The Precious Dreadful Page 11

  As purple washes the stage, a group of actors enters. Some pose, arms entwined, creating the form of a boat; others unfurl fabric, undulating blue evoking the sea. The rest mime the motions of ship’s passengers.

  Miss LaRose shouts direction. “We’ll have music here, more storm sounds, a burst of chaos. Feel the squalls! Really struggle!” The actors spin wildly, fabricating turmoil.

  Following a thunder crack, the vessel blows to pieces; bodies whirl, storm-tossed debris.

  My skin prickles as one young woman, a senior playing Viola, is wound in sheets of blue, then flung upward. Screeching, she flies free of the billows, briefly airborne. Landing atop taut fabric, cocooned again, she flails, a panicked swimmer fighting to surface.

  Leaning forward, scalp tingling, I hold my breath. As lightning crackles, her hands grope toward me, her mouth a blank hole. Wind and rain crescendo, then subside. Fabric falling away, she sways inside a flickery circle. Like a flashlight beam.

  Eyes pasted to hers, I’m lost in the scream. It’s deafening.

  Just before blackness engulfs us, I notice everyone’s gawking. At me. Small wonder. Perched on my seat, pointing toward the figure onstage, I’m the one screaming.

  Aidan literally carries me out of the auditorium.

  Walking home, I’m about to explain why I freaked. Then he gives me this meant-to-be-soothing smile—usually reserved for the crazy person on the bus—and says, “So. That was a surprise.”

  My apology reflex kicks in. “Sorry.”

  At my door, he says, “Shit, I’m wiped. Feel like I went through something.”

  Suppressing my immediate response—YOU went through something, asshole?—I opt instead for “Call me.”

  Though he responds with a reassuring kiss and “You bet,” I have my doubts.

  I pass the night force-cuddling Binks ’til, unable to tolerate it any longer, he retreats.

  Daylight and Willa invade my room simultaneously. When I answer my cell, she chirps, ultra-perky, “Feeling better this morning?”

  “I’m fine.”

  “So. I fixed everything with Miss LaRose. Blamed your episode on excess hormones.”

  “I wish it were that simple.”

  “Teddi,” she hesitates, careful, “what really happened?”

  As I’m about to answer, my skin stipples with gooseflesh. Last night’s scream echoing in my skull, I manage a weak “Not sure.”

  “What, T Bear?”

  “Nothing. I thought I saw—”

  “Teddi?” She waits for the rest. When I don’t finish, she says, “ ’Kay, um, we’ll talk soon.”

  Too late, I say, “Her. I was convinced it was her, Pool Girl, caught in the storm.”

  17

  Can’t quite believe I’m here. I’ve passed this place a trillion times going to school, or to Drunk Monkey, the thrift shop where Willa and I troll for discounted, brand-name merch. Each time, we debate ascending those cement steps, peering into the future, but neither of us ever has the guts—or the requisite twenty bucks—to actually do it. Still, I’ve always been curious.

  Even when I was little, it was fascinating, the idea of a stranger figuring out life’s path for a fee. I’d beg Brenda to come here the way other kids might pester for a playground trip. We never went. She always said she had “a hard enough time dealing with the present,” that the future would “show its ugly puss soon enough.”

  But they say desperate times call for desperate measures. And, after my spontaneous performance at rehearsal last night, it’s official:

  I am Desperate.

  For answers. For uninterrupted sleep. For a wee slice of normal. If Marisol’s aunt has the ability to offer even one of those, I’m in. Besides, it’s my chance to finally find out what goes on behind that lavender door.

  The house itself is nothing special. Sandwiched between a Sunoco station and Hair & Now, a defunct salon, it’s a gray box with crooked shutters, dirty snowbanks out front well into spring. Summer brings yellow: dandelions surf the tiny yard, spill onto the sidewalk. These days, the neon sign’s just part of the scenery.

  It never occurred to me that somebody actually lives here. Or that the interior would be anything but creepy. It’s not. The place is actually kind of adorable, bright, with floral curtains and butter-pale walls. No sign of a crystal ball.

  Marisol’s auntie’s not what I expected either. Of course, I’m not quite sure what that was. My frame of reference for psychics is mostly limited to pop culture stereotypes: scary movie characters and, more recently, the Long Island variety.

