The Secret Society of the Pink Crystal Ball (9 page)

I can't find Lindsay anywhere for the rest of the day, and when I get home from school I call her house to see if she's okay. And to let her know that I have (half sadly, half to my huge relief) depuffed. Everywhere.

Her mom picks up on the second ring. “Oh, hi, Erin. Actually, Lindsay is sleeping. She came home from school early today because she wasn't feeling well. She said she had a headache. I would think you would've known. Aren't the two of you joined at the hip?”

I let out a polite laugh. “Yeah,” I say. “I knew she wasn't feeling well, but I didn't realize she'd gone home.”

I want to tell her that Lindsay didn't have a headache at all. I want to tell her all about Megan Crowley—and how, as Lindsay's mother, she needs to step in and do something. She needs to go talk to the principal and make him put a stop to it, because God only knows what Megan is going to do to her after what happened in the hallway today.

But I can't. Lindsay hasn't told her mom about any of it. Between work and kids and trying to get over the fact that her husband left her for a twenty-six-year-old dental hygienist, the last thing Lindsay's mom needs is to be worried about Megan Crowley. You'd think she'd notice that something is wrong, though. I mean, Lindsay comes home with an awful lot of headaches. But no. It's like one of those reality shows: a divorced mom, doing the best she can to work and raise three kids at the same time, yet totally clueless about the fact that one of them is shooting heroin, or puking in the bathroom after every meal…or, well, being verbally abused and spending all of her money on voodoo dolls.

“Okay, well, will you just tell her that I called?”

“Sure. I'll let her know. Oh, and Erin…how are you? Lindsay told me about what happened to your aunt. It's just awful. I'm so sorry.”

“Oh…thanks.” I swallow.

“How's your mother taking it?”

“She's doing okay. She's my mom. Not really one to get all emotional.”

“Yes, well, tell her I was asking about her, would you? And I'm very sorry for your loss.”

“Thanks, I will. Bye.”

We hang up the phone, and I stretch out on my bed, staring up at the ceiling. The truth is my mom is
not
okay. Of course, she's pretending—going to work, getting dressed up for award ceremonies at the hospital, acting like none of this bothers her—but I know that it's all an act. When my dad is asleep and she thinks that I'm asleep, I hear her opening and closing drawers, rifling through pictures, and sometimes, I hear her crying.

Damn, Aunt Kiki
, I think angrily.
What kind of a mess have you left this time?

I get up and take the letter Kiki left me out of my desk drawer. I promised myself that I was going to start working on the Italy essay today. But ever since I got my English paper back this afternoon, I can't stop thinking about the crystal ball. I stare at the list again, and suddenly, I have an idea.

What if I tackle this the way I would tackle a math problem, or a science project?

I grab a pencil and a piece of paper, and I write down the first question that pops into my head.

What are the properties of a Pink Crystal Ball?

Actually, it's not a bad question. I mean, I have no idea how this thing is constructed. I pick up my pencil again.

Glittery liquid—what is it?

What are the answers written on? How does it work?

Okay, I think. I can do this.
This
is how I roll.

I go over to my computer and type “Pink Crystal Ball” into the Google search bar, just like Lindsay did yesterday. I can feel my pulse racing with excitement, the way it always does when I'm about to figure out an answer to a complex problem. I can't believe I didn't think of this sooner.

I find a bunch of websites advertising Pink Crystal Balls for sale, and a couple that manufacture Pink Crystal Balls with custom answers on them…and then, finally, I come across a site put up by a guy who tried to dissect a Pink Crystal Ball with a rotary drill.

Hmmm
. That's my kind of guy. I click through the site, reading his commentary but skipping over the pictures of him drilling (unfortunately, he's old, and not at all cute), and then finally, I find what it is I'm looking for.

With the innards of the ball exposed, the answer mechanism is finally revealed. The device is actually an octagonal dipyramid made of clear acrylic, with a different message on each face. The dipyramid is hollow, enabling it to fill with liquid to minimize floating. It is comprised of two pieces held together by clips.

An octagonal dipyramid? We learned about a lot of shapes in geometry last year, but this is a new one for me. I go to Wikipedia and do a quick search for “octagonal dipyramid.”

