Oracle

by Alex van Tol

  “Right.” I nod. “But wait. How are people supposed to know other people’s birthdates? You can’t go up to a girl or guy you like and ask them what their birthday is. That’s too obvious. They’d know you were writing a question for the Oracle.”

  Hannah leans over my shoulder. She smells good. Like vanilla. And fruit.

  With a couple of clicks, she brings up a familiar blue page.

  “Facebook, silly.”

  The girl is brilliant. Of course! Every-one puts their birthday on their page.

  “Awesome! You are so smart!”

  She shrugs and studies her nails modestly. “I try.”

  I open up a new post and start typing.

  Dear Readers. I am truly delighted that so many of you have written in with your questions. As I see it, to receive the most accurate advice possible, please include the birthdate of the individual in question.

  “That’s going to cause problems,” Hannah says, looking over my shoulder.

  “I thought you said that was the best way to do it?” I say. “If we have the people’s birthdates, we can tailor the advice better, right?”

  “But if they write the birthdate right into their comment,” Hannah says, “everyone who reads it can figure out who they’re talking about.”

  “Ohhh,” I say. “Hadn’t thought of that. Well. What if they post the question in the comments, and then send it to us again in an email? With the birthdate included?”

  Hannah’s eyes brighten. “Email’s private. That would totally work.”

  I add, Of course, you won’t want to put the birthdate in your comment. Unless you want your secret longings to become public! Post your comment, then send it to me again in an email at oracle98@gmail.com. Be sure to include your would-be’s birthdate.

  “Good?” I ask.

  “Excellent,” she answers.

  I click Publish.

  “Now for today’s questions,” Hannah says.

  I roll my eyes. “Ugh. There’s forty-eight!” I say.

  Hannah glances back at the screen. “Fifty-six, actually. Look.”

  I don’t look. “That’s way too many to answer,” I moan.

  “Who says we have to answer all of them?” Hannah asks. “It’s not like people are paying for this. They can wait their turn. Actually, a wait might stoke the fires.” She gives me a half smile.

  “I’m not so sure I can handle this fire getting stoked any higher,” I say.

  That came out weird. I feel my ears start to burn again. Hannah’s face goes pink.

  Her next words save me from putting my foot any farther into my mouth. “Why don’t we just pick the five best and answer those?”

  I stare at her. The five best. It’s perfect. I want to hug her.

  But I don’t.

  I nod. “Okay. Five. We can do five. Where do we start?”

  Chapter Seven

  At school, everyone is talking about the Oracle. I catch snippets of conversation all through the day.

  “Did you read the one from SS?”

  “That the shoe chick?”

  “Yeah, Sneaker Sniffer.”

  “I wonder who that could be? Weird thing to get off on.”

  I resist the urge to smile.

  People are still talking about the site when I head to math help after school.

  I’m helping a guy in grade seven apply the order of operations when a bag skids onto the table beside me. A book slaps down on the tabletop, then a phone, then a pencil. And finally, Kamryn flops into the chair across from me with a dramatic sigh. Two grade-seven girls at a nearby table stare as the goddess makes her entrance.

  My heart does a complete somersault before coming back to rest in the center of my body. “Hi,” I say, before I can decide against it.

  “This is stupid,” she says. Her eyes move around the room.

  “Actually, it’s math help,” I say. The grade-seven kid chuckles.

  Kamryn narrows her eyes and lets them rest on me. I force myself to meet her gaze. It’s green. And cold.

  My love is like to ice and I to fire.

  “I mean, being here is stupid,” she says. “It’s a waste of time.”

  I can’t help it. My natural habit of arguing—honed from years of living with a jerk brother—surfaces. “Door’s over there.” I nod toward it.

  I want to kick myself as soon as the words hit the air. How long have I wanted to get Kamryn in my orbit? And now that I have her sitting across from me, I suggest that she leave?

  “I can’t leave,” she growls. “Stupid old Saddlebags won’t let me. She said I had to come. Otherwise I fail this semester.”

  I steal a glance toward Ms. Hamilton’s desk, hoping she didn’t overhear. But she’s not even in the room. “Saddlebags?”

