Foretold Read online

  I think my eyelid is starting to twitch, too.

  “My point is you need someone. A woman’s influence. You’re… what now? Fourteen years old? It’s a delicate age. Periods. Relationships. Off to high school. I remember those days,” she says.

  My face goes hot. “I’m sixteen. Almost seventeen.”

  Aunt Bree waves a dismissive hand, cigarette smoke snaking over her head. “You’ll be thankful you look so young when you’re older, trust me.”

  “You mean when I’m as old as you, Aunt Bree?” I catch Dad’s surprised grin before he smooths a hand over his mouth to wipe it away.

  Aunt Bree’s smile falters, but then she titters. “Looking young at any age is a blessing, of course.”

  Dad leans forward with his elbows resting on his knees and his fingers intertwined as if in prayer. Probably praying for the strength not to grab her by the back of her expensive tailored dress and toss her out a window. “Why are you here, Aubrey?”

  “What kind of question is that? I can’t visit my brother and niece?”

  “You can, but you don’t. So what do you want?”

  “So dramatic. Somewhere, a stage is missing its star,” she laughs. “I’ve been abroad working, Jeff! I’m here now, and I thought it’d be good for Cassandra to spend some time with the one female figure in her life.” She looks down at the Trivinometry board. “I didn’t realize how dire the need was.”

  Dad shakes his head. “No.”

  “Shouldn’t you let her make that decision for herself? I’m worried about her.”

  Dad crosses his arms. “Your sudden concern for Cass is touching, but it’s still no.”

  It’s annoying to be talked about as if I’m not literally four feet from them.

  Aunt Bree crushes out her cigarette on the second-grade pottery gift I made for my mom and immediately lights up again, turning to me. “How would you feel about coming to work with me, sweetheart? A fun summer internship!”

  “Aubrey,” Dad warns.

  “I think I’m good, thanks.”

  Dad’s dark look must finally register, because Aunt Bree stands and gathers up her things. “Fine, we can discuss another time. I need to get going, anyway.” She gives Dad a loaded look before saying, “She needs a woman in her life, Jeff. If not me, then maybe that girlfriend of yours?” With a bat of her eyelashes and a swish of pricey silk, she disappears through the doorway before Dad can react.

  My heart stops.

  The front door opens and closes a second later. Then silence.

  “Always pleasant when she comes to visit, isn’t it?” Dad says dryly, before closing his eyes and sighing. He looks older, somehow, when he opens them. “I wanted to find the right time to tell you.” He swallows hard. “I’m sorry you had to hear about it from Bree, of all people.”

  “Okay.”

  “You’re upset.”

  “No.” I’m not lying. I don’t know how to label the churning in my chest, but “upset” doesn’t cover it.

  “Honestly, Cass, it’s… I wasn’t looking, but I… you might like her.”

  Even though he’s still sitting here with me, he’s suddenly a million miles away. I’ve lost something precious. I can’t place what, but I know it by the hollow burn inside me. I pluck apart the napkin in my hands.

  “I love you. You are the most important person in my life. Now and always. You know that, right?”

  “Yeah.”

  “If you ask me to end it, I will. I don’t want you feeling—”

  “No.” I could never ask him to do that. I want him happy, even if the thought of this woman makes me want to climb under my blankets and bawl. “It’s…” I force in a breath. “It’s fine.” I don’t want to know anything about this woman, and yet I hear myself ask, “How long?”

  “I’ve known her for a while, but we’ve only been seeing each other for a couple of months.”

  “Okay.”

  “You are my number one priority, Cass, I promise you. Lasagna and Trivinometry Fridays. Bookstore Sundays. All of it. This doesn’t change anything.”

  It changes everything. “It’s okay. You deserve…” I reach for something for to say, anything really. Bree’s question pops into my head. “I’ve been thinking about maybe getting a summer job, anyway, so it’s no big deal if you spend time with—”

  “Oh, honey… you don’t know how happy I am to hear you’re open to getting out there… meeting people, forcing yourself out of your shell—” He pauses. “So long as that job isn’t with Bree.”

  I shake my head with a halfhearted smile.

