“But do you see these dots, traveling around the edge of the cup?”
I nod.
“A path of dots means a journey. This one will be taken over the course of several months. If it circled all the way back around, it would have been at least a year,” she explains. “But the journey ends here, into this shape. What does that look like to you?”
“Um. A moon, maybe? With a . . . stick coming out of it?”
“How about a cherry?”
“Yeah! I see that.”
“Cherries represent first love. In other words, this path you’re on leads to first love.”
I jolt, and my legs smack the table. The way she doesn’t startle makes me believe she expected this reaction. Does she know how I feel about Cricket? Or, should I say, how I felt about him in the past? She was certainly around, but how much did she observe?
Norah is messing with me.
She pauses. “Why don’t you tell me what shapes you see in the cup?”
I stare into it for several minutes. I look for dogs or shoes or anything recognizable, but all I see are wet leaves. My eyes keep returning to the cherry. I set the cup down. “I don’t know. There’s a pile of sticks on that side. And a curlicue thing.”
“Okay. The loop is near the rim, so that means you’ve been making—or you’ll soon be making—impulsive actions.”
“Good or bad?” I quickly ask.
She shrugs. “Could be either, but are things done on impulse ever really a good idea?”
“Is that something your therapist told you?” I snap.
Norah’s tone darkens. “And see how the sticks are crossed, all on top of each other? That suggests a series of arguments. It usually leads to a parting.” Her voice is short.
“A parting.” I stand. “Yes, thank you. This was very educational.”
Arguments, partings, impulses. Clouds of confusion. I thought fortunes were supposed to make people feel BETTER about their lives. I thought that’s why people paid money to hear them. And a journey to first love? Just because Max insulted her doesn’t mean she has to steer me into the arms of another guy.
Though it did look like a cherry.
I don’t know why I’m giving any of this crap my consideration. Norah thinks my costumes are lies, that they lack meaning? She should look in the mirror. Her entire livelihood—what’s left of it—lacks meaning. I’m steaming as I brush my teeth and get ready for bed. I turn off my lights just as a light behind my curtains flicks on.
So he’s staying the night.
Has he been talking to Calliope? I wonder if he’ll be able to complete his project for school, whatever it is. Probably not. I toss in my bedcovers, unable to sleep from the guilt over Cricket, from the caffeine in the tea, from that stupid freaking cherry. Maybe cherries don’t mean first love. Maybe they mean the person you lose your virginity to. It would make more sense, and in that case, my path leads to Max.
Which means I’m on the right path?
I hear his window slide open.
And then . . . nothing more.
I don’t know why, but I think he’ll call my name. He doesn’t. I grab my glasses and creep out of bed. I peer through the darkness. Cricket is looking up, staring at the sky. I watch him silently. He doesn’t move. I reach for my curtain, that impulse I can’t control, and open my window. “Hi,” I say.
He looks directly at me. His eyes are deepened as if he’s still staring at the stars.
“Is everything okay with your sister?”
Cricket nods slowly. “She’ll survive.”
“I’m sorry about your project.”