Confessions of a Teenage Psychic

by Pamela Woods-Jackson

  Mom puts her hands on my shoulders and gives me a little squeeze. “Messages-from-Beyond notwithstanding, you’re only fifteen years old, Caryn. You aren’t expected to fix everything. Let the adults handle it, even Megan.”

  “What you do,” interjects Sybil coming out from behind the counter, “is forget all this nonsense for a while and let me take you out for a nice dinner. There’s a Tex-Mex restaurant up in Belford that’s supposed to be pretty good and I’ve got a craving for tacos.”

  Mom seems relieved that I’ll be in good hands while she’s out on her date.

  I smile at Sybil through my tears. “Do you think I could ask my friend Annabeth to come too? She lives up there.”

  “The more the merrier, I always say,” Sybil says grinning.

  I go to the phone and dial Annabeth’s number. Maybe between the two of them they can help me forget about Rosslyn High, and school uniforms, and impending disaster— at least for one evening.

  “Caryn, I’ve SO got to talk to you,” says Annabeth as she slides into the booth at the Mexican restaurant. “Pass the chips and salsa. I’m starved.”

  Sybil is studying the menu and tells the waiter to bring two diet sodas and an iced coffee, then carefully puts a chip overflowing with salsa into her mouth.

  Everything in this restaurant seems so normal. Families with kids eating dinner, couples chatting over margaritas, three single women munching chips and studying the menu, you know— normal. And the smell of food coming from the kitchen is heavenly and makes me feel right at home, like we’re back in Houston at my favorite family-owned Mexican place. This is definitely the distraction I need to get my mind off non-normal stuff, like talking to dead uncles and premonitions of chaos at school.

  “You won’t believe who called me last night!” giggles Annabeth conspiratorially.

  I grab a chip from the basket and don’t even bother looking at her before I answer, “Ken.”

  Annabeth pauses in the middle of dunking a chip in salsa. “Ken? Who’s Ken?”

  I shrug. “Well, I can’t remember his real name, but the first day I met you at Peterson’s, you were with some guy and I thought you two looked like Barbie and Ken.”

  “Oh,” she says, laughing. “It’s Josh Kennedy, that’s his name, and you’re right— he called me last night!”

  “And… ?” I ask, even though it’s obvious from the way she’s almost bouncing on the seat that she’s got good news.

  “And— he wants us to get back together! Can you believe it?” Annabeth beams at me, her eyes sparkling.

  I dunk another chip, wondering about that break-up scene at Peterson’s. “What about that other girl he was seeing?”

  “Oh her!” Annabeth waves a hand. “Well, she dumped him a couple of months ago, and then I started hearing rumors at school— ”

  “Don’t you two go to different schools?”

  “It’s a small town.” Annabeth looks exasperated, and then goes on, “— rumors that he wanted to get back with me, and then last night— ”

  “Once a man cheats he’ll do it again,” warns Sybil as she pours another packet of sugar into her iced coffee. “And I should know about that, dear, especially at my age.”

  Annabeth frowns at us both. “Well, that’s what I wanted to ask you, Caryn. Is he being honest with me or am I just a rebound from the rebound?”

  I shake my head with a snort. “I don’t get boys. They never do what you expect them to do.” I think about Quince and how he hurt me when he went back to HIS cheating Significant Other.

  Annabeth grabs my hand and gives it a shake. “Caryn, focus. Do you see this working out for me or not?”

  I stall for time as I stuff another chip in my mouth. I know what kind of answer she’s looking for. She wants my psychic opinion, but I just want to push those feelings away for once and have a peaceful meal.

  I take my time swallowing my food. “I don’t know, Annabeth. Most friends would just tell you to be careful if you give Josh another chance.”

  “You’re not ‘most friends.’ You’re psychic,” she says, in a voice that seems very loud to me.

  “SHHH!” I look around to make sure no one heard her. “Being— you know— makes me feel like I’m from another planet or something. I just want to be normal.”

  She points a finger at me. “This is normal, for you.”