  Kamryn fixes me with a withering glare. “Yeah, Saddlebags. That would be our fat, ugly math teacher with the huge butt that drips down the sides of her legs.”

  I’d laugh at Kamryn’s words if her delivery weren’t so mean. The grade-seven kid beside me laughs again. Kamryn looks away, mad that her sarcasm is wasted on a couple of nerds.

  “Listen,” she says and looks right at me. “Can you just show me how to do this? Then I can get out of here.” She flips open her binder and pulls out a sheet of paper. A pop quiz. Zero out of six. She slides the paper across the table at me and taps it with her pencil. Twice. Tap tap.

  I look at the pencil. At the nicely shaped nails attached to the fingers that are holding the pencil. And I look up, at Kamryn’s face. Her stunning, beautiful, flawless face. She’s not looking at me anymore. She’s looking at the clock over my head.

  Ice.

  “Sure,” I say. “Just let me finish this problem with Matteo.”

  Kamryn’s eyes slide back to my face. She looks confused. “Can’t you do it now?” She wiggles the paper a bit. “Come on, I’ve got to be somewhere.” She dips her chin a bit and raises one eyebrow, coaxing me. “Please?” She blinks twice and smiles. “You owe me anyway, from last week. At the 7-Eleven.”

  I look at her. My tongue ties itself up in a knot. A hundred thoughts crowd my brain. That she’s perfect. That she shouldn’t try to butt in front of other people, because it’s not fair. That my shirt still bears the stains from her Coke Slurpee.

  But, of course, I don’t tell her any of those things.

  Matteo solves the problem for me. He’s a pretty cool kid, and he’s obviously not scared of Kamryn.

  “Owen’s helping me right now,” Matteo says. “You’ll have to wait your turn.”

  The girls at the next table send up a muted gasp at his daring. Who in their right mind sasses Kamryn Holt?

  Kamryn’s face folds in and pinches up. Her lips thin as she turns to Matteo. “I’m sorry. Were you talking to me?”

  “I was, yes.” Matteo nods. His voice is thin and nasal. He meets her gaze straight on. “I said that Owen’s almost finished showing me how these brackets work. Then I’m sure he’d be delighted to help you. Wouldn’t you, Owen?”

  He’s absolutely right. But still, I feel caught.

  I don’t answer.

  Kamryn stares at Matteo for a few seconds. He stares right back. The room is silent as a snowdrift as she makes up her mind whether she’s going to admit defeat or escalate the drama.

  She chooses both.

  In one angry movement, her hand flashes forward. She snatches the paper Matteo and I have been using and crumples it. With a dismissive little hiss, she drops the wadded-up paper on the table.

  She pushes her chair back from the table. “I don’t wait,” she says. She looks around the room. “I don’t need to practice math with a bunch of retards either.”

  At the word retard, my anger flares. I have an autistic cousin. But even if I didn’t, I still hate people using that word as a put-down. Doesn’t matter how perfect they are.

  Kamryn slings her bag over her shoulder. She gathers up her book and phone and flounces from the room. She slams the door hard enough to
shake the windows in their panes.

  The girls let out a collective breath. Matteo picks up his crumpled paper. My mouth, which had opened to say something about the retard comment, snaps shut.

  “Wow, Matteo, you really made her mad,” says one of the girls.

  “That was awesome!” whispers the other.

  “She’s a cow,” Matteo says. “I don’t know why people let her get away with it.” He carefully flattens his paper against the tabletop and scoots his chair closer. He appears entirely unfazed by the whole interaction. The girls are eyeing him with a new appreciation.

  “So, yeah, anyway,” he says to me, holding his pencil over his paper. “Do you mind showing me again? From the beginning?”

  Chapter Eight

  By the following week, Hannah and I have upped our allotment to fifteen questions a day. People are going nuts over the Oracle.

  The routine goes like this. I read Hannah the questions. Most days, there are between ten and twenty. We choose which ones to answer based on how much information we have. Hannah does the horoscope research, and I compile the answers. All told, it’s about an hour’s work.

  Today we get our first feedback.

