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As I
WALKED TOWARD
P
SYCHIC
P
HOTO
to meet Duncan—and Delilah and Leo
(this is not a date)
—all I could think about was Rolf Reinhardt and what a jerk he was and how I still kind of liked him.

Rolf had been in my ninth-grade honors English class. He was in choir with me, too, plus he ran track, which meant I saw him running around town every once in a while. He had nice legs. I got to know him when we staged an English class production of
Romeo and Juliet.
Rolf was Romeo, and I was—you guessed it: Romeo's mother. It could have been worse. The class had too many girls, and Lexie got stuck playing a nobleman. She had to wear yellow tights and this puffy purple hat with a feather. Celia Weaver played Juliet's father. I was really impressed with her performance. She was totally believable as a guy.

Can I just say? Rolf wasn't that cute. And he came after me, not vice versa.

Okay, he was kind of cute. He was really tall and skinny but
with this baby face, chubby cheeks and all. Hair: brownish blond. Eyes: bluish gray. He wore jeans pretty much every day, along with layered polo shirts. Sometimes he'd wear three polos at once. At first I thought that was one too many, but the look grew on me.

Because of my role in the play, he started joking around with me.

Rolf: Hey, hot mama.

Madison: Don't you be a bad boy.

Rolf: But I'm good when I'm bad.

It was funny at the time. Or—it was something. It was flirting, clearly, and not like when I was younger. This was high school flirting. It meant something. We could go on an actual date, if only he'd ask me.

I wasn't the only one who noticed.

“Are you and Rolf going out?” Celia asked me in the hall one day. Celia was half a head taller than me, with long blond hair. That sounds good, but she wasn't that pretty because her hair was stringy and her nose had this funky bulb on the end. Plus, she hardly ever smiled, and when she did, it looked fake.

I widened my eyes in mock confusion. “Me and Rolf? No! Why?”

She tightened her already thin lips. “Someone just said something.”

“Who?”

“I don't remember.”

Celia was one of those hypercompetitive people who always had to be the best at everything. She was famous for convincing teachers to change her B's to A's, for elbowing other players on the soccer field, and for arranging second-chance auditions for choir solos,
claiming she had undiagnosed strep throat the first time around.

Rolf finally asked me out on a date—well, me and twenty-six other people. On the day of our performance (we put on a lame show for three other English classes, who didn't care that we sucked because they got out of class), he asked the entire honors English group to his house for a cast party after school. His mother was there-but-not-there. She said hello at the beginning—you know, just to discourage us from drinking beer, smoking pot, taking off our clothes, or doing anything else that we had all read about but never actually done—and then she faded away.

We hung out in Rolf's media room, which had this mongo plushy beige couch and a television screen that took up most of the wall. There was a mini drinks fridge filled with fizzy juices (Rolf's mom didn't believe in soda). Someone turned on a movie, and Rolf dimmed the lights. The room had tiny windows and blackout shades, which made it look like night.

He took my hand and pulled me over to the couch. We settled in and watched the movie, holding hands. The movie was all car chases and robots and explosions. Not that it mattered. All I could think about was Rolf and his hand. He had this thing he did, rubbing his thumb against my palm, which was borderline annoying but also cool. It felt like Morse code for “I like you.”

Eventually, he whispered, “Save my seat,” his breath hot on my ear. He got us a couple of fizzy juices—one mango, one apricot-lime—and asked me which I preferred (mango). Then he sat back down and put his arm around me. I snuggled into him, not even bothering to finish my mango fizz, which really didn't taste all that good.

People were watching us. They were pretending not to, but I
could tell. Farther down the couch this other couple was sucking face, but they'd been going out for almost a year, so no one really cared.

After the movie, everyone whipped out cell phones to call their parents. Rolf, his arm still around me, whispered, “Stay a little longer.” We remained planted on the couch, clearly a couple, waving our lazy good-byes. Lexie snuck me a wink. Celia didn't even look at us.

When everyone had gone, Rolf made his move. He held my face with both his hands and went in for the kill. I put my arms around his neck. Our teeth clinked. We readjusted.

His lips were surprisingly soft. I would have expected a guy's lips to be chapped or something. He smelled good, like laundry softener. His mouth tasted like apricot mixed with artificial lime. He pushed a little harder against my mouth than was strictly necessary, and I kept wishing he'd move his hands from my face to my back, but mostly it was nice for my first real kiss. And besides, we'd have plenty of time to work on our technique. We were just getting started.

After maybe fifteen minutes, his mother walked in. Total mortification. She covered her mouth to (sort of) hide her smile and said, “Sorry, kids—don't let me interrupt.” Then she gave us a little wave and backed out the door.