  “You know, I kicked around the idea of this one college prep summer camp upstate your guidance counselor was hot about, but it was way out of our price range, and I wasn’t even sure you… Anyway, I really think getting out will do you a world of good, Cass.” He hesitates. “And maybe when you’re ready, I can introduce you to Eleanor.”

  A name makes her real.

  “Want to finish this game? I know you’re a big, bad fourteen year old now, but…”

  “I’m actually kind of tired, Dad. Aunt Bree takes a lot out of a person. Raincheck?”

  He nods slowly. I ignore the lick of guilt his deflated expression sparks and stand to give him a quick peck on the cheek.

  I straighten the rug fringe on the way to my room.

  Chapter 4

  Job hunts blow, especially if you’re scared you’ll do something nutty to tip off a potential employer that you have a broken brain. Dad would get on my case if he heard me talking about my condition that way, but I don’t really feel like being kind to myself at the moment.

  “I don’t understand why I can’t work here,” I say to Mrs. O, for the tenth time. “I’ll work for free.”

  “I could never let you do that,” Mrs. O responds.

  “But you always say you need help.”

  “Yes, but I mean mental help.” Mrs. O grins. “Besides, working somewhere else will be good for you. Forces you to be brave. Try something new. Fake it until you make it, little one.”

  I groan and push myself off the counter, spinning my little stool around. I bombed my interview at the bookshop by repeating my answers five times—it always has to be five times—and blew off my next two interviews after that. So I’ve basically resigned myself to the fact that I’ll never find a job.

  Mrs. O busies herself with her inventory, asking me to read off the packing list before I carry a box into the store’s back office. Her desk is piled high with all sorts of files, order forms, and dented cans of food, but a bright yellow paper with the word “WARNING” stands out. I don’t want to be nosy, but I can’t help myself. I tug at the yellow paper and glance back to make sure Mrs. O isn’t near.

  * * *

  “NOTICE TO VACATE. TO ALL OCCUPANTS: A Writ of Possession, Cause # 079-370782-2877 has been issued ordering eviction from this property. You and your belongings will be removed, if you have not vacated the premises on or before…”

  * * *

  The words swim. I wipe my eyes. She has to leave by the end of the summer. What am I going to do?

  I put the paper back. My chest aches. I picture the awful things that might happen to Mrs. O if she’s forced out. What if she falls and she’s all alone? What if she can’t afford a new place and has to live on the streets? A flash of lightning travels up my neck and crackles along my scalp. I’m standing in a dirt lot, the remnants of rusted rebar and concrete pushed by bulldozers to my right and a metal crane overhead. The noise is deafening. Mrs. O stands off to the side near a plywood fence, talking to a man in a black suit and hardhat. Tears stream down her face.

  I blink and I’m back in Mrs. O’s office, shaking and drinking in air as fast as I can suck it down. It’s a minute before I can calm myself enough to walk to the front of the store. I try to control the tremor in my voice as I make an excuse to leave.

  What is wrong with me? Why is this happening? My OCD catastrophizing always feels real to my body, but it’s always be
en thoughts. I’ve never been confused about what I was seeing. Until now.

  “Break your momma’s back!” a man catcalls from the adjacent construction site. I shoot him a dirty look. It hits me what he meant a moment later—I’ve been jumping over sidewalk cracks like a lunatic. Absentmindedly giving in to urges is… not good.

  I purposely step on every single crack after that, fighting the nausea and dread it brings. At least I'm pretty confident it’s not going to hurt my mom. I’m a sweaty mess by the time I reach my building. Fighting yourself with every single step is exhausting.

  It’s too hot in the apartment, even with air conditioning, and so the blacktopped roof, which radiates the day’s absorbed heat, is nearly unbearable. I shift on my folding chair and stare at the night sky. At least the wide-open expanse above helps a bit with my claustrophobic helplessness. This sadness is just a sucking mud, dragging me down.

  “Hey, Cinderella.”

  My head whips up and I glimpse Colin’s silhouette in the dark. Just because it happened with Mom doesn’t mean it’ll happen with him… and even if it does, he’s a stranger. It’s not like it’ll affect…

  Of course it would affect me.

