didn’t know she was needed, and I was an Interim Fate, which technically meant I had more power than she did. She didn’t know she was an empath either, her not-yet-husband helped her figure that out because of the way she treated us girls.

Mostly, she listened to us. No one else ever had. Our moms are too confused by this whole magic thing and our dad, well, I told you about our dad. The extended family (and honestly, there are thousands of us) has its own issues. No one really thought about us kids.

Megan just asked us questions, and suddenly all that emotion was pouring out. Or it seemed that way.

Later I learned that empaths are the most talented mages of us all. They’re the only ones who come into their magic when they’re born, mostly (the theory goes) because my dad doesn’t believe anyone who can draw out emotion can do magic. My dad mostly doesn’t believe in emotion.

But that’s another story.

What’s relevant here is that he believed that emotions weren’t important, so therefore empaths didn’t exist, so he didn’t ask (hundreds of years ago) to have them subjected to the rules that the other mages had to follow.

Which meant that Megan, who is all of thirty-something, actually has her magic. She could even draw out my dad’s emotions, which is something to behold. She figured out that for all his bluster, he’s really insecure. Which I don’t believe, but if an empath says it, it must be true, right?

I used to think so, but then I gave up my magic and came here, and now I’m wondering if Megan knows anything. This week was
hard,
and I’m not just talking about learning how to tie my own shoes. Mom doesn’t get anything, I’m all by myself, and I feel stupid all the time.

I’ve never felt stupid in my life.

It’s all Megan’s fault. She’s the one who convinced us to leave Mount Olympus and try the real world. She’s the one who convinced our dad to let us stop being Interim Fates. (Actually, we didn’t want to be anymore either—it’s hard to run the magical world when you really don’t understand it, and all you are is a pawn for some weird chess game your father is playing.) And she’s the one who decided that our mothers wanted the chance to nurture us.

Maybe that is true: I mean, my mom is trying—consider how many heart-to-hearts she’s tried to have with me—but this whole separation from Brittany and Crystal, that was Megan’s idea too, and it just sucks. I mean majorly.

So by the time I go to Megan’s office, I’m even madder than I was when I woke up. Mom parks in front of the building, which is in downtown Eugene near the performing arts center which is, for some reason, called the Hult, and we go into Megan’s office together.

Megan’s real office is in Los Angeles. That’s where she and Rich Boy live. But because he’s rich, she’s now got branches in Eugene, Northern Wisconsin, and New York. She gives me an hour on Sundays, Brittany an hour on Thursdays, and Crystal an hour on Tuesdays. Our moms get the hour after ours, and theoretically Megan’s spending time with Dad too.

Mom says that’s a full plate. I think it’s hardly working. When we were Interim Fates, we were working all the time. (Of course, when I said that to Mom, she said,
Then it shouldn’t be hard for you to go to school for six hours and do your homework for two, should it?
I used to think she was easy-going. I was wrong.)

Megan’s building also has an optometrist, a few lawyers, and a dentist. I guess she rents to them, but they’re never around on Sunday. Megan has the entire upper floor.

She showed me and Mom around during our first Eugene appointment. The upper floor has a “group” room for group therapy (a big room with a thick carpet and lots of pillows. Chairs stacked against the wall—and no windows! I hate it), two waiting rooms (you get assigned a waiting room so that you don’t see the other patients, although I don’t think she has other patients in Eugene), a really fancy bathroom, and the main therapy room. There’s also a library, where I get to wait for Mom to get done, and maybe do my homework.

Mostly, I go down to this coffee shop not far from City Hall, have a latte, and watch people, trying to see how mortals act when no one’s paying attention to them. I sneak back up about fifteen minutes before Mom’s done, and pretend I’ve been doing my homework the whole time.

I don’t know if she’s figured me out yet, and I’m not sure she cares. Last week, she came out eyes red and face tear-streaked, which freaked me out a little—who knew that Mom cried?—but she seemed to get herself together okay.

I haven’t cried at all when I talk to Megan, except when she told all three of us girls that we couldn’t spend any time together for months and months and months. Brittany cried first, and then Crystal started sobbing, and I’d’ve looked unsympathetic if I didn’t shed a tear or two.

