Confessions of a Teenage Psychic

by Pamela Woods-Jackson

  Kensi gives me another fake smile. “I just wanted to tell you that even though Quince and I had a little disagreement last month, it’s over and we’re back together.”

  Little disagreement? She cheats on him— twice— and that’s a little disagreement? And why is she telling me this? Because she knows I like Quince? Is it that obvious?

  I can feel my cheeks flushing as I say, “Quince is too nice a guy to be sucked in by you, Kensi.”

  “Excuse me?” Her fake smile disappears and she puts her hands on her hips as her voice rises. “Hello? Me— cute, popular, fashionably dressed. You— consignment store clothes, no makeup, and that stupid braided hair. For heaven’s sake, Caryn, get a makeover or something.”

  This is getting us nowhere, and unless I walk away I’m afraid I’m going to smack her. I guess she can’t resist one last dig, though, because as I turn on my heel she calls after me.

  “Caryn, I’d love to help you get a date with Harris!”

  I turn back to her and shout, “Enjoy your time with Quince because it won’t last!”

  “Says you!” she says with a wave of her hand.

  “Yeah, says me,” I say, walking back toward her. “You’re about to do something even stupider than you’ve done all year, and this time you’re not going to get away with it!”

  She snorts. “What are you, some kind of psychic? You don’t know my business!” And with that, Kensi sails off down the hallway.

  “As a matter of fact I am!” I call after her, but she’s long gone and now the few students left in the building are staring at me.

  I must look pretty ridiculous yelling taunts at one of Rosslyn High’s social elite, so I duck my head and hurry out the front door of the building.

  But I know I’m right. Kensi is headed for a fall and part of me can’t wait to see it.

  Chapter 13

  Showdown at Rosslyn Corral

  It’s May! Warmer weather, longer days, and the school year is in the home stretch. Kids all have spring fever, and it seems like the teachers do too, because no one can focus on schoolwork anymore. Even in my favorite class, Love of Lit, things have slowed to a crawl. Maybe that’s because Mrs. York is distracted, glowing the way pregnant women always are, and facing a group of mostly uninterested teenagers in an elective class is more of a challenge than she needs right now.

  I walk into the room and smile at her as I take my seat. I’m always one of the first students to arrive, so the room is empty except for the two of us.

  “Good morning, Caryn,” says Mrs. York.

  “Good morning. You look nice today,” I say, taking out my assignment.

  She blushes, smiles, and adjusts the oversize blouse she’s wearing. Technically we students aren’t supposed to know Mrs. York is expecting, but she’s just so happy that even the most clueless among us must know something is up.

  Harris Rutherford walks quietly into the room and kind of waves at me as he heads to his seat in the back corner of the room. He pulls out his advanced algebra book and starts working, which is his way of avoiding conversation. Or maybe all that studying is why he’s so good in math. Maybe I should ask him for some help.

  Kensi strolls into the room with Salissa at her side, both of them dressed in unbelievably short denim skirts, high-heeled sandals, and in Kensi’s case, a low-cut, clingy T-shirt.

  “Hi, Caryn,” she says, giving me a condescending smile. “Early again? You’re just such a devoted student.”

  I hate her.

  She and Salissa glide into their seats by the window, put their heads together and start giggling and whispering with occasional glances in my direction.

  How obvious can they be? I know you’re talking about me. I try to ignore them and pretend to study my homework.

  There’s a lot of bustle out in the hallway, since all of the buses have arrived and the five-minute warning bell has sounded. Through the door come Ashleigh, Emma, and Janae. They all call out “hi” or “good morning” to no one in particular and hurry to their seats.

  “Did you hear about Emma?” Janae asks me, as Emma rolls her eyes.

  “Hear what?”

  “Mr. MacGregor is insisting she run for student council president. Isn’t that crazy? Emma? Who would’ve known?”

  Me, that’s who. But I try not to gloat as I turn to Emma. “Are you going to?”

  “I don’t know. I had plans to attend this fashion design camp in July, but Mr. MacGregor called my mom and got her all excited telling her he wants me to go to some week-long teen forum thingy in Washington DC.” Emma’s shoulders slump.