  “Listen to this,” I say.

  “Listening.” Hannah is stretched out on my bed watching a Leo forecast on YouTube.

  “No, you’re not.”

  She sighs and presses Pause. “Okay. I am now.”

  I read, “Dear Oracle. That girl I wanted to ask out last week? I took your advice and used little cut-up bits of magazines to spell out the words to ask her out on a date. I said, ‘Want to go check out the art gallery?’ and then I gave it to her at the end of break. And you know what? She loved it. She said she didn’t know any other guy who would take her to a gallery on a first date. Thanks!”

  “Aw, that is so sweet,” Hannah says. “Owen, you’re a matchmaker now!” She pats my back.

  “It’s not me,” I say. “It’s the horoscopes. And you,” I add, with a half shrug.

  Hannah blushes. “Read me today’s questions.”

  “Well, I’ve already drafted a response to this one,” I say. “This one’s kind of heavy.” I glance at her. “There’s some messed-up kids out there.”

  Her brow furrows. “Read it.”

  “It’s from someone called Losing Hope,” I begin. “Dear Oracle. I can’t take it anymore. Last night my dad got really angry with me. Again. He was drinking. He was mad because I didn’t have enough money to go buy him cigarettes.”

  Hannah sits up. “What?”

  I keep reading.

  “So he broke all the dishes, one by one. And then he made me clean up the mess. With my hands.”

  “What?” Hannah whispers.

  I finish the note. “I don’t know what to do. If I run away, I’ll end up living on the streets. I’m seriously thinking about just ending it all. Maybe I can start over in another lifetime.”

  I turn to Hannah. “Signed, Losing Hope.”

  Hannah swallows. “Someone actually had that happen to them?”

  I nod slowly. “Someone at our school.”

  “Who?” she asks. Her question hangs in the air, heavy and sad.

  I shake my head. “Who knows?”

  “What did you tell her?” Hannah’s voice quavers.

  “Kids’ Help Phone,” I say. “As a first step. I also googled teen depression domestic violence and came up with a number for the National Domestic Violence Hotline.”

  Hannah shudders. She stares down at her hands. I know she, like me, will spend tomorrow looking for people with cuts on their hands.

  “And,” I add, “I said she had to tell someone at school—a trusted adult. Maybe a teacher or the counselor. I said there’s people who can help, and there are safe places to go.”

  Hannah nods. “I hope she’s okay,” she whispers. She looks out my window.

  “I hope so too,” I say. And I really do. I think about how kids like that don’t often report abuse because they don’t want their parents to get in trouble. So they take it. Until they can’t take it anymore.

  I don’t want Losing Hope to be like that. I’ll check in with her again sometime soon. See how she’s doing. Whether she’s reached out to someone yet.

  I glance back at Hannah. “Do you need to take a break?” I ask.

  She takes a deep breath and shakes her head. “No, we can go on.” She pauses. “I think you did a good job on that one. There’s not much else you can do right now.”

  I shrug. “I wish I could do more.”

  “Let’s keep an eye out for when Losing Hope surfaces again,” she says. “I hope she does.”

  I nod. “Me too.”

  Chapter Nine

  “Keep reading,” Hannah says.

  I read a dozen questions out loud. When I get to the last one, my heart skips a beat. Skips about eleven beats, actually. Maybe twelve.

  It’s signed Heart Huntress.

  I take in a long breath. “Whoooee,” I say. “Here we go.”

  “What?”

  “Kamryn has finally written in.”

  Instantly, Hannah appears behind me. She reads aloud over my shoulder. “Dear Oracle. The guy I want is older than me by a couple of grades, but I know we’d be perfect together. He’s already noticed me, and I think he likes what he sees. Here’s my question. I’m going to see him again at the dance this week, and I want that to be the night I capture his heart. I need your advice, from how to make my grand entrance until the moment I nail that first kiss.”

  “Huh,” I say. “She didn’t understand that message we wrote as Kyle. Or she didn’t realize it was directed at her.”

