6

Breakfast was power pancakes with this weird nutty wheat thing that actually makes my stomach a little restless, so I only had three.

That morning I’d IM-ed with Naoki about the Eye of Know and about healing crystals, which was something Naoki’s mom was super into, and Naoki was going to do a whole thing on it at our next Mystery Club.

Naoki: Was talking to my mom. Is your Eye thing made of onyx?

Me: Don’t think so. Don’t know what it is.

Naoki: If you bring it again, I’ll bring my necklace my dad gave me. It’s onyx and obsidian.

Me: Cool!

 Healing crystals!

While Tesla was screaming about her socks, I took the Eye off my neck and let it dangle in the sunlight. A black hole.

It wasn’t a bad-looking stone. Maybe it would end up being just a nice piece of jewelry or something. Maybe it was onyx. That would be nice.

“Mama!”

“Tesla, you are responsible for your own two feet!”

I slipped the Eye of Know into my bag and bolted down the stairs.

*   *   *

It was “Support Your Clubs and Teams Day” at school, so the front steps were flooded with club and sports reps, rallying support. Cheerleaders were handing out flyers for upcoming club frivolities. A girl from the Dramedy Club dressed in a fifties skirt was trying to get more kids to sign up for auditions.

“There’s a make-out scene,” she called coyly to a group of boys at the bottom of the steps, twirling her skirt for extra make-out-possibility emphasis.

I wondered what Thomas, Mr. Patron of the Arts, would think of that.

First period, Kenneth White clomped in after the bell rang and sat in the front row, right corner.

“Mr. White?” Mr. Deever, sweating in a cable-knit sweater, wandered over to the chalkboard and tapped it with his ruler.

“Yes, sir?” Kenneth said, barely moving a muscle beyond the ones in his lips.

Deever tapped the board. “Care to answer one of these for us? Help us out?”

Kenneth uncurled himself from his seat. It looked as if it took effort. Guy was frickin’ tall. “Yes, sir.”

Clomp, clomp, clomp.

Surprisingly, Kenneth White’s handwriting was tiny. Like typewriter tiny. It was like watching a computer solve for “x” on the chalkboard.

Then he handed the chalk back to Mr. Deever and clomp-clomped back to his seat.

Stone-faced.

Deever surveyed and whistled. “Well done, Kenneth,” he marveled. “You have impeccable penmanship. The students of Jefferson could learn a thing or two from you, I think.”

Kenneth’s face was still as ice. “Thank you, sir.”

Then he folded his arms across his chest and, presumably, stopped breathing.

It’s like watching a robot, I thought, singing myself a little song in my head. Kid robot! Kid Christian Robot! Fighting sin and doing math! KID ROBOT!

“Miss Sole!” Mr. Deever barked, banging his stick on the chalkboard. “Care to join us?”

 Handwriting and personality—art of reading a signature

In English, I overheard Madison Marlow saying the Reverend White was setting up a new church in California, and he was scouting out locations. Someone else said they heard him on the radio.

“I thought he got sued,” Miffy said. “Right, Madison?”

“That’s right. My mom says he’s fighting it because it’s his freedom of speech,” Madison said, tapping her nails on the desk. “It’s not right the way people on the so-called right have made freedom a crime in this country.”

“You don’t say,” I whispered.

Apparently, the Reverend White was spreading the word about the “plague.”

“My mom said, if there’s a plague, it’s probably in California,” Madison continued. “My mom says it’s nice to have a little spirit back in the state.”

Also, Madison thought Kenneth was an albino.

“Totally.” Miffy nodded. “He has that albino look, you know?”

Wow, I thought, so much insight in English class today. It was a little hard to take in all at once.

Still. I made a mental note of two new possible topics.

 Albinos: characteristics or special powers?

 Head shape and personality

“Can I help you, Montgomery?” Madison snapped, narrowing her gaze, making me I wonder if her mascara-gooped eyelashes would connect and fuse her eyes shut.

