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Chapter One
A pounding on the door roused me from my mindless hunt searching through the containers of expired takeout in the refrigerator, looking for a snack. I slammed it closed, resolving to throw everything out later, and hastily crossed the few steps from the kitchen to the front door and opened it. I really must make a proper grocery list and actually buy the food on it soon.
“Thank goodness you’re home!” My best friend, Carolyn, spilled into my apartment with a frantic look on her face. I grabbed the large box she had balanced on one arm before she dropped it. Fortunately, it wasn’t very heavy.
“What’s wrong?” I asked her, concerned. With two kids under six and one tween, it takes a lot to get Carolyn stressed. “And where else would I be? I just finished work.” I wiggled a little to show off my usual work attire of jeans and a white T-shirt that was polka-dotted with coffee stains from my shift at the coffee shop below my apartment. My long dark hair was in a messy bun, and other than a swipe of mascara, I had no makeup on.
“You might have had a date; it is Friday night, after all.” She stared at me, and we both snorted.
My love life, or lack thereof, was always a source of amusement for her. After a string of disastrous dates and a short-lived relationship in my early twenties, I had sworn off the opposite sex. I was perfectly content for the time being meandering through life single. She ran her hand through her hair and grimaced at the knots she encountered. She usually styled her thick blonde hair away from her face, with long curls flowing down her back, almost to her waist. Today it was a riotous mess of spiraling curls.
Carolyn was five inches taller than my lofty five foot three. She was slender and blonde, while I was much more curvaceous, have dark brown, almost black, hair, and pale skin which, if I was lucky, would tan a shade darker in the summer. I’ve been told my best feature was my eyes. They’re so dark, it was hard to distinguish where the pupil ends and the iris begins.
We had been friends since the first day of kindergarten, when Carolyn found me alone in the sandbox, crying. For some reason still unknown to me, I was missing my baby brother. A couple of years later, when he was chopping all my dolls’ hair off, I stopped having that emotion.
“Candace and Clemmy,” she named her two young daughters, “have the flu.”
I instinctively stepped back, not wanting to catch any germs.
“I’m fine, Amelia.” She rolled her blue eyes. “Don’t be a germaphobe.”
“I’m not,” I protested hotly. “I would just prefer not to catch your offspring’s diseases.”
“I don’t have any symptoms. You can relax.”
I turned and walked the few paces of the hallway into the living room, knowing Carolyn would follow. My apartment wasn’t very big, but since I rented it from my best friend and barely paid any rent, I couldn’t complain.
Carolyn had opened a specialty coffee shop, Brewhaha (often shortened to Brew), downstairs a couple of years after her oldest son, Christopher, was born. It was in a two-story historic building on Main Street, across from the town square. We served fancy lattes, cappuccinos, espressos, and light meals, as well as the best pastries that Carolyn concocted.
Before her middle child, Candace, was born, she had renovated the second floor into a cozy eight-hundred-square-foot apartment. Since I was looking for a cheap way to escape my parents’ house, it made sense to move in, and she hired me at Brew so she could spend more time with her growing family.
I placed the box on the floor and sat in my squishy gray velour thrift-store-find armchair beside the patio doors, which led outside to a small balcony. Carolyn sat opposite on my hideous eighties-tastic plaid couch that I’d rescued from a curb. My apartment was definitely not going to be showcased in Better Home and Gardens any time soon.
“So, what’s up?” I asked, tucking my feet under me. It was a beautiful late June day, and I had the patio doors wide open, the pale blue curtains blowing inside from a light breeze. The living room faced the front street, and the sounds of people chatting below as they left Brew drifted up to us.
I strained my ears to see if they were talking about anything interesting, but it was just a boring conversation about someone’s bad haircut. I didn’t recognize either voice, so lost interest quickly.
“Hey!” Carolyn snapped her fingers at me. “Stop eavesdropping and listen to my crisis.”
I returned my attention to Carolyn and arched an eyebrow at her.
“Remember last year when I spied on Mrs. Thompson for you, and you said you owed me, and I could collect any time?” She flattened her lips and glared at me, her bright blue eyes narrowing. “I’m here to collect.”