Talk about a mood killer.

I stood up. “I should probably go.” And then, just to make sure he knew I liked him, I added, “We can continue this later.”

He stood up, said, “Yeah. Definitely,” and kissed me one last time. He said he had plans all weekend, but he'd see me Monday. And then he programmed my number into his cell, which clearly
signaled a committed relationship.

I told Lexie all about it, of course, the instant I got home. With my permission, she called a couple of other people, who e-mailed a whole bunch more. By Monday, everyone in honors English knew we were a couple.

Celia certainly knew. She kept huddling with her friends, arms crossed, and glaring at me across various classrooms. There was nothing going on between her and Rolf at that point, so she had no right to hate me.

That week, Rolf and I talked twice on the phone (I still had my cell), texted daily, and IMed once. News of our couple status reached choir. I told my mother that I had a boyfriend. She sat me down for a talk about adolescent urges that I'd rather not revisit at this point.

He never officially asked me out—which is just one of many reasons why I was so pissed when he dumped me a week later. The kiss-off speech: “I really like you, but I'm so focused on my schoolwork and track and choir and stuff, I just don't have time for a relationship right now. Plus, my mom was talking about signing me up for an SAT prep course, so I'm going to be really busy.”

An SAT prep course, my ass. We were freshmen.

Within the month, he managed to find time for a relationship—with Celia. I wasn't brokenhearted, really, just humiliated. Plus, I always had this weird suspicion that Celia never noticed Rolf until Rolf noticed me.

Since then, it had been my dream to win Rolf back from Celia, to have him gaze into my eyes, build his world around me—and then to dump him on his butt.

I am the last of the great romantics.

W
HEN
I
SHOWED UP AT NINE O'CLOCK,
Duncan was sitting on the bench in front of Psychic Photo. At the sight of me, he jumped up and smoothed his jeans and then his hair, which was damp from the shower and curling at the whitish blond ends. He looked good, I had to admit, his chocolate brown hoodie the same color as his hair.

“Hey, G.G. You look pretty,” he blurted.

I studied the ground. “I look the same as I did this afternoon.”

“You looked pretty this afternoon, too.”

I cleared my throat. “I was thinking maybe I could print out those photos. You know, of the man in the window and the old lady on the beach.”

He glanced at the darkened building. “The shop's locked. But I can meet you here in the morning.”

I looked around for Delilah and Leo. “Where is everyone?”

Duncan slid his hands into the front pockets of his jeans. “At the beach already.”

For an instant I felt hurt that Delilah would leave without me. And then I got it. She'd set me up.

This is not a date.

I crossed my arms in front of my purple chest. I wasn't just being defensive; it was getting cold. “Let's go find them, then.”

I half expected Duncan to pull out his skateboard and whiz down the street, but he kept pace with me as we walked, his beat-up Vans quiet on the sidewalk. Downtown was practically deserted The shops were dark, and only one almost-empty restaurant was still open.

Soon we could hear the ocean, the waves gentler than during the day, their breaks a hiss rather than a crash. The air was damp and salty. On one side of the road, streetlights lit a deserted park. Our silence grew uncomfortable.

“What's your real name?” I blurted. I'd been wondering about it more than I cared to admit.

He waited a moment before answering. “Can't tell you.”

“Can't or won't?”

He considered. “Won't.”

Now I was really curious.

We continued down the street, the ocean sounds growing louder with every step.

“Adam?” I tried, beginning at the beginning.

He looked at me in surprise, and then he grinned. “No.”

“Andrew? Alex?”

“No.”

Above us, the stars looked like pinpricks of light. They were a lot brighter here than they were in Amerige.

After a few more A names I moved on to the Bs. “Brian, Brett,
Brandon, Billy, Bob, Boris, Blaine, Blair, Bo…”

“Byron,” he said.

“That's your name?”

“No. But it seemed like you should have tried it.” He threw his head back and laughed. I smacked him on the arm and laughed along with him, forgetting to think about whether or not this was a date.

When we reached the beach, I pulled off my orange flip-flops. The bonfire glowed in the distance. As we walked across the cold, coarse sand, I worked my way through the alphabet. He said, no, no, no—though he admitted to calling himself Frankie for a short time when he was twelve “because I really like hot dogs.”

We were almost at the bonfire when I reached the Rs. “Tell me your name's not Rolf.”

He scrunched up his nose. “You mean Ralph?”

I hugged myself tight. The closer we got to the ocean, the colder it became. “No, Rolf.”

“Is that really a name? It sounds like an animal sound—you know, a kitty cat says, ‘Meow,' and a dog says,
‘Rolf!'”
He put his hands up like a begging dog and began to pant.