“You could cut someone with that gaze,” I wanted to tell her.

“Oh I’m just sitting here,” I said instead, randomly flipping through the pages of my book. “You know, looking up stuff about darkness, in my cool rock T-shirt.”

I did get a look at Kenneth on my way to chemistry. I couldn’t tell from the back if he was an albino or just really blond. It was hard to get a close look at him generally because he was usually up and out of class before I even got a chance to look at his face.

At lunch, we laid Naoki’s onyx necklace and my mystery stone out on the lawn.

“It doesn’t look like the onyx,” Naoki said. “It’s weird, because they’re both black, but the Eye looks darker.”

“I know,” I breathed.

Thomas leaned over and peered at the two necklaces. “Naoki’s will go better with a blazer,” he said finally, “mostly because it doesn’t have a string for a strap.”

“Yeah, it said it would have an adjustable strap,” I said. “I think it said it would be leather.”

Thomas sniffed. “I’m all for mystery but I have to say, that’s what you get for buying something from one of your weird sites. Next thing you know it will be tinfoil hats.”

“Hey, if you’re in for the mystery, you’re open to any and all possibilities,” I countered.

Honestly, for someone obsessed with superheroes and astrology, Thomas could be such a cynic sometimes. “I’m just offering my aesthetic opinion,” Thomas said, pressing his fingers into his chest in a very moi? pose. “I leave the science of this to you two.”

“It’s a cool name,” Naoki added. “The Eye of Know.”

“Well,” I said, sinking just a tiny bit, “it’s not really letting me know anything yet.”

Naoki picked up her necklace and strung it back around her neck. “Well, even if it isn’t onyx, and even if nothing has happened yet, you should wear it,” she said. “See what you can see.”

Then she popped up off the blanket and raced to fit in flute practice before class.

“Did you even know she played the flute?” Thomas marveled, watching Naoki as she skipped back to school.

“She’s a mystery,” I said, folding what was left of my French fry lunch into my mouth.

“Oh.” Thomas turned and pressed his hand onto mine. “Speaking of which, I don’t think I can come to your soccer game adventure. I’ve got a date.”

I raised an eyebrow. “With The Butcher?”

“With The Soprano,” Thomas said, straightening his shirtsleeves, which I noticed were looking especially ruffled today.

“Mob?” I asked.

“Puh-lease,” Thomas scoffed, lying back with a dramatic harrumph. “As if we date mobsters.”

“We?”

“He’s an opera singer,” Thomas said, rolling onto his side and patting the grass next to him. “Now, let’s enjoy some sun before we go back into your version of the lion’s den.”

“Okay.”

We lay back on the grass and discussed how the date might go depending on how good-looking and old the guy turned out to be. The sky was that pulsing electric blue that it is here. It’s this unforgettable, I’m-so-blue-it-hurts blue that I’ve always found kind of ridiculous. It’s blue like nail polish for club kids. Anyway, today I wasn’t really minding it.

You could hear kids blasting music from their rides in the parking lot.

Bump, bump, waaaaahhhhh.

“Hey!” a voice called.

I tipped my head up. Somewhere in the glare of the sun stood Matt, twirling a football on one finger. “Nice pants, Thomasssss.”

“Thanks.” Thomas kept his head tilted back into the sun. We could hear the crunch of many feet on the crispy grass. It was Matt plus posse. I sat up.

Matt tossed a football backward over his shoulder, and some kid dove to catch it. “Where did you get them? Oh my gosh. Was it H&M?” Matt pressed the tips of his fingers to his shoulder. In this sort of girlie pose, I guess. The boys behind him snickered.

“Why do you ask?” Thomas sat up and popped his sunglasses up on top of his head.

“Oh,” Matt lisped, “I’m just soooo curioussss. The fabric is fabulous. Ssssso luxurious…”

Thomas’s face was like a mannequin’s. He has this expression he can hold—it’s like a supermodel’s face when they walk down the runway. Like an I’m fabulous, what are you? face.

