Free Cat Calls by Cynthia Leitich Smith Page B

candlelight.
    Hoping they haven’t caught a good look at me, I snatch an additional gauzy scarf, drape it over my head, and bring the sides down to cover more of my face.
    Then I study the girls. Obviously, they’re from the local small town. They feel safe enough in their world to wear real gold jewelry to a carnival. One set of earrings is heart-shaped, the other clover-shaped. Their thin rope necklace-and-bracelet sets look alike. Their matching hairstyle is about three years ago. Clear fingernail polish, no tats, no extra piercings, easy on the makeup, wardrobe by Wal-Mart. They’re good girls, middle class, possibly honor roll, probably churchgoing, and definitely best buds.
    From their breath, I can tell that they both had corn dogs and onion rings with lemonades for dinner. Walking into my tent is about as close as they come to having a wild side.
    I poise my elbows on the table and place my fingertips beneath my chin.
    “What would you have me ask the ball?” I’m using a voice I practiced earlier. It’s lower and breathier than my regular one.
    The girls exchange glances. Then the one with the heart earrings nudges her friend. “Ash, ask her about —”
    “Shut up!” is the answering exclamation. The blush that goes with it is clue one.
    I show my palms. “I must have quiet.”
    It’s important that I stay in control. I inhale deeply again and again.
    I don’t see anything in the ball, except maybe my own reflection. It’s my fault, a rookie mistake — since I shut the tent flap, the flames have been burning steadily. I’ve got no flickers, no shadows or intriguing shapes to report.
    “I see a boy,” I claim. “Or is it a young man?” Obviously, that’s want they want to hear. That’s what most girls want to hear. “I, um, I see a heart and a . . . clover.”
    Sweat trickles down my spine.
    Before they make the connection between my reading and their accessories, I nod to Ash. “I see you with a young man in . . .” In? In? Scrambling to tie it together, I conclude, “A field of clover! He’s your great love.”
    Their eyes go wide, and Ash bites her lower lip.
    “I may be able to tell you more, but the mists are dissipating. For only a dollar —”
    Ash’s laugh turns from a giggle to a bark. “I don’t think so.” She reaches for her friend’s — no, I realize — her girlfriend’s hand. “Wow, do you suck at this!”
    As they jump up to leave, I call, “Wait, the signs can have many meanings!”
    The couple drops hands before exiting the tent, but neither one glances back.
    Well. Ash was right. I do suck at this.
    God, it’s not even 8:00 p.m. yet. I’m looking at a long night.

    Before I can worry too much, a middle-aged lady sticks her head in. “Is it my turn? I don’t mean to press, but if anyone tells my husband I’m —”
    “Come in.” It doesn’t matter whether she’s embarrassed about seeing a fortune-teller or that her husband will think we’re both acolytes of the dark powers. I’m eager to do better this time.
    I move briefly to the rear of the tent and prop the back flap open with the extra chair to let in the warm breeze. At least the flames will be moving. “Sit.”
    She practically scurries into the chair. I’d guess she’s in her early- to mid fifties, about forty pounds overweight. She colors her short hair a dark brown, and she’s wearing a faded denim jumper with an embroidered ladybug design over a short-sleeved white T-shirt. The smile lines around her eyes are deep, but so are the worry ones above her eyebrows. It’s all I can do not to choke on the smell of her hair spray and floral perfume.
    “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