Cat Calls (2 page)

“My name is Brenda,” she says.

“Welcome,” I reply in my stage voice. “What would you have me ask the ball?”

Her hand goes to a silver cross hanging from her necklace. “My son . . .”

“You’re worried about him?”

She nods. “His job is dangerous.”

I’m thinking he’s military, police, fire, or maybe in high-rise construction.

I repeat the ritual, fighting to relax. I close my eyes until I can visualize myself surrounded by white light. Then I gaze into the ball. To my surprise, the mist is there, or at least it really looks that way in this lighting, and so are the shadows, but it’s hard to make out any definite shape.

I peer, concentrating, and a moment later I actually have something to report. “I see a shell. A bean?” The shadow turns. “A wheel.”

“He’s on a ship,” Brenda tells me. “He’s on the ocean. You know, seashells. And we had black-eyed peas on New Year’s for luck. That was the last time I saw him. Could the bean have been a pea?”

People work hard to make the connections. They want to believe.

“It’s possible,” I say, still using my stage voice. “The mists are difficult to read.”

“What does it mean?” she wants to know.

This is the point where I should ask for a dollar. Instead, I peer again at the crystal and dump the phony voice. “Never mind the pea. That’s a reflection from your thumb.” As she moves her hands to her lap, I spot the wheel and shell again, or at least I think I do. “What the ball reveals isn’t always what it seems,” I explain, using one of Granny Z.’s trademark lines. “Signs can mean different things.”

I have a laminated cheat sheet of common symbols and their meanings, which I of course forgot back at the trailer. Technically, that shouldn’t matter. I should trust in my ability to interpret and not take anything too literally. “Like the shell, it could mean the ocean, and with the wheel, um, together they might suggest a faraway destination.”

Brenda nods again. “He said he wanted to see the world.”

I’m back to my military theory. I try to remember the meanings from the cheat sheet, but it’s no use. Maybe I’m just picking up on her fear, but one possible interpretation occurs to me again and again. Hesitating, I add, “Or it could mean death.”

Brenda’s intake of breath is sharp.

It’s all I can do to bite back the apology. My job now is to decide which way the reading will go — positive or negative. I ask the ball instead. “Will Brenda’s son be safe?”

The mists flicker, then rise, and I know what to tell her. “He will,” I say. “He’ll visit many places, traveling on the seas, but he’ll survive the voyage. That’s his future.”

If Brenda’s son is in the navy or whatever, no fortune-teller is going to bring him home safe. At least this way, maybe she’ll feel a little better.

Brenda dabs her eyes, looking more doubtful than comforted, and rises to leave.

I try not to feel guilty about letting her go without charging at least a dollar. Granny Z. needs all the money she can get. But Brenda wasn’t here just for fun. She wouldn’t have been paying to be entertained by a low-rent carnival act.

On her way out, Brenda asks, “You’re sure he’ll be OK? Not to be rude; it’s just that you’re a bit young.” She pauses. “Then again, so is he.”

“Really, Kevin will be fine.” I hope that it’s true.

I’m surprised by how much she brightens in reply.

“Thank you! Thank you!” Brenda gushes before rushing out.

“Wait!” I call, but she’s already gone.

What just happened? I saw a shell and a wheel, which was kind of interesting, and I tried to reassure her. But I could tell that, as much as she wanted to, she didn’t fully believe until . . . until I said Kevin’s name! A name she
never
told me!

I replay the session over and over in my mind and finally conclude that there’s no logical explanation. Somehow, I just knew. What I don’t know is how on earth to feel about that. Only one thing’s for sure: boy, do I owe Granny Z. an apology. . . .

Psychic or not, I’m starving and, besides, eating is a normal, everyday activity. Maybe a solid meal will make me feel more like myself again.

I stick a note reading
BACK IN FIVE
on the sign outside and venture out to score dinner from Aiden. He’s the nearest vendor who’s hot for me and not so old that it’s icky.

“I’ll have three beef burritos, nachos, fries, and, um, a large Coke.”

“Damn, Tiff!” Aiden exclaims. “You want a horse to go with that?”

I give him a half smile. “Why, you got one to spare?” I don’t know what’s with my appetite. For the past few months, it’s like I can’t get enough to eat. I don’t mind, though. I’m putting on only a little weight, most of it dancerlike muscle.

I take the brown paper bag and my drink back to the tent, leaving the note where it is. Nobody’s waiting, anyway.

