The Secret Society of the Pink Crystal Ball

by Risa Green

  I guess it can wait.

  Eight

  A piece of paper folded into a tiny square lands on my desk about seven minutes into homeroom. I glance around to see if Mrs. Schroeder is looking, but she’s too busy inhaling her daily piña-colada-flavored yogurt to notice. Samantha swears that she actually has a piña colada in there, and that the yogurt container is just for show. I have to say, it would explain a lot.

  Keeping my hands below my desk, I unfold the paper and read the note. It’s from Samantha, via Lindsay.

  Aiden is going to see the Flamingo Kids at the Corridor this weekend. You guys have to come with me. This is my chance to show him that I am not just a dumb girl he drives to school, but a hot woman whom he intensely desires. And actually has a brain, unlike Trance. Pass to Erin when you are done.

  Samantha talks a big game, because in spite of her hotness, Lindsay and I both know that she has kissed a total of three boys in her life, and one of them is her cousin. I turn the piece of paper over and read Lindsay’s response.

  Sorry, Sam. I am at my dad’s this weekend. But let me know if you want that love potion. You can slip it in his drink when he’s not looking! xo L.

  I take out my pen and write my answer under Lindsay’s.

  I think you have mistaken me for someone who enjoys going to concerts. Sorry! xoxo E.

  I fold the paper back up and discreetly toss it onto Samantha’s lap. I watch her as she opens it up and reads our answers. She frowns, then takes out her pen and writes something else. A minute later, the square lands back on my desk.

  You should try to live a little. No wonder you have nothing to write about for your essay. L S.

  ***

  Mr. Wallace is standing by the blackboard, his brown goatee freshly trimmed, his black, plastic emo glasses resting comfortably on his nose. His whole look is so entirely “art teacher” that it’s almost as if he’s wearing a costume. He picks up a piece of chalk and writes 1/3 on the board in massive numerals.

  “Your final project for the year will be a team project. Each of you will be assigned a partner, and each team will be given a topic. Teams must visit the Museum of Art together at least three times, and then each team will give an oral presentation to the class, reporting their findings.”

  He lifts his left arm and points to the fraction he’s written. “This project will represent one-third of your final grade, and you will have one week to complete it. For those of you who are planning to apply for the trip to Italy, your grade on this project will count in your application.”

  This trip is going to be the end of me, I think.

  I had completely forgotten about it after the memorial service yesterday, but then Samantha so nicely reminded me this morning in her note. Now I’ve been thinking about it all day again. That and, of course, what’s hidden in that little cardboard box Roni gave me. When we got home from the memorial service last night, I thought about opening it, but I was so tired and I had a ton of homework to do, and I just wasn’t in the mood for any big surprises or family revelations. So I’d left it sitting on my desk…

  Whatever. I really need to figure out what I’m going to say in that essay.

  Mr. Wallace picks up a piece of paper and starts reading off the teams. I listen intently for my name. I just hope he puts me with someone good, because I do not want to get stuck doing all of the work on this project. I do a quick calculation of my grade in this class so far: A-. Which means that I need to get at least a B+ on this project in order for me to be eligible for the trip. I glance around the room, searching for potential partners. Emily Gardner would be good. She’s smart, and she works hard. Or maybe Phoebe Marks. I’ve seen the outlines she makes when she’s studying for a test, and they are sick. My gaze stops, however, on the seat two rows up in front of me. Just not him. Please, do not let my partner be Jesse Cooper—

  “Emily Gardner will be with Phoebe Marks,” Mr. Wallace announces.

  My heart sinks as the two girls smile at each other across the room. That’s okay, I think, trying to stay positive. There’s still Jack Engel, or Maya Franklin. Even though Maya is a bitter and jealous girl who has been trying to oust me from my place as number one since the day they began tallying class ranks, she still would be better than Jesse Cooper. “Jack Engel will be with Carolyn Strummer. Erin Channing will be with…” I hold my breath. Please say Maya. Please say Maya—

  “Jesse Cooper.”

  Oh God. I sink down in my seat.