  “Quite true,” Sybil says. “You’ve been this way all your life, Caryn. You wouldn’t know how to be any other way.”

  Annabeth taps a spoon on the table. “Listen, you know how Megan is such a good artist?”

  I nod. “What’s that got to do with it?”

  “Well, she’s got a gift, you know? She can draw just about anything and that’s normal for her. It doesn’t make her any less of a regular kid, does it?”

  “No, but Megan’s talents don’t make people look at her funny all the time.”

  “But Caryn, hon,” Sybil interjects. “Your friend here is right. That’s just who you are.”

  “Besides, I think you’re way paranoid about what kids think.” Annabeth sits back in the booth and crosses her arms, tilting her head at me.

  Are they serious? I’ve spent my entire (admittedly short) life trying (and usually failing) to avoid any public display of my abilities because of the reactions I get from both kids and adults. I know I haven’t imagined that people think I’m weird or crazy or both when I blurt out something I shouldn’t know. Is Uncle Omar right? Does being psychic make me strange, or is it just one part of the whole me?

  “Then why do kids act like I’m crazy when I— know stuff?” I ask Sybil.

  “Other kids don’t know who they are right now any more than you do, dear. It’s easy to make fun of someone who’s a little different.”

  I take a big swallow of my soda, scoop a huge serving of salsa onto a chip, and take my time nibbling while I think about this. I figure Sybil is going to support me no matter what, because she’s Mom’s friend and she cares about me. But when I look at Annabeth, I realize she’s being straight with me, as always. This is the first time it’s ever occurred to me that maybe I’m not just the freaky kid who has to hide in the background.

  “Do you really think I’m normal? Really?”

  “Duh,” Annabeth says, rolling her eyes. “That’s what I’ve been telling you for months.”

  And it’s true. Annabeth not only accepted me but encouraged me from day one.

  “So you don’t think I’m weird?” I ask for the umpteenth time.

  “Caryn, get over yourself,” Annabeth says. “You take all this way too seriously.”

  I smile, feeling almost giddy from this new revelation. Annabeth makes it sound so simple. I’m a normal teenager— with a special talent! So does that mean I don’t need to hide who I am? That I can just be myself?

  Annabeth taps the spoon on the table again. “So, back to my question. What’s going to happen with Josh?”

  “Depends on his birthday,” Sybil answers. Annabeth looks at her funny this time.

  I tilt my head in Sybil’s direction. “Numerology.”

  Annabeth’s eyes widen and she leans toward Sybil, but the waiter arrives with three steaming plates on a tray for our table and interrupts whatever she was about to say. The smell of spicy meat and cheese reminds me how hungry I am, and I dig in as soon he places our dishes in front of us.

  “Be careful, plates are hot,” he warns in his thick Hispanic accent.

  I giggle as I take a bite of enchilada and lean over the table like I’m just sharing gossip with a friend, but of course it’s not gossip but soon-to-happen stuff.

  “Well… Josh thinks he’s got you back, just by being sorry— and he is sorry— and he won’t cheat on you again. But what he doesn’t know is there’s serious competition! You know that guy Miguel you were studying with last winter? And remember when I said you’d have a choice to make? Well… ”

  Nobody at Rosslyn High is talking much about uniforms, or anything else for that
matter. In fact, there’s an eerie silence around the place. School gets out in about ten days, so I’m sure all the kids are hoping this whole uniform thing will go away over the summer. In the meantime, there are all the usual end-of-school rituals to be gotten through, like elections, exams, prom.

  I didn’t go to prom, of course, because it’s only for juniors and seniors, but the week after the dance, everyone was talking about how Quince and Kensi were not only there as a couple, but were crowned king and queen.

  I’m trying not to think too much about them, since I can’t stand the thought of Quince with a girl so unworthy of him, but I guess I need to accept it and move on. I’m also still sure Kensi is headed for a fall, I just don’t know when or how. But I can’t say it doesn’t hurt when I see them together.