The idea of Rolf begging anyone for anything made me laugh.

Duncan took off his brown hoodie and pressed it against my crossed arms. “You're cold.” His teeth gleamed in the moonlight.

“But if I wear this, you'll be cold.”

“I'll warm up at the fire.”

I pulled the sweatshirt over my head. He took my hand and pulled me to the circle of light. I had about a minute, maybe less, of thinking how good it all felt: the warmth of Duncan's sweatshirt,
the feel of his hand. And then I got a look at the crowd around the bonfire. I didn't see Delilah and Leo right away, just a bunch of normal-looking people. Instead of thrift shop rags, they wore Hollister, Abercrombie, Aeropostale, American Eagle—all the regular brands. They looked like my crowd from home: the good kids. There were people in Sandyland just like me. What was I doing with Duncan and Delilah and Leo?

Summer friends.
That's what they were. It was just temporary. I still had my real friends at home.

“Hey, Duncan.” A girl came out of the shadows. She was super-skinny, with blond hair dried straight and the brand of jeans that I had spent much of ninth grade (unsuccessfully) begging my mother to buy me. She flashed Duncan a full-metal smile, and self-satisfaction washed over me; I'd gotten my braces off in eighth grade.

“Hey, Ricki, whassup?” Duncan said, being nice. Too nice?

“Just, you know, hanging.” She tucked a strand of overtreated hair behind her ear. She had a single gold ball in each lobe.

“This is Madison,” he told Ricki, squeezing my hand.

Her eyes narrowed, and she gave me a once-over. Suddenly, I saw myself through her eyes. Here I'd been feeling funny about hanging around with Duncan, when he had every right to feel embarrassed about being seen with me, a girl with dull black hair and secondhand clothes.

Ricki turned her attention back to Duncan. “You going anywhere this summer?”

“Nah, just hanging.” He put his arm around me, which shouldn't have surprised me but did. What surprised me even more was that I liked it.

At this, she was forced to acknowledge me. “You just here for the summer?”

I shrugged. “I guess.” I slid my arm around Duncan's waist.

Her mouth and eyes tightened, and then she bared her teeth in a shiny almost-smile. “See you in September, Duncan.” She wandered away.

“Ex-girlfriend?” I asked once she was out of earshot.

“Who, Ricki?” Duncan sounded genuinely surprised. “No, just someone I know from school. Why would you say that?”

“No reason,” I said, an image of Celia flashing through my mind.

It took a few minutes to find Delilah and Leo, surrounded by a mob. Fear shot through my stomach. What was going on? Was someone hurting them? But Duncan didn't look nervous, and as we got closer, I could hear the voices:

“You gotta do this!”

“Please? You're the only one.”

“I saw it. I swear.”

“Just for a minute—before it's too late!”

“Hey, guys!” Delilah pushed herself up from the sand. She was dressed kind of normally, in denim overalls and a T-shirt. Her red faux-fur jacket was pure Delilah, though.

“What's the deal?” Duncan asked. The crowd—there must have been ten or twelve people at least—spoke at once:

“Down by the point—”

“Something weird, didn't really get a good look—”

“This funky light, kind of greenish white and glowing—”

“A ghost!”

“They want me to do a séance,” Delilah said, totally casually,
like she was saying, “They want me to help them with their algebra.”

“Do you…do those?” I asked. Maybe Rose wasn't the only psychic in her family.

Delilah's eyes shot from side to side. “Not anymore. I'm not comfortable with what I might stir up.” Around her, the kids grew silent. “But I'll walk down the beach, see if I sense anything.”

I began to shiver, from fear more than cold. Duncan squeezed my shoulders. “We'll come with you,” he said.

Other kids wanted to join us, but Delilah said no: too many people would frighten the spirit away. Leo, wearing white slacks and a Hawaiian shirt, completed the expedition. His presence made me feel better, as if his essential goofiness was a kind of foil against anything frightening or evil.

We trudged along in silence for a few moments. Duncan and I held hands; by then it felt natural. Delilah kept her hands in the pockets of her fuzzy jacket, while Leo hunted the ground for flat rocks, which he flung into the water, cheering when they skipped along the surface.

“Four!” he'd announce, counting the skips. Or, “Eleven! New record!”

My eyes darted around, expecting to see a ghost at every corner, but all I saw was darkness, a hint of phosphorescence in the waves, the odd beam of light from the enormous homes looming above the rock wall.

Finally, Duncan spoke. “You said you weren't going to do this anymore.”

“They didn't give me much choice,” Delilah said. “And anyway, I refused to do the séance.”

“But you used to do them?” I asked. No wonder she'd been so casual about the figures in my photographs: ghosts were no big deal to her.