Matt’s lips were twitching with glee.

“You know … I think my sister has the same pair,” he said, the words sliding thick off his tongue. “What a stunning coincidence.”

One of the boys behind Matt slapped his knee and jogged in a little circle, like it was so funny he needed to run it out. Thomas shrugged.

“I see,” he said. “Well, your sister has great taste, then.”

I looked up at Matt, just standing there. Smiling. He winked at Thomas, turned on his heel. Started walking away.

Matt. Somehow the Matt Truits are not the people we’re being saved from, but the people we’re supposed to, like, aspire to be. Maybe only because it means you won’t have to get crapped on.

“Your sister’s fat ass would never fit into these pants,” I said.

“I heard that, Sole,” Matt shouted over his shoulder.

Thomas turned and raised an eyebrow. “Does he have a sister?”

“I don’t know.”

“Oh,” Thomas said, “I thought…”

“I only hung out with him for, like, a week, Thomas.”

Thomas gave me a conciliatory pat on the back. “That’s what happens when your best friends get strep throat, huh?”

“Sucked all around. Make sure it doesn’t happen again.”

He stood and brushed the grass off his actually-really-nice velvet pants.

“That guy is such a prick,” I said, grabbing a handful of grass and throwing it in Matt’s direction. “I hate him.”

“Doesn’t mean you should say crap about his potentially fictional sister.”

“Whatever.” I grabbed another handful and tossed it softly at Thomas.

“Okay, well, I love you, babe,” he smooched into my ear, and trotted off to class.

I picked up the Eye of Know and put it around my neck. It slid down my chest with what felt like a little pulse.

See what I see, I thought. I scooped up my bio notes and tromped off to class.

*   *   *

By 4:15 p.m., the parking lot and bleachers at Honora Park Soccer Field were packed. The stands were a sea of soccer moms, with their matching coolers of snacks and their yelling faces. They sported fleece vests and hiking shoes, California outdoor gear for all seasons, especially when paired with lightweight baseball caps and sunglasses.

My moms always wear matching vests and shoes to games: red for Momma, lavender for Mama. It’s kind of embarrassing, but I kind of like it, too.

The players sprinted up and down the field. Little girls in soccer jerseys—orange for the Cubs, baby blue for the Crows—all pinging around like icons on those old video games people used to play before they had Xbox. Like the Space Invaders game I saw this one time at a truck shop that Momma Jo beat me at (four games to one).

The Crows looked mean and determined. And huge.

Tesla sat on the bench, perched next to Mama Kate. At some point she stood up and waved to me in the bleachers. I realized it had been a while since I’d been to one of these things. Hating sports makes supporting your family’s obsession a little awkward at times. Or, you know, that’s what I’ve told myself.

As the opening whistle blew, the woman on my left, in Cub orange, pulled out her knitting and thermos, clearly in it for the long haul.

Somewhere downwind, though, another woman was already on her feet, yelling obscenities at the ref. Like, these women called the ref things like the C word. Stuff like that. Bizarre.

You gotta love a yoga-loving hippie mom who lets loose and carnivores out when she hits the soccer field.

I didn’t really notice the rest of the people sitting on the other side of me until five minutes into the game, when someone kicked my boots squeezing past. It was a girl in a blue jacket carrying a blue pom-pom.

“Uh, ’scuse me.” A girl with her hair in a high top bun gave me a quick up-and-down glance as she stepped over my boots.

There is a way to say “excuse me” that makes it very clear you assume it’s the other person’s job to move. It was invented by teenagers who hang out in clumps.

I looked over to confirm my suspicions. There they were, two more of them, dressed in minidresses and bejeweled flip-flops, the other California uniform for all seasons. They were all drinking (shudder) giant bottles of kombucha, a drink actually made to taste exactly like vinegar that people drink because they think vinegar is good for you.

