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Questions shot toward us.
“Talia, what’s your last name?” one of them asked.
“She’s Talia Delcarta.” I turned to see who had spoken. A student from my school, Brianna. But I didn’t know her last name.
“Talia Delcarta,” said the reporter, “just answer one question: What made you disrupt the show to alert the chef that he was in danger?”
My blood had reached its boiling point, my adrenaline surged, and my body was ready to explode. “Because I knew!” I said. “I sensed it.”
The reporter’s face brightened, and she grinned. “So what you’re saying is, you’re psychic, right? You predicted this.”
“In a way.” I shrugged and glanced at my sisters, who eyed me with desperate caution. I couldn’t involve them. But what the hell, my gift had probably saved that man’s life, and if it could save someone else’s, maybe I needed to come clean and not hide what I could do. “Yes. I predicted this. That’s all I’ll say.”
And as cameras flashed and the reporter shot more questions at me, and Mom shoved people aside so we could get to our car, I had another prediction that didn’t require any psychic abilities: my life—our lives—were about to get very interesting.
Chapter 2
“Oh wow, Talia! You’re like, literally famous.” Sasha leaned forward on the couch as my face appeared onscreen.
“I can’t watch.” I half-covered my eyes as we sat in front of the TV in our living room that night.
“The young woman from Iris Harbor, Talia Delcarta, disrupted a live television broadcast of The Dancing Chef to warn the special guest that he was in danger.” They showed footage of the man collapsing. “And sure enough, not long after, what she predicted happened.”
The footage showed the crowd of people gasping, as the camera crew had turned the cameras away from Renaldo to capture the shock of the moment, at least until Darren told them to put their cameras away. Then there was an outside shot of people leaving the building. “She said she saw it in a vision,” said a witness who had a microphone under her chin. “I thought she was crazy, but… well, you saw what happened.” The witness shrugged.
“No I didn’t!” I yelled at the TV. “I didn’t see it, I felt it!”
“She’s one of those gifted psychics,” said someone else being interviewed. “No doubt about it. I’ve been to one. Very interesting. I’d go to her if she takes appointments. Does she take appointments? Do you know? Can you find out?”
I brought my hands to my head, my mouth wide open. “I need some space.” I went to the room I shared with Tamara at the end of the hallway, lay flat on my bed, held my hand-painted meditation stone close to my chest, and breathed as slowly as I could.
• • •
The next day was worse. Mom brought the newspaper home and I was in it: an unflattering photo of me outside the television studio looking flustered and overwhelmed, my mother by my side with her hand out to the camera. Who would want to be a celebrity? It would be an absolute nightmare.
“How did they find out all this information?” I asked Mom as I read through the article. They’d proposed it was a fluke and that all the excitement at the studio had caused Renaldo to collapse, or that it had been a fake display to win ratings, or that I was really a ‘troubled teen’ because my father had disappeared almost ten years ago.
“They have ways of finding stuff out,” said Mom.
“But they not only know about Dad, they know that his case has been reopened because of new evidence and a new lead, too. I thought the detectives were keeping that quiet so as to not alert the missing Bolt brother that they’re looking for him.”
Mom sighed. “I know, but it’s hard for them to keep things completely under wraps. As they question people and go about their investigations, it’s bound to cause a stir among their journalism contacts.”
I reread the article.
It is unknown what this new evidence is. However, sources say the Delcarta family visited authorities recently to discuss the case of the missing David Delcarta. Following their visit, police resumed investigations, saying only that they were following a new lead.
The man in custody, Dave Bolt, was still refusing to give up the whereabouts of his brother, Sean. And apparently the cops had not let it slip to him that were they interested in finding his brother not only because of the armed robberies that the brothers had been involved in, but because he was now wanted for questioning in relation to my dad’s disappearance. And—a fact only we were privy to—his murder.
“It’s not absolute proof,” the police had said a week ago, when we’d shown them Dad’s letter with the secret code revealing the names Sean and Dave Bolt. “It’s only his word. But we’ll follow up on it in the hope of discovering some new evidence.”
Only his word? Dad was the victim; he should know. Dad had gone to the trouble of hiding the names in his goodbye letter, and he only would have done that for two reasons:
1. He wanted some way of announcing his killers’ names that wasn’t too obvious, so that if the culprits themselves found the letter, it wouldn’t put us at risk.
2. He knew that we would obsess over the letter for long enough that, between the six of us, we would eventually figure it out.
As far as I was concerned, Dad’s word was proof. We just needed to find evidence that would stand up in court and, in doing so, find out where they left his body, so we could lay him to rest.
I shook my head at another section of the newspaper article.
Could it be that Talia Delcarta does indeed have some kind of psychic ability, and that her skills led to the unveiling of new evidence? Or is she simply a traumatized teen, and the weekend’s events at the television studio a cry for help after the stress of her father’s case being reopened? You decide. Take our online poll: Is Talia Delcarta psychic, or troubled? Results will be announced on Wednesday.
“How dare they trivialize this. Us. Me.” I folded the newspaper and tossed it onto the coffee table.