I held in a laugh as I remembered last fall. Mrs. Thompson was our old high school algebra teacher and the nastiest woman you ever met. She had beady rat eyes and a pinched, puckered face that looked like she had a mouth full of lemons. She used to give detention like a cat sheds. Constantly, and without any provoking.
I remember it was October because she’d complained about our heathen ways, with the Halloween decorations in the shop. There she was, giving me her usual attitude about the devil worshippers we are because we had ghosts and witches hanging from the ceiling, when she received a phone call. It wasn’t my fault she had a loud voice, or that the coffee shop was quiet that day so I could hear her side of the conversation, and it sounded heated. I had no choice but to listen in. As an added benefit it sounded like something that could take her down a peg or two, which was right up my alley.
I tried to recall her exact words; they were something like:
“What do you mean, you (nasty word), (even nastier word), (holy mother of nasty word!)? There is absolutely no way I will allow you to do that.”
She paused for a moment, her face getting even redder.
“If you tell anyone, you (nasty word), I will make sure you pay for that the rest of your life,” she’d hissed, the spit flying out of her mouth and landing on the table in front of her.
Ugh. I shuddered at the memory. Who do you think had to clean that spit-laden space when she finally marched out of the shop…?
“I will see you this weekend, and you had better have my money,” she’d raged to whoever was on the phone and hung up. By this time her face was redder than a stop sign, and she had beads of sweat on her upper lip. I could see the tiny droplets hanging off her moustache.
She looked around and saw me watching, so she glared daggers at me. I hastily picked up a mug and pretended to be drying it, looking away nonchalantly. “You didn’t hear anything, Miss Nosy,” she spat at me, grabbed her black tea off the counter, and stormed out of the shop, her stiff, pale green polyester pants shaking with each angry step she took.
Really, who orders a cup of black tea at a specialty coffee shop? Doesn’t she understand a tea bag costs like twenty cents? But there she was, paying over four dollars for a tea bag and cup of hot water.
That happened on a Thursday. I couldn’t put her conversation out of my mind and knew I had to find out what was going on. I usually have weekends off, so I decided to keep an eye on her Saturday and most of Sunday (I knew where she lived from back in high school when I made Carolyn come with me to egg her house after we both got an undeserved detention). She didn’t leave her house once; she was probably in her little bungalow, hatching plans to see whose life she could make the most miserable by her presence. Sunday night I had a family dinner, so I asked Carolyn to take up my prime park bench opposite her house to watch. There’s a big bush in front that blocked old Mrs. Thomspson’s view of the bench.
Carolyn’s always up for an excuse to leave her house, so she came to relieve my stalking duties. I mean, who wouldn’t want to escape their house with three energetic kids for a little peace and quiet to do some light stalking?
So, I left and came back to an absolute gong show. While I was happily quaffing free wine, bickering with my younger brother, Laurence, and shoveling in my mom’s famous chicken casserole, Mrs. Thompson saw Carolyn watching her house. I had told Carolyn to wear something neutral to blend in with the park, and she showed up wearing an all-yellow jumpsuit because “she’s like the sun.” The sun in the evening. She stood out like a beacon under the streetlight.
Mrs. Thompson had marched over, demanding to know why she was there and started to lay into her. Carolyn, not one to back down from a fight, gave her best back. Meanwhile, some stranger had arrived at her house and saw my bestie and the evil witch screaming at each other. He came over to help and grabbed Mrs. Thompson’s arm. She didn’t like that. She went to pull away from him and ended up punching Carolyn in the eye.
A neighbor saw this going down and called the police. I got back just as they were putting Carolyn and Mrs. Thompson in the back of their cruisers. The neighbors were all out, some dancing in the street and some filming her fall from grace, all rejoicing in her misery. I caught Carolyn’s eye, and she started banging on the car window, screaming my name. I obviously stepped back into the wooded area of the park and made a run for the trail before she could draw attention to me.
Long story short, that is how my bestie got arrested for disturbing the peace, and now I owed her.