  Tia Adaluz doesn’t fit either mold. I’m a little ashamed to admit I had other stereotypes in mind. Given her Latina roots, and Marisol’s warning that her aunt was “a little unusual,” I’d concocted this whole exotic-Santeria-priestess setup, totally expecting a glittery head wrap, kohl-rimmed eyes, animal carcasses strewn casually about a shadow-draped interior.

  It’s not that way at all. First off, the front room’s totally normal, what they used to call homey. I won’t deny being nervous as we waited together on the stoop. Marisol even looked anxious. When she tapped the screen door, I braced. I’m not sure for what. Drumbeats? Clouds of dry ice?

  Whatever my preconceived notions, Adaluz deflates them, proving my imaginings wrong at once. I’d expected some intimidating figure—tall, icy—but she’s teeny and she oozes warmth.

  Smooshing Marisol’s face against her chest, she plants a kiss amidst her curls. I’m anticipating the same greeting, but instead, stepping back, she looks me over and says, “You must be Teddi!” She has no accent, neither Spanish, nor—a little disappointing—Transylvanian. And she emits not the slightest malevolent vibe.

  Taking my hand, she gives it a politician-worthy pump and says, “So good to meet you.” Again, the most notable thing is an absence. No electric volt, no sizzling psychic connection. Just her doughy palm, slightly clammy.

  I search her eyes, I suppose, for clairvoyant sparks. Again, my expect-o-meter fails. Not the heavy-lidded, makeup-ringed, wise-verging-on-sinister orbs I’d envisioned, they’re, well, completely average. Granted, magnified by thick lenses, they look enormous. She blinks, and the effect reminds me of a butterfly wing. It’s a relief when she slides the glasses atop her head, and her eyes emerge, normal human size.

  They’re kind, somehow sad. Pale/piercing was just below dark/broody on my expectation list, and they are fairly pale, a buttery caramel. They do not, however, appear to hold any special juju. Neither lit from within nor mesmerizing, right now, their expression’s befuddled, probably because I haven’t replied to her greeting.

  Giving myself an interior nudge, I manage a reciprocal “Good to meet you, too, Mrs. Colón. Marisol’s told me a lot about you.”

  “Well then, she must have told you my name is Adaluz. You may call me Tia. Or Luz. Most of Mari’s friends do.”

  “Tia, yes. Thank you.”

  “For what? I haven’t done a thing yet.” She winks. “Will you girls have coffee?”

  Marisol says, “Sure, Tia.”

  “None for me, thanks. I’m over my caffeine limit for the day.”

  “Ginger ale?”

  “I’m all set, really.”

  “You are not here for refreshments.”

  “Not really.”

  “All right then. We should get to work. Come into the other room.”

  I step aside to let Marisol go first, but she shakes her head. “No, Teddi. It’s best you and Tia do this alone.”

  “Alone?”

  “Mari is right. She has a very strong signal; if she is in the room with us, I might have a hard time tuning her out.”

  I force a smile.

  Marisol says, “Be right down the hall. I’ll make a fresh pot. In case you change your mind when it’s all over.”

  “All over.” I only seem capable of parroting Marisol.

  She winks. “Go easy on her, Titi. She seems a little freaked.”

  Tracking Marisol as she heads
toward the kitchen, I feel the tiny hairs on my arms rise. Tia takes my hand, and I surrender to the warmth of her sad eyes, as she says, “Not to worry, Teddi. I am here to help.”

  Chasing each breath as we near a set of louvered doors down the hall, I bite my lip. I’m desperate to control this bubbling fear. The words inner sanctum repeat in my head. This is it.

  Tia Luz strokes my hand, whispers, “Relax.”

  Again, I brace, gnawing my thumbnail, as she slides open the doors. Expecting beaded curtains, candles casting an otherworldly glow, I’m shocked to find Tia’s sanctum as bright and ordinary as the rest of downstairs. A laundry/sewing room, it’s a mix of wicker shelving and plastic bins. An ironing board leans against a row of cabinets. Two folding tables hold fabric and craft supplies.

  “You’ll pardon the mess. I wasn’t expecting company.”

  I resist questioning her psychic prowess, though her failure to predict our arrival is less than promising.