  “Unless you turn into a pumpkin at midnight, you don’t have to bolt.” Colin’s voice rings out again when I don’t respond.

  “Sorry,” I say softly.

  “What for?” He steps into a spot of light, and my eyes drink him in with a thirst I didn't know I was capable of.

  “For the other day.” For what might happen to you.

  All of the brownstones on this block are attached to one another. My rooftop and his are only separated by a short, thigh-high wall. Colin walks over to his side of the wall and gives me a wry sideways glance as he leans forward to rest his elbows on the building’s ledge. “If I accept your apology, does that mean we get to start over?”

  His presence is a warm blanket after a trudge through an endless December. I want to bury myself against his chest and dive for the door leading to my stairwell all at once. “Okay.” “Alright, starting over.” He clears his throat. “Hi there. I’m Colin.” He reaches out and I stand, hesitating a second, embarrassed by what repeated washings have done to my hands: the red, scaly patches; the swollen, chapped knuckles; skin that wouldn’t look out of place on a seventy year old. We shake, his warm palm sliding against mine, and my breath hitches as I pull away.

  “Pretty smooth opening line, huh? Nothing that would send a girl running away, right?”

  I smile slightly. “I’m Cinderella, but my friends call me Cindy.”

  Colin grins broadly and shoves his hands into his pockets. He turns to look out at the sea of flickering city lights and I wrestle my giddy, fluttering heart into submission. “You forgot to leave behind a glass slipper.”

  “Squirrel fur,” I correct.

  “Okay, I’ll bite. What?”

  “It wasn’t glass, it was squirrel fur. Charles Perrault, the guy who wrote the version of Cinderella we know, jacked a medieval version of the story, and the word for squirrel fur in French sounded a lot like the word for glass and…”

  Colin laughs. “Yeah, I’m gonna go ahead and say Charlie improved the story. If you’d left behind a squirrel fur slipper, I’d have Cinderella’d it in the opposite direction.”

  If I were a normal person, with normal problems, this boy, the canopy of stars above us, the muted city sounds would inspire a million school-notebook daydream doodles of “Mrs. Cassandra…”

  “What’s your last name?”

  “Random. Why? Want to know what to put in the police report?”

  “Exactly.”

  “It’s Clay. Colin Clay. How about you?”

  “Morai. Are you… are you liking it here so far?”

  “Well, when I’m not terrorizing girls I just met with my thoughts on veal, sure.” He glances at me and scrunches his nose, his lips quirking.

  I shake my head. “It had nothing to do with that.”

  “Oh, so it was just me?” He mimes a shot to the heart and staggers back a few steps.

  I bite back a smile and we settle into a companionable silence. As my eyes roam his profile, it strikes me that it feels like familiar terrain, even though I barely know him. “You miss home?”

  “I’d probably miss home if we stuck around anywhere long enough for me to have one. My dad moves around a lot because of his job.” He pushes off from the ledge, turns around, and leans back. “He bought this place instead of renting, though. You might be stuck with me, neighbor.”

  “The horror,” I say. His laugh feels like a sunrise.

  “Ouch. Maybe I should go back to Prague. It’s beautiful there, and the girls don’t wear squirrel.” He chuckles at my mock stony look, and then his eyes light up. “Wait. What’s that shirt? Oh, no way!” He gestures toward my worn concert tee, salvaged from Mom’s stuff before Dad packed everything away. “I’m obsessed with the Atomic Dons!”

  “Whoa. They’re an old band. I didn’t think anyone knew them.”

  “Yeah, well, you’d be surprised what you’ll find in random record shops in Latvia,” he says. “‘Spindle Rock’ was my anthem two years back. That summer I was all William Faulkner quotes and Atomic Dons lyrics. Constantly. Dark. I drove my tutor nuts.”

  “You like Faulkner?” I ask, more shocked that he knows who that is than by his choice of music. “For someone so cheerful, you have a pretty depressing taste in authors.”

  “That’s because I’m deep and complex.” At my expression, he frowns. “I’m trying to appear mysterious, and you’re blowing it for me.”

