COFFEESHOPGIRL: That’s great!
JACKFORJILL: Does that mean you’ll come to one of my shows?
COFFEESHOPGIRL: Sure!
JACKFORJILL: What do u like 2 do?
COFFEESHOPGIRL: I used to ice skate. Not so much anymore.
JACKFORJILL: V cool. I tried it once and fell on my ass.
JACKFORJILL: You have 2 teach me some moves.
COFFEESHOPGIRL: That could be fun.
JACKFORJILL: Really?
JACKFORJILL: So, we can get 2gether sometime?
JACKFORJILL: How about next Sat night around 9?
JACKFORJILL: I could meet u after yr shift.
JACKFORJILL: We can just talk for a bit and then I can drive u home.
JACKFORJILL: Helloooooo…What do u think?
COFFEESHOPGIRL: How did you know I have to work?
JACKFORJILL: You always work on Saturdays, right?
COFFEESHOPGIRL: I guess.
JACKFORJILL: We could meet across the street from the shop…in front of the bakery.
Just dont tell yr boss. I dont want him 2 give you a hard time about it. He hates me, remember?
LOL.
COFFEESHOPGIRL: Maybe. I don’t know.
COFFEESHOPGIRL: About getting together, that is.
JACKFORJILL: Well, Im going away for a couple wks after that, and then I have 2 work on finals. But we could try 2 squeeze something in then if you prefer…maybe in 3 wks or so…if we can get both of our schedules straight.
COFFEESHOPGIRL: No, next Sat. should be fine. Sounds good.
JACKFORJILL: Correction: sounds GREAT!
I REMAIN AWAKE FOR THE REST of the night, my insides shaking and my mind unable to shut off. “There are two,” I whisper, rolling over and over in bed, trying to figure out what the phrase refers to.
Two days until something horrible will happen?
Two weeks until I lose it completely?
And what does it have to do with a skater? Or with taking pictures?
I smother my ears with my pillow, as if that’ll stop the tune inside my head—the one from my dream, the same one Aunt Alexia was humming.
Finally, my alarm clock goes off. While Mom’s in the shower, I ask Dad if he can get me an appointment with Dr. Tylyn sooner rather than later.
“Sooner as in, after school today?” he asks.
“Sooner as in, me going in late to school so that I can meet with her this morning.”
He takes a seat at the kitchen island, bracing himself for what comes next. “Did something happen?”
“Yes, but it’s complicated.”
He takes a moment to study me—from my tired eyes and pasty skin to the mismatched clothes I picked from a pile on my bedroom floor. “How complicated?”
“It’s just that I’m really confused,” I say, wishing he’d either pick up the phone and make the appointment or demand that I go ahead and tell him everything.
“Confused about what?” he asks.
“Please,” I say, feeling as though I’m wasting my time. “I’m trying to be responsible here by asking to meet with a qualified professional.”
“Who’s more qualified than your dad?” he asks, only half kidding.
I open my mouth, almost ready to tell him to forget it—that I’ll just keep my regularly scheduled appointment.
But then he reaches for the phone. “I’ll see what I can do.”
The door to Dr. Tylyn’s office is partly open. I peek inside, but no one’s in there. Only a doll, with sticks for arms and legs, is there, sitting on the doctor’s chair as if staring at the computer.
“It’s a voodoo doll,” a woman says, sneaking up behind me. There’s a cup of something steaming in her hand. “You must be Camelia Hammond.”
“Dr. Tylyn Oglesby?”
She’s younger than I expected—probably in her mid-thirties—with straight dark hair and short bangs.
“Dr. Tylyn,” she says. She extends her hand for a shake; her fingers are warm from her cup. “I’ve heard a lot about you.”
“Thanks for meeting me so last-minute.”
“Sure,” she says, leading me inside with a sip. “This is actually a pretty good time for me…before any of my classes start.” She gestures to a leather sofa. “Do you like vanilla?”
“In general?” I ask, wondering if we’re going to have a snack—if, like Ms. Beady, she offers her clients tea and cookies as a way of getting them to talk.