Mom rubbed my shoulders from behind the couch where I sat. “Try not to worry about their silly ways. It’s to sell more papers. All that matters is that Chef Renaldo is alive and recovering at the hospital from his heart attack, and Dad’s case is being taken seriously again.”
“And somehow I have to face everyone at school tomorrow. I might as well walk around with a flashing neon sign on my head saying ‘Psychic or fraud—you decide!’”
“Oh, honey.” Mom came around and sat next to me. “How about doing something to take your mind off it all? A swim?”
“No, people will see me.”
“A movie here on the couch?”
“Can’t concentrate.”
“Make something? You know, like your father used to. Haven’t you got a sculpture in progress or something?” Mom tried to make light of her suggestion so as to not pressure me, and casually flipped through the classified ads in the newspaper.
I shrugged. I did have something in progress. I didn’t know what it was. Just a lump of clay that I was molding and shaping into… something. My hands were channeling something, and I simply had to allow them to do their thing without thinking about it. Every now and again I’d get an urge to fiddle with it, and then the urge would go away, and I’d stop. I didn’t have the urge now, but maybe if I got the clay out it would be like saying, “Okay, I’m ready, sculpture. Show yourself!”
I went to stand, but Mom grasped my arm. “Oh, look!” She pointed to the newspaper. “This could be just the thing for you, to help take you away from all your worries for a few hours a week.”
I leaned forward and read the advertisement.
Sculpture class: release your creative potential! All welcome. Beginner to advanced students. Work at your own pace. One, two, or three classes per week. Expert tutelage provided in a small, friendly group atmosphere. Student discounts.
I twisted my lips to one side. “Hmm. Yeah, but there are people there too. They might have seen me on the news.”
“Talia,” Savannah tied up the laces on her running shoes. “You can’t hide forever. So what if people know you’re psychic? They don’t know the truth about what we can do, just that you predicted a one-off event. That’s all. Some might think of you as a celebrity, not a weirdo.”
“I don’t like being center of attention.” I crossed my arms.
“Tell you what,” said Mom, patting my thigh and getting up off the couch, newspaper in hand. “I’ll give this art teacher a call. If she’s nice, and you enjoy the classes, I’ll offer to hand some promotional flyers out to my clients for her.”
I shrugged and nodded my agreement. It would be cool to go to an art class, since I spent so much time making things anyway. And maybe people there would be like me, and understand my urge to do things with my hands and make something out of nothing.
A few minutes later, Mom had booked me in. “You start tomorrow evening,” she said. “I’ll drop you off and pick you up; it’s not too far. Good thing it’s not on the night I do my acting classes.”
“So I just go every Monday?”
“No, I booked you in for the three classes: Mondays, Wednesdays, and Thursdays.”
My eyebrows shot up. “You do realize I may not have much time for homework on those nights?”
“Thought you might like that.” Mom winked, and I smiled. Mom wasn’t a fan of homework. She said that there was plenty of time for academic learning to take place at school, and a student’s passions should be followed at every available opportunity. And yet, somehow, she got on really well with Mr. Jenkins, who gave us such academic homework. “Any issues, I’ll write you a note and tell them you’re under stress from being a celebrity.” She whirled around and went into the kitchen.
Savannah laughed. “Anyway, I’m off for a jog.”
“With lover boy?” I asked.
“Nope.” She pouted. “His damn job is taking him away from me too much these days. Not fair.”
If only how often I got to see my (non-existent) boyfriend were the extent of my concerns. Though as sisters we all shared the same concerns about our abilities and Dad’s case, my concerns had experienced a sharp rise in intensity. I felt vulnerable and exposed that people had seen me like that on TV. That my in-control façade had been shattered. That my secret was out, to some degree.
My hands itched and tingled, craved movement and texture. I went to my room and unwrapped the clay from its plastic, and began shaping it into whatever it would eventually come to be. Maybe like the sculpture, the truth about Dad would eventually take shape, and we would be able to look at it finally and see, with absolute clarity, what we had been desperate to see for so long.
Chapter 3
I squinted as I walked outside the next morning with my sisters. The sun shone brightly, like it didn’t have a care in the world. And like that spotlight that had been cast on me, the sun intruded on my face, my eyes, my mind. Sweat formed a sticky film under my top.
“Maybe you’ll need big black sunglasses and a baseball cap.” Sasha flung her arm around me. I flinched a little. “And a poodle that wears designer collars and nail polish.” I knew she was trying to make light of things, but nothing could take away this raw feeling of exposure, not after the weekend’s events had ripped off the invisible protective sheath I hadn’t realized I’d built around myself. I felt like I was the clay sculpture, still trying to figure out who I was, being molded into one form and then another by people and events around me, my destiny at their mercy.
I attempted to smile at Sasha. “Doesn’t really suit my look.” I gestured to my Bohemian white skirt and fringed top.
“Wide-brimmed straw hat then?” Sasha suggested.
“Maybe,” I said. “Anyway, has Jordan asked you about my abilities or anything?”