  I straighten my face. “I’m sorry. Go ahead. I’m just impressed that you read! Half the people at school only read whatever’s on their phones.”

  “No, the moment’s gone,” he grumbles. “And yes, I read. Byproduct of traveling a lot. Books don’t need Wi-Fi.”

  “Yeah, that’s why I like writing.”

  “You write? What kind of stuff?”

  I cringe, wondering what possessed me to volunteer that info. “Nothing. It’s stupid.” I haven’t written since my mom died.

  “I bet it’s great. Bust it out! Or is it like nonfiction ‘dear diary’ type stuff?” he asks.

  “I’m not having this conversation.”

  “Dear diary, today I met this boy Colin Clay—”

  I blush clear to my roots. “The only way you’ll ever read anything I’ve written is if I’m somehow incapacitated and you steal one of my notebooks.”

  “Then you’ll never see one of my drawings,” he retorts.

  “What do you draw?”

  “You’ll never know.”

  “Oh, it’s like that?”

  “Most of what I do is motivated by spite.” He shrugs.

  “Then you’d love the Spite House. Have you seen it yet?” I ask eagerly, turning to face him more fully.

  “I know what the words in that sentence mean individually, but I have no clue what they’re doing all together like that.”

  “The Spite House! There’s this tiny house this guy built back in the 1800s. The city was buying up land to build the park, and they tried to get this guy’s tiny patch. He was annoyed by their low offer so he refused to sell and built a sliver of a house on it instead. It was some kind of legal loophole to keep the land, out of spite. It’s still there, right in the middle of the park.”

  “Okay, I haven’t seen the Spite House, but now I feel like I need to see it immediately. You’ll have to take me for a tour.”

  “Yeah, sure,” I breathe. Once upon a time I was a person, but now I am a puddle.

  “So besides doing some light reading in the pitch dark, what were you doing up here?” He gestures to the colossal book on the ledge in front of me.

  I shield the cover from his view. There’s no easy way to explain a book called Anxiety, Obsession, and Control: OCD and its Rarer Manifestations, so I pretend it’s a book on constellations. I’m not a good liar. “Looking at the stars. Or trying to
, anyway. Light pollution makes it hard. You?”

  He glances behind him. “Want to come over to this side? It’s not much, but we have cushy chairs. Easier on the neck.”

  In answer, I throw a leg over the divider wall.

  I follow him to a sitting area flanked by a number of large potted plants where two inviting lounge chairs with plush cushions await. Colin stretches his long frame out on one, his hands pillowing his head, and I take the one next to his, sitting cross-legged because even with a foot’s distance between us I can’t lie down next to him.

  “Alright. Lay some knowledge on me," he says.

  I swallow, thinking quickly. “See that semi-circle?” I point toward a patch of stars. “That’s Corona Borealis. In Greek mythology, it’s the crown Princess Ariadne wears when she marries Dionysus after being abandoned on an island by the hero Theseus.”

  “Not much of a hero if he went around abandoning princesses,” Colin observes. “That’s what’s in your book?”

  “No, I… er…”

  “Squirrel fur shoes, the Spite House, and now sad Greek princesses? Do you read encyclopedias for fun or something? Oh, wow. Your face. You don’t, do you?” Colin laughs. “If I get up and grab your book off the ledge, is that what it’ll be?” He feints getting up, and I grab at his arm. He looks down at my hand and smiles, lying back. I release him with a blush.

  “I… I like knowing things,” I say with a self-conscious tug at my shirt. He doesn’t need to know about weekly Trivinometry matches or how long I sat reading my mom’s old encyclopedia set in her closet after she died. Mindlessly. Compulsively. Like I’d find the answer to why in there. I wrap a string from a frayed edge of my shirt around my finger. “I like facts.”

  “I like that you like knowing things,” Colin says in a gentle voice. “You know, I’ve never been able to make out how people looked up at the night sky and saw crabs or fish or whatever in the stars. Or how people believe that it has any impact on our lives.” He looks over at me. “I hope I didn’t insult you again. I figured you were a budding astronomer with that book… You’re not a horoscope lunatic, are you?”