THE POPCORN PROPHECIES
By Melissa Yuan
Book One of the Popcorn Adventures
Published by Olo Books
Smashwords Edition
In association with Windtree Press
Copyright 2011, Melissa Yuan-Innes
Cover photo © 2011 Amanda Bell
Chapter 1
October, 1985
If my best friend hadn't moved across Canada, I probably would have kept on sketching instead of starting a fortunetelling revolution.
But she did move away, and I turned the world upside down.
I didn't mean to. According to Chinese Astrology, I was born into the year of the Ox, making me honest, hard-working, and afraid of change.
Or, as my brother Alistair would put it, "Yeah, Julia, I always knew you were a cow."
He was a Rooster. That meant he regularly crowed about his own greatness and hogged the bathroom to check out his hair gel. Fourteen years old and full of it.
He'd say I was twelve and too short, too fat, and too ugly. But he forgot just how stubborn an Ox can be, because I was the one who knocked his—and everyone else's—planet out of orbit. Me, Julia Sharpe, a blobby wannabe artist girl from Ottawa, a city that even most Canadians couldn't find on a map.
That October morning started out like any other. I sat two seats behind the bus driver, drawing Celtic designs in the window condensation. My jean jacket wouldn't button up over my pot belly, so I let it hang open and hoped no one would notice. In the middle of the bus, our perfect, skinny sister, Cassandra, babbled with her Barbie friends. That's what my friend Amber and I used to call them because they had more hair than brains.
Barbie Number One said, “So we went shopping on the weekend. I wanted to buy Wham!—”
Cassandra laughed. “Didn't I make a tape for you?”
“Yeah, but I wanted my own LP, just because, you know...George Michael.”
“Oh, yeah!”
“So anyway, we were at the Rideau Centre. Guess who was there?"
"Who?"
"Billy Lachance. In front of Muffins 'N' More. So anyway...”
I rolled my eyes, but there was no Amber to roll her eyes back at me.
The bus driver grinned at me in the rearview mirror, turning his face into a nest wrinkles. His long, grey beard beat Santa Claus's any day.
Before I could grab my sketch pad, I felt a change in the air. The skin on the back of my neck prickled.
I twisted and raised my head above the back of the green plastic bus seat to spy on Alistair at the back of the bus. He and his buddy George used to terrorize the neighborhood on Big Wheels bikes. Any trouble now always kicked off with them.
Alistair's cheeks flushed. Usually, he's two shades away from albino. He leaned forward, whispering, “All right! Cool it!”
I slid my head in that wedge between the window and the edge of the seat next to the wall, trying to see better. When I caught the eye of the girl behind me, I raised my eyebrows.
She leaned forward to whisper. “Alistair's gonna tell a fortune! The big guy. Mac.”
I craned my neck. Alistair didn't tell fortunes in public. Our parents forbid it, but mainly Alistair loved to pretend he was above it all and had to save his energy. At least, that's what he always said to me. And now, he was going to tell Mac's fortune in front of everybody.
George said, “Anyone got a pack?”
“I got it." Alistair grabbed his army surplus book bag, unhooked it, and flipped it open.
The bus swerved. I glanced up. Santa the bus driver watched through the rear view mirror.
Alistair kept his fortunetelling cards in a plain black leather case. He didn't believe in silk scarves or anything like that. But the pack of cards was kind of an heirloom from Great-Uncle Charlie, our most famous family card shark.
Alistair unbuckled his case and tapped the cards into his right hand. “Here it is, Mac. Do you really want to know?”
Know what? I checked the girl behind me for a clue, but her froggy eyes fixed on Alistair. All I could see was the red plaid ribbon in her hair and her hands gripping the back of her seat, denting the cushions.
Mac shrugged. "Sure."
Alistair shook his head, flicking his bangs out of his eyes. His voice was pitched low, but I could hear every word over the rumble of the tires. “No. It can't be like that. I can't just be, like, whatever. If you don't care, it's a waste of energy. You gotta want it.”
Mac hesitated. “Well, sure. I wanna know.”
Alistair pinned him with his number one stare. “So you're in?”
Mac started to shrug again, then stopped and met Alistair's eyes. His chin went up a notch. “Yeah.”
“Great." Alistair held out the cards. “I want you to shuffle 'em.”
"Shuffle how?”
“However you want.”
Mac took the cards gingerly. The cards are pretty old, with brown edges, and they're as soft as a baby's hand. The design on the back shows two eyes, one black, one blue, surrounded by lattices like black ironwork. It feels weird to hold the cards. I know. Once, when I was little, Alistair let me hold them for about five seconds before he snatched them back. He didn't tell my fortune, though. He said I should be grateful just to be close to the magic, since I was a girl.
Mac shuffled awkwardly, throwing the cards together and cutting the deck a few times. After less than a minute, he handed the cards back.
Alistair didn't take them. “Are you done?”
Mac glanced at the cards, then back up. “Yeah. I guess so." He shoved them toward Alistair again.
Alistair kept his hands on his seat and didn't bother to unfold the portable table in his lap. “No. No 'I guess so.' Yes or no, Mac? In or out?”
Mac tugged at the sleeve of his grey hooded sweatshirt before he sat up straighter. “I told you, man. I'm in." His voice broke on the last word.
A few girls laughed, but Alistair silenced them with a raised eyebrow. “Then act like it. So you're done?”
Mac nodded slowly, like an elephant. He was in.