Half an hour later, I’m polishing off the greasy fries when I smell something a lot more appetizing than burritos. I look up and am startled by the most extraordinarily smokin’ young guy. He’s standing in the middle of the tent, only steps away, like he belongs here.

There’s a gold
T
in the center of his silver buckle. It fits with his western-style shirt, black jeans, and black cowboy boots. Glancing to his face, I see that his square jaw is covered with sexy stubble. His eyes are a mesmerizing hazel, more gold than green, and he’s looking at me like
I’m
dinner.

I drop my fry. Part of me wants to swat the stranger for barging in. Part of me wants to cower, mortified at being caught off guard like this. Mostly, though, I want to lick his sweat dry and rub myself all over him.

The last thought surprises me. Since my growth spurt, I’ve generated plenty of interest, but until now, I haven’t been that jazzed by anyone myself.

“What the hell are you doing here?” I demand.

“I’m here about the future.” He takes off his cowboy hat, like out of respect for my being a lady, and runs a hand through his thick, tawny, shoulder-length hair.

Oh, of course. But right then, it occurs to me that he could be dangerous. We’re alone in the tent, the flap is closed, and carnivals can attract some scary folks. “I’m on break. Didn’t you see the note?”

“Relax, Tiffany,” he says. “Your grandma and me, we’re sort of related.”

I shove my trash into the bag and toss it toward the back of the tent. “Related how?” Granny Z. didn’t mention any family in Oklahoma.

“Very distant cousins,” he says, with a bright, widening smile. “Kissing cousins, you could say.”

I blink. Oh, my God! He’s hitting on me.

I blink again. Oh, thank God! He’s hitting on me.

I ask, “And you’re?”

He digs into his front jeans pocket, pulls out a wadded up fiver, smoothes it out, slaps it onto the table, and takes a seat. “Ready if you are.”

I feel like an idiot, but until now I’ve made no money and the night’s burning fast.

I take a few seconds to try to compose myself. It’s hard not to feel self-conscious. “Stop staring at me.”

He pushes the chair back the full length of his legs, crosses his boots, puts his hands behind his head, and flexes his chest, popping open the top few snaps of his shirt.

“You said something about staring,” he teases.

Again, I’m tempted to swat him. “It’s all that chest hair of yours. It’s disgusting.”

He laughs. “You think so?” Pointing to the ball, he adds, “What else do you see?”

He probably
is
a friend of Granny Z.’s. It would be just like her to send someone to check up on me. I’d hate to think what he’d report so far.

My gaze shifts to the ball, and this time it’s different. I don’t have to imagine a white room. I’m not dealing with mere candlelight reflections. The world around the ball has faded, but not to white — red. Red, if I remember right, means conflict. The images are clearer, too.

“Snake,” I whisper, thinking of Eden, of wisdom and deceit. “Bird.” Maybe it’s freedom. Maybe it’s flight. “Cat.” My mind goes to lucky black cats, how I always wanted a kitten. My landlord in Detroit didn’t allow pets.

I rub my temples, frustrated. This reading isn’t supposed to be about me. It’s his fault. He’s scrambling my senses. I can’t even make up something right now.

I’m about to look away when suddenly I notice his face in the ball. At first, I assume it’s a reflection, but no, I see now that he’s wearing his hat. I lean closer, and the view expands, shifting from foggy to — I swear to God — HDTV quality.

The hat is gone, and he’s running, his teeth gritted. He grunts once in pain. Glancing back, his eyes widen, his pupils dilate. Then claws attack him from behind. I glimpse glistening fangs as the mists cloud my view again.

“Watch out!” I exclaim, looking up. “There’s —”

I’m talking to an empty tent.

The magic of the carnival hasn’t worn off for me yet. Usually, it’s entertaining — intriguing, surprising, spooky fun. Tonight, though, it’s hostile — the flashing lights, swirling rides, jabbering carnies, blaring music, meandering crowd.

I can’t find Trevor anywhere.

Trevor.
That’s his name. That’s what the
T
on the belt buckle stands for. I just know it, like I knew the name of Brenda’s son. I tried asking the ball if Trevor would be OK, but the mists vanished. I keep telling myself that crystallomancy is much more of an art than a science, that the images could symbolize nothing more than a painful hangnail or a tricky mid-term exam, but it’s not working. Sweat is streaming down my body. My blood is screaming. My heart has never pounded like this before.

