“You know Megan. She never lets anything drop.”
“Really? Tell me what you know!” Janae leans in closer so she doesn’t miss a thing.
When will I ever learn to keep my big mouth shut? Here it is April, I’ve been in this school since September, and it’s like I haven’t learned a thing. Who knew the principal’s new dress code rules would cause all this trouble? Okay, I did, but did Megan listen to me? She’s as stubborn and opinionated as Elizabeth Bennet. It’s like she’s been on this collision course since school started and there’s no stopping her.
When I think back to last September and my first day here…
Chapter 1
New Kid, New School Year
“Class, may I have your attention? I’d like to introduce our new student Caryn Alderson. She just moved here from Houston, Texas,” announces the art teacher, Miss Emerson. She looks frazzled, her apron covered in paint, and there’s a smudge of blue chalk on her face.
I feel like an idiot, being presented to the class like I’m in elementary school. What next? Will they greet me in unison?
“Hi, Caryn!” all the students say at once.
Great. My sixth sense always kicks in at the most embarrassing moments.
“Caryn,” says Miss Emerson after the class settles back to work. “As I told you when we met yesterday, we’re already working on our first project of the year. So to get you up to speed quickly, I’ll partner you with someone.” Miss Emerson looks around the room for a likely victim. “Megan? Megan Benedict, may I have a word with you?”
Megan is absorbed in a pencil drawing on the other side of the room and clearly doesn’t want to be disturbed. She groans and rolls her eyes as she gets up from her stool and walks across to the front of the room where I’m still standing next to Miss Emerson. Megan stops in front of me, arms clasped across her chest, glaring at me like I’m her worst nightmare. Right now all I want to do is run— back to my mother, back to Houston, anywhere but here.
“Megan, will you help Caryn get started on this project? You can explain it to her, show her where the supplies are, things like that. Do you mind?”
“No,” Megan says, but her body language speaks volumes. She turns and walks toward the supply closet, leaving me to trail behind her like some unwanted puppy.
I guess most kids would be able to tell Megan wasn’t happy about Miss Emerson sticking her with the new kid. I’m sensing there’s more to her attitude, but I can’t home in on it right now. I’m too busy being embarrassed.
“You don’t have to, you know,” I say to the back of her head. “Show me around and stuff, I mean. I know my way around art rooms.”
Megan turns and looks me up and down, making me feel even more insecure. I’m trying not to stare, but I have to admit I’m looking right back. She’s what we call a “prep” back in Houston. Her light blonde hair is pulled back into a ponytail, her clothes are Old Navy casual— khaki knee-length cargo shorts, layered blue and white short-sleeved ribbed T-shirts that fit snugly on her slim figure, and sandals that look expensive, like Birkenstocks. I feel self-conscious in my peasant skirt, faded Houston Astros T-shirt, Walmart sandals, and my long brown hair braided down my back (the better to hide the green stripe I dyed into it last spring).
She shrugs. “Miss Emerson has a weird filing system, so I’d better explain it to you. Where have you been, anyway?”
“Been?” Now it’s my turn to be confused.
“Duh. It’s September,” she says and rolls her eyes again. “Way after Labor Day even. School started over three weeks ago, so where have you been?”
“Oh, yeah, my late enrollment. My mom and I just moved here.”
“Hm,” Megan says, as she carefully pulls pencils, drawing paper, and rulers from the cabinet. “Come on, I’ll tell you what we’re doing.”
I follow her to the table in the back of the room where she’s left her drawing in mid-stroke. “That’s really good, what you’re working on,” I say, glancing over at her sketches. This girl’s got talent. It’s a fairly detailed drawing of an old building that looks like the pictures I’ve seen of downtown Indianapolis. I get an instant gut reaction to Megan’s artwork and realize how important it is to her. No wonder she didn’t want to get stuck showing me around— it’s taking her away from what she really wants to be doing.
“Thanks,” Megan says, finally smiling. “I love architecture, especially historic buildings.”
