The Secret Society of the Pink Crystal Ball (11 page)

“No,” I agree. “No, there isn't.”

“That's why I want to go on that trip to Italy, though,” he admits.

“Because you want to know if that woman could really talk to the dead?” I ask, laughing in confusion.

“No,” he says, cracking a smile. “Because I want to get to know my dad better. His mother's whole family is from Italy. When he was a kid he used to spend every summer there, hanging out with his cousins. So I feel like, if I go on that trip, I'll get to see the world the way the Old Masters saw it, but I'll also get to see it the way my dad saw it. I think it would give me a lot of insight into who he was.”

Wow
, I think. I guess he isn't going to have any trouble writing his essay. I try to tell myself to stop feeling envious—after all, I'd rather have my father than go to Italy—but still, I can't help wishing that I had a reason even a tenth as good as that one. I also can't help wishing that we could both go on this trip together, because the more time I spend with Jesse Cooper, the more I think I might like him. He's getting easier to talk to, he's smart, and he's hot—I smile to myself.
Smexy
.

Jesse crumples up the SunChips bag and tosses it four feet across the room, sinking it into the trash can.

“What about you?” he asks. “How come you want to go to Italy?”

I would make something up, but if I were able to think of anything, then I'd already have written it in my essay. Plus, it does seem like we're playing a game of truth or dare. I mean, he did just tell me that he went to see a woman who communicates with dead people.

I look past him, trying to hide my embarrassment. “It's a terrible reason, but basically, my life is boring,” I confess. “And I'm hoping that if I go to Italy, it will become less boring. Pretty pathetic, huh?”

Jesse reaches out and pats my hand. I feel a tingle shoot out from the spot where he touches me, and I wonder if he feels it too. Does he really not remember that kiss?

“Nah, that's not so bad,” he says, taking his hand away. “I can think of way more terrible reasons than that.”

I just want my sister's ashes back,” my mom says into the phone.

We're in the car, on our way home from the museum. She pulled up out front at six o'clock on the dot, just like she said she would. But when I got inside, the phone was pressed to her ear, and she held up one finger, signaling me not to say anything.

As we pull away, I watch Jesse walk to his car—a beat-up black 1980s Cadillac—and I find myself wishing that I were getting into that car with him instead of riding away in my mom's silver Volvo. God, I can't wait until I turn sixteen. I hate being a summer birthday. When Jesse and I were twelve, he used to lord over me the fact that he would be able to get his license a full six months before I would. I remember how he used to tease me. “
You'd better be nice to me, or I'm not going to drive you anywhere. I'll be the cool guy with the car, and you'll be the lame girl who has to have her parents pick her up all the time.
”

It's so weird. I remember that like it was yesterday and now here we are. Maybe
he's
the one with ESP.

“I don't care what kind of relationship they had,” my mom says, her voice beginning to rise. “She was my sister. Aren't there laws against this?” She pauses as the person on the other end of the phone responds, and then she starts to yell. “No. No, I'm not going to calm down. I want the ashes. If you can't get them for me, then I'll find someone who can. Thank you.” She pushes the end button on the phone with her right hand, and I notice that the knuckles on her left hand have turned white from gripping the steering wheel so hard.

“Who was that?” I ask cautiously.

“Nobody,” she says, staring straight ahead. “Just another incompetent lawyer.”

So
that's
who she was talking to on the phone the other day. I wonder how many lawyers she's hung up on so far.

“You're hiring a lawyer to get Aunt Kiki's ashes back?”

“Yes. I need some closure. I can't go visit her in a cemetery. I have nothing that belonged to her. She was so selfish. This is just like her, not to think about anything but what she wanted.” My mom looks up at the roof of the car. “I'm glad you were so worried about your friends, Kate, but what about me? Why didn't you worry about me?”

I glance over at my mom again. She looks…well, sad, obviously. But also maybe slightly off her rocker.

“Have you tried calling her friends?” I ask. “I mean, I know you asked at the memorial service, but if you explain the situation to them rationally, maybe they'll—”

“I tried that. But these people are not rational. They're just like Kate.”

“Well, what did they say?”

My mom sighs. “They said something like ‘when the time is right to have the discussion, then we'll have it.' But I'm not going to sit around waiting for them to decide that the stars have aligned or that the sun is in Jupiter's moon or whatever it is those crazy people think will be the right time.”

Hmmm
. That sounds familiar. I think back to the memorial service, and Aunt Kiki's friend Roni.
How will I know when I'm ready?
I had asked her.
You'll just know
, she had said.

