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  “Did you hear that?” Serena asked. “Oh,” she said, looking at me. “Connecting time?”

  “I think so,” I replied. At least it was now and not on the way to my first art class, or worse, during the art class.

  Tamara emerged from the kitchen with a sigh. “Why can’t this happen when I’m not cooking? It’s so inconvenient.” She sighed and we went to the triplets’ room.

  We held hands; the jolt surged through my body, and then the bubbles, as familiar to me now as the variety of feelings that made their way from other people’s hearts and minds into mine each day.

  I was expecting something to hurt, like that sharp pain, but… Oh, this is okay.

  I felt a warm hand on mine, a handshake. It was soft, except for the tips of the fingers, which felt calloused. But in a good way, like this hand had done a lot, lived a lot, maybe even… made a lot? It could be my art teacher’s hand. I’d probably be shaking it tonight when I introduced myself to her.

  I felt clay too, like how my sculpture-to-be felt. Then I was shocked out of the smooth comfort of that by the sensation of someone grabbing my shirt. Felt the pull of fabric from around my shoulder. Weird. And then the sharp pain again on my right hand. A sting. It was warm, too.

  My sense of touch dampened, and I opened my eyes and let go of Tamara and Sasha’s hands. I got out the journal and, instead of waiting for them to tell me what they sensed, I told them what I had felt first.

  “I saw Dad’s shirt,” said Savannah. “At least, the symbol of Mountain Workwear. I didn’t see him. Also broken glass. Could that be the sharp pain you felt Talia?” I shrugged and nodded. “And someone is really bad at sculpture.” She chuckled.

  “Oh no, not me?” My hand went to my chest. “Am I going to make a fool of myself tonight?”

  Savannah shrugged. “Dunno. It looked like an erupted volcano. Or a giant zit that exploded. Would make a great centerpiece table decoration.” She slumped on her bed and leaned back on her hands.

  Sasha laughed. “Nice.”

  “Well I’ll make sure I don’t attempt anything like that tonight.” I tapped the pen against my chin, and hoped there wasn’t a zit about to erupt and explode on my face the next time the paparazzi shoved their cameras in front of me. “Hey, do you think the broken glass had something to do with my art class too? And maybe someone there is wearing the same shirt or jacket as Dad?” I shivered, not knowing what I’d do in that situation.

  “Who knows,” said Savannah. “Just be wary around any glass, I guess.”

  I nodded and jotted down our notes. Serena had heard the glass smash, quiet footsteps, and breathing. Sasha had smelled cigarette smoke, which she said made her feel sick, as it reminded her of the night she’d been attacked. As for Tamara, she had tasted the cigarette, then chewing gum.

  “Are we done?” Tamara headed for the door. “Chili and lime fish broth awaits.”

  “Fish broth? Do I like that?” asked Sasha, scrunching up her face.

  “You will. Trust me.” Tamara smiled and left the room.

  Great. Garlic and fish. Maybe the chewing gum in the vision was mine, counteracting the bad breath.

  But when I got in the car with Mom an hour later, I was gum free. She drove me to Fern Ridge and pulled into the parking lot behind the community center. “I can wait in the car and read or something, if it would make you feel better?” she asked.

  “Oh Mom, don’t worry. I’ll be fine. And I’ll have to learn to drive soon so I can drive myself.”

  “Yes, you will. But for now you’ll have to settle for your mommy taking you.” She slid her arm around my waist and pulled me in for a hug.

  “Mom,” I said, giggling.

  “Oh, you girls are growing up too fast.” She pouted. “Okay, off you go. Enjoy your class. I’ll wait a few minutes to make sure you’re okay.”

  “Seriously, Mom, you can go. I’ll call if there are any problems. When you get home you’ll probably have to turn around and pick me up again.”

  “I don’t mind. You know I love singing along to songs when I drive. Lets me practice my skills without anyone listening. I don’t get many opportunities.” She opened the glove box and pulled out a CD.

  “What is that ancient thing?” I asked, putting on a posh documentary voice like I was examining antiques.