Now how did I know that? Ugh, here I go again.
“Have you been downtown yet? There’s so much to look at.” Suddenly the sullen Megan disappears and a different girl emerges, one who lights up just talking about her art.
I smile back. “No, I haven’t done much sightseeing yet, but I’d like to.” Megan picks up her pencil and goes back to work, so I wait a minute. And then another minute. “So what’s the assignment?”
“Oh, sorry,” she says, realizing I’m still standing here. “We’re supposed to draw a famous building or house or whatever— sketch it in pencil— then construct a miniature of it using all natural materials. No plastic or anything like that.”
It sounds easy enough. I like art, but I don’t know if I’m crazy about architecture. Still, Megan’s enthusiasm is contagious. Miss Emerson told me when I agreed to enroll in the art program that we’d do all kinds of projects, so I let myself be talked into joining this class in the hopes of doing some actual watercolor painting. Since it’s a longer class just after lunch, I have lots of time to either prove myself or screw up. And all I want right now is to somehow fit in, even if I don’t like the project. Screwing up isn’t an option.
“So what are you going to draw?” Megan is talking and sketching at the same time, although she’s not paying much attention to the conversation.
The only famous building I can think of is the Alamo in San Antonio. Okay, I know I’m from Houston, but every self-respecting Texas kid has either been to the Alamo or at least studied it in school. One summer a few years ago, right around the Fourth of July (which is my birthday, by the way), Dad and Michael surprised me with a trip to San Antonio. We did all the usual stuff— walked around the River Walk, ate Mexican food till we were about to explode, and of course visited The Alamo. It’s now a museum with lots of stuff from that famous siege in 1836, but what I remembered most was that this really old, historical fort was completely surrounded by modern skyscrapers, creating a weird mix of old and new.
“Did you hear me?” Megan asks. “Hello?”
“Oh, sorry, my mind wandered.”
“What are you going to draw?”
“I think I might do The Alamo. You know, in Texas.”
“Weird.” Megan screws up her face as she does some sophisticated pencil shading on her building.
Just what I need— to be thought of as weird by the first kid I meet in this new school. “Well, I really don’t know much about Indiana,” I reply with a shrug. “So I should probably go with someplace I’ve actually been.”
I realize I’m giving Megan more information than she wants, since she’s already become re-absorbed in her own project. I sit down next to her with a piece of drawing paper and a freshly sharpened pencil and try to sketch The Alamo. Instead, my mind wanders back to that trip to San Antonio with my dad. I really miss him.
Guy McNamara and my mom were never a couple. They met at a wild college party one night while he was an undergrad and she was going for her masters, so I was the result of some experimenting Dad said he was doing at the time. Mom gave me her last name, but Dad has always been important in my life, and luckily my parents are good friends as well as co-parents.
One spring in elementary school Dad encouraged me to try out for little league softball and I somehow made the team. The coach tried me in every possible position but nothing worked. I struck out every other time I got up to bat— which was less and less as the season progressed— and eventually I ended up so far in the outfield that I spent my time catching butterflies instead of fl
y balls. Dad never missed a single one of my games, though, giving me lots of encouragement.
After that disastrous season ended and I vowed never to step foot on a softball field again, Dad tried to boost my spirits by taking me to an actual Major League Baseball game. Soon he and I became huge baseball fans and spent many nights watching the Astros play on TV or even taking in high school games around town. Michael Ferguson, Dad’s partner, is a high school teacher, so he kept us clued in as to schedules and stuff.
I sigh. Dad’s still in Houston and I know I won’t get to see him again till next summer.
I glance at the wall clock and realize there are just a few minutes left in the class and I haven’t accomplished a thing. My paper is still blank. Megan looks over at it, frowns, and starts gathering her supplies to put away.
“Come on, there are drawers in the cabinet for each of us, so I’ll show you which one you can use.”
I pick up my things and follow her back to the cabinet. I’ll bet Megan thinks I should have been placed in the beginner art class, since I don’t have anything to show for myself after wasting an entire class period. After seeing Megan’s artwork, I think maybe I should be too.