And I never did find out what the witch was hiding or who that mysterious man was. But luckily, I’m not the one with a restraining order, so I’m keeping tabs on Mrs. Thompson. I’ll find out eventually.
I looked at Carolyn from under my lashes and sighed. “You’ve collected on that more times than I can count,” I protested. “I watched your beasts for your anniversary dinner.” I held up one finger. “Then again for Curtis’s birthday dinner.” Two fingers. “Another time for your birthday dinner”—I looked at her pointedly—“that I was not invited to.” I sniffed and held up a fourth finger. “I’ve also done all the machine clean-outs since then downstairs.”
“I. Was. Arrested,” she enunciated, glaring at me.
I shivered a little. Carolyn’s usually pretty chill, but when she’s angry, her wrath is petrifying.
“Okay,” I conceded, shrinking down a little into the chair. “I owe you.”
Carolyn relaxed and threw me a huge smile. “Good, cause with the girls sick, I need you to replace me as the psychic at the school fair.” She motioned to the box on the floor. “Everything you need is in there; your shift is tomorrow one to four.”
“What? No, no way.” I shook my head emphatically, my hair flinging about. “I can’t do that, that’s too much. I’ll”—I swallowed my nausea down—“I’ll give you a pedicure. How about that?” Feet, with those weird defunct fingers called toes. I can’t even touch my own feet, so she knows what a sacrifice my offer is.
“Amelia Jane Wethers. I was arrested because of you. The police department has a mug shot of me. And I have a restraining order barring me from being closer than twenty feet from Mrs. Thompson.”
The charges were dropped,” I replied weakly, shrinking under the weight of her stare. I knew she meant business when she used my full name.
“She comes into Brew when she knows I’m there, so I have to leave and stand in the alley while she takes her sweet time drinking her disgusting black tea with no sugar or milk. Who does that? What kind of psychopath drinks plain black tea? You owe me, and you’re doing this. Be there tomorrow at twelve thirty to prep for your shift. Everything you need is in the box.” With those dramatic words, she flounced out of the apartment and slammed the door behind her.
I stared at the door, then at the box. Fart. You cause your friend to be arrested once and suddenly you owe her for the rest of your life. And in all honesty, it really wasn’t my fault. If Carolyn had dressed appropriately and not like a beam of light in the night, she wouldn’t have been seen.
Taking a deep breath, I headed to the kitchen for a large glass of wine to fortify myself while diving into the horrors that awaited me in the box. I found a cheap bottle of Cabernet Sauvignon under the sink that would do the trick. I unscrewed the cap and poured a large measure into a plastic cup. Carrying the cup back to my chair, I stared at the box.
Hillside Elementary School, named after our fine town of Hillside, was famous for putting on an extravagant spring festival. Before I was born, Hillside Elementary and neighboring Dumpside Elementary (not really Dumpside, it’s supposed to be Dennison, but since the towns are rivals, we’ve always called it Dumpside) started competing on who could pull in the most tourists to spend their hard-earned cash at the festival to raise funds for their schools.
There were stories of how Dumpside used to drive their school buses here and trick festivalgoers into believing Hillside’s festival had been moved to Dumpside. Things got pretty competitive until a decade ago, when the principals from each school fell in love and got married.
The principals’ marriage threw everyone into a tizzy. The lovers stood their ground and refused to be in a competition with one another. A meeting was held, and it was decided they would flip a coin. Heads could have their festival in June, and tails would have theirs in September.
Hillside won spring, and here we are. Me drinking a huge glass of red wine and staring at the box that held the betrayal of my vow to never participate in the Hillside school fair again. In elementary school all students are forced to participate in the festival in some manner. Lots were drawn, and one year I drew the pickup stick lot. A weekend in the hot sun picking up festivalgoers’ trash.
I shuddered at the memory of little me wandering around the square with a pointed stick and bright orange trash bag. My little self in a cute pair of shorts and favorite unicorn T-shirt, dragging that bag all over the square, it getting heavier and heavier. I was hot and sweaty, my pigtails askew. And then the moment. One of the seniors saw me and laughed with his friends. He’d called out, “Hey, trash girl!” and threw his leftover lunch at me. Mustard and ketchup ran down my top, making the unicorn look like she was crying red and yellow. Fries got tangled up in my hair and the unfinished cola dripped down my legs. I vowed then and there to never volunteer at the festival again.