  Against the paneled wall is a small card table. Certainly large enough to support a crystal ball, it’s currently cluttered with sewing magazines, scissors, a mess of paper patterns.

  Leading me to the table, Tia Luz offers a chair by the window. Sitting, I notice this small ceramic bowl. Glazed in shades of turquoise and gold, it’s rimmed with alternating cowrie shells and crudely etched cross shapes. At last, evidence of voodoo ritual: The container brims with slender bones. Meeting my gaze, Tia grins mysteriously.

  As she lifts the bowl, my eyes widen. Transfixed, I wait for her to cast skeletal leavings across the tabletop, to read destiny in the scatter.

  When she catches me staring, Tia winks. “Wings. I’m afraid you caught me at lunch.”

  So much for prophecy.

  Hustling to the counter, she opens a cabinet and whisks the chicken bones into the wastebasket, placing one on a china saucer on the countertop.

  “Dixie!” Tia clucks with her tongue, and a cat flashes across the room, leaping to dip her nose against the saucer. “Good girl,” Tia coos, stroking gray fur. I’m sure Binks and I have battled this cat in the park. But, no, that one—a big tom—is considerably larger.

  Bounding from counter to floor, Dixie upsets the saucer. With a lopsided twirl, it spins in slow-mo, before going airborne. I could easily catch the china plate, prevent its crash to tile. If I could move.

  Something—the cat’s swift grayness, the echo of whirling plate—has me stunned. My heart, my lungs, slide downward, my stomach lifting to accept their weight.

  Vision clouding silver, whispers intrude. A muddle, voices indistinguishable: Corey. Brenda. A deeper voice, somehow animal—familiar yet forgotten.

  I grip table edge, afraid I’ll repeat the saucer’s impact with tile floor.

  Stooping to retrieve the broken saucer, Tia says, “Are you sure you will not have a refreshment?” Her hand on my shoulder brings me back.

  “No, thank you.”

  As Dixie skulks from the room, poultry rune clamped in her teeth, Tia’s full attention turns to me.

  “So, Teddi, Marisol tells me you have been seeing someone.”

  That phrase again, just how I described it to Eleanor. But the way Tia says it, as if we’re gossiping about boys, I can’t help but laugh. “I guess you could say that.”

  “You guess?”

  “Well, someone. Or some thing.”

  “Can you describe this visitor?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Tell me.”

  “I’ve been seeing this . . . girl. She shows up out of nowhere, leaves the same way. Like a puff of cold air.”

  “Did you know her?”

  “How do you mean?”

  “Is she a relative, a friend who has passed on?”

  I fidget in the chair, fold arms across my chest. This isn’t right.

  “Aren’t you supposed to tell me?”

  Tia purses her lips; her brows lift—two exclamation points. “It is not a game, Teddi. Whatever Marisol told you, I have no need to prove my gift with some magic trick. If that is your expectation . . . well, I am no carnival attraction. If you seek to gain clarity from my otra visión, my special sight, you’ll need to throw me a bone here.”

  She catches my sidelong glance at the chicken leg bowl.

  “I mean cooperate.”

  “How exactly?”

  “Talk to me. Open your mind. Stop trying to keep me out. Let me help.”

  Pressure builds behind my eyes, a windup to tears. I battle them back. Why is it so hard to accept that someone wants to help?

  We face off for what seems an hour, is more likely a long two minutes.

  Finally, with a this-is-your-last-chance expression, Tia says, “Let me see it, Teddi.”

  My right hand lifts toward my throat—total reflex—but I stop it, bringing it back to the tabletop with my left. Recrossing my arms, I say, “It?”

  Tia answers, “The necklace, Teddi. The one you found. Is it a butterfly?” She narrows her eyes. “No. A flower.”

  Even as I say, “Marisol told you!” I inwardly admit that’s nonsense, because I never told Mari about the pendant.

  “Oh, Teddi, you disappoint me. You have so little belief? So little faith in your friend?”

  “Faith?”

  “Do you think my Marisol would bring you here as a trick, to deceive you?”

  My head throbs, tears pulsing with each thud of my heart. Should I be able to hear my heartbeat so clearly?

  “Yes, let it out. This visitor frightens, confuses, you. You are unready to hear her.”

