Farsighted (Farsighted Series) (3 page)

The temperature rises around us. My heart beats faster. I hope Simmi doesn’t notice. She seems almost scared to talk to me now. Is she worried about hurting my feelings or something? People never know how to talk about my blindness; it makes them really uncomfortable. Guess this means it’s up to me to engage Simmi in small talk.

“Where did you live before?” I ask.

“My family’s just come from New Delhi,” she answers. The air around her lightens up as she relaxes into our conversation.

“New Delhi?”

“It’s the capital city of India.”

“Oh.” I grope about for a topic change, something to keep the conversation going. “Hey, I think you’re in my first period English class, too.” I realize, recalling the smell of cherry candy and the unknown boy yelling at Simmi to keep quiet.

“No, Algebra’s my first period,” Simmi says, a hint of apology in her voice.

“Oh, okay.” I feel doubly stupid. Now I’m smelling
and
hearing things that don’t exist. Luckily, we’ve arrived at our classroom, so I don’t get the chance to say anything that’ll make me sound even more idiotic. “Mrs. Warszynski’s sixth hour World History,” I announce, making a grand gesture with my arms.

“Thank you,” Simmi says, stopping outside of the classroom. “Oh,” she murmurs, after a beat. “I can’t see any seats left together. I guess we’ll talk in chemistry tomorrow. Bye.”

“Bye,” I reply, settling into the first desk I can find near the door. The smell of Simmi’s almond skin fades as she takes a seat in the front corner of the room. This is good actually. Now I’ve got the rest of the day to think about what I can talk about with Simmi tomorrow in class. I’ve got a chance to make a friend, and I don’t want to mess it up by being an idiot.

***

Sixth hour passes quickly but painfully. Even though today’s the first day back, Mrs. Warszynski wastes no time jumping into full-on lecture mode. I end up with four pages of notes, typed up on my special braille keyboard. The clacking of my keys seems to put her on edge. All the teachers are bothered the first few weeks of the semester, but eventually they get used to it—they don’t have a choice.

It’s clear to me that Mrs. Warszynski is the kind of teacher who loves torturing students by throwing out an endless assortment of dates, names, and foreign words. Each time she mentions one of them in her lecture, she takes a brief pause to give every one time to write the information down. I know from experience this info will undoubtedly surface on a test, which I totally don’t appreciate. See, I’m good at learning general ideas but struggle with precise details.

Sometimes I’ll study hard and memorize everything in my notes only to realize I’ve typed a date wrong or made a spelling error. Now I’ve made a habit of typing every name and date three times to avoid mistakes, since I can’t exactly go back and check. Each day after school, I print my notes on the braille printer the school district assigned for my family’s home use, but by that time, it’s almost impossible for me to realize if a mistake has been made. Besides, why would I reread all of my notes right away?

It’s true I wouldn’t make so many mistakes if I still had my teacher’s aid. Way back when I started kindergarten, the school assigned me my own personal helper. She sat with me and made sure I got everything down correctly; she took the reports I typed out in braille and converted them into the standard alphabet so my teachers could grade them. The aid was helpful but cemented my position as a complete and total outcast.

How could I whisper to friends or take part in any social activity with a school-appointed guardian watching my every move? I elected to dump my aid when I started high school, but the joke was on me, since I’m
still
an outcast. Now Dad converts my reports and manages my studies from home; he lost his job and has nothing else to keep him busy anyway. Maybe with time, my classmates will forget I ever had an aid and start including me in their social stuff.

The bell rings. Finally. The collective relief of my classmates is almost palpable, like a fog of boredom has lifted and the warmth of the fun-loving sun has returned. I slam my computer shut and race out of the room. I’m the first one to the hallway and one of the first to exit the school building. As I push open the thick glass doors, I’m greeted with the pleasant aroma of wet grass and asphalt. My lungs expand more than usual, sucking in the fresh, clean air. I love the sky after a rainstorm. The millions of humid micro-droplets form a fine armor around me, making me relaxed and happy.

I walk over to the edge of the sidewalk, close to the general area where Dad waits for me every day after school.

“Hey, Alex, how was it today?” He’s in a much better mood than usual.