  It’s Monday morning after prom, and Principal MacGregor uses the PA to announce the results of the election for next year’s student council officers. They are:

  Kensington Marlow— President

  Emma Cartwright— Vice President

  Ashleigh Ko— Treasurer

  Kevin Marshall— Recording Secretary

  Harris Rutherford— Sophomore Class Representative

  Megan Benedict— Junior Class Representative

  Salissa Pringle— Senior Class Representative

  No one is particularly surprised at the outcome except me. I’ve been so sure that Emma is going to be president, I seriously question how my sixth sense could be that far off. I also don’t understand how Kensi got more votes than Emma. In my opinion the girl just doesn’t have the brains for such an important office, but I guess I’m underestimating her popularity. And Principal MacGregor— well, since Emma is his hand-picked candidate, he sounds more than a little upset as he makes the announcement.

  When I see Emma at lunch she looks relieved, so I ask her how she feels about being vice president.

  “It’s great! It means I’ve got an office that’ll look good on my college resume, but it’s a no-brainer. I don’t have to do anything except be on call in case Kensi gets sick or something. And now I can attend that design camp this summer!”

  I’m happy for her, but still a little uneasy. I just can’t figure out how I’ve been so wrong about the outcome of the election. All day I wrack my brain and can’t come up with a single reason why I’m so psychically off base.

  Pretty soon my head aches from all the mental exertion, so I decide not to think about school stuff anymore and focus on my own summer plans— visiting Dad in Houston. Unfortunately, I don’t get to dwell on my plans for too long, because Principal MacGregor sends a letter home to all parents about the required clothing for next year. And all hell breaks loose.

  By Tuesday morning, Megan has rallied her anti-uniform troops. I hear rumors and whispers all over school about a protest or walkout or something like that, and my stomach— not to mention my sixth sense— lurches at the very thought.

  “Caryn, it is happening after lunch tomorrow, so are you with us or not?” Megan asks me in the hallway, checking over her shoulder for teachers.

  “What is it?” I ask, trying to look unconcerned.

  Megan rolls her eyes. “If you’re joining us, just be ready after lunch,” is all she says as she walks off.

  I see her standing in the middle of a group of kids— the ones who were at her house last month making all those protest signs— their heads together like they’re in a football huddle. That creepy feeling is all over me now.

  I just can’t be a part of this— whatever it is— and I decide to make myself scarce tomorrow.

  “Caryn, did you forget to set your alarm again?” asks Mom standing in the door of my room. “You’re going to miss the bus.”

  I roll over and look at the bedside clock and smile to myself. My plan is working, sort of, and now all I have to do is convince my mother to let me stay home.

  “I’m sick,” is the first lie that pops into my head.

  Mom isn’t easily fooled, though. She feels my forehead, looks in my eyes and down my throat, and then shakes her head.

  “Get up, faker. You’re definitely not sick.”

  “My stomach hurts,” I say, sounding a little whiny, even to myself.

  “For heaven’s sake, Caryn, are you five?” Mom sits on the edge of the bed. “What’s this all about?”

  I sit up. “I can’t go to school today. Megan has some protest march or walkout or something planned, and I don’t even want to be there when it all happens.”

  Mom arches a brow at me. “That’s pretty drastic, isn’t it? What does she hope to accomplish by all that?”

  I grab my pillow and hug it tightly. “Force Mr. MacGregor’s hand about the uniforms, I guess. Please don’t make me go to school.”

  Mom thinks for a minute, and to my relief agrees with me. “Okay, you can stay home for today, but it’s only because I’m relying on your good sense to stay out of whatever Megan’s plotting. I still have to go to work, though, so will you be all right at home?”

  I nod and give Mom a big hug, deciding it’s in my best interest not to remind her I’m not a little kid anymore. I roll over, pull the covers up, and try to go back to sleep. Maybe when I wake up all this will be over and I can finally quit worrying about it.

  I’m walking barefoot on a beautiful beach at sunrise, feeling the warmth of the summer air on my face. Off in the distance I see a man approaching me and run toward him, hoping it’s my father. Instead of Dad, it’s a reporter with a microphone that he sticks in my face. “Miss Alderson, what is your psychic opinion of all this?”