In geometry, a dipyramid is any two pyramids placed base to base symmetrically. An octagonal dipyramid contains sixteen faces and ten vertices with each face in the shape of an isosceles triangle. More commonly, it is also known as a sixteen-sided die.

A sixteen-sided die. I grab the paper and quickly scan over it.

There are sixteen ways to die, but four of them you will never see.

That's it! Sixteen ways to die. Sixteen answers on the die inside the ball.

This is a puzzle
, I think to myself.
Aunt Kiki left me a puzzle.

It's all starting to make sense now. I look at the letter again, and suddenly I get it. Aunt Kiki didn't just write a letter to go with the ball. She wrote
this
letter for
me
, specifically. I look at the first clue again.
Four of them you'll never see
. What does that mean? I think for a minute, tapping the end of my pencil on the desk.

What are all of the answers on the die?

I think back to the answers that Lindsay and Samantha and I have gotten from it so far, and I write them all down.

Your future is obscured. You must ask again.

Yes, your fate is sealed.

The beyond eludes me at this time.

Yes, it is written in the stars.

It is your destiny.

I start tapping my pencil again. That's only five answers. What are the other eleven? I pick up the ball and shake it once, then again, then a third time, but each time, the die fails to float up. There has to be an easier way. I go back to the computer and type “Pink Crystal Ball answers” into the Google search bar, and sure enough, up comes the official Pink Crystal Ball website with a list of all of the answers, which are still the same as the ones on the original ball made in 1952. I scan through them and do a quick count. Eight of them are yes answers, four are no answers, and four are uncertain.

I look back over the answers that I've already received: three yeses, two uncertains.
Four of them you'll never see.

I close my eyes, and I can picture myself and Aunt Kiki sitting on the porch outside of her house, both of us hunched over the
New York Times
Sunday crossword. She used to make fresh lemonade. I can almost taste the perfect mix of tart and sweet hitting my tongue; I can almost feel the cool summer breeze coming in from the side of the porch.

Don't make assumptions
, Kiki used to say. Her deep, raspy voice rings in my head.
Read every word carefully. Sometimes, what the clues don't say is just as important as what they do say.

My eyes fly open and I smile: I've got it. It doesn't say that four answers will
never
be seen. It says four of them
you'll
never see. Meaning me, the one who was chosen to receive the ball. She must have known I would find that story about Robert Clayton on the Internet. She must have known that I would figure out that the ball only works for me. And if the ball only works for me, then it should always do what I ask it. Which means that the four answers that
I
will never see have to be the no answers.

I put my pencil down, triumphantly, on the desk.

And then I pick it up again.

But if the ball does what I ask, then why do I also get uncertain answers?

I chew on the end of my pencil as I think about it. Wasn't there something in the clues about uncertainty? I pick up the paper again and I find it. Clue #4.

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

It must have something to do with this. But what is one rotation?

One rotation. Rotate the ball?

As I'm writing this, I hear the
ding
of an email arriving in my inbox. I glance over at the screen.

jcoop88

It's Jesse. There's no subject heading.

I think back to our conversation in the hallway this morning and I feel my cheeks turn hot. It was weird the way he kept staring at me, and then that comment, about how I look better the other way…I've been dissecting it, and I
think
it was a compliment. On the one hand, he might have been saying that he likes the way I look when I'm not a 3-D puffy sticker version of myself. But on the other hand, maybe he was only saying that I don't look so great as a 3-D puffy sticker version of myself, and not really commenting on my normal-looking self at all. Which could be why he's emailing me.

Maybe he realizes that he's been maddeningly vague and obtuse over the last few days, and he wants to clarify himself. Or, maybe seeing me all bloated this morning made him realize that he's actually superattracted to me when I'm not bloated, and so he's emailing to let me know that he's had some time to reflect, and he's come to the conclusion that he much prefers boring, mousy-haired, gangly, flat-chested girls over voluptuous, green-eyed, nose-pierced, swingy red-haired college girls who flirt with total abandon. It's possible.

I click on the message.

Just FYI: when we go to the museum tomorrow, it's your turn to choose the painting. So make sure you're prepared, okay?

Or not.

I roll my eyes at the computer. He really
is
the rudest person ever. I love how he just assumes that I wouldn't be prepared. I shoot back a message.

FYI to you: I am always prepared. g2g. c u tomorrow.