  I shrug. “Why can’t you do both?”

  Emma’s brows lift but just as she opens her mouth to respond, Megan blasts into the room. Okay, maybe a little exaggeration, but Megan never does anything low-key, and today there’s something about her behavior that says “look out world.” She slams her books onto her desk and plops herself into her chair with a huge sigh.

  Mrs. York looks up from her desk, startled. “Something wrong, Megan?”

  “No!” she says, without even looking up.

  Yeah, right. Brace yourself.

  Most of the students have arrived now, including Quince who winks playfully at me but gives Kensi a love-struck smile, then sits down in front of me and gets ready for class. I stare wistfully at the back of his head as the tardy bell rings and Mrs. York steps from behind her desk.

  “How are we doing with our love sonnets, class?” she asks, her cheeks flushing a little as if she’s love-struck herself. “Is anyone having trouble writing theirs?”

  More than a few students are squirming in their seats when Megan pokes her hand in the air. “How can anyone have time to write stupid love poems when this school is in crisis mode?”

  “Crisis?” Suddenly Janae is on high alert. “Megan! Spill!”

  “You know— about the dress code, uniforms, whatever,” Megan says with a flap of her hand.

  I groan inwardly.

  “Oh, Megan, get over it,” snaps Janae. “That’s old news. You’re all wound up over nothing.”

  “It’s not nothing.” Megan says, her voice rising. “Wait till morning announcements.”

  I’m wondering how Megan knows about morning announcements when even I don’t have a sense of impending doom. Then it comes to me. The chain of information from Superintendent Pruitt to Principal MacGregor, Mr. MacGregor to the faculty (including Megan’s mom), and then Ms. Benedict to Megan. This can’t be anything good, coming all the way from the top.

  “Megan, if you don’t mind, we’re starting a lesson now, and we’ll hear the announcements later in the class period,” Mrs. York says firmly.

  Megan opens her mouth as if she’s about to argue, but she apparently thinks better of it and says nothing.

  “Now, class, back to our sonnets. Does anyone have one they’d like to share?”

  Of all people, Kensington waves her hand in the air. “Mrs. York, Quince has written a great one and I think he should read it.” She ends with a giggle and a flirtatious look in his direction.

  Quince turns about three shades of red. I slump down in my seat wishing I was invisible, because both Megan and Emma are staring at me like I’m going to burst into tears or something. Well, I’m not going to cry, but it’s pretty humiliating when my friends know I’m crushing on a guy who’s crazy for another girl.

  Quince is clearing his throat and fiddling with his notebook and I think I’m really going to have to hear his poetic praises of a girl I despise, when Harris raises his hand.

  Mrs. York points to him. “Yes, Harris?”

  “I have a question”— his voice cracks, so he swallows hard and tries again—”about sonnets.”

  I think maybe he’s just trying to save Quince from embarrassment, but he really seems all intent on asking this question about poetry.

  He flips open his book. “Aren’t they always supposed to end in a rhyming couplet? If they don’t it messes up the mathematical equation, but som
etimes Elizabeth Barrett Browning’s sonnets don’t end right.”

  Harris’s question temporarily distracts everyone, and I breathe a sigh of relief because I really don’t want to listen to Quince’s “Ode to a Cheating Girlfriend.” Quince seems to relax too, thinking he’s off the hook.

  Kensi, who figured she was about to become the center of attention, now makes a display of boredom with Harris’s question, yawns, and resumes her not-so-quiet conversation with Salissa.

  Mrs. York tries to get us kids back on task. “Well, class, that’s a very interesting question. And the answer is that Shakespeare’s sonnets are always twelve lines followed by the couplet, but Barrett Browning was writing in the Italian form.”

  “I’d still like to hear Quince’s sonnet,” Salissa says from across the room. She gives Kensi two-thumbs-up like she’s being subtle or something.

  “I don’t want to read it aloud,” Quince mumbles.

  “Aw, come on, Quince, suck it up.”

  Gee thanks, Kevin. Emma shoots him a dirty look and he shrugs. Guys can be so clueless.