Dr. Tylyn flashes a stick of what I assume is vanilla-scented incense. “It’s subtle,” she says. “And it beats the musty smell from the hallway.”
“Sure.” I nod, taking a seat, watching as she lights the incense and sets it on a wooden holder.
“So,” she says, sitting down on the sofa two cushions over, “your father said there was something you needed to talk about?”
“Maybe we could back up a bit.” I shift uneasily in my seat, wondering if I should’ve just waited until my originally scheduled appointment.
“We can back up as far as you like.” She scooches away slightly, perhaps trying to give me psychological space.
“I mean, I know my dad might’ve made things sound urgent,” I say, “but I mostly just wanted to get the ball rolling.”
“Understood,” she says, taking another sip. “When I spoke with Ms. Beady, she said that you suffer from panic attacks.”
I nod, wondering if Ms. Beady also mentioned my interest in psychic powers. “Is that all that she said?”
“What is it that you want me to know?” She squints slightly, as if that will help her understand me better.
My lips tremble as I search for words, but I have no idea what to say, or even how to start. I look at the walls, hating myself for feeling so vulnerable.
“Camelia?” she asks, most likely sensing my unease.
Unlike Ms. Beady with her framed pedigrees, Dr. Tylyn has covered her walls with artistic prints: the phases of the moon, a tree with branches that stretch up toward the sky, and a starfish-shaped sun peeking out from the clouds.
“Have you ever worked with someone who claims to have psychic abilities?” I venture.
“It’s actually one of my specialties,” she says, seemingly unfazed by the question, “and one of my academic interests as well.” She points to her bookshelf, where she’s got a collection of books on topics such as ESP, telepathy, astral projection, and aura reading.
I take a deep breath, slightly reassured. “Have you ever worked with someone who hears voices?”
“I have.” She sets her mug down and leans forward again, waiting for me to elaborate.
But I can’t bear to say the words.
“Do you hear voices, Camelia?”
I manage a slight nod, feeling my pulse race.
“When you’re asleep? While you’re awake?”
“All the time,” I whisper; my voice quavers.
“And what do the voices say?”
“That I’m ugly and a loser. That I have no talent and would be better off dead.” I grab one of her couch cushions and hug it to my stomach.
Dr. Tylyn is far more practiced than Ms. Beady at maintaining a poker face; she doesn’t show any inkling of surprise. “So, the voices have only been insulting, then?”
“No. Sometimes they say things that don’t make any sense—cryptic phrases, I mean. I think they might be clues.”
“Clues about what?”
“I’m not sure,” I say, knowing how crazy I must sound.
“And you think the voices you’ve been hearing may have something to do with psychic abilities?”
“Is that possible?” I ask, wondering if she’s ever heard of psychometry.
“It is,” she says, looking toward her collection of books. “But it could also be a symptom of something else.”
“A symptom of a mental illness, you mean?”
“Some testing would need to be done to give us any concrete answers.”
“What kind of testing?” I ask, imagining flash
ing machines and wires hooked up to my head.
“Just some questions to start.” Her voice is as smooth as silk. “What do you say?”
“Let’s get started,” I say, scared to death of what I may learn. But even more scared of what could happen if I don’t try.
AT LUNCH, I tell Kimmie and Wes about what happened the previous night with my dream, and how Aunt Alexia was already in my room when I woke up.
“So, that’s definitely proof positive that it doesn’t even matter if you take a hiatus from pottery,” Wes says. “I mean, once again, if just dreaming about sculpting brings on all of this whacked-out stuff…”
“So why not dream about something else?” Kimmie asks.
“As if the answer were actually that easy,” I say.
“Or maybe we’re overthinking the dream,” she continues. “Maybe it was just a bad nightmare. I mean, we’ve all had them. Like, I once had this dream where I was being gobbled up by Goldfish crackers. I swear, I still have to look the other way when venturing down the cracker aisle of the grocery store.”
“And your next shock treatment appointment is when?” Wes asks, using a couple of pens as makeshift electrodes to zap the sides of his head.