  Rising from my seat, I stammer, “I’d . . . I’d better go—”

  Tia slowly shakes her head, and though her lips never move, I hear her.

  No, Teddi. Do not run. We can face this. Together. You and I.

  Focusing on her kind eyes, I concentrate, passing a thought to her. I’m afraid.

  I know. I am here.

  What should I do, Tia?

  Give me your hand.

  She reaches across the table. This time when our fingers touch, I do feel something. Not electric exactly, fluid. Liquid energy flows from her stubby fingertips into mine.

  I stop crying.

  “Good.” I’m startled when she speaks aloud again. “Now, do you trust me?”

  I don’t even have to mull it. The answer arrives practically before she finishes asking. “Completely.”

  Smiling, she says, “Show me.”

  This time, as my right hand rises, I don’t stop it. Instead, my left lifts as well, stretching the collar of my top.

  When I hold the daisy out to her, Tia gasps.

  I shiver, spooked by the look on her face.

  She pats my hand, then slides her chair to my side of the table, so we’re elbow to elbow.

  Gently, without speaking, Tia lifts the pendant from my palm. Raising it to her face, she studies the flower, tapping each petal with her fingernail, repeating the word “triste.”

  Her eyes cross slightly as she raises the charm toward her face. I can’t help leaning against her as the chain tightens between us.

  We breathe in sync as I wait for her to speak.

  Instead, she slumps against me, pressing her head to my chest, as if listening to my heart. Face upturned, eyes closed, she parts her lips. I strain to read her thoughts, but I’m unable.

  Inhaling, eyes tight, Tia pops the daisy into her mouth like a cough drop.

  Frozen by the strangeness of the moment, I hold my breath.

  There’s a rushing in my ears. A shriek—not my own—but whose?

  I’m spinning, stomach in free fall.

  Daisy balanced on her tongue, Tia begins speaking to me, but her voice is different, deeper, raspy. “Lo veo. I see him.”

  Plucking the pendant gently from her mouth, I ask, “Who, Tia?”

  Without opening her eyes, she says, “There is no girl.”

  “What?”

  “I hear a boy. Only a boy. He is calling, frightened. Adrift. He wishes to go home.”


  “What boy?”

  Her eyes open. “Rah . . . Rahn?” Concentrating, she strokes the flower charm. “Could it be Ron?”

  I shake my head and say, “What about Fawn? That sounds a little like Ron.”

  Tsking, Tia says, “Perhaps Rod?”

  Anger rising, I snap. “I have no clue what you’re talking about. I never knew a boy named Ron.”

  Tia answers calmly. “Names are tricky, Teddi. Approximate. And often the visitors come to me in Spanish.”

  Closing her eyes again, she exhales loudly. Slouched in her chair, holding the necklace, she says, “He is buried. Deep in your mind. He reaches for you. Begs you to find him.”

  I pull the daisy from her, stuff it back inside my shirt.

  “This is crazy. I told you. It’s a girl. I’ve been seeing a girl from the pool. This daisy belongs to her. She wants it back. I think she needs my help!”

  Adaluz gives me a severe look. “No, Teddi. You are wrong.” Staring past me, head tipped as if listening to music, she adds, “I see no girl. It is the boy, this Ron—or could it be Rob?—who needs your help.”

  I shout, “Don’t tell me what I saw!” Evading her gaze, I continue. “Forget it. I shouldn’t have . . . coming here was a mistake.”

  Touching my face with her fingertips, Tia looks into me. “Do not worry, Teddi. In time, you will understand. He will come to you if you let him.”

  Stopping short of plugging my ears, I rise from my chair.

  Tia grabs my arm. Eyes serious, she says, “The boy, this Ron. He needs you.”

  “No . . .”

  “To free him.”

  “Free him?”

  She nods. “By freeing him, you will free yourself. Once and for all. He wants you to see it, Teddi, wants you to tell.”

  I nearly knock my chair over as I push back from the table. Unable to look at Tia, I mumble a quick thank-you and flee the sewing room.

  Marisol stands in the hallway, holding a green ceramic mug. Shaped like a smiling frog. When I see it, my feet stutter. Catching my balance mid-stumble, I practically mow her down racing past.

  “Teddi, are you okay?”

  Without turning back, I say, “No worries. I just need to get home.”