SHORTCUTS Read online

  If I recalled correctly—and I usually did—Elizabeth had liked Rob Harris for years. Which is why I’d made sure he was on the dance committee, too. Two birds, one stone: a truly gross phrase that happened to apply perfectly.

  Elizabeth blushed. “Rob asked me already.”

  Bingo. “Awesome!”

  “Yeah, but …” Uncertainty flickered, a sensation like a small poke in the ribs. It was low on the scale, but it marred the perfection of my work here.

  “He wants to go as Tweedledum and Tweedledee.” Elizabeth’s cheeks grew pinker.

  I whooped with laughter. Mia smiled but didn’t join in. Anyone who didn’t guffaw at the image of tiny Elizabeth in a giant striped belly costume needed a serious pick-me-up.

  Luckily, Rob’s bad idea was a small fly easily removed from the ointment of my perfected plan for Elizabeth. “That could work, I guess,” I snorted, “but I think I’ll have a chat with him about tweaking that idea. How adorable would you be as Alice if he was the Cheshire cat? Can’t you see it? Same theme, different style.”

  Excitement and relief rose off Elizabeth in soft waves.

  I winked at her. “Don’t worry. Let Auntie Parker talk to your boy and straighten him out. And go get yourself a cute Alice dress.”

  We left behind a happily whistling Elizabeth putting up more posters.

  “Does everyone really dress up?” Mia asked.

  “They’d better. Our committee is working our tails off to make this happen. You can come, right? Because everyone’s going to be there, trust me.”

  Mia shook her head. “I’m not much into dances. Or dressing up.”

  “Well, we’ll have to see about that.” I raised one eyebrow in challenge.

  Beyond Mia’s tall frame, a patch of red hair bobbed past the corner. Relief was followed by a dying need to get in the loop. Thinking fast, I said, “Hey, I’m going to check on Avery real quick. Keep going straight. History’s last door on the right. Here’s your pass—I’ll be right behind you.”

  Without waiting for a response, I raced the opposite way to where my friends inched along the hall with the last of the lunchtime stragglers. Catching up quickly, I demanded, “What did you see, Avery?”

  “You’re not going to like it,” Ethan said. His eyes weren’t dancing like usual.

  “Seriously,” Deshawn said, shaking his head.

  “Can you tell me now?” No one was within twenty feet of us.

  “I think it’d better wait until after school,” Avery said. “The guys are walking me to the nurse to lie down. I can’t think straight right now.”

  “Are you kidding me?”

  “It’s going to take some discussion.” Avery’s face was paler than usual, more fish belly than cream.

  “Okay, then. No worries.”

  “Just—be nice to Mia, okay?”

  I tilted my head. “I’m always nice.”

  Avery shook her head. “No, I mean, be her friend, a real one. More later, but trust me. It’s important. Mia needs to be happy here.”

  The tardy bell rang—lucky I had a pass—and the others turned to leave. Ethan reached back and touched my elbow. “I’ll let you know when and where we’re meeting later, okay?”

  I smiled, alarm melting away at his touch. Avery’s visions were only vague warnings of what could happen, not guarantees. They didn’t always come true. The future was constantly changing—it’s part of what made Avery’s gift so tricky. Precognition only showed the most likely outcome based on someone’s current path. Change the right behaviors, change the future.

  But as I slid into a seat next to Mia in history class, I couldn’t stop thinking about the hollow look on Avery’s face.

  History went swimmingly. Mr. Bransford’s love of black and white documentaries kept the mood of the room calm (possibly asleep), even though Mia chewed her nails the whole time.

  I watched her closely. New friends were great, but being close to Mia would be like cuddling an electric eel that could shock me at any point. As much as I’d love to help her, I wasn’t sure I was ready to sign up for that.

  On my way to drama, I dropped off Mia in the art room, relieved to see the girl’s face light up. A good ending to her first day. I could use one of those myself.

  For my monologue assignment, Mr. Beller had given me one of the most overdone scenes of the most overdone play ever, Romeo and Juliet. Challenge accepted. I’d been preparing all week. I was going to own it.