“Oh my God,” High Bun droned as she plopped down next to her friends, “It took me, like, eight hours to find this place! Whatever!”

“Oh my God, I know,” her friend Ponytail drawled. “This town is, like, so backward. It’s like ‘Hi, it’s called legible street signs. Get a clue.’”

“Oh my God, I know,” a girl with her hair in two long braids—Braids—groaned.

They were like a bubble gum–snapping, flip-flopping three-headed monster. As soon as the game started, they whipped out their phones and started scrolling through whatever girls like that scroll through on their phones. Probably pictures of each other.

High Bun held out her phone and smiled at it.

CLICK!

What kind of person keeps that sound on their phone?

The same person who starts off a soccer game taking a picture of herself.

CLICK! CLICK!

“Which one is your sister?” Braids asked.

“She’s number sixty-two. She’s all, like, forward. Like offense,” Ponytail explained.

“Oh my God, she’s so cute,” Braids squealed.

“She’s, like, the only person playing today who doesn’t need braces and plastic surgery. She’s totally cute.” High Bun squinted and aimed her phone at the field.

CLICK!

“Crows versus dogs,” Braids cackled.

“Look at this!” High Bun passed her phone to Ponytail. “It’s like ‘Hi, I don’t care about my overbite.’”

On the field, a skirmish broke out as a bunch of kids lunged for the ball and landed in a pile. I pictured the three-headed monster on the field, at the bottom of the pile, me on the top, my cleats—

Braids yawned. “This team sucks.”

“I think a couple of these kids are, like, Mexican. They’re probably not even legal,” High Bun added, thumbing through her photos.

I fumed, my vision blurring so their little stupid heads were swimming in soupy sunlight. I tried to focus on my hands pressed into my lap.

“That girl needs an eating disorder,” one of them said.

They all thought that was hysterical.

Focus on Tesla, I thought. I watched as she ran onto the field to play defense.

“I am a good sister,” I whispered. “I am a good sister.”

At halftime, with the score tied 1–1, I headed down to the field to wish Tesla good luck and prove to my moms that I was, you know, there.

Momma Jo was retying Tesla’s laces. “Those kids are gigantic,” she marveled as she patted Tesla’s shoes. “You just stay out of their way.”

“I’ll crush them,” Tesla growled, slamming her fist into her open palm with a loud smack. Then she bounded onto the field to warm up.

“Hey,” I said. “Uh. Good game, I’m assuming.”

“Hey.” Mama Kate appeared with a water bottle and a watermelon slice. “It is! Are you enjoying yourself?”

“Sure.”

“Okay, well”—Mama Kate waved with her slice—“we’ll see you after.”

Momma Jo stood and grabbed the watermelon slice. Which resulted in one of their patented kissy fights.

Mama Kate can actually squeal like a girl when they’re having a kissy fight. “Get your own slice!”

Grabbing Mama Kate in a bear hug, Momma Jo waggled her eyebrows. “Gimme a smooch!”

I was in the process of controlling an eye roll when I heard a sharp, almost canine squeak from behind me.

And a CLICK!

There was a rustle and a series of squeaky cries of disdain. “Oh my God, ew!”

“Oh my God, look, you can see their tongues!”

I whipped around. It was the girls from the bleachers, all three hairstyles, standing a few steps away, staring at High Bun’s phone.

One of them burst into hysterics. “Gross!”

Braids grabbed her stomach. “Barf!”

“Let’s get out of here before they, like, rape us,” High Bun cried, shoving Ponytail toward the bleachers.

I turned back. Momma Jo was happily munching on watermelon and checking her phone. Mama Kate was taking a picture of Tesla on the field.

They hadn’t heard.

I jumped over to the left, away from the hair trio, and waved my arms at my moms to get their attention. “Hey! Okay! See you after,” I yelled.

“Uh. Yes. Bye,” Mama Kate said, frowning. “You okay?”

“Yup!” I called as I backed my way toward the stands.

Tweet! Game on!