  “Oh stop, you. CDs are much more convenient than fiddling with fancy-schmancy playlists on phones.”

  “Okay, I’d better go. And, hey.” I clapped my hands together. “I’ve got the perfect comeback if someone pesters me about going all psychic on TV. I’ll just say, ‘Yes, I’m psychic. Have you told your boyfriend about your sexually transmitted infection yet?’”

  Mom burst out laughing. “That’ll shut ‘em up.” She gave me a light, victorious punch on the arm. I got out of the car and waved her off, then made my way to the entrance.

  I walked in and caught the teacher’s eye; she was a woman in her fifties with a clump of clay stuck in her red-dyed hair. But something else dragged my attention away. Two things, actually. The first was a lump of clay sitting on a table in front of a man who appeared to be in his forties. Except it wasn’t just a lump of clay. He was fiddling with it, and it looked just like… a volcano. Or a giant exploding zit.

  The second thing was not a thing, but a person: a stunningly handsome, dark-featured young guy who was taking a seat at one of the tables. His eyes caught mine as he sat and I literally felt my heart stop for a moment. I seriously hoped that another part of my vision would come true too, and that it was his hand I would get to touch tonight.

  Chapter 4

  “Welcome, Talia,” said the art teacher. “I’m Lizzie.” She smiled and shook my hand briefly; her hand was thin and bony, unlike the one in my vision. “These are your fellow students: Peter,” she gestured to the guy with the volcano/zit abomination, who held up one clay-covered hand in a small wave. “Liana,” she said, and I smiled at the black-haired girl with piercings in her nose and ears. “And this is Greg, and Mel, Sandra and her husband Philippe, and,” by the time she’d said their names, I’d forgotten them, my heart rate rising as she reached the exotic stunner to my right, “Marco. He’s from Iris Harbor too.”

  He is? I wondered why I hadn’t seen him around.

  Everyone waved and said, “Hi.” Marco stood and held out his hand.

  Oh here we go!

  I smiled at both his politeness and the anticipation of something I’d already felt.

  “Nice to meet you, Talia.”

  Our hands met, and he raised mine up and down in one slow, definite shake. Smooth—yes. Slight callouses on fingertips—yes. Did I want to touch his hand again—hell yes. I didn’t get a surge of anything significant like I sometimes got when I shook people’s hands. It was simply nice.

  “Marco, was it?” was all I could say, even though I hadn’t forgotten his name.

  “Marco Rodriguez.”

  I nodded. “Talia Delcarta.”

  He sat, and Peter piped up, “Hey, aren’t you that girl who was on TV?”

  I turned to face him, my mouth opening but no words coming out.

  Luckily, Lizzie interjected. “Let’s not discuss such matters as television. Our class is a safe haven from the pressures of the world, where we can embrace our creative souls.”

  I liked this woman. Though, I was tempted to remove the clump of clay from her hair.

  She led me to a table. Unlike our school classrooms, the tables were arranged in a circle, sort of like group therapy. Maybe it was group therapy, a bunch of aspiring artists thrown together to make stuff when their own lives didn’t make sense. I wondered if Marco’s life made sense. Had he seen me on TV?

  New feelings came to my awareness as I took my seat. An agitated impatience, a calm anticipation, curiosity, a slight fatigue, and intrigue. I didn’t know who was feeling what at this stage—maybe they were even my own feelings mixed with theirs—but as each class progressed I’d probably get to know the people a little more,
both in the normal way and the sensory way.

  Lizzie placed her iPod onto a speaker and classical music wafted gently through the room. Not loud enough to be distracting, but at the perfect volume to set the mood. I usually preferred quiet, but it was kind of nice. Serena would love this.

  I casually glanced toward Marco, two tables away, Lizzie’s table between us. He popped a stick of gum in his mouth and even from here I could smell the fresh peppermint scent as his lips moved up, down, and around. I diverted my gaze and focused on the clay in front of me.

  Lizzie came over to my table. “So what we’re working on at this stage are organic sculptures, meaning something of natural origin. Focus on fluidity, smooth lines, flow, and continuity.”