  “I’m not surprised,” Hannah says.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Honestly, Owen,” Hannah says. She sounds exasperated. “Kamryn thinks she’s above it all. If everyone else thinks she’s perfect, why wouldn’t she? She has no reason to imagine that she can’t get exactly what she wants. It would never occur to her that the post was written by Kyle.”

  “It wasn’t,” I point out.

  Hannah groans. “You know what I mean!”

  I grin and open my Gmail. “Anyway, we need to redirect her. Tell her to do all the wrong things so she turns Kyle off.”

  “Heavy perfume,” Hannah offers. “Lots of makeup. Thick, heavy lipstick, especially.”

  I recoil in mock horror. “Gross!”

  “Well?” Hannah asks. “You want ways to turn guys off, don’t you?”

  I check for Kamryn’s message that contains the birthdate of the guy in question. Sure enough, she’s copied the same message but added Birthday October 30th.

  “October thirtieth,” I say. “That’s Kyle.”

  “Ooh, he’s a Scorpio,” says Hannah. “Sexiest sign in the zodiac.” Her voice is teasing.

  “You can’t be serious.” I can’t even think about it. Kyle? Sexy? The guy gets those silverfish bugs in his toothbrush because it’s so dirty.

  “But Scorpios can be really mean,” she adds.

  “That’s more like it.”

  “I don’t know why you want to mess with karma on this one.” Hannah sighs. “Kyle’s a perfect fit for Kamryn. Mean deserves mean.”

  I roll my eyes. “Oh my god,” I say. “She’s not that bad. You’ve got some weird vendetta against Kamryn.”

  “Um, excuse me?” Hannah says. “You were the one who told me how she shot Matteo down in flames during your tutorial.”

  I shrug. “Maybe she was having a bad day.”

  “Oh right. That day, and the time at 7-Eleven? Come on, Owen. I know what she’s like.”

  “Why do you always have to come down so hard on her?” I ask.

  “Why are you so eager to excuse her crappy behavior?” Hannah shoots back. “Wait, no, I know. Because you’re in love.” She holds both hands over her heart and flutters her eyelashes.

  Normally, I’d laugh off her teasing. But sudden hot anger spills into my throat. I’m mad that she thinks
I’m an idiot for liking Kamryn.

  But I’m also mad at myself, because a little part of me knows she’s right.

  I say the first thing I can think of that will hurt. “You’re right, Hannah. I am in love with Kamryn.”

  Hannah goes very still.

  I drive the knife in a little deeper. “And that makes you crazy, doesn’t it? Maybe you’re jealous.”

  She flinches. Immediately, I regret my words. I open my mouth, searching for a way to take them back.

  “Hannah,” I say.

  But it’s too late. I watch, helpless, as she gathers her laptop and bag.

  “Hannah, listen.”

  The handle makes a soft click as the door closes behind her.

  I stare at the screen for a long time after she’s gone. What did I say all that for? I’ve embarrassed Hannah and made her feel terrible.

  Holy. Who’s the mean one now?

  A new comment drops in as I’m sitting there. It jolts me out of my trance.

  I’m on my own now. Guess I’d better get going.

  I ignore the new question and start with Kamryn’s instead. A few minutes ago, I was excited. Finally! My long-awaited chance to steer Kamryn away from Kyle!

  But my fingers feel frozen as I type my reply.

  Dear Huntress. As I see it, your would-be is already in love with another young woman. But the stars show me that the universe is unfolding as it should.

  Those words seem familiar. They just kind of typed themselves out onto the page. I wonder where I’ve heard those before? Maybe in a poem.

  I shrug and continue.

  While you may believe deeply in your wish to be united with this guy, my observations show me a more powerful match in a young man closer to your age. The clouds obscure my sight from complete clarity, but I sense that this individual is—

  Is what? In grade eight? Wears jeans and zombie T-shirts? That’s a bit too clear.

  I think about where Kamryn and I cross paths. The only place I can think of where we’ve actually exchanged words and glances—besides outside the convenience store—is in math help.

  I go back to my reply. I sense that this individual is logical in nature. I see you meeting him outside class time, perhaps in an extracurricular session. He is helping you with something. There is some numeric energy there, but I can’t quite pinpoint it.