I hit the send button, and I'm immediately sorry that I wrote “g2g” and “c u tomorrow.” It's so girly and mainstream. I'll bet Kaydra doesn't use text abbreviations in her emails.

I sigh to myself. Of course I'm not at all prepared. It hadn't even occurred to me that I would need to choose a picture at the museum tomorrow. But I suppose I need to step up. I mean, it wouldn't be fair to make him do all the work just because he knows every picture in the museum by heart.

I put the ball on my nightstand and fold up the paper on which I wrote my notes. As if I don't have enough on my mind already, now I need to pick out a painting that's sufficiently out-of-the-box to impress Jesse Cooper.

***

4:07 a.m. I bolt upright in bed like I've been shot out of a cannon. My desk light is on and there are art history books all over my bed. I rub my eyes, confused, trying to recall what it was in my dream that freaked me out so much. But it's too late—I've lost it. All I can remember now are fleeting fragments. A giant set of Picasso-style walking boobs…Chris Bollmer running down the street with an umbrella…a torrent of ten-dollar bills falling from the sky…

I'm starting to think that I might need some serious help.

I push the books off of my bed and turn out the light. I can hear the drawers opening and closing in the guest room, and I roll over and put a pillow over my head to try to block out the sound.

I slide my left hand under my desk and sit back in my chair, adjusting the angle of my hand so that I can get a clear view of my cell phone. My heart pounds as Mrs. Cavanaugh, my AP Physics teacher, drones on about how to calculate the index of refraction for a rectangular slab of glass.

Cleveland High has explicit rules about texting in class. First-time offenders get a warning, second-time offenders get detention, and third-time offenders have to do an extra ten hours of community service. But the worst part is that if a teacher catches you, they're allowed to confiscate your cell phone for a week. They even make your parents sign a contract in the beginning of the school year agreeing that this is okay with them, and that they won't call to argue about it if and when it happens.

Usually, I just leave my cell phone in my backpack all day—that way I'm not tempted, and my friends know that I'm not going to get their texts anyway, so they don't even bother. But today, I'm making an exception.

I slip my right hand under the desk when Mrs. Cavanaugh turns around to write on the board, and for the first time ever, I notice that half of the class does the same thing. Moving my fingers as quickly as I can, I type a message to Samantha and Lindsay.

Figured it out. They r clues. 16 ways 2 die = 16 answers on the die. Lots more 2 tell u. g2g.

I pull my hand up to the desk and grab my pencil just as Mrs. Cavanaugh turns around. Trying to appear innocent, I make the mistake of meeting her eyes.

“Erin, can you tell me which of these equations on the board solves for the wavelength of yellow sodium light in a vacuum?”

My face flushes. I have no idea what she's talking about.

“Um, I'm sorry, can you repeat the question?”

Mrs. Cavanaugh flashes me a disappointed look, as if to say that she thought I wasn't like the others. “Maya, which of these equations solves for the wavelength of yellow sodium light in a vacuum?”

“The first one. Five point eight nine times ten to the minus seven m,” Maya responds.

“Correct,” says Mrs. Cavanaugh.

Maya flashes me a smug smile.

I resist the temptation to stick my tongue out at her. Her GPA was something like two tenths of a point lower than mine at the end of last year, and she's just dying for me to mess up so that she can overtake me. But still, even though I can't stand her, I can't help thinking that it would have been much easier if Maya had been my partner for the Art History project instead of Jesse.

If Maya had been my partner, I wouldn't have spent half the night poring through the museum's online catalog in search of an out-of-the-box picture. I wouldn't be so tired today that I can hardly see straight. And what was that crazy dream about? If I close my eyes, I can still see the boobs—they were blue and attached to a pair of legs (long, shapely, nice legs, the kind that belong to cancan dancers, or the Rockettes…or Samantha)—and they were walking toward me lifelessly…zombie boobs. Actually, now that I think about it, they were probably more Salvador Dalí than Picasso.

A reply from Samantha pops up on my phone.

Wth r u talking about? And since when do u txt in class?

A second later, a text appears from Lindsay.

I told u it meant something! U r going 2 get me in trouble. Been busted txting 2x already. Don't want commty srvce!