  Okay, I’m awake. That was truly a nightmare, only I realize it isn’t night. I try to shake it off as I look at the clock. Noon.

  I’m starved, so I kick back the covers and head for the kitchen to pour myself a big bowl of cereal. I plop down on the sofa with my breakfast and pick up the TV remote and flip through channels, looking for something besides soap operas. I’m about to give up and turn off the television when I hear a voice say, “It’s time, Caryn. Listen to your instincts.”

  I nearly drop my cereal. “NO!” I shout to the air.

  I turn up the volume and flip through the channels again, this time landing on a local newscast that’s broadcasting a live remote.

  “Again, this is Michael Simons, coming to you live from outside Rosslyn High School, where there’s a protest going on. It seems the students have all walked out of the building carrying posters and signs, and now are marching in protest against a new school uniform policy set to be implemented at the start of next school year.”

  The camera pans around the front lawn of the school building and there are hundreds of kids out of classes— yelling, chanting, waving signs and banners, and some just mugging for the cameras. In addition to all the students outside, there are administrators, teachers, police, and the fire department. And naturally there are news reporters of all kinds swarming around, trying to be the first to get the story. It’s what they like to call a media circus, and it’s definitely what Megan must have had in mind all along. I suddenly feel guilty for not being there.

  Without even thinking, I throw on some jeans, a clean T-shirt, and tennis shoes and race out the front door, locking it behind me. I run the entire six blocks to school and arrive, breathless, to find myself tangled in a group of onlookers trying to get a look at all the action.

  It’s like I’m on autopilot. I’m searching for Megan, even though I’m not sure why I’m even here or what I’ll say when I find her, but something compelled me to come. However, in this crowd, finding her seems almost impossible.

  “Look over by the Channel 2 news crew,” someone whispers in my ear.

  For once, I’m grateful for the assist. “Thanks, Uncle Omar.”

  I head off toward the satellite truck emblazoned with a giant red “2” and find Megan at the center of the firestorm. She’s jumping up and down, waving her banner, and the Channel 2 reporter is holding a mike in front of her face. I wonder how the news media even
got wind of this, but I guess it isn’t that hard to leave an anonymous message on a reporter’s voice mail. I push past some upper-classmen trying to grab the spotlight for themselves and stand close enough to Megan to hear her give the reporter the story he came for.

  “And what is your name?”

  “Megan Benedict. My dad’s Daniel Benedict, CEO of Truitt Wellness Corporation.”

  I kind of feel sorry for her dad being called out on live TV, but Megan looks very proud of herself for adding that important piece of info.

  The reporter nods and smiles, appreciating the scoop he just got. “Are you the organizer of today’s protest march?”

  “Yes, I am. We’re all out here today to demonstrate against school uniforms in a PUBLIC school!”

  Megan lets out a whoop, and of course all the kids around her begin shouting too, waving their signs in the air like it’s a pep rally or something. Just as the crowd noise subsides, Megan is jerked aside by Ms. Benedict with Principal MacGregor at her side. The reporter gives a throat-slashing signal to his cameraman, who lowers his camera.

  I make my way toward where they’ve dragged Megan, although I have no idea what I’m going to say to her when I get there, but she doesn’t see me anyway. Turns out her mother and the principal have plenty to say.

  “Megan Benedict, what are you thinking?” Ms. Benedict has a very grim look on her flushed face.

  “I’m thinking that none of us want to wear school uniforms!” Megan says, waving her banner.

  “Young lady, you are in a great deal of trouble,” says Mr. MacGregor. “It appears that every student in the school is out of class right now!”

  “Don’t be silly, not EVERY student,” Megan says. “I happen to know for a fact that Deana Pruitt’s in the second floor girls’ bathroom throwing up her lunch.”

  Ms. Benedict nods knowingly to Mr. MacGregor, lowering her voice. “The superintendent’s daughter is a notorious bulimic. She’s in there every day after lunch.”

  Mr. MacGregor looks almost as shocked at this news as he is about the walkout, which just shows how out of touch he is with his student body.