I jog toward the big exhibits, almost trampling Jennie, the bearded lady.

“Easy, girl,” she says. “Who set your pants on fire?”

“Have you seen a guy — a gorgeous cowboy guy, tall, and oh, God, Jennie, if you saw him you’d remember. I don’t have time to explain, but he’s in big trouble.”

She shakes her head. “Sorry, honey, but I’ll keep a lookout.”

Minutes later, I’m stuck in a clog of foot traffic, and somebody pinches my butt. I turn to look, annoyed but hoping it’s Trevor. Ready to spit when it’s not.

A pack of losers wearing letter jackets chuckles. Five farm-fed football players — one is chewing tobacco; another sucks on a cherry snow cone.

Any other night, and I might enjoy toying with them.

Tonight, they don’t matter, at least not until they split to circle me. I could holler, and they’d be tossed off the lot. But I don’t have time for that either.

I take a step forward, and three close ranks to block my way. Shoving through, I knock two to the ground. Moving on, I hear one whine about his shoulder, another about his tailbone. It’s nothing but noise.

I’ve spotted my cowboy in front of a toss-game booth. “Trevor!”

If he hears me, he doesn’t show it. Instead, Trevor jogs into the open field bordering the lot and breaks into a run. I follow, faster and faster, calling his name, fighting to catch up. We plunge, one after another, into the tall brown grass, farther and farther from the carnival. With each step, he outpaces me. Soon, I can barely see him.

I trip on my long dress, ripping it. I had no idea I was so out of shape. My muscles feel like they’re tearing apart, my lungs like I’m drowning. I push up with a choked cry and stagger forward, moving on instinct. Falling again to the clay dirt, I catch myself on my hands and knees. My vision blurs, and I twist on the ground, inhaling the scents of blood and musk and grass. Am I sick? Am I hallucinating?

My mind returns to the monster in the vision.

If Trevor is in danger, maybe so am I.

Just for a minute, I black out. Then my eyes open. I’m soaking wet, sore, and I can’t find my footing. My sandals are split wide open, my clothes ripped into pieces!

I smell Trevor nearby, and, again, he captures my full attention.

This time, I’ll sneak. Sneak up on him, low, low, low in the tall brown grass. He doesn’t see me coming. Can he smell me the way I do him?

His shadow’s lumpy. I pounce. Smack his shoulders. He turns. He’s got me — Trevor-But-Not-Trevor — and we roll. I feel his teeth graze my shoulder and I kick, tossing him off, forcing ground between us.

My mind snaps back full force at the sight of an immense gold and brown cat — cougar? — showing off his impressive teeth, the white fur of his jaw and chest turned pinkish from the dust. I should be scared, but I’m not. It seems somehow natural to be here with him, natural that he’s so majestic, so magnificent, and so very male.

Trevor. For a moment, I’m ashamed to admit I’m still attracted to him. Then I raise a hand, only to realize it’s become a huge paw. I’m a Cat, too, but how?

My mom is human. She has to be. She’s not interesting enough not to be. Besides, it’s been just us my whole life. I’d know if she wasn’t. On the other hand, Dad . . .

Trevor gives me space, purring low and circling wide, while the knowledge gels.

It’s funny and familiar and, OK, vaguely terrifying. It’s also the answer to all the questions I’ve tried to explain away. My father was a shifter, a werecat. So is Trevor. So am I. The beast I saw in the crystal was me.

That must be why Granny Z. sent Trevor to the tent — to get my primal juices juicing, to spur on my change, to call out my inner Cat.

Or maybe to find out if my Cat could be called out.

“Who knows what you can do?” Granny had said earlier. I suspect even she hadn’t known for sure. No wonder she’s been keeping such close tabs on me all these years. After tonight, though, I guess it’s clear enough which side of the family I take after. Tomorrow, I’m going to sit her down for the talk, whether she likes it or not.

Wow. And I’d thought being psychic was an adjustment. This is going to take some serious getting used to. But first, I have Trevor to deal with.

He shakes his head in invitation, and I remember what he told me back in the tent: “I’m here about the future.” As in Trevor and Tiffany, I realize.
T
&
T.

I can tell from the look in his gold eyes that he’s thinking boy Cat plus girl Cat equals, well, more than he’s getting on the first date. Our future — if there is one — will take care of itself. But, as for tonight . . .