“Not that much,” she said. “Just a few times in eighth grade. Mostly I read minds and told futures.”

“You read minds?”

“Oh, sure.” She stopped walking and studied me. “Let's see…you're worried about what people think of your hair and your clothes.”

My stomach began to hurt.

“And you like Duncan.”

My face grew hot.

“But you're not sure where things with him are going to lead.”

My knees grew wobbly. I had a sudden urge to flee, to get as far away from Delilah as possible. What else did she know about me?

When she saw my expression, Delilah laughed.

“You suck,” Duncan told her.

“Can you see my future?” I asked, unsure if I wanted to know.

“Oh my God,” Leo said, rubbing a flat rock between his fingers.

“Tell her,” Duncan commanded, with an edge I'd never heard before.

“Sorry, Madison, I was kidding,” Delilah said. “I thought you realized.”

I shook my head with confusion. Out beyond the waves the moon shone fuzzy white, a fog blurring the edges.

“I'm just good at reading people—you know, their expressions
and body language,” Delilah admitted. “But I can't read minds. Or communicate with ghosts.”

“Or tell the future,” Leo added.

“And you can't read palms, either,” Duncan said.

She pointed her index finger at him. “Now there you're wrong. Anyone can read palms. You just have to know which line is which.”

Back at the wide public beach, the bonfire glowed orange. Ahead of us, there was darkness, rocks, churning surf. And Delilah couldn't see anything supernatural. But could my camera?

“Why did you pretend, then?” I was pretty annoyed. “They all think you're psychic.”

She crossed her arms. “Bunch of sheep. They'll believe anything. You can't imagine how often they send me on these ridiculous ghost hunts. Someone in a beach house walks near the rocks with a flashlight, and all of a sudden it's a message from beyond.”

“Cats,” Leo said.

“Oh, yeah,” Delilah said. “I get sent after cats a lot: the glowing eyes, the rustling in the trees. Raccoons, too. Those are
really
scary.”

“So—those people aren't your friends?” I thought of all the people crowding around Delilah at the bonfire. Was she really that fake?

Delilah sighed. She wandered over to the rock wall and pulled herself up, settling down next to a
KEEP OFF ROCKS
sign. The three of us followed and arranged ourselves on the boulders like barnacles. Duncan sat just above me and to the side, stroking my hair.

“Sixth grade was a tough year,” Delilah said, finally. “That's
when we moved onto Main Street and opened the shop. Before that, my mom just worked out of our apartment, calling herself a spiritual healer. For some reason, that was okay—New Agey but not full-out weird, you know? I was always kind of different, I guess, but until then, the other kids didn't seem to notice.”

The fog held us in a kind of cocoon. The waves hissed gently. I forgot, for the moment, about ghosts.

Leo broke the silence. “Everyone thought I was different right from the start.”

Our laughter was a relief.

“Kids can be mean,” Delilah said, her voice cracking a little. “Some of them said my mother was a witch. Others said she was a fake. Nobody wanted to eat lunch with me or even be seen with me. They made fun of me and my mother and—” She stopped dead.

“It doesn't bother me,” Leo said. “Really.” He wasn't entirely convincing.

Delilah found a loose pebble among the boulders and flung it out to sea, but we didn't hear it land.

“The summer between sixth and seventh grades, I tried to convince my mother to homeschool me,” Delilah said. “She refused.”

Leo snorted. “You'd be better off homeschooling her.”

Delilah said, “But she said the most amazing thing: ‘They're just saying that stuff because they feel bad about themselves.' It was total crap, of course, but it gave me an idea. On the first day of school the next year, this nasty girl named Avon said something inane about me casting spells or eating toads or something. I stared at her for, like, twenty seconds. And then I whispered,
‘Oh, my God.'” Delilah covered her mouth and widened her eyes in mock horror.

“And she's all, ‘What? What?'” she continued. “And I'm all, ‘I can't tell you! Just—be careful.' She begged me to tell her what I'd seen, but I said I couldn't.”

“Unless she coughed up some cash,” Leo broke in.

Delilah sighed. “I didn't feel bad about taking her money. Such a poor excuse for humanity…”

“What did you tell her?” I asked.

“Nothing right away,” Delilah said. “I tortured her for a couple of weeks. Every time I saw her, I stopped dead and stared. Then I'd hurry away like whatever I'd seen had frightened me.”

“Brilliant,” I said.

“Plus, I started doing it to a couple of other offenders,” Delilah said. “And then the word spread, and the demand grew and…”

“She had a nice little business going,” Leo said. “Not as good as the eBay stuff, but at least we didn't have to get up early on Saturday mornings for the yard sales.”