By the time I made it to my seat, the game had hit fever pitch, and the crowd swelled. The three-headed girl clump was back in their seats, too. They were all taking pictures of the players with their phones. I shifted over so I was practically sitting on the edge of the bench, putting as much distance between us as possible.

Just ignore them, just ignore them, just ignore them.

CLICK!

“Does this girl with the pink bow in her hair look retarded to you?” High Bun mused, flashing her phone to Ponytail.

“Oh my God, you’re such a bitch! Ha!”

“I know. I’m such a bitch.”

“She does look retarded, though. Like, in the chin.”

High Bun rolled her eyes and cackled. “I’m posting the retard’s picture to Facebook,” she added, taking aim. “Let’s see what everyone else thinks.”

Please just shut up and watch the game, I seethed. Bit my bottom lip.

You’re here to support Tesla. You’re here to support Tesla.

I could feel the velocity of my pulse pushing against my neck, like some frenzied animal trying to escape.

“Okay,” High Bun said, holding out her phone to Braids. “My post has three ‘Likes’ already. So clearly this girl is retarded.”

Braids grinned. “You’re such a bitch!”

“Hey, where’s the girl with the fatty lesbians?” High Bun asked. “The humpback whales?”

“Oh my God,” Braids squeaked. “Look, she’s like sitting right next to us!”

Three sets of eyes clicked in my direction. Three heads leaned forward to look at me looking at them.

“Um. Can we help you?” Braids sneered.

“No,” I said.

High Bun swiveled slightly. “Um. Stop staring at us, then?”

The beast with many heads laughed.

“She wants to make out with you,” Braids said.

“Ugh! Lesbians!” High Bun moaned.

I was about to say something when Braids pointed at the field and shrieked.

“Oh my God! It’s your sister!”

Ponytail jumped to her feet.

Number 62 had the ball and a break. She was taller than the others by at least a foot, and she was running. Fast. With huge strides, she kicked the ball up the field. Leaving everyone else behind. I watched Tesla crouch. Look at the crowd. Look down the field.

That was when I felt something. An inexplicable nudge. I turned my head to see High Bun, her phone held out toward me. She smiled, clearly about to take my picture.

Hey, where’s the girl with the fatty lesbians?

The rest of the crowd leaned forward. Screaming. Cheering.

CLICK!

High Bun held the phone up higher. Then, as the crowd roared again, her eyes flickered upward and caught my stare.

I could feel my hands trembling. My heart beating like it was a tiny alien fighting to free itself from inside my chest. The sound of my breathing mixed with the noise of the crowd sloshed inside my ears.

High Bun squinted.

You want to post me to your stupid Facebook page, I wanted to scream. I don’t think so.

I reached up to my neck and wrapped my fingers around the stone.

The edges felt good against my fingertips.

Sharp.

Forget melting. Forget healing touch. If I had a superpower, I thought, it would be to obliterate people like you.

High Bun scowled. She lowered her phone, stood up, and walked past the other girls, presumably so she could sit as far from me as possible.

And then, just as she was about to sit back down, there was a metallic squeak. And the bench we were all sitting on shuddered. A tremor?

I looked around the stands. No one else seemed to notice. People were clapping and stomping their feet.

I looked back, and High Bun was gone.

“Oh my God, Jennifer!” Braids and Ponytail jumped up and screamed in unison.

A tall man in a ball cap sitting in front of us turned around as the rest of the stands continued to shout and cheer.

Braids and Ponytail grabbed at their faces. “Oh my God! Help!” Braids cried. “Our friend fell! Help!”

Ponytail leaned over the railing. “Jennifer, are you okay?” she screamed.

A crowd of people around us stopped cheering and looked over the railing. The tall man in the ball cap started racing down the stands. Someone pulled out her phone.

“Call nine-one-one!” someone shouted.

I didn’t know what to do. I picked up my bag and ran down the bleachers to the stairs to the edge of the field.