  This is a nightmare. How could Mr. Wallace be so dumb? Has he not noticed that Jesse Cooper is the one person in the entire class that I never speak to? I sit back up, and I focus on the back of Jesse’s head. His jet black hair is standing up, like, two feet. Okay, not really—but still, he’s going for a spiky punk rock thing that seems thirty years too late and might have been hot once but now is just…confusing. He’s got a tiny silver hoop hanging from his left ear, and he’s wearing a yellow Volcom T-shirt and black jeans. (To his credit, not too tight and actually pretty normal looking, aside from the holes.) I look down at his shoes: black Converse high tops. The bottom of his foot is lifted off of the ground, so that only his toes are touching the floor. I notice that there’s thick, black writing on the bottom of his left shoe, and I lean forward to try to read it.

  I see you looking.

  I can feel my face turn red. I quickly look back at Mr. Wallace. A few seconds later, I glance at Jesse’s shoe again. Now it’s flat on the floor. Did he do that on purpose?

  What happened to him? I wonder for the zillionth time.

  Jesse Cooper didn’t used to be this way. In fact, up until the beginning of ninth grade, he was one of my closest friends. When we were in middle school, we had almost all of our classes together, and we ate lunch together almost every single day. He was smart and funny and flirty. And yes, he was my first kiss. (And so far, shamefully, my last.)

  It happened at an eighth-grade graduation party at Jeff DiNardo’s house. Jeff’s parents were upstairs in the kitchen and a group of us were hanging out in the rec room, when somebody suggested that we play a game of Seven Minutes in Heaven. We were using a spinner from Jeff’s sister’s Twister game, and when it was my turn, the spinner landed on Jesse. Which I will admit, I had sort of been hoping for, because I guess I might have had a little crush on him back then. Emphasis on the “might have.”

  But anyway, we went into the closet, and he asked me if I wanted to kiss him, and I said I guess so, and we kissed. But it wasn’t just like, a little peck on the cheek or anything. It was a real kiss. With tongue. It surprised me at first, that he opened his mouth and everything, but I kind of liked it—okay, full disclosure, I liked it a lot—and before we knew it, the seven minutes were up, and people were opening the closet door. And I remember being disappointed because I didn’t want it to end, and all I wanted for the rest of the night was to take another turn and have that spinner land on Jesse again, so that I could go back into the closet with him and stay there forever.

  Okay, so maybe it was more than “might have.”

  But then, just a few days later, his father had a heart attack and died. It was awful. His dad was young and healthy. He exercised and ate right. After we heard about it, I remember my mom saying that you just never know what’s lurking in your genes. I also remember being really angry with her for saying that, even though she hadn’t said anything wrong. And then right after the funeral Jesse’s mom sent him off to some art camp for the summer, and I didn’t even get to say good-bye to him, or to tell him how sorry I was about his dad. And then, when he came back, he wasn’t the old Jesse anymore. He was, well…he was like this. With the hair and the shoes and the earring. Soon he was hanging out with this whole new group of artsy/punk rock kids, and we just sort of stopped talking. I mean, yes, it was weird in the beginning, because we had been really good friends, and then we just weren’t. And to be honest, I was angry at h
im for not opening up to me. There he was, three months after the most tragic event of his life, spending time with all of these kids he’s never even talked to before, and he doesn’t even call me? So we went our separate ways, and that was that. Or at least, it was, until Mr. Wallace took it upon himself to force us back together again.

  Like I said, this trip is going to be the end of me.

  ***

  Jesse is waiting for me in the hallway when class is over.

  “So, cool topic, huh?” he asks in an impossible-to-read tone.

  On our way out, Mr. Wallace handed us all papers with our topics on them. Ours is to look at one work of art from each of three different time periods and to discuss how spirituality is represented in each. I’m not sure that I would describe it as “cool,” though. Spirituality isn’t exactly my thing. But I’m also not sure if Jesse is being sarcastic or serious, so I don’t answer him.

  Maya Franklin walks over to us, and she’s giving me the evil eye. Now what did I do? I wonder.