“Good, good,” I reply, getting into the car. Suddenly, I realize I’ve been here before—had this conversation, felt the crisp density of the air, taken in the scents of the wet ground. Only the first time, everything happened in the school’s hallway and the role of my dad was played by Brady Evans. Before I can stop myself, I reach out and touch Dad’s face to make sure he’s really there this time. If it’s Brady again, I’m dead.

Luckily, it is Dad. He places his hand on top of mine as I hold his face. His eyes burn holes into my skin; just because I can’t see them doesn’t mean I can’t feel their laser intensity. “Alex? What’s wrong?”

“Nothing. I was just somewhere else for a second,” I say, purposely keeping my answer vague as I buckle myself in.

Dad’s attention stays focused on me for a few more seconds—his tense gaze sends prickles across my skin—before he jerks the van into drive. We don’t talk the entire way to Mom’s shop. I attempt to make sense of all the strange stuff that has been happening to me lately but don’t have enough time to reach any kind of conclusion. Mom’s shop is nearby, basically walking distance, and we’re there within a couple of minutes.

“Well, here we are,” Dad says as he angles the van into an empty parking space.

I snap back to reality, grab my cane, and hop out of the car.

Dad stops me. “Hey, you’re acting a bit strange today. Pull it together for your mother. I’d hate for her to worry.” He slaps me on the shoulder as we resume our walk toward the shop. It doesn’t escape my notice that his Boston accent is flaring up again. But what’s triggering it?

“Okay,” I snap back, even though I
am
acting a bit strange today. I can’t help it. Anyone would act strange given the circumstances. And how does Dad know? Was he reading
my
mind? The idea is ridiculous. I must’ve been making faces while I was thinking. Sometimes I do that. My parents can just look at me and know how I’m feeling. I don’t know what my face does to give this away, so I can’t stop. I think it’s time for me to start trying to figure it out, though.

Dad’s hand tenses on my shoulder. He stops walking.

“What?” I ask.

“Oh, ha, it’s, uh—nothing. Seems like we’ve got a new neighbor.” Then he starts walking normally again. “That’ll be good for business, should bring more people to the area. I’ll bet your mother is over the moon.”

I’m glad someone has moved in. The shop next to Mom’s has been vacant for over a year. Can’t wait to find out who’s moved in next door. “What, Dad? What’s there?” I detect the scent of burning, but I don’t think this place is a restaurant, and it’s too small to be a fire station.

“Oh, I’m not sure exactly…” Dad trails off. “Some kind of consulting firm, I think. Doesn’t look like anyone’s there today—Susan!” He pushes open the door to Sweet Blossoms, Mom’s florist shop. The bell attached to the door jingles merrily, reminding me of Christmas.

“Hi, Greg,” Mom shouts. “I’m in the back room.”

“Okay, I’m going to send Alex back. I’m running a bit late. I need to hurry if I’m going to make the interview on time.” His accent has vanished, returning his voice to normal.

Mom clomps into the main room with her rubber garden boots. She hugs us both and gives Dad a kiss. “Good luck today! I just know you’re going to get this one.”

“I’m glad you’ve got so much confidence in me,” he mumbles. The door swings closed behind him. The bells jingle again and moments later the engine of our family van roars to life, pulsing as Dad speeds away to his destination.

“How was your first day?” Mom asks as she washes her hands, counting faintly under her breath to ensure she lathers for exactly thirty seconds.

“It was fine. I’m excited about Advanced Chem.”

“Oh, good. I’m glad.” I hear her dry her hands on a cloth towel before closing the spigot with a squeak of rusted metal.

“How was business today?” I ask, trying to sound optimistic. Things aren’t going well at Sweet Blossoms lately. We’re barely making ends meet.

“Fantastic! Today, Mr. McDivens came in and bought an autumnal bouquet for Mrs. McDivens. I think she’ll be pleasantly surprised.”

“That’s nice,” I say, deciding it’s best not to ask any follow up questions. I can tell she’s only made one sale today, which isn’t enough to pay the shop’s utility bills—let alone the family’s grocery tab.

“Did Dad tell you? A new tenant moved into the old pharmacy next door.”

“Really?” I ask, not letting on I already know. If I feign ignorance, Mom’ll divulge all the details. “What is it?”

“It’s a psychic shop,” Her voice crackles with excitement, like a fire that’s just beginning to burn. “The All-Seeing Miss Teak. Isn’t that cute? Miss Teak, Mystic. Ha! I wonder if that’s her real name.”

