Free Cat Calls by Cynthia Leitich Smith Page A

admit, though I’d hate to let her down.
    “You?” Granny smoothes my long hair and tucks a strand behind my ear. “Who knows what you can do? You don’t even know yet.”
    She’s always saying things like that. Occupational hazard, I suppose.
    “I’m off now,” she adds. “See you at breakfast!”
    “What?” I put my hand on her forearm. “Wait. You’re leaving me here? Alone?”
    Moving away, she says, “I’m leaving you to your future.”
    “Are you kidding?” What is she thinking? I can’t believe it! I mean, OK, yes, she does mysteriously disappear overnight sometimes. I’m sort of getting used to that. But what could be so important tonight? “What if something goes wrong?”
    Ignoring my protests, Granny Z. continues on her way, and I wonder for the first time if she might have a boyfriend. She’s quite the vixen for a grandma, and I see her playing cards sometimes with the old alligator man.
    Granny is my father’s mother. He died on I-96 when his Harley-Davidson was sideswiped by a Greyhound bus. I wasn’t even born yet.
    According to Mom, I was the product of an adolescent hookup at some house party in Ypsilanti, Michigan, involving vodka, a speedboat, and a Pink Floyd album. Dad died two days later, before they knew about me or even had a chance to really talk.
    Granny Z. showed up for the first time, unannounced, at our front door when I was ten. She inspected me like I was competition livestock, cooked pork chops for dinner, and after I went to bed she spent all night whispering with my mother in the kitchen.
    Granny left after pancakes the next morning and never visited again. Once in a while, though, Mom would mention that Granny called her at work. I didn’t get any phone calls, but Granny did send me cards, each with a dollar in it, on my birthdays.
    I thought this summer would be my chance to get to know her, to finally learn more about my father. I underestimated the hell out of how tight-lipped the old lady can be.
    Granny Z. uses a palm-sized crystal ball for her own purposes, but she breaks out the seven-inch diameter one for professional readings. The large quartz is exquisite, flawless, sits on a matching stand, and is so heavy that I need both hands to lift it.
    The ball, the outfits, the ambience . . . like in the movies, Granny says. It sells.
    I tie a long scarf around my hair, light the votive candles and cypress incense, and set a short stack of business cards on the black tablecloth.
    If I’m going to pull this off, I’ve got to get into the spirit, so to speak, or at least manage a halfway decent job of acting the part. Taking deep breaths, I try to do as Granny Z. instructed me. I gaze into the crystal, trying to unfocus my vision, trying to imagine myself in a room of white light, trying to feel any vibrations.
    By the time my first customers arrive, I’ve still failed to convince myself that the mist rising within the ball has some mystical source. I’m positive it’s just a product of the humidity and shadows.
    I lean out of the tent and smile at the fire juggler across the way. He raises his eyebrows suggestively, and I resist the urge to smirk.
    Instead, I use one finger to beckon a couple of townie girls to join me inside. They grab each other’s hands, giggling, and I cover my growling stomach with my hand.
    We don’t ask for money up front. The sign reads:
    MADAME ZELDA
    SPIRITUAL CONSULTANT
    FIRST TWO MINUTES FREE
    The two minutes is my window. If I can reel in the marks, they’ll pay a buck for each additional two.
    I pull up an extra chair from the side of the tent, and the girls elbow each other playfully as they settle in. Usually it’s better to field “clients” one at a time (they’re less sure of themselves that way), but I took one look at these two and knew I’d lose both if I tried to separate them.
    They’re about my age, probably a little older, which doesn’t help my credibility.
    I’m grateful for the dark, the flickering