  On the auditorium stage, I closed my eyes for a moment against the spotlight. Heat washed over my face, along with the scent of sweat and power that was all theatre. Real life fell away. I was Juliet, longing to see my Romeo. I was about to learn his death was all too real.

  My eyes flashed open. Words poured easily from my mouth.

  “O comfortable Friar! Where is my lord?

  I do remember well where I should be,

  And there I am. Where is my Romeo?”

  Past experience of being exposed to people’s true hearts made it easy for me to imagine Juliet’s: the hope turning to fear, the growing ache of loss until agony crushed her heart in its fist.

  In the spirit of the monologue assignment, I skipped Juliet’s brief exchange with the friar offering to take her away. The friar didn’t matter anyway. This scene was all about Juliet. I took a deep breath to bring it all for the next, brutally sad moment.

  “What’s here? A cup, closed in my true love’s hand?

  Poison, I see, hath been his timeless end.”

  I looked toward the audience, including my classmates in the moment. The glare of the spotlight hid them from my sight, but I could feel their emotions pressing against my empathy like dark clouds descending all around a glass house.

  Good. I didn’t want to block them now. Their feelings were the best stage director. Focusing on the roil of mourning in my stomach, I bent over an imaginary Romeo in hopes of stealing poison from his lips. I whispered, “Thy lips are warm.” My voice broke on the last word, and I choked back a sob.

  The sound echoed in the silence, and to my mind’s eye, the dark room began to glow.

  Sparkles of sympathy. Flickers of pity. Delicious suffering. Wishful longing.

  My audience hated that sad declaration almost as much as they loved it.

  Luckily, those flashes of sadness didn’t sting. They never hurt during performances, not like real life. Emotions invented for a show lacked the punch of the genuine article, more of a whisper than a scream. Occasionally, a scene might dredge up a memory and trigger real pain, but the physical distance between the stage and audience kept that muted, too.

  I allowed a tear to tremble on the edge of my lashes, enough to sparkle without spilling down my cheek and ruining my make-up, which is harder than it sounds. I pulled out the stage knife from my pocket, lifted it high. It glinted in the lights.

  Reading and responding to my audience’s shifting moods was a lot like an intricate dance—requiring precise attention to detail without missing a beat. I tilted my head as if hearing someone coming, breaking the heavy moment. Relief from my classmates flowed like an incoming wave. It wouldn’t be there for long.

  “Yea, noise? Then I’ll be brief. O happy dagger,

  This is thy sheath. There rust and let me die.”

  I aimed the plastic dagger at my chest, let my eyes drift shut, and held the pose. I felt Juliet’s hope destroyed, let the grief swell in my body until it burned. Juliet didn’t really die from a knife. She died of a broken heart, and hearts were my specialty.

  The audience’s anxiety peaked—now—and I plunged the collapsible stage knife against my chest. My sharp cry shattered any thoughts of a happy ending.

  Even without a dead Romeo onstage, I had them in the palm of my hand. No doubt I’d snag the lead in the spring play. The trick was making the moment feel so real inside myself that it looked authentic to others.

  Like now.

  I allowed myself to sink slowly to the stage—come on! I was dying!—a
nd finished in a limp pool, knowing I was the one bright spot in a field of darkness.

  There was a moment of pure silence, the best sound in the world to an actor, before my classmates burst into applause. Their emo-cloud disappeared into harmless mist as it always did when the curtains came down and real life came up.

  I curtsied. Bubbles of perfume-scented admiration floated by. A few digs of jealousy stung. Oops. I’d left my gift wide open, actively listening in on the mood around me. I concentrated and, a heartbeat later, the room was just a room, with no hint, color, or smell of emotions in the air. Now only the strongest feelings would touch me.

  I whisked off the stage and dropped Juliet’s sadness as easily as taking off a heavy cloak. My family might not be full of rainbow ponies, but at least it wasn’t Juliet-level.