“Except, that theory doesn’t exactly explain why I’ve been hearing voices,” I say, ignoring him. “It also doesn’t explain how Aunt Alexia’s been able to predict some of what I’ve been sensing.”
“Do you think you and your aunt might actually be having premonitions about the same thing?” Wes asks.
“I guess it’s possible,” I say, chewing down the thought with a dehydrated kale chip my mom packed in my lunch.
“Well, that could be reassuring, at least,” he says. “You could both be on the same supernatural team, working toward the same superhero goal.”
“It is reassuring,” I tell him. Or at least it should be. But in some way, the idea of sensing the same things that my aunt does—of being so completely connected to her—is also beyond terrifying.
“You know what would be hysterical?” Wes asks with a grin. “If your aunt was the only psychic one in this case, able to sense what’s been happening in your dreams, your hallucinations, and your day-to-day encounters.”
“Meaning that the hallucinations I’ve been having and the voices I’ve been experiencing haven’t been premonitions after all?” In other words, I’m just crazy. “How is that even remotely funny, never mind hysterical?”
“Okay, so maybe hysterical isn’t the right word,” he says, retreating slightly. “But you have to admit, none of that stuff has happened to you. You haven’t been on any creeptastic photo shoots lately, nor have you been harassed in the girls’ locker room.”
“And no one’s called you ugly, stupid, or worthless,” Kimmie adds.
“Not yet.”
“So, there’s still hope,” Wes says, still trying to be funny.
I take a deep breath, reminding myself that Wes and Kimmie just don’t get it. The voices, the visions, the instances of zoning out: they’re all part of a premonition.
They simply have to be.
“I’ve had premonitions before,” I remind them. “Why would now be any different? Plus, maybe this stuff won’t ever concern or happen to me, but maybe it’s happening to someone else—someone who needs my help.”
Wes reaches out to touch my hand, clearly sensing how fragile I feel. “We’re just playing devil’s advocate. You know we’re on your side, right?”
“Have you called that doctor?” Kimmie asks.
“I actually went to see Dr. Tylyn this morning. And the good news is that she doesn’t think I’m schizophrenic.”
“Did you tell her about what happens when you sculpt stuff?” Kimmie asks.
“Or when you just dream about sculpting stuff?” Wes adds.
“There wasn’t enough time. She mostly just asked me a bunch of questions: if I have trouble keeping friends, if I think my friends might be conspiring against me, and if I’ve stopped caring about my appearance.”
“And you answered yes to all three, I presume,” Wes says, giving my corduroy jeans a curious look.
I fake a laugh.
“So, this is good news,” Kimmie says. She clinks her seltzer bottle against my container of flax-infused hemp milk (more of Mom’s warped idea of lunch).
“It’s very good,” I say, proceeding to fill them in on the artwork that Aunt Alexia showed me last night.
“And you hadn’t told your aunt about the hallucination you had in sculpture class?”
Kimmie asks. “Or about the dream in which someone was taking your photo?”
I shake my head. “Plus, my aunt had obviously painted the picture of the camera long before I’d dreamt about it. I mean, that dream only happened last night.”
“So how did she know?” Wes asks. “Just by touching the stuff around your room, or by being in your presence?”
“I guess the same way she knew about the ‘there are two’ phrase,” I say, not even sure what that answer means.
“So, what happens now?” Wes asks.
“I don’t know, but there’s no point in my giving up pottery. I mean, if what I’m sensing comes through anyway…” I look away, remembering what Aunt Alexia said about ignoring my artistic impulses—how it only makes the voices louder. “You know what’s really weird?”
“As if all of this hasn’t been weird enough?” he says.
“I sort of remember a flash of light in the hallucination I had while in sculpture class,” I continue. “The episode that took place in the locker room.”
“Like a camera flash?” Kimmie asks.
“So the camera is definitely significant,” Wes says.
“And any guesses about the sea glass or the whole skating theme?”
“Not a one,” I tell them.
“I just don’t get it,” Kimmie says, folding her arms. “I mean, I thought things were getting back to normal.”