  “Sorry we’re not partners, Jesse,” she says. “I think we would’ve made a good team.” Wait a second, is she flirting with him? Does Maya Franklin have a thing for Jesse Cooper? Ew. Just thinking about her liking a boy gives me the creeps, let alone thinking about her liking Jesse Cooper.

  “Um, yeah,” Jesse says, looking confused. “Good luck, I guess.”

  Maya flashes a fake smile at me and walks away. Weird.

  “Anyway,” I say, choosing not to comment on the bizarreness of that exchange, “we don’t have a lot of time, so we should figure out a schedule for going to the museum.”

  He thinks for a second. “You know, they’re open late on Thursday nights. Do you think you could go tonight? Like, around 6:30?”

  Wow. He really has changed. The Jesse I knew was a total procrastinator. There’s nothing I’m supposed to do tonight—aside from some science and math homework, my schedule is wide open. I think of Samantha and Lindsay’s note again. My life is boring, isn’t it?

  “Sure, I can go tonight,” I say. I notice that he has a small tattoo on the inside of his left wrist—though from this distance I can’t quite make out what it is. My mind starts racing with questions. When did he decide to commit so permanently to this look of his? Does he think that this is at all weird, because he’s acting like we were never good friends and then not friends? Why does he act like that kiss in the closet never even happened? Maybe he’s had so many kisses since then that he doesn’t even remember?

  “Great,” he says. “I’ll see you then.” He chews his bottom lip, and staring at those lips, I feel my face get hot. I turn away before he sees me and think for the hundredth time in a very short while: God, I am so lame.

  Nine

  Thanks to Jesse, I had almost forgotten about the box.

  When I arrive home from school today I’m surprised for a second to see it there, sitting on my desk.

  I glance at my watch. Lindsay and Samantha are going to be here any minute. Normally, I would wait for them and make them open it with me, but there’s just something about the way Roni said those words—it was very important to Kate that you not open it until you’re alone—that makes me think I should do as she said.

  Moving quickly, I slit the packing tape open with my house key. I don’t know what I’m expecting, exactly. Pictures? Letters? Some sort of explanation? My stomach flutters nervously and I hold my breath as I pull open the top flaps and look inside. It’s…

  It’s a pink, plastic ball. Well, technically, it’s a Pink Crystal Ball; just the type of retro-kitsch toy that never ceased to amuse my Aunt Kiki. You ask it a question and shake it, and then a silly, new age-y answer floats up to the surface. It’s supposed to tell the future like a crystal ball, except, you know, it’s plastic. And pink.

  I reach inside and remove it from the box. The ball itself is actually clear, but it’s filled with a pink, glittery liquid that’s reflecting the sunlight and scattering tiny dots across one wall of my bedroom. The bottom of it is flat, so that it can rest on a plastic, silver pedestal, which, I notice, is also inside the box. I pull it out and examine it. Someone etched “RC 52” onto the underside of the base, but otherwise, it looks just like every other Pink Crystal Ball that has ever graced the shelves of Toys“R”Us.

  So that’s it, then? My dead aunt left me a fake crystal ball? That’s the big secret that I needed to be alone to see? I’m starting to wonder if maybe my dad is right. Maybe she really was kooky. What am I thinking? Of course she was! That memorial service was like a circus sideshow gone horribly wrong.

  I look inside the box again to see if there’s anything else, and I notice an envelope taped to the bottom, as well as a thin, rolled-up scroll, tied with a piece of raffia. I untie the scroll first and unroll it, hoping for some sort of explanation. But it’s just a long list of names. Names I never heard of except for the very last one, Kate Hoffman—written in my aunt’s handwriting. Seeing her signature there like that creeps me out, and I look at the goose bumps that have suddenly appeared on my arms. I roll the scroll back up and carefully untape the envelope from the bottom of the box.

  This has to be it. This has to be the letter from her, explaining why she wanted us out of her life so badly.

  But when I open it, I’m disappointed to see that it’s a not a letter at all. It’s just a list that she wrote that makes absolutely no sense whatsoever.