  Ethan stood in the wing of the stage. My heart skipped a beat. Why was he here? He didn’t do theatre. Not that he couldn’t if he’d wanted to, but drumming was his passion.

  “Hey, Avery said to meet in her room at 4:30. Her phone died, so don’t bother texting.”

  “How bad is it?”

  “Don’t worry, Parks. No matter what, we’ll get it all worked out.”

  His smile was like the sun, drawing me into his gravitational pull.

  Too dangerous, that feeling. Keep it light, Parker. “Thanks for the heads up, but you’d better not get caught skipping class, mister.”

  He flashed a hall pass—who knew what reason he’d concocted for it but I was sure it had been convincing—then he smirked and stepped toward the stage exit. “And by the way, nice moves out there. I’ll be your Romeo any day.”

  “You do know Romeo dies, right?”

  “What a way to go, though.” He walked backward with a wave and a ridiculous wagging of eyebrows.

  “But then who would Sophie go to the dance with?” I hollered after him. He’d make a mighty fine Romeo, of course, but if I joined all the other girls in the Ethan-Hallelujah chorus, his head might swell too big to fit in the room.

  He called back, “Oh, she changed her mind. Turns out her best friend already set them up on a double-date with a couple of freshmen football players. Can’t compete with that.”

  “Ouch. Sorry it didn’t work out.” I managed to keep a straight face.

  He shrugged and grinned. “Win some, lose some. It’s probably just as well. She’s nice and all, but she’s not my Juliet. Gotta head back to class.” He spun and left.

  I stared after him, flat-footed. What did he mean by that? His shields were as solid as they came, not that he ever shared emotions on accident.

  He wasn’t going to the dance with Sophie.

  After class, with an hour to kill until the meeting, I took my time getting ready to go home. My mind drifted again to Ethan. Maybe we could go together to the dance after all. I imagined swaying in his arms, leaning close … then shut down that daydream with a sigh. No use wishing for something that would never happen.

  I soaped my face. Stage makeup wasn’t required for class performances, but it gave an edge. And I had to get an A. It was more than wanting—needing—to prove myself. That single shining A from drama class on my report card was one of the few things that lightened my mother’s disappointment in me. I scrubbed harder at my makeup. My eyes stung. The lousy soap must have gotten in my eyes.

  An image of Mia popped into my mind, a total downer with her sadness, her obvious pain. A tragic figure, like Juliet. But Juliet’s life would have been way different if she’d had a friend. Someone to cry with, to tell her it’d all be okay, to bring some fun in.

  I turned off the bathroom lights on my way out, ready to hear what Avery had to say. Whatever it was, Mia deserved a happier ending than Juliet. Everyone did.

  Stepping into our apartment, I braced myself. No emotions battered at me, which was a hopeful sign. The first thing I did was check the blue table by the door, where my mother stored her little purse. The table was empty. Good.

  Kicking the door shut with my heel, I dropped my book bag and headed to the kitchen. My dad stood at the stove, stirring a pot. The pungent aroma of canned chicken soup filled the air.

  “Hey, Dad. Home early today?”

  He jumped but turned with a smile. “I had about a thousand papers to grade, so I decided to work in the comfort of my own home with some soup instead of the cramped office where the AC is on the fritz.”

  “Again?”

  “The budget’s tight these days.”

  I snorted. Psychology and sociology were at the bottom of the pecking order for sure at Koblaire University, which prided itself on its hard science departments. Despite the school’s small size, famous neurologists and surgeons frequently spoke to classes. Any one of them would love to get their hands on my brainwaves. The university wouldn’t have a budget problem anymore.

  “How about your day? You look tired,” my father noted. He reached into the fruit basket on the counter and tossed me an apple.

  I snatched it out of the air and plopped down at the kitchen table. Having a shrink for a dad had its ups and downs, but it sure saved time. “I showed a new girl around today, which was fine, but she’s obviously got issues.”

  “Oh?”

  “Yeah, she’s really down. I mean, she didn’t say that, and I couldn’t even read her—weird, right?—but she let stuff slip a few times. Just getting a smile out of her was like pulling teeth.”