I'm slightly relieved, I admit. I finally spoke to Lindsay last night, and she seems better about the Megan/Bollmer debacle in the hallway yesterday. Veronica, the nut job from the Metaphysical Shoppe, sold her some kind of protective crystal that works like an invisible force field to keep evil at bay. Or something like that.

Samantha chimes in again.

Oh! R we talking about the ball? U figured it out???

I wait for Mrs. Cavanaugh to turn around again, and then I slip my hand back under the desk.

Duh J Will tell u l8r. Don't go out 2 lunch 2day. Meet us in the caf.

Mrs. Cavanaugh glances in my direction. This time I grab my pencil and pretend to take furious notes.

“So in this problem, who can tell me what the angle of incidence is?” I look up at the board. It says:

I have no idea. I flip through the pages of my textbook, skimming for the answer.

“Erin?” Mrs. Cavanaugh asks cautiously, giving me a second chance.

“Ummmm, oh-one?”

She raises her eyebrows then frowns. “Yes, oh-one is correct. Lucky guess.”

Maya and a few other kids giggle while I smile awkwardly. I'm not used to being the butt of teachers' jokes in class. When she turns around again, I glance down under the desk to read Samantha's reply.

Ugh. Fine. But it better b gud. Aiden is going 2 Wendy's & u know I luv a salad bar.

I flip the phone closed and slide it into my backpack, then turn my full attention to learning how to measure the speed at which light moves through various objects.

***

When the bell rings, Mrs. Cavanaugh asks me to stay. Uh-oh. My heart pounds as I pack up my stuff and everyone shuffles out around me. Lizzie McNeal, Matt Shipley, and Cole Miller give me knowing looks as they walk past, and I can just imagine what they're going to say about me once they get out into the hallway. When everyone is finally gone, I walk up to Mrs. Cavanaugh's desk. She's erasing the board, her back to me.

“Um, you wanted to see me?”

Mrs. Cavanaugh turns around. I've never really been this up close to her before, and I notice for the first time that she has very pretty blue eyes. Not as pretty as Lindsay's, but still…they're a deep, dark shade of blue—almost navy—and the brown eye shadow that she's wearing really makes them stand out. (Or “pop,” as Samantha would say.)

“Yes, Erin, I did. I know you were texting in class today. It's not like you to do things like that, so I'm not going to file a warning with the office. I'll give you the benefit of the doubt and assume that it must have been an emergency situation.”

I nod at her gratefully, unable to speak. As ridiculous as it sounds, there are tears welling up behind my eyeballs, and if I even so much as open my mouth, the levee's going to bust wide open. I hate disappointing people. When I was a little kid, my mom never had to punish me. All she had to do was say that she was disappointed in me, and boom: waterworks. I clear my throat.

“Thank you,” I say in a shaky whisper. “It won't happen again, I promise.”

“Good. Now go on, you're going to be late for your next class.”

***

Samantha waltzes up to the small round table that Lindsay and I have snagged in the corner of the cafeteria. In her short, waistless purple dress and her cork-heeled wedge sandals, she looks almost waifish. She sits down with a plastic bottle of orange juice and grimaces as she eyes my chicken soft taco smothered with sour cream and Lindsay's lasagna and giant gingerbread cookie.

“I can't believe you guys eat this crap every day. It's a miracle that neither one of you is obese.”

“I can't believe that I got busted texting in class,” I complain. I'm really not even hungry for lunch. Ever since I left physics, I've had a pit in my stomach the size of a small country.

“Well, you can't text two-handed,” Samantha explains. “Of course you're going to get caught. There's an art to it. Here, watch this.” She takes a pen and her cell phone out of her bag and puts the cell phone on her lap, then hunches over the table. She holds the pen in her right hand and writes
this is how not to get caught texting
on my napkin.

“Now, check your phone.”

“What? But you didn't do anything.”

“Check your phone,” she insists. I pull my phone out of my backpack and open it up. On the screen is a text message from Samantha.

Nxt tym skip the sour cream. It wil mak u f@.

I look up at her, amazed. “That's mind-blowing. It's really too bad there's no way to parlay a talent like that.”

“I know,” she laments. “If only they gave grades for dodging the system, I'd have a 4.0.”

Lindsay laughs, but I just pout.