I want to ask my mom if Roni is the friend she spoke to, but I don't feel like explaining how I know Roni, or why Roni was talking to me at the memorial service. But still…I wonder if it was her. It had to have been.

It occurs to me that maybe I'm ready now. Maybe Roni meant that I should call when my mom started freaking out so much that I couldn't take it anymore.

Well, Roni
, I think to myself,
I believe that time has arrived
.

***

As soon as we finish eating dinner I go upstairs and head straight for my desk. I know exactly where I left the card with Roni's number on it. I hid it under the blue heart-shaped glass paperweight from Tiffany that my grandma gave me when I started high school. (My grandma, apparently, never got the memo that I stopped liking heart-shaped things when I was eight. She also must have missed the one about how nobody has used paperweights since, like, 1973.)

I deliberately picked that spot to hide it, because I didn't want my mom to see the card if she ever came in my room when I wasn't home. I lift up the paperweight…and there's the card. Without giving myself time to chicken out, I pick up the phone and dial the number. At first I felt bold about this, but now that it's ringing, I'm feeling kind of nervous. I'm not sure exactly what I'm going to say, and I'm just about to hang up when Roni answers.

“Hello?”

“Um, hi, can I speak to Roni please?” Of course I already know that I'm talking to her; I'd recognize her voice anywhere. But I just needed to stall for a minute so that I could gather my thoughts.

“This is Roni.”

“Oh,” I say, pretending to be surprised. “Hi, Roni. This is Erin. Kate's niece? Do you remember? You gave me your number at the memorial service?”

“Of course I remember.”

“Right. Well, um, I'm calling because, um, I think I'm ready.”

Roni doesn't hesitate for even a second. “No, you're not.”

“Wait—what? Yes I am. My mom is freaking out over here. She really wants Kiki's ashes. She needs closure. And I can't take it anymore, with the drawers opening and closing all night. I can barely sleep.”

“This isn't about your mom, Erin. This is about you, and what Kate wanted for you. Now call me back when you're ready for real.” It sounds as if she's about to hang up, and I desperately want to stop her.

“Wait!” I yell. “Don't go!” There's silence on the other end of the line, but I know she's there. I can hear her breathing. “I've used the ball,” I say.

This time, she does hesitate. “And?” she finally asks.

And?
What does she mean,
and?

“
And
…it's really cool?” I say, trying to guess what the right answer might be.

Roni sighs. “Like I said, call me when you're ready.”

And just like that, the line goes dead.

***

In my inbox, there are, like, twenty-five messages from various retail establishments. The Gap, J.Crew, Abercrombie & Fitch, the iTunes store. There are also three from Samantha (1. When can we ask the ball? 2. Why are you not answering me? 3. Where are you? You can't be out. I swear, if you changed your mind I will never speak to you again.); one from Lindsay (Hi, I really hope you're not mad at me today for not sticking up for you at lunch. It's just that Samantha can be really persuasive, and you know she scares me a little when she gets that way, and I'm not good at saying no to her.); and one more from an email address that I don't recognize: theweevil26j.

The subject line reads:
I Know
.

Theweevil26j? Who is that? I mentally scan through the list of people I email, but nobody I know has an address like that. Oh, well. It must be spam. About a year ago I got forty messages a day from someone called rj69, who promised to make my penis bigger in less than ten days or I'd be guaranteed my money back. But that was before I had the filter that my dad put on my computer, after he saw one too many episodes of
Dateline: To Catch a Predator
.

Now, if anyone sends me an email, my inbox automatically sends them an email back asking them to verify who they are, and I get an alert that someone not on my “safe list” is trying to contact me. Seriously, for someone I don't know to get a message to me now, they would need to have, like, a retina scan and C.I.A. level clearance. So how did this theweevil26j person get through?

I'm about to hit delete, but then curiosity gets the better of me.

Who are you, Mr. Weevil? And what exactly is it that you know?

I click on the message to open it.

I heard you talking yesterday. I know you have it. Either you make her stop, or I will.

Beneath the message, pasted into the email, is the text from the website that Lindsay found the other night, about Robert Clayton and the Pink Crystal Ball with mystical properties.

I realize immediately that it's from Chris Bollmer. It figures that he would know how to hack his way around my spam filter. I reread the message.

I heard you talking yesterday. I know you have it.

Damn. I
knew
he heard us talking behind my locker. And now he knows about the ball. I rub my temples as I try to think through what this means.