A few minutes later, whistle blows filled the air, mixing with cheers.

“Cubs win!”

The crowd flooded out of the stands.

“Cubs win!”

Hooray.

I dizzily wandered through the flood of people to meet my moms in the parking lot. My heart pounding.

What just happened?

“Monty!” Tesla was pink and sweaty, her chin slick with whatever she’d been chugging that smelled like cherries.

Tesla ran over.

“We won,” she screamed, grabbing my hand and pumping it vigorously.

“You did great,” I said, allowing myself to be jostled. “You played great. You’re a soccer wunderkind.”

“Now I get cake!” Tesla started marching, pumping her fist in the air. “I get cake! I get cake! Because we won! Because we won!”

On our way to the car in the parking lot, we passed the girls from the bleachers sitting on the curb. And there she was—High Bun. Braids had her arm around her.

As I passed, High Bun looked up. She was shaking a bit and her face was all puffy. Her leg was covered in blue ice packs. Like sandbags stacked up to prevent a flood.

I had this sudden flash of her ankle underneath. Maybe it was broken. It was probably all bent under those ice packs.

How did she fall? I thought. She was just there and then …

A few feet over, a woman dressed in a fluffy pink fleece and green pants said something about the stands not being well built.

“A safety hazard,” the woman next to her said. “Definitely.”

“Girl could have been killed,” another fleeced woman agreed.

Tesla skipped forward into my view. “Did you see me defend goal?” she chirped.

“Yeah,” I stammered.

“Those stupid Crows.” Tesla clenched her hands into fists. “We crushed them.”

“Hey!” Momma Jo waved from the car. “Hurry up! It’s time for ice cream! Let’s go!”

Broken ankle or not. Dogs won. It was time to celebrate.

*   *   *

The victory party was epic.

Apparently it was our turn to host the post-game party. Girls arrived by the truckloads, the taste of victory still on their strawberry-balmed lips. They gorged on pizza, cake and ice cream, or organic fruit salad with agave syrup, if that was how the kids wanted to roll.

I’m pretty sure they all ate cake. From my room, I could hear them screaming and thumping around in that lots-of-sugar way. Kids my sister’s age are the noisiest things on earth. It’s hard to believe they’re really small and helpless when they can shriek and make your eardrums bleed.

At some point, full of sugar, someone cranked the music to twenty and cried, “Let’s dance!”

Upstairs, locked in my room, I fell onto my bed and gathered my couch cushions around me. I felt jittery, like someone who hasn’t had enough or has had too much coffee. Everything in my room seemed loud. Even the walls were loud. The night outside was loud.

I wanted to call Naoki or Thomas, but I had no idea what I would say.

What happened?

I was at the game, these girls were being crappy and mean, and then …

Then what? Did I do something? Did I somehow push her off the bleachers?

I touched the stone around my neck.

There was a knock on the door. Momma Jo’s muffled voice. “You hungry?”

“Uh, yeah. I mean, come in.”

There was a pause. “You wanna open the door since I’m bringing you food?”

“Oh.” I jumped off the bed and opened the door.

Momma Jo stood in the hallway with a tray of victory snacks: a mini sundae with chocolate sauce and graham crackers, and some corn chips and salsa and real guacamole on the side. Momma makes guacamole with extra mayo the way I like it, with huge chunks of avocado in it so it’s like cookies-and-cream ice cream but with avocado.

With the door open, the music was deafening. “Holy cow,” I said, stepping back to let her in the room and shutting the door resolutely behind her. “Are they having a rave or something?”

“Or something,” Momma Jo grumbled, placing the tray on the bed. “There’s more cake down … Hey,” she said, picking up her foot. Underneath was a pile of my most recent scavenges of balled-up Reverend White posters.

“What’s this?” She kicked the Reverend White’s face, uncrinkled, with her sandal.

“Oh,” I said, sitting back down on the bed. “It’s just a stupid poster.”