  My father looked to the ceiling as if he’d find the right words up there to say. Finally, he said, “I appreciate that you want to help people. You’ve got a good heart, Parker. But just because you can feel someone’s pain doesn’t make it your obligation to fix it. Actually, you don’t even have the right to interfere in their lives, much less a responsibility.”

  “But see, Avery got a vision. I didn’t hear it all yet, but she said I had to be friends with this girl, Mia. I’ll be careful, don’t worry. I already got ‘the talk’ from Avery about not being so obvious. Knowing stuff I shouldn’t and all that.”

  He tapped the spoon on the edge of the pot before turning around to face me. “That’s not what I mean. Listen to your father here. No one wants to feel unhappy. But vision or no vision, if you smooth over all their problems so they never have to struggle …” He sighed heavily, ignoring the dripping spoon in his hand. “You’re taking away an opportunity for them to grow. Do you see? You’re not helping them.”

  I furrowed my brow. I understood the words he was saying. They were English. They were in order. But the concept …

  “Uh, no. Relax, Dad. I’m just saying some fun would do the girl a lot of good.”

  He returned to stirring his soup. “Not every problem is solved with a dose of fun. And some grief can never be fixed, only carried.”

  “Maybe, but a smile never hurts anyone.” I winked at him and crunched into the apple with gusto.

  “You always make me smile, at least.”

  His smile was one of my favorite things about him, slightly goofy, but warm and authentic, like the man himself. I preened like a peacock, and he chuckled, as I intended.

  But his smile faded. “Just remember, people have to feel their pain in order to heal it.”

  The front door opened and closed. His shoulders tightened, and a flicker of pain scratched down my arms.

  I narrowed my eyes. “I don’t see how you can say that. In your situation, I mean.”

  His gaze flitted to the hallway and back. “I’m sorry, Parker. I’m trying to shield, but I can’t always react fast enough—”

  My mother swooshed in. “Shield talk again? You know, just because she has a special sensitivity, Tom, doesn’t mean you should cater to it. She’ll have to learn to cope. Normal people won’t ever be able to hide all their feelings from someone like her.”

  The word her dripped with scorn. A sharp stab to my heart made me cringe.

  My father paled. “You could learn to shield, too, at least a little, if you’d—”

  “We aren’t all mental geni
uses, Mr. Psychology Professor.” Bitterness shrouded her like a veil.

  “I would prefer that we speak about this later.” He managed to sound both polite but firm.

  “And I would prefer you not undermine my authority with our child.”

  My mother’s self-righteous anger swerved to panic lined with regret, like always. She simply couldn’t block her strong emotions.

  I didn’t look on purpose. Conflict just shoved emotions in my face without asking. “Mom, Dad, I respect both of you—” I began, but they talked right over me.

  “I’ve told you I’m willing to work with you on this, whatever it takes.”

  “Nothing can help, Tom. I just want us to be normal. I don’t think that’s so terrible.”

  “There’s no such thing as normal, believe me. It’s a fact.”

  “The fact was, we couldn’t conceive. Maybe we weren’t meant to, did you ever think of that? But we intervened and ended up with a—”

  Fury rose like a black cloud from my father. “Parker, go to your room. Now.”

  I stumbled to my feet and fled, choking on the stench of burned coffee and soured milk.

  Waterfall, waterfall, waterfall. Their pain faded, but mine grew worse. It was tons harder to wash bad feelings from inside my own heart than to wipe off the feelings of others.

  I sat at my desk, staring at a history textbook I didn’t see. My trembling slowed as the minutes clicked by. It wasn’t like this situation was new.

  Coming to Divine for my dad’s job had been a supposed brief detour that had led to a dead end for my mother, who’d been a buyer for an upscale retail store. But psychology jobs at top universities were rare, so she tried to settle down and enjoy motherhood with her bonus round baby. Led PTA and baked cupcakes, smiling her trademark smile, Hollywood gorgeous.