Alistair unfolded the little table. “Do you want to cut the deck?”
Mac took a thin layer off the top and tucked those cards underneath.
“All right." Alistair smiled. “Let's party.”
He dealt the cards so fast, they blurred, but we could hear the snick-snick-snick as he slapped them on the table in a cross pattern. Even from the front of the bus, I felt the concentration flowing off him in waves.
My breath choked in my throat. Normally, I wouldn't cross the street to spit in his oatmeal, but now I felt proud of him. Even...awed.
Alistair's hands halted, hovering in the air. He perched over the cards. His nostrils quivered.
Mac leaned forward, breathing through his mouth like our little brother, Beanface.
Alistair sighed and raised his head.
Mac froze.
Alistair's green eyes frosted over. "Sorry, man."
Mac's shoulders twitched under his sweatshirt. "No. No, it can't be. I don't believe it. You don't know. You—"
Alistair tapped the table in his lap. His fingernail clicked against the wood once. Twice. "Your mother's gonna die, man. One hundred percent chance. Sorry."
Chapter 2
The bus turned more quiet. A subarctic silence.
The sides of my throat stuck together. It couldn't be true. Alistair was just putting Mac on. Wasn't he?
Even I knew Mac's mom was sick. She had multiple sclerosis. She hardly ever came outside. They laid plastic tracks all over the carpet so she could roll over it on her wheelchair. But I hadn't thought she was dying.
The bus slowed down and slid on the shoulder, pitching us to the right. Kids squealed. Alistair grabbed his cards before they slid off his table. I twisted forward and clung to the seat back in front of me.
When the tires finished scraping to a stop, I gaped at the bus driver. He stared right back at Alistair through the rear view mirror. His wrinkled face didn't look so friendly now. "Put those things away."
"It's not against the school rules," said Alistair.
"It's against my rules." The bus driver held Alistair's eyes in the mirror.
My eyes ping-ponged back and forth between them. Who would cave in first? The bus driver, I bet. Alistair stared down me and Beanface about three times a day.
Alistair held up his hands. "Look. No more cards."
The table still sat in his lap, but the cards had vanished.
"Oh," I said. I'd been so busy watching the staring contest, I missed him putting the cards away.
Alistair smiled at the bus driver. Somehow, even though he'd followed the rules, he'd won.
The bus driver shook his head and hit the gas pedal. The bus lurched forward. The whispers spiraled up. Alistair unfolded his table and stuck it in his bag, trying not to smile.
Man. My brother always got his way. I felt sorry for Mac, the bus driver, and everyone else who crossed his path.
I took a quick peek behind me. Mac's face looked like curdled yogurt. Maybe the bus driver was trying to protect Mac, stop Alistair from doing any more damage.
I shook myself so hard, the snaps on my jean jacket rattled. No way. Everyone wanted their fortunes told. Papa said our company, Fortunes, Inc. helped people figure out their lives and get ahead of the competition.
But I couldn't lose the rotten taste in my mouth, especially when Alistair started whispering just loud enough for us to hear him above the rumble of the bus wheels. "Mac. Listen, man. I didn't tell you anything you didn't know."
We all swung around to stare. Mac blinked hard. "What?"
Alistair leaned back and propped his knees against the back of Mac's seat. "We're all gonna die, stupid. One hundred percent chance."
Mac smacked his hand down on the seat. Alistair dropped his heels back on the floor in a hurry.
Mac pushed himself up on his feet and loomed in the aisle over Alistair. I could see the rolls of fat on his back as his shirt rode up, but I didn't feel sorry for him anymore.
Alistair's smirk vanished. He stared up at Mac.
Mac bunched his fists at his sides. "Take it back."
"What, the fortune? You asked me."
Mac leaned forward an inch. "Take it back."
Alistair glanced at George, who nodded back at him before Alistair said, "I can't. It's part of the rules. You know that. Once a prophecy's been made—"
I writhed in my seat. What could I do? How could I help?
I glanced at Cassandra. She twisted a lock of chestnut hair around her finger, hypnotized by the show like it was Duran Duran.
I whipped around to check the bus driver. He steered us along the highway, his eyes straight ahead. He couldn't get us to school fast enough.
I perched my knees on the seat and twisted around to face the back of the bus. "What about a second opinion?"
Slowly, Alistair raised his eyes to meet mine. His were blank. That was a bad sign.
I gulped. I clung to the back of the seat, leaving sweaty handprints on it. "You know," I said too loudly. "Like when you don't like what the doctor says." Mac should know all about that.
Alistair said, "Stay out of this, Julia."
George raised his eyebrows in silent agreement with my brother.
Mac gave me one look, then turned back to Alistair, close enough for his breath to blow Alistair's bangs apart. Mac said, "You're a liar"—he stabbed his index finger at my brother's chest—"and a faggot"—stab—"and your father's a prophesying pimp." He sprayed Alistair's face with spit on the last word.
"Hey!" I yelped. Papa's my dad, too, and a respected businessman.
Alistair rose to his feet. He stood a bit taller than Mac, even though Mac was a year older. He pushed his face against Mac's. "Shut. Your. Mouth."
They hovered close enough to kiss, only in a terrible way.
I yelled, "No! Don't fight! Please!"
The brakes squealed. We jolted onto the shoulder again, really rough. For a second, I thought we'd topple into the ditch, but the driver managed to right us. He threw the bus in park and stood up.