“Looks like a few stupid posters.” Momma Jo bent down and picked up a crumpled poster. She stared at the Reverend White. Then scowled. “Well, just because this is California doesn’t mean there’s no assholes allowed.”

Secretly—that is, not in earshot of Mama Kate—Momma Jo has a pretty solid opinion that people like the Reverend White are assholes. They bug her the way actual bugs bug her. She doesn’t like them, and she doesn’t want them in her house.

When I was little, when girls were always making me cry, I would picture Momma Jo saying “assholes.”

Sometimes it helped if I was wearing her sweatshirt when I thought it. Assholes.

Momma Jo tucked her hair behind her ears and sat down on the only corner of the bed not taken up by cushions, laundry, or snacks. Then she gave me the face she gives when she is about to talk to me about something and she wants me to know she is serious. It involves a very crinkled forehead and a frown.

I shrugged. “Not a big deal.”

Momma Jo sat back. Looked at me for a bit. Then she reached over to the tray and broke off a piece of chip. “It’s not? I mean, you know, it could be … hard,” she said, dipping the chip in the guacamole. “Even if you know that our family doesn’t need to be saved by the Reverend White.”

“I know,” I said, crawling back into my couch-cushion nest.

“You know,” Momma Jo added, grabbing another chip, “your Mama Kate is pretty much constantly worrying about how you are, so I feel I should also ask how you are doing.”

“Everything’s fine,” I said, reaching over and grabbing a chip and a scoop of guacamole. “She should stop worrying. Tell her to stop worrying.”

Momma Jo threw up her hands. “Well, that’s your Mama Kate. She does that worrying thing.”

“Everything’s okay.” I grabbed a chip and dunked it to my fingertips in guacamole. “Promise.”

Momma Jo paused. Looked at me for what felt like two minutes. Like time-out long. “Okay. Let me know if it’s too loud down there. I think your sister and her friends want to watch America’s Next Top Model if you want to join us.”

I shoved the whole chip into my mouth. “Pass,” I said through the chip.

“Fair enough,” Momma Jo said. “I’ll shut the door behind me.”

I gobbled down the rest of my treats. Then I pulled the stone off my neck. And looked at it.

I flipped it over in my palm.

The Eye of Know.

What did I know? Did I see the future or the past? With my third eye?

No.

No, I saw what I always saw, girls being mean for no reason.

But this time. Maybe this time, instead of just watching it happen, I made something happen. I made her stop. I made it go away.

Didn’t I?

“Maybe I did, maybe it was something else,” I said. My voice sounded weird in my quiet room.

“It could have been an earthquake,” I said to my blank computer screen.

Either way.

No more selfies.

The stone swung back and forth on its string. What would I tell Thomas and Naoki?

Thomas wouldn’t believe me, although this did feel more like a movie plot than anything else I had ever found.

A stone that could make things happen.

Monty’s Stone.

Why not? Just because someone doesn’t think something is possible, whether that’s bending time or seeing the future, doesn’t mean it’s not.

What’s impossible? Impossible sounds like a Madison Marlow word, I thought.

I could see her clicking her nails on the desk. Tick, tick, tick. Rolling her eyes at me. “That’s impossible, Monty.” Like “Everyone knows, duh.”

Well, I wanted to crow, guess what?

The Eye of Know was possible. Inexplicable but REAL. An unexplained phenomenon I could actually hold in my hand. I had seen that girl practically disappear in front of my eyes.

Hadn’t I?

The world was bigger than Aunty, California. There were more possibilities out there than anyone at Jefferson, especially Madison and her crew, could guess.

It made me feel light just thinking about it.

I needed to talk to Naoki, I thought.

Naoki would get it.

I grabbed my phone from my bag.

No texts.

It was late, so she’d probably be on her computer.

Me: Hey you there?

Me: Hello?

Minutes ticked by.

I put the Eye on my bedside table.

Below me, the party raged.

A well-deserved victory party, maybe for all of us.