Besides, it’s hard not to cry when they’re bawling like babies.

Anyway, Mom and I go inside and take the elevator up. We don’t say anything as we ride to the top: she’s mad at me for my unreasonable attitude, and I’m just mad. She told me to save it for Megan, and I have.

Believe me, I have.

Megan’s waiting for us. She gives us both hugs, then takes me into the therapy room. I don’t even say good-bye to Mom. I have no idea what she does when I’m spilling my guts to Megan, but I suspect she goes to the same coffee shop I do. Sometimes she even forgets to bring a book, which for Mom is almost like forgetting to put on clothes.

The therapy room is big and blue, with a soft chair near the only window and another soft chair across from it. There is a large comfy sofa, but Megan doesn’t make you lie down like in those
New Yorker
cartoons. She’d rather have you sit across from her, or walk around, or even sit on the floor, so long as you’re comfortable.

I used to think Megan herself was comfortable. She’s this chubby woman, round all over, with really pretty red hair and nice green eyes. But she can be tough. Remember, I said she’s the only one besides Hera who can take on my dad. And Megan does it with a look. Her eyes go flat and then they go cold, like bright green ice chips, and it’s really, really scary.

I think it even scares my dad when she does that, and I didn’t think anyone could scare Dad.

“So what’s making you so angry?” Megan asks as she settles in her chair.

By the Powers, she can sense it. I hate empaths.

I had this all planned. I was gonna tell her everything was fine, and life was good, and I’m okay with school, and instead, I blurt:

“Your stupid rules.”

Megan tilts her head like I’ve said something interesting. “What about my rules?”

“I want to see my sisters,” I say.

She nods sagely. I hate that.

“I
hate
it here.”

“I figured you would,” Megan says.

That stops me. “If you thought I would hate it, why did you make me come?”

“I didn’t make you,” she says calmly. “You volunteered.”

She’s right; I did. In fact, getting away from Dad was really my idea. But I hate having that pointed out because it violates my sense of fairness. I can’t scream at her for something that was my idea, even though I want to.

I really, really want to.

“I’m stupid here,” I say.

“You’re not stupid,” she says. “You’re just inexperienced. There’s a difference.”

“Really?” I ask. “I couldn’t even tie a shoe until last week, which, Mom informs me, most mortals learn when they’re three. I can’t find my way around the dumb school, and nobody likes me.”

I didn’t mean to say that last, but it just slips out. I hate that too. Back when I was at Mount Olympus, I looked up empaths after we first encountered Megan, and I learned that sometimes their very presence makes stuff slip out that should remain secret.

Maybe Megan shouldn’t have a presence around me anymore.

“What do you mean nobody likes you?” Megan asks.

“Nobody likes me,” I say, louder this time, like she’s deaf rather than dense. “They don’t even see me most of the time. It’s like I’m wallpaper. I go from class to class and nobody even says hello.”

I’m exaggerating a little. Jenna says hello in the morning, and I pathetically look forward to it. On Friday, I counted how many people spoke to me, then divided the speech into required speech (“What would you like for lunch?”) and non-required speech (“Hello” qualifies) and found that most of my conversations—like more than half—were required. It was down to only two non-required if I took out any conversation I had with my mother.

Megan looks surprised at this news. Like I made it up or something. I’m still not sitting down, but she doesn’t seem to care that I’m towering over her. Instead, she puts her chin on her hand. She’s had a manicure. It looks nice, but not very Megan. I’m a little surprised myself.

“I would have imagined everyone notices you, Tiffany,” she says. “You are beautiful, you’re smart, and you have your father’s charisma.”

I snort. Like I’m any of those things. I don’t dress right—I stopped wearing the Jimmy Choos on day two (not only were they wrong for school, they hurt my feet)—and I’m not intelligent. I know a lot of big words in more than one language, I like to read like Mom does, but I had no idea until Thursday that the French and Indian Wars happened in the United States (only it wasn’t the United States yet, which I also find confusing, and how come people from India and people from France were fighting in the U.S.? No one would explain that either, not that I asked).