“Do we know any skaters?” Wes asks. “Does this town even have a skating club?”
“We have a rink,” I say. “And I should probably pay it a visit.”
“Any chance that the camera might be significant because of Matt?” Wes asks, referring to the time my stalker ex-boyfriend was taking candid snapshots of me last fall. “Let’s also not forget about the photo that Piper took,” he says, reminded of Adam’s crazed admirer from earlier this semester; she secretly took a photo of Adam and me kissing, and then sent said photo to Ben.
“Or the photo of me,” Kimmie adds, seemingly eager to change the subject. She tells us about a photo that was posted online—a picture in which she’s wearing an unflattering pair of underwear. “It appeared on an anonymous SocialLife page.”
“Have you actually seen the photo?” I ask. “Or is it just lame-o hearsay?”
“Does this look like hearsay to you?” She chucks a wadded-up piece of paper across the table at me.
I unfold it to find the photo in question: a color shot of Kimmie wearing a superbaggy pair of floral cotton underwear. There’s a boldfaced heading over the snapshot that reads: FREETOWN HIGH’S MOST DISASTROUS DRESSER.
“Period panties,” she explains, covering her face with her bejeweled hands (she’s got clunky cocktail rings adorning every finger). “It’s not like I normally dress like that. Or like this,” she says, gesturing to her outfit. She’s wearing layers of brown and beige in hopes of camouflaging herself amid the school’s morbidly oppressive colors.
“Who cares how you dress? This is clearly a violation,” I squawk. “Whoever took this photo literally did it behind your back.”
It’s a sideways shot of Kimmie as she bends slightly forward. There’s a tear by the hem of the aforementioned underwear, and the seams look ratty and frayed. As if all of that weren’t mortifying enough, the photo also shows her pulling on a pair of gym shorts with one hand, while one finger of her other hand is lodged up inside her nose.
I take a closer look, almost unable to believe my eyes.
On closer inspection (which includes squinting), I can see that Kimmie is actually scratching rather than picking.
But still.
“Not a fan of my work?” Wes jokes, pulling a camera from his bag—one that looks frighteningly similar to the one I dreamt about. He’s taking photography as an elective this term.
“Please say you’re bullshitting.” Kimmie squeezes her eyes shut.
“You know I am.” He puts the camera away. “Besides, how would I get into the girls’
locker room?”
“Good point,” I say. “The person who took this must’ve been female.”
“Better point: all publicity is good publicity, right?” Wes winks.
“Tell me that when they’ve got a picture of your G-string-wearing self posted online for the whole world to see,” Kimmie snaps.
“And that would be bad because…?”
Kimmie gazes over her shoulder, where some boys are pretending to pick their noses.
One of them has a pair of old and tattered gym shorts on over his jeans to suggest a pair of undies.
“I seriously hate this school,” Kimmie says, turning back to face us.
“Did you report the picture to Snell?” I ask her.
“Yes, but the picture had already been taken down by the time I tried to show Principal Smell—as had the pictures of all the other ugly-underwear-wearing offenders.”
“So, it could’ve been worse.” Wes shrugs.
“Only if I were Danica Pete,” she says, nodding toward the front of the lunch line, where Danica lingers, tray in hand, seemingly searching the tables for someone.
“Am I missing something?” I ask, wondering if Danica was one of the other ugly-underwear offenders.
“Besides the obvious?” Kimmie says, shaking her head at Danica’s outfit du jour (a pair of pleated navy blue pants, a turtleneck sweater two sizes too big (probably to hide her slender figure), and brown ankle boots. “Though, I’ll have to admit, I could’ve sworn I noticed a cute pair of vintage flats on her yesterday.”
“They were vintage,” Wes confirms. “I recognized the lining when she accidentally tripped going up the stairs and lost one.”
“I’m still not following,” I tell them.
“Am I to assume you haven’t heard about the whole cheating incident that went down in Puke-o’s class last week?” Wes asks me. (Puke-o is our name for Mr. Pulco, the calculus teacher.)