He strode to the back of the bus, grabbing the backs of seats as he went. I quivered as he went by me. He was taller than both of them and twice as mad. Somehow his Santa face made him even scarier.
The bus driver stopped two feet from Mac. His body blocked the aisle. "You boys better calm down, or you'll be taking it outside."
Mac said, "But he—"
The bus driver cut him off with a look. "I know what happened. I told you before. No fortunetelling on my bus. And no fighting. You want to do that, there's a ditch for you to fight in and the principal for me to call."
Mac folded his arms across his chest.
Alistair held himself very straight and stared up at the bus driver with innocent green eyes. "Sir?"
Alistair doesn't call anyone sir. It stopped the bus driver cold. He grunted.
Alistair said earnestly, "Sorry about that. It was all a misunderstanding, sir. Mac and me are pals."
Oh boy. Alistair laid it on thicker than peanut butter on cold bread. No way he'd fool anyone.
The driver studied Alistair, then turned to Mac. "That true?"
Mac shrugged at his shoes. He couldn't complain to a grown-up.
The driver turned back to Alistair. "I don't want any more trouble out of you."
Alistair smiled even more winningly. The sun lit up his blond hair so he looked like he had a halo. "Absolutely not. No fortunes, no fighting."
The driver surveyed the other back seat kids, who all nodded solemnly. Even Mac dipped his head a few degrees.
The driver sighed. "All right then. If I have to stop this bus one more time, you're all walking to school." He turned and strode back up the aisle. He threw the bus into first and we lurched into action again.
I held my breath. I didn't want to walk to school. But I could not resist twisting my head a bit to the right, so I could see Alistair out of my peripheral vision.
He was leaning back in his seat, his hands tucked behind his head, elbows akimbo like he was watching TV. George muttered something to him, but Alistair didn't answer.
Mac faced front with a glazed look. I knew he was thinking about his mother. My heart twisted with sympathy.
But I kept thinking about Alistair. He'd always been effortlessly cool. And of course he could read the cards. But I'd never seen him humiliate a "pal" and get away with it in front of everyone.
It wasn't right. If I had the Gift, I'd never use it like that.
Alistair met my gaze, looking expressionless.
You don't have to be scared, I thought. He's your own brother. He's just another pea in a pod. A can in a six-pack.
But I, too, slid down on my bum and turned around to face the front.
I chewed the inside of my cheek until I could taste salty blood and raw skin.
Chapter 3
Ms. Rivil ushered us into the tiny classroom beside the gym for our health unit. I'd rather do dribbling or dodge ball, but last week we talked about "menstruation" and birth control. Whoopee.
Ms. Rivil smiled and rapped on the wooden desk with her knuckles. "Girls."
I started talking fast to the girl on my right. I could wait forever before we labeled more diagrams of body parts.
Mrs. Rivil tapped the desk with the pointer, hard enough that her breasts jiggled even though she'd shoveled them under a black turtleneck today. "Girls."
We talked louder.
"GIRLS!" She banged the pointer against the desk. It broke in half.
We looked up. She smiled and laid the broken ends on the desk. "That's better." She strode to the blackboard and lifted her chalk. "I thought we'd do something a little different today. Can anyone tell me the difference between boys and girls?"
We giggled nervously.
Mrs. Rivil's smile hardened. "You can't think of a single difference?"
Akiko Masuda crossed her long legs and drawled from the back of the room, "Yeah. Their pee pee."
We laughed louder.
Mrs. Rivil made a table with BOYS and GIRLS, and under both headings, wrote ANATOMY. "That's right. There are obvious physical differences. We've covered that last week. What else?"
Amelia McNeil raised her hand, wincing at her own bravery. "They're stronger."
Mrs. Rivil made no move with the chalk. "Sure. That's anatomy, too."
"We're smarter," Casey Callahan called out.
We laughed again.
Mrs. Rivil tossed the chalk in the air and caught it. "Let's be more specific. Girls do tend to be better at some subjects. Can anybody name them?"
Casey grinned. "Math. Music."
"Very good. And what are boys better at, on average?"
No one wanted to say it. We all looked at each other, or at our desks.
Akiko sighed. "They have the Gift."
Mrs. Rivil wrote Gift on the boys' section, and math and music under ours. "Does anyone want to comment on that?"
I sure didn't. My ears burned. Me, Julia Sharpe, of the Fortunes, Inc. Sharpes, totally Gift-less. I wasn't that good at math, either. I mean, I got A's in it, but I had to slave at it, while my sister breezed through, hardly cracking the book. Which meant I was a total loser.
Mrs. Rivil placed the chalk in the silver tray at the base of the blackboard and dusted off her hands. "I'm raising the point because I read some articles that girls' self-esteem drops around the age of twelve. I'm not sure why that is, exactly. I think part of it has to do with worrying about boys, and your body, and so on. But I wonder how much of it has to do with the fact that about one in a thousand boys develop the Gift at puberty, while no women has ever been proven Gifted." Her gaze lit on me. I started tracing the graffiti on my desk with my bare finger.
Luckily, Akiko snorted just then. We all looked at her. She was beautiful, tall, slim, with black hair raining past her shoulders. She didn't have to worry about boys or her body. She said, "What's to angst about? They've got the Gift, we've got the math."
Big deal, I thought to myself. Bean counting.
Mrs. Rivil said, "Does anyone here think that math is just as good, just as important, just as valid as the Gift? Raise your hands."