Don’t get me wrong, I love the fair and go every year. It’s a great fundraiser for the school, and they’ve been able to buy iPads for all the students, redo the playground, help fund the breakfast program, and so much more. Plus, mini donuts, hot dogs on a stick, cotton candy, carnival games, rides, contests. It has it all. And I am more than happy to fritter my money on the games and food, but…
I took a gulp of my wine and lifted one flap of the box up. Sparkles and sequins flashed as I quickly dropped the flap. This was worse than I thought.
I’ve seen the parents who had been roped into being the psychic in the past, and they’re always over the top. I dreaded delving into the box and seeing what Carolyn’s version of one is.
Putting my (metaphorical) big-girl pants on, I took another swig of wine and prepared to adult. I got Carolyn arrested; I deserve this punishment.
I opened the box, and in one swift move, dumped the mass of black floof on the floor. I picked through the articles of clothing hesitantly, one sparkly dark purple bustier, one spider’s web shawl with black sequins stitched in, one long black skirt with crinoline underlay, a pair of bedazzled black kitten heels and a mass of black sequins that resembled a basketball. I turned that around, confused. On the other side was a huge purple stone. I wrinkled my nose. What was this supposed to be? Feeling the underside, I pulled out a large piece of black velvet material. I guessed it was the tablecloth? Then I realized the black basketball must be a headpiece.
Under all the material were a couple of small bags and boxes. I opened the first bag, made of dark purple velvet and so soft, and found a pile of makeup, each item darker than the other. I guess I’d be going full Goth tomorrow. With my winter pale skin, this dark makeup was going to be a lot. Another bag had a set of tarot cards. The last bag was full of polished stones.
I set everything aside and looked at the remaining boxes. More wine, then I opened the first one. This one had a crystal ball with a stand. I held it up to the streaming evening sunlight coming in through my patio doors. It was quite pretty as I moved it around, admiring the rays reflecting in it. I wondered where she had gotten it from. It seemed familiar somehow.
I tucked it carefully back and opened the last box. It was quite small and heavy.
MADAM MYSTIC—PSYCHIC TO THE STARS
Business cards? I squinted. They had my phone number! What the heck? My nostrils flared angrily as I took in a sharp breath; I’d been set up. There was no way her kids had suddenly come down with the flu, and she’d had time to have business cards printed. And what would I need business cards for anyway? I knew they were included so she would know that I knew she’d set me up.
I stood hastily, knocking my glass of wine over in the process.
“Bugger,” I muttered, heading to the kitchen to find a towel to clean my mess up. I grabbed my phone off the counter and headed back into the living room. Propping it up on my shoulder, I listened to it ring as I mopped up the wine off the linoleum floor.
“Sorry I missed your call.” Answering machine.
Swearing under my breath, I hastily typed out a text to her.
You set me up, you witch!
I waited, watching the three dots come up on the screen.
You’d think as a psychic you would’ve already known that, followed by row after row of a laughing-face emoji.
I’m not doing it. I bet Candy and Clemmie aren’t even sick.
You owe me. If you don’t show up tomorrow, I’m going to tell your parents it was you that flooded the girls bathroom in ninth grade.
I glared at my phone. I was tempted to throw it against the wall but restrained myself by thinking of my bank account. I couldn’t afford to rage.
Three more dots appeared.
You need to be more a part of the community; this will be good for you. Staying at home being a sourpuss all the time isn’t healthy. Plus, I promised the kids I’d ride the Ferris wheel with them.
I hate you, I quickly typed back, resigned to my fate. And I do go out, I shot back.
Going out to Brew, your parents, my place, or to buy wine doesn’t count.
She had me there. I looked at the pile of dark and gathered everything up to stuff back into the box. I thought longingly of my book I had plans to finally finish tonight and squared my shoulders. Guess it was an evening of brushing up on my psychic terminology instead.
End of Excerpt