  I eyed Peter’s giant zit.

  “It’s a volcano,” he said.

  “I thought so.” I offered a small smile. I glanced around at the other sculptures in progress. Liana’s looked closer to mine than the others.

  “I’m not sure what it’s going to be yet,” she said, pointing to it with her black-fingernailed hands. “I only started the class last week. It was a mountain then, but now I think I’ll turn it into a tree.”

  “Can I ask a question?” I looked up at Lizzie beside me.

  “Of course, Talia, that’s why I’m here.”

  “When you start a sculpture, is it best to have a plan of what you want to make, or to let something be created naturally?”

  “Great question. There’s no definite answer, as art should allow your creativity to run free, but sometimes it’s good to start with an idea or maybe a sketch of what you want to create. Other times it’s best to let your hands roam free and trust that they know what they’re doing.”

  I nodded. I decided against telling her about my at-home sculpture-to-be, thinking it might bring up the psychic issue, as it kind of felt like I was psychically sculpting something.

  “I’m all for the planning option,” said Peter. “I knew it would be a volcano before I started.”

  “Personally, I think it’s best to let your hands do the creating, not your mind.”

  I glanced toward Marco. His sculpture didn’t resemble anything in particular, at least from my perspective, but it had nice fluid lines.

  He swiveled his sculpture board around so that the sculpture faced me. “I mold and shape it according to where my hands feel they want to go. And at the end of last week’s class, it turned out that I was creating a waterfall. See?” He traced the flowing water with a finger.

  “Yeah, I see it. It’s nice.” I smiled and he smiled back. Maybe I could talk to him about the one I was creating at home.

  Marco dipped his fingers in the bowl of water and placed his hands gently on the clay, moving bits of it around to where he wanted it to go, his lips moving fluidly in much the same way as he chewed his gum. Watching him was calming, rhythmic, like meditation.

  “I’ll finish this baby tonight,” said Peter. “Just need to add the lava around the base and then it’ll be ready for firing and painting.”

  Lizzie went through some sculpture basics with me, informing me that there would be some shrinkage in the final result as water evaporated, and then I dipped my hands in the water bowl and placed my hands on the clay. The moment I did, my body relaxed. Yes, this would be my safe haven, my place away from the pressures of the world. The stress of the last couple of days dissolved as my hands moved fluidly around the clay to feel what they wanted to create. I agreed with Marco’s process, and would do the same thing. I would trust my hands, my sense of touch, and see where it led me.

  Chapter 5

  As soon as I got home after school the next day I went straight to my room and flopped on the bed. “I’m so not going to school tomorrow,” I said to Tamara. She lay on her bed, texting Leo with a huge smile on her face.

  “Just ignore them; they’ll soon get sick of annoying you,” she said. “Although, Savannah said the reporters tried to get info out of her too when she arrived late for school with Riley.”

  “What? Oh great. I’m assuming she didn’t say anything.”

  “Well, she did say something.”

  I shot upright. “Huh?”

  Tamara rolled on her side and put her phone down. “Umm, she might have told them an anatomical location where they could shove their cameras and microphones.”

  I burst out laughing. “That is the best thing I’ve heard all day.” Gotta love my youngest sister. Not afraid of anything.

  “So, do you think Mom will let you have the day off?”

  “Hope so. I’m sick of everyone looking at me.” Except… My thoughts turned to Marco. The way he’d looked at me when he shook my hand. The way he spoke with such confidence about his art, like he didn’t care what anyone thought, and didn’t care whether I was psychic or not, or even whether I had a huge volcanic zit erupting on my face.

  Serena knocked, then opened our door, laptop in her hands. “Hey, do you think the cops would be able to find out if Dave Bolt and his brother ever wore those Mountain Workwear uniforms?”

  She was adamant about the whole uniform business. It was a long shot, but I knew that just like I needed time on my own, she needed to keep busy with possible solutions. I wanted solutions too, but I tended to think about them rather than actually do anything.