  “Yes, John, I’d like to hear it,” Mrs. York agrees.

  Reluctantly Quince stands up, paper in hand, clears his throat, and reads his sonnet aloud. He’s patterned it after that famous Barrett Browning sonnet, and it’s not too bad actually— if only it weren’t dedicated to Kensington Marlow.

  “’How do I love you? Let me calculate the ways… ‘”

  I love Caryn with the depth, strength, and height my arms can reach… I love her to the end of the school year, I love her to distraction…

  I snap back to attention when the rest of the students applaud his efforts and Kensi preens as if they’re applauding her. Quince blushes and sits down. Now I feel like crying.

  “Very nice, John. Any comments from the class?”

  Emma raises her hand. “Anyone can write a love poem. It’s a lot harder to write a poem about the loss of love. Isn’t that what Shakespeare’s later sonnets are about?”

  Emma is trying to change the subject, and I’m grateful, but talking about loss of love is not making me any less miserable. I lower my head, pick up my pencil, and pretend to be engrossed in my own sonnet writing.

  Mrs. York nods. “Very insightful, Emma.”

  The teacher glances at the clock, but then Deana’s hand flies up. Mrs. York doesn’t even question her by now.

  “Yes, Deana, you may be excused,” she says with a sigh.

  Deana runs out the door, grabbing the hall pass on her way.

  The next interruption is from Principal MacGregor over the PA. Everyone looks at Megan, whose expression shouts, “I told you so.”

  The tone of Principal MacGregor’s voice says his comments aren’t going to be the usual club meetings, social activities, and athletic practices. Even Mrs. York seems to be holding her breath as the classroom falls silent.

  “Good morning, Rosslyn Wranglers. This is Principal MacGregor with some very important news from Superintendent Pruitt concerning your lack of compliance with our current dress code. Starting next school year, all Rosslyn High School students will be required to wear uniforms. Specific information can be found on the school’s website or in the PTA newsletter. Please tell your parents to read the instructions carefully, because no exceptions will be made. That’s all. Have a nice day.”

  And with that seemingly simple announcement, the battle lines are drawn.

  Not much schoolwork gets done for the rest of the day, and considering it was only first period when Mr. MacGregor dropped that bombshell, it makes for a very long day for everyone. Teachers can’t get any work done since all the kids want to talk about is school uniforms, and every teacher has to listen to the same arguments from students, class after class.

  “It’s going to stifle our creativity” or “uniforms are too expensive” or “we’ll all look like robots” pretty much sums up the gripes kids have. I feel bad for the teachers who seem just as frustrated as the kids over the news.

  Finally the last bell of the day rings and I make it a point to be one of the first students out of the building, trying to put as much distance between me and all that emotional upheaval as possible. I pick up on so much stuff from people around me anyway, but today it’s like my head is going to explode. For once, Sybil and Starshine’s seems like a refuge, not just a place to work.

  I arrive much earlier than usual, much to Mom’s surprise. But she isn’t the only one surprised.

  “Mom!” I stop so suddenly, the door almost hits me in the back of the head. “Why are you all dressed up?”

  She’s wearing a new, pale-green pantsuit with a matching camisole underneath, and beige sling-back heels. Her curled hair is held back from her face by a jeweled comb, instead of tucked into a pencil bun, and she’s wearing eye makeup. Definitely not her usual work clothes.

  “You say it like I’m usually a mess,” she says, brows lifted.

  “Sorry,” I say, letting the door close as I step inside. “You look nice.”

  Mom smiles and seems to fairly float around the store.

  I stare at her for a minute and then it hits me. “You’ve got a date!”

  Mom smiles condescendingly, or so it seems to me. “I know I can’t put one over on you, Caryn, but I really was going to tell you.”

  I’m in shock. She hasn’t had a single date since we’ve lived in Indianapolis, and not too many the last year or so we were in Houston.

  “That’s cool.” But I’m so far from cool about it. Who’s she dating? And why don’t I know about it? “Anybody I know?”

  “Mr. Desmond!” says Sybil from across the store.

  That’s when I remember the nice-looking gentleman Mom was helping here in the store a couple of months ago.

