Angel
Page 4
Page 4
The motion of my hand with the rag slowed as I looked at her in surprise. All at once I knew exactly what was coming; I had seen it too many times before to mistake the signs. Nina’s eyes widened as she realized the same thing. “Maybe I’ll . . . go get a drink of water,” she said, taking an ultra-casual step backward. I could tell she was thinking the same thing I was: Beth Hartley? Really? Miss Perfect?
Once Nina was gone, Beth edged closer to me, lowering her voice. “Um, Willow . . . ” She took a deep breath, running her manicured fingers through her hair. “I’ve heard that you do . . . readings. Like, psychic ones,” she added quickly. Her face was bonfire red.
I nodded. “Yeah, that’s right. ”
Beth seemed to catch her breath. Her expression was trying to be skeptical, but it was suddenly so hopeful and pleading that it was like having a puppy gaze at me. “Well — are you any good?” she blurted out.
I shrugged as I started to install the new carburetor, tightening it into the intake manifold. “I guess so. I mean, not everything I see comes true, but most things seem to. And to be honest, the stuff that doesn’t is usually an alternate path. ”
She was watching me intently, taking in every word. “An alternate path?” she repeated. “What do you mean?”
I thought about it as I tightened the nuts a bit at a time, keeping the pressure on the carburetor even. “It’s like . . . you know, you have choices in your life. And sometimes I can see several choices unfolding and what might happen with each one. But they’re not all going to happen, because you’ll only choose one of them. ”
Beth nodded slowly. “Yeah, that’s exactly what I need help with,” she said, almost to herself. “Choices. ” She glanced back at the school. “Well — would you read me sometime?” she asked in a rush. “Like — soon?”
I blinked at the thought of Beth in my house — the two really didn’t seem to go together — but then I shrugged. “Sure, OK. How about tomorrow after school? No, wait a minute — how about Thursday?” I had forgotten for a second that the caregiver was leaving early the next day, and I’d promised Aunt Jo I’d get home on time to take care of Mom. I gave Beth my address.
“I’ll be there,” said Beth fervently. Some of her yearbook committee friends had started coming out of the school building behind her by then. Hugging her bag to her chest, she moved off to join them. “And, Willow — thanks,” she called softly over her shoulder.
I stared after her, feeling bemused. I guess I should know better than to pigeonhole people — if being psychic has taught me anything, it’s that you really never know what kind of thoughts people might have bubbling away like witches’ cauldrons under the surface of their ordinary lives — but even so, Beth Hartley. Strange, I thought as I tightened the final nut.
Nina reappeared, her expression practically bursting with Tell me everything!
“She wants a reading,” I said, to ward off the inevitable.
“I knew it!” exclaimed Nina. “I could just tell, the way she was acting all furtive. ” She shook her head, looking dazed. “God. I can’t believe that Beth Hartley even believes in that junk. ”
Nina is about the least imaginative, most prosaic person in the entire world and is convinced that anything psychic is a con. Not that she thinks I’m a con, necessarily. Just that I’m conning myself. Being dramatic, making things up without realizing it, getting carried away — that sort of thing. She thinks I should be an actress, because I’m obviously so in tune with my inner child. It’s sort of amazing that we’re even friends, really. But I’ve known her since I was nine, which is when Mom and I first moved to Pawtucket to live with Aunt Jo, and I guess we’ve just gotten to be a habit with each other.
Nina was peering in under the hood at me, shaking her head. “Willow, you do know that you should stop all this psychic stuff, don’t you? Half the school thinks you’re a witch. ”
My cheeks grew warm. “Well, that’s not my fault,” I muttered. I was almost finished, which was a good thing, because Nina was really starting to irritate me.
“It is your fault,” Nina insisted. “You don’t have to keep doing readings, do you? No, you don’t! Here’s a radical thought — just say no the next time someone asks. ”
I didn’t say anything as I put Nina’s air filter back in place. Distantly, I could hear the football team still practicing on the field, their shoulder pads thudding against each other. “I can’t do that,” I said finally, straightening up from the car. I wiped my hands clean and started putting my tools away.
“Why?” screeched Nina in exasperation.
I spun to face her. “Because people have problems, Nina! All kinds of problems, and I think maybe — I think maybe I help them. ”
“Oh, my God, Willow, you are seriously deluded if you think —” Nina broke off as I grabbed my jacket and slammed her hood shut.
“Here,” I said, tossing her keys at her. “You’ve got to prime it before you drive it again — give the gas a few pumps first. ” Before she could answer, I had gathered up my things and stalked off.
“Fine, be that way,” she called after me. “You know I’m right, though. See you tomorrow. Thanks for fixing my car, you lunatic. ”
I waved at her without turning around. My own car was a battered blue Toyota; I climbed in, piled my stuff on the passenger seat, and started the ignition. It purred like a kitten, of course. I might get awful grades, but I am good with engines.
I pushed a blues cassette into the tape deck as I pulled out of the parking lot — OK, so the twenty-first century hasn’t quite reached my sound system yet — and headed down Highway 12 toward home. The conversation with Beth tugged at my mind, refusing to let go. She had seemed so anxious, as if getting a reading was the most urgent thing in the world.
Choices. That’s exactly what I need help with.
Unease flickered through me, and I frowned, wondering why I felt so apprehensive. Being psychic isn’t like everyone thinks — I’m not some all-knowing, all-seeing guru. No, I can’t predict the winning lottery number, and — ha, ha — yes, I get caught in the rain just the same as everyone else.
The truth is, I get flashes or feelings sometimes, but I don’t tend to get anything too specific unless I have some sort of connection, like holding someone’s hand. Plus, I have to have the mental space to relax and clear my head. If I’m upset or excited, then I don’t usually get much — and, anyway, it’s not the kind of thing that you could go around doing all the time, at least not without going seriously insane. So in general I just live my life like the rest of the world, without really knowing how things are going to unfold.
But I do get some pretty strong intuitions at times . . . and I was having one now, about Beth. I bit my lip as I slowed down for a crossroad.
Whatever her choices were, I had a very bad feeling about them.
“Pancakes,” said Alex, gazing down at the menu. “And scrambled eggs and bacon, with a side of hash browns. And toast. ” He was starving. It was always like this after a kill; he felt as if he hadn’t eaten for a week.