“So why did you move here?” Megan asks, after we store our projects.
“My mom and her partner Sybil just opened a bookstore in Rosslyn Village.”
“Her partner?” Megan looks startled.
I quickly realize how that sounds.
“Business partner!” I’m not ready to tell her about Dad and Michael, but I really don’t want her getting the wrong idea about my mom.
But then Megan surprises me. “Whatever. My mom’s best friend Emily lives with her partner. She’s this hotshot realtor and she helped Mom find a house she could afford on a teacher’s salary.”
This is news. Maybe my psychic radar is off, but judging by the way she’s dressed I was just sure Megan was from one of those society families— you know, Mom does lunch and charities, Dad runs a corporation.
“Do you like coffee?” Megan’s checking the classroom clock with her watch, waiting for the bell, but then she suddenly looks over at me and smiles.
“Um, yes… ” I answer, startled by yet another change of subject.
“Great! A bunch of us usually go to Peterson’s after school for frozen lattes. You can come if you want to.” Megan heaves her book bag onto her shoulder as she waits for both my answer and the dismissal bell. I guess she notices my hesitation because she says, “Listen, I know what it’s like to be new here. Come on, it’ll be fun.”
I’m nervous, but I smile back at Megan. “I’d really like to go. What’s Peterson’s?”
“DUH. Peterson’s Coffee Emporium— huge chain of coffee houses in Indiana. There’s one right down the street from school.” Megan is now looking at me like I’m the most clueless girl on the planet. Maybe I am.
“Oh.” Brilliant response, Caryn. I blush and look down at my shoes.
“We all meet in front of school, walk over, then Mom picks me up in about an hour after she gets her work done.” Megan drops her book bag down again with a thud, stretches her fingers, and rubs her shoulder where the strap was cutting into it.
A light bulb flash goes off in my head. “Oh, yeah, your mom’s the new English teacher.” I instantly wish I hadn’t let that slip out since I forgot nobody has introduced me to her. But in my mind I can see her mom standing before a class of unruly freshmen on the first day of school, and I can feel her panic because things didn’t go very well.
“How do you know about my mom if you just got here?” Megan looks puzzled. “Aren’t you a sophomore? Mom teaches freshmen.”
Megan frowns at me and I struggle for a plausible explanation when really there isn’t one. “Uh, I saw her classroom when the counselor showed me around school yesterday.”
Megan looks skeptical, her brow furrowed.
“So she and your dad are divorced, huh?” I figure if I change the subject she’ll forget I said that.
“Yeah. Yours?” She hoists her book bag onto her shoulder again.
Fortunately, the bell rings before I can answer, so I scurry out of the room, heading for algebra. Unfortunately, I can’t remember the room number, so I have to stop and fumble in my book bag for my crumpled schedule, enduring dirty looks from kids who barely avoid bumping into me. I scrutinize it, try to remember how I got there yesterday, and head off into the crush of students in the hallway.
Well, maybe I’ve made one friend, if I haven’t given too much away.
I promise myself I’ll do better when I meet Megan and her friends for coffee after school.
See, I don’t want what happened at school in Houston to end up sabotaging my social life here. I was always a little odd anyway, at least the other kids thought so, since I was forever blurting out stuff about them that I’d forgotten they hadn’t told me yet. When I was a little kid it wasn’t such a big deal, because all little kids say stupid stuff. As I got older my intuition began to cramp my social life. No kid likes a know-it-all, and that’s what they all thought I was.
It first started when I was about five years old and one day for no apparent reason I said to my mom, “Daddy’s on the phone.”
“No, he isn’t, Caryn,” Mom had said patiently. “The phone didn’t ring.”
“Daddy’s calling you!” I remember Mom giving me an exasperated look, and then sure enough, the phone rang.
“Hello?” Mom’s eyes got all wide and she gave me this look of surprise as she turned back to the phone and said, “Guy, did you tell Caryn you were going to call me?” Then I got yet another one of those looks.
