“It would not,” I say. The interfaith tree is our one concession to the holiday season. My dad doesn’t put up lights; my mom doesn’t bake cookies. It disappoints Grandma and Grandpa Pryce, who always send us wreaths and garlands we never use. Meanwhile, my dad’s family tries to wheedle my parents into celebrating Eid and observing Ramadan. My parents just don’t do religious holidays.
In contrast, Uncle Randall and Auntie Mina hire a decorator every year to encrust their house with twinkling lights. Once, when Shiri and I were little kids, they even set up fake snow in the front yard with light-up plastic reindeer. We were climbing on the reindeer’s backs and Shiri kept telling them to giddy-up. I laughed so hard I fell off. Uncle Randall got mad at Shiri for not watching me more closely, and his yelling made us both cry. Of course, it was Number Two who was supposed to be watching both of us.
“Ever wish we could just skip Christmas?” I sigh, glancing at Mikaela.
“What? No,” Mikaela says, surprising me. “But I would skip certain things, I guess. Visiting my dad. Today’s mall trip.” I nod in agreement, even though Christmas shopping is easy in our house. I get my parents a couple of token presents and they usually give me a goofy gag gift and a check.
When we get there, the mall is swarming with moms and kids. Mikaela and I forge our way along like salmon swimming upstream. There’s an ear-blistering cacophony of screaming kids waiting in line to visit Santa, and we go past the midpoint of the mall almost at a run. Just on the other side of the big central atrium is a store called Fresh, one of those places that sells an assortment of weird crap—T-shirts, posters, gag gifts.
I wander toward the back wall and start browsing through a selection of plastic and wooden beaded curtains in boxes, looking for one my mom might like. She could hang it up during yoga classes, add some authentic hippie atmosphere. Mikaela is checking out the T-shirts for something to send to her brother, who lives with her dad. I’m just stuffing the end of a horrible pink plastic beaded monstrosity back into its box when I sense a presence standing over me.
“Hey,” someone growls, practically in my ear, making me jump. Someone male, who smells faintly of clove cigarettes and soap. I turn around. It’s Cody. My stomach lurches, and I can’t control the smile that spreads across my face.
He looks good. He’s wearing black, as usual—a long coat, a ratty old Pixies T-shirt, and black jeans—and he flashes me a quick grin as he leans back against the shelf of Magic 8 Balls behind him.
“So what’s up?” He just stands there, one corner of his mouth quirked up as if he’s trying not to laugh.
“Not much. Just shopping for my mom,” I say, grimacing. “I mean, for a Christmas present.”
“Yeah?” He cocks an eyebrow.
“Well, we don’t really do the Christmas thing at our house. Just family stuff. My parents aren’t religious or anything. You should see their so-called interfaith tree. It’s so lame.” I’m blathering. My cheeks get hot, and I turn around for a second under the guise of deciding on a beaded curtain. In a fit of nervousness I grab the first box I see in front of me and turn back around.
“Interfaith tree? I’m scared to even ask,” Cody says, laughing.
“Yeah, they’ve got some weird hippie habits. They used to live in Santa Cruz,” I say, as if that explains everything. Embarrassed, I change the subject. “So, what’ll you be doing over the break?”
“Haven’t decided yet. Trying to figure out how I can get out of the family thing. I probably haven’t told you yet, but my parents are … ” He makes a cuckoo gesture next to his ear. “The holidays just make it worse. My mom is a total Martha Stewart.” He lounges against the shelf, one hand unconsciously ruffling his hair back into its usual messy black spikes, which are tipped with blond today.
“I like your hair,” I tell him. He looks at me and smiles a little, not saying anything. I’m conscious of how close together we’re standing, and it’s almost like I can feel an aura of warmth filling the aisle between us. There’s definitely something here … I think. But he’s always giving me mixed signals.
“Let’s see what’s in store for my winter vacation,” he says, picking up a Magic 8 Ball from the shelf behind him and giving it a brisk shake, still staring at me. I can’t read his expression at all. And I haven’t once underheard anything from him. Not yet.
One more reason to try to gain control over my ability, learn to use it somehow.
He looks at the little triangle in the 8 Ball window and swears.
“What?” I finally ask, nervously. He has a strange, almost wild look in his eyes. Reflexively, I clutch the beaded curtain box a little tighter.
“Oh, just … ‘It doesn’t look promising.’” His voice is scornful. “These things are such garbage.”
“Well, what did you ask it?”
There’s a long pause. A kid pushes past, wearing a pirate hat from the display at the front of the store, and disappears around the corner of the aisle.
“You know, I bet Mikaela would love one of these things.” He glances over his shoulder and, at the same time, I see him casually slip the Magic 8 Ball into the large inner pocket of his coat. I inhale sharply. Cody must be crazy. I mean, security cameras? Guards? Even Cassie nicking makeup from the drugstore used to make me super paranoid, and that was tiny stuff—lipstick or nail polish.
I peer around the aisle. It’s nearly empty except for one really stoned-looking guy at the other end who looks mesmerized by a glow-in-the-dark Led Zeppelin poster.
“Shh,” Cody says with a secret smile. “It’s fine.” He steps closer and brushes a sweaty lock of hair out of my face. “Want one? I have another pocket.” I shiver a little at his touch, but I shake my head mutely. My thoughts are racing, and most of them involve us being ushered to a mall-basement holding cell and interrogated by security goons. What if they blame me for something? What if they call my parents?
My breath is coming in quick pants. Is it panic, or is it because Cody’s standing so close? I stand there, the beaded curtain box almost crumpling in my clenched hands, and try to slow my breathing down to a reasonable pace. Finally I succeed, and the panic begins to dissipate.
Then I feel the hush inside me, and I know what’s coming. I look up at Cody. I can feel the goose bumps rise on my arms. And then I hear—
I don’t know what I hear. Maybe it’s because the mall is so loud, or because there are so many other people around, but his thoughts are a turbulent murmur that I can’t quite catch, like voices underwater. I try to listen hard, but I can’t make out any words.
But I do feel something. A flash of intensity—anger and determination followed by a rush of exhilaration—and then suddenly there’s no more emotion, at all, and I see Cody do his little smile thing again. It’s over. All that’s left is a faint smell of cloves in my nostrils and that feeling of exhilaration, lingering, surging through my veins.
I just about pee my pants when Mikaela comes up behind me.
“Gotcha,” she says, and then she sees Cody. “Oh hey, Cody, can’t believe you’re at the mall,” she scoffs, giving him a mock glare and a burgundy-lipped pout.
“Come on, let’s get going,” I say, hustling toward the front counter so I can pay for my mom’s present. I’m a nervous wreck, convinced that the clerk is going to notice the giant lump in Cody’s coat pocket. What would happen if he got caught stealing a Magic 8 Ball? You could ask the 8 Ball, I think, a little crazily, as I pay the cashier. Grabbing the bright green Fresh bag, I walk as nonchalantly as possible toward the front of the store.