October 8
“You shouldn’t eat that stuff,” Carson said for maybe the millionth time since we’d started high school. “It’s probably full of weird preservatives.”
He was referring to my chocolate pudding cup. G. Clara doesn’t pack me a lunch, but sometimes she leaves me snacks on the kitchen table along with lunch money.
“I don’t want to hurt G. Clara’s feelings.”
Carson snorted and finally looked up from his book. “Your grandmother’s a tough old bird. Everybody knows that.”
“She has her tender moments, though,” I said.
Instead of returning his attention to his book, Carson stared beyond me.
“I think Matt Cotrell is coming over here,” he said softly.
“Matt . . . ?” Before I’d finished repeating the full name, I felt a finger tap my shoulder.
“Hey.” He was wearing a set of shiny Mardi Gras beads and squeezing an orange as he spoke. His eyes were fixed on me; he didn’t even seem to notice Carson. “I wanted you to see something, Marnie.”
“Okay,” I said.
I was still uneasy about the reading I had given him. I’d felt things had ended awkwardly. And I’d never dreamed about a reading before.
Matt pulled out his phone and waved a picture in front of my face. It was a photo of a dog—a little terrier, like Toto in The Wizard of Oz.
“Not a wiener dog, but kind of close,” Matt said. “I go running almost every day. Yesterday, I found this dog near the parking lot at Whitfield Park.”
“You found him?”
“Yeah. He seemed to be lost. He had a leash attached.”
My heart seemed to beat a little faster. I wasn’t sure why. As far as coincidences went, it wasn’t that surprising. Everyone walked their dogs in Whitfield Park. “Did he have a tag?”
“Nope. A collar and leash, but no tag.”
“You going to call the pound?” I asked. My eyes flicked to Carson. He was staring up at Matt with a look I couldn’t quite place.
“We left a message,” Matt said with a shrug. “In case someone calls looking for him. But we’re not sure we want to put the poor guy in the pound.” He smiled. “I’ve almost got my dad convinced we should keep him if we don’t have any luck with that.”
“Uh-huh,” I said, trying to keep the and-you’re-telling-me-this-because . . . ? tone out of my voice.
He absently lifted one of his strands of Mardi Gras beads—a purplish pink one—and twisted it in his fingers. I watched him, wondering about his habit of wearing girlie things. Was it to say, Look at me, I’m so masculine and cool, I can wear this stuff just for laughs? Or did he genuinely like sparkles and beads and Hello Kitty?
“So you were right about the dog in the tea, is what I’m saying,” Matt finally said. “Kind of awesome.”
An amused squeak came out of Carson, who promptly buried his face in his book. The title was Constitutional Law: Cases, Comments, and Questions. I was embarrassed for both of us.
I let Matt’s gaze catch mine. “It was a dragon. Not a dog.”
He looked surprised. “I was giving you a compliment. If I were you, I’d stick with a dog.”
I didn’t like his dismissive tone—as if a “compliment” would make me forget what I’d actually seen. “You saw it as a dog,” I said, “but I saw it as a dragon. A dragon and a fox. I remember it pretty clearly.”
Carson cleared his throat. “I think I’m going to go buy myself an ice cream.”
“Go ahead,” I said, and he dashed away.
I noticed he headed for another table, not the snack stand.
“I’m glad he took off,” Matt said. “Because there was something else I wanted to talk to you about. Kinda . . . privately.”
“Oh. Um. Really?” For a second, I allowed myself to think that Matt maybe liked me. Was he going to ask me to hang out or something? Without the teacups? What would I say?
“Yeah. Aside from the dog, you said you saw something like an envelope.”
“Oh. A letter, yeah.”
“I think that’s interesting.”
“Oh? Why’s that? Did you get a letter recently, too?” I said doubtfully.
Matt drummed the table with his hands, then glanced fitfully around the cafeteria. “Um. No. I just . . . wish I’d asked you more about that.”
“It was a tiny thing,” I said quickly. “Just a blob, really. It could’ve also been—”
Matt interrupted. “Maybe we should do another reading.”
“About the letter?” I said.
“Well, just, Cecilia says you’ll sometimes do readings for a very specific question.”
“Sometimes,” I mumbled. “Sure.”
“Do you need to know what the question is, exactly, to do that kind of reading?”
“Well, no. I guess not.” I couldn’t figure out why he was being so evasive. But maybe he’d taken the sudden appearance of a dog in his life as proof positive of the accuracy of my readings. I wasn’t sure how I felt about this, since I’d called it a dragon.
“Are you free Friday, then?” he asked. “I don’t have practice.”
“I think so. But at the coffee shop they’re always setting up for their Friday concert then. It can be annoying. Hard to get a seat.”
Matt thought about this. “Can we go to your place?”
“Umm.” I sucked in a breath. I preferred not to have Matt at my house to meet the spiders and the weevils. Or worse, run into my brother when he was in the wrong mood.
“Or mine?” Matt suggested.
“Okay,” I said, before I had a chance to think about how weird that might be. “Let’s do that.”
Once I was home, I got on Facebook. This time, I didn’t wait for Carson to notice me there. I could see he was on, so I messaged him right away.
Thanks for abandoning me like that.
Carson wrote back within seconds. What was I supposed to do?
Matt wants me to do another reading. At his house this time.
It took Carson nearly a minute to reply. Interesting. And then after a few more seconds, Maybe he’s trying to seduce you.
Shut up, I wrote back.
Seriously, maybe it’s his weird way of asking you out?
This was the sort of thing Carson wouldn’t usually say to my face. He tries to be encouraging on digital formats, even if he finds it difficult in person.
I wonder, Carson wrote, before I had a chance to respond. Did he ever go out with Andrea?
They were just friends, I typed back. That’s what everyone says.
Carson took so long to write back that I wondered if he’d stepped away from his computer.
I don’t want to say he doesn’t like you, he wrote, after a couple of minutes. I’m not saying it’s impossible. But do you think he REALLY believes in your tea-leaf readings, or is this just a cry for help, or something of that nature?
Typical Carson. I rolled my eyes as I typed, Sorry. Have to go. G. Clara calling.