  Absolute knowledge is not unlimited; let the planets be your guide to the number.

  There are 16 ways to die, but four of them you will never see.

  The future belongs to you alone. Other voices will be disappointed.

  One rotation is as far as you can see. Only uncertainty lies beyond.

  You will know all when no more is known; then it is time to choose another.

  That’s it. That’s all it says.

  Wow, Aunt Kiki, I think bitterly. Thanks so much.

  Lindsay and Samantha burst into my room just as I’m putting the paper back inside the envelope. Lindsay immediately notices the ball and snatches it off of my bed.

  “Oh, my God!” she squeals. “A Pink Crystal Ball! I love these!” She shakes it and looks up at the ceiling as she asks her question.

  “Is Megan Crowley going to suffer from a long and painful bout of chicken pox that will leave permanent scars on her face?” She looks at the ball for an answer. “‘Your future is obscured. You must ask again.’” She shakes it a second time. “Okay, how about…is Megan Crowley going to get stood up at prom and become the laughingstock of the whole school?” She looks down at the window. “‘Your future is obscured. You must ask again.’”

  “Let me see that,” Samantha says, grabbing it out of Lindsay’s hands. “Does Aiden Tranter want to devour me like the men in those cheesy romance novels that my mother hides under her mattress?” She looks at the ball expectantly. “‘Your future is obscured. You must ask again.’ Ugh, forget it.” She hands the ball to me. “Here, you try. You’re the genius, maybe you can figure out what’s wrong with it.”

  I shake my head. “No thanks. You know I don’t believe in that kind of stuff.”

  “Oh, please,” Samantha says. “Don’t be ridiculous. You don’t have to believe in anything to play with a Pink Crystal Ball. It’s just for fun. Come on, ask it a question. You know you want to. Ask it if Spencer Ridgely thinks you’re smexy.”

  I roll my eyes at her. “Spencer Ridgely is, like, the hottest guy in the whole school. Possibly even the whole world. And he’s a senior. He doesn’t even know who I am.”

  “Not the point,” Lindsay says, jumping on Samantha’s bandwagon. “Come on, just do it. It’s not that hard. Repeat after me. ‘Does Spencer Ridgely think I’m smexy?’”

  “What is ‘smexy’?” I ask, immediately wishing I hadn’t.

  Samantha rolls her eyes at me this time. “It means smart a
nd sexy, stupid. God, you need to hang out in some classes that aren’t AP. Maybe you’ll actually learn something useful. Now would you stop stalling and just ask the question already?”

  “Fine,” I say, succumbing to their peer pressure. I pick up the ball and shake it. “Does Spencer Ridgely think I’m smexy?” I ask, not even trying to hide my annoyance. I peer into the plastic on the flat side of the ball. It takes a second for the message to come up.

  Yes, your fate is sealed.

  “Well?” Lindsay asks.

  I frown. “It says, ‘Yes, your fate is sealed.’”

  She claps her hands excitedly and Samantha laughs.

  “Give me that thing,” Lindsay demands. “I want to try it again.” I hand it to her, and this time she shakes it extra hard. “Is Megan Crowley’s boyfriend going to cheat on her with a slutty girl from St. Joseph’s and give her a raging case of syphilis?” Her lips twist in a frown. “‘Your future is obscured. You must try again.’ This thing sucks,” she says, tossing it back onto the bed. “Where did you get it, anyway?”

  “My aunt left it to me. Her friend gave it to me at the memorial service yesterday. It came with these.” I show her the paper and the scroll.

  “I thought crazy aunts were supposed to leave people gobs of money that nobody knew they had,” Lindsay says, half to herself.

  “Hey, that would be a great T-shirt,” Samantha interjects. “‘My crazy aunt died and all I got was a fake crystal ball.’”

  Even I have to laugh at that one. To be honest, it feels good. It hurts less to think of Kiki as just some “crazy aunt” who didn’t have a grip on reality. Before the laughter fades, Lindsay says that she can’t stay. She just stopped by to see how I was doing. She promised her mom that she would help her move some stuff out of the garage.