As far as I knew, Sasha hadn’t yet told her boyfriend about what we could do. Everyone else knew, but Sasha seemed intent on keeping the status quo. She was never one to fix anything that wasn’t broken, or risk potential challenges if she could keep the peace. She liked drama, but only if it was happening to someone else.
“He did ask if it was all true,” she said. “I just said that you were pretty good at reading people and had a bit of a sixth sense about certain things.”
“What was his reaction?”
“Well he hasn’t broken up with me, so I don’t think our family weirdness has turned him off yet.”
I removed her arm from around me, and my jaw tensed.
“Oh, sorry, I didn’t mean that you’re weird, just that... oh man.” Sasha sighed.
I picked up my pace. “So you’re more worried about your boyfriend seeing you, or us, for what we really are and breaking up with you, than you are about the fact that my life is in the spotlight and our father’s case is being brought out into the open again?”
“No, of course not!” She quickened her pace and caught up with me. “I just want to tell him when the time is right. It hasn’t been right yet.”
“Well maybe now is the time. It’s hard having to keep quiet when he’s around. And if he cares about you, he’ll still care about you when he finds out the truth.”
“Hang on, not too long ago we were all worried about people knowing our secret, now you want everyone to know?”
“No, only the people we can trust. The people that are in our lives, those that could be of help. If you think Jordan can be trusted, you should tell him.”
Sasha sighed again. “Let me figure it out at my own pace.” And she slowed down, while I sped up. Which basically represented the whole situation. I was being noticed; my life was speeding up; she wanted things to stay as they were.
Maybe a day at school would be good, help me to focus on other things. Teachers would keep the peace in the classrooms so that hopefully other students wouldn’t pester me about what had happened. And at lunchtime I could go to the library and get some peace and quiet.
We turned the corner into the street where our school was, and, as we approached the gate, my heartbeat quickened.
What’s going on?
I thought maybe there’d been some kind of incident, since people were gathered around the entrance, but when I neared them I realized they were here for me.
“Miss Delcarta, can you talk to us for a few moments about your psychic ability?” A reporter brought a microphone my way; her camera crew followed. “How long have you had this ability?”
“No comment.” I diverted my eyes and tried to walk through the school gates.
“Just answer the questions.”
My gaze sought out the person who had spoken. Brianna. The girl who’d given the reporters my surname on Saturday. She was a teacher’s pet, always trying to get to the top of the class and not afraid to show off her perfect grades.
I glared at her.
“I’d like to know how these visions come to you,” Brianna said. “Like, do you see things in your mind, or do you hear voices?”
The reporter moved the microphone in Brianna’s direction halfway through her questions. “Yes, great question. Brianna, is it? Now Talia, how do they come to you?”
Brianna’s face lit up and she crossed her arms and waited for my response. I could feel her smug satisfaction at impressing the reporter.
“Look, I helped that man, and I’m glad, but the day has come and gone. I don’t wish to discuss it anymore.”
“I don’t want to discuss last weekend,” the reporter said. “I want to discuss you. Our viewers and readers want to know about the mysterious Talia Delcarta, who saved a man’s life because of her psychic prediction. You’re hot stuff right now, girlfriend.” She grinned.
If she was trying to appeal to my ego, it wasn’t working. If it were Sasha in the spotlight, maybe she’d have had better luck.
“I have to go to school.” I shoved past them and into the school grounds, catching the eye of Mr. Jenkins as he walked toward the gate. I turned back briefly to see him asking them to leave.
Thanks Mr. J.
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br /> But when I entered the building, it was just as bad.
“Talia!”
“Oh my God! I saw you on TV!”
“Psychic, huh? What’s in my future?”
“Freak!”
Voices and people bombarded me, and I covered my ears and ran to the bathroom. “Don’t listen to them,” Tamara said as she entered. “C’mon, let’s get to class early.” She held out her hand.
I took it, even though when I did I sensed her apprehension about the whole situation too. This affected not only me, but the others too. And although my secret was out, it was best to give my sisters their privacy and not reveal any more than had already been revealed.
• • •
“I don’t know if I want to go now,” I said. Mom had arrived home from work and begun early dinner preparations with Tamara. “I just want to be by myself.”
“Sweetheart, this art class will be good for you, wait and see. And tomorrow will be easier at school. It will blow over soon, and they’ll find something else to get dramatic about. That’s how propaganda works. People have short attention spans.” Mom turned from side to side. “Speaking of which, what was I about to do?”
“The onions, Mom. I need onions.” Tamara chopped garlic.
Oh great. Whatever we were eating, I’d have garlic breath at art class. Hopefully I’d be at least a few feet away from anyone else.
“Oh, yes. Onions.” Mom bent and retrieved some from the basket under the sink.
I walked out of the kitchen, then paused. My hands tingled. It was like electricity was running through them, and if I touched someone, they’d get a shock. The front door opened, and Serena arrived home after being at Damon’s, her face kind of twitching and turning to the side as though she was hearing something. Savannah was on the phone with Riley, probably as he walked to work. Her eyes narrowed. Sasha was practicing her taekwondo moves, but didn’t appear to be sensing anything.
Then a sharp pain shot through my hand. “Ouch!” I rubbed it.