“You need to cheer up,” Samantha announces. “I think you'll feel much better if you come to the Flamingo Kids concert with me Saturday night.”

I roll my eyes at her. “I told you, I don't like concerts. They're loud, and people step on each other, and I've never even heard of the band so I won't know any of the songs. No thank you.”

“First of all, you've never even been to a concert.”

“I have too,” I argue.

Samantha giggles and raises her eyebrows. “Barry Manilow with your dad doesn't count.”

Barry Manilow isn't the only concert I've ever been to. I also saw Neil Diamond with my mom when I was nine. But I decide not to mention that.

“I so wish I could go with you,” Lindsay sighs. “I would rather go anywhere than to my dad's house this weekend. Can you believe he wants me to meet his new girlfriend? He showed me a picture of her and she was wearing a skirt from Forever 21. I know because I tried it on. I mean, I'm sorry, but it's disgusting. She's twenty-six years old. He could be her father.”

“Wait, isn't your dad forty?” I ask, quickly doing the math in my head.

Lindsay sticks her tongue out at me. “Yes, but he could have fathered a child when he was fourteen. It's not unheard of. And besides, she acts like she's eighteen, so theoretically, he would have been twenty-two when she was born.”

“At least your dad wants to hang out with you,” Samantha interrupts. “My dad lives with me and I don't think I've said more than ten words to him in the last five years. I swear, if he ever moved out, I would never hear from him again. I know it. And the only reason why he hasn't is because he didn't make my mom sign a prenup, and now he doesn't want to give her half of his money.”

“You don't know that,” I say.

“Yes, I do,” Samantha answers matter-of-factly. “They got in a fight once at the dinner table, and he said it. Right in front of me and my sister. My mom told him he'd better start saving, because as soon as I go to college, she's going to take him for every penny he's worth.”

Lindsay and I both get quiet. Samantha doesn't talk about her parents very often, except to say that she can't stand being around them. And now that her sister's away at college, they fight more than ever. Samantha once told me that her mom wants to file for divorce but thinks she's doing Samantha some kind of huge favor by waiting until she graduates. As if having your parents live together automatically makes for a happy childhood, even if everyone knows that they can't stand the sight of each other.

The silence lingers. I love Samantha, but she opens up so rarely that when she does say something really personal, without irony or sarcasm, I don't always know how to respond. It's easier with Lindsay. She cries and vents to me all the time. But right now I'm afraid to say the wrong thing, so I just don't say anything, and instead focus on moving the food around my plate. Lindsay, too, bends over her lunch and practically inhales her lasagna. But Samantha just sits there, sipping at her plastic bottle of orange juice from a straw.

Finally, Lindsay cracks under the weight of the silence. She glances up at Samantha. “Aren't you going to eat anything?”

Samantha sighs. “No. I decided that this would be a good time to start my juice fast, since I had to eat
here
today.” She looks around, clearly disgusted by the cafeteria. “Beyoncé lost, like, twenty pounds on the Master Cleanse.”

“You don't need to lose weight,” I tell her. “Beyoncé's left thigh is bigger than your entire body.”

“Whatever. I appear to be thin in clothes because I know how to hide my flaws, but believe me, I'm a train wreck when I'm naked.”

“So what?” Lindsay asks, eating the last bite of her lasagna. “It's not like anyone is going to see you naked in the foreseeable future.”

Samantha shrugs. “You never know. I could hook up with someone at the concert Saturday night.”

I roll my eyes at her. I know exactly what she's thinking. “You're not going to hook up with Aiden when he's at a concert with Trance, Sam.”

Samantha smiles coyly. “I would if a certain magic ball were to get involved.”

Oh no.
I suddenly feel like I'm going to be sick, and it's not because of the soft tacos. “I don't think that's a good idea…”

Samantha narrows her eyes at me. “Why not?”

I hesitate. I actually don't know why not. There's just a very loud voice in the back of my head, telling me that IT'S NOT A GOOD IDEA. “I just…well…I think we should figure out what the rules are first. I mean, we don't want to screw anything up, you know?”

“No,” Samantha answers flatly. “I don't know. And anyway, I thought you said you figured out all of the rules.”

“That's not what I said. I said that I figured out that the letter is a list of clues. But I never said I figured out what all of them are. I've only figured out one of them.”