Either you make her stop, or I will.

Whoa. He's talking about Megan of course, but what is he trying to say? Is he insinuating that he's going to try to hurt Megan? The bomb rumor from fourth grade crosses my mind, but I quickly dismiss it. Obviously, the guy's a few Fruit Loops short of a bowl, but I don't think he's exactly a domestic terrorist.

But he knows
, I think to myself.

But so what?
Even if he tried to tell people about the ball, who would believe him? I'm still not even sure if I believe it. I mean, yes, it's all definitely been a little strange, but there has been a logical explanation for everything that's happened. Okay, maybe not for Spencer Ridgely, but certainly for my boobs growing. And is it really so bizarre that Mr. Lower would write that my paper was well researched and insightful? My paper
was
well researched and insightful. I knew that when I turned it in.

I hit reply.

I have no idea what you're talking about.

A few seconds later, another message appears.

Yes, you do.

Well, yeah, of course I do. But does he really think I'm going to admit it to him? In
writing
? I click on the
x
in the corner of my email screen to close it.
Later, Unabollmer. Find someone else to bother.
I suddenly feel bad for secretly thinking that Lindsay is too mean to him. The guy really is kind of creepy.

I reach across my desk and pick up the ball, turning it over in my hands, and I close my eyes. Instead of darkness, I see Jesse. The blue eyes…I shake the ball.

“Will I get picked for the Italy trip?” I ask it.

I realize that this is the first time I've asked it anything without Samantha and Lindsay there, egging me on, and for a second, I feel stupid. Do I really think that there is such a thing as a magic Pink Crystal Ball? But Jesse's voice is echoing in my head.
There's no way to know for sure
. I look down, waiting for the pink, glittery liquid (which, thanks to the guy with the rotary drill and the website, I now know will permanently stain anything it touches, including skin) to clear.

The beyond eludes me at this time.

I shake my head, bringing myself back to reality. Who am I kidding? Of course this thing isn't real.

I take out the paper with the clues on them and pick up where I left off last night. I might not believe in it, but I still want to know what Aunt Kiki was trying to tell me.

One rotation is as far as you can see. Only uncertainty lies beyond.

I take out the other paper, the one on which I had written my notes.
One rotation. Rotate the ball?

Suddenly, I want to smack myself in the head.
It's not rotate the ball, stupid
, I think to myself. It's talking about the sun. One rotation of the sun. One twenty-four-hour period. That's as far as you can see. If I ask it anything that's supposed to happen after that, then I'll get an uncertain answer. My heart pounds as the doubt begins to creep back into my head again. This certainly would explain why it didn't answer me about whether I would get into Harvard and cure cancer and marry a doctor. And it explains why it never answers me about the trip. The teachers aren't meeting to pick the kids until next week, so it's too far in the future.

I think back to everything that's happened: all of it has occurred within twenty-four hours of me asking.

Okay, then. Let's give it one more test. Once and for all, I'm going to make up my mind about this thing. If what I ask it comes true this time, then I will officially join the ranks of the believers.

But what should I ask it for? What do I want to happen in the next twenty-four hours?

It doesn't take me long to think of something this time. I shake the ball again.

“Will Jesse Cooper ask me out on a date?” My heart pounds as I wait for the pink liquid to clear.

The spirits whisper yes.

I need to get on a three-way call with Samantha and Lindsay. Immediately.

I reach for the phone, but before I can grab it, it rings. That was weird. I pick up the receiver.

“Hello?” I ask.

“Hey.”

Oh my God
. It's Jesse. I look over at the ball, incredulous.
No way
.

“Oh, hey,” I answer, trying not to sound like I'm completely freaking out. “How are you?

“I'm good,” he says. “I was just thinking, you know, we need to plan our next museum outing.”

I narrow my eyes, furious. “Um, yeah, can you hold on for a second?” I put the phone on mute and I pick up the ball. “This does not count,” I say to it sternly. “Uh-uh. Asking me to go to the museum for a school project is not the same as asking me on a date. That is totally cheating. You are a cheater.” I put the ball back down and pick up the phone, taking it off of mute.

“Sorry, it was my mom. Anyway, what were you saying?”

“I was saying that we need to go to the museum, to pick our last painting.”

“Right,” I say, attempting to keep the disappointment out of my voice. “Sure. When do you want to go?”

“Well, the museum is closed on Sunday, and even I can't get us in then. So how about Monday after school?” he suggests. “That still leaves us Tuesday to work on the presentation and practice and stuff.”