  “He’s become a regular customer, and a good friend,” Mom says, a little smile on her face as she sorts through some invoices.

  “Does Mr. Desmond have a first name— or a job?” I say, knowing I sound like the parent instead of the child. But really, someone needs to call attention to the fact that she’s blushing like a lovesick schoolgirl.

  “George. And he’s a pharmacist, but he’s actually into herbal remedies as well as pharmaceuticals, so he’s been purchasing books on the subject.”

  I put my hands on my hips and say sternly, “Mom, don’t be stupid. He doesn’t care about herbal remedies.”

  This guy’s been coming to the store for weeks to spend time with her, not buy books, and I’ve been so involved with my own problems I never even noticed. I feel a little guilty, but Mom looks so happy and excited (and pretty!), that her enthusiasm is almost enough to bring me out of my doldrums. Almost.

  I force myself to relax a little. “Where are you going?”

  “He’s picking me up at six and we’re going to a vegetarian restaurant downtown.”

  “Well, tell him to have you home at a reasonable hour.”

  Mom laughs. “Caryn, this is quite a role reversal.”

  “I don’t care, Mom. I have to actually meet this guy face-to-face before I know he’s okay for you.”

  Mom shakes her head. “Turn off the psychic radar, Caryn, and just trust my judgment.”

  I roll my eyes, which makes me think of Megan doing the same thing. “Oh yeah, I have to tell you something about school.”

  Mom frowns at my tone. “Did something happen?”

  I shudder at the memory of the commotion at school and my psychic reactions to it. “Yeah, and it’s been crazy all day. You’ve got to get on Rosslyn High’s website because they’re posting the new required uniforms for next year. Mom, I just know it’s going to get ugly.”

  Mom raises an eyebrow. “Uniforms? Isn’t that a little unorthodox?”

  I nod. “Yeah, you’d think so. Public school and all.”

  “And what do you mean by ‘ugly’?”

  “This is what I’ve been afraid of for months, Mom. This is what Megan’s been plotting about, and it’s going to be awful.”

 
I go to her and bury my head on her shoulder like I used to do when I was little. But I’m not little now. I’m nearly as tall as she is, and I don’t want to mess up her nice clothes. I try to be mature about it even though inside I’m all tied up in knots, my sixth sense on overdrive.

  Mom puts her hands on my shoulders and looks me directly in the eye. “Do you know know, or just think you know?”

  “What I know is that something big is gonna happen, and I can’t stop it. That’s what Uncle Omar said.”

  “Omar?” Mom’s mouth drops open as she releases me.

  Sybil suddenly takes an interest in our conversation from across the store. “You mean Bethany’s dead brother?”

  Mom looks at me for confirmation and I nod my head. “Caryn, have you been having conversations with him?”

  I guess I’d forgotten to mention how often I chat up my dead uncle.

  “Oh my!” says Sybil, seeming only slightly surprised by what most people would call startling news.

  “So exactly what has Omar told you?” Mom shakes her head. “I can’t believe I just asked my teenage daughter what my deceased brother said to her.”

  I could almost laugh at her expression, but all this uncertainty is zapping my sense of humor. “Uncle Omar keeps saying that whatever’s ‘going down’ as he puts it, it’ll happen. I can’t stop it, and it’s supposed to change my life.”

  Mom taps a finger on the counter for a minute, a frown between her brows. “That’s a lot to take in.”

  “Which part?” I ask with a shrug. “His prediction or the fact that I can talk to dead people?”

  “I guess I need some time to process all this.” Mom still looks disbelieving, but then she smiles again. “There must be a reason Omar is communicating with you, so you have to pay attention to what he says.”

  “But Mom, listen, here’s what I know know— Megan’s gonna get in trouble, and Quince is gonna get hurt by Kensi, not that I care about her, and something bad that I can’t figure out is gonna happen at school. I… I don’t know what to do.”

  Tears begin to roll down my cheeks despite my best efforts to stop them. So much for acting mature. I didn’t realize how frustrated I was with all this— whatever it is— until just now as I tell Mom about it.