After she finished her conversation, Mom asked, “Caryn, how did you know Daddy was going to call— before the phone rang?”
I just shrugged my shoulders and went back to playing with my dolls. After that, it got to be a joke in the family— I always knew when the phone was going to ring and who was on the other end. From predicting phone calls I graduated to accurately foretelling events, and pretty soon everyone in the family knew I had “The Gift” as Sybil put it.
But I’d either managed to keep my abilities under wraps through eighth grade, or else the other kids were too clueless to pick up on it, because no one outside of the immediate family knew about me. When I started ninth grade at a new high school, though, things went south in a hurry. I kept blurting out information without thinking. Why? New kids, new surroundings, maybe I’d just gotten used to getting away with that when I was younger, but high school kids are a lot less forgiving. I’d say stuff about students and teachers in front of everyone, and at first I just got the weird stares I’m used to, but pretty soon kids were looking at me suspiciously all the time. When I really messed up was in history class one day in November.
“Hey, Caryn,” whispered a girl in class. “Can I borrow your notes from last week when I was absent?”
“I’m sorry about your dad,” was my idiotic response. She looked at me funny, so naturally, I made it worse. “Sorry he’s sick. Heart attack, right?”
With a look somewhere between shock and anger, she gasped. “How did you know that? I didn’t tell anyone!”
After that, my reputation as a weirdo grew, completely ruining my social life. No one wanted anything to do with “the witch” as they started calling me. For a while I laughed it off, but by spring, I had no friends left and I was totally miserable. That’s when I dyed the green stripe down the middle of my hair and started wearing it loose and unkempt. I figured if they were going to call me a witch I might as well look the part.
Except for making fun of my hair, kids continued to ignore me for the rest of the school year, which is why I was ready and willing to move to Indianapolis with my mom. I hoped a fresh start here would erase the pain of freshman year and put me on a better social path.
That’s why I have to watch what I say in front of Megan and her friends. If I start to let stuff slip out uncensored, pretty soon I’ll end up an outcast again. I just want to
be normal, doing all the things normal kids take for granted— friends, homework, extracurricular activities— you know, NORMAL. I wish I could just forget I’m psychic.
Chapter 2
Caffeine Rush
I spot Megan standing on the street corner outside school that afternoon and hesitantly walk over to join her. Even though she was nice to me today in art class, I’m still the new girl and my insecurities make me wonder if I’d really been expected to come or if it was just a pity-invite.
“Hi,” Megan says, looking surprised.
“You did say today after school, right? For coffee?”
“Oh, yeah,” she says, like she’s just remembered she asked me to join them.
She turns away and continues watching for her friends to emerge from the school building.
“I wasn’t sure if you’d really come,” she adds without looking at me.
I’m not sure whether to stay or go, but while I hesitate, Megan glances over my head and waves both arms. I turn around and see two girls heading toward us.
“Hey, Megan!” shouts one.
“Can we hurry and go?” asks the other one. “I’m meeting Kevin.”
“And who’s this?” asks the first one, staring at me. This girl is very pretty, part Asian, with long black hair and dark eyes. I wistfully admire the rhinestone-studded T-shirt she’s wearing, take another look at my faded Astros shirt, and wish I’d chosen something else for my first day at a new school.
“Emma, Ashleigh, this is Caryn Alderson,” Megan says, motioning toward the two girls to show me which one is which. “She just moved here from Texas. She’s going with us.”
I guess that means I’m staying, but I’m still nervous about trying to fit in. At the moment I’m not sure I do.
Emma has a pretty oval face and light-brown curly hair tucked behind pierced ears. With her crisp white blouse, flowered cotton skirt, black Mary Janes, and a small string of pearls at her throat, she’s sort of a throwback to another era. But I have to admit it works for her.
“Aren’t you in my English class?” Emma asks, interrupting my thoughts.
Confessions of a Teenage Psychic Page 2