I kept my elbows wedged to my side as I glanced around the room. Not one girl raised her hand. Not even Akiko, although she pretended to yawn.
Mrs. Rivil sighed. "That's the problem. I think we all know that math and music are exciting, but—" She shrugged. "It doesn't feel as important."
Well, it isn't, I thought.
She turned to me then. "Julia? Did you want to add to this?"
I could feel the blood in my cheeks. Alistair calls me tomato head. I glanced around the room, pinned by everyone's glare. I shrugged.
Mrs. Rivil said, "I thought you might have a unique perspective. After all, your father is renown for his Gift. And I understand your mother runs the corporation. Am I right?"
What was she, Nancy Drew? But I couldn't just sit there like a zit on an Alistair's forehead. I cleared my throat. "Yeah, pretty much." I sounded like a frog.
She leaned forward, resting her hands on the back of the chair. "How do you think that affects your self-esteem?"
I shook my head. "It doesn't."
She eyed me. "Do you really think so?"
Casey raised her hand importantly in the air. "Well, it all depends how you were raised, doesn't it, Ms. Rivil? I mean, if your family thought the talents were equal, then you'd think so too. My dad doesn't have the Gift, and he doesn't care, so we don't worry about it."
"Excellent point, Casey," said Mrs. Rivil.
What was so excellent about it? It wasn't like Papa tried to make me feel inferior. He loved me just as much as Alistair. But the Gift was more important. It made the world go 'round, or at least rotate more smoothly for us.
"Your family contributes to your self-esteem," Mrs. Rivil was saying. "Can anyone think of other things that contribute?"
More hands shot up and it turned into the usual talk: don't worry about supermodels, be proud of yourself, blah blah blah. "You are all individuals," Mrs. Rivil said, and to underline that, she wrote it on the board in capital letters. "There are lots of people in the world who will try to drag you down. Don't let them. Hold your head high."
It would have been all dreck except her brown eyes blazed and she held one of the pointer halves like it was a police baton. I sat up very straight and tried to look obedient.
What did she have to get so excited about? I mean, really, who cared?
But a smaller, truer voice inside me answered, You do.
You want to hold your head high.
You wish girls could have the Gift.
Just because whatsername, Madame Grappeau, failed the test on international TV and got laughed out of town a million years ago, that doesn't mean anything.
The bell rang, but I hardly heard it.
I was tired of being such a zero. I was a straight A student, but that didn't mean anything. I just followed the rules and studied hard.
Meanwhile, Alistair had power and knew how to use it. Cassandra twisted everyone around her finger, from the teachers to strangers on the street. Good thing Beanface was still galloping around without any special talent. But he was only seven. If I didn't watch out, I'd be left behind.
I had to do something really out of this world.
Like what?
While I slowly gathered my books, my heart hammered. Girls didn't have the Gift. Everyone knew that. We were trained to run the business and boys developed their Gift, if they had any.
But what if it was just training? What if girls could be Gifted? What if it ran in our genes or something? Papa and Papère and Alistair were all Gifted. Why not me?
I ran into the hall, almost smacking into a pack of grade eights. They scattered and one of them said, "Watch where you're going, four eyes!"
They all laughed. They laughed even harder when I gave them the finger.
But I didn't care. I'd found my calling. I was going to be the first girl in the world to get the Gift, or I'd die trying.
Chapter 4
Akiko stopped me in the hall and said, "Is it true that all the guys in your family have the Gift and the girls run the business?"
Duh. That's what Mrs. Rivil had just said. I nodded.
She whistled under her breath. "I guess your mom better step on it."
"What?"
"Well, isn't Fortunes, Inc. going into a death spiral?"
My jaw dropped open. "That's not true!" But then I remembered how late my parents had been staying up and how they wouldn't promise to take a weekend off, even for Cassandra's birthday.
But I couldn't worry about that right now. I had to figure out how to get the Gift.
It wasn't like I'd never, ever thought of having the Gift before, but I didn't know where to start.
You could fortune-tell with anything that worked. You could watch clouds, read bird guts (gross), throw salt, count the rings in trees, plus do all the usual stuff.
That was why boys got coaching. You had to find a spark, some sort of connection. Like Alistair won at poker all the time before Papa realized Alistair had a talent with playing cards.
I needed a teacher. But since no one would teach me, I had to teach myself. I needed a book, at least.
And I knew exactly where to get it: Alistair's room.
Papa's been teaching Alistair since forever. Cassandra was the one who pointed it out to me, that these "Guess what I'm thinking?" games were actually training. But even I noticed when Papa broke out crystal balls, Tarot cards, palmistry books, clairvoyance videos, spell books, and of course an armload of books on Chinese astrology, Papa's specialty. I was pretty sure Alistair shoved most of the goods in his closet.
Luckily, my brother was trying out for the soccer team after school. The whole bus ride home, I prayed they'd take extra long.
Cassandra burst into the house ahead of me, raced up the stairs, and within a minute, started blabbing on the phone. Too bad her room was right next to Alistair's, but the phone would distract her for hours. Mama and Papa were still working, and Beanface was at his friend Joey's house.
I slipped my sneakers off in the front hall and tiptoed up the stairs after her. I could hear Cassandra through the door. "So THEN he told me I was wrong. But I showed him..."