  “What are we supposed to say to them?” Tamara said. “For no apparent logical reason, we were wondering if, while you’re looking for Sean Bolt’s whereabouts, you could ask Dave about his clothing choices?”

  Serena sighed. “No, just that maybe Dad mentioned something about the logo. He could have seen it in a shop window and said ‘Oh that’s like what so-and-so wears.’”

  “Serena, I thought you were all about sticking to the truth. We need to focus on facts and let them do their job while we do ours.”

  She shifted to her other foot. “Yeah, guess you’re right. Oh well.” She sighed and left us alone.

  I felt the urge to get out my sculpture. I got up off the bed and retrieved it from my drawer, and placed a protective mat on the floor. My hands moved over the clay, and I thought of Marco again. It was like his hands and the clay had been one, moving effortlessly together to cocreate something. I didn’t feel as competent as him, but I did my best.

  Tamara’s phone rang. She talked to Leo about various food combinations like they were the most exciting conversation topics in the entire universe. I tuned them out as I shaped the clay. My fingers became more focused, more specific, more aware of what they were doing. Something was forming. I didn’t know what, but it was as though my hands had a mind of their own. I breathed and relaxed and trusted. It didn’t appear to be an organic sculpture like we were making in class; it had a weird shape. I tried not to judge and just let it happen. But when Mom came home and said she was getting dinner ready early so she could get to her acting class earlier than usual, my muse left the building. I would resume tomorrow. Tonight I had homework to do, since I didn’t get any done last night, and tomorrow would be my next art class. It was probably good to keep busy so I didn’t worry about everything. And as I did my homework later that night, I found myself checking my watch, counting the hours until not only my next art class, but also until the next time I’d see the intriguing Marco Rodriguez.

  • • •

  “Why can’t I stay home too?” asked Sasha. “I could keep her company.”

  Mom shook her head as she put her lunch into her bag, ready for work.

  “I don’t need company,” I said.

  Sasha crossed her arms and huffed. “If the reporters are there and ask me where you are, I’ll just tell them you’re invisible and that that’s another of your superpowers.”

  “Ha ha,” I said without laughing.

  “Well, sweeties, I have to get to work. Make the most of your day off, okay?” Mom kissed my forehead.

  I nodded.

  She kissed Sasha’s cheek and told her to behave, then said her farewells to my other sisters and left.

&nb
sp; “C’mon, guys, off to hell we go.” Sasha slung her bag over her shoulder, and I watched my sisters walk out the door.

  Ahh, peace… I put on some guided relaxation music and lay on the couch, ready to zone out. Or zone in, as this recording suggested. By listening to the calming voice and music background, one could relax one’s nervous system and tune into one’s natural intuition and intelligence. I thought it could be a good way not only to deal with stress, but to help get me in the right mood for resuming my sculpture too.

  It worked.

  As soon as the recording ended I got out my sculpture, placed it on the dining table, and moved my hands easily across the clay. It was like a dance, fluid in parts, precise in others.

  The shape I’d been working on yesterday became more detailed, and I leaned back in the chair as I finally recognized something. A wheel.

  Okay, so I’m sculpting a car or something?

  I shrugged and continued. But farther along the base, where the front wheel should be if it was in fact a car, my hands didn’t make another wheel. They made the space where a wheel should have been.

  My hands moved to the other side of the sculpture, and I repeated the same thing—a wheel at the back, but none at the front, just a gap where one should have been.

  I pushed clay up and over the top, then added a new clump of clay from the packet, forming the top of a car. But my hands wanted to grab the middle and remove some from underneath. I was constructing and deconstructing a car at the same time. Building, demolishing. Creating, destroying.

  I threaded my hand through, underneath the roof of the car, smoothing out the underside and pressing the edges so it wouldn’t collapse. Then I ripped bits off the front and reshaped the hood so it looked warped.

  My tongue poked out the corner of my mouth as I worked, my head tilting, my eyes not daring to blink. As though possessed, or channeling some entity from another realm, I worked quickly and urgently, the shape demanding creation.

  My hands tingled and shook as I lifted them away from the clay, hovering just above the sculpture.