I laugh. “That is funny. Never had a psychic in town before. What’s she like?”

“Oh, she’s very friendly. Why don’t you go over and say ‘hi.’ I’m sure she’d like to meet you.”

“Okay, I think I will.” I’m incredibly intrigued, because first off, it’s a psychic shop—how weird is that?—and second, its presence made Dad super uncomfortable—also very cool. I waste no time heading next door to check out the scene. My cane clacks against the wall of the building until it strikes glass with a soft
tap
.

As I step cautiously into the new shop, a recording of soft, instrumental music greets me. I make out chimes and a string instrument I don’t recognize but for some reason reminds me of snake charmers. The sweet smell of incense fills my nostrils, which explains the burning I detected earlier.

“Hello?” I call out into quiet room.

Nobody answers. I walk in deeper, sweeping my cane out in front of me in a metronome fashion. This place is new to me, so I need to be especially careful while moving around.

Thump
! Despite my precautions, I stub my toe on something hard, big, and made of wood. Just my luck to stub the same toe twice in one day. I reach down to press my fingers into my throbbing foot to alleviate some of the pain. Something teeters before rolling off of the chest and across the floor; the sound it makes indicates a curved path. Suddenly, the object goes silent. Somebody has stopped it.

“Hello?” I call again.

“Hello,” a deep, feminine voice responds, placing more emphasis on the first syllable than the second.

“I-I’m sorry I knocked that thing over. I didn’t mean to…” I hope she’s not angry. Probably not a good idea to get on a psychic’s bad side.

“That wasn’t just a
thing
, it’s a crystal ball,” she says as she walks over, sending my blood pulsing through my veins. I sense her looking at me for a moment before she places the ball back on top of the chest.

“Can it see the future?” I ask, allowing my curiosity to outweigh my uneasiness.

“No.” After a pause lasting several beats, she continues. “But I can see the future, sometimes, when I look into it.”

“Oh, okay.” I tighten my hand around my cane and turn to leave. It may not be the most polite thing to do, but all of this hocus-pocus stuff is freaking me out more than I would’ve guessed.

The psychic lady speaks again, stopping me cold. “Don’t run away, Alex Kosmitoras.” She must’ve spoken to Mom earlier today. That’s how she knows my name.

“I’m not running away,” I say. “I’m just going back over to Sweet Blossoms.”

“Don’t run away,” she repeats—this time she speaks louder and with more energy. “Don’t run away from your abilities. They are gifts.”

“What?” I ask in confusion. What abilities is she talking about?

“You already know. Watch. Listen. Be open to your gifts.”

I turn to face Miss Teak, but the room is quiet. Either she’s watching me or she’s gone, returned to wherever she was before I got there.

Is it safe to leave? I trail my fingers across the wooden box I rammed into earlier; a thick coat of dust clings to the tips as I pull away. If this shop just opened, why is it already so dirty? I wipe my hands over my shirt to get the gritty substance off. Shivers rock my whole body. Something about this place is wrong, and I’m not sticking around to figure out what. Tapping my cane along the floor, I find the exit without knocking into anything else.

Outside, I jog back toward Sweet Blossoms, eager to be in a safe, familiar environment again.
Thump
! I run face-forward into whoever was standing between me and Mom’s shop. Having steadied myself upon impact, I’m still on two feet. My victim wasn’t so lucky.

“I’m sorry,” I say. “I didn’t mean to.”

I offer my hand to help the person up. A soft, inviting hand enters my own. It smells like almonds. “Alex?” It’s that same musical voice that’s been in my head ever since chem class.

“Simmi. I’m so, so sorry!” Wow, I am
not
smooth. I’ve run full force into this new girl, a girl I think I’m starting to like. Earlier today, I thought maybe—just maybe—I could convince her to like me, too. That’s probably not going to happen now.

“It’s okay.” She moves her hands across her arms and her clothes, cleaning off to the sounds of rustling cloth. The smell of coconut overpowers my nose as she flips her hair and combs her fingers through the tresses. I hear her nails rake her scalp, and then several bits of gravel drop to the ground—plink, plunk, plonk.

“Really, I’m very sorry,” I say again. “I don’t normally run around like that, but I had to get out of that weird shop.” I’m searching, groping for any way to make the collision less embarrassing. I realize too late that this makes me seem pathetic and cowardly.