The rooms were laid out youngest to oldest, from left to right: Beanface, me, Cassandra, Alistair. Mama and Papa had their master bedroom in the basement. They said that with four children, they needed a floor to themselves and didn't mind sharing it with the laundry and pantry.
Just before I opened Alistair's door, I realized he could ask the cards if anyone had invaded his privacy.
Even so, I wrapped my hand in the sleeve of my Cotton Ginny sweatshirt and turned the door knob.
"Nuh uh," Cassandra was saying. "No way. I told you!"
I pushed the door open. It squeaked a little, but Cassandra went on, "He is the biggest loser on the planet. He's like a total reject, you know?"
I let the door close behind me. No need for Cassandra to come out and spot me in there.
And then the smell hit me. I covered my nose and tried to breathe through my mouth. I forgot how much Alistair's room reeked because his clothes stank and he never opened the window. I tiptoed around the piles of jeans and underwear and tried to figure out where he'd put most of the stuff from Papa. Last time, I only found one or two books in the closet. With my luck, Alistair would've hidden the motherlode under the bed, and I'd suffocate under the unwashed laundry before I could fight my way back out again.
I chewed on my thumbnail and tried to think like Alistair, but I kept being distracted by his posters. He had a giant one from Bon Jovi's 7800 Fahrenheit album right above his bed. More than once, he tried to convince us that Jon Bon Jovi was a god. He also had a big drawing of the Ace of Spades above his desk. George had done it for him. I could do it better, but they'd never ask me, even though Alistair had this thing for the Ace of Spades. Above the door, he'd hung a poster from his first psychic conference with Papa beside a certificate from the numerology course from last year.
Obviously, I wasn't psychic. I couldn't figure out where to look first.
Closet first, I decided. Even if I only found one book, it was better than nothing. Alistair had gotten a lot slobbier, though. I dreaded what I'd find in there. Pizza boxes? A tarantula? Holding my breath, I eased the handles toward me, pleating the two halves into quarters.
I gasped. His closet was neatly organized, shirts hung up, dress pants folded, with a bunch of boxes lined up on the top shelf and a second line of boxes on the floor.
I attacked the floor first. There were easier to get at. I peeled up the first cardboard flap and dug in. At first, I tried to keep everything in order, but then I went faster and faster. I never knew my brother kept so much junk. His Star Wars action figures. Spelling tests from grade three. A lock of hair—I didn't want to think about that one. A Pippi Longstocking book. Playboy magazines—eesh. I tried not to touch those. Baby teeth in a plastic box. Weird. Why didn't he give these to the tooth fairy like everyone else? A bunch of pictures. A chemistry set. An obviously broken telescope. A Yes tape.
And then I heard footsteps. Was Cassandra wandering around? But I could still hear her blaring through the wall. She was the marathon phone queen.
The steps were coming closer.
I glanced outside, though the window. There was no way I was jumping from the second story, and Alistair would figure it out if his window was flapping open, anyway.
So I stepped inside the closet, tugging the door closed with desperate fingers just as I heard his room door open.
Chapter 5
Alistair sighed and slung his bookbag on the floor.
I held my breath. My brother was a private person. He'd kill me if he caught me going through his stuff. And I hadn't even found anything!
I squeezed between his dress shirts and the wall. I couldn't fit in behind the rack that held his T-shirts and socks. I couldn't keep holding my breath, either. I let it out in tiny, stuttering breaths.
I heard Alistair grunt and the bed squeak as he sat down on it.
What if he went to sleep? I'd be stuck here forever! Should I try to sneak out?
He knocked hard on the wall. I flinched.
He called, "Cass, get off the phone. Other people have to use it too, you know."
Cassandra yelled back at him, but soon I heard him pick up the receiver and punch in numbers, so he must've won.
"Yeah. It's me." Pause. "I got it. It wasn't easy, you know." Pause. "Who knows. Later."
He hung up, and yelled, "Okay, it's all yours, Princess."
Even though I was being asphyxiated in his closet, I couldn't help wondering who he was talking to. Or what about.
He started walking again, and the chair creaked under his weight.
Now I had to pee. Oh, no. Could I hold it long enough? When would he ever leave?
Then I remembered that I'd left my shoes at the front door. Not a smart spy move, just habit. Mama always said we'd better leave the shoes at the front, unless we wanted to do more vacuuming. Alistair would know that I was home. And if he checked my room...
I was starting to sweat. It pricked my armpits. I was glad that he had all his stinky laundry around, to disguise me.
A knock on the door. I jumped.
Alistair called out, "Yeah?"
More footsteps. And then Cassandra's voice, "So, did you make the soccer team?"
"It was cancelled. The coach was sick."
Great! Now both of them were trapping me. I tried not to remember the times when I was little and Alistair would put me in a headlock and Cassandra would spread jam on my face and threaten to put me face-down on an ant hill.
"Sucks. But not as much as Mac. Were you trying to make him pee in his pants?"
No. No pee talk. I crossed my legs in agony. Luckily, Alistair didn't pick up on it, just said, "He asked for it."
"Yeah, well, you know what Papa said. We shouldn't tell fortunes for just anyone."
Alistair said, "Who's we, kemosabe?"
Cassandra snorted. "I mean the royal we, dolt. As in, Fortunes, Inc. First of all, they should be paying us. You shouldn't just give it away. It cuts the market. Don't you know that?"
"He said he'd do my homework for a week."
"Yeah, you're a real businessman." Her scorn could turn the air to rust. "Anyway, what kind of fortune was that? Yeah, she'll die, we'll all die. I'd've killed you if you did that to me."
"Lucky it's not you."
"And the last thing, Al. Not in public. No one cares if you do it on your own time. But in front of everyone, on the bus? Not cool."
"Is the lecture over, Mother?"
"Yeah. Not that it helps you anyway."
"You got that right."
Silence. A creak that sounded like Cassandra sat down on the bed. I didn't know she'd touch his bed sheets. I wouldn't. Then she spoke again. "It bothers me, that thing Jeremiah said last night. About our business going down."
Uh oh. I'd been trying not to worry about that. After Akiko brought it up, I'd kind of blocked it out. Jeremiah was one of Papa's three business partners and my favorite one of all. He was so handsome, he made my eyes hurt. I loved his dark brown eyes, his sharp cheeks, even his big-nostrilled nose. Plus he was nice to everyone and did a killer crystal ball. I couldn't care less that he was black and twice as old as me. I'd marry him in a second.
But Cassandra was right. Last night, we overheard Jeremiah telling Papa, "Chaos is coming. Real soon." And today, Akiko said Fortunes, Inc. was in a death spiral. What was going on?
Alistair yawned. "It's under control."
"Yeah, right. Why don't you do a reading on it."
Silence.
Cassandra again. "If I had the Gift, I'd do a reading. Isn't that what it's for? To figure out what we can do to save our family business?"
Alistair's voice was muffled, like he was stuffed under a pillow. "I can't. I tried. When I do it, the numbers are, like, random. Maybe you should ask Butch."
Cassandra swore. "He's so creepy. I mean, can you imagine a Hefty Bag guy like that slobbering all over your hand, pretending to read it?"
Alistair sighed. "Who cares, Cass. He does mostly guys at his reading, anyway."
"That's creepy, too."
Cassandra was mean, as per usual. Butch was fifty-four years old. He drank beer and read palms. The beer sounds funny, but he said it relaxed him and his customers. He kept a pack of cigarettes rolled up in the left sleeve of his T-shirt. He used to be a butcher, which is gross, and I tried not to count the pores on his nose, but other than that, he was okay.
I wished Butch or anyone would ring the doorbell. Anything to get them away! I was starting to get a leg cramp. I had to shift my weight to my left leg.
Alistair said, "Did you hear something?"
I held my breath.
Cassandra snapped, "No."
"I heard something."
"It's probably your Gift getting rusty."
Alistair said, "I dunno. I feel like something's off." His footsteps paced the room. His chair creaked again. He slid open a desk drawer. "I was reading in the newspapers. Computers are the way of the future."
Cassandra snorted. "That's what they all say. By 1990, we'll have robots for servants, and we'll eat space food—"
"Listen, Cass! We've got some computers in our school, right? So our entire school can get on the computer."
"Sure. If we want to wait twenty minutes for our turn."
"Okay. And Papa has a Commodore in his office for the accounts."
"That'll be the day." Her tone changed. "But I see what you're saying. Mama uses it sometimes, at the office. You think that we'll all start using computers, 'the way of the future'?"
"Yeah." But he didn't sound happy.
Cassandra somehow figured it out. "You think that that's why our business has gone down? Too many people playing Space Invaders?"
"I've done a few reading on this. And computers are going to catch on in a big way, Cass. It's gonna be a revolution."
I clutched one of Alistair's shirts to my face, to smother my gasp, and tried to figure it out. As far as I could tell, computers were cool. I could program a bit in BASIC and do math games at school. But how could that take over our business? We could read the future! That was a trillion times better than math games.
But Cassandra said, "Oh, no."
"Exactly."
What? Why didn't they say it and then leave the room so I could run out and pee?
Cassandra started cracking her knuckles, which she does when she's thinking hard. "I'll think of something."
"Ten-four. I'm gonna get some sleep."
I groaned inside my head. But at least, if he was asleep, he wouldn't be using the closet. I crossed my legs again.
Chapter 6
An hour later, when Alistair finally woke up and wandered downstairs, I hit the bathroom before I finally raced back to my room and locked the door behind me.
Safe.
I love my room, from the furry turquoise rug and the Madonna posters to the blue and white teddy with a bell in his ear. My room smelled a million better than Alistair's den of filth, too.
I flopped on the bed. My leg ached, so I stretched it out and tried to think.
Alistair couldn't figure out what would happen to our company. He thought computers would put us out of business.
"Julia! It's your turn to set the table," called Mama.
Oops. I sailed down the stairs, almost running into Toad and Papa. They looked really serious until Papa turned and gave me a giant squeeze. He smelled like aftershave.
"How's my favourite Julia?" Toad called. He was Papa's main business partner and best friend. He made us call him Toad because he hated his real first name.
I giggled and let go of Papa. "Good! How's my favourite Toad?" That was how we always said hi.
"Fine, fine." Toad's big shoulders drooped, though. He definitely wasn't handsome like Papa or Jeremiah, one of the other business partners. Cassandra said his nose looked like a pickle.
I asked Toad, "Were you talking about Fortunes, Inc.?"
"What?" Toad turned to Papa. "Ken, is the Gift running in your girls now?" He was joking, but it still made me happy. With any luck, I'd make it come true.
Papa said, "Of course not. Julia, don't you have to help Mama set the table?"
"Yessir." I dashed off in my sock feet, skidding to a halt in the kitchen, in front of the cutlery drawer.
Mama smiled at me as I folded the napkins. She smelled like her gardenia perfume. "Did you have a good day, Julia?"
I thought about it and nodded. If only she knew!
While I set the cutlery on either side of the plate, I decided Toad might be like the fork and Papa the knife. Toad read Tarot cards to tell the future but he couldn't read people's personality. Meanwhile, Papa couldn't really prophesize, but with his awesome Chinese astrology powers, he used clients' birthdates to figure out what kind of person they were. It was useful 'cause most people don't know themselves. One woman said Papa's reading was like looking in a mirror when you've gotten used to your reflection in a pond. So Papa and Toad made a good team, like a knife and fork.
I thought about telling them that, but when supper came along, Cassandra exchanged glances with Alistair and turned to our guest. "Mister Toad," she said, training her big brown eyes on him, "if you have a chance, after supper, maybe you could help you with my homework."
Toad finished chewing his mouthful of chicken pot pie. "Sure, Cassandra. What is it?"
"Well, in computer class—"
Toad laughed. "I don't know anything about that. Your Papa probably knows better than I do."
Papa frowned. "Of course I don't. I don't like their reductionist approach. Why on earth would you think Toad could help you, Cassandra? Your mother is the obvious choice."
Mama laughed. "I work things out on the calculator, just like I always did, Ken. I just put the numbers on the computer so you'll have another copy."
Alistair jumped in. "Maybe you could do more. Our teacher said they might start having computer classes for grown-ups at our school."
Papa set down his water glass. "Let us know once the classes are set up. Your mother might be interested."
"Sure. Our classes have been pretty cool so far," said Alistair. "Computers are really logical. Totally different from fortunetelling, you know? Like, when I told one on the bus—"
Papa cleared his throat. "You told a fortune?"
"Sure."
Papa exchanged a dark look with Mama. "For free?"
Alistair shrugged. "It's not like he believed it anyway."
Even Toad stopped chewing.
Papa shook his head. "What's the basic principle of Fortunes, Incorporated?"
Alistair sighed. "Respect your talent."
"And that means?"
Alistair avoided Cassandra's smile. "Don't give it away for free."
Papa nodded slowly. "Close enough. It devalues the market and makes you look like a cheap talent. The Gift has to be respected by yourself first."
Beanface kicked me under the table. He didn't get any of it. Actually, neither did I, but I tried not to giggle. Alistair and Cassandra usually have Mama and Papa double-wrapped around their fingers. Today, they both struck out.
Alistair said, "I do respect it! That's why I think we should do fortunes more. We act like Fortunes, Inc. is the biggest deal, but we're just the biggest fish in the pond and we don't see the acid rain coming."
Papa's eyebrows knitted together into an angry caterpillar. "Why don't we drop the analogies and just say it plain. What do you think is endangering Fortunes, Inc.?"
Alistair shrugged. "Computers."
Papa threw his head back and laughed. "You think a hunk of plastic and some silicon chips are going to put us out of business?" He tucked his napkin into his shirt collar and started cutting his pot pie again.
I didn't know who to believe. Papa was smart. He knew what to do. He and Mama had built the company from scratch in Montreal, moved the company to Ottawa, and made fortunetelling what it was today.
But Alistair was pretty smart, too. I'd never known him to lose a bet. And he was wearing his stubborn face, with his eyes squinched up and his lower lip poking out. "I'm not talking about silicon. I'm talking about a revolution."
"Who's leading it?" said Papa, grinning around a piece of chicken. "Pac Man? He's a pretty tough customer. Who needs Hitler or Pol Pot when Frogger's the commander in chief?"
Mama laid her fork on her napkin. "Kenneth."
Papa turned to her. "Yes, my dove."
She smiled at him. "I think our son has a point."
Papa's eyebrows shot toward the sky.
Mama went on as if she hadn't noticed. "Alistair is saying is that computers are part of a whole new mindset. The scientists. The rationalists."
Papa scoffed, "Those blowhards. They just want a piece of the pie."
Beanface made a startled sound. I wondered if he was getting confused with chicken pot pie.
Mama answered calmly, "We know that. The problem is, they're getting closer to taking over the pie."
I sipped my milk and wished my family would just talk like normal people.
Mama started looking at every one of us in turn as she spoke. "Fortunetelling is a Gift and an art. Our family has been blessed and we've made use of our talents. But most families are not so fortunate. They have to pay us to help them figure out the future. Then we help them. So far, both sides have been happy. But computers are based on logic. People want to figure things out for themselves."
I tried to work it out. Our family was lucky. Once a boy told me that must be why I was so ugly, to make up for the Gift. Mama was saying he was jealous. And if he was, other people were, too.
Alistair nodded so hard that his blond hair flopped up and down in front of his eyes. "Yeah. Totally."
Papa stroked his napkin up and down while he was thinking. I shifted on the edge of my chair, waiting for him to talk. Finally, he said, "Alistair. I owe you an apology. I heard some rumors that they were trying to use computers to predict horse racing. It seemed too ludicrous to mention. But now..."
Alistair beamed. Cassandra looked annoyed. Our older brother always got 110 percent of the credit.
Papa said, "I find it hard to believe that people would credit this sort of tomfoolery. Our system works so beautifully."
Toad sighed and cleared his throat. We all turned to look at him because he hardly ever talked. "You know they say fortunetelling is unfair because only a few people have the talent."
"Yes, but those people are idiots. Welfare bums. Rogue politicians who want to blame us and get some cheap votes."
"That's enough," said Toad. "Enough for a revolution." He glanced at Alistair.
Papa frowned. "I suppose we could increase our advertising budget and promote prophecy."
"That would be an excellent start." Mama turned her blue eyes on Alistair. "Do you have any ideas about how to turn this around?"
He blushed. It was the first time I'd seen him do that in years. "No, I, uh, just wanted to get Papa to realize."
"Good enough." She surveyed us all. "Any other suggestions?"
My stomach seized up. This was my chance to shine.
The only problem was, I couldn't come up with anything smart. We didn't want computers to win. So what could we do? Smash them up?
Beanface said, "We should break the computers. They're bad."
I checked Mama's face. She half-smiled. "That's one way. It would be a lot of work. Anyone else?"
Cassandra made a face. "I dunno. I think that if we just broke them, it'd be like burning books. It wouldn't really help."
"Why not?"
Cassandra twisted her hair around her finger until Mama shook her head at her. My sister said, "That's what you said about burning books. It just makes people want to read them even more."
Mama smiled. "I'm glad you were listening. Julia?"
I had to think fast, so I blurted out, "How about if we told people how fortunetelling is for everyone and made them feel good about it?"
Mama tilted her face to stare up at the ceiling while she thought about it. Papa, who was now stroking his tie, said, "Julia, fortunetelling helps people understand themselves and the future. But I don't see how it's democratic."
"But—isn't that what Toad was saying?" I protested. "That most people don't think it's fair? So we should make them see that it is fair."
Papa laughed. "We think it's fair, because we don't discriminate against anyone, as long as they have the money. But they probably think we should give it away for free."
Mama said, "Julia, that's a nice idea. Does anyone else have a suggestion?"
In other words, my idea was toast. I twisted in my chair and ate some mashed potato to cover up my misery.
Beanface muttered, "Smash computers."
Everyone ignored him, too.
Mama said, "We shouldn't be scared. We're the dominant force."
Papa grinned at her, then at Toad. "Absolutely. It's a good time to regroup and make sure we'll stay king of the hill. But there's no reason to panic. There have been other threats. Fortunetelling has always survived. This is just the latest bump in the road."
Alistair muttered to himself.
Mama smiled at us and held up her milk glass. "We just have to make sure that everyone knows. Fortunetelling is the best. Accept no substitutes!"
We all clinked milk glasses. I said, "Cheers!" But inside, I was thinking. How could we make everyone love fortunetelling again?
Chapter 7
I frowned at myself in my favourite mirror, the one shaped like a keyhole mounted on my room's dresser. For once, I didn't notice my limp red hair or the pimple starting to bump its way on to the end of my nose. I was still thinking about prophecy and making it fair.
If I could just read the future and have it tell me how to do it—
Wait. I pressed my nose against the mirror and stared at myself-cross-eyed.
If I could read the future.
That was it.
Before, I wanted to tell the future to prove I wasn't a zero. But if I did figure out how to prophecize, and I was a girl, other girls—and maybe other guys—could learn how to do it too. That would make it fair. And then people wouldn't hate us so much.
I pretended to give myself a high five in the mirror.
Then I scooped my teddy bear off my bed. The bell in his ear rang merrily while I jigged around the room. Papa would say, "Julia, my calf"—he calls me that because of the whole Ox Chinese astrology thing—"how brilliant you are. You found your Gift and you saved our company at the same time!"
I even thought of a new ad. "Julia can do it. So can you!"
They could cover up my pimple on TV, couldn't they?
I kissed my Teddy. His bell rang like he was saying, "You bet."
I sank on to my bed. My heart pounded. How could I make this come true, fast? I needed training. Papa spent all this time teaching Alistair. Pretty sure it'd be Beanface's turn.
That was it. Beanface!
I'd almost killed myself sneaking into Alistair's room, when Beanface didn't even have his fortunetelling training wheels on. I needed to swipe Beanface's stuff, not Alistair's! Maybe they even moved it into Beanface's room already. Plus Beanface wouldn't torture me if he caught me.
So I laid Teddy down and knocked on Beanface's open door. "Hey, short stuff." Alistair used to call me that before he started calling me ugly instead.
Beanface curled up on his bed under his red and orange quilt. Between that, an orange curtain, and red beanbag chairs, his room looked like Kraft Dinner with ketchup on top.
"Are you going to sleep already?" I said, but Beanface muttered into his red pillow, "I'm scared."
I closed the door and sat on his bed, stroking his hair the way Mama does when we have a fever. His hair felt a little sticky. "Why?"
"I dunno."
I shoved his shoulder. Pretending to be Mama was boring. He inched over and I burrowed under the blanket with him. "Because of what Mama and Papa were saying?"
"And Alistair."
"And Alistair." I stuck my toes out the other side of the quilt. Beanface heated up the bed better than our furnace. He looked so miserable, I knew I should feel bad, but my plan might save him, too. My plan might save everything! So I teased him instead. "See, I can read minds, too."
Beanface twisted around to stare at me with one big brown eye. "You can?"
I shook my head and crossed my fingers behind my back. I didn't want to jinx myself. "No. But maybe you could. When you get your gift."
He buried his face in the quilt again. "Maybe."